#if I write a third installment

[jomiddlemarch]

A letter always seemed to me like immortality

Everyone Diana wanted to write to was dead.

Walter, what seemed like a dozen lifetimes ago, at Courcelette if his last letter to Rilla was to be believed; Diana had often wondered whether he had already considered himself a dead man walking before the day of the last battle, the boy he’d been destroyed beyond repair or rebirth.

Aunt Leslie, whom she’d found it easier to talk to than her own mother, perhaps because she’d also had a brother she adored. Perhaps because she’d left Glen St. Mary and never missed it. 

Perhaps because Leslie liked whiskey better than tea, newspapers better than poetry. 

Una, who’d been too pale since she barely survived nursing her father and stepmother through the Spanish flu, who’d been someone everyone underestimated or decided to treat as a martyr, who would not have judged Di the way her own sisters would. 

Rosalind Foyle, whom she’d had to ask about as discreetly as she could, counting on her general reception as a cheerful and polite Canadian, not much like a bossy Yank, to yield her the few details she’d squirreled away. An artist, a mother. A beauty. Better-bred than her husband, well-liked, she’d had elegant hands and never forgot to wear gloves.

Diana only wore gloves to operate and if an actual gale was blowing in a blizzard.

Who had thought all she wanted was to go to France, to make something of her life that would last her the rest of it. That might make the rest of it of a duration she could bear, an end her family could cope with or justify why she’d never return to PEI.

Dear Una, You’re the best one to write to, I think. The one who’d mind the least, like it the most. The least awkward for me to imagine reading this, the least likely to tell me something I don’t want to know. I leave for France in a few weeks and now I don’t want to go. Or rather, I do and then I don’t. There’s something holding me in England now, something to do with Walter, a mystery. Men, who’ve died. A man who’s alive, very much so.

A man I want to know. His name is Foyle. Christopher. He knew Walter, said Walter knew him as Kit. Everyone calls him Foyle or sir or Superintendent. Christopher. Oh Una, I thought this was behind me. That it was something I’d never have to deal with, some sort of consolation of being a woman in a world missing a generation of men. I thought I wouldn’t know this and that was a relief, watching you and Rilla and Nan. Faith. Mary. I thought it was fair, that I’d never know heartbreak like this. And now there’s Christopher. A half-dozen dead men. Walter’s poem. And France, waiting for me. I have to go, I know that, but how do I go wanting to stay here, a place I can’t call home. Wanting to come back.

Christopher. I like writing his name because I oughtn’t say it often. That’s what a young girl does, lovesick, dull, embarrassing herself, making everyone around her smile behind their hands unless it’s Miss Cornelia, scolding you for making a fool of yourself and for what, a man? What’s a man worth, I ask you—can’t you hear her say it, tart, ready to wash her hands of us— I don’t care what a man’s worth, Una. Just Christopher. And I can’t answer the question, not to satisfy Miss Cornelia or you or myself.

You’d write me back something comforting, if you could. If you hadn’t died before your time, twice over, after the telegram, after the epidemic. I should have insisted you leave before me or with me. I should have told your father you were worth more than all the rest of them put together or made Dad send you away to convalesce, somewhere warm, where you might have lolled about, turning brown in the sun. I’ve said I’ll go to France and sew up the men who need sewing up. Cut off the parts that need cutting off. I’ve said that’s my life, my vocation, as important as Mother’s poetry, as Walter’s, as the babies Jem delivers and the columns Ken Ford writes, and it must be but now there’s murder and Christopher to contend with, a dozen mysteries at the heart of me. For it seems I’ve a heart after all, Una. It beats and beats and leaps when it oughtn’t. It will break, I know it shall.

Christopher. I’ll take a dream in lieu of a letter. A flower, out of place, in lieu of a word. Answer me if you can, Una. You can’t and I know that, but I’ll still hope, silly Di Blythe.

She put the letter in an envelope but left it unsealed and unaddressed.

Left the envelope in an otherwise empty drawer of the desk in her flat. If she didn’t return from France, well, that didn’t bear thinking about too closely. If her papers were sent back to Canada, her father would likely burn the letter rather than let her mother see it unless if gave it to Nan, thinking her twin would derive some comfort and, happily married to Jerry, the bonny wife and mother Di had not made of herself, could weather any pang it gave her.

If somehow it ended up with Christopher, he’d know how she’d once felt.

She could make that happen, writing his name across the white field of the envelope, but that was too much like a dare, and for all she was her father’s daughter, she still had her mother’s wise fear of the fey.

She’d written his name enough. She’d hope she’d come back to say it.

[acastleintheclouds]

Okay, I've just officially finished the epilogue to the last book of the d'Artagnan trilogy, and I'm drowning in feels. How am I supposed to live my life after that ending? That was so sad, and yet so beautifully done *ugly sobbing*

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

wanna write a canon-aligned part 2 to fireflies never came that’s from suguru’s pov… bc he wanted reader so damn bad and i think that added layer of jealousy would be so tasty during his defection era

[beescolnick]

tarot & tropes: day six

thank you to @3am-tarot for hosting! we're halfway through, so for today's trope, i returned to my day one: hurt/comfort pairing - but from the other pov! feel free to pop into my ask box with your headcanons or metas, or reblog to support!

- - - - -

the trope: slow burn the spread: a subtle hint / a major move the pull: The Wheel / The Devil

- - - - -

This has been building for a while.

You know it.

They know it.

Nothing about this meeting tonight was clandestine. Unlike a game of roulette, you made strategic moves to get here. You plotted and manifested their presence. Reeled them in with bait made of bourbon and bad decisions.

You’re hungry for them in a way that feels dangerous. Always have been, which is why you’ve kept your distance. Why you’ve never crossed the line. Why you disappeared, all those years ago…

“C’mere,” you command. Soft, but firm.

They walk through the shadow of the valley of death, towards you.

[thecaptainofcosmichorrors]

So I know that I literally just dropped one of my longer responses and still working on chapter 3 of A Soothing Sliver Tongue, but I really wanna write for some new cookies—I literally don’t care what cookie it is (as long as it follows the rules)

Please feel free to just send me some fun stuff (I don’t care how obscure the character is the relative to modern CRK standards. I love having the opportunity to research characters. Viridescent Daydream Vanilla is somebody I have drafted, and am editing a piece for so—skins are fine too!

Essentially what I’m saying is my box is open for random cookies!

[lsunstreakerl]

I fear high tide may have to split into two stories. whoops. expect to see a chunk of it relatively soon :)

[brainiacmaniac]

What do you think of that zombie-mulching lawnmower Dave made? The one named Mo I think.

:3c

Frightened, to say the least.

No matter however, considering I can just make something to counter it easily!

[justaboot]

prequel ep !!!

Episode fic of 19 year old twins and Scrooge on a South American jungle river adventure!

Questing through tunnels and jungles, encounter new travelers, and no one can quite get on the same page.

The twins realize for the first time they're tottering on the edge between childhood and adulthood, struggling with the impermanence of life and the inevitable passage of time.

---

“So what now?” Donald hissed, “This guy’s living the dream, and now you're gonna go off and live in the Cloudslayer ‘full time?’”

Her head dropped sideways to look at him, her brows drawn tight.

“Why is that the dream?” she whispered back.

 “Going wherever you want?” Donald said, “No one telling you what to do, what not to do, living off whatever you can find and sleeping in the plane in whatever field looks good?”

She watched him for a moment with an odd, perplexed expression.

“Why would I want to do it without you guys?” she finally said.

Donald shook his head, but he could feel the corners of his lips quirking. A quick handful of damp grass took care of the oddly sad expression on her face, and he flipped over, closing his eyes as she spluttered greenery and dirt out of her mouth behind him.

[shark-myths]

Chapter 17!

please enjoy this one darlings <3 i'll be japan-posting at you on friday, calling you from the future (i still think that line in young and menace is because patrick played that song for him in japan)

next: me and @leyley09 watched point break and it affected me in unexpected ways

[a-bottle-of-tyelenol]

Bweh I have done my notes and annotations on the first four installments of my fic (which amounts to 13 chapters)

So now I can start on the 20 chapters of the latest installment 😭😭

This is taking so long I stg and I haven’t even updated my doc!!! I just made note of all the things I have to transfer over ufhfjfndkdndnd

[shitpostingkats]

There are two, possibly three oneshots planned in the yugioh gc au for the sole reason of making sure the Arc V bois and girlies get adopted and happy endings.

[genderdotcom]

kind of in a stupid place with my writing rn because i cant make myself break out of the really flowery introspective prose style i always use even when it would be better to write something more action-y and punchy. so i hate pretty much everything ive written for the wyllach first meeting fic but i still want to write it because the story itself compels me... and for the japhetash fic i genuinely just cant figure out how the story should be structured so i have a bunch of little snippets, each of which works with maybe 3-5 others but not with the fic as a whole :|

[puthyflapps]

That unrequited au’s got me in a gotdang chokehold. Not the sweatshirt! 😭 The description of Regan vs. Shelbyyy help. Wake up Toni baby wake uppp!

If I have to be in my emotional devastation era then so does everyone else x

Toni has no choice but to wake up when this whole situation finally comes to a head during a drunken confrontation at one of Fatin's notorious house parties. Shelby had spent another evening going out of her way to avoid Toni and, subsequently, Regan. Her evasive behavior, combined with Toni’s penchant for picking fights, had culminated in this late-night showdown of sorts.

The two find themselves sharing hard stares and even harsher words. Questions seem to morph into accusations that are a clear result of the last name Shelby bears and the god-fearing reputation that comes with it. Truthfully, it was naive of Shelby to think she could continue to get away with dodging the other girl like this, and it was wholly and entirely ignorant to believe she could survive the ensuing interrogation. Especially knowing how Toni’s always prided herself on her ability to easily get under her skin. Steady cracks begin to appear in her veneer as Toni throws shot after shot her way. Launching question after question at her. Creating a dangerous minefield that Shelby’s not entirely sure she can continue to navigate much longer.

With each passing moment, Shelby can feel the heavy weight of her pageant queen mask slipping further and further down, revealing the raw and vulnerable truth underneath. Slowly, the carefully crafted facade of perfection cracks and crumbles, giving way to the messy and embarrassing reality she's been so desperately trying to hide. 

"Why is it so fucking hard for you to be happy for us?"

Toni lobs the question her way in a fit of frustration, and God, the question stings. It feels as though the words themselves have reached out and slapped her with all their might. Every syllable of every word burns at a brutal temperature. Invisible blisters are already steadily forming across the expanse of her cheek. Bubbling painfully. Flesh sizzling silently.

The question hurts. The insinuation hurts. The idea that Toni believes Shelby cares so little for her happiness fucking hurts. However, it’s still not enough to make her admit the truth and she can tell her silence is only upsetting Toni more. Her jaw is clenched and her chest is rising and falling rapidly with heavy breaths. It’s unsurprising when she yells out at Shelby once more:

“Say something!”

Her voice is desperate, trembling with fear and heartache. Shelby can hear the pleading in Toni's tone, her words spilling out with an urgency that cuts deep into Shelby's soul. She can feel the weight of Toni's expectations pressing down on her, begging for an explanation, for any shred of hope that this isn't what she thinks it is. The tension between them is palpable as Shelby struggles to hold back a flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. But with each passing moment, it becomes harder to contain the torrent of feelings churning within her.

“Because I love you!”

The declaration fills up the space around them, leaving no room to move. There is nowhere to run; nowhere to escape from the rubble of this crumbling friendship. It’s finally out there. These words, this thing that she's been so petrified to speak of is now out there for Toni to see, to dissect and pick apart. Shelby's soul lay bare in the confines of a bedroom that belonged to neither of them.

With a harsh swipe, Shelby banishes the hot tears carving tracks down her youthful face. She swivels abruptly from Toni, the air cooling where their bodies were once in proximity. Exhaustion-wrought legs buckle under her as she slumps onto the bed; an unruly cocktail of alcohol and fatigue renders her form heavy and unyielding. As she releases a shaky sigh permeating with undertones of regret - it sounds like waves reluctantly crashing onto a deserted beach. Gathering herself, she starts to explain:

"I spent years praying that one day you would wake up and just see me. You would see that I'm here, I've always been here, and you would finally love me back."

"Bee..." Toni's voice cracks. Raw with emotion and tinged with confusion.

Shelby pays no mind to the interruption, however. Instead, she presses on, ignoring how intensely pity-filled brown eyes watch her.

"I know how stupid and pathetic that sounds, but I really thought," her voice trails off momentarily as she tries to swallow the lump in her throat. "There were these moments where I swear it seemed like…like maybe you did love me. Then you met Regan, and I saw the way you looked at her, Toni. I saw it-"

"Shelby, please," Toni begs.

She pleads, for what? Shelby isn't sure. Does the thought of Shelby being in love with her make her skin crawl? Is Toni so disgusted that she can't bear to hear any more about Shelby's sick feelings? Perhaps she wants Shelby to stop, to save herself the embarrassment. Maybe she's simply trying to help Shelby retain what little is left of her dignity.

But Goodkinds aren’t known for being quitters.

So, if she's going to ruin the one good thing in her life and make a complete fool of herself, she may as well go for broke.

"It became painfully obvious that you would never love me the way that I love you. So, I'm sorry if I upset you. I'm sorry that I've been distant and closed off lately, but I am trying my best to learn how to not love you."

Toni's heart feels like it's being mercilessly wrenched from her chest, each beat causing a physical ache that seems to radiate through every limb. She knows she should say something, anything, to make things right, but her mind is foggy, and her tongue feels heavy with the weight of unspoken words. She can feel her knees growing weak with each passing moment. A tightness grips her throat, almost suffocating as a lump forms, making it difficult for her to even breathe. Despite the tears brimming in her eyes, she keeps them locked away; too ashamed to let them fall in front of her best friend.

Trudging forward, each step feeling more burdensome than the last, Toni makes her way over to the bed. Her eyes are transfixed on Shelby's form, as though she's just now seeing her for the first time. The air in the room is charged and tense, thick with unspoken emotions. "Bee," Toni says gently, barely above a whisper, only making Shelby want to hide away from her even more. She buries her head in her hands, unable to handle the softness in the brunette's tone. It feels too delicate, too careful, as if Toni is handling a fragile piece of glass that may shatter at any moment. Shelby's breaths come out in short ragged bursts, her head feeling light and dizzy as if the room is spinning around her. She feels exposed in all the wrong ways. Suddenly, there is a dip on the bed beside her and strong arms snake around her form. In this moment of vulnerability, Shelby can't help but lash out in the most pathetic way she can muster up - pushing weakly against Toni's chest like a petulant child. But Toni persists, ignoring Shelby's halfhearted protest and simply tightening her hold until they meld into one another. Shelby can feel puffs of warm breath tickling her ear as Toni whispers over and over again, "I didn't know." 

For what felt like hours, Toni and Shelby remained tangled together like the branches of an old tree. The soft pads of Toni's fingers traced soothing patterns over the expanse of Shelby's back as sobs wracked her body. Two girls, once inseparable, now finding solace in each other's arms amidst the ruins of their friendship. The aftermath of drunken confessions hung heavy in the air between them. As sleep slowly overtook her, Shelby couldn't help but wonder how they had ended up here - lost in each other yet worlds apart. When she wakes the following morning, she knows she can't linger a moment longer. She can't bear to face the harsh light of day and another inevitable rejection from Toni. With a heavy heart, she carefully untangles herself from the sleeping girl and mourns the thought that this will be the first and last time she ever shares a bed with Toni Shalifoe. 

[roselightfairy]

oh no

[jojo-hut-jrs]

I was thinking about your hcs about Devo being a self saboteur and I remembered your fics and I have to ask. Was it on purpose that you wrote him self sabotaging in those because if so. :(((

Yes and no. Not everyone is aware of the extent of their own actions, and in the case of those fics, it was more to do with him sort of taking an obsession too far. But he's still in control of his own actions, he could have stopped, he arguably knew better. Sometimes you play the game and sometimes the game plays you, either way you never seem to stop playing.

[idiosyncraticrednebula]

Frozen 2 is a movie that had so much potential but ultimately turned out to be a quite messy and incohesive story thanks to the fact that the writers got rushed into making the movie.