#now the question is whether I should finish cleaning up that really old wip or not…

[bookwyrminspiration]

I was about to make a post about how tamex is cursed because I can never draw them right and cite a couple wips as evidence but then I looked at my old wip and saw I’d cleaned it up and it wasn’t actually that bad and also figured out the problem with my current drawing so. post cancelled tamex is great

[depressedacadamia]

17 year olds don’t make good decisions

Summary:  it's exactly as the title suggests. On Nico's 17th birthday, he decides to do exactly as the title suggests and ends up visiting his boyfriend at the infirmary.

A/N: THIS WAS INSPIRED BY @rainnows and @daughter-of-sunshine from this post. ALSO SHOUT OUT TO @marbleheavy WHO CHEERED ME UP WHEN I WAS TALKING ABOUT BEING SAD ON BATHROOM FLOORS. Thank you @solangeloweek for this fun challenge! I actually managed to complete it without burning out halfway unlike with writers month which I PROMISE will be finishing. It feels super cool to tag people as if I had a tag list. Anyhow, hope yall enjoy the final day in will solace's bday week and comment! <3 from Persephone.

Read on AO3             Masterlist. 

Perhaps trying to give himself a lip piercing all by himself in the solitude of the Hades Cabin was not the best idea. That said, Nico was trying to celebrate his 17th birthday and he had been looking forward to getting a lip ring that he had seen Thalia wear recently and of course, Nico was impressed.

But Nico was even more impressed when Thalia had told him that she had pierced her lip herself like a badass motherfucker. At the time of course, Nico's first thought was wondering whether the hunters of Artemis had a dress code and if so- were piercings included? (Because he knew that Apollo would definitely want in on that.)

But now, as he held his bleeding lip which dripped over his fingers and pulled out the metal needle which had come in the packaging, he realised that just perhaps this wasn't a great deal. He grabbed some tissues and held them to his lips in the hope that the applied pressure would at least stop the big gush of blood but after several impatient minutes of doing so, he began to slightly panic.

Why hadn’t the bleeding stopped? Did he hit a blood vessel? Obviously he must have since he was bleeding! Was it veins or arteries that were super dangerous? God, why was blood so red? And why did this hurt so damn badly- he’s been stabbed for goodness sake! He was a soldier and it was a boo boo lip that was getting to him?

He rushed to the infirmary in panic- he doubted many people would see him and he deeply cared about his lips; afterall, how else would he kiss Will?

“Why are you holding that to your mouth?” Will asked when he saw his boyfriend walk through the infirmary doors. “ You’re not meant to eat tissues. If you were hungry, you should have bought a happy meal.”

Nico, who was still bleeding profusely into the tissue, turned it around so Will could; see his blood stained face and almost ripped lip.

“It won’t stop bleeding,” Nico managed to whine out in pain.

“What did you do?!” Will shouted in horror.

“I DON’T KNOW, YOU’RE THE DOCTOR!”

“I’M A HEALER, NOT A DOCTOR!” Will, truly panicking, screamed back. The two stared at each other, eyes wide open and finally, Will realised that while Nico was a soldier, he wasn't a healer. Sure- he inflicted injuries but he didn't fix them. In other words, Nico was completely clueless.

Will repeated the question, this time with a calmer tone. “What did you do?”

He changed his gloves and sat Nico down so he could have a look.

“I shwied oo iercee my wip,” Nico tried to speak as Will held his mouth open, taking a glance at the bottom of his lip.

“Sooo?” Nico said once again, over exaggeratedly as his boyfriend prepared to clean the wound.

“There’s a hole in your lip.” Will said, without a fraction of surprise as he began to clean the wound, lightly dabbing the soaked cotton ball at the injury.

“Ouuchh,” Nico tried to move away, but Will - in a very threatening manner- stopped him with a manic gleam in his eye that read No <3.

The two sat there as Will managed to stop the immense bleeding. Quite luckily for Nico’s reputation, there weren’t many people in the infirmary that specific evening and therefore, it was only Will and a couple of other healers- who weren’t scared of Nico but let him think so- who knew of the accident.

“Why did you even want to get your lip pierced in the first place?” Will umbled as he began to clean up.

“Because.”

“Because what?”

Nico replied in innocent honesty. “ It’s cool.”

Will choked at the simplicity of the answer. “Because it’s cool?”

Nico, similar to a puppy, nodded with eager delight. Sure, his lip piercing had not gone the way he had wanted and it was a shame that he’d have to wait for his lip to heal so that could try again but in the end- his lips still seemed to be working.

“Let me get this straight,” Will paused, “ You got a lip piercing, you willingly attempted to put a hole through the flesh of your lip because you thought it looked cool?”

“No,2 Nico huffed slightly. “Also you can’t get anything straight.”

Will sighed, “ And you’re about to make a gay joke to hide your own religious truama, aren’t you.”

“Oi!” Nico cried. “ No fair! You don’t get to ruin the punchline of my joke and expose my psychological trauma!”

Will gave a small chuckle to himself as he finished cleaning up and Nico patiently- which was relatively surprising- waited on the bed. He moved his fingers to gently prod his lip where the injury had occurred a while ago, a bit surprised to feel the flesh there to be swollen and burning hot to the touch.

“Willll,” Nico complained. “ My lip is puffy.”

The blond healer scoffed in response. “ That’s what you get for trying to pierce your lip by yourself.”

“But Thalia did it by herself and it looks so cool!”

“Is that what this is about?” Will turned around suddenly. “ Because Thalia told you about her lip piercing.”

Nico folded his arms looking away slightly. “ She didn’t just tell me, she was wearing her lip piercing and I for one think it looks awesome.”

“Yeah, I can really tell from the state of your lip,” Will laughed dryly.

“You’re being meaner than usual, sun boy.”

“You’re being stupider than usual death boy.”

“See!”

“I think I'm allowed to be a bit annoyed at the stupid attempt you made ot pierce your own lip without the aid of anyone else- or at least your boyfriend-, who, might I add, is a healer!”

“So I’m meant to be running to you every time I might have a problem and supposedly need some help with it?”

“Yes!”

Nico, ready to retort back an ‘I thought so”, paused. “Oh.”

The infirmary fell silent as they both stood staring at each other while the sun set behind=d them in the background. Will’s skin glowed under the light and Nico’s eyes glinted. They stared at each other and suddenly within a beat all the tension in the room rushed out and they both started laughing at one another. Suddenly a tall, black haired boy scrambled into the infirmary with mischief written all over his gleeful face.

“So?” Percy painted. “Did you actually try and do the piercing?”

To say the least, Will demanded an explanation.

[bard-llama]

It’s Technically Still Wednesday Here

Okay, yeah, I totally forgot WiP Wednesday. But I’ve been reading over a lot of my old WiPs lately to try to get inspiration, so here, have one where Roche bets Iorveth he can make him scream. Before they are ever together.

Plastering an arrogant smirk on his face, Iorveth marched up to the table and plopped himself down right across from Vernon. The dh’oine jerked in surprise, but it was easy to tell the exact moment that Vernon recognized him. The scowl on Vernon’s face was truly impressive and Iorveth’s smirk widened in response.

“What’re you doing here?” Vernon slurred. Clearly the ale he’d just finished had not been his first.

“Drinking,” Iorveth replied.

“Ugh. You know what I mean. Why the fuck are you here?”

Guess that meant this wasn’t all a ruse. “That should be my question,” Iorveth crossed his arms on top of the table. “You following me or something? Awfully coincidental, you being here the one day I decide to stop in.”

Vernon blinked slowly at him. “‘m here every day,” was all the dh’oine said, eyes downcast as he waved at a barmaid for a refill.

“Haven’t you had enough?” Iorveth found himself asking. It wasn’t like he cared if Vernon got absolutely plastered. He just didn’t want to have to clean up the mess if the dh’oine got sick. That was obviously the only reason for his concern.

“Absolutely not,” Vernon said softly, and when the barmaid returned with a full glass, he grabbed it immediately, eagerly swallowing half the fucking pint.

Not that Iorveth cared. Obviously. “If you get sick, you’re on your own for the clean up.”

There. Now there was no reason he should be concerned about Vernon’s drinking habits. None at all.

“I never get sick,” Vernon said with all the confidence of a habitual drunkard, wiping foam from his upper lip as he did so.

Iorveth rolled his eye. “Whatever. So why is your sorry ass getting drunk in this tavern at 5 in the afternoon?”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t. Just wouldn’t have expected you to be the drunken type.”

Vernon’s snort sounded like it was painful. “What the fuck else do I have to do? My king is dead, my country has fallen apart and my men are gone. Everything I’ve ever had is lost, so why shouldn’t I just get drunk all day? ‘s better than thinking.” So saying, Vernon took another large swallow of ale. 

“Ah,” Iorveth replied eloquently. He should probably feel bad that he’d personally had a hand in taking all of those things from Vernon, but frankly, one kingdom’s fate held up against the treatment of all elvenkind? That was a sacrifice he would willingly make again.

“Anyway,” Vernon continued, voice slurred, “what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be off in Vergen playing the hero?”

Now Iorveth was the one to let out a painful laugh. “Hero? Really Vernon, you of all people should know I’ve never been that.”

Vernon shrugged. “Heard you saved their asses in the Kaedweni war.”

Iorveth hummed, “and now my Scoia’tael are disbanded and there’s no longer any use for me.”

“Ooof. They kick you out?”

Scowling, Iorveth kicked Vernon’s shin. “It was implied. Besides, it’s been over a century since I’ve lived in a city. Makes more sense to start over somewhere I’m less… notorious, shall we say?”

Vernon took another swig of beer and chuckled. “That’s one word for it. So how does a former terrorist–”

“Freedom fighter,” Iorveth corrected.

“– start over?”

“Eh,” Iorveth debated whether or not to answer honestly. On the one hand, giving information to Vernon for free was just wrong. On the other hand, it wasn’t like there was anything Vernon could do about it. Hell, it wasn’t even interesting enough to do anything about. “I play music.”

“Oh?” Vernon actually perked up, as if that was actually notable. “What, like at a concert hall or something?”

Iorveth snorted. “Try on street corners.”

“You’re kidding.”

Shrugging, he busied himself with drinking his own beer in the hopes that they could stop talking about this.

“Soooooo,” Vernon drawled, dragging out the word, but before he had the chance to elaborate, a loud shout from outside had them both tensing. The shout was followed by high pitched keening and half the tavern stared awkwardly at the door.

“Ugh, you dh’oine are always so horny,” Iorveth made a face. 

“You don’t know that they’re humans,” Roche pointed out. As if that mattered.

“They’re human in spirit – loud, inconsiderate, and horny.”

Vernon’s snort quickly turned into full bellied laughter that made Iorveth smile in turn.

“I feel like I should defend humanity here,” Vernon eventually said, “but you’re not wrong.”

“Of course I’m not,” Iorveth sniffed haughtily. “Really though, you’d think they’d be a little courteous.”

Vernon shrugged, “maybe they want to be heard.”

“In that case, they should get consent from their audience first,” Iorveth made a face again. “An elf would never be so gauche.”

Laughing quietly, Vernon shook his head. “Maybe they just don’t care. Sometimes you get into it enough, you’re not even aware of what’s coming out of your mouth.”

“Hmph,” Iorveth sniffed again. “Fine, but at least learn volume moderation.”

The smirk that grew on Vernon’s face was mischievous and Iorveth straightened immediately, alarmed. 

“What, you’re claiming you can keep full control over your volume when having really, really good sex?”

Iorveth scoffed. “Of course.”

Vernon clicked his tongue in disbelief. “Prove it.”

Iorveth blinked several times in bewilderment, then looked around the room. “What? With who?”

That smirk widened and Iorveth felt a sense of foreboding as Vernon casually shrugged, “I give great head.”

Iorveth’s eye went wide and he inhaled sharply, then managed to choke on his own spit. Coughing, eye watering slightly, he stared at Vernon. “Did you just offer me a blowjob?”

“Well, not if you’re gonna be a pussy about it.” Vernon finished off his beer, then stood with surprising grace, given his state of intoxication. “Bet you I could make you scream.”

Iorveth stood too, because he was absolutely not going to be left here like an idiot. Were they really going to do this? Really!?

“You’re drunk,” Iorveth pointed out. “Very drunk.”

“What, you’ve never had drunken sex before? That’s like the prime human experience.”

“Alcohol typically makes people worse at sex, actually,” he said, even as he followed Vernon out of the inn and down a back alleyway.

“Pfft, when you’re amazing, ‘worse’ isn’t even a downgrade.”

“Awfully confident.” Iorveth licked his lips, anticipation shivering in his belly. 

“As you’ll soon find out,” Vernon winked, “I have every reason to be.” Then he dropped to his knees and stared up at Iorveth with a clear demand in his eyes.

Iorveth swallowed, mouth dry, and unlaced his trousers.

[starting-now]

Stitches

Summary: Barry hasn’t been responding to your texts and you decide to go check on him.

A/N: wow i haven’t posted in a hot minute but heres an old wip i finally finished! let me know what you think🥺 i miss writing

Word Count: 1642

Warnings: descriptions of wounds, mentions of death

------

You scanned Barry’s apartment building up and down, then looked back at your phone. Your fingers danced lightly over the screen, scrolling through the messages he had sent you earlier that day. 

‘I’m sorry.’

-then a minute later-

‘I don’t know what to say’

-another minute-

‘I love you. And I’m sorry.’

And since then, nothing. 

If it wasn’t for the rest of the cryptic bullshit, you would have been utterly caught up on those three little words in his last text...‘I love you’. To be honest, even despite your worry those words echoed in your mind. Still, even after all your responses, asking if he was okay, where he was, if he needed to talk, you hadn’t heard from him all day.

So here you were, staring at his apartment building, trying to gather the courage to approach  his door. You tucked your phone into your back pocket and twisted your hands nervously. You knew what he did for work. He had told you months ago and you knew how dangerous it could be. Every time you didn’t hear from him for a while, or he didn’t show up to acting class, you panicked. And today, with the addition of these cryptic messages, your anxiety was through the roof. You had a panic attack on the drive over, every horrible thing that could have happened running through your mind, leaving a burning sensation in their wake. 

You finally gained the courage to walk up the stairs, but as you approached the door, it was half open, the lights inside still off. Your panic spiked again. You placed a hand on the door and pushed it open slowly. As the hall light filtered in you saw Barry’s jacket on the floor, stained dark red, and a trail of thick red drops dotting the floor leading to his bedroom. 

“...Barry?” you called softly. You furrowed your brow when there was no response, tears pricking your eyes.

“Barry? It’s me.” you said a little louder as you slowly followed the trail of blood down the hall. You heard a soft groan in response. Your pace quickened as you rounded the corner to his bedroom, flicking on the light to see Barry sprawled across his bed on his stomach, his gray shirt stained red with blood that seeped out from his shoulder. You gasped and rushed over to him, kneeling in front of him so you could see his face. He was sweating profusely, his hair sticking to his forehead, his eyes were droopy and tired. You put a hand to his cheek softly.

“Barry? Hey are you with me? Say something.” you said, concern lacing your voice. Barry struggled to keep his eyes open, and he groaned in response.

“(Y/N)?” he mumbled in confusion. He tried to sit up, but hissed in pain and collapsed back on the bed.

“God, Barry you’re hurt, I need to get you to the hospital.”  you said, but before you could grab your phone, Barry’s hand was on yours, his grip weak on your wrist but enough to get your attention.

“No hospital. I’ll...I’ll be fine.” he mumbled. You shook your head.

“You need help.” you said simply. You got up and walked into his bathroom, searching for a first aid kit. You finally found one under the sink, and propped it up on the bed.

“I just need to rest.” Barry muttered and you shook your head.

“No, Barry. I need you to stay awake. You’ve lost a lot of blood. Can you sit up for me?” you asked, mustering a calm voice despite the panic. Barry shifted slowly until he sat weakly on the edge of the bed next to you.

“Okay good. Hurt your shoulder?” you asked, gesturing to it as you opened the disinfectant.

“Not me it was the little karate girl.” he said and you did a double take at him before deciding that  ‘what the fuck does little karate girl mean’ was a question you’d file under ‘ask later’. You tugged lightly at the hem of his shirt until Barry got the message, maneuvering himself carefully so you were able to remove the fabric. He winced as he moved the muscles surrounding his wound.

You soaked a rag in warm water and carefully cleaned most of the blood away from the wounds on his shoulder, which you could now see were two gaping stab wounds right above his shoulder blade. You winced at the sight of them and quickly doused a clean rag in disinfectant. 

Barry hissed in pain as you cleaned the wound and you mumbled a quiet apology as you continued working. Once the area was disinfected you threaded a needle and got to work on the stitches. You clenched your teeth in sympathy as you worked the needle into his skin. Barry was mostly silent through the whole affair apart from a few small low groans, his eyes shut tight and his fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white.

“Alright, last one.” you said quietly as you threaded the last stitch and tied off the end. You disinfected the wound once again and placed some large bandages over the area. Your hands left Barry’s back and folded in your lap as you sat on the edge of the bed, your leg brushing his. A thick silence fell over the room.

“So...are we going to talk about those messages?” you asked quietly as if the moment would shatter at any sudden action. 

Barry was silent for a moment. His hands worked over his bruised knuckles in contemplation, his jaw clenching and releasing. But after a few seconds, his back heaved and a shaky breath came out of his mouth, tears falling freely from his eyes. He put his head in his hands and pressed the heels of his palms into his forehead.

You furrowed your brow and placed a hand softly on his arm.

“Hey hey, what’s wrong?” you said soothingly, running a hand up and down his skin. Barry shook his head and dug his fingers into his scalp, anxiously tugging on the roots of his hair.  

“...I’m sorry,” he choked out in a weak voice between sobs. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into all this.” 

“Barry I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care about you. You’re not dragging me into anything.” you said meaningfully, racking your brain for anything you could say to make him feel better. You hated seeing him in pain, whether physical or mental and in this case, it was both. Your heart was breaking for him.

You sat in silence for a few minutes as his breathing evened out, your hand still resting reassuringly on his arm. Barry let out a deep sigh.

“I’m...I’m sorry I worried you. Those messages...I don’t know what to say.” he said, tears slowing and turning into regret.

“It’s...okay. At least they got me here to help you.. Who knows what would have happened.” you said, trying to shake the hypotheticals. 

“I know what would have happened.. I would have died.” he said with a humorless laugh.

“Come on I’m sure you would have-”

“No, (Y/N), I mean it. I would have died. That’s...why I sent you those messages.” he confessed in a more serious tone and sat up, keeping his eyes glued to the floor in front of him and his hands folded in his lap.

You didn’t know what to say. For what seemed like the hundredth time tonight you were at a loss for words. 

“I do, by the way.” he said simply, finally meeting your gaze. You furrowed your brow in confusion and Barry noticed you hadn’t connected the dots.

“Love you, I mean. I always have.” he clarified, losing what little confidence he had as he heard the words leave his mouth. You felt tears prick at your eyes.

“Oh, Barry, I-”

“No I know. I-I shouldn’t have said it. I shouldn’t have messaged it to you and I definitely shouldn’t have said it again just now. I just figured you should know.” he rambled.

You placed a gentle hand under his chin and tilted his head so he met your eyes.

“Barry, I love you too.” you said, giving him a soft smile. Barry resisted the urge to lean into your touch, a simple question on his mind. He furrowed his brow as tears threatened to fall once again. 

“...Why?” he asked emphatically. It wasn’t a plea to hear his good attributes. This was a complete and total disbelief that he was worthy of anyone’s love, let alone yours.

“Maybe we both have self destructive tendencies.” you said jokingly, shrugging and earning a small frown from Barry. 

“Or...maybe I just know you. It’s not often you meet someone and really know them. Really see them. But I know you. I see you. And you see me. And maybe...maybe that’s enough.” you finished thoughtfully. 

“Do you really mean that?” he asked, searching your eyes hopefully.

“Of course, Barry,  I-” you started but were cut off by the feeling of Barry’s lips on yours.

It was a quick kiss before he made himself pull away. He shut his eyes tightly and shook his head.

“Sorry, I should have-”

You cut him off by gently tugging on the collar of his shirt and pulling him in for another kiss.

“It’s okay. Don’t apologize.” you said with a smile. Barry’s expression softened and he leaned his forehead against yours.

“...Can you stay?” he asked quietly.

“Of course.” you responded, bringing your hand up to rest on his cheek and running your thumb across his cheekbone. Barry leaned into your touch, a soft smile on his face.

“But you gotta tell me about this little karate girl.” you said, earning a small laugh from Barry.

“Deal.”

[javistg]

One Victor. CH 17. Sneak Peek.

July is almost here! This year I won’t be completely free, but I won’t be teaching as many classes either. This means that I’ll be able to devote some time to my WIPs. 

I already joined camp NaNo --to keep me accountable-- and I’ll be posting reminders for writing sprints so that we can all share our progress and inspire one another. Let me know if you want me to add you to those 😊

To celebrate all these wonderful news, I’d like to share a little teaser from the next instalment of One Victor. I already posted another one from this same chapter a few months’s back. You can find it HERE.

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

One Victor. Chapter 17. Part 2. 

Mr. Mellark was in the small office where he went over the bakery’s monthly purchase orders when Peeta knocked on the door. 

The baker looked up from his ledger and found his youngest son standing at the threshold. “All done, son?”

“Yup.” Peeta tilted his head towards the kitchen. “The cakes are ready. I already placed them in their boxes and left them in the fridge.”

Mr. Mellark smiled fondly at his son. Even as a young boy, Peeta had always been a patient and dedicated worker –probably why he was so good at frosting the most delicate designs. He was glad to see that becoming a victor hadn’t changed his work ethic. “Are you heading out?”

“Yeah, I’m going over to Kipling's, and then I’ll head home.”

“Make sure to keep warm.” Mr. Mellark glanced out the window. The blizzard was over, but a thick blanket of snow still covered the town.  “It’s cold out there.”

“I will, Pop.” Turning to reach for his coat, Peeta added, “I’ll see you next week.”

Peeta stepped out onto the cold street. He slipped his hands into his coat pockets, ducked his face into his scarf, and began walking. The chilly air stung his cheeks but, after two days of being stuck indoors with nothing but the sound of the howling winds outside his walls to keep him company, he was glad to be out for a while.  

Keeping to the narrow backstreets of the merchant quarter, he reached the general store and slipped in through the back door. 

Mrs. Kipling sat on a small stool while she sorted out the canned goods she had received before the blizzard hit. The creaking of the old door opening caught her attention, but she wasn’t surprised by the victor’s intrusion. “Morning, Peeta. What can I do for you today?”

“Good morning, Mrs. K., I was hoping to get a few supplies. I used up everything I had during the storm.”

“Sure thing.” Mrs. Kipling stood up and stretched her back. She wasn’t a girl anymore, and the humidity of the last few days wasn’t helping her aching joints. “Come with me, I’ll get you sorted in no time.”

With her usual efficiency, the shopkeeper took care of her customer and, before long, Peeta was back out on the street. His messenger bag, heavy with cans and food, hung from his shoulder across his chest. 

Treading carefully on the icy cobblestones, Peeta reached the main square and stopped short. 

His mouth dropped open in shock. In the few hours it had taken him to decorate a couple of cakes, the whole square had been swept clean. 

Pressing his back against the nearest wall, he took stock of the scene before him. 

An entire company of Peacekeepers, aligned in perfect formation, marched along the square. Their pristine white uniforms gleamed under the bright winter sun. 

Looking up, Peeta discovered a few others along the rooftops occupying nests of machine guns which they kept trained on the street below.

A huge banner with the seal of Panem hung off the roof of the Justice Building. The heavy-handed reminder of President Snow’s presence made Peeta's stomach turn, but the thing which unnerved him the most was the line of new constructions set up in the center of the square. 

Bitter tasting bile climbed up his throat as he considered what the whipping post, stockades, and gallows were going to be used for. 

Some streets away from the square, a blaze flared up. The long plume of smoke reaching for the sky could only come from one place. The Hob.

Peeta pushed himself away from the wall. For an instant, he considered rushing towards the old building to make sure there were no casualties, but the sudden appearance of a white uniform by his side made him change his mind. 

Peeta stood dead-still. Out of the corner of his eye, he examined the peacekeeper. His uniform was clean and pressed but, judging by the creases along the elbows and neckline, it had seen better days. 

Not one of Thread’s men, then. 

Peeta still hadn’t decided whether he should address the officer or not when the peacekeeper leaned in and whispered, “I checked it this morning." Tilting his head towards the burning market, he added, "Made sure it was empty before they lit it up.”

Peeta nodded. He was about to thank the man for the information when a whistle rang in the distance. 

The peacekeeper straightened up. “Better get going,” he said before turning and swiftly walking away.  

Peeta watched as the officer joined the rest of his battalion. The tuft of red hair escaping his battered helmet was the only thing setting him apart in the crowd.

XXXXX

Before anyone else could notice his presence, Peeta began walking again. 

His heart raced in his chest --thrilled and terrified all at once. Somewhere out in Panem something big was happening, President Snow wouldn’t have felt the need to show this much force otherwise. 

Too restless to go back to Victors’ Village, Peeta let his feet wander down the familiar paths of the Merchant Quarter. Before long, he had reached the school.

The low-rise building was as a sad sight. Chipped paint. Cracked walls. Broken windows. The school was just another example of the poverty and neglect that touched everything in Twelve. 

As a cool winter breeze blew the remnants of the snow storm away, Peeta’s mind flew back to the days he’d spent in the draughty classrooms where he had frozen every winter, and the stuffy gymnasium where he had suffocated in summertime. 

His childhood had been a mix of excitement and boredom; apathy and hard work sprinkled with brief moments of joy. Long hours of tedious classes taught by frustrated teachers who had no patience and no interest in their students; exhausting shifts working at the bakery under his mother’s stern eye; happy moments of triumph he had shared with his brothers and the rest of the wrestling team. 

Life hadn’t been perfect –he had known bitterness and pain-- but he had been foolish enough to think he was safe. Things were different now. As a victor, he saw the world for what it really was: a dark, cold, frightening place.

Lost in his thoughts, he almost missed the loud screech of the front gate opening. A steady trickle of students, wrapped in their warmest winter clothes, spilled out of the building and onto the empty street. 

Peeta buried his face in his scarf and waited. 

“Peeta?” Madge called out. In a few quick steps, she reached his side. “What are you doing here?”

Peeta shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d stop by.”

Wrapping her arms around herself, Madge stepped in closer. “Have you been by the square?”

Peeta nodded. 

“How does it look?”

Like a prison’s courtyard, Peeta thought. Instead, he said, “It’s been wiped clean.” Looking back towards the school to make sure no one was paying attention to them, he added, “The Hob’s on fire.”

Madge’s eyes widened. “Already?”

Peeta pulled back. “What do you—,”

Grabbing her cousin by the elbow, Madge pulled him closer. “The new Head Peacekeeper stopped by my house last night.” 

The thought of the stern man with cold blue eyes made Madge shiver. He had been polite enough, but the way he had spoken to her father —his words dripping with thinly veiled disdain— made her skin crawl. 

Ignoring the discomfort settling in her bones, Madge pressed on, “My dad took him into his office, but I overheard a bit of their conversation.” Glancing behind her back to make sure no one was listening, she whispered, “There are almost 300 new peacekeepers in town —some of them have worked under the new Head’s command for years. He said they’re here to reinforce their installations in the district, and to put a stop to all irregular activities.” Letting go of Peeta, Madge straightened up. “No wonder they started with the Hob,” she muttered. 

Peeta nodded, eagerly processing Madge’s report. Her words confirmed everything he’d heard in the last few days, and everything pointed in the same direction. President Snow’s problems weren’t contained to District 8 anymore. 

As far as he knew, there hadn’t been any open acts of rebellion in Twelve but, could it be that President Snow’s agents had detected some activity and that Thread’s presence was more than a mere warning?

Bursting with questions, he leaned back into Madge’s side but, before he could ask anything more, he saw Katniss and Prim walking towards them.   

“Hi, Peeta!” Prim exclaimed waiving a mittened hand in the frosty air. 

Straightening up, Peeta nodded in Prim’s direction. “Hey, Prim!” Facing Katniss, he repeated the gesture. “Katniss.”

Before Katniss could say anything, Prim asked, “Were you helping out at the bakery today?”

Peeta nodded. “I just finished, and I thought maybe I could walk back with you?”

Prim’s face broke in a brilliant smile. “Sure!”

“So, what are we waiting for?” Madge reached for Prim’s hand. “ Let’s get going! I’m freezing out here!”

Without missing a beat, Prim slipped her hand in Madge’s and they both began to walk. Katniss and Peeta fell into pace, trailing a couple of steps behind.  

“So,” Peeta said, softly bumping his arm against Katniss’s as they walked, “you OK?”

Turning to look at him, Katniss shrugged. The last couple of days hadn’t been great. She had spent far too many hours trapped indoors as she waited for the blizzard to pass through. Luckily, her pantry had been well stocked and her family hadn’t gone hungry but, with nothing else to do, her mind had kept spinning around in circles —thinking about the new Peacekeepers and what their presence in the district might mean to her and her business. 

As if he could read her thoughts, Peeta whispered, “Too much time indoors?”

Katniss smiled. “Yeah.” She took a deep breath, greedily filling her lungs with crisp snowy air and exhaled. “This is better.”

They were about to turn the corner to the square when Peeta stopped short. In one swift motion, he reached out and grabbed Katniss’s arm to halt her movements. 

Startled by the abrupt change in pace, Katniss pivoted round. Her arm bumped against Peeta’s chest and he leaned forward, placing his free hand on her shoulder to keep her huddled next to him.  

“Katniss, look at me,” he whispered.

Wide-eyed Katniss did as she was told. Peeta’s face was so close that she could read the silent apology in his eyes, feel his warm breath against her cheek.

In an urgent whisper, Peeta explained, “Listen. The Hob is on fire.”

Katniss’s mouth dropped. Uncomprehending, she shook her head. “What?”

“Listen to me.” Peeta tightened his hold on her. “The new Peacekeepers are cleaning up the district, they’re trying to get rid of all irregular activities and they started with the Hob.”

Irregular activities. Two words as dangerous as a bolt of lightning coursing through her spine,  scorching every last shred of hope on their path. 

Dread sunk in. Every muscle in her body pulled back until she was as tight as a bow string. Irregular activities , her mind repeated. That meant her!

Panicked, Katniss tried to twist out of Peeta’s grasp and run. Maybe she could go to the burning market or the woods or… But it was no use. Peeta’s firm grip on her arm and shoulder kept her rooted in place. 

 “Wait! Don’t go!” Peeta whispered. “Please.”  

Soothed by the sound of Peeta’s voice, Katniss stopped fighting. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Madge and Prim had stopped a few steps ahead of them. 

The mayor’s daughter had wrapped an arm over Prim’s shoulders and was leaning down to whisper something in her ear. Prim’s red woollen hat bobbed up and down as she nodded in response to whatever Madge was saying. 

“They’re all fine,”Peeta assured her as soon as she turned her attention back to him. “No one was hurt.” 

Katniss reached for the lapel of Peeta’s coat and clutched it in her fists. “How do you know?” 

Letting go of her arms, Peeta covered Katniss’s hands with his. “One of the peacekeepers told me. He said he had checked and that the building was empty, that everyone was safe.”

Katniss narrowed her eyes. “A Peacekeeper? Who?”

Peeta shrugged. “I hardly saw him, but I could tell from his uniform that he’s one of Cray’s men. He seemed very young –probably early twenties.”

Katniss tilted her head to the side. A glimmer of hope shone in her eyes. “Red hair?”

Peeta nodded. “Does that—,”

“Sounds like Darius,” Katniss muttered.

“Darius,” Peeta repeated committing the name to memory. “You know him?”

Katniss nodded. “He eats at the Hob. We trade with him sometimes.”

Peeta looked down at their clasped hands. As much as he liked being this close to Katniss, he knew this wasn’t the right place or time. They had to get going. “What will you do? If I let go?”

In spite of herself, Katniss smiled. “Nothing. I just want to go home.”

With a sigh, Peeta let go of her hands and watched as she slowly opened her fists and ran her hands down his chest until they dropped to her sides.  “Can I walk with you?” he asked.

A shy smile turned her lips. “Of course! Let’s go.”

[kira-ani-mcgrath]

I am redeemed You set me free So I'll shake off these heavy chains And wipe away every stain Now I'm not who I used to be I am redeemed

"Redeemed" by Big Daddy Weave

I drew this picture specifically to go with the personal story below the cut. Thank you in advance if you take the time to read it, but no worries if you don't. Either way, have a wonderful day.

Late December 2018 was when the Frozen II calendar leak began circulating. Included in the leak was information on the Russian caption for the page, translated to be a vague movie summary. This plot teaser stated that the group (Anna, Elsa, Kristoff, Olaf, and Sven) would be heading north into the forest due to some Arendelle-related mystery.

This was a bit of a let-down for me. You see, since my initial introduction to Frozen in 2013, I have been hoping and praying that the inevitable sequel would include Hans' redemption as part of the narrative (for various reasons that are too lengthy to detail here). Such a plot thread would be easier to accomplish if Frozen II involved travel to some other kingdom (or multiple kingdoms), especially the Southern Isles. With the information revealed in the plot spoiler, it was harder to picture a scenario where Hans would join the rest of the gang for an adventure. Yes, it could be done, but it would be more convoluted, possibly to the point of not being an option altogether. Perhaps I was being too pessimistic, but there was no denying the fact that I was feeling rather down about Frozen II.

A few days later, I was driving home with the radio on, but I wasn't paying attention to it. Instead, I was once again mulling over various ways Hans could be redeemed in Frozen II. Yet the more I considered possible scenarios, the more it seemed that the movie's revealed plot would make Hans' redemption an unrealistic feat. I reached the end of my train of thought, and, feeling disheartened, mentally chided myself, "I should just give up. Hans isn't going to be redeemed in Frozen 2."

At that precise moment, the opening notes of "Redeemed" began to play on the radio. Being quite familiar with the song, I immediately laughed and pointed an index finger to the sky. Not only was the title of the song the exact word my mind had just used, but I have long associated this song with Hans (one of many songs, but also one of my favorites). I had no doubt this was the Lord confirming something to me, as this was not the first time such a "coincidental" occurrence has happened.

It's important to know that, in the years since Frozen, I have created (and am still creating) multiple fanworks that posit different takes on how a Hans redemption could come about (and that's not including all the ideas I've had that aren't developed enough for full-fledged works). There have been several times when I've questioned the value of creating such things, only to have affirmation of my work come from unexpected sources at just the right time. Additionally, I have had many such question-and-confirmation experiences in my life, as well as a noticeable increase in the quantity of such instances within the past several months (albeit unrelated to Frozen and instead dealing with various other matters, such as my faith, my most recent pregnancy, and random everyday life things). Thus, when this specific incident occurred, I immediately recognized it as yet another such moment.

Since that night in December, I'd been internally debating sharing this anecdote with the world. Every few days or so my mind would recall the incident and I'd consider posting about it, but I'd always end up deciding against it. After all, it is highly personal, and it takes quite a bit of explaining to impart the importance of this experience (and I'm still leaving out personal details which make it much more powerful to me). This went on for some time. In mid-late February, I was once again musing upon the occurrence and whether or not I should share it. I jokingly thought to God: "If I hear 'Redeemed' on the radio this morning I'll take it as a sign I'm supposed to share this." And, since you are reading this post, you must know where this is going. I already had the radio on, and after getting back in my vehicle after child drop-off, I flicked through my presets to find a song I wanted to listen to. And, lo and behold, my second-to-last preset was playing the first verse of "Redeemed." (Granted, all of my presets are Christian radio stations, so that does put the odds more in favor of my "wager" coming true. On the other hand, the song is from 2012. That means it's 7 years old, and I honestly didn’t hear the song very often at the time, as more recent songs get played much more frequently. In my mind, the proposition was a joke, but I suppose I should have known better, since a lot of my recent question-and-confirmation experiences have been me joking and God proceeding to do the thing.) And thus, here we are. The large time gap between the second occurrence and this post is because 1) I take a while to get my thoughts out and refine them into something fit for public eyes, especially in a personal case such as this one, 2) it seemed appropriate to do some art to go with this, since I've been lacking in productivity in the creative departments for some time, and 3) life things requiring my attention.

On an interesting side note, I had three additional confirmations of this post while I was working on it.

#1) When I said, "There have been several times when I've questioned the value of creating such things, only to have affirmation of my work come from unexpected sources at just the right time," there's a particular incident that sticks out to me. One night in 2016, I stayed up late finishing chapter nine of my fanfiction, Frozen: Sacrifice and Forgiveness. Even though I posted the chapter, I was really depressed about it. Thoughts such as, "Is this really something I should be investing so much time in?" and "Does God actually want me to write this story?" weighed heavily on my mind, though I kept them to myself. After some internal arguing, I directed an unspoken question to the Lord: "Is this really what I should be doing?" Not much later, before going to bed, I checked my phone and saw an email from FF.net saying I had a comment on the latest F:SaF chapter. The comment was from a fellow Christian who had read through the posted chapters and was very encouraging about my story. It was just the right kind of affirmation at precisely the right time. Fast-forward to Wednesday, February 27th, 2019. I checked my phone in the morning and saw an email from AO3 that someone has left a comment on the last posted chapter of F:SaF. This was quite surprising, as I haven't updated the fic since September 21st, 2017. The comment was very positive, and it immediately reminded me of this post, which was a WIP in a computer document at the time. Not only did the new comment correlate to the aforementioned unexpected sources of encouragement, but F:SaF has been on my mind recently in terms of working on it again. Then, as the cherry on top, I was listening to the daily scripture reading on the radio while driving to work that morning, and the song that came on immediately afterward was "Redeemed".

#2) On Friday, March 1st, I had finished this post to my general satisfaction (as I knew it still required minor edits, plus I still had to finish my drawing) before getting ready for work. Upon entering my vehicle, I thought, "Wouldn't it be funny if 'Redeemed' played on the radio again?" I then instantly berated myself: "That's dumb. You don't need to be looking for confirmation of things all the time." I then flicked through my presets, and the first verse of "Redeemed" was playing on my second-to-last preset — the same song position and the same preset as when I was debating whether or not to make this post.

#3) On Friday, March 8th, I thought to myself as I was getting ready for work, “I really need to finish that post.” When I started my car, the radio was on, but I didn’t care for the song it was playing, so I jumped to my first preset. “Redeemed” was playing, starting from the very first word of the first verse.

Now, the question is: what was being confirmed to me with the original occurrence in December? The most straightforward answer is Hans' redemption in Frozen II. Mind you, not a redemption based on worldly methods such as "cleaning yourself up" and "earning it," but rooted in the Christian standard of unconditional love, mercy, grace, and faith. I'll admit, it seems far-fetched, given the fact that Disney is not a Christian company and the creative team has no Christians on it (AFAIK). Then again, "What is impossible with man is possible with God." Still, I have thought of other meanings for this incident. Perhaps it was simply a reminder to not get so depressed over a fictional character. Perhaps it was merely encouragement to keep going with my various fan projects, despite Frozen II looming in the distance. Perhaps it was a nudge that the sequel would contain a small hint of a future Hans redemption. Of course, that all sounds like me trying to talk myself out of trusting God for something amazing, as I am prone to doing. It's a struggle to wait on the Lord (especially for someone like me who hates surprises and wants to know things ASAP), but the truth of this incident will be revealed when the time is right.

One may wonder why God would care about a fictional character or a fictional story. It's not that He cares about those things in and of themselves, it's that He cares about His children and the salvation of humanity. My prayers (which are mostly just God-directed thoughts as I go about my day) regarding Hans' redemption were always something along the lines of, "Hey, God, it'd be really awesome if Hans gets redeemed in a way that reflects how Jesus saved us." Then I would mentally argue with myself about even making such a request, and always end at a variation of "Whatever is best, Lord." Though a fictional character's redemption is trivial in the grand scheme of things, God can use the most unexpected means to reach someone regarding a matter of eternal importance. He knows that, for me, this isn't just about a fictional character — it's about using that character's story to connect real people with the hope of the Gospel. Frozen was a movie with weak morals and a character that is looked down upon as irredeemable by the majority of viewers. If, by the grace of God, the sequel displays true love and redemption, then perhaps one soul out there will see the truth: anyone can be saved because Jesus can save anyone.

Feel free to message me if you aren't comfortable utilizing public replies or reblogs. Thank you for reading, and God bless you.

Update (Sept. 4th, 2019): So I’ve been lurking on a few Discord servers for a while now in addition to my Tumblr lurking, and overall there is a very negative attitude regarding Hans returning in F2. It’s coming from all directions: antis/haters who don’t want him in it, neutral parties who don’t see an available role for him to play, and fans who have lost hope due to lack of news. Last night I had an unpleasant dream on the subject. While the specifics are hazy, I know it involved the fandom discussing Hans’ absence in the movie. When I was going about my business this morning, I thought about the dream, this post, and the incident that brought this post into being. I mentally argued with myself, as I often do, about the situation. Lately, I too have been feeling disheartened on this matter. As I said, the fandom as a whole has been negative about this, so it was starting to get to me. In addition to that, as new leaks reveal more of the story, the chances of Hans appearing in any meaningful fashion get slimmer. However, no matter how bleak the outlook, I was given a supernatural sign to keep hope in a Hans redemption. Still, there was always the possibility I had interpreted the incident incorrectly, and adding in the other factors at play, this morning I was once again questioning God. I wanted another sign or some kind of spoiler-type proof, then scolded myself for being greedy and for seeking worldly validation of what God has said (instead of trusting Him to fulfill His promises). I had the radio on KLOVE as I was driving, and one of my “Hans songs” came on. It was a “lower tier” one (a.k.a. one I don’t like quite as much as others), so as I listened to it I thought, “It’d be nice if the next song after this was another good song, but one of the top-tier ones. It’d make me feel better about this whole thing.” Of course, I then chided myself, thinking, “Why are you always asking for stuff? Isn’t what you have already enough?” The song came to an end, and the next song began to play. It was “Redeemed.”

[jmhwritesstuff]

Writer Ask

(I wasn’t tagged or anything, but I was bored and felt like rambling a little, so I just answered the whole list.)

What age-group do you write?

Mostly YA, but I occasionally border into adult.

What genre do you write?

Fantasy is my go-to, but I’ve dabbled in Contemporary, Horror, and Sci-fi from time to time over the years.

Do you outline according to big ideas or small details?

I’m not great at outlining, but if there’s ever anything (big or small) that I feel the need to write notes on, then I’ll do a little brainstorming so I have a document on hand if I need it.

Which do you prefer–line-editing or plot-revisions?

Plot revisions. It’s frustrating as hell, but I like to make sure everything is as it should be for the purpose of the story.

Do you write better with or without deadlines?

Neither, honestly. Deadlines don’t compel me to get things done, they just stress me out, and no deadlines also stress me out because … it just gives me more reason not to do anything, and then I just feel really bad about it, which makes me not want to do it more. It’s a never ending cycle that I desperately need to break.

What would be the biggest compliment you could hope to receive on your current WIP?

That it’s actually interesting enough to keep readers wanting more.

How long is your current WIP?

It’s still sitting at 40k, but right now I’m abandoning it for something new which is still in the planning stages.

What author would you be most excited to be compared to?

I have no idea. I guess any of the most well-known YA writers.

What do you struggle most with as a writer?

Consistency. I’m forever fighting with myself to get more words down and finish something.

Do you brain-storm story ideas alone or with others?

Mostly alone. Sometimes I have a friend who likes to bounce ideas around with me, but writing has always been such a lonely thing for me.

Do you base your characters off of real people?

Not really. I did it once, but now that I’m rewriting that particular novel, the characters have become their own people.

Is your writing space clean or cluttered?

A bit of both. I like to be organised but there’s not much room, so I just make do.

Do you write character-driven or plot-driven stories?

I think I always fall on the character-driven side. I try to focus more on plot when it’s necessary but it never feels good enough to me, so that’s pretty difficult.

Do you have a favorite writing-related quote?

Something about shovelling sand into a box to later make sandcastles? I don’t know. I’ve seen so many quotes about writing, but not many stand out.

If you transport your original characters into another author’s world, which world would you choose?

I’d like to see them in Throne of Glass. I think giving over my characters to SJM would be a fangirl moment for me, just to see what she would do with them.

Would your story work better as a movie or tv show? Why?

That’s hard to say. Freefall would probably be a movie. But the world of The Divine … maybe a show. 

Do you make soundtracks for each story?

I’ve started to! I create playlists on Spotify for them.

If you could assign your story one song, what would it be?

When the Sun Goes Down - Tommee Profitt

Would you rather live in your characters’ world, or have your characters come live in our world?

Characters’ world. I wouldn’t want them to be ordinary.

What book would you love to see adapted for the big or small screen?

I don’t know. I’m open to any - my biggest gripe with most book-to-movie is the production teams behind them. It’s gotta be right. Stop messing with cheap production value on Fantasy.

Do you finish most of the stories you start?

Nope!

Has your own writing ever made you cry?

Yes. 

Are you proud or anxious to show off your writing?

Neither, I guess. I like to show my stuff once I consider it a decent standard, and then I enjoy gaining feedback just to see if there’s anything I never considered or maybe missed.

When did you start considering yourself a writer?

Probably when I was around 17. I was writing a bunch of teen drama drabbles and got a lot of readers/likes/comments. That was when I think I really started to consider trying to make some kind of career out of it.

What books are must-reads in your genre?

Stuff by Brandon Sanderson, Brent Weeks, Sarah J Maas, Laini Taylor. So, like, Throne of Glass, Mistborn, Daughter of Smoke and Bone, and The Black Prism. There’s honestly so many, just scour goodreads and dive in.

What would you like to see more of in your genre?

Can I go with less? Like, don't get me wrong, Fantasy is my favourite genre, but the political intrigue part can get really heavy, and really drawn out, really fast. It’s my least favourite part about Fantasy, but unfortunately is a massive convention of that genre. Also, I think I clearly need to read more Fantasy that’s a bit more gruelling - I’ve read so many books that came so close to being dark and tragic, and then shies away from it to make way for happy endings. And Happily Ever Babies. No thank you. 

Where do you get inspiration from?

I used to get it from other books, movies, and video games. At this point in time, though … I’m not entirely sure.

On a scale of 1-10, how much do you stress about choosing character names?

Not at all, really. If I don’t think of a name right away that I feel fits the character, then I give them a placeholder name until I find the right one.

Do you tend to underwrite or overwrite in a first draft?

Probably underwrite. Maybe even half and half.

Does writing calm you down or stress you out?

Mostly calms me down, depending on how much pressure I’m feeling that day.

What trope do you actually like?

Friends to lovers. Cold guy with violence in his veins actually has a soft heart. The Chosen One.  Parents are conveniently absent. Slow burn. Protagonist has to die to save the day (but actually die). 

That’s just off the top of my head. I’m okay with most tropes to be honest.

Do you give your side-characters extensive backstories?

I never used to, but I’m starting to build on that more these days.

Do you flesh-out characters before you write, or let their personalities develop over time?

I write down the basics such as appearance and/or particular quirks or personality traits. But most of the time, the personalities develop on their own, and a lot of what I originally intended them to be doesn’t work out.

Describe your old writing in one word.

Amateur. 

Is it more fun to write villains or heroes?

I really enjoy writing heroes - I love giving them their darkest moments and their epic comebacks. 

Do you write with a black and white sense of morality?

No.

What’s one piece of advice you would give to new writers?

Write what you want and take every single piece of writing advice with a grain of salt. Not everything you read or try to make your writing better will work for you, so find what does, and don't worry about what everyone else is doing.

What’s one piece of writing advice you try–but fail–to follow?

Set a wordcount goal every day and stick to it in order to form a better and consistent writing habit. I’ve tried and failed this countless times.

How important is positive reinforcement to you as a writer?

Personally, I don’t know. I think it’s important to know the difference between criticism and constructive criticism, though, and that you don’t have to make the changes suggested by others to what you’ve written or where you intend to go with the story.

What would you ask your favorite author if given one question?

How the hell do you do it?

Do you find it distracting to read while you’re writing a first draft?

Not at all. I actually think it helps me a lot.

Do critiques motivate or discourage you?

It’s subjective, unfortunately. Sometimes it’s helpful, and sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes you get feedback from someone who knows what they’re talking about, and sometimes you get utter nonsense. So … learn the difference.

Do you tend to write protagonists like yourself or unlike yourself?

There’s definitely some amount of myself reflected in them. I learnt that while studying self-reflection in prose at university a few years ago. 

Our class basically had to sit around a table and discuss personal process within our writing and what messages we think we might be trying to convey within our work. It soon moved on to whether or not we imagine ourselves as the protagonists (because that’s a popular writer stereotype) in our stories. Most of our answers were ‘no’, but most of us did discover a lot of links between the two.

For instance, the majority of my protagonists have always been orphans. No parents, no siblings. I didn’t grow up without a family or siblings, but my familial relationships have always been super strained my whole life. Instead of trying to write positive familial relationships, it was easier to cut them out entirely and replace it with the Found Family trope instead. 

How do you decide what story idea to work on?

Whichever one has been running around my head the most at the time is usually the one I end up getting the itch to write.

Do you find it harder or easier to write when you’re stressed out?

Harder.

What Hogwarts house would your protagonist(s) be in?

I don’t know, and I don’t care.

Where do you see yourself as a writer in five years?

Nowhere. And that’s not trying to be self-deprecating. I’m literally struggling to hold on to my passion for it lately. You know how most writers imagine seeing their book on a shelf someday? I don’t get that. Not anymore. Or at least not at this point in time.

Would you ever co-write?

I would! It would depend on a few things, but I like the thought of it.

Are you a fast and rushed writer or a slow and deliberate writer?

Slow and deliberate. I’d like to be fast, but it’s just not in me.

Would you rather be remembered for your fantastic world-building or your lifelike characters?

I don’t know. Characters, probably.

[melanoradrood]

WIP Wednesday

I mean y’all are going to get this tomorrow probably but whatever here is the first part of nine for Chapter Ten of you held on tight ( and i built a home )

No warnings for this, just good old fashioned angst. Spoiler alert, though, if you haven’t read Ch 8/9. Again, I really do hope to have the new chapter up tomorrow. It’s almost 2/3 complete right now.

How long has Jyn been waiting for this? Counting down the days, the hours, until she can see Cassian again. The past few weeks, months, really, had worn her down, until now, she’s standing here beside General Draven with a tiny Eura beside her, holding hands with one another. They had woken up a little late, Jyn had braided her hair, and then they had both gotten dressed and eaten breakfast. Once the freighter was set to land, they had joined the General at the passageway, waiting until everything was settled before the new doors were opened.

It took a lot longer than Jyn had expected, but then the ramp to the freighter itself opened, and it attached to the base, connecting them. She let the General go first, and then Eura and Jyn, together, stepped into the medical wing.

It was much the same as it had been the last time she had been there, an open lobby, and then into the triage area. Jyn knew where the ICU was, but Cassian was likely no longer there. Stepping up to one of the medics that approached, she asked where his room was, only to get a harumph.

“Sergeant Erso?” The medic asked, and Jyn sucked in a breath, because she still wasn’t used to rank, wasn’t going to correct him.

“I am his medical contact, and I know he’s awake. This is his daughter.”

“Both of you are scheduled for mandatory physical evaluations,” the medic says, and Eura tightens her grip on Jyn’s hand.

“Can’t it wait?” Jyn asks, and she wants to see him, has only so much courage left in her.

“Sergeant-”

“It’s Captain, actually,” Jyn says, interrupting, because she doesn’t care about rank, but she’ll throw it out there if it gets her to Cassian sooner.

“You had your cast removed too early, have been without medical care, have no vaccination records, and you suffered a blaster wound a few days before evacuation. All of your injuries must be checked, and we need to administer the second round of vaccinations.” Jyn could only guess she had the first round done while she had been out of it last time. “As for Eura Andor, she is set to receive a checkup after any major event, per her father’s request. She just traveled across the galaxy. She needs a checkup.”

Jyn gives a nod, then smiles at Eura. “We’ll get you checked up first, and then you can go and see your Papa. I’ll join you after I finish my checkup, alright?”

Eura nods, gripping tighter to Jyn’s hand, and then the pair are being carted off to a bed.

Eura does go first, and it’s all very simple, taking her diagnostics, checking her eyes, eyeing her hands. The medic seems to judge that Eura’s hands are getting a little rough from all of the work, but Eura just smiles and explains how she has been working on one of the older X-Wings, which seems to placate the man, temporarily. Eventually, she gets a clean bill of health, which means it’s Jyn’s turn.

“Go on,” Jyn says, and she beckons over another medic. “This is Eura Andor. Can you take her to see her father, Major Andor?”

The medic agrees, and Jyn gives Eura one last little wave and smile before they are separated.

Her leg has healed properly, at least, but she’s getting fussed at for her arm. It doesn’t ache anymore, but there’s a new brace to put it in, which makes doing anything karking impossible, but she suffers it, for the moment. The vaccinations hurt, and she probably didn’t need all of them, but Saw hadn’t been that on top of things like immunizations, so she suffers through them.

When she’s finally given a thumbs up, and told to return in two weeks for her arm, Jyn is practically losing her mind, ready to go find Cassian. She had taken almost an hour, which meant that Eura could be telling him all of the terrible things that Jyn had done… she hadn’t even given Eura a kiss goodbye, just in case this was the end. She already missed her little girl.

“Captain Erso? Would you also like to know the status of the rest of your team?”

Jyn blinks, because team�� right. How could she be so wrapped up that she forgot about Bodhi and Chirrut? She gives a nod, and follows after the Doctor that came to find her, until they make it to the ICU again.

“It’s not as though these beds were required for anything else, so everyone was allowed a bit of privacy in their own rooms,” the Doctor explains, and Jyn passes by a closed door that she suspects Cassian is inside, with Eura. She keeps herself from going in there, instead going into Bodhi’s room.

It’s very different from last time - the bed is still the hospital bed, but most of the medical equipment has been pushed into the corner, and he’s wearing clothes, real clothes, likely borrowed. Where his hand should be, there was still a stump, but he had a smile, his hair was combed back, and he looked healthy, strong, his face filling out a little.

“Bo?” she asks carefully, and he looks up from his datapad, smiling at her.

“Jyn! Cassian said you were here, but I’m glad to see it with my own eyes.”

His voice was clear, and he sounded so sure of himself… he was in far better condition than he had been the last time she saw him.

“How are you?” she asks carefully, but Bodhi shrugs her off.

“Missing a hand, still, but now that we’ve landed, they can start building me a mechanical one. I’ll be up in the air before Cassian is walking, telling you now.” He’s laughing, like it’s some sort of joke, but Jyn’s face falls a little.

Cassian walking… would it really take that long? The General had said he would be running again one day, but she had hoped that, by now, he would be taking steps. How bad was he, still?

“Jyn? Have you not been to see him yet?”

She shakes her head a little and goes to step more into the room, but Bodhi is already hopping off the bed, moving towards her.

“What are you doing here, then? Go see him! It’s all he has been able to talk about, wanting to be able to walk to see you, wanting out of this hospital so that the can stop feeling useless. He’s probably going insane, waiting for you.”

She shook her head as the pair of them stepped into the hallway. “Chirrut, I need to check on-”

“He’s in physical therapy,” Bodhi says, interrupting her. “And Baze is with him. You can see them both later. Go in there. Go see him.”

She’s still looking at the door and swallows, shaking her head. “Bodhi… I think I-”

“Oh, I already know how he feels,” Bodhi says, and she looks at him, taking in a deep breath, hoping for more. “And it’s obvious how you feel. Go in there. I’ll be happy to babysit Eura, once I get to really meet her. Go be happy with your family.”

Family. Was that what they were? Maybe… maybe one day…

“You’re family too,” Jyn says, and she reaches out, grabs his forearm, squeezes slightly. “What we went through… I don’t want you to ever think you’re not part of this.”

Bodhi laughs, like he has probably already had this conversation with Cassian, and he probably has. That bodes well for her, then, that he might want to have this family they created.

“We survived death together, Jyn. I won’t forget that. We are a family - but you and Cassian? I’m not telling you that there’s a bet, but if you could figure this out sooner rather than later, my empty wallet would thank you.”

Right. Right.

The Jyn of a few months, even a few weeks, ago… would think that he was full of bantha shit, that Cassian didn’t feel the same way, that she was just imagining it. Maybe, right now, his feelings weren’t as deep as hers, but she already knew the truth - Cassian cared for her, deeply. She knew that, knew it more than anything, that Cassian wanted something with her. She heard his message, knew what the General had said… He cared for her as she did for him.

The only question that remained was whether or not he would forgive her for what occurred with Eura… and whether or not he would still feel that way when they were no longer facing death, when things were normal. Were they both in love with a dream? An idea?

Did Cassian really love her?

[hashtagartistlife]

the body electric

Rukia’s good at kido. Ichigo’s good at learning.

This was originally written for an old deathberryprompts, 'electric', but then I didn't finish on time so it was going to be for the first day of irmonth, 'missing scene/episode tag', but then I didn't finish it on time for that either, and now I don't really know what it is, now. But it's been a while since i've posted anything new and i just, need to stop tinkering with this and just get it OUT of my WIP folder. so, here it is. 

Rukia’s good with kido. Ichigo hadn’t managed to appreciate it on that first night, when he broke through her bakudo with sheer force of will, but it soon becomes evident just how fine her control over this nebulous subject is. Even with most of her powers gone and only dregs remaining, she manages to hold her own against lower-class hollows, hurling blue fire and binding them with nets of light. Ichigo loses count of how many times she saves him from his own incompetence by way of a cleverly placed chant or two, how many times she spares him from the pain of a rake across his shoulder or a broken bone.

She’s good at both attacking and restraining, but to his surprise, she’s most proficient at healing; her bedside manner leaves a little to be desired, but the touch of her fingertips on broken skin is always gentle, and the pure focus she directs at the wounds leaves him tingling, like he’s got electric currents running through his veins. If he is a little less vigilant than he should be, knowing that any injuries he sustains will be subject to her lithe fingers sweeping over them, well— he doesn’t like to admit it, not even to himself.  

It doesn’t take long for that kind of carelessness to backfire, though, and one night he’s sitting on a random rooftop, Rukia hissing with worry. The front of his shihakushou is drenched with blood, and her face is tight as she peels the wet cloth off his torso. He winces as shreds of skin come away with his clothes, and Rukia snaps at him.

“I told you to be more careful, fool, you almost got yourself killed—”

“But I didn’t, so would you quit nagging— SHIT, Rukia, that hurt—”

“You deserved it,” she says, but there’s a distinct lack of bite in her tone; Ichigo rubs the back of his head, still throbbing where Rukia’d whacked him, and stays silent as she sucks in a breath at the extent of the damage. He’s rather impressed himself; his entire front felt like it was on fire, sure, but he hadn’t expected it to look like it’d been put through a shredder. He grits his teeth as Rukia lays her hands over the wound and gets to work.

The first spark of her power into him is always startling; fresh and cool, like a winter morning. Then, a low, continuous stream, fluctuating occasionally, like the comforting hum of the refrigerator in the middle of the night. Ichigo loves watching her like this; it’s the only other time, apart from when she’s asleep, that he can stare at her freely and not expect an elbow into the softer parts of his body. She’s all sharp concentration—fierce eyes and precise hands—and Ichigo lets a long, shallow breath go as the kido starts knitting him back together.

It takes longer than it usually does for him to heal to an acceptable extent, but then again, he'd taken more damage than usual, too. By the time she’s done, Rukia looks pale and wan. Ichigo grabs her arm before she can stumble off the roof and she jerks away from him with a cry of pain.

“You fool, what do you think you're—”

He lets go of her hastily. “Are you— are you hurt—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, but her words don’t match her actions; she’s cradling her arm into her chest, keepings its weight off the shoulder joint. He thinks, exasperated, how it is just like her to tell him not to be ridiculous when she is the one being a moron. His mouth takes on a grim set and he gestures to the roof tiles.

“Sit. You can’t go to school tomorrow in that state. You should heal it before we go back.”

She glares at him a moment before responding. “I don’t have any power left. Some fool got more injured than usual so there’s nothing I can do about this,” she indicates her shoulder with her chin, “Until tomorrow afternoon, at the very least.”

That takes him aback for a second or two; surprise then guilt washes over him, thick and acute. He hadn’t anticipated this as a consequence for his lack of vigilance. That Rukia will be in pain because of him—

A thought stops him. “If— if it’s power that you’re lacking, can’t you take some of mine?”

The look she throws him is scornful. “If that were possible, don’t you think I would have already taken them back from you and left a long time ago—”

OK, that one hurts in places he didn’t know he had. He tries not to think of why that might be (it comes from the same place that his carelessness does) and presses on. “No, I mean, not take them back completely. Can’t I just— channel some of my reiatsu into you, and you can direct it or something?”

She’s waving him off before the sentence is finished, but he persists. “Why not? Doesn’t look hard. Isn’t healing kido just you putting your hands on me and pouring reiatsu in anyway?”

“Ichigo, you can hardly control your reiatsu enough to mask it, let alone pour it into somebody else. I’m not about to let you anywhere near a medical procedure—”

“—But you’re in pain.”

He doesn’t know why that slips out; it’s hardly an argument likely to sway her. Rukia’s face takes on an odd expression that he can’t quite interpret.

“...I mean, it’s just— you could not be, you know, and it’s my fault anyway—”

In response, Rukia sits back down on the roof, and starts unbuttoning her shirt.

“RUKIA— WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOI—”

“Hush, you fool. Skin-on-skin contact is the first requirement for basic healing kido. Shut up and sit down next to me, if you want to help.” She slips the shirt off her injured shoulder, halfway down her arm, and Ichigo is kind of mesmerised by the sharp line her scapula makes against the skin of her back. Staring, he kneels awkwardly at an arm’s length from her side.

She sighs in annoyance. “Closer, idiot.”

He shuffles nearer sheepishly.

“Put your palm against the shoulder,” she instructs, and Ichigo tries to refocus; now that the moon is out in full, there’s more light around, and he can see the joint looks swollen and bruised. He winces in sympathy and wraps his palm around the area, fingers curving over the collarbone, almost touching her spine.

“And now your other hand on top,” she tells him, and he complies; she burns beneath his touch, and he can’t tell whether it’s from the inflammation or if she always runs this hot. He should know, shouldn’t he? It isn’t his first time touching her skin. At least, he thinks so. It's strangely difficult to concentrate.

She puts a hand on top of his interlaced ones and breathes out. “Ok. Now try pushing your reiatsu into me. A— a little at a time, if you can, so I can control it….”

Trying to channel his reiatsu out instead of restraining it in is a new experience; it takes him a few tries and a couple of singed hairs, but eventually he refines his energy into something acceptably similar to Rukia’s steady stream. He can feel it dissipating under her skin, being directed by Rukia to wherever they need to go. Somehow, this exchange seems much more… intimate than their usual closeness, and the thought is dangerously distracting; he tries to ignore the way that he’s hyper-aware of everything, the softness of her skin, the fragrance of her hair.

(And wasn’t she using his shampoo? Why does it smell different on her compared to him? He’s smelled this shampoo on Yuzu before and he could swear it smells nothing like the scent coming off Rukia right now— and oh, god, focus, Ichigo.)

After too long (and not long enough), Rukia heaves an unsteady sigh and takes her hand away from his. Ichigo takes a minute or two to react, blinking sluggishly and stretching the fingers that he now realises are cramping. How long had they been on the rooftop, curved together—? He looks back at her to ask the question, just as she looks towards him, and all of a sudden, they’re way, way too close; enough for him to see the reflection of the streetlights in her eyes, enough for his each of his breaths to stir her eyelashes. He’s seized by a reckless and foreign impulse, to lean in just a little bit more, and—

She hits him with her newly-healed arm.

“OW— what was that for?!”

“For getting injured like a moron in the first place,” she sniffs, rotating her shoulders to check that they are in working order (they are. The rapidly-forming bruise on Ichigo’s midsection can attest to that). “What do I keep telling you? You have to hit them from the back, one clean slice—”

“Look, my way of fighting works just fine—”

“Which is clearly why we dropped onto this rooftop, tracking blood everywhere.”

“But did I die?”

The look she gives him could wither entire trees in summer. Ichigo has to fight to keep the blush down.  

“.... Forget I said that. Let’s just get off this fucking roof,” he mutters, strapping his sword to his back and dusting his knees off. Rukia just snorts, her shirt already buttoned up and tucked neatly into her skirt. She makes an imperious gesture, and Ichigo kneels in front of her rather grudgingly; she hops onto his back, and he leaps off the rooftop, her arms snug around his neck.

“You didn’t die,” she says, after a few minutes of silence and the night rushing by them. “You didn’t die, but you could have.”

“Nah,” he tells her, easy now that they’re back on familiar ground. He can’t see her face, but her arms tighten around him.

“Yes,” she insists, a well-worn edge of guilt in her tone. “Ichigo, you don’t understand, tonight, you really could have died—”

“Nah,” he repeats, stronger. He glances back at her, takes in a flash of milk-white skin, black hair tossed to disarray in the wind. “You were there. That’s what you do, right? Save my dumb ass from getting killed. That’s what you’ve always done.”

She’s silent for so long after that that he thinks she’s fallen asleep; he alights on his windowsill, preparing to change his grip on her so he can carry her to the closet, but before he can do so she hops off his back, landing with a muted thud on his bed.

“I won’t always be, though,” she says, softer than his feather duvet, and it takes him a while to remember what they’d been talking about.

“Oh, yeah? Only one thing to do, then,” he says, deliberately flippant; desperately trying to ignore the way that her last sentence sets his insides twisting. He won’t examine why that is, just as he won’t examine too closely the strange urge he had to lean in closer and the secret, reckless part of him that thinks it’s worth it to get injured just for the feel of her hands on his skin.

She looks at him skeptically. “And what might that be?”

The smile he wears for her then is rueful in the dark.

“Teach me kido.”

(... And this, folks, is a fic that epitomises why I shouldn't write unless I have a very clear point to make. Some people are good at writing the everyday and mundane; finding the special meanings in a small ordinary gesture and making a simple, quiet scene between two people into something worth writing and reading about. I am not one of those people. I require a grand sweep of a narrative, a thematic anchor, some sort of common thread or point or feeling or //whatever// that I'm trying to convey through the fic. I just, I can't DO mindless fluff and I can't DO simple domestic if simple domestic is all there IS to the fic. make no mistake, i'm not insulting the simple domestic fics and small cutscene fics and what have you. In fact, I really respect people who can write stuff like that, because I'm /just so darn bad at it./

anyway, at first i was trying to shape this fic so i could end it with a sentence about how rukia's smile was far more electric than any kido running through his body (because the theme was electric, har har), but the fic wasn't cooperating, then i thought 'well hell if im gonna write about rukia's smile i should tie it back in with his 'i remember now why i wanted to save you so much' spiel because i wanted to explore that ANYWAY, but then i felt like I didn't want to '''''waste''''' a fic topic like that on what's basically a throwaway drabble, and THEN I was just trying to finish the fic and there was that WEIRD bit of sexual tension that came out of nowhere so i was like 'well i mean sexual tension is sort of electric and like ichigo is in that age range maybe i should make this fic explore that' but idk???? it just didn't happen that way, and THEN there was that weird bit of introspection on rukia's part when ichigo says 'that's what you do, save my dumb ass from dying' and i was like, 'this is Deep nd Meaningful bc in rukia's view that's the exact opposite of what she does bc kaien, right, oh i should expand upon that too' but like. by this stage i was just tired so i just ended it so abruptly. can you believe the original fic was just 'hey i think a lot about rukia using kido in early karakura and i wanna know how ichigo felt about this kido and was he ever curious about it and maybe he wanted to learn it???' except this fic managed to do NONE of the things i wanted it to do and. haha. hahahaha. but i didnt want to discard it because there are!!!! good phrases in here!!!! and god, kids, never get into writing as a hobby, it's a shitty shitty idea, don't do it. anyway. whatever. i hope u guys enjoy regardless, this was just my little behind-the-scenes rant :'))