#Sometimes I post about others but I can assure you Clive is still my number one brainrot character lol

[another-clive-blog]

Oh yeah I forgot to tell you all but I'm actually having an internship (or traineeship ? I don't know which one it is) which will last two months and is a LOT of work so I will probably be less active ! Especially since mental health is still alarmingly bad and I'm making the PL Big Bang a priority !!

In the meantime, you can still send stuff in the inbox for me to write/draw if you want to. I'll gladly do them whenever I have the time !!

[lyrebright]

WIP Snippets!

Got tagged by @teatitty to share some of the things I’m working on.

1. Untitled WIP (doc title ‘fe4thers as idiot teens’) FE4/Genealogy of the Holy War

The journey to actually becoming friends with Quan after how badly they got off on the wrong foot feels like it should be a long and complicated one, but in reality, it was very simple, and it was all the fault of Eldigan of Nordion.

Nothing brings enemies together like a third, even more terrible enemy, after all.

"Okay, so here's the plan," Quan says, ambushing him at the training grounds one afternoon. "Around this time is when Nordion's golden boy likes to stand in the east hall and stare moodily out of the window as he struggles to comprehend his sister's letters."

Struggling with the lance coursework his father insists he keep up with even though Tyrfing is a sword, Sigurd takes any excuse for a break and raises a brow at Quan. "...yes?"

Quan rolls his eyes like Sigurd is the fool in the room. "We're going to toss him out of that window," he says.

"No, we're not," Sigurd counters, automatically.

"We are," Quan repeats, tone easy. "His Hezul blood would normally make toppling him about as easy as felling a tree barehanded, but if the two of us take him by surprise, it should be simple enough." He looks Sigurd up and down with appraising eyes. "You can take his legs," he offers, "since you're shorter than me."

"I don't like you," Sigurd muses, thoughtful. Quan looks utterly delighted by the confession.

"The feeling is mutual, rest assured," he says. "Now, are you going to help me knock the golden boy down a peg or two, or not?"

Sigurd weighs the fallout of attempting to shove the Hezul Major of their generation out of a second story window against the half-hour of lance work he still has scheduled for the day.

"You're taking the legs," he says. "You've got maybe half a head on me."

2. Untitled WIP (doc title ‘it’s my birthday i’ll go to war if i want to’) FE15/Shadows of Valentia

“Your birthday is in two days,” Sir Clive notes, looking over his enrollment papers - Lukas may have taken them from their village as volunteers, but the Deliverance needs soldiers, and that means official paperwork. Tobin can only be grateful that Sir Mycen had taken the time to teach him his letters and numbers as well as his way around a sword.

“Yep,” he says cheerfully, popping the ‘p,’ and while Sir Clive doesn’t react to the less than formal address, Sir Forsyth winces and sends his superior an anxious glance, like he’s worried Tobin is going to get in trouble for it. It’s sweet, if a little concerning. “I’ll be eighteen.”

“Hmm,” Sir Clive says, and summarily dismisses him. “I see.”

And like that, Tobin is waved off, and forgotten. He presumes his birthday is, too, until the day it actually hits; like every year, he’s woken up by his friends crawling into his bed on top of him and trying to make sure this birthday is his last - he’s just not at home, this time. He’s in a creepy catacomb.

He’s kind of impressed Faye’s in the pile of sharp, elbowy death that crushes him, because the noble types had been horrified at the idea of men and women in the same sleeping place. Even though Faye was ‘just a commoner,’ Clair had claimed her as a roommate. A tombmate, Gray had joked, and Faye had thrown a hard piece of bread at him for it, scowling deeply.

“Morning, Tobin,” Alm says brightly. “How are your bones?”

“Achey,” he says, and shifts underneath them. “Come on, guys - get off.”

“Achey, huh?” Gray stresses, and Faye giggles. “Must be the old age getting to him!”

“You’re both older than me. By like, a year,” he reminds them.

“Yeah, well, we aged gracefully, Tobes.”

He shoves them all off him. Except for Kliff. He’s the baby. He’ll be nice to the baby.

Kliff scowls at him like he can tell what he’s thinking, and Tobin grins.

3. Untitled WIP (doc titles ‘i have feelings about hope estheim’) FFXIII (Post LR)

He’s twenty-two, apparently. Just a few months shy of his twenty-third birthday. The date is the same as it was back in his own world, highlighted in the phone’s calendar. Younger than he’d first assumed -- but, well. He supposes he hadn’t really changed all that much, facewise, from nineteen onwards. He’s still an adult, in every sense of the word, and he’s going to count that as a blessing. He’s never had very many of them.

The contacts...scrolling through the list, there aren’t many of them. A few labelled as Professor or by classes before the names - obviously classmates. A handful of names he isn’t sure how to place -- friends, he assumes -- and then…

He pauses. His finger hovers over a contact ID that says Mum.

He’s pressing down on call before he can actively make the choice to do so -- which, had he not lost himself for a brief second, would not have done. He’s moving to hit end call immediately, but before he can cancel it, halfway through the second ring, the person on the other end picks up.

For a moment, Hope forgets how to breathe. It’s not her, he reassures himself, even as logic tells him that this him inherited her face for a reason, it can’t be her --

“Sweetie?” Nora Estheim’s voice, coming through on the voicemail, never forgotten, even after all these years. “It’s pretty early for you, isn’t it?” Amusement bleeds through her tone. “Have you finally taken up that sweet girl on her offer of a morning run buddy --”

Her voice cuts off in a garbled, hissing crackle. Hope inhales, and unclenches his hand, pulling his fingers from the wreckage of his phone. After a second to collect his thoughts, he reaches for the crumpled glass and metal, and drops it into the bin. 

He doesn’t feel anything.

4. between gods and monsters ch2 (Genshin Impact)

In Morepesok, the day begins before the dawn. In winter, sometimes it feels as though the dawn never actually arrives at all.

It’s no Abyss, but in its own way, Ajax’s hometown exists in a near perpetual darkness.

This means he knows his way around in the dark, knows his way around these woods. He stumbles past trees and fallen logs that feel familiar, but are so alien to what he’s been fighting through that they feel...fake. As if he’s simply walking through a dream.

The bite of the cold tells him otherwise, though. He simply shivers, and keeps walking. Ajax might have cried over his predicament, even as he forged on home.

Childe, silent, fumes.

tagging @klonoadreams!

[rhaellatully]

Strings’n’Drums Chapter 3 (Fanfiction)

Fanfiction.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12814422/3/Strings-n-Drums

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13991202/chapters/32934984

Summury:AU. In 1969, Lucy runs from home and becomes a journalist for the magazin Strings'n'Drums, this will lead the young shy girl in the world of rock music, to meet the colorfull caracters that populates it. In between running from her father and living new experience Lucy will make friends, gorw into an adult and maybe have some romance. Will include Nalu and mentions of other parings

Beta: Releina Artemis Rockefeller

Chapter 1:https://rhaellatully.tumblr.com/post/170156396003/stringsndrums-fanficition

Chapter 2: https://rhaellatully.tumblr.com/post/171305685258/stringsndrums-chapter-2-fanfiction

Her article about Rust had been a success. Their sales spiked and she won the respect of her boss. She was now, in his eyes, an aspiring journalist like any other. Thanks to Levy’s help, she was managing to get more work done. Having someone to talk to about the new music she listened to helped her find the right words to put in her articles. But where Levy really came in handy was when it came to getting interviews. Sometimes, the record company would ask for the magazine to interview one of their artists, but sometimes, the magazine had to go ask for interview themselves. Lucy had just mentioned to Levy that she’d like to interview John Fool, and she had immediately been given his personal phone number and a recommendation on what to ask for the interview. She hoped one day she’d be able to repay her for all this.

She had still been anxious when passing the call, but the word came out of her mouth correctly, and John Fool acted just like Levy said he would, with great politeness. Lucy wouldn’t have expected this of him, seeing as many of his songs were rather provocative. But Levy had assured her that while he could be very bold and sometimes rude, he was always polite, somehow. Unless, of course, something was done to upset him. Lucy had a hard time believing this, but she trusted Levy.

The interview had been scheduled in a restaurant in the centre of London. It was a nice place; the big window allowed a lot of light in, which reflected on the white floor and walls. The brightness of the room suited the blue tablecloth and the wooden chairs. The few modern paintings on the walls made Lucy feel at ease. She told a waiter she had a reservation, and he guided her to the table where she was surprised to see that she had not arrived first.

John Fool was sitting there quietly, his chin was resting on his hand and his eyes were closed. His black hair hadn’t been brushed and his white shirt looked like it came out a tornado. His face was peaceful and his eyes only half opened when he heard the sound of her chair being pulled. He straightened as she sat and with the best respect of the etiquette saluted her. She returned the politeness and they ordered something to drink.

He introduced himself just as politely as he previously had, if not for the fact that he didn’t gave her his real name, something she could forgive as she was here to interview the artist which made his stage persona more fitting. She introduced herself while taking out her notepad and pen.

She didn’t get to ask the first question. As soon as she was done introducing herself, he asked her, “You’re a friend of Levy?”

“Yes, we met when I interviewed her,” she answered having understood what he was truly asking.

“She must really like you. She wouldn’t have given you my number otherwise.”

Lucy smiled as a way of answering him. She knew that the closeness she had developed with Levy was one others took years to develop. In a way, we could say that it was friendship at first sight.

“May we start the interview?” she asked kindly. He nodded and she read the first question she had planned, “You just came back from your first world tour. How was it?”

“Very interesting, but mostly tiring. I had breaks in between concerts, but it felt like I was performing every night. Still, I really enjoyed meeting that many people and discovering all the cities that were in my tour.” He answered in a rather fast tempo.

“Would you say this experience brought you something?”

“Yes, definitely. Writing new songs in my apartment or a studio, is definitely not the same thing as writing while on tour.” He was still talking faster than normal; she guessed this must be how he always talked.

“How’s that?”

“You don’t sit down and start writing. You have a thousand new experience a day that you want to sing about, so you end up writing at anytime of the day, and in very uncomfortable positions. But you’re fine with it because—” he paused looking for the right word, “—well, you really want to do it.”

“You were having problems writing before the tour started.” It was more of a realisation than a question. But John answered anyway.

“Yeah, I was at a point were I was wondering if music really was the right thing for me. This made it clear: this is my way.”

Lucy felt comprehensive; the more she wrote, the more she felt like this was what she born to do.

“So we can expect a new album soon?”

He gave out a small laugh before saying “Soon enough, I hope.”

Her interview of Rust gave her an idea of what could be the reason behind the retarding of the album, but she wasn’t so sure. She counted to ten backwards in her head before asking in a small voice, “Problem with your producer? “

He let a small, sad smile appear on his face, “When isn’t there any? But it’s not such a bad thing, really.” Lucy was intrigued by this. “The fact that you can’t exactly do what you want pushes you to find other ways to make the feelings you want pass.” He stopped to think a moment, “Take my song ‘Winter Morning Lady’ for example. That song is about a prostitute. Though originally, the lyrics were full of sexual terms and violence, so my producer didn’t appreciate it, saying it was too graphic. So I had to rewrite the whole thing, which led me to think more about subtle ways to talk about the same subject. I also rewrote the music to make the song softer, and now it’s one of my biggest hits.”

Lucy wrote down everything he said with enthusiasm. She was impressed with this different way of facing constraints, finding a workaround, and not giving up on your original idea. She wondered if this could be applied to her everyday life.

She went on to ask him more questions about the process by which he writes songs. He gave her lengthy, elaborate answers that she had difficulty writing on her notepad, especially because all of his sentences were said in rushed way, as if he wanted to stop talking as soon as possible. His answers gave her lots of material to work with when writing her article, but if she ever interviewed him again, she’d have to buy a Dictaphone or else, she’ll never make it. She wanted to ask him why someone who wrote and sang so many slow songs had the need to speak this way, but she felt like it would come out as insulting so she didn’t dare.

After those long questions, she found herself without any transition for what she wanted to ask next. She gathered all the courage in her to ask him, “Can I ask you a few questions about before you started your career as John Fool?”

He looked a bit taken aback by her question. He sighed before saying, “If that’s what you want,” but she could tell that he didn’t want to answer the next questions. This hampered her will to probe further, but the job of a journalist was to ask people questions they didn’t want to be asked, so in a trembling voice she asked, “Why did you change your name?”

“Would you really listen to a guy named Gray Fullbuster?”

Oddly, he had pronounced this sentence at the same speed a normal person would have. The obvious answer was no. The name Gray could work, but Fullbuster? No one would ever listen to that. Still she asked, “Why change all the name?”

“I thought if I was going to change it, might as well change it entirely.”

Once again his talking speed was normal. “Your producer didn’t pressure you at all in that matter?”

“They were glad that they didn’t have to.”

“But you didn’t change it when you were a background musician?” His eyes widened slightly, “The name Gray Fullbuster appears on the back of the album of other artists for whom you’ve played.”

“Well, at that time, it didn’t really matter. It wasn’t my name on the cover.”

“Did you enjoy working for other musicians?”

“Depends on which one,” He paused, “Gildarts was great. Working with him was more like being his apprentice. He taught me a lot.” He went on to talk about how Gildarts Clive was a great man and telling the different ways in which the former had made him the musician he his today.

On one note, Lucy was surprised that this man, who didn’t seem comfortable with opening up, was telling her these personal things. On another note, she was more intrigued by the way he spoke of the other man. His speech wasn’t the one he used to talk about a mentor but more for a family member. If it hadn’t been for the way Gray, or John, had been speaking of such personal things with her, Lucy would never have dared to ask him, “Do you think of Gildarts Clive as a father?”

He immediately frowned but took a minute to think before answering. “No, that’s definitely not it. He’s important to me and we do have a close friendship but he’s not like a father to me. He’s more like an uncle, I think.” He looked down as if he was unsure of something. “I had a father and he was great man. I don’t need another one.”

“Could you tell me more about your father?” The words left her mouth before she could ask herself if saying them were acceptable. The look that appeared on the man’s face told her that they weren’t. A great feeling of guilt and embarrassment swelled within her, and she wished she could erase this instant from reality.

“I don’t think it would interest you or your readers.” He said, but it sounded more like an excuse to keep himself from revealing anything.

And now, the fight between her curiosity and her embarrassment started. Both feelings tried to overcome the other, one emotional wave overlapping with another; an inner argument crashing within her in the form of thoughts. Her eyes swept over the man’s body, trying to read any indication of what she should do, until in a flash, a voice struck her with a challenge. She looked at her drink and told him, “I’ll be the judge of that.”

He sighed heavily; he now had no excuse to protect him and was forced to talk. For an instant, Lucy felt even more guilty about pushing him that way. “My father was a working class man,” his diction was slow, and his tone unsure, “that’s the best way to describe him. He worked all day and all night but never complained. I looked up to him, “ he paused, “I still do. One day, there was an accident at the factory, and that’s it.”

She wrote down slower than he spoke. She could tell those were private information that should never have been heard. While a good part of her guilt came from forcing his hand, another smaller but more intense part of it came from the feeling that she had not only hurt the man in front of her but also the one who wasn’t here. She had never looked up to her father. She had never spoken kindly of him, and sometimes she had even wished he wasn’t her father. It felt like cheating, that someone like her, who could never understand this feeling, was opened a door toward it. She felt like she had stolen the most precious jewel Gray had ever owned.

Only the memory of her mother, Layla, calmed her, as it was the closest experience she had. Maybe in a way, it was same? Of course, losing someone you unconditionally love hurts, but it doesn’t hurt in the same way as losing someone you loved and saw as a role model. Lucy loved and admired her mother, but she had always thought of herself as different, her mother made sure of that. Layla taught Lucy that she was to follow her own path and not to follow the former. Could the pain be the same? Maybe all pains were the same. Maybe when one suffered that kind of pain, one can never tell what was more painful.

Lucy swallowed her thoughts and reminded herself of where she was. “Sorry to force your hand.”

“It’s okay, it’s your job.”

She nodded numbly, and started asking the few questions she had planned but hadn’t come to ask yet. In his now fast and less interesting answers, she found herself capable of forgetting her previous embarrassment.  

The interview ended rather nicely. She thanked Gray for his time and he answered that he wouldn’t mind being interviewed by her again. She accepted the compliment with a serious blush. They shook hands and parted ways.

Once she was back at her apartment, she quickly got to work on her article with more excitement than ever. It was most likely because of the compliment she had received. She hadn’t gotten much lately, aside from the man that would catcall her in the street, but that didn’t really make her feel better about herself.

With a good mood, she went through her notes, thinking of what should be put where, and how she would word some of her thoughts on the musician. Things were adding up nicely; she heard her own voice humming through her work, and a small smile crept on her face. The more she worked, the happier she felt...until she found her notes about Gray’s father.

She stopped what she was doing and leaned back on her chair, her own arm holding her. Her face contorted into a frown and sighed. Her father. She didn't even leave him a note before leaving her childhood home. In the middle of night. Without notifying anyone. She wondered if he was worried. Probably. That’s how any father would be in the same situation. Right?

She thought she should call him. Tell him that she was okay. She had left months ago, and whatever anger he might have felt towards her disappearance must have faded by now. Yes, at this point, he was probably only worried about her. His lack of attention for her didn’t give her the right to worry him any more than she already had.

She picked up the phone and called the house. The line rang. She wondered if they had been anxiously waiting her call. Was leaving truly the right thing to do if it caused this many people pain?

The phone stopped ringing and a voice she knew to be the one of the family butlers answered, “Heartfilia Residence, what can I do for you?”

“Caprico? It’s me Lucy,” she said into the phone.

“Miss Lucy! What a pleasure to finally hear from you. Is everything all right?” Worry could be heard in the man's voice, which saddened her for leaving them.

“Everything is fine, I was just calling to talk to my father.”

Soon a hard voice could be heard into the phone, “Lucy?” said her father.

“Yes Father, how are you?”

“How am I? You left in the middle of night months ago, then you ask me how I am.” His tone wasn’t calm.

“I’m sorry, I know I’ve upset you.”

“Upset me? You think you’ve upset me!?” His voice had become the one he’d always use to scold her, “Do you have any idea what situation you’ve put me?!”

“I’m sorry,” the tears that were forming in her eyes could be heard in her voice as it cracked, “I just—“

“You just what? Thought it would be fun to run off like a hooligan!? I don’t know what you were thinking when you left and I don’t want to know. You will come back home this instant!”

“I—” her voice got caught in her throat, “I can’t.” she managed to say nonetheless.

“You can’t?! Ridiculous. You can and you will! I demand you back in this house by the end of the week, is that clear?”

“But—“

“Lucy, you can either come home your own way or I can send someone to bring you back. Either way, I’ll be waiting for you at home.” He said before hanging up.

Still holding the phone in her hand, Lucy felt like a little girl again. The little girl whose only conversation with her father consisted in him giving her orders or reprimanding her. She had rarely said anything to him because, of the few times she actually did, he didn’t listen and she ended up in tears.

She had tears right now but none falling, just staying at the rims of her eyelids. A couple of swipes from her hand got them out without her needing to cry. She wondered why she called, why she thought he would be worried. Maybe his ruthless demeanour was his way of showing he was.

She lay down in her bed, and for the rest of the day, she didn’t work, she didn’t eat, she didn’t got off her bed. She just laid there, replaying her conversation with her father in her head, thinking of what she could have said that might make him understand her. But deep inside, she felt that no matter what she says, he wouldn’t listen to her. He would have just ordered her around like he always did. But this time, he didn’t just bossed her, he threatened her.

What now?

 AN/ Thanks for reading