#and its going to be VERY angsty

[capswarmedals]

i am going insane over my modern capvers au SO I DREW THEM (in my new silly style)!!

*inspiration from THIS post*

the history teacher and the music tutor (but he's not in that day so he goes to pick up his hubby (they're not married))

[starry-bi-sky]

on a completely separate note; shizun luo binghe with a disciple shen yuan who fell into the abyss??? *thinks about LBH canonically stealing SQQ's corpse for 5 years* he'd hallucinate i think. like, like visual and audial hallucinations.

Keeps thinking he's seeing SQQ in the corner of his eyes, or wandering between the trees, amongst a group of disciples. Thinks he hears him calling for him, but its just the wind or another disciple.

Gets Xiu Ya reforged but patently fucking refuses to make a sword mound. Because his disciple Is Not Dead :))) There was No Body. He's Not Dead. And If You keep Insisting That He Is, He's Gonna Skewer You :). He's holding onto Xiu Ya so he can return his most favored disciple's sword when he returns. It's on his hip right next to Zheng Yang where it's supposed to be.

Also this motherfucker?? does not sleep btw. He has the image of SQQ, wide eyed and hysterical and standing at the mouth of the abyss burned into his fucking eyelids. Can't use the dreamscape to escape it either because he keeps trying to save him and either he does and it's an incredibly cruel trick to wake up to, or he doesn't and he gets his heart broken in several different pieces again.

There is no convincing this man that Shen Qingqiu is dead. Absolutely nothing at all. He is buried so deep in denial that moles would be jealous of how deep he is. He keeps making tea for two in the bamboo house only to remember that it's just him. SQQ's fans are hiding everywhere, little reminders of his presence. He goes to wake up SQQ on the mornings he sleeps in-- only to find the room empty.

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

Do you think if the trolls all came back, like everything in the main comic did happen and they were alive again. Do you think Feferi would actually forgive Eridan? Or want to even be his friend after everything? I don't personally like the erisol and fefertasprite interaction…felt rushed…..so I just wanted to know your opinion if things were different! :)

Yeah, I think they would be! Feferi is one of the trolls who takes dying the least badly (relentless optimism) and Eridan does genuinely feel bad, which means a lot when it's Eridan. I think she really is genuine when she says she wants them to be friends and also that she's really not the type of person to hold a grudge, and like... death is SUPER cheap in Homestuck, it's really not the horrific, irredeemable, irreperable damage that it is IRL - and if you're talking about (Feferi) and (Eridan), then they're both dead (and irrelevent) now, so the score is kind of even.

In general, the fandom - I mean, people in general, really - tend to have difficulty divorcing themselves from other people. We tend to assume that the people and characters they like will hold similar opinions to themselves. This is how people who like Karkat and don't like Eridan can mentally gloss over or even block out their clear, close friendship, or how people who dislike Cronus can end up overlooking that Meenah actually takes his opinion seriously and unironically defends his wizard thing. Feferi really isn't mad at Eridan or upset about dying the way we probably would be, because she's friends with the horrorterrors, relentlessly cheerful, comfortable with death in general, and death is also just not really that big of a deal in this setting. "I'm really sorry about that, that was shitty of me" is honestly probably all the apology she needs, especially if they came back to life anyway.

[fall0utmind]

New fic!!!!!!

Let me know what you think!!

✨️WOULD YOU STILL LOVE ME IF I TOLD YOU MY DARKEST SECRETS?✨️

A rosquez medical leak AU fic

Here on AO3 (please check it out)

Below the cut for more

(Tw/ mentions of suicide, suicidal thoughts, and medication abuse - no active description)

Please read with care 🤍🤍

CHAPTER 1 - DOOMSDAY 🏍

The news drops some time in free practice at Misano. Marc has no idea how it got out or who told the media, but he knows it would be everywhere for the next week—hell, the next year.

The sun is high in the cloudless sky, beating down on Marc, and filling the air with the familiar scent of burning rubber and asphalt. He’s going for a final flying lap, trying to put in a decent time on the GP23. Pushing through the ache of his body, he toes the limit for both him and his bike. He presses on until he passes the chequered flag, finally releasing the tension he holds, unwinding like a coil.

Only once he’s driving into the garage, towards the concerned faces of his press officer and crew, he realises something is wrong. At first, he thinks that he has done something wrong on track, perhaps he pushed someone off the racing line and ruined a flyer. He mentally scrambles, racking his brain for a mistake, for any reason he may have aggrieved the fans or his colleagues. It didn’t have to be much, these days, more than in 2015 or 2016, but they still sought any reason to string him up on a cross. Just like Valentino had done so willingly, all those years ago, sacrificing Marc as a martyr to the sport so he could be a god.

He shakes himself out of his thoughts. There is a press conference later, maybe it has something to do with that. Marc hasn’t stepped a foot wrong today, he’s sure of it. No crashes, no mistakes, and no on-track battles that people like to examine and use against him. It’s only a practice session. God, he’s overthinking because he got like 4 hours of sleep last night, and this is Italy. Rossi territory. Anxious overthinking is Marc’s familiar friend these days, with so much on the line and so few people in his corner. Press conferences can be tricky in Italy but he’ll get through it, even with the hatred of a nation against him.

Marc clambers off his bike, passing his helmet to a nearby crew member. The team are tense, afraid to look him in the eyes. That’s odd for Marc, he has always had a natural air about him that draws others in and makes them feel at ease. Even Frankie, his ever-present race engineer, struggles to hold his gaze. It does nothing to put him at ease, anxiety coiling in his gut.

They run through their usual practice debrief, evaluating the bike set-up (good, today), pace (impossibly quick for the GP23, and that make Marc glow with satisfaction), and track. It is awkward and stilted, so at odds with the usual team atmosphere which Marc has come to love. The engineers and mechanics shoot the occasional pitying glance at Marc or towards his press officer, patiently waiting in the corner of the garage. Anticipation is clawing at his stomach, making nausea burn in the back of his throat. He knows something is wrong and he can barely focus on the discussion which is wrapping up around him, too panicked to pick up the threads of conversation.

After what feels like an eternity, the crew is dismissed, offering pats of congratulations, or maybe commiserations, as they disperse. Despite his tension, he feels a wave of pride rise in him, pleased with the performance he has managed so far, and grateful that he has managed to find a home within the Italian team.

Marc pushes himself out of his chair, shrugging his shoulders a couple of times, trying to ignore the persistent ache in his right arm. He shoots a tight smile at Frankie, before making his way over to the corner of the room, where the press officer awaits him, a grimace set on her face.

A quick look over one shoulder tells him Alex’s side of the garage is blissfully unaware of the tension in the other end of the room. His brother is happily chatting away to his team, hands waving around as he speaks, a trait which they both shared. Sometimes, he looks at his younger brother and feels scalding guilt at the burden he must carry due to Marc’s failure. It is nice to see him like this, carefree and at ease.

“Marc”

His thoughts are interrupted by the gentle prompting of the waiting woman, who nods to one of the private rooms. After a beat, Marc follows her, heart in his throat despite his best attempts to swallow the nerves. She sits down with a heavy sigh, prompting Marc to follow suit, gingerly sitting on the edge of his chair.

“There’s no easy way to say this Marc”

She awaits his slow nod before continuing

“There’s been a situation. Some of your hospital reports have been leaked, all we know for sure is something from around 2015. We don’t know much about what people know. Currently the media seem unaware about most of it and we would like to keep it that way.”

Marc frowns in confusion. 2015? What? I mean obviously it’s not ideal, a hospital shouldn’t ever let this kind of information reach the general public, especially not for someone as well known as him. But why is everyone walking on eggshells around him about a hospital admission, it makes no sense, at this point he’s at a hospital more often than he isn’t.

He is just about to ask what on earth she’s on about when it hits him. His heart drops like a stone. Hospital, A&E, 2015, the aftermath of Sepang and all the shit that followed. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The press officer might still be talking to him, he doesn’t know. He feels like he is underwater, blood rushing in his ears. Heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his mouth. He sees her mouth moving, but hears nothing over his own thoughts, threatening to drown him. He needs to breathe, realising a few seconds too late to take a gasp of air, grounded by a gentle hand on his arm and kind eyes staring at him with pity.

“Obviously this is unanticipated, we don’t know who leaked this information or how they came across it in the first place. Be assured that we have legal looking into it right now, and we will keep you updated. We don’t know how much people know, its possible the reporters on site today haven’t caught wind of it yet. But they shouldn’t know much, even if they have. At the moment, we have it under control. It has only just come out in the last 30 minutes, but the press conference...”

Marc doesn’t need the look that follows to grasp her meaning Be cautious and be prepared. Right, Italy. Mierda.

“It should be fine, like I said, we are working on it to make sure it was just a minor leak about your attendance to hospital. No details.”

Marc takes another deep breath. Surely no one at the hospital would be stupid enough to share such confidential information. No, no, it is just some background noise, people will think he had an accident. Needed treatment. He trusts his team to keep an eye on it, it will blow over soon enough. He will be surprised if he even gets asked about it, with little to no evidence or substance.

Either way he has to face the press at some point. Not going will just make him look more suspicious, not to mention the hefty fine he will probably receive alongside. He drags himself to his feet, shooting her a smile that is probably a bit more of a grimace and thanking her for the heads up.

She reassures him once more that they have this under control, but his mind is already on another track. He needs a quick shower and to mentally prepare himself for the possibility of nosy reporters.

*

Marc is restless. Ten minutes into the press conference, he feels he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He can tell the others have noticed. Pecco keeps shooting him little glances, and at one point he swears that the younger aborts a small movement towards Marc’s knee, which has been bouncing continuously since they sat down.

Usually, Marc doesn’t mind press conferences too much. Realistically, nothing could be as bad as the tumultuous media circus in the years that followed 2015. And if it ever gets that bad again, he has gotten very good at shutting down and putting his PR training into practice. Despite this, Marc can’t help but feel like he’s in shark-infested water.

He’s so stuck inside his head that he barely registers the question directed his way, his head jerking up at the sound of his name.

“Scusi?”

The reporter gives a slight laugh, eyes sharp and searching.

“What do you have to say about the rumours of your hospitalisation at the end of 2015? There are some suggestions that this was more than a biking injury?”

Marc’s heart gives a little stutter. Shit. He wasn’t expecting that so quickly. For the first time, Marc begins to panic, questioning how much the world knows.

“Ah, I say do not listen to everything you hear in the media”, he shoots the reporters a cheeky grin as a light chuckle goes around the room. He feels Pecco’s eyes burning into the side of his head but does not look back, simply nodding at the facilitator to continue.

The next question is directed to Jorge, asking him about his championship chances this year, with Jorge giving the usual spiel about the team and his bike, talking about the decent lap times he put in today. It had been a good practice session for all of them, with Pecco leading into tomorrow’s sessions, followed closely by Marc, dragging every inch out of the GP23, with Jorge and Enea rounding out the top four. Sunday promised to be an interesting race, with the four of them positing similar times throughout the weekend.

Distantly, Marc registers someone asking Enea about working with Pecco, as the current world champion, comparing his times to the other Italian rider, as if they haven’t been working together for over a year already. Marc almost scoffs. Clearly, some journalists needed new material.

Marc’s attention is drawn to a small commotion in the corner of the room, nearest the exit. He watches as his brother enters the room, wide eyes brimming with concern. Fuck. That isn’t good, Alex must know now. Had something else happened? He has faith in his team to keep this on the down low and prevent it all from blowing up in Marc’s face, but it doesn’t stop the flash of concern shooting through him.

“And Marc another question for you”

Well, so much for that. His head whips around at the reporter's tone, searching the crowd to find the speaker. That tone is never a good thing. The same they use when they are going to ask a hurtful question about Valentino or his most recent crash on the track. He tenses in anticipation.

“Regarding the rumours of your 2015 hospital visits, there are now some reports that these visits were due to a so-called mental health crisis. Do you have anything to say about this?”

His heart stops beating. The room goes dead silent. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, his fellow riders watching in confusion. For Marc, it is like watching a train wreck in slow motion. He looks up and catches Alex’s wide-eyed stare. He's sweating, beads rolling down the side of his neck. Shit. Fucking shit. He’s starting to think he’s not going to make it out of this press conference in one piece, torn apart by the gnashing teeth of the media.

He mentally shakes himself, unwilling to let the others see his dismay. Instead, he schools his features, wills his mouth into a flat line, and answers with his best media-trained nonchalance.

“Ah, it is nothing. No comment. This is not talking about racing; let's move on.”

This seems to wake Pecco up from his trance, tearing his gaze away from Marc and turning his attention back to the reporters. God knows what he was staring at, maybe trying to figure out if this could help him beat Marc next year, if he’s taken anything from Rossi, it would be that.

“Ah, are you going to ask us about the weekend, I would also like to talk about racing”

Some low mutters travel around the room. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He doesn’t know how they have found out, but he does know all too well that the press are like fucking vultures, circling at any sign of a kill. Alex looks like he is about to cry now, doe eyes wide and glossy, his face slack with shock and horror. Marc thinks his face might be a perfect mirror. He still doesn’t really know what’s going on, but it’s clearly worse than he had originally been told.

“Marc, following on from the previous question, it has come to light that you were admitted to A&E several times in 2015 due to suicide attempts. Do you have anything to say about this? Was this anything to do with your infamous fight with Valentino Rossi?”

Oh god, Marc is going to be sick. They went for the kill and came round for a second blow. He glances to his left. Pecco is looking at him in abject horror, his brain scrambling, trying to keep up with the carnage around him. Enea looks like his worst nightmare has come true, wide-eyed and scared, staring at Marc as if he has never seen him before. Jorge just looks confused, bafflement etched on every feature, mouth downturned.

So much for his team's plan to handle it, it has all gone to shit in a matter of minutes. He feels like someone has taken a sledgehammer to his facade, destroying everything he has made himself be. Marc knows he is taking too long to respond, his jaw slack with shock. The world is staring at him with bated breath, his biggest secret lay on the table in front of them all, ready to be dissected. He can’t breathe. He feels wild with it, oxygen-starved and desperate. He needs to get out. He needs to get out now.

He scrambles out of his chair, sending it clattering to the floor behind him, shaking the rest of the room out of their stupor. The room explodes into a cacophony of noise and camera flashes. He is going to be sick. He makes a beeline towards Alex, tugging the younger along with him whilst he flees.

“Mierda, mare puta!

They know, they know that...”

Verbalising it out loud makes a wave of nausea hit him, sending him stumbling to the nearest bathroom. He flings the door open, leans over the toilet and proceeds to throw up everything he has eaten in the last 24 hours. Alex enters behind him, muttering in rapid Catalan under his breath.

2015 took a lot from him. More than anyone could know, more than anyone was ever meant to know. Jesus, 2015 nearly took everything from him, everything from his family. It has taken him a long time to accept that part of his life. Marc retches again into the toilet bowl, resting his forehead against the cool porcelain as he blinks back tears. Alex is pacing behind him, his angry mumbles and Marc’s harsh breathing filling the silence of the room.

“How do they know, how the fuck do they know? How did anyone find out?

Joder Marc, are you ok?”

Marc lifts his head from where he’s slumped against the toilet, looking impossibly young. Alex is the one person he would do anything for, he would walk through hell and back to protect him. He is the only one who truly knows what happened in 2015, who knows the extent of the demons in Marc’s brain. Now they will have to face them again.

“No, not really.”

It’s then that Marc registers Pecco standing behind Alex, concern painted across his face. There is no chance that he hasn’t witnessed Marc losing it, with Jorge and Enea standing not far behind. There is a horrifying understanding dawning in their eyes, the realisation that the journalists had struck gold. Marc had attempted his life in 2015 and has kept it inside for almost ten years, only for the world to find out entirely against his will. Marc knows that his face paints a portrait of pain and regret. It unsettles the others, gazing into a familiar face but seeing a whole dimension that was perhaps always there, if anyone had paid attention. All this pain is tucked up inside him in a neat little package, ripped open for greedy eyes to see. Pecco looks away, eyes guilty.

Marc feels like he’s been punched in the stomach, gasping for air that just won’t come. The other pilots probably think he is pathetic. He doesn’t think he can deal with another reason for the others to hate him. As much as he tries to rise above it, he loathes that his colleagues cannot bring themselves to like him. He cannot quite put a name to the emotions on Pecco’s face, Jorge’s sadness and Enea’s hurt are much easier to read. Perhaps it is disgust. And isn’t that ironic, the prodigy looking at him, disgusted by the consequences of Vale's war on Marc?

Marc mentally berates himself for giving so much away. He forces his eyes to go blank, pulling on the mask which he so often wears once more. He accepts the hand Alex offers him; his brother pulling him to his feet and bearing his weight as they push past Pecco. Marc keeps his eyes on the floor, unable to meet the pitying faces of Martin and Bastianini. Instead, he lets Alex guide them back to their motorhome in silence.

[orykorioart]

TAZ Sapphic Week Day 5: Haunted

Couldn’t finish what I originally scheduled for day 5 (so itll have to be pushed back), but I still wanted to have something. So let’s have a quick experimental Lureen (if that is the ship name?) angst! Because that little scene in the GN really got me 😔✌️.

[silverskye13]

Do you ever delete anything in your delete later tag or is it all a joke?

Yes. Frequently. Normally it's just with my art reblogs, but I will comb through and delete the majority of the tag sometimes.

Gonna be real honest, the Delete Later tag is there for my mental health. I go through periods of? Reckless depression? Impulsive bad vibes? Compelled destruction? [Vague hand wave]. Anyway, I've been known to scroll through my blog with the urge to delete everything. My original coping mechanism was tearing paper, but it doesn't scratch the itch the same way a delete button could. So I made a safe space to delete things.

Sometimes I decide later that I wanted to keep the delete later item(s), but 9 times out of 10 I follow through and purge them.

[13eyond13]

actually stunned by how gay The Beatles has been all this time and I just never knew

[candyriku]

I unfortunately find myself unable to work on my current Soriku fic today due to my mental state, but I was able to make a bit of a teaser for the next big Soriku fanfiction that will be coming sometime after JTSYS is finished.

You can read it under the cut, but TW for blood, death, and uh, general misery. This has been cathartic for me to write but the whole idea of this fic is that things are impossibly doomed, so be warned - this is not the happy fun zone.

Blood. There was so much blood.

He had smelled it before even seeing it, the metallic scent thick in his nose before he had even rounded the corner. He had tried to convince himself that it was his own bleeding wound that he smelled, or maybe the blood of something else, someone else, but in his heart, he knew the truth. He picked up his pace, sprinting at top speed now, his sneakers splashing through shallow puddles on the wet pavement. 

When his eyes finally came to rest on the crumpled form at the end of the alley, the breath was knocked out of his chest as though someone had taken a baseball bat to his sternum. He knew, of course he knew, but he had hoped-

No. It didn’t matter what he hoped for. Hopes and wishes weren’t for people that walked his path. He had been denied the right to hope for anything ages ago. When he had signed that contract, signed away his soul, he forfeited all the cushy pleasures of a normal life. He had given up his chance of knowing peace.

But it had been worth it. If it was for Sora, anything was worth it.

Standing over Sora’s blood-soaked body, Riku tried to remind himself of that truth, the one thing that he had tethered his heart to all this time. It was worth it. Even if the chance of Sora making it out alive were next to none, there was still a chance. He could still fight.

One of these loops, Riku would get it right. He would figure out how to keep Sora safe, how to protect him from this accursed dimension where everything was designed to end his life. They would break out and live a normal life together, just the way they had always planned. 

There was a happy future waiting somewhere for the two of them. There had to be. Riku had gambled everything on it.

He crouched down, his shaking fingers gently brushing Sora’s tear-stained cheek. He could hardly stand to look at his face, but the sight of his broken, bleeding body was no better. The wounds were precise and lethal, and Riku was far too late.

No matter how many dozens of times he had watched Sora die, it never got easier. It never stopped feeling like his chest was a black hole caving in on itself, his heart squeezed until it was nothing more than dust. 

He couldn’t look. He couldn't look away.

Riku kneeled and placed both of Sora’s hands over his heart. He was about to speak and begin the incantation that would throw them both back to the starting point again, but Sora suddenly stirred, weakly reaching one hand up towards Riku’s face.

“Riku…” his voice was barely more than a whisper. 

“I’m here,” Riku said, the words catching in his throat. “Don’t speak. You can rest now. It’s okay.”

He hated to say it. He wanted to plead with Sora, wanted to beg him to stay. But if Riku had learned anything throughout the loops, it was that nothing came of begging. There was no one to answer his prayers; benevolent forces did not dwell here. At best, all it would accomplish would be making Sora sad in his final moments. At worst, future loops would be impacted by Riku’s words to Sora, twisting the knife further. He had seen it enough to know what to avoid now.

“I don’t want…” There was a weighted pause. “...Don’t want to leave you.” The pool of blood continued to grow. Riku knew - though he wished that he didn’t - that Sora wouldn’t be able to maintain consciousness for much longer at this rate. He could hardly believe Sora was awake even now. 

“We’ll meet again.” he assured Sora softly, trying to keep his voice steady. “Don’t worry. It'll be okay.” 

“You…” This pause was longer, much longer, and Riku was all but sure that Sora would not speak again. Finally, with a wet cough, Sora continued. “You promise?”

“I promise.” Riku lied. He leaned forward and kissed Sora’s forehead, his lips lingering there for several long moments as he took steadying breaths. 

“Mm… ‘kay.” Sora managed. “Love you… so much.” 

“I love you too.” Riku said, clenching his teeth so hard his jaw popped. He wanted to scream. After taking a moment to compose himself, he sat up and offered his best imitation of a smile to Sora. Better for him to see that than to see how broken Riku really was. 

The all-too-familiar faraway look settled on Sora’s face as the last of his breath left his body. Riku collapsed over him, the tears finally coming, the weight hitting him all at once with the force of a tidal wave. Even knowing that he would see Sora alive and well again in mere moments did nothing to comfort him. 

It didn't matter how many times Riku had seen it. It never got any easier to watch Sora die.

[themyscirah]

@ TK you still have time to let lizzie do an aquababy fyi : )))))

[mammalsofaction]

Going through Mystery/Peter Panda fanfics, and I am once again overcome by the urge to write a prequel to [When We Didn't Get Along] from Peter's perspective of how he met Heinz and what happened at The Evil Scientist Expo in Seattle

[greyeyedmonster-18]

(i don't usually rec things, or make rec lists, but the occasion has presented itself so here's a short little list of wolfstar recs. some from authors i know and love and trust, and some from strangers who I've never met but love anyway:

edit: i got to the end of the post, and decided to call this my beach read collection of wolfstar fics because they're all just...delightful to read. some angst, but otherwise. beach reads!)

-i'm not going to tag them, because every time i make a rec list these two are on it, and i'm sure they're tired of me being a banshee about their works but. here is a short list of some of my recent reads by aerid0nis and dykesiriusblack (@ steelycunt and @ dykefever on tumblr respectively

by aerid0nis and it only felt good while moving (written for their RS Candy Hearts and its SO CUTE) station to station : i read this one not too long ago after conjuring my courage because ridi's writing does things to me and ohmygosh was it lovely and fucking worth the fucking wait. there is angst and there is pining and there is so much love standing, by the wall honestly, just read it. by dykesiriusblack the shape and sound of god: a wolfstar fleabag au. i'm obsessed with the way this is written. lover, you should come over: look, the boys are messy in this and its beautiful.

Fearless Liabilities by @femme--de--lettres: a wolfstar summer camp AU. I admittedly have not yet finished this one, but I have read enough to comfortably rec it. andies writing never fails to make me laugh-- like audibly out loud. multiple times. i don't know anyone who is better at illustrating absolute shenanigans as well as andie can and this story is SO FREAKIN' CUTE. it has romance. it has camp. it has complicated families and friendships and. yah.

Only Fools are Satisfied by grumposaur (aka tumblr user @pancakehouse). AGAIN. I admittedly haven't finished this yet, but i'm going to rec it because sports AU girlies rise up and-- YES. this is a wolfstar tennis AU. Do i know anything about tennis? No. Am I hooked? yes. I am in love with sirius as we all should be, and it is so fun. (also, i can't explain it, but tumblr user pancakehouse, there is something...so like...nonchalant and casual about the way you write? effortless, every sentence and i'm enjoying every bit of it).

Just what the doctor ordered by wrappedup: i feel like everyone and their dog recs this one (pun intended) but rightfully so. beware tall remus, but the banter and pacing in this is so good.

Hard to Find by accioromulus. this one is short, easy breezy read. the dialogue is so fun and quick and its just...simple and cute. Muggle Roadtrip AU.

[intertexts]

also i need to plaster somewhere in big fucking red letters that nhw isn't just my au -______-

[dungeons-and-dragon-age]

Me? actually trying to do tarot cards?? sounds fake

[dungeonmalcontent]

Twilight, but it's a reexamination of the way elves age in most fantasy universes.

"I know what you are. You're skin is pale and you're unbelievably fast."

"Not that fast. Marginally faster than most people. On average."

"Sometimes you speak like you're from another time, I've never seen your ears... and I've only ever seen you eat root vegetables."

"Just say it"

"no, you have to do the line..."

"*fine* Say it, out loud."

"You're an elf."

"Cool. Now can you please just not tell anyone about this?"

---

"How old are you?"

"I dunno, like... 460."

"But you don't look older than 17."

"I spent about 50 years looking like I was 10."

"And how long have you looked like you were 17?"

"uh--probably 200 years? I don't know. We don't age in reverse dog years, there isn't math for this."

"Ugh, Sindreth, you're so stupid."

[schrijverr]

the way it's killing me to not come onto this blog and gush about all the AUAUs im writing, because then I'd be giving spoilers, but ahhhlksdhgfdkhgldfhl, you all, they're so fun!!!! I wanna gnaw on something!!!!! Like please, let me out of this hell of my own making so I can share all my shit!!!!!

[runawaymun]

Heads Up Seven Up

I was tagged by @that-angry-noldo to share the last seven lines I wrote in my WIP! Thank you for the summons!

From To Partake:

He had let his anger get the better of him. He realizes that now, like a cold shock to his spine, here in the dark alone. He had overreacted. That is why he is so angry. He is not angry at Elrond, not really. Ereinion is angry with himself.  He does not know how he will be able to stand facing Elrond tomorrow.

And from Beneath a Boundless Sky

He meant to broach the idea to Istiel, so she could put the question to her people. To our people, Elrond fiercely reminded himself.  My people.  Sometimes he wondered if it had been a mistake to refuse to take on any mantle of formal leadership for the remnants of Doriath. He only had not wished to tempt them to name him king — a title Elrond neither wanted nor felt that he deserved — with his Ñoldorin braids and his Fëanorian accent and his ignorance to his own childhood customs. He knew that it was hardly his fault, but there had been plenty of others who were better qualified than he was to lead the Doriathrim. Istiel had been their second choice, and Elrond’s first. 

I think most people have already played by now, but just in case I am tagging @raointean @thesolarangel and @greyjedijaneite and whomever else has not played yet but would like to!