#It was hard finding an excerpt that was just right at 9 lines
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9 Lines 9 People
Tagged by @mister-writes over here! Thanks!
Rules: Share 9 lines from your writing and tag 9 people!
Just a piece from Chapter 2 from Memories of Aether. I still need to get back to Chapter 3 but the days have been a little too unpredictable.
The other tent, while similar to the previous two, housed a figure with the power to eventually shed light on this mystery. Across from the sea of slain Ethelian elites, stacked in the corner as the rest had been, was a body unlike the others. While the uniformed bodies had been cast aside with little regard, this one had been bound to a chair and seemed to have been tortured before death. The dead man appeared noble in garb, with ornate robes, furs and jewellery unlike anything Cas had ever seen before. The man’s face was mostly undamaged but utterly unrecognisable to Cas, who was familiar with all the local nobility and their family. While Cas did not have any familiarity with his High Lord, he would surely have been aware if High Lord Rodger Peren’s family had gone missing or gone rogue. The dead nobleman wore no signet ring nor any jewellery with an insignia; he displayed the appearance of nobility but with nothing specific to mark him out as belonging to any family. The dead man’s face was unlike any nobleman Cas had ever heard of, with rough features, a previously broken nose and missing teeth. Whoever he was, this man was clearly a key figure within this unit; either as their leader, or their key prisoner.
And I.. actually don't know if I have 9 people to tag or if they're actually able to reply to tags. So, if you see this and you want to be tagged, pretend I tagged you so that I know I can tag you in future!
#memories of aether#tag game#writeblr#It was hard finding an excerpt that was just right at 9 lines#Too many were good with less#But if I continued#It would have been too janky#Too many just needed more than 9 for proper effect#I had a few candidates#But settled on this one!
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8, 20 & 27?
8. Oldest WIP
My oldest WIP is called Cuffed and actually dated back to 9/21/22! ( I checked!). It's a prequel to the first ever story I wrote called Trick or Treat. That was a Klaine D/s fic and the prequel goes back to the origins of Blaine and Kurt's relationship in this AU - starting all the way in the beginning where we meet Blaine as a little boy who is yearning for something - maybe even someone to help him not be so lonely. The fic is pretty much outlined - but I haven't written it all yet. Anyone interested can read excerpts here and here.
20. How many WIPs and story ideas do you have?
About 16. The first 15 are listed here . The 16th newest idea is a RWRB fic tentatively called: "color me intrigued" - basically would be a hanky code/flagging fic - where Henry gets dragged off to a club, by Pez, sees Alex, who is the DJ working that night with an particular color bandana tucked into his back pocket. Inspired by a picture of TZP and a tumblr post I saw on @bigassbowlingballhead's blog 😊 Nothing written yet, but I was working on a mood board for it recently - see below.
27. Favourite line/scene
That I've written? Arrrrghgh so hard to choose. Here are 2 for you. - From a Klaine fic - If I Can Make Your Heart My Home - the scene where a drunk Tina Cohen-Chang leaves Kurt a voicemail made me laugh:
“KUUUUUURRRRRTTTTIIIEEEEE!!!” Kurt winced as the next voicemail clicked in, and the voice of a very drunk Tina Cohen-Chang assaulted his ears. “Kurrrrrrrt. . .“ slurred Tina, who then dropped into a very loud stage whisper. "I love you, Kurrrrrt.” There was an odd pause of dead air. Perhaps Tina had passed out? But then her voice quickly picked up again. “Kurt . . .Kurt. . .Kurt. . .Kurt. . .you gotta keep that new cutie of yours.” Tina hiccuped loudly. "He is awesome. AWWWWWESOME. And sooooo cute. And has an ass that won't quit. And I saw you staring at it tonight. Don't deny it. I was staring at it too. Shhhh. Don’t tell Mike. Ooh wait, he’s right here next to me. Never mind.” "Sorry, Kurt!” Mike piped in, laughing from the background.
****
- From a RWRB fic: from my online auction fic that's a WIP - Where Alex is complaining to Pez that he can't find Henry a birthday gift: “Alexander, darling, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Pez leaned back in his chair, grinning. His hair was electric blue today, as were his nails. His suit was bright, bold and couture, but only something that Pez could pull off. “Help me, Obi-Wan Okonjo, you're my only hope.” “With what now? You do know Hazza is at a luncheon with more prospective donors for the shelter. He should be back in an hour or so.” Alex huffed as he plopped himself down in the chair in front of Pez’ desk. “It’s why I came now. I didn’t want him to be around to overhear. I need help with his birthday present. I can’t figure out what to get him.” Pez’ laughter rang out rich and warm. “Alex, my dear Padawan, why are you stressing out about this? You do know that you could just tie a bow around your . .” Pez coughed lightly, his eyes drifting downward as he smirked suggestively. Alex groaned. “I know. I know. I was thinking something else would be better. . . I don't know . . something more spectacular.” “You are seriously underestimating how spectacular Haz finds your dick, my sweet strumpet.”
*****
Thanks for the ask, @tinyarmedtrex! 💖
Click here to play
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FIND THE WORD WIP TAG GAME
Rules:
Tag a couple people, give them some words, and have them find everywhere that word appears in their WIP(s)
Thanks @fakegingerrights for the tag!
They gave me: Blood, Hold, and Sigh.
WIP 1: Love Letters
However, we do request a sure sign that your daughter has not been corrupted by her father, King Consort Azazel’s blood, if you cannot provide us with said proof, then we will cut ties with Fairbeach and all of its territories.
As you required, my daughter will be given to Bahamut’s priestesses and be held in meditation in his temple, she will not be seen until her eighteenth birthday, on which we will be holding a ball if you wish to see for yourself the purity of my daughter you will come to the ball and see that no evil has ever touched her heart or blood.
Good tidings to you and your, I am so sorry to see that you still hold my mother in a negative light for freeing our kind from the unfair oppression against them.
Egarron has chosen Alliana but would my aunt and uncle hold Grandmother’s beliefs higher than Mother's?
WIP 2: Fire On Fire
I could feel the blood, a metallic taste in my mouth, but he was right.
I could feel the blood rush, and I was swaying.
“Akemi.” Kioko wasn’t looking at me or Katsuki, she was looking at the ground, trying to hold back tears, “Please.”
“Just hold on, give her some bread to try and help with that, Katsuki should be home soon.”
“Hold on a second,” I put my hand to cover the mic on my phone and turned to Bakugou, “Hey, I’m gonna change real quick, don’t…..think I vanished or anything, kay?” I didn’t wait for a response, choosing to just go to Kemi’s room where I already had a change of clothes.
“So…Zez is gonna stay with us?” Kioko had finally met up with us, “Hold on Mom,” She faced us, “Ooh, is this your girlfriend? Cute, Mom wants me to tell you that I’m walking alone today,” She turned to Uraraka, “Have fun with your boy-toy.” She left, continuing her conversation with Mom.
WIP 8: Maybe In Another Life
“No, you won’t. You need fresh meat, a new body in your bed every night, someone who isn’t looking for long-term or connection or something real.” I sigh and my voice quivers, “ You haven’t wanted me for days, I’m left wondering if you even care while you’re off getting kinky with high schoolers!”
WIP 9: Angel Wings
Everyone took a step back, Bakugou had punched Mineta, not all that hard, but…he hit him, he leaned down to Mineta, “If you ever claim that what you try isn’t creepy again, I will make sure blood spills.”
Everyone let out a chuckle, I felt the blood rise to my cheeks, that was what she remembered?
“Did I do this?” I touched Bakugou’s arm, it had dried blood covering his forearm.
Second, there was a part of him-- And I didn’t know how potent that part might be -- that thirsted for my blood. (THIS IS NOT MY LINE, IT WAS AN EXCERPT FROM TWILIGHT)
I could feel the blood rising to my cheeks, when he’s around it feels like it’s just the two of us, “I don’t know how to te-”
"I-I don't really know, but your hands are warm, it makes me feel better." I felt the blood rush to my face, she…used my hands as stress relief?
It surprised me how small she was, just looking at her you would think she would be fine, but she was raised on barely anything, I’m surprised she can even hold herself up…
“I can’t hold her back much longer, everyone evacuate.”
“Hold on, what were you gonna say?" He was looking at me, hoping I would say something? "Akari?"
“You did just tell her to widen her friend circle, so it could be confusing to have you…..around as much as you have been,” A sigh, “If she is worth your time, she’ll come to her senses, you letting her have alone time could guide her to more friends.”
WIP 10: A Look At My Past
I hope I get a say, I know I’m only 13 but, that is MY blood cousin, NO ONE gets to take him away from his mom without facts.
WIP 12: Darkness
Blood, Dream, Time, Guide, Thought, Nature, or Technology.
WIP 17: Blood Is Fun
“Sure, she just sent her guard dog to threaten me into not spilling her secret.” If I had a mirror I would’ve drawn blood and gore on my face instead.
I heard a sigh and she rolled over, “How much did you hear?”
WIP 18: Fallen
Roya was right in front of me, on the ground, blood seeping out from where she fell, her beautiful eyes were covered with black soot, she was coughing up smoke.
I was walking towards the center of town, limping and covered in blood, sweat, and tears.
Hold on, why is MY room the only thing that didn’t go up in smoke?
WIP 19: Snow Queen
“ So tell me how am I supposed to come into the world without being tormented or laughed at?” he said with a sigh.
"I can’t do things as I used to when I was young.” he said with a sigh.
WIP 25
“Are you calling me one of those demonic bloodsuckers?” I scoffed, “It might be a bit of blood I couldn’t quite scrape away.”
WIP 26: Spies Can't Fall In Love
After she was gone they decided that in order to make the new prototype better, it needed parents, real blood and a body.
They asked WISE for the top agent, Twilight and then they found the Thorn Princess, and blackmailed her into giving the blood.
Just a replaceable agent, WISE forced Twilight to go away so he'd never know that the 'little drops of blood' turned into a real person.
She made his blood boil, so much grossness wrapped in a carelessly perfect shell.
"So…you're the reason WISE took my blood?" Twilight never thought that his blood would be used to make an enhanced human, or that she would be the girl he had cared for.
"A bruise that covers the break, disguising it as a smaller wound." I sighed, this man was the father I never knew, "A wound that could grow fatal." I whispered the last part, I wanted him to accept me as blood, if not at least a friend.
"I made friends with him in two weeks, and Anya couldn't play nice for ten years." I was arguing why I should matter to him, he was my blood, and I did his daughter's job in a fraction of the time.
Another god awful day without the politician's spilt blood.
WIP 27
They took my blood every day, and they would not let me leave the hospital.
WIP 28: Midnight
Mates have become rare, and one of the only tribes to still believe in mates, is the Blood Moon Pack.
I've been waiting for us to visit the Blood Moon pack for almost a year now.
When I arrived at the clearing, Deirdre's body was ravaged, her once pure white hair, soaked in blood.
Tears poured down my face, mixing with the blood of my children.
I awoke to the faces of my Father and our Luna, Ninurta, the smell of blood suffocating.
No one looked at me, they just looked at the lump of blood and gore next to me, the scent matched Azrail's.
She pulled me up to sitting and sat next to me, a slight glare in her eyes, she forced her lips on me and pushed me down, shock and panic coursed through me when I heard a pained snarl from the Blood Moon pack house.
The Luna of the Blood Moon pack wrapped Keahi in a hunting cloak, the color of dirt with fresh bloodstains.
"They are here," The girl straightened to her full height, her scent pure revulsion, "The Blood Moon pack puts the mate bond far above that of a little fling."
I pinned her against a tree, "I am the next Alpha of the Blood Moon pack, I do not tend to the scratches of an unmated Alpha."
When we got to the Blood Moon clearing, Balthazar and Keahi were already there.
I sigh and tell them the truth, Shane laughs and Gavin told me to just ask questions, not listen to rumors.
WIP 30: I'm Fine
He coughed, and blood came up. "Not a runt, half-blood." He rolled onto his knees and swayed, no one tried to catch him.
WIP 35: Heaven and Hell
“I didn't, I just wanted to talk to my….friend.” I hold Issac closer.
I sigh, “Call me Raza.” Might as well go all out, right?
WIP 37: Please, Not Again
Tears stained my cheeks, mixing with blood and dripping until they hit the ground.
WIP 38
I could feel the blood, a metallic taste in my mouth, but he was right. I could beat them, with one blast.
WIP 40: When Stars Fall
“No, come on, let’s wash the blood off your hands.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before dragging me to the bathroom.
He waits outside while I wash my hands, so much blood, it’s everywhere, on my hands, on my clothes, I can’t see past all the blood.
“Okay, okay, hold your horses, I’m coming!” One of the nurses opened the door, and I ran.
I walk the crowded halls and hold my head high, I can do this, I am NOT insane, I just need something to shut off the voices, like sleep, wait, no that makes it worse, I don’t want to do drugs or alcohol, but, no I will NOT give in.
I pull her into my arms and hold her there, she’s not alone, she doesn’t need to push me away.
WIP 41
“I am needed. And when the baby is born, I will come back, we will raise him or her. Together.” I hold his hands and try to comfort him.
“The main thing we hold against the goblins is what?” Noa asked, leaving the question open for us to answer.
FINALLY DONE. Thank you for the hard work @fakegingerrights
I'm tagging @conquerius37
Your words are: Bend, And, Jack
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#sail#sailboatracing#sailcoach#sailfaster#sailing#sailingcoach#sailinglessons#SailingSkills#sailingtowin#yachtracing
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Tag Game to Better Know You
I have never been tagged in one of these before! Many thanks to @shywhitemoose for including me!
What book are you currently reading?
I am listening to the audiobook for “The First 90 Days: Proven Strategies for Getting Up to Speed Faster and Smarter” right now on the recommendation of my roommate. I just started a new job, and apparently it’s a great guide for leaders/new roles!
What’s your favourite movie you saw in theatres this year?
The only movies I’ve seen in theaters in 2023 so far have been Avatar: The Way of Water and Hidden Blade... neither of which I would consider a favorite. Can I extend this back further and say Top Gun: Maverick?
What do you usually wear?
I live in sweatpants and sweatshirts! If I’m at work though, it’ll be a nice dress (but with gym shoes LOL) ✨
How tall are you?
Somewhere between 5′9″ and 5′10″ or around 178cm!
What’s your star sign? Do you share a birthday with a celebrity or a historical event?
Pisces. And not that I know of off the top of my head!
Do you go by your name or a nickname?
Usually my full name, which is a bit difficult to shorten, but my good friends will call me by nicknames!
Did you grow up to become what you wanted to be when you were a child?
HA. I’ve wanted to be a stay-at-home mom since the First Grade. I’m 28 now, partnerless, childless, property-less, but have 2 Masters degrees and 2 major professional certifications under my belt, so mayhaps I’m on my way to a successful career at least?
TLDR: NO (but hopeful!)
Are you in a relationship? If not, who is your crush if you have one?
See above haha, NO (but hopeful!)
If you want to help me change this, hit me up 😉
What’s something you’re good at vs. something you’re bad at?
I think there are a lot of things I’m “decent” at, especially artistically? I like painting landscapes, figure drawing, playing certain instruments, cooking, baking, court sports.
I am bad at lying and horrible at letting loose in front of people. I can come across as quite reserved and easily embarrassed in person, but uh... very opposite in other areas hahaha (namely my fic)
Dogs or cats?
Both! But my roommate has the most wonderful dog right now, and I am just head over heels in love.
If you draw/write, or create in any way, what’s your favourite picture/favourite line/favourite etc. from something you created this year?
It’s definitely not the smuttiest or most interesting thing I think I’ve written, but coming up with some of my own lore for my fic Transference was super rewarding! This is an excerpt from Chapter 4 where good-guy Dooku teaches Obi-Wan about Force Lightning: (please mind the tags if you read the actual fic!)
“Close your eyes and find your inner peace, Padawan. Go for depth over breadth and try to strip away everything superfluous,” the older man intoned calmly, as if leading a meditation. “At our cores, we are all just made of stardust, and the forces that bind are not so different between you, a Stewjonian; me, a Serrenian; and lightning, the purest form of energy. Wherever you are, you must look even deeper and sense this connection at an atomic level.”
He tapped gentle fingers against Obi-Wan’s forehead, chest, and abdomen successively, focusing their combined attention on each subsequent chakra zone. With his eyes closed, the younger man could almost see with the Force, the glow of each of their signatures, organized collections of raw energy, pulsing brightly against the vastness of the empty chamber.
“Once you feel our resonance,” Dooku continued, lifting Obi-Wan’s arm by the wrist and dragging his fingers from the younger man’s palm to his heart and back again, “You will be able to catch my lightning blast, reel it in, and make it your own.”
“I can feel it, Master Dooku,” Obi-Wan said softly, concentrating hard.
“Finally, at the release, take care to bind your essence tightly,” the old Master cautioned and placed a hand over his pupil’s diaphragm. “You must simultaneously maintain the integrity of your vessel while focusing on your target. Do not let the energy drain any part of you as it leaves your body. Understood?”
What’s something you’d like to create content for?
I really wanted to try recording podfic this year, and decided just to go for it with Adrift and Entangled! If that doesn’t count since it’s already kind of happened, I would love to draw something for the Obikin fandom.
What’s something you’re currently obsessed with?
Obikin and podcasts! I’ve been loving my morning routine of listening to The Daily and Hardfork. If you’ve never listened to them before or if you want to get caught up on the news, HIGHLY RECOMMEND.
What’s something you were excited about that turned out to be disappointing this year?
Well, within the past year, I moved halfway across the country to start a fancy new job after grad school, promptly got laid off 3 months in, and then spent the rest of the winter in depression and stressing out about finding new employment.
All is well now, but the shiny new life was not very fun for about 5-6 months.
What’s a hidden talent of yours?
I have been told I give great massages 🥰 And I love giving them, they are the perfect combination of two of my love languages - physical touch and acts of service LOL
Are you religious?
Negative.
What’s something you wish to have at this moment?
50/50 between 1) more hours in a day (because there’s just too much to do) and 2) fic that will write itself LOL
No pressure tags: @dark--whisperings @saratutti @dreaminghour and anyone else who wants to do it (but please tag me if you do, so I can read it!)
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2022 Writing Review
Tagged by: @ttimbradford on the LAST DAY OF THE YEAR because she wants me to scramble
1. Number of stories posted to AO3: 14
2. Word count posted for the year: don't make me say it 386,717
3. Fandoms I wrote for: 9-1-1, The Witcher
4. Pairings: Buddie and Geraskier
5. Story with the most:
kudos: The Best Lie is a Truth (My Best Mask is My Face) - 2,149 bookmarks: same as above - 997 comment threads: Let My Ink Stain Your Pages - 671
6. Work I’m most proud of (and why): This is a difficult question. I'm proud of a few stories I worked on this year - Direct Deposit and Further Than Blood (Or Than Bones) had me pushing myself as a writer and delving into topics I knew wouldn't necessarily be popular. However I think I have to go with In the Gray You are Golden, one of those magical moments where the inspiration hits like something divine, the words flow like water, and it all comes together.
7. Work I’m least proud of (and why): Don't Play Games (Come My Way) - I'm a perfectionist and while I can't quite articulate why, I don't feel like I quite nailed this story the way I should have. Like I just missed the bulls-eye.
8. Share or describe a favorite review you received: @mistmarauder never fails to delight me and make my day with her in-depth comments and general screeching. I think her responses to Further Than Blood (Or Than Bones) and In the Gray You are Golden are my favorites, actually, although I know Curl Up In My Heart and Let Me Keep You is probably her favorite of mine from this year (no one is immune to cat!Buck).
9. A time when writing was really, really hard: Honestly, writing I'll Scrawl it on Every Wall I See was more of a challenge than I expected. I just had a lot going on in my real life so finding time and focus to work on it was difficult.
10. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you: Buck babysitting Chris during the tsunami and while Eddie goes to fight club in I'll Scrawl it on Every Wall I See didn't come to me ahead of time - it just happened as I was writing and I literally stopped and stared into the distance for a second in delighted surprise.
11. A favorite excerpt of your writing: Oof. This was a tough one. Probably a tie between the entire segment of Eddie's thoughts when he's shot in Further Than Blood (Or Than Bones) - the fic wasn't quite where I wanted it to be until I wrote that segment and then went back and sprinkled those quotes throughout the fic, turning the fic into one long flashback (which the reader doesn't realize until they reach the shooting). A small excerpt is here:
The thing he never told anyone is when his lover was unnamed and fed from him all he thought about was love. Love is poured into his mouth and he swallows and he b r e a t h e s.
The other would be frankly the entirety of In the Gray You are Golden but I really liked how I incorporated the tsunami/Eddie Begins into the fic with the flash flood and how I wrote it happening. I got a lot of comments saying how much the last few lines hit them like a gut punch and I'm so proud of that:
Christopher’s mouth is right at Buck’s ear. “Dad?” Buck starts shaking. He clenches his entire body to get it to stop. He shakes his head. Christopher is a child of the wasteland. He knows how to be silent when he cries.
12. How did you grow as a writer this year: I wrote situations where there's a lot of trauma and emotions going on (including during sex) and got a bit darker in that then I usually do, I wrote a couple tropes I hadn't thought I'd ever write or hadn't written before (such as a Zombie Apocalypse AU), I dipped my toe into HTML coding for the emails in I'll Scrawl it on Every Wall I See, and I incorporated poetry into a fic with Eddie's mental landscape as he's shot in Further Than Blood (Or Than Bones) (yes fun fact I approached that segment as a poem).
13. How do you hope to grow next year: I hope to continue to find new and interesting situations to play with for my annual Halloween fics.
14. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer, beta, cheerleader, etc): @extasiswings who always reassured and encouraged me when I was doubting myself - and of course she co-wrote A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words (But Love is Undefinable) with me.
Can't believe I almost forgot @catdadeddie whose Castle AU moodboard inspired me to write a fic that ended up being over 100k words long goddamn you Nova.
15. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year: If it did, I wouldn't be admitting it.
16. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers: If you don't make yourself take breaks to recharge your brain is going to make you and trust me, you will not like how that goes. Give yourself time to rest.
17. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year: Nothing in the fanfic world. I actually woke up with ideas for next Halloween and wrote them down so I wouldn't forget them, but those won't be until October which is a full ten months away.
18. Tag some writers whose answers you’d like to read.
@extasiswings @kitkatpancakestack @tripleaxeldiaz
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3, 4, and 9 for Reforged!
Reblog if you are a fanfiction author and would like your readers to put one of your fic titles in your ask + questions about it
Gave me a hard one to answer right away, lol. I'm going to go with favorite bits, etc. from what is already posted to avoid spoilers. I'm also going to go with bits from relatively recent chapters because it's a massive fic and I haven't reread some of the earlier chapters in a bit.
Fic Context: Reforged
3: What’s your favorite line of narration?
This includes a tiny piece of the attached dialogue for clarity.
“Smoochies,” Rodimus announced, with all the grace of a thrown brick, before pursing his lips expectantly.
Excerpted from chapter 90.
Why is this my favorite? Because it's so damn ridiculous, especially in the broader context in which it occurs.
Looming sense of impending, inescapable pain and/or death
A bright moment of happiness in the midst of that
Not only already wanting affection from Megatron, but also expecting that this absurd demand is the best way to ask for it and the complete and utter expectation that this will have the desired result of a "smoochie."
Unexpected word choices for the comedic value
4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue?
“If you’re about to tell me that the gas ball outside is broken, I am not fixing it.”
Excerpted from chapter 92.
It's hard to pick favorite dialogue when one of your major speaking role characters is Rodimus. His dialogue is some of my favorite to write.
He is talking about a gas giant that Caminus orbits. His general refusal to refer to things in a technically specific ways leads to hilarious, irreverent turns of phrase.
He is 100% certain he might be asked to "fix" a "broken" planet.
He is also talking to a generally well-regarded, high-ranking priestess. The absolute disregard for authority in his word choice is fantastic.
9: Were there any alternate versions of this fic?
Well, there were other versions of trials/trial solutions that I ultimately didn't use, but not necessarily entirely alternate versions.
Unless you count that that when I started writing this, I thought I would be done in 20 chapters tops. You know, like a liar unaware that I was lying.
Spoilers (for earlier trials) below the cut.
The original solution to the third trial was going to be Star Saber appearing just in time to eat all off the scraplets. Hints of that plan are still pretty evident in that arc. The ultimate solution I went with seemed to fit better, but it was definitely a last minute switch.
One of the trials was going to be sending Rodimus out into the wilderness alone on a pilgrimage, something that adherents to the Way of Flame generally do as a rite of passage, to self-reflect and build something (a small, crude lantern) with materials he finds out there. This was scrapped pretty early on, but I kept a few aspects of it.
Originally, Rodimus was going to actually manage something fairly sword-shaped in the second trial and be the one who pulled Star Saber out (and got bitten). But I ultimately decided that wouldn't be failing hard enough and I wanted to better integrate Prowl into the narrative, so I had Prowl do it.
Also, originally, Prowl wasn't going to be in the fic. Neither were the flashback interrupt chapters of Solus, Megatronus, and the others from that time period.
I didn't intend to touch as much on those historical aspects because it was the modern reinterpretation of what the myths meant that mattered more than any factual basis. However, including them ended up being a great help narratively and provided additional clarification for the reader.
As far as Prowl, I... was realizing pretty early on that I needed an additional seemingly antagonistic force and he seemed an excellent person to cast in that role. He was perfectly poised for it. He was also a great window in Autobot weirdness that I couldn't necessarily get in the same way with other cast members (Minimus/Ultra Magnus).
It also gave me an opportunity to spend a lot of time developing a satisfying character arc for Prowl. 100% unintended but I'm glad for it. Also the reader shift in comments from disdain for Prowl as an antagonist to "oh no, is Prowl okay??? Prowl needs to sleep" has been delightful.
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EVERY SUN THAT EVER DIED UPDATE # 3
welcome to the writing update i said i would post four months ago but forgot about instead 💅💅
ested update #1 here
ested update #2 here
disclaimer: this is my original work and plagiarism of any kind will not be tolerated.
so i’ve written about 15,000 words since the last update, and the draft is now at 38k. i have admittedly not been writing basically anything for the last few months, because school is a thing and writers block is a thing and those things don’t really go well together.
i’ve written too much to fit into one update so this will be split into two or three updates! hopefully it won’t be four months before i remember to write the second part of this but don’t hold me to that🧍
chapters & taglist below the cut.
CHAPTER 8: EYE TO EYE (working title)
parker gets a haircut and then it’s raining so she goes to an art gallery and is inspired to start painting. we stan a good art gallery scene.
after parker goes back to her apartment, there’s a flashback to her last interaction with her best friend from the cult, alice.
The evening before she left, the sky was a pale indigo, smudged with dim stars. A yellow crescent moon slanted through the branches of the oak tree over the lake, which cast its pronged shadow further across the property just before dusk. Parker had wandered across the grounds to where Alice sat cross-legged in the grass, messy blond hair static around her, a blue bruise welding her cheek.
IT'S EASY
a melodramatic vignette. melodrama is apparently my favourite thing. here’s the end of it:
Sometimes it’s easy to find an empty parking lot outside the city and scream, scream until your throat caves in, scream until you run out of breath, run out of things to scream about, can’t utter a word for weeks. Sometimes it’s easy, sometimes it’s satisfying, sometimes it’s possible, but you can never bring yourself to do it because what will people think, what will people say, what will people do? What do people do with a person like you? It’s easy to want the best, the worst, but sometimes all you want is to be here and be here, live here, belong here. The problem is that you don’t know what any of these things mean.
THE FIRST PAINTING
a short vignette that describes parker making her first painting. very self explanatory. no excerpts good enough to share.
CHAPTER 9: SETTING FIRES
asher and ezra (or should i say: ezrasher) have a conversation about ✨arson✨ because thats what normal people talk about right!!
ezra is a pyromaniac who doesn’t set things on fire anymore due to a certain traumantic event in his past (more on that later).
here's ezra being intimidating:
He strikes a flame with the lighter and curves a palm above it, the flame dancing so fast it’s hard to follow. “There’s so much destruction, in one tiny flame. I could burn down this building if I wanted to. I could burn down the entire city if I wanted to.” He smiles and places the lighter on the railing with a dull clink. “I could make this place a living hell.”
and here's an instance of 'lilac' used as a verb because verbs!!!!!!!
Asher’s legs still ache from a day of wandering the city, where Ezra had bought them coco-cola from a vending machine and they’d walked through the nearest park, bushes ribbing the edges of the path and redwing blackbirds flashing their wings and soaring over their heads. They’d walked until twilight lilac’d on the horizon, and then headed back to the apartment, sunset pearlescent against shop windows and reflected in the eyes of every passerby.
CHAPTER 10: SWALLOWING LIGHT
i’m going to drastically alter the events of this chapter so you get no summary, only nice prose.
Parker paints pictures of everything in her apartment over the next few days – the ceiling fan, the waxed floorboards, the sink faucet. She’s already seeing improvement, but not as much as she expects. She finds a way to paint finer lines, rather than thick messy brushstrokes. She finds a way to blend colours more realistically, to create the gradient of twilight blurred across the horizon outside her window.
and here’s the end:
Sometimes it feels like nothing will ever change. Nothing ever changes. Nothing ever ends. Nothing ever works. She grabs at the moonbeams and her hand sinks right through them.
i thought my melodramatic phase ended a year ago but apparently it did not 🥰
MACROPHOBIA
i’ll give you the entire vignette because it’s very short. it’s another phobia definition so naturally i like it a lot.
(n.) a fear of long waits.
A fear of waiting and waiting and waiting for something to change but nothing ever changes, a fear of waiting and waiting and waiting for something to happen, for something to cause something else to cause something else to cause something else, but nothing ever causes anything and you’re afraid you’ll get used to it. You’re afraid you’ll get used to this soaked stagnancy, this watercolour world half-coloured in, the sky never blued by rain or the grass never dotted with wildflowers. Nothing changes anymore and you’re afraid time will stop, years will overlap and filter over each other like recording over the same tape. Nothing changes anymore and you’re afraid nothing ever will.
BIRD STRIKE
another vignette, which is only dialogue, and is basically just ezra telling asher that he just got kicked out of his apartment and they have to move. very fun times.
ORANGE
a list of images that describe a scene, similar to the chapter “indigo” from the previous update. asher mentions that he knows of an old cult member who left, who he thinks they can go stay with for a while until they find somewhere to live. this vignette is them walking up to her house (which is on the beach ofc) and knocking on the door.
here’s a bit of it:
Sand silting under the soles of your Converse / a sky paled by sunrise / waves crashing and melting on the shore / a flimsy paper map clutched in your hand, tugged at by wind / his voice hardly resonating in your mind / 6:48 a.m. / a gull swooping low over your heads / a boy in swim trunks watching you from knee-deep in the water / broken seashells scattered in the sand / a forgotten shovel and bucket half-buried / sunbeams glittering in his irises / the way the water looks like ruptured glass / a trickle of soft voices rising from behind the narrow line of trees / early morning beach-goers trickling into view / a patina of shadows cast across a forgotten picnic blanket scrawled further off / the house you’ve been looking for looming ahead / a greasy paper plate wafting across your path / an orange peel coiled in the sand / the way he asks if you’re sure you know where you’re going / the way you say you do even though you don’t /
and it continues but you definitely dont want to read that .
anyway thats all i have for this update, more coming soon hopefully!
- rowen
taglist: @gracestowewriting @flip-phones @shaelinwrites @chewingthescenery @august-iswriting @dallonm @wildswrites @nodeadnarrators @annlillyjose @shaonharryandpannisim @letsgetsquiggly @strangerays @mel-writes-with-her-dragons @teaandtypewriters @kahaaniyaa @coffeeandcalligraphy @47crayons @writing-is-a-martial-art @bookdragonfanish @childhoodlovers @zoya-writes @pepperdee @oceancold @unorganisedbookshelf @musingsbycaitlin @sunstone-iolite @femmeniism @raywritesstories
#writing update#my writing#original writing#every sun that ever died#every sun that ever died update#writers on tumblr#writeblr#ested
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WIP Wednesday - 06/01
I have already started my fic for the 2 Cakes fest/exchange/challenge! I've got the "OMG they were roommates" trope.
Title: Flipping Out OMG they were Roommates!!! Modern Day AU Starring: The One Braincell Trio and others passing through - endgame ships are Wangxian (established relationship) and Sangcheng (friends to lovers), with minor MianSu (because they'd be cute together and deserve to be happy with a cute woman!) Summary: When Wei Wuxian, Jiang Cheng, and Nie Huaisang fall on hard times, they decide it's time to do something drastic. They pool their talents and resources together, deciding that buying a house and flipping it would be easy money. It can't be that hard... can it?
Excerpt:
The three men were well and truly in their cups by 9:00pm. They'd made a nest of pillows and blankets in front of the TV and Jiang Cheng was bracketed by the other two, who made certain his glass was constantly topped up; the remote control was in his hand and he kept flicking from channel to channel in search of something to watch even though he rarely stayed on one channel long enough to actually see what was on.
“It's not so bad, being unemployed,” Wei Wuxian said with grandiosity, sloshing his drink as he waved his hand. “Look at me, I haven't worked in years.”
Jiang Cheng glared at him. “That's because you're coasting off the thing you sold years ago.” The 'thing' being the patent to an advanced design for an infant car seat – Wei Wuxian had come up with the idea when Jiang Yanli had announced her first pregnancy two decades ago. There was another patent or two that Wei Wuxian had created but Jiang Cheng couldn't remember them through the glasses of wine he'd imbibed. “And that money's almost dried up.”
“Only until I sell something else,” Wei Wuxian replied with a shrug.
“Of course not all of us have a sugar daddy to pay for everything we want,” Jiang Cheng said, trying to offend Wei Wuxian, but the other grinned in response.
“I don't know about the 'sugar' part, but I do call him Daddy on occasion-”
“Stop! Enough!” Jiang Cheng threw his free arm over his eyes.
“Wei-xiong does have a point,” Nie Huaisang added from Jiang Cheng's other side. “Knowing you, you've got a bit stashed aside for a rainy day, right? This is the rainy day, so you have time to think things through. You don't have to rush into something, or even worry about rent for a bit.” He grimaced.
“Still haven't found a new place yet?”
Nie Huaisang shook his head. “I've got a month until Xichen-ge moves in, and Da-ge wants them to have privacy and peace and quiet. He also said I can't mooch off him any longer... but every place I look up doesn't allow pets, and I'm not going anywhere without Ginger, Peanut, and Pepper.”
“It's not really your fault though, Nie-xiong,” Wei Wuxian offered.
“I know, but he thinks I should just give up and go back to the liquor store.” A few years ago, Nie Huaisang had traded in retail work for an apprenticeship with a local tattoo artist, a line of work he'd been dreaming of most of his life. Then the pandemic hit and the regulations forced many shops to shut down, and though most had gone back to business as usual, the time off had brought on a change of heart to Nie Huaisang's mentor who had such a large backlog of clients that he no longer had time to spare to train an apprentice. “And I've tried to find another mentor, but things are uncertain and nobody has the time to take me on. Even if I try to tell them I'm good and I know most of it already – they don't believe me, or say they wouldn't feel right taking me on without being able to be a proper mentor.”
Jiang Cheng had finally stopped flicking channels and tossed the remote control aside. “I believe you, Nie-xiong,” he said with confidence that was only slightly marred by the light slurring of his speech.
“Me too,” Wei Wuxian added. “You should bring me along the next time you meet someone, show them the dragon you did on my leg. It's gorgeous and healed better than half the tattoos I've seen out there.”
“Thanks,” Nie Huaisang murmurred, his head settling against Jiang Cheng's shoulder.
They returned to their drinks and their eyes strayed to the TV; the last channel it had landed on had been the Home and Garden network and they watched as a couple bought a house and tried to change it in an attempt to sell it at a profit.
“What the fuck?!” Wei Wuxian sat up unsteadily. “He just decides to not use a ground wire? Come on! You don't forget the ground wire. Do you want to get shocked or fuck up the path to the breaker?”
Jiang Cheng huffed. “We know they're morons. They put up the gyprock crooked. How many sheets did they destroy before getting any of it up?”
“You know more about that than I do,” Wei Wuxian admitted. “You used to spend summers working for that contractor before you finished uni.”
“Even you could tell it was crooked.”
“True.”
“I knew they were going to fuck up the moment they chose the windows,” Nie Huaisang stated. “The shape is all wrong for the space, it'll make the house's face look like something from a horror movie.” Wei Wuxian snickered and Nie Huaisang drunkenly wagged a finger in his direction. “We've had the talk about houses and cars having faces, Wei-xiong, and it's true! Plus they must have gone out of their way to choose the ugliest shade of green for the siding. Sometimes there's a reason it's so cheap.”
Wei Wuxian lifted his glass as his eyes lit up. “We could do a much better job!”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jiang Cheng grumbled.
“The house they're fixing up. There's people who do that for a living – buy a house, fix it up, then sell it for a profit. We could totally do that!”
Nie Huaisang winced. “It sounds like a lot of work.”
“But think of it, Nie-xiong – you'd get to paint murals in every room. Think of the huge canvases, and the colour schemes you can choose.” A light came to Nie Huaisang's eyes as he drunkenly gazed into the distance. “And it would be fun! We'd spend time outside in the sunshine, get our exercise and work with our hands – you'd like that Jiang Cheng.”
Jiang Cheng nodded noncommittally and took another drink.
“I think we could do it, anyway.”
“Compared to those morons, anyone could do it,” Jiang Cheng acknowledged.
They continued watching shows and drinking until the wine was finished and the three of them lay together in a tangled pile, snoring into the assembled pillows and blankets.
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2021 Writing Wrapup!
This year I wrote 147,712 words and 20 stories.
My total Ao3 wordcount more than doubled this year! With chapter stories accounted for, that's 39 posts, an average of a story update every 9 - 10 days. Which means I exceeded my goal of posting every two weeks!
Thank you to everyone who read, left kudos, reblogged, commented, beta’d, rec’d, acted as a sounding board, chatted in discord servers, or otherwise provided the encouragement to keep writing. You all are what makes this fandom so fun to create for. <3
Gonna combine this with the Writer Year in Review Meme suggested by @wutheringmights and include a little excerpt from one of each month's stories.
January
They all look worried. Serious. Not quite meeting his eyes. Sky thinks they’re afraid for more than his health. No, actually, he’s sure of it. They’re waiting for some kind of negative reaction.
So Sky gives them his gentlest smile, and summons the strength for a full sentence, searching for something that will ease the tension. What makes it past his lips is, “The name Four makes so much sense now.”
-Handle With Care (This year’s most popular oneshot!)
February
Vio nods. Blue points an accusatory finger at his brother. “You’re manipulating me and it won’t work.”
-Keep From Cold
March
Hyrule sighs. It’s full of understanding. Legend wishes he could say the same of himself. Light pressure returns to the back of his head. “Legend?” Legend shakes his head as best he can without removing his face from the safety of Hyrule’s hip. All his biting words dry up, wither and die in his throat.
-This Will Be My Monument
April
Legend crouches by Sky to pass him a potion, stiff and moving like a man three times his age. Sky frowns at it. “Is there enough?” He knows as well as Legend does that potions are like gold when they have no idea how long they’ll be down here or what they’ll encounter.
Legend makes an exasperated noise. “Sky. You can’t walk. I’m not carrying you through this dungeon.”
-My Heart’s Forsaken Me, chapter 3 (Most popular story of the year!)
May
Four is slow to look up at him, distant and guarded.
“Unless you have any objections, I would very much like to hug you.” Four blinks at him. Dips his chin in the tiniest of nods.
Time picks him right up off his feet. His armor is in their room, so there are no harsh lines of hard metal between them, only Four’s ribs under his hands and his head tucked in next to Time’s. Four hugs back, his arms hooked around Time’s neck, one hand curled around the back of Time’s head, just as fierce. “You already had my respect.” Time says the words low, his head near Four’s, just for him to hear. “But it’s doubly true now.”
-My Heart’s Forsaken Me, chapter 6
June
His smile is twisted, a little bitter. Not an expression Wild is used to seeing on Hyrule’s face. “It’s not like I’ve got much else to offer. Just a cave. Who wants to live in a cave?” The words are sharp little things for all that they’re quiet. Prickling, drawing little drops of blood out from Hyrule’s heart and putting them on display for Wild to see. They should be out of place in this kitchen full of welcome and warmth, but they’re not. They fall into place like the knives in the block, encouraging Wild to respond in kind.
-I Got You, Chapter 2
July
There’s a trick to knocking back a potion. Straight to the back of the tongue to minimize the taste, swallow as quickly as possible. Hyrule has plenty of practice at it by now. That doesn’t mean the bitterness disappears as it’s going down. Hyrule lifts his head, wiping at his mouth with a grimace, only to find Zelda doing the same.
“Oh, that’s foul,” Zelda breathes.
“This,” Hyrule raises the empty bottle in one hand, pointing at it with the other, “is disgusting.”
-Tea for Three
August
He leans forward, hands clasped in his lap, searching Sky’s face with intent. “How do we heal it?”
A sinking sensation adds to the disquiet in his middle.
“You don’t.” Sky tries to say it gently. Hyrule frowns. Sky thinks he sees a flicker of panic behind the focus.
-I have no fear of drowning; it's the breathing that's taking all this work
September
“What is that?” Fascination coats Sky’s voice. It doesn’t take much to get that one’s attention. Legend figures he’s safe to ignore it.
“Does it have fur?” Four sounds horrified. Slightly more worrying.
Then, a noise at his back Legend’s only ever heard in a dream.
-Meet the Family, chapter 4
October
Four freezes. Shock and disgruntlement war for space on his stunned face. The whites of his eyes show all around the edges of his irises, eyebrows a pair of arching curves, mouth all knotted up on itself like he just ate something nasty. His elbows lift away from his sides as if that’ll somehow help alleviate the feeling of wet clothes sticking uncomfortably to skin. Water drips off everything: the tips of his dangling fingers, his hair, his nose. He looks like nothing so much as a wet cat that someone’s picked up under the armpits in an attempt to keep it from scratching.
Wind’s cheeks ache with how his wide grin threatens to split his face. “Got you!”
-Ruckus and Rapport
November
Legend turns back to Twilight. “What,” he says, in a voice that doesn’t sound like his. It’s far too small.
His teeth are chattering.
Twilight squeezes his wrists and lets go, steps around Legend to dig through the chest at the foot of the berth. He comes back up with a thin blanket bundled in his arms and sympathy painted across his face.
“Don't,” Legend says.
-Nothing You Keep
December
Time looks him over. He’s gone very quiet. Hyrule finds himself reaching out to say hello in the fairy way before remembering that Time won’t hear him. A dozen different verbal apologies and greetings play through his head, none of them quite right.
Please Don’t Come For Me, chapter 5
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Anakin Skywalker | Sexual Type Nine | Full Profile
Basic Fear: Of loss and separation; of annihilation
Basic Desire: To maintain their inner stability and peace of mind
Superego Message: "You are good or okay as long as those around you are good or okay."
Focus of Attention: on others, on what is going on in the environment, and on avoiding conflict and achieving harmony.
Passion: Sloth
Anakin lived a life that was entirely for other people. Specifically those close to him; his mother, Obi-Wan, Padme, Chancellor Palpatine, Ashoka, and eventually Luke. Anakin was known for how much he loved and cared for these individuals, and in reality he merged with them and their needs. All Nines need to merge with something on account of their passion, which I will explain. Unlike a Self-Preservation Nine, who merges with physical comforts and routines, or a Social Nine who merges with the group, Anakin merges with specific individuals, like a classic Sexual, or One-to-One Nine.
We will start by acknowledging his greatest fear, and what drove him to the Dark Side; his fear of loss. Anakin had this fear going back to when he was a child. His mother was his whole life and, like any child, it pained him to leave her, telling her he’d come back for her. This sense of loss extended to Obi-Wan, Palpatine, Ashoka, and Padme. We see in the Revenge of the Sith novelization, which I highly recommend, how much he worries about Obi-Wan and Palpatine. With Padme, it’s much more obvious. He was willing to do anything, even monstrous things, to avoid losing her. This was a product of his disintegration to Six.
To start this section out, not all Nines disintegrating to Six will commit mass genocide and kill children. Rather this is a fictional event. However, the causes behind the action are definitely from his disintegration. At the beginning of Revenge of the Sith, he is at Level 4 of type Nine’s Levels of Development. He is accommodating to his friends and the Jedi council and somewhat lacks a will of his own, which we will discuss more later.
When he has the dream about Padme, he starts freaking out and goes into frantic action. The only way he’s okay is if she’s okay. It is unbelievably accurately stated in this excerpt by Don Richard Riso:
“At Level 4, Nines are busy accommodating themselves to the wishes and expectations of others. They put their own agendas on the “back burner” and comply with other people’s demands in order to reduce the possibility of conflicts. When circumstances cause their anxieties to increase, they may well go to Six and engage in lots of “organizational activity.” Like average Sixes, they attempt to stabilize their environment and their relationships in order to make them safer. They may get into intensive periods of work, investing their time and energy in activities they believe will enhance their security, and thus their peace of mind. These actions are guided not by positive intention, however, but by anxiety. They also begin to identify more strongly with protectors, supporters, groups, or ideas that increase their self-confidence and give them a feeling of purpose and direction.”
He works so hard to prevent Padme’s death, so far as joining the Sith, to enhance his security and peace of mind by having the power to keep her alive. It’s all guided by a sense of anxiety fueled by a fear of loss. Now, regarding his self-confidence. I believe what looked like arrogance near the end of the movie was part of his move to Six. He began to identify more with Palpatine and his beliefs and less with the Jedi. This gave him purpose and direction by giving him a sense of justification for all that was being done. As if he was doing the right thing. “The Jedi are evil”, “I’ve brought peace, freedom, justice, and security to my new empire”, and “if you’re not with me, you’re my enemy” are some examples of this self-confidence. You could say he even merged with Darth Vader.
Another extremely important thing to mention which I vaguely mentioned earlier is the Passion of the Nine. The Passion is one of the most important things in finding a person or character’s Enneagram type. For Anakin, the Passion is Sloth. This may seem odd, considering he is a human. But Sloth in this regard is an inattention to self, not the animal. Now, this plays out in various ways depending on the subtype, whether Sexual, Social, or Self-Preservation. For Anakin, a Sexual type, his attention is focused on close relationships, as I said earlier. He completely merges with those close to him and they become his focus of attention, not his own wants or needs. He does seem more willful and assertive than a classic Sexual Nine, but that is due to his Eight wing, which conflicts with the Nine in that it gives Nines with an Eight wing more of an instinctual drive, as stated below:
“Nines with an Eight-wing are more sensual and instinctive than the Nines with a One-wing, and tend to operate more on feelings and hunches. They tend to embody more the easygoing demeanor associated with Nines, but also give the impression of being more “physical,” more grounded. This is one of the most difficult subtypes to understand because the component types are in such diametrical opposition to each other.”
Darth Vader. The typing is exactly the same and I will tell you why. Nothing has changed about him. He just has no one, no purpose. He deteriorates to an extremely unhealthy Nine, specifically Level 9, and it takes him finding out about Luke to bring him back. Some lines from Riso about Level 9 Nines below:
“They disintegrate as persons into the most extreme state of dissociation from who they are. As we have seen, their receptive orientation to life has facilitated their flight from self-awareness. Now, they completely flee from themselves. In most cases, neurotic Nines unconsciously abandon themselves as whole persons, reinvesting consciousness into various fragments of themselves, each of which may represent an aspect of the self which has been repressed and denied and undeveloped. Memories, dreamlike trances, and emotional reactions seem to come and go at random. It is as though the very structure of the personality has come “unglued” or broken apart, and only its constituents remain to interact with the environment. To abandon themselves as persons, retreating into complete dissociation and fragmenting their personalities, is a “solution” of sorts, because then it is not really they who live but someone else through whom they can live. We have seen that average Nines tend to live through the other; now we see that they live through the other-self, the fragments of the self which are little more than the disconnected identifications and relationships with significant others from the Nine’s past. The core self has been so traumatized that it is as though in a dream without a dreamer. This can hardly be called living. Furthermore, because one of the subpersonalities can do harm to other people or to itself, this is neither a safe nor truly adaptive way to live. Moreover, Nines who so feared losing or separating from others have not only psychologically done so, they have also separated from and lost themselves.”
As well as:
“Unhealthy Nines with an Eight-wing are capable of violence with little concern about the consequences of their actions. Aggressions and id impulses are strong in people of this subtype, and when they are emotionally unstable, there is little ego strength left to regulate these forces.”
Basically, Vader lost who he was. It isn’t him, he’s broken and dissociated from his true self; the helpful, caring friend, mentor, and husband. His whole outlook changes when he finds out about Luke. He is given purpose again. He tries to have him join him and have them rule the galaxy as father and son. His last act is saving the son that brought him back to the light, and all of this makes him a pretty damn good character all around.
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2, 5, 9, 11, 12, 18, 20 ♥
Thank you so much for the ask!! :) I forgot how much fun these were.
2: Post a line from your WIP with no context
The electric fan in the corner has little fluttering strips of yellow paper tied to it, rotating with a soft rattling noise.
5: Search for the word "knife" in your WIP. If you find it, paste the line and explain the context.
Kamiki palms a retractable knife under the sleeve of her blazer, eyeing the grubby karaoke place across the street.
(Context: Someone is following them, and she's going to go beat up whoever it is in a sketchy alley hehe.)
9: How would you describe your writing style?
Ahhh, this is pretty hard! I guess it's become more focused on dialogue lately. I've also been developing a weird habit where I just write without explaining anything XD. Maybe it's sort of like writing in media res, but it's also mostly just confusing because I keep deciding the plot as I go. I really hope to write some kind of mystery fic because I feel like it'd work well with my style. :)
11: Which character do you have the most in common with?
I guess if I was to pick someone from Ao no Exorcist, I'd probably resonate the most with Shiemi from the earlier chapters. ^^ I really like how she started out really sheltered but grew to find her own place and ambitions, so she's like my role model haha.
12: Which character do you have the least in common with?
Haha, maybe Amaimon? I thought about writing him for two seconds the other day, and I had no idea what to do XD. His motives are very mysterious to me.
18: What's easier, dialogue or description?
I think description is probably easier for me, although both are really fun to write! Still, I have a really hard time with dialogue in my fics because I'm picky about spacing out all the talking. Other than that, I also struggle so much with describing clothes in detail T^ T. I've been trying to remind myself to practice more with my newest WIP, but most of the time, my limit is one article of clothing for one character.
20: Post a brief excerpt.
Ahh, I couldn't decide where to cut it off, so it's kind of long. This is from the same WIP as above. It's currently 28k, and I still have a lot to write before it's finished OTL.
The cell door is warped. A deep dent runs along where the lock is. They should replace it soon, but he doubts anyone will. Dr. Eminescu left with Dr. Egyn for an international conference two days ago, and Gedouin has been overseeing their labs since.
Yukio clears his throat as he steps forward.
A smile spreads across the demon’s face, tired but unmistakably delighted. “Hey,” he whispers as his tail sweeps up behind him gradually from side to side. “You came back.”
He’s been dressed in the gown all of the other specimens wear, and his pale hair is matted with dried blood.
Rin. He said his name is Rin.
“I brought provisions,” Yukio says, because no one else was willing to. He clasps his hands behind his back, standing rigidly still even when Rin wraps his hands around the bars of the cell window. “One of my superiors requested to collect a sample of your blood. I suggest you cooperate.”
Rin’s lips press in a worried line, but he smiles the next moment. “Okay,” he agrees. “I’d never hurt you. You know that, right?”
Yukio doesn’t let himself sneer. “You injured five of our guards. One might never wake again.”
Rin’s grip on the bars slackens, and for a moment, something almost pained flickers across his eyes.
“Sorry—”
“I didn’t ask you to apologize.” Yukio tastes metal in the back of his throat when he swallows. “What’s clear is you can cause harm even if you don’t intend to.”
“I’m sorry,” Rin repeats, and this time the pain in his eyes is unmistakable.
It hurts like bewitchment, in a way Yukio doesn’t understand. No other demon has affected him in this way before.
He breathes in and back out. Twice.
“Step away from the window,” he orders.
#ask game#again thanks so much for sending the ask! :D I've been stuck on this fic for a bit#but this got me excited about it again ^^#tw blood#tw knife
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(Although Rest of the Line already did the hard work of including the team info above, a text version is also included below)
Title: The Soul Healed
Posting Date: July 9, 2021
Author: Jill [AO3] [Twitter]
Artist: Rest of the Line [Twitter] [Instagram]
Rating: Teen and Up
Pairings: Captain America Steve Rogers / Modern Bucky Barnes ; Sam Wilson / Natasha Romanov ; Peggy Carter / Angie Martinelli
Tags/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort; Shrunkclunks; Recovery; Professor Bucky; older Bucky; Steve Rogers, A Man Out of Time; Dostoevsky
Summary:
Bucky is a professor of Russian literature at Georgetown. He should feel pleased and happy with himself, being well settled in his career by 41, but his past haunts him. His wounds, from a harrowing experience with HYDRA a year prior, are not quite healing, and his friends are worried for him.
Steve Rogers is Captain America. That seems to be the only thing people know about him now that he has been thawed. Every person he knew is gone, and he is having a hard time finding himself in this new century.
They both find something in each other when Steve attends one of Bucky’s lectures on Dostoevsky. Maybe together, they will help each other heal, but with HYDRA still lurking around Bucky, will they be given the chance to?
Excerpt:
They stood there, and Bucky realized that Steve had just been staring at him this entire time. “Um, I brought us breakfast, if you want. Because I thought. Well, I know last night was weird and awkward, and I totally understand if you are mad, but I figured you needed to know. Why I freaked out. So, I was going to tell you. This morning. If you like.” Bucky ended lamely, wishing the earth would take pity on him and just swallow him whole.
It seemed like everything finally clicked for Steve. He looked down at the package of breakfast he was now holding and then back up to Bucky’s face, “Yes. Please, come in.” Steve moved out of the way, and Bucky walked in sheepishly. How am I going to get through this? I don’t want to have to tell him this. I don’t want him to see this much of me. What if Brock was right? I am messed up. This isn’t normal. And even if this is normal, who would want it?
“Want to sit down? I was just getting myself some coffee.”
“Coffee would be great,” Bucky agreed as he sat at Steve’s small kitchen table. He picked at the corner of it idly. “Steve, I am really sorry about last night.”
“No don’t worry –”
“Please don’t tell me not to worry about it. That isn’t what I wanted to do. I wanted to keep kissing you. To have you stay over with me and celebrate the success of the night. But, well, it wasn’t a good night for me, and I want to tell you why.”
#shrunkyclunks#steve rogers/bucky barnes#stevebucky#stucky#steve/bucky#shrunkyclunks bang#2021 shrunkyclunks fun#2021 previews
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obikin rough draft fic excerpt (abo)
Here, have some tattooed omega!Obi-Wan. Someday I will fill it out and complete it. Maybe, lol.
Oh, and in case you didn’t catch it in the post title, this is A/B/O. There’s nothing explicit in this excerpt, though.
*
It's not that Anakin's looking, alright.
But when Obi-Wan strips off his under-tunic after their lengthy sparring session, Anakin's attention is possibly a little bit more drawn to the movement than it should be.
And it’s why he spots the mark on Obi-Wan’s flushed skin. The mark is palm-sized, a murky whorl of sooty, ashen color blossoming across his ribs too nicely to be a bruise.
"I didn’t know you had tattoos,” Anakin says, gesturing to the blooming color there.
Obi-Wan follows his hand movement and lifts up his arm to look at the space below it. “I - don’t.”
*
"Is it contagious?" Ahsoka asks, once Obi-Wan's returned from the Halls of Healing. "Because Rex said you can catch a fungus if you don't wear shoes in the showers."
“Ahsoka,” Anakin says.
“No, young one. I don’t think it’s contagious,” Obi-Wan patiently answers.
“Is it because you’re an omega?” Ahsoka asks.
“Ahsoka!” Anakin hisses.
“I shouldn’t think so,” Obi-Wan says, bemused, then draws a small datapad from his robes. “At any rate, Healer Che asked me to monitor the condition with daily stills.”
Anakin frowns, and he’s fixed on the tablet in Obi-Wan’s hand when the terrible, horrible offer just spills right out of his terrible, horrible mouth, “I could help you. Take the stills, I mean. It’s in a weird spot, so it might be hard to get the angle right.”
Obi-Wan stares at him, and Ahsoka does, too, and this is how it starts.
Day 1
“No changes,” Anakin says.
Obi-Wan snorts, tugging his tunic back into place and taking the datapad from Anakin’s hands. “It’s been less than a day since the onset.”
He follows Obi-Wan out of the ‘fresher and into the small living space. It’s a lot neater these days, now that Anakin’s moved out and taken his mess with him. His scent, too.
Now, Obi-Wan’s scent permeates every inch of the place, fresh and clean and undeniably omega. Something in him – a little ugly, a little primal – is urging him to leave his mark, run his hands over every surface and claim this place as his own, again.
He doesn’t, of course. Obi-Wan would pitch a fit. But if Anakin maybe smooths the tips of his fingers down the front door as he leaves, well, what’s the harm in that.
Day 4
Obi-Wan frowns. “Does it look darker to you?”
Anakin leans over his shoulder and peers down at the datapad in Obi-Wan’s hands, where a procession of images is pulled up on its screen. He shrugs. “Not really?”
Day 9
“I’m not sure how to say this--” Anakin starts, watching from the door as Obi-Wan fold ups his tunic and sets it near the sink.
“Then you should just say it,” Obi-Wan says.
“--I think it’s spreading,” Anakin finishes.
Obi-Wan stills, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Are you quite sure?”
Anakin brushes his elbow, directing him, and Obi-Wan lifts up his arm to a horizontal plane. The position, they’ve found, least distorts the shape of the mark. He regards it, the dark smudge on Obi-Wan’s pale, muscled flesh.
Before, he could have covered it up entirely with his palm. Anakin holds his hand over the mark, not touching but close enough to feel whisper soft vellus hair when Obi-Wan pulls in a particularly deep breath.
Now, the cloud of black and gray has extended well past his fingertips, blossoming across the side of Obi-Wan’s ribcage, creeping towards the front of his body.
“Well?” Obi-Wan asks, above him.
Anakin straightens up. “It’s definitely spread.”
“And your method of measurement was what, your hand?” Obi-Wan asks, mildly.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Anakin shoots back. “Did you have a ruler laying around?”
Day 13
“You look terrible,” he says, breezing into Obi-Wan’s quarters.
Obi-Wan sighs, close behind him, and Anakin can feel the heat of it brush the back of his neck.
Day 14
“Oh,” Anakin says, when the door opens.
The scent of oncoming heat is unmistakable, and it’s overpowering, and it hits him with enough force to send him shuffling back a step.
If Obi-Wan had looked terrible yesterday, he looks even worse today. There are deep shadows under his eyes, his hair limp across his brow, and his clothes are damp with sweat.
“It’s best we didn’t today,” Obi-Wan says, finally.
“Right,” Anakin says, voice rough like it’s been dragged over gravel. “Is - can I get you anything before I go?”
Obi-Wan smiles tightly. “No, thank you, Anakin. I will see you in a few days.”
Anakin doesn’t even get the chance to say goodbye before the door is sliding shut in his face. It sends a billowing waft of something that feels like, well, like untouched, unmated, unprotected, into the hallway, and Anakin holds his breath while he walks away.
Day 15
Obi-Wan will be livid if he finds out, Anakin thinks, as he slips the glove off his right hand and steps up to the door, sometime in the dark, early hours of the morning.
He runs both hands – organic and prosthetic – over every surface of the door’s control panel. The transparisteel display screen, the durasteel plating, the rubber-padded plastoid buttons, even the sharp edges where the box itself is bracketed to the wall.
After he’s satisfied with the way his scent has shrouded the doorway, he pulls his glove back on and leaves.
Day 21
“Master Obi-Wan is here!”
Anakin rolls his shoulders to ease the achiness there. He’s been hunched over his mechnoarm for the last hour, at least, trying to reconnect a fragile strand of loose wiring.
“Having trouble?” Obi-Wan asks.
He glances up from the needle-nose pliers lodged in his wrist. Obi-Wan looks better, well-rested, he supposes, and a lot less…sweaty. “It’s fine,” he says. “Just give me a minute, then we can go do the thing.”
Obi-Wan takes the seat across from him, brow raised. “The thing?”
“The picture thing,” Anakin tacks on.
“About that,” Obi-Wan says. “I think we ought to do the thing, as you say, here, for the time being. My quarters – well –”
“Your quarters, what?” Anakin asks. “Smell bad?”
“Yes, Anakin, my quarters smell bad.”
“I guarantee they don’t smell as bad as you think they do,” Anakin says, just to push him, just a bit.
Day 28
Obi-Wan touches little in their quarters and never stays long enough to leave much of a trace, but it must leave something. Ahsoka’s nose crinkles every time she walks through the door.
Day 32
“Well,” Anakin says, powering down the datapad and setting it on the cluttered sink. “I took five stills this time. To get everything.”
Obi-Wan exhales. He moves away from Anakin, then, and reaches for his tunic. The movement twists and pulls at the grayscale whorls spiraling out over his side, down his abdomen, and his entire left pectoral.
Faint, fine lines and the lightest shading spill out across his skin around the edges of the marking, but it’ll be swallowed up by darker color soon enough, if this thing keeps up, keeps spreading.
As it stands, it’s a hair’s breadth away from the cleft of his spine, and Anakin watches the muscled flex of his back as Obi-Wan slides his tunic back over his head.
*
Anakin’s known from the start that Obi-Wan sends off the holostills to Master Che every day-cycle. What she does with them – or doesn’t do with them, since it’s not like she’s figured it out yet – really isn’t Anakin’s business.
So he is well aware he’s not the only one to see the monochrome tendrils creeping across Obi-Wan’s skin. And, he realizes in a numb but sudden sort of way, it bothers him utterly that there are others who do.
The feeling makes itself known when Anakin happens across Che and Jocasta Nu and Nu’s padawan in the library later that afternoon, grouped around a computer terminal, studying his still of Obi-Wan’s body.
“Exquisite,” Nu says, and her gnarled finger raises up to trace across the screen one of the swooping lines on Obi-Wan’s right oblique. “Simply exquisite. I have never seen anything like it.”
Che sighs. “Nor have I. That is the problem.”
“I shall begin my research straight away, Vokara,” Nu says, resolved. “You will keep me apprised of any changes to Master Kenobi’s condition?”
“Of course. Thank you, Master Nu.”
The old librarian turns to her padawan, then. “And what do you make of this, boy?”
The boy shrugs, edging closer to the screen. “No clue. It’s pretty, though.”
Hidden away in the shadows of a towering bookstack, Anakin bites hard into the spongy flesh of his cheek, prosthetic knuckles whirring from the strain of his tightening fist.
Day 35
It’s been two weeks since Obi-Wan’s heat ended, more than enough time for the scent of it to air out and fade away. Still, Anakin leaves Obi-Wan’s quarters with the urge to claw out of his own skin.
Day 40
“Knight Skywalker.”
“Master Che,” he replies, scowling at her retreating back as the healer glides down the hall and out of sight.
“There’s been a development,” Obi-Wan says.
Anakin meets Obi-Wan’s flinty blue gaze. “I’m guessing it’s not a good one, then.”
Day 42
The markings on Obi-Wan’s legs are even more remarkable the third day he sees them.
A couple days ago, the lines had been faint, like the lightest press of graphite on a piece of flimsi. The markings had barely shown up in the stills he’d taken, and he’d had to mess with the datapad settings before Obi-Wan had sent them off to Master Che.
Today, though.
Today, the lines are the deepest shade of black, heavy and wide. They curve in on one another, then cleave apart, and splinter off into webs of thinner, still defined lines. From the curl of Obi-Wan’s toes to the knobby bones of his ankles and kneecaps, all the way up to the mid-center of his thighs, he is covered.
It’s so unlike the chaotic, celestial explosions swallowing up the surfaces of his torso and back. There’s a pattern here in these new markings, maze-like in their design. They’re mirror images, or pretty damn close, on Obi-Wan’s right and left legs.
“And this all appeared overnight?” Anakin asks, a little breathless.
“Essentially,” Obi-Wan says, eventually. “Are we finished?”
Obi-Wan shifts where he’s prone on the couch, and the hard muscles in his calves flutter and bulge, just a fraction of a second, really, but Anakin notices, crouched at Obi-Wan’s side and entirely too close.
Anakin’s brain stutters for a moment. “What?”
“The pictures, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says. “Are we done?”
“Oh.” Anakin looks down at the glowing datapad, lax in his grip.
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nouveau riche non accueilli (E)
Pairing: Lee Minho (Lee Know) x fem!Reader
Characters: Lee Minho, Han Jisung, Yang Jeongin, Bang Chan (mentioned), Hwang Hyunjin (mentioned)
Summary: Nearly a year ago, Lee Minho signed his soul over to a demon in order to gain wealth through his writing. Shortly after, you come along, the half-demon half-human sent to watch him, make sure he doesn’t break the contract early. The newly famous author is invited to a masquerade ball, and you’re the only person he could possibly ask to accompany him.
Excerpt: “Pretty sure Old Money vs New Money is one of those universal issues.” He takes the mask from your grasp, tossing both back onto the bed before grabbing the black velvet tie that had been laid out with the rest of his suit.
“But you’re not New Money.” You slide in front of the mirror, obstructing his view when he turns back around. Nevertheless, he still tries to see around you. Slithering further into his personal space, you can smell his body wash. It’s not the typical woody scent that men tend to go for, but it still smells sinful, like something that could make anyone fall over themselves. But you’re sure Minho had that effect on people even before…
“You’re Blood Money,” you hiss sinisterly. “Demon Money. You sold your soul for this life, this penthouse suite, the opportunity to dine with South Korea’s most famous clans.”
Warnings: oral sex, mirror sex (ish)...think minho curses, like, once in the entire fic
Word Count: 6.858k (too fucking long)
“I like this mask more,” you state simply, holding up the intricate black mask, ornate with gold designs etched into the plastic. Holding it close to Minho’s solemn expression, you smile. “Wanna make sure we can see those delicious lips.”
He rolls his eyes, and you watch in satisfaction as those lips part to take in and exhale a heavy sigh; exasperate, no doubt.
You remember where you were when Minho had received his invitation to The Han Clan’s Masquerade Ball. Your favourite tub sat stand-alone in the en-suite of the second master bedroom. While the master bedroom you normally shared with Minho had a wall of windows to overlook Gangnam, this bathroom had a window big enough for you to see the passing traffic on busy Korean highways. At night, the red brake lights and warm headlights were entrancing. So that’s where you were, soaking in warm bubbles with soothing scents of apple ginger, when Minho knocked calmly on the half opened door.
He moved slowly, like he was afraid one wrong move could scare you away...or make you lash out (in the 9 months of your relationship with the man, it was still hard to tell). With his eyes trained on yours, he lowered himself until he sat on the marble floor right outside the tub. The small candles lining the rim performed a beautiful dance with the reflections on his face, licking across his nose, caressing up his cheeks, sliding across his lips. You were so weak for his lips.
You only realized belatedly, as he hesitated with the card clenched in his fingers, that he must have had some news for you. With the amount of patience you could muster, you only managed to keep your eyes loud as you raised your brows, waiting for him to speak.
“I got invited to Han Jisung’s birthday party. A masquerade ball.”
You didn’t entirely understand his tightness, nor did you want to divulge in what his worries must be. All you knew was that there’s probably an option for a Plus One, and there’s no one Minho could have possibly picked to go with him other than you.
So you smiled, baring teeth in a manner you learned to be kind, maybe even comforting. “That’s fantastic, honey! And are you, perhaps, in search of a date for this?”
Whatever thoughts troubled him seemed to ease away in that moment, just a little. You learned quickly that Minho liked your forwardness, found something attractive about how confident you could be in yourself and him.
He smirked, blinking up under his lashes. “Do you want to accompany me, (Y/N), to this ball?”
You threw your head back dramatically, sliding further into the bath as one leg lifted from the clouds of bubbles. “Lee Minho! A man after my heart.”
That was a month ago, and the night had come. With the summer still fighting its way until autumn officially came, 7pm found you just enough light coming in through that wall of windows in your bedroom. You had emerged from the bathroom, freshly clean from your shower and pampering to find Minho with half his suit on, holding two different masks in his hands. You, being the gracious...whatever you were to this man, decided to help him make this seemingly tough decision.
And all he could do was roll his eyes at you. Rude, much?
“I believe the correct response is, ‘Thank you, baby’.” You shake your head violently, waving in front of yourself. “No, wait, okay. Let’s try this again.” Clearing your throat, you hold up the mask again, as you did a moment prior. “I like this mask more. Wanna make sure we can see those-”
“(Y/N)...” groans an ill-tempered Minho. No, not ill-tempered. Anxious. He picks his next words carefully, surely knowing your expression is challenging of his short fuse. “How...how good is your French?”
Surprisingly enough, your first job was in France. But that guy hadn’t lasted more than 3 months before breaking the contract. Minho doesn’t need to know that, though. You shrug.
“C'est pas terrible,” you respond.
The man nods. “So, then, you know the term ‘nouveau riche’,” he assumes.
You understand him quickly and begin to snicker in incredulity. “Do people really care about that here?”
“Pretty sure Old Money vs New Money is one of those universal issues.” He takes the mask from your grasp, tossing both back onto the bed before grabbing the black velvet tie that had been laid out with the rest of his suit.
“But you’re not New Money.” You slide in front of the mirror, obstructing his view when he turns back around. Nevertheless, he still tries to see around you. Slithering further into his personal space, you can smell his body wash. It’s not the typical woody scent that men tend to go for, but it still smells sinful, like something that could make anyone fall over themselves. But you’re sure Minho had that effect on people even before…
“You’re Blood Money,” you hiss sinisterly. “Demon Money. You sold your soul for this life, this penthouse suite, the opportunity to dine with South Korea’s most famous clans.”
Instead of replying, the ash blond only gives you a pointed look, and you can hear your name without him even having to open his pretty mouth.
“What? I’m just saying, you’re not New Money. You’re in a league of your own.”
“And you don’t have to remind me. Having a half-breed concubine is reminder enough.” He huffs in frustration after fussing with his tie.
And clearly it shows a testament to your feelings for him, as his words sober you some. Truthfully, being a half-demon person working with Soul Contracts means trying to get the poor bastard that sold their soul in the first place to break said contract. You’re not even sure when you gave up actually trying to do so (perhaps it was when Minho bought this penthouse and you got to take a bath in that tub). Regardless, Lee Minho, and his desperate desire to be a nationally recognized and respected author, intrigued you.
In the silence, you instinctively reached out, fixing his tie and making sure it looks as pristine as the rest of him.
“Tch,” you scoff, mumbling under your breath. “Concubine. You think so little of me.”
Maybe you’re aware of it, maybe not, but Minho catches when you hide your face, keeping your eyes focused on the way your fingers twist and pull at the velvet fabric. Very rarely do you get embarrassed or shy, and like hell would you ever admit to his words making you do so. Even if there’s little merit to your words, it’s unspoken, the way you guys can resolve conflicts.
He stands there quietly, watching over you in the mirror, staring at his reflection because even now, with almost a year with his new life, he still does not recognize himself. Sure, that is his face looking back at him, but the memories that associate with this body he is in seem like someone else’s, not his own. But selling your soul didn’t necessarily make you soulless...did it?
Satisfied with the perfection of the tie as it sits against his chest, you smile proudly.
“Thank you, baby,” Minho says in a hum, low in his throat. It’s a tempting tone to use, but you scrunch your nose.
“Yeah, yeah. I have to get ready, now.”
It’s another hour before you actually leave the apartment, unable to dress quickly when his fingers pulled languidly on the zipper of your dress, using any excuse to press himself to your back and skate his lips behind your ear. And he insisted on helping you with your jewelry, making sure the gold necklace sat perfectly, holding your hands with care as he slid rings over your digits.
Granted, now that the car is nearing the party venue, you may have misjudged his teasing touches. For how he sits next to you in the backseat, unrhythmically punching the leather underneath him. It’s clear that he is willing to stall in any way, if it means not having to face the lion’s den.
And what a den, it was. Long ago you decided to never question the strings that rich people could pull. But this doesn’t stop your mind from going over the possible accounts that could excuse why one 20 year old man was able to close the National Museum of Korea. You were taken to the front of one of many buildings where the party was taking place. There were a line of cars, as people of importance stepped out and walked the pathway littered with random paparazzi and photo ops.
In probably the best way you can think to soothe him in this moment, you reach for his fist, giving it a quick squeeze until his hand unfurled, and you were able to slide your hand into his grasp.
Your car was quick to approach the front, and the driver quickly came out to open the door for you. Luckily, Minho’s face was the first any reporter would see, as he was the distinguished guest. The planner greeted him kindly, following you as well once you finally stepped out. She directed you, telling you that you guys could just go through, “but walk slowly”.
Minho’s grip on your waist was tight, and you dare a glance to see if his expression was as apprehensive as his touch felt. Fortunately, he had mastered this stern yet soft look. Approachable enough for people not to automatically reject his presence.
The tread to the front door was quick, and you know this is where the real horror starts.
The fact of the matter is that, even with Lee Minho’s name plastered on South Korea’s best selling novel of “fiction”, he still did not have the power that came with being a part of one of the few clans that make up The True Elite. And the question is if his newly obtained status would garner him disgust or apathy?
Once you go through the doors, you pull him to the side so that the both of you can adorn your masks, now that enough people have seen his face to know he’s here.
“This is not about Old or New Money, now,” you say. “We’re all anonymous. So try to enjoy the night.”
He nods, exhaling out a final breath of stress before turning to face the crowd, holding out his arm for you to take.
The lobby is pure brilliance, the windows on the ceiling that normally act as skylight shows a dark, navy sky. The warm lights illuminate the room, accentuating the cool marble walls and clean lines of the interior design. With a sea of masked individuals, you feel like you were transported in time. So many rich fabrics in hues of crimson, violet, and shadowed black move in front of your eyes. And the glints of diamonds, rubies, pearls, shine like their own stars strewn across delicate skin.
Then there is Lee Minho, who seems to stand out in your eyes (but you might be biased). His suit is a mix of black velvet and sleek wool. Just as you accented your simple black gown with gold jewelry, he has done the same. His brown hair of light cool tones is slicked back, away from his forehead. And, of course, there’s always his lips. Shaped down and full, pouty, innocent, the skin is soft and silky to the touch. They’re always so inviting when you allow yourself to stare for so long. Before you know it, you’re already turning to stand in front of him. He watches your movements then, eyes previously on the grandiose room, now following the upward curl of your mouth as you reach further-
“Mr. Lee,” a voice calls, greets from behind you. You turn back, and even with his mask on, you recognize this young man.
Yang Jeongin was the youngest member of the Yang Clan, and one of South Korea’s precious baby boys. He recently got his braces removed, but even still, his jaw is a very memorable shape, and his white mask forms comfortable to the width of his cheekbones and sparkling eyes. He had been very vocal in public media about enjoying Minho’s novel, and is certainly one of the reasons said novel was able to span over a wide, diverse audience.
“Ah, Mr. Yang,” Minho goes to bow, but Jeongin is quick to stop him, worry in those glittering brown eyes beneath his mask.
“Oh, no! Please! You’re older than me, Mr. Lee. You don’t have to bow. I have to say, when Jisung told me he’d invited you, I was so excited. I’m kind of shocked this is our first time meeting since you published My Deal With The Devil.”
Minho smiles shyly, biting at his lower lip. “Well, after the book ranked, my manager, here, was quick to book me for some scheduled events to promote the book all over the country.”
At the mention of you, Jeongin looks at you with a wide smile that you’ve only ever seen in magazines and on the television.
“Yes! (Y/N), right? You’ve been working hard for your author.” He bows, and you mirror the gesture with a smile of your own.
“He’s been very easy to manage.”
“I can imagine. Would you allow me to be your chaperone for the evening?”
The question is enough to take you and Minho off guard as you both share a look before turning back.
“Surely, it should be the other way around,” you reply. “Who’s looking after the nation’s child?”
With such an infectious laugh, you can’t help but grin. “Actually, a lot of the clans’ youngests are chaperoning tonight. So it would be my honour.”
Again, you and Minho exchange a glance, simultaneously shrugging before looking back at the young man.
“Point me to the finger foods, Mr. Yang,” you express animatedly. As Jeongin holds his arm out, you give Minho’s a firm squeeze before letting go. He doesn’t follow as Jeongin takes you to the table across the room, which seems like a good sign.
Little do you know, though, is that before he can follow, he’s already being pulled into another conversation.
The night flows rather smoothly, you being happy to walk around, weave in and out of the crowd and smile at those that return the sentiment. Down the darkened hallway, there are open rooms where there would normally be digital galleries. From the lobby, it’s easy to see the coloured light that illuminates from each. Jeongin had explained to you that the birthday boy had the idea of theming the masquerade as The Masque of The Red Death, a piece of American literature you remember reading in your younger years.
“Aptly themed,” you had responded wryly.
So now you look at these rooms, wondering if you should visit them alone, or if you should try to find your date and go with him. The red room calls to you, however, and you decide then, with your heels numbed from your red stilettos, that you would visit just this one. The room that supposedly met the king to his inevitable death.
“Is it you, Lee Minho?”
Minho swallows the champagne he’d been sipping at the sound of his name, once again. He was not expecting to be recognized so easily, or to hear of so many eager of his presence. Maybe you had been right, to some extent, about Old and New Money not being an issue of the night.
The man that spoke to him wears red from head to toe. Red mask with black and gold lace, a ruby stud in one ear and gold chain lining the other, red shiny suit with gold cufflinks, and a gold ring that Minho knows has been passed down through this clan for generations. Han Jisung.
“Yes! And is this the birthday boy?” He bows, showing respect. Much unlike Yang Jeongin, Han Jisung carries himself with pride, as he does carry his title. “Happy Birthday, Mr. Han.”
“Thank you, thank you. I hope you’re enjoying the party. Truthfully, your novel was quite inspiring. It reminded me of the short story Edgar Allen Poe wrote, The Masque of The Red Death. You ever read it?”
Minho nods excitedly. “Of course! If Poe manages to escape the clutches of any middle school, it’s certainly a crime.”
When Jisung grins, his teeth are white, perfect, intimidating. Even though he stands an inch or so shorter than Minho, his attitude is overwhelming and spans skyscrapers.
“How has life been since you returned from your promotion schedule? Are you taking time before writing the next novel? What would it be about, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Where could you have possibly been? Minho knows if you were here, you’d be the one answering these questions. And, really, it would be quite the show to see two prideful people as you and Jisung are in a heated discussion.
“Ah,” Minho starts, trying to keep his tone even. Lions can smell fear. “Well, it won’t be an official continuation of My Deal With The Devil, but I’ve started writing about running-”
“Running?” Jisung tilts his head, lips forming in a pout along with what Minho is sure is confusion under his mask.
Your eyes do not take much time to adjust to the darkness of the hallway. The red lights had been encompassing, and your eyes could make out the waves of the light as they coated the walls. And the steady bass of the music playing coaxed up your legs, wrapping around your bare arms and shoulders, creeped up your neck like a hand ready to choke you. Is this what the humans would feel going into the red room? It wasn’t a haunting feeling, necessarily, but it did make you long to be around others again, to feel the light of laughter, to hold onto a familiar man and hear him groan in your ear.
You need to find Minho.
So you don’t let yourself embrace the spritely sounds of the people you walk past until you see the black and gold mask, the sputtering lips and hesitant smile. When you get into earshot, you hear him mention his novel, what he’s writing now.
“Running?” inquires the man in red.
“Excuse me, hello.” You interrupt slyly, immediately connecting yourself to Minho’s side in front of the man he speaks to.
The man in red doesn’t seem offended by your unexpected presence. He smiles coolly, nodding in your direction.
“This is (Y/N),” Minho introduces, wrapping his arm around your waist. “She’s my manager. And the best person to discuss my future writings with, if I’m being honest.” Even if his words are even, you can feel his relief. “(Y/N), this is the man of the hour, Han Jisung.”
The light clicks, and you grin widely, gesturing in respect. “Prince Prospero himself. I hope you’re having a lovely birthday, Mr. Han.”
“Everyone is here beautifully, so yes, I am having a great night. I was just asking about Mr. Lee’s new story. The first work of fiction has left the country wanting to see his satiating words.”
“Since he’s still writing, the destination of where the next novel will end is really up in the air, at the moment.”
“Is there any possibility the manuscript could find its way over to Han’s Publishing House?”
Of course. Why hadn’t you seen this potentially coming before? The Han Clan has a variety of well-standing, successful industries taking inhabitants in Korea’s major cities. Han’s Publishing House was standing tall in the heart of Seoul, close to the Gold Towers that taunts civilians as well as give them hope.
And as rising a success story as Lee Minho, of course the clan would have their eyes out for the pretty prize.
You lick your lips, giving a calculated smile as your eyes pierce through your mask. “Unfortunately Lee Minho is signed with Bultaneun Peiji Publishing for the next four years. We’d mourn breaking such a contract so early, and it wouldn’t look good for Minho’s image.”
Jisung lifts his head slightly, letting you know he understands you. “Bang Clan’s publishing company, right. I don’t wish to speak ill of them. I have personally worked with the heir of Bang’s Clan, Chan. But given they’re a smaller company, it could be quite limiting.”
“On the contrary,” you start. “Since Bang’s heir was raised in Australia, it gives Minho the option to become international. That is, if he wishes.” If your presence hadn’t been an insult initially, your saccharine tone is assuring that Jisung’s feelings changed. “Besides, since Minho is, as you know, a novice to the publishing industry, having a more intimate community will allow him to grow strong and sturdy, like our pine trees that remain vibrant even in the harshest of conditions.”
Jisung’s eyes dart between you and the author at your side. In his contemplative silence, he observes the thumb that mindlessly rubs at your waist. Something seems to come to a realization for the young heir as he smirks.
“You two make a rather unsuspecting yet powerful pair, I must say. Maybe the world should know your name, as well, (Y/N).”
“I don’t have much interest in the spotlight. I’m more than happy to help uplift our Minho, so that his words can be read and mulled over.” You’re not sure if Jisung expected his epiphany to throw you off guard, but it’s satisfying regardless.
“Well, when you’re ready,” Jisung says, directing his words to the quiet Minho. “The Han Publishing House will have an offer for you. Until then, I will anticipate the works you come out with. Excuse me.”
You and Minho bow as the heir makes his exit, walking into the mouth of the hungry sea of anonymous partiers.
“Why was that so tense?” Minho utters, moving to stand in front of you, his hand moving accordingly.
“I’m sorry. I should have known he’d try to snatch you away. I’m sure that wasn’t the only reason he invited you, but if his surname is anything to go by, he’s an opportunist like his family.”
From then, you hardly leave Minho’s side, dancing with him as the melodies of the live band play, some instrumental pieces, music not too loud so as not to over power the conversation going on. When you come close to the darkened hallway again, Minho pulls you along, taking you through the seven rooms.
Despite not having read the story for many years, every room reminds you of the words that were described. There aren’t many guests in one room at a time, and the seclusion puts you in the mood of intimacy. By the time you walk into the orange room, your ears are sensitive, just as your skin. The warmth of Minho’s fingers running up your arm is titillating, and you long to rid the slight obstruction your mask provides so that you can witness the young author in the vibrance of the orange light. This room has some static, possibly alluding the rooms to come, but it only adds to the growing desire to make like the waves on his face and touch everything.
“Let’s skip the white room,” you suggest softly.
The blond acquiesces without delay as you leave orange, going straight to violet. In the room of purple tones, the gold of his mask stands brilliantly, alluring with the complementary tones. Is it wrong to say this is where he belongs?
The music that surrounds you is threatening in a low way, like watching a scary movie and anticipating the monster to take the protagonist (and audience) by surprise. Except, nothing is a surprise here. This is where Minho belongs, and his wandering eyes make you realize who the monster is. Of course, you are where you’re supposed to be, with him, in this room.
With the desire growing rampant, you finally grab his neck, guiding his face until your lips connect in a kiss. It starts off harsh and bruising, desperate. But he’s pliable, and opens so easily, encouraging your wanton yearnings.
“Seriously, (Y/N),” Minho heaves when he can pull away. “Right now?”
He’s right. You know he’s right. You contemplate a teasing remark because you’re never one to consent quietly.
“Maybe it’s time for us to make our exit. Shall we say our goodbyes to Mr. Han?”
Minho smirks. “I should probably go by myself. You go find Jeongin and pay our respects for both of us.”
“Sounds like a plan, baby,” you agree menacingly.
As you leave, you pass by the final room, the scarlet room that sparked these urges. And once you get back to the lobby, you part ways with promises to meet at the front door.
Jeongin is one of the few wearing a white mask, so it’s fairly easy to find him. He’s currently standing by the open bar, holding a glass of red wine. It doesn’t make sense that he’s already old enough to drink. You make a joke of it once you stand by him.
“Ah, (Y/N)! I was going to come find you, actually. How are you and Mr. Lee fairing?”
“We’re just about to leave. I wanted to come by and let you know that you’re free of your chaperone duties.” This makes Jeongin chuckle, taking a sip of his wine before answering.
“Well, it was lovely meeting you and Mr. Lee in person, finally. I hope to see you guys in the future. Have a wonderful rest of your night.”
“You, as well, Jeongin.”
You turn to leave when you feel a hand on your shoulder.
“Actually, (Y/N),” Jeongin stops you. “I almost forgot to tell you.” He lifts his mask off, leaning close so that he can speak low.
“Hyunjin says ‘long time, no see’.” For the first time, his grin doesn’t seem as innocent or friendly as you are used to seeing, more Cheshire. At your blank stare, he winks before putting his mask back down. And with a lift of his glass, you turn, making your way to the door.
You try to shake the unfamiliar feeling, trying to calm the hairs that stand on end. You don’t even want to think about how Jeongin could know that name, that person. Suddenly, the mysterious crowd that acted as a euphoric calm all night turns cold. You need to leave as soon as possible.
Seeing Minho at the entrance is a solace, and you school your expressions quickly so he doesn’t notice.
“Is my baby girl ready to leave?” asks Minho in that compelling tone.
In a scoff, you give a smile that reads icy. It’s always your favourite game to play with Minho, like he actually has any control, ever.
“Alright, Mr. Jeong,” you huff to the driver as you slide into the backseat with Minho following suit. You rip off the mask and meet the eyes of the unsuspecting driver. “If you don’t get us back to Gangnam in 40 minutes, you can start looking for another job.”
Minho is quick to diffuse the situation while he closes the car door. “No, you won’t, Jeong. (Y/N), behave yourself.” The delivery of his words are rough, but it only feels like one of many victories for you tonight.
You click your tongue, leaning so your face is mere inches from his. “It’s an hour long drive, and I have some class. I wouldn’t fuck you here without a partition.”
“If you had any class you would control yourself.” Rebuttals the annoyed author. He doesn’t dare to back down when you act in this manner.
Thus, you are the first to break, falling back onto the leather seat, folding your arms like a spoiled child that didn’t get their way.
“Take off that stupid mask,” is your only gripe.
With a chuckle, he does exactly that. “You were the one that picked it out. Now it’s stupid?”
“Duh, it’s covering up your face.” You fight the grin that forms when he coos at your unseemly compliment.
At the late midnight hour, the roads are rather clear, making the drive smooth and soothing. Just as you enjoy watching the highways from above, you like the sights that you can see while on them, looking up at the buildings with rooms lit for one reason or another.
You’re not sure when it happened, but as the car wheezed through the cities, you find yourself with your back against Minho’s chest, his hands slow as they trace up and down your arms, tickling at your neck and tapping at your jaw. Your eyes are hypnotized by the blurring images outside the window while every caress takes you deeper into a headspace normally locked away. That was the pleasure of being half human, to be able to open parts of the mind that possibly would not exist as a demon.
But the demon half is what allowed you to feel so strongly, to feel another’s energy and feed off such. Surely, humans can experience levels of pleasure that should almost be an abomination, but for demons, that’s exactly what it is. And you can indulge as much as you want, with a hunger that’s never completely satisfied. Moreso, it’s addicting.
Lee Minho is a drug, correct.
The time passes quickly, like the blur of the city at night. Soon you’re in the garage of your home, clambering out of the car before Mr. Jeong can even think of opening the door for you. As an apology, you thank him kindly, tugging Minho behind you as you get to the elevator.
Again, because of the late hour, everything is quiet, safe for the slide of steel as the lift drags you up and up until you’re close to the top, opening to the hall that leads to the suite.
The apartment is dark since you hadn’t bothered to turn on any lights before leaving, so the windows show the stars of the metropolis, lit skyscrapers and buildings outside, streetlights in the far distance.
“Do you need help with your dress?” Despite the question seeming genuine, you can feel his breath against your skin, as if you’re not already incredibly aware of every touch he sends your way.
The anticipation is a high of its own, and you become inebriated with the sparks that shoot up your spine.
“I can do it myself.” Before Minho can respond, you pull your heels off, already reaching behind you to pull the zipper down as you walk down the hall to the bedroom.
The structured bodice peels from your torso, and you breathe out easily, feeling free from the confines. Tossing the dress unceremoniously onto the bench sat at the wall by the door, you start on the jewelry, pulling off the pretty rings, taking off the necklace and earrings.
The bathroom light is the first one you have turned on since stepping foot into the apartment, the vanity illuminating so you can see yourself clearly. Everything seems to be intact, the makeup you made sure to thoroughly apply as well as the up-do hairstyle you selected for the night.
You can hear his footsteps as he enters the bedroom, and you make sure to keep your expression neutral as he leans against the bathroom doorway. You’re tempted to look as you hear his shuffling about, no doubt tearing off the tie he was wearing, already rid of his suit jacket, possibly unbuttoning the dress shirt...
Your body deceives you as you sneak a glance. Some of his perfectly styled hair has rebelled, falling on his forehead. There’s a predatory look to his dark eyes as he watches you intently, forceful with the way he unbuttons his cuffs first, then going for the buttons going down the shirt.
But despite your heart racing and your nerves igniting, you calmly reach for the bottle of micellar water and cotton pads. The point isn’t to be thorough, but rather who will break first, and Minho is on his way to losing, just as he makes his way towards you, at the counter.
Whether he’s admitted it or not, he likes watching you in this manner; loves when you lean over the counter so you can make yourself prettier than you already are, likes when you pay attention to yourself.
“You’re so beautiful,” he makes sure to whisper into your ear, watching you through the reflection of the mirror. He knows he won’t get a reaction out of you. Is that considered masochism?
“I know,” you say, giving a pointed look at him. “But please, refrain from drooling on me so soon. I’m trying to freshen up a bit.”
“Cocky little thing, aren’t you?” teases the man behind you. Again, with his fingers, they touch at bare skin, toying with the lacey trim of your maroon underwear. It’s a stark contrast to the way he digs his nails into your hip. He knows you like the rough touches, like when he makes your body heat spike and sear his own skin.
“Baby, that’s what you love about me.” It’s a fact that you learned quickly. Satisfied with the majority of your makeup wiped away, you fall back on your heels, closing any space that lingered between your bodies. You move your hips slowly, making sure he feels you completely.
With one hand still ensnared on your hip, Minho takes his free hand to take your chin, turning your face up so he can kiss you deeply.
Intoxicating is his essence, the way it flows like a potent aura off his skin. And his lips, those sweet, delicious lips, they bruise against your own until his teeth bare into your bottom lip. Soon enough you turn around in his grasp, let him move your body until you’re sat on the edge of the counter so your bodies can meet and connect like puzzle pieces.
The silence of the penthouse could be deafening if it weren’t for the pounding bass of your own heart in your ear drums, or the wet smack that comes from your lips, or the pants that come when you both need oxygen. Your lips move to his jaw, and who knows if it was your legs wrapped around his hips that brought him closer, or if his strong hands on your backside, scratching bruises as he pulled you impossibly closer.
“God, (Y/N),” he groans, letting his head fall back as you continue your attack on his neck. You move your fingers to continue unbuttoning the shirt. “You don’t know what you do to me.” And again he jerks forward, as if you weren’t already feeling his hardening cock against your clothed core.
In a slip of control, your body heats uncontrollably, just as a shiver makes its way down your spine. You laugh freely, feeling your body ascend with electricity.
“But I do, sweetie.” You push the shirt away from his shoulders, and he tugs the sleeves off, tossing the fabric to the side. “That’s why I love making you this way.”
And you’re not the only one that likes it rough, if it wasn’t evident from the moan that comes from his throat when you rake your nails down his chest. He’s back on your mouth in an instant, tearing past the satisfied, breathless grin on your face.
Your hunger leads you in a certain direction; slipping off the counter, you push him away long enough to get on your knees, already messing with the buttons and zippers of his slacks. This is what feels right, your body tells you. Energy buzzes through you as you mouth at the hard outline of his dick in his briefs. Never do you let an opportunity to tease him escape you. You can sense it, the way his aura spikes when you taunt him with pleasure. It makes him cum more sweetly and harder.
With a groan of your name, you finally push his briefs down, immediately wrapping your hand around his length. Your free hand slides up his thigh, and the muscle underneath jerks.
He’s afraid to look down, is always weak for the sight of you on your knees. His eyes are clenched shut while you give slow licks to the underside of his cock.
“Look at yourself,” you command. “You always look so beautiful in bliss.” Even your tone sounds like velvet in his ears. It’s easy to obey.
With some pause, he finally blinks his eyes open. The man that stares back at him looks thoughtless enough, and he can’t even recognize the man as himself when his mouth opens for a guttural moan as you take him into your mouth.
A hand goes to your head, his fingers weaving into your strands as best they can before fisting. You wish you could see him more clearly, being truthful about loving the way he looks when he’s floating on a high of pleasure.
Minho watches as the man furrows his brows just as all the heat pools into his stomach. He thinks he understands, whatever sane part of his brain is still working.
He finds some reprieve as you pull off, still working your hand languidly. “What did I tell you?” you ask breathlessly.
His eyes are completely black when he looks down at you, and if you weren’t already drinking in the cologne of his primitive desires, you would probably melt at the look alone. Instead, you decide to go back to your previous actions, working your tongue on his cock, swallowing around him, feeling the weight of him in your mouth. When he hits the back of your throat, it’s exhilarating, and it mixes well with the sting of his grip in your hair. It’s a fine line of who is in charge here, just like how you guys like it.
“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he pants, back to staring at the man in the mirror. The red flush that splatters on his chest is a sign of how his body burns, the precipice near. The moan gets stuck in his throat as he does cum, and you drink him happily, licking at his length as it twitches in overstimulation.
The come-down is just as much of a rush as the high. Crashing back to earth and feeling the weight of your body, it’s another pleasure in itself.
You stand quickly, making sure to sandwich your body between Minho and the counter as he leans forward.
He nuzzles his face in your neck, finding your burning skin to be a comfort. You’re not entirely sure where you are, his touch still electrifying you even though the weight of his spirit settles in your own core. You should be satisfied, to some extent, but you still have the urge to crawl into his skin, to become one with him.
He grins into your ear. “Your turn.” It sounds like a threat, and his grip under your knee as he lifts your leg is stronger than you expect from someone that just came.
You can’t think properly, seemingly stradling spaces in your head that leave you discombobulated.
“Bedroom,” is the only word you can get out. You push away, leaving the bathroom first and turning on the lamp on the nightstand, giving just enough light for you to comfortably crawl into the bed.
“Hey, what was that demon’s name, the one I signed the contract with?”
You blink, the question helping clear your head some. “Uh...Hyunjin. Why?”
Hyunjin says, “Long time, no see.” Jeongin’s words play in your head menacingly.
Minho’s fingers, still adorned in the gold rings he put on earlier tonight, make him look powerful, unstoppable. The hands he used to sign his soul away to a trickster of a demon, the hands that wrote of his adventure with said demon and played it off as fiction. Probably your second favourite thing to Lee Minho apart from his lips. The first time you met him, before he knew what you were, he smiled at you as if he hadn’t committed a single sin. Truthfully, even with your mission still fresh in your mind, a mission you’d done countless times before meeting him, you knew you’d allow yourself to falter, to let Minho slip through the cracks and enjoy the life he sold himself to. And you were going to reap the benefits alongside him.
But unlike what Minho suspected you were put into his life for -to act as a spy or just a reminder that when he died, he’d spend an eternity bound to hell- you were actually put into his life to make it end quicker than he expected.
One of those precious hands tap up your foot, petting at your ankle.
“Maybe I should thank him,” Minho thinks aloud with a sinister grin, wrapping firmly onto your ankle and pulling you closer to him.
“Having you just made this life so much sweeter.”
#skz scenarios#skz imagines#skz smut#lee minho#lee know#lee minho x reader#lee minho smut#skz angst#skz fanfic#stray kids#stray kids imagines#stray kids scenarios#fantasy! au#minho#skz
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today’s writing thing: an excerpt from the first big turning point of a fun little modern fantasy detective story im working on! who knows if I’ll ever finish it, but I’m in love w the characters, so who knows lmao. story stuff under the cut <3
Evidence files continue to corrupt within hours of recording… unclear whether this is a hardware or software failure… items going missing…
It’s the exact same shit as before. Errol feels like he’s been banging his head against the wall for the last few days, and now, he’s just tired. In an attempt to gather his thoughts, he reaches for his coffeecup, only to find that it’s already empty, and the exhaustion from that coupled with the evening rain battering against the windows is almost enough to make his eyelids droop down…
And then there’s a knock at the apartment door.
The first time it happens, Errol shakes his head to clear it, pushing his hair out of his bleary eyes and squinting down at the time. Who the hell is here at 9 PM? And on a night like this?
Another knock. Damn. They’re not going away.
Errol hauls himself to his feet, making his way to the door in spite of his protesting joints. It’s probably not a great idea to open the door for just anyone, but it’s too dark out to tell who it is, and he’s already fiddling with the lock, and then—
The door swings open to reveal the drenched and battered figure of someone familiar. It’s… yeah, that’s definitely, uh. Crow. That’s Crow Bellamy. Huh.
Blood is mingling with rainwater on his skin, and he’s clutching a lumpy duffel bag, stuffed to the brim with something suspiciously similar in size and shape to today’s vanished valuables. But his hands are shaking, and there’s fear in the whites of his eyes. “Errol?” he manages. “I think I fucked up.”
Well.
Shit.
[ doo doo doo chapter breaaaaak, pov shifts to crow here ✨ ]
To Errol’s credit, he doesn’t start asking questions right away. He just stares at Crow for a second, eyes roving over the bruises and conspicuously avoiding the bag. Finally, he seems to remember how to speak.
“Get in here, Crow. You look like you’re about to fall over.”
Crow gulps and nods, scuffing his boots on the mat and tramping into the kitchen with squeaky steps. Rivulets of rainwater run off his coat onto the linoleum, and for some reason it’s that that keeps him from meeting Errol’s eyes. He’s making a mess all over the detective’s floor.
“Can I get you anything?” Errol asks awkwardly. “Like. A towel? Tea? Something?”
At that, Crow snaps out of it and shakes his head. “No, I—I don’t wanna take up any more of your time than I have to, but—I need your help, is the thing. I fucked up. And I think you’re the only one who’d be willing to help.”
“Willing?” Errol narrows his eyes. “What did you do.”
Crow shivers. Maybe he should’ve asked for that towel. “Do you really have to ask?”
Errol’s gaze drops to the duffel bag. “You stole the crystals.”
“Yeah. I stole the crystals.” He swallows hard. “But I wanna put ‘em back now, for whatever that’s worth?”
“Why should I not just turn you in right now?” Errol passes a hand over his face—there are more tattoos on that hand than Crow remembers, and he files that away for future reference. “I’m a private eye. Why the hell did you think you should come to me?”
“Because if I went to the police, they’d never listen.” Crow looks away. “And…”
Errol doesn’t take the bait. “You have the carnival, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“You think they wouldn’t back you up in a heartbeat? You people stick together, they’d never rat you out, and—”
“I don’t want them to know,” Crow says, more painfully blunt than he ever wanted to be. “They… they’re important to me, Errol. You have to understand that. I did this for them. They can’t know that. They can’t look at me, and see…”
For a few seconds, Errol doesn’t look like he believes a word of it. Then he meets Crow’s eyes, and something like recognition makes his shoulders slump in resignation. He sighs, finds the nearest chair, sinks down in it, leans back against the kitchen table. “Ah. So that’s why it has to be me. Because I don’t matter to you.”
“Because I can’t disappoint you,” Crow corrects quietly.
“No more than you already have.” Errol pulls his hair back, carefully tying it into a knot at the back of his head in an effort to prove how calm and detached he is. “The logic makes sense.”
“Please, Errol, you gotta help me.”
“Why would I?” Errol arches his eyebrows. “Like I said, you just walked into my house and admitted everything. Why wouldn’t I just take that and call it a day?”
Crow tilts his chin up, taking a quick breath for courage. “Because I stole them. And that means I can help you put them back.”
“Why would I need you for that?” Errol snorts.
That takes Crow aback a little. “Have you not checked the news?”
“No, why would I?” Errol digs his phone out of the pocket of his skintight jeans, flipping through apps dispassionately. “I swear to God, Crow, if this is some sort of… wait…”
Crow crosses the kitchen and pushes back the curtain on the window above the sink. The familiarity of the gesture sparks memories—strong hands pulling those same curtains closed, pressing him into the counter as their lips locked together, running down the soft lines of Crow’s chest—but none of that matters now. Now, what matters is what’s beyond that pane of glass.
Behind him, Errol sucks in a low gasp when he sees it. No storm clouds should be that black. No lightning should be that blindingly bright. But there, brooding low over the center of the city, wound tighter than any natural storm cell and violently spitting sparks, is the proof that something is very, very wrong.
“…Oh,” Errol manages. “That’s…”
“That’s a little bit my fault,” Crow admits, heart in his throat. “And I think I’m gonna need your help to fix it.”
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