#retrace; excerpt

[abyssalpriest]

Istfg, I know it should've been obvious, but Lev's so guarded about what the trident represents yet he constantly says it's (partly?) power and lightning. Fuckin. reading last night a symbolism book for unrelated reasons... more so he was flicking through in my body bc he was ("talking to Agni about ritual stuff") and. It was like. "Oh yeah Shiva's trident is (partly) supposed to represent lightning". And this section was right next to Rudra talking about him bringing storms and shit, which yeah I knew already, but it's all under a heading about weather gods and spirits and stuff and I'm like. God our group isn't wrong and he's not lying lmfao. Shiva really is the placated ascetic meditative aspect of the Earth Shaker (Rudra) (and Rudra an aspect of Shiva)

[milkywayes]

dreamt a cipher - chapter 8: Retrace, Reproach

a shepard/garrus post-destroy ending longfic.

fic link // chapter link

Excerpt:

Shepard is feeling deceptively alive, slinking down the empty hallways with Garrus in tow. The rhythm of his gait tugs at her arm as she peers around corners and then presses ahead, leading them onward into treacherous territory, him almost on her six but not quite. When she reached for his hand, she wasn’t expecting him to let her take it. Not with the way he was standing, watching her, a carefully-maintained meter of distance between them that she first had to cross before making her overture. He tracked the movement of her hand with a level of focus that made her think he was following its trajectory with his visor, like it was a bullet he was debating whether or not to let hit. She couldn’t shoot him, she told him as much, but apparently he’d take the blow. At least he didn’t move a muscle as her fingers skimmed over his gloved palm, then wrapped around it, awkwardly for the difference in size. He let her drag him away from the door easily enough. His steps are silent beneath the loud shuffle-squeak of her boots. She’s overtired and still running on fumes and adrenaline, a walking hot wire—glances back at him once to find him already looking, the geometry of his face blank and stark. But when her sweaty grip on him threatens to slip, his fingers tighten just once to ensure that it doesn’t, and she finds her equilibrium again. They’re lucky it’s not yet dinner time. Shift change would flood the halls with people, all of whom are in the habit of gaping at her like she’s some kind of folk hero. The last thing she needs is having to explain to some brave busybody why she’s leading a turian past the living quarters he’s deliberately been barred from. The low voices coming from inside buzz at the nape of her neck like Sur’Kesh gnats; she tugs Garrus closer to her flank, and he goes without complaint. He hasn’t said much of anything since she took him by the hand. Neither has she. Coming to a stop now before the last set of doors, she’s beginning to think that might not have been smart.

-> continue reading on AO3.

[wangxianficrecs]

Retracing my steps (I found you) by Asphodel_Meadow

Retracing my steps (I found you)

by Asphodel_Meadow

T, 4k, Wangxian

Part of Exploring Tropes: Time Travel

Summary: When Wei Wuxian activates the travel array, he doesn’t expect to be sent back in time, and certainly not to the lectures in Cloud Recesses. Kay's comments: Just a good old time travel story where everything goes well! Really loved this combination of people who travelled back in time and loved how Wei Wuxian was instantly not ready to take anyone's shit anymore and instead went to live his best life. Good for him! Good for all of them! Featuring a nice flavour of Sect Leader Wen Qing. Excerpt: “Wei Ying, you stayed.” “Of course. How could I leave?” Wei Wuxian replies without missing a beat. “After all, Lan-er-gonzi hasn’t shared a meal with me.” It’s surprising how easily he falls into his usual teasing. “I have.” Wei Wuxian laughs. “I would remember if that was the case.” “Right.” Lan Wangji tone is oddly dejected. As if he were expecting another reaction. Lan Wangji doesn’t wait for a reply and starts to walk away. Could it be . . . ? There’s only one way to confirm it. Wei Wuxian needs to act before Lan Wangji leaves. “Wait.” The command makes Lan Wangji turn around. Wei Wuxian looks directly at him and hesitantly asks. “Hanguang-jun?” Lan Wangji's eyes widen slightly, then he inclines his head. “Mn.”

pov wei wuxian, canon divergence, no bloodbath of nightless city, time travel, time travel fix-it, cloud recesses study arc, everybody lives, fluff, romantic fluff, jiang family dynamics, no sunshot campaign, sect leader wen qing, fluff and humor

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[acescorazon]

Title: Buggy's guide to bagging boyfriends

Chapter: 2/?

Word count: 2200

Rating: T (bc Crocodile has a potty mouth, asjdlaksjda like always.)

Chapter Excerpt:

“Please?” Buggy pleads, and it seems like he has a lot more courage now that he realizes that Crocodile isn’t going to kick his ass. “Please, please, pleaseee?” He begs and then that clown, actually has the nerve, the gall, the audacity to… Grab Crocodile’s hand with his own two, still begging him to give him what he wants, “Please, it won’t be that long. I promise.” 

Crocodile glances down at their hands, and his mind is screaming at him now: Yank your hand back, you fool. Punch him, yell at him, do something, don’t just let him touch you… He’s an annoying, pathetic, worthless little clown, remember? And yet...

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Crocodile replies flatly, now avoiding both Buggy’s gaze and the sight of their hands pressed together. “Just don’t screw around, got it, Bug-... Clown?” Oh, good god. He almost called him by his actual name. What is wrong with him? Is he sick? Did that clown poison him somehow? What the hell is this?!

[Previous Chapter]

As soon as the alarm at his bedside goes off, Crocodile groggily hits the snooze button and then feels around his nightstand for his hook. Instead of touching cold metal though, his hand touches the cool wooden surface of his nightstand, and he opens one of his eyes, confused for a moment. Did it fall on the floor? He groans, not sure how the damn thing managed to fall on the floor, but annoyed nonetheless. He finally sits up and then looks down at the ground. What the hell? It’s not there either...

Now there’s no way in hell that it could have fallen off his nightstand and rolled under the bed, it’s just too damn heavy, yet what other choice does Crocodile have but to look? He gets out of bed and crouches down, feeling under the bed for his hook…

Nothing. 

Where the hell is his hand? 

Crocodile turns on the light on his nightstand and uses it to check under his bed and, sure as shit, there’s no hook under there. He frowns and takes a moment to think back to last night. He ate dinner, took a freezing shower, and then went to bed… Hmm, he wouldn’t take his hand off during dinner, and he wouldn’t just leave it in the bathroom either... Still, he retraces his steps, checking the bathroom to see if it’s in there, and when he still can’t find his hook, he starts getting really pissed. Where the fuck could it be? 

Did someone steal it?

Who would be stupid enough to steal his hook?! 

The answer to that question pops up in his mind a moment later, “Fucking, clown.” He mutters under his breath. He bets Buggy did it. Why? He has absolutely no idea why he would decide to steal his hook. Maybe he did it as a ‘cute’ little prank, or maybe he did it to finally get back at Crocodile for all the times he’s been a dick to him, either way, Crocodile’s gut is telling him that Buggy stole it. 

Crocodile gets himself dressed, and it’s the tiniest things that start to piss him off now that he doesn’t have his hand, like how he struggles to put on his belt or get his shirt buttoned, and he just keeps muttering to himself how he’s going to catch that damn clown and beat him senseless throughout the entire process. Seriously, what a pain in the ass! Eventually, he does get himself all nice and tidy even with one hand, and then rushes out of his tent (Christ, he sleeps in a fucking circus tent!) and then looks for that annoying clown. 

The first place he checks is Buggy’s own bedroom, and he’s even more annoyed when he doesn’t find him there. He moves on to checking each and every one of Buggy’s hang-out places afterwards, ready to knock his lights out for taking his hook, and yet...Buggy’s nowhere to be found? Where the hell is he and where is Crocodile’s hand???

Tsk. Annoying.

At some point, he runs into Mihawk, who looks just as pissed off as he is, “Have you seen that coward?” He asks as he approaches him, “My sword’s missing and I know he’s behind it.” Ah, so this has to be something like revenge, right? Chairman Buggy is tired of being picked on and so he’s finally getting his revenge, and the first step is disarming both him and Hawkeye, right? Pathetic, Crocodile doesn’t need his hook to kick Buggy’s ass. “Don’t know if you could tell or not,” Crocodile replies, and there’s a hint of sarcasm in his voice, “But my damn hook is missing, and i’m pretty damn sure that the clown’s behind that too.” 

Mihawk clicks his tongue, looking almost as if he’s annoyed for both of them now. How sweet. “I looked all over for him, but i honestly don’t know where he is.” Ain’t that the truth? Crocodile’s spent all morning looking for that damn clown, but he still can’t find him. 

They decide to join up and hunt the clown down together after that, asking various wimps and overly devout followers of Buggy’s where their beloved Captain, or Chairman, (or whatever the fuck title he’s going by this week.) is, but no one seems to know where the clown is, and Crocodile isn’t sure if it’s because they’re covering up for him or if they’re all idiots around here.

It’s probably both. 

By the time they finally run into someone of use, it’s about eight in the morning, and the follower says he doesn’t know where Buggy could be, but thinks he saw him heading towards the direction of their workshop earlier, and Crocodile asks why Buggy would even be in such a place because it’s not like he does much work anyways, to which, his subordinate simply replies, “I don’t know, really.” 

Of course. Everyone around this island is so fucking useless, they couldn’t even plan a funeral.

Still, Crocodile and Mihawk take the tip seriously and head over to the workshop, and Crocodile swears that if that little shit is in there, he’s going to kill him. He’s actually going to kill him because there is absolutely no excuse for taking Crocodile’s damn hand so early in the morning or at all, really! 

“Hey, Clown, you in there?” Crocodile calls out as they approach the entrance, voice filled with irritation. If he’s in there, he better hope that he can outrun Crocodile because that twerp is as good as dead. 

As soon as Crocodile steps foot into the tent and sees blue in front of him, he wants to lunge forward and attack that clown, but then he notices something…strange.

They find him sitting on a stool, polishing Hawkeye’s sword, but Crocodile doesn’t give a shit about Hawkeye’s sword, he wants to know where his hand is. “Where’s my damn hook?” He asks, with a frown, ready to beat the shit out of Buggy at any moment, until he sees Buggy look up with soft eyes and pick his hand up from beside him on the table. Crocodile notices that it’s glittering brightly and that the damn thing looks better than the day he got it, and he’s so confused.

He watches as Buggy stands up and then willingly gives him back his hook, “I know i shouldn’t have taken your stuff,” He admits “But i just suddenly thought to myself: ‘Wow, these guys would look so cool if their weapons were all clean and shiny… and i was hoping that i could get everything polished before you even noticed your things were gone, but obviously that didn’t happen…” He sighs, rubbing the back of his head, “But, yeah, i wasn’t trying to make you guys mad or anything, just wanted you to look cool.”

He���what?

Cool? He took their things in the early hours of the morning to polish them and make them look cool… that’s it…? There’s no revenge plot or anything like that…? No pranks? No wanting to piss Crocodile and Mihawk off, he just wanted to do something nice for the two of them… He just wanted them to look, ‘cool’? 

What the fuck?

There's no way he's telling the truth, right? Crocodile stares at Buggy for a moment and then turns his attention to his hook, twisting and turning it, and checking to make sure there's nothing wrong, and… 

All is as it should be? 

Crocodile isn't sure how to respond. He's mad that Buggy took his hook…but, at the same time, it's perfectly fine. In fact, it looks better than it has in years… He looks back at that clown again, and it’s kind of annoying, but he can feel his anger dissolving on the spot, "Whatever…just don't do it again," he tells him before he rushes out of the room, no longer in the mood to kick his ass. 

Huh, ain’t that a first?

What was that clown thinking? He wonders as he puts his hand on, and he's honestly so relieved to have it back, he feels weird without it. He heads to their meeting room because, honestly, it’s the only place that he can relax in this damn circus, everywhere else he’s hounded by Buggy’s men who always ask him annoying questions and try to be his pal. Ugh. 

As the day drags by and he tries to get some work done, He continues to look at his hook, and the more he thinks about what Buggy's done for him, the more he grows confused. Who cares if Crocodile's hook looks cool or not? It's not supposed to look cool, it's…it's his hand and his weapon, at the very least it's just supposed to be there and provide him some aid… It doesn't have to be cool or anything like that. 

But, maybe it does look better now… only a little better though, because before Buggy shined it, Crocodile's hook was already beautiful and intimidating…but now, it’s both those things, and it's cool…? 

Hm… Maybe he shouldn’t be too mad about this whole thing, maybe he should just put everything behind him…his hook does look really nice now… Just as he’s having those thoughts, he hears a soft voice call out to him from behind, “Um, Croccy?” Oh, what now? Crocodile thinks, glancing over at that clown as he peeks his head into the meeting room. “I’m sorry.”

What is he sorry for? Did he mess something up again? What was it this time? He waits for Buggy to tell him that he accidentally lost something or ruined something, or that he did some other thing that will undoubtedly annoy the hell out of Crocodile, but instead, he quietly adds, “Please, don’t be mad at me. I know I shouldn't have stolen your hook…” Huh? That’s what this is all about… ? he thinks and suddenly Crocodile feels strangely…

Soft?... Wait...Huh?! What the hell is this emotion he’s feeling?

“Let me make it up to you!” Buggy says, now slowly, cautiously creeping his way into the room, and it’s weird, usually by now Crocodile would be heated and ready to yell at his ‘boss’, but that’s not how he feels right now. He calmly watches Buggy and waits for his next move instead. “Please! I really want to be your friend!” He tells him. Crocodile doesn’t need friends... he never has and he never will, but… 

He continues to hear Buggy out regardless?

“I know stealing your hand was wrong!” Buggy repeats, “I get that. I messed up big time, so let me make up for it!” And how exactly does he plan on making things up to Crocodile? “Uh, but first i have to ask for a tiny little favor, okay?” He says, clapping his hands together, “I need…like… a week off?” 

“Okay.” Crocodile simply replies, and afterwards both he and Buggy are shocked by his nonchalant attitude. Wait, what? This is definitely not how he would normally handle a situation like this. Normally he would tell Buggy he’s out of his mind and to go back to work, but he just… wow, he really just agreed to that the first time around, didn’t he? What the hell is wrong with him? “Uh…You aren’t going to ask why?” Buggy asks, chuckling nervously. Yeah, perhaps he should have at least done that. 

God, what is wrong with him?

“Why do you need a week off, clown?” Crocodile asks, leaning back in his chair and sighing, but honestly… he still doesn’t feel annoyed like he usually does whenever Buggy comes around. Buggy smiles at him, bright…and…prettily? “I just want to go into town and pick something nice up for you and Hawkeye!” He announces, still smiling, “It’s a surprise though, so you can’t know what i’m going to get you.. But, uh, can I borrow Daz and Galdino?” 

Crocodile doesn’t give a shit about Galdino, but Daz is another story… “Please?” Buggy pleads, and it seems like he has a lot more courage now that he realizes that Crocodile isn’t going to kick his ass. “Please, please, pleaseee?” He begs and then that clown, actually has the nerve, the gall, the audacity to… Grab Crocodile’s hand with his own two, still begging him to give him what he wants, “Please, it won’t be that long. I promise.” 

Crocodile glances down at their hands, and his mind is screaming at him now: Yank your hand back, you fool. Punch him, yell at him, do something, don’t just let him touch you… He’s an annoying, pathetic, worthless little clown, remember? And yet...

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Crocodile replies flatly, now avoiding both Buggy’s gaze and the sight of their hands pressed together. “Just don’t screw around, got it, Bug-... Clown?” Oh, good god. He almost called him by his actual name. What is wrong with him? Is he sick? Did that clown poison him somehow? What the hell is this?!

“Thank you, thank you!” Buggy exclaims happily, squeezing his hand tightly, “You won’t regret this, Croccy!” He says before letting his hand go and leaving the meeting room happily, leaving Crocodile to stare down at both his hands, confused. 

What the hell, man?!

[nerdanel01]

Dilemma

Emmrich Volkarin/F!Rook 5k+ wc | SFW, CW profane language (Johanna drops some f-bombs) EXCERPT: “Ah, yes, Emmrich. Come in. Close the door behind you.”

That had the alarms in his head ringing. What did Johanna have to say to him that she did not want anyone else in the Mourn Watch to overhear? His stomach flipped, terrified that she had ill news to share with him.

“Did you find something?” he asked, his voice both keen and fearful. “Is she—”

“No,” Johanna said, shaking her head, dragging the heels of her palms over her forehead as though she were trying to smooth away a budding migraine. Bitterly, she continued, “No, there is still no sign of her. It is like the Maker himself scooped her up in his hands and set her down half a continent away.” But then, with a frustrated sigh and a shake of her head, Johanna changed tact. “But I did not call you here to talk about her. I wanted to talk about you.”

“About me?”

“Yes, you.” Johanna put both her elbows on the desk, folding her hands together, and gave him an unbearable look of concern. “How are you, Emmrich?"

9:52 Dragon

He would have thought it impossible, but it was true: after all these years, so late in his life, Emmrich was still discovering new things about himself. Though he had never before felt himself inclined towards habitual self-loathing and self-punishment, he had found himself, over the last two years, developing a taste for such masochism. 

When, by chance, he had seen the promotional poster for The Elixir of Love displayed outside the opera house, he had made an immediate beeline for the box office. Not unaware of the pain it would cause him to sit through the performance—indeed, perhaps in anticipation of it—he impulsively bought out the whole box he had shared with Agnes during their first outing at the theatre so long ago. 

The music that had once felt so sweet and buoyant to him now tugged painfully at his heart. How utterly stupid he had been—nearly as foolish as Adina, the opera’s heroine, though she at least had realized her mistake before it was too late, before Nemorino was lost to her forever. He could not escape the memory of Agnes, her parted lips colored with red pigment as she had watched the opera, breathless. 

He leaned back into the shadows of the box so that no one else in the theatre would see his wet cheeks shining in the dim performance light. 

And, unable to bear even the first melancholy opening notes when Nemorino took the stage for his final aria, Emmrich stood up from his seat and made a discreet exit. 

‘What more need I look for? She loves me! Yes, she loves me, I see it, I see it.’

But instead of returning to the Necropolis he had waited on the opera house steps, trying to calm his eager, hopeful, thundering heart while he waited for the performance to conclude. As the audience began to stream out of the theatre, Emmrich stood, facing the lobby doors and scanning every face, just as he had scrutinized the audience from his box before the curtain rose on the production. There was no reason to believe Agnes was still in Nevarra City. Two years, they had been searching for her; the other Watchers, that they might officially and dishonorably discharge her from their ranks for her abandonment of her post; and Emmrich, that he might fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness. And as the crowd swelled, then thinned to a trickle—as the ushers began to snuff the theater lamps and lock the doors for the night—Emmrich should have acknowledged his defeat. 

Still, he held out an impossible hope. The crowd had been thick; the theatre packed. Emmrich made his way to the public gardens, and posted himself on a bench beneath the watchful gaze of Caspar Pentagahst, mere feet from where he had danced with Agnes over seven years ago. Where he should have kissed her, fully and deeply, had he not been a coward and a fool. If she were here, if she had been drawn back to the city, to the opera, might she retrace their steps, as Emmrich himself now did? An impossible hope. Still, Emmrich sat in the park through the night, tormented by ghosts and regrets, languishing in memories, until dawn cracked the sky. 

Though Emmrich had tried to hide it, losing Agnes had changed him. He was less ebullient than he had been, more withdrawn. Slower to make connections with the younger initiates that joined the ranks of the Mourn Watch. His work, to which he had always been devoted, took on the mania of obsession. When an unfortunate incident in the Necropolis had claimed Wilfred, he had virtually locked himself in his study. Only eating when Myrna brought him food from the dining hall and bullied him into forcing down a few bites; only sleeping in fitful starts in his armchair. He had emerged at last two and a half weeks later, unshaven, haggard, and over a full stone lighter, with Manfred—his most splendid creation yet—trailing sentiently behind him. Compared to his predecessors, Manfred was so complex, so alive, that he was a perfect proxy for genuine human contact. And rather than resting, rather than celebrating, and allowing himself a respite from his work, his success with Manfred had only thrown him deeper into it. 

One day, after this had gone on for three months, Johanna had summoned him to her office. Emmrich had stood in her doorway, exhausted and listless from another late night in the study. “You wished to speak with me?”

Johanna looked up at him, set her spectacles down on her desk and rubbed wearily at her eyes. At the time the search for Agnes had still been fully active; the failure to find her was weighing on Johanna, though Emmrich could have told her months ago that she would not succeed in her pursuit. Perhaps, if Agnes had genuinely intended to betray the Mourn Watch by profiting from the sale of its secrets, there might have been a trail to follow. But Emmrich had been certain her only goal in departing the Mourn Watch had been to disappear entirely. 

“Ah, yes, Emmrich. Come in. Close the door behind you.”

That had the alarms in his head ringing. What did Johanna have to say to him that she did not want anyone else in the Mourn Watch to overhear? His stomach flipped, terrified that she had ill news to share with him.

“Did you find something?” he asked, his voice both keen and fearful. “Is she—”

“No,” Johanna said, shaking her head, dragging the heels of her palms over her forehead as though she were trying to smooth away a budding migraine. Bitterly, she continued, “No, there is still no sign of her. It is like the Maker himself scooped her up in his hands and set her down half a continent away.” But then, with a frustrated sigh and a shake of her head, Johanna changed tact. “But I did not call you here to talk about her. I wanted to talk about you.”

“About me?”

“Yes, you.” Johanna put both her elbows on the desk, folding her hands together, and gave him an unbearable look of concern. “How are you, Emmrich?"

“How am I?” he repeated, incredulous. Had she called him here to talk about his feelings? “I’m fine.”

Johanna hummed, looking at him skeptically. “Not sure I believe that, frankly. You have not been yourself, not since…” Johanna’s voice trailed off, reconsidering, but she did not need to say it. Not since Agnes left. Neither of them had spoken her name, and yet her ghost was just as present in the room, as material as the both of them. Johanna’s voice became gentler. “I thought perhaps you would like to take some time off. Visit your family’s estate in the countryside, before winter is upon us.”

Emmrich had not spent any real length of time with his family since he had joined the Mourn Watch. He did not think he would enjoy the curiosity and questions, the gossip his sudden reappearance after all this time would provoke. “You were thinking I could?” he asked, a barbed edge to his tone. He knew he was being surly; he could not help it. “Or you are insisting that I do?”

“Are you asking me if that’s an order?” Johanna asked, unable to hide her faint amusement. “Emmrich, I know you well enough by now to know that I could not force you to do anything you do not want to do yourself.” Again, an uncharacteristic edge of concern crept into her voice. “But I am worried about you. I’m not the only one.”

“Then leave me to my work,” Emmrich insisted. “It is what I am good at. What I am best at.” “Emmrich—”

He cut her off; he would say it more plainly, if he needed to. “It is the only time I do not feel utterly wretched,” he told her, emphatically. “It is the only time… the only time I am not thinking about it. When I am working. I need the work, Johanna. If I were to stop…”

If he were to stop, Emmrich feared it would break him. The agony he felt at her loss, at that terrible severance, was difficult enough to bear with the distraction of work. If he did not have his studies—if he were consigned to the Nevarran countryside for some tortuous, indefinite period, forced to politely sip tea with his sister and play lawn games and do nothing of interest or of use to anyone—the grief would open its jaws and swallow him whole. 

For a moment, Emmrich feared Johanna would fight him. Certainly she had never shied from a confrontation in the past. But something in his face must have convinced her, because finally, she nodded. 

“Very well,” she acquiesced. “But Emmrich—you are not alone. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.” “You already have,” Emmrich told her, honestly. “You looked.” For different reasons, perhaps, than Emmrich’s, but they both wanted her to be found, and Johanna had done everything in her power to make it happen. “That she was so determined to vanish, that she left no trace… I do not hold you responsible for that.”

Without missing a beat, Johanna flung the question at him: “But you hold yourself responsible?”

Emmrich blinked at her, surprised she even had to ask. “Of course.” 

‘It was my fault, all of it, from beginning to end. If it were not for me, she never would have come here; if it were not for how I treated her, she never would have left.’

“Oh, Emmrich.” The pity and the compassion in her voice—two traits Johanna often kept in reserve—were devastating to him. She rose from behind her desk, circled around it to his side. In a rare display of intimacy and warmth, she lay her hand down on his shoulder, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“If there is anything at all I can do—if you change your mind and want to take some time—please do not hesitate to let me know.”

That had been over a year ago. In the ensuing months, Emmrich had only retreated deeper into his work. He did resume taking his meals in the dining hall with the other Watchers, and made better efforts to keep himself as immaculately groomed as he had always been before. But these were hollow gestures, rituals performed out of the fear that if he did not improve, Johanna might change her mind and take things into her own hands, placing him on a forced leave of absence after all. At dinner, he no longer smiled or laughed as he once did. At night, when Myrna had left the study and returned to her own quarters, he sometimes found himself pulling out the special folio he had purchased for Agnes’ drawings, running his fingers over the fine linework and reminiscing. He felt himself becoming every bit as bitter and distant as his own father, and hated himself for it, but saw nothing he could do otherwise to stop it. To move through the world in any other way—to be present in it, to fully confront the totality of his loss and contend with it—would have been far too painful. 

Even his partnership with Myrna was strained. She had been one of his dearest friends in the Mourn Watch before they had been assigned to work together. Now, Emmrich suspected there was a part of her that resented him. After what had happened with Agnes, Emmrich had, perhaps, overcorrected. His partnership with Myrna he was determined to keep formal, clinical, professional; although he would also begrudgingly admit that it was anything but professional that Myrna was often forced to bring him food from the kitchens out of the fear that Emmrich was inadvertently starving himself. They shared the study, but even when Emmrich was just across the room from Myrna, he was worlds away, easily distracted, lost in rumination and self-recrimination. Even when the study was full—Emmrich, Myrna and Manfred altogether, working busily alongside one another—the room still felt empty, an essential warmth missing.

“Hello? Emmrich? Emmrich!”

With a start, Myrna’s voice pulled him out of his morose reverie. Across the study, from where they were working in tandem on some alchemical concoction, Myrna and Manfred were both staring at him; Manfred with concern, Myrna with no small amount of impatience. 

“Do you intend to answer that, or should I take your silence to mean that you expect myself or Manfred to do so on your behalf?”

‘Answer what…?’ Emmrich almost asked, but just then he heard Johanna’s voice, cast from the enchanted sending-stone set near the entrance of the study.

“Emmrich! Emmrich Volkarin! Are you going to answer me, or are you going to make me come down there myself?”

“Apologies, Myrna,” Emmrich answered, leaping up from his armchair and hastening to the crystal. “Lost in thought.”

He did not miss the soft, chididing, ‘as per usual’ that Myrna whispered under her breath, head bent conspiratorially with Manfred’s over their experiment. 

Stepping over to the doorway, Emmrich touched his fingers to the yellow facets of the carved stone, gleaming with prisms of magical energy as they transmitted Johanna’s voice.

“Yes, Johanna, I am here.”

“Excellent,” Johanna’s voice replied, unusually quick to forgive the sloth with which he’d answered her call. “Would you please join me in the public parlors, please? With all haste…!” And with that, the sending stone grew clouded.

“She’s in a remarkably good mood,” Myrna commented from across the room. She had not failed to notice the odd sweetness in Johanna’s voice, rare to begin with but rarer still in the last few weeks. Of late, the disturbances in the Necropolis had reached a fever pitch, exceeding even the danger that they had experienced when the Breach had opened in the South ten years prior. 

Emmrich had not missed it, either. “That cannot be a good thing,” he replied, with no small amount of trepidation. 

“Eager as she is, it will be worse if you keep her waiting,” Myrna added, which was all the impetus Emmrich needed to get on his way. 

But Johanna was not waiting for him in the public parlors. Curiously, she had posted herself up in the corridor leading in their direction. The past months had worn on her, aged her. Now, however—even from a distance—Emmrich could see that she was literally bouncing on the balls of her feet with excitement, her hand clasped briskly behind her back. The Mourn Watch insignia gleaming white upon her breastplate matched the glint of her teeth, revealed by the too-pleased grin on her face. 

Approaching her, he asked, “I thought you were going to meet me in the parlors?”

“Couldn’t resist.” Johanna’s grin widened. “You are not going to believe it. I didn’t believe it myself, when the docents came to tell me.”

“To tell you…?”

“Who was waiting for me,” Johanna replied, sweetly, “on the Necropolis steps.” 

Johanna gestured for Emmrich to follow her, turning and leading him down the corridors, to the public parlors the Mourn Watch staged to receive visitors. “You recall, of course, how the lower levels of the Necropolis have devolved into a quite literal den of horrors after the sky opened up and started spitting out demons a few months ago?”

“It is impossible to forget,” Emmrich answered, cagily. What did that have to do with the visitor they were on their way to greet? And why was Johanna in such high spirits about it? Johanna was his friend, and it was good to see her happy, but he did not like the smug look of satisfaction on her face one bit—

“Guess who just showed up offering to help us with that particular problem.”

Emmrich’s mouth and throat went dry. “Who?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Johanna teased, giving an exaggerated, theatrical shrug. “Could it be, perhaps, one of the best Watchers I have ever had the pleasure of serving alongside? Perhaps even someone I proudly recruited myself?” Emmrich’s heart dropped into his stomach. ‘She cannot be saying—’ “Perhaps, someone you chased out of my guard over two years ago? But that would be crazy! What are the odds?”

The door to the public parlor was just coming into view around the curve of the hallway. From within, Emmrich could clearly hear a set of voices, raised in argument.

“Oooh,” Johanna said, furtively, “it sounds like the girls are fighting.”

“Johanna,” Emmrich said, fighting to keep his voice even, commanding. “Who is in there?”

Johanna only lifted an eyebrow at him, too self-satisfied, it seemed, to give him a straight answer. As they neared the entrance, the voices within the parlor became more distinct:

“…able to face the Elvhen God of Rebellion, but not your old boss?”

“…sounds like an appropriate division of labor! I brought you here, Lace. Now I’ll handle Fen’Harel, and you can deal with the Mourn Watch—”

Hot and cold all at once, mind blank and fuzzy, paralyzed with hope. Emmrich nearly tripped over his feet, forgetting how to walk, how to breathe as he reached for the doorknob. He knew that voice, he was sure of it—!

And if he had not been—if there was even the tiniest part of Emmrich that was not wholly confident of what he was about to find—it was not left to wonder long. Because as soon as she had thrown those words in response to whomever it was she was arguing with inside the parlor, Agnes had flung open the door.

Her eyes met his, and she froze like a stag, a prey animal trapped on the threshold between fight and flight. Emmrich could not think, could not breathe, possessed of but one beaming, brilliant thought: ‘It is her!’ Changed subtly by the two years she had been gone (the scar on her brow, the lines around her eyes) but still certainly Agnes, Agnes Gallatus, beloved , standing before him. He had given up hope. He had resigned himself to the belief that he would breathe his last with only the memory of her to comfort him. He wanted to laugh; he wanted to weep; he wanted to wrap his arms around her and draw her against him, press her body to his to be sure she was real. But the sight of her arrested him, elated him even as it threatened to asphyxiate him, and all he could do was stand dumbstruck before her, drinking in the sight of her.

It did not matter that she was unhappy to see him—and that was clear from a mere glance at her grey eyes. Irrelevant, too, that she had clearly been trying to sneak back out of the Necropolis and avoid this encounter entirely. All that mattered in that moment was that she was here, alive, in front of him. A gift he was certain he did not deserve. It felt so selfish to be happy, to be so pleased to see her here again. Perhaps he was just a selfish old man, after all. Emmrich fought the urge to fall to her feet, to wrap his arms around her calves so that she could not go until he finished debasing himself, begging for her forgiveness. 

So tight was the ache in his chest, so loud the pounding of his blood, he could barely draw the breath required to speak her name. "Agnes?"

Grief and shame pulled at her face. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then favored him with a maddeningly neutral expression of defeat. 

“Hello, Volkarin.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, only to be interrupted by one of the visitors seated in the parlor beyond the doorway. 

“Whoa. Is it just me, or did the vibe in here get really weird all of a sudden?”

Over Agnes’ shoulder, Emmrich saw a red-headed dwarf deliver a chastening shove of her elbow to the tattooed elf beside her, hissing, “Bellara!”

Taking that as her cue, Johanna stepped around Emmrich, placing herself squarely between himself and Agnes in the doorway. Sickeningly sweet, she asked: “And no greeting for me, after all this time?”

At the sight of Johanna, Agnes’ face flushed red with shame. She dropped her eyes to the floor, acknowledged her with a respectful, dutiful dip of her head. “Hello, Commander Hezenkoss.”

“Watcher Gallatus!” Though her back was to him, Emmrich could tell from the tone of Johanna’s voice alone that she was favoring Agnes with the same smarmy grin she’d worn the whole journey down the hallway. “The prodigal daughter returns! I have to say, I was confident we had seen the last of you.” Pausing for dramatic effect, she then added, “I am going to be charitable, and assume we are not catching you thusly on the threshold because you were about to embark on yet another hasty departure.”

Johanna had her pegged; Agnes’ blush deepened, the distress on her face plain. “Of course not, Commander.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Gallatus,” Johanna told her, pleasantly. “Come. Let us sit.”

Agnes bowed her head once more, then backed into the room, retreating to the tufted red velvet sofa against the far wall. She sat at the leftmost edge, next to the Dalish elf—Bellara, Emmrich guessed. On Bellara’s opposite side sat the red-headed dwarf; Johanna dropped into the high back chair beside her, forcing Emmrich to assume the only remaining chair in the room—not two feet from where Agnes sat on the sofa, her posture painfully straight, looking like she was ready to bolt from the room at the first opportunity granted to her.

The parlor was dimly lit by a magnificent chandelier that hung from the center of the ceiling, an artwork of wrought iron and pink glass that cast the room in a warm, rosy glow. As was customary, tea had been set out on the table for the guests, but it looked like only Bellara had welcomed herself to it. The elf anxiously passed her eyes between Johanna, Agnes, and Emmrich, then back to Agnes again; the awkwardness between them must have been painfully obvious.

“Hello, Commander Hezenkoss,” she chirped at last, raising a hand to wave, attempting to dispel the tension by the power of her cheer alone. “I’m Bellara Lutara, and this is Lace Harding,” she said, gesturing to the dwarf at her side; then, waving at Agnes, she added, “And of course, you already know Rook. It’s a delight to meet you! I love all the cute little skulls on your tea cups.”

“Rook?” Johanna said, grinning with interest, turning her eyes from Bellara back to Agnes. “What an enigmatic little moniker! No wonder we couldn’t find you, no matter how we searched.” 

Not one to eschew decorum, however, she relieved Agnes at last of her scrutiny and turned back to Bellara. “It is a pleasure to meet you both, Bellara Lutara and Lace Harding. You have my deepest gratitude for whatever role you played in reuniting us with our dear Agnes once more.”

Bellara smiled back at Johanna, not quite in on the joke. “Oh, believe me, it took a lot of convincing—”

But Agnes’ hand closed over Bellara’s, squeezing firmly enough to turn her knuckles white, the unspoken directive in the gesture immediately obvious: ‘I am begging you to shut the fuck up . ’

Johanna’s grin only widened, to near cheshire-cat proportions. She leaned forward, pouring herself a cup of tea from the steaming kettle on the table. “The docent who admitted you told me the most fascinating rumor,” she said at last, her voice still in that pitch of near-sadistic sing-song delight. “That you have come looking for our help. That is, the help of the Mourn Watch Guard.”

“That’s not quite the whole story,” Lace said, shifting to sit on the edge of the couch, the better to meet Johanna’s gaze. “We aren’t here to hold our hands out, looking for charity. We want to help you, too. We’re a part of the Veilguard…”

Lace went on, but Emmrich was hardly paying any attention to their exchange. He could not help himself from stealing glances at Agnes—Rook?—out of the corner of his eye. She would not look at him—would not look at anyone. She had at last released Bellara’s hand and folded her own tightly in her lap, and she was staring at the floor, somewhere between her legs. Her legs! In all the years that he had known Agnes, Emmrich had never seen her wear anything but skirts. That she now wore trousers was the most shocking part of her transformation, far more so than the slight wrinkles in her face or the strands of white beginning to weave with the black of her hair. What had happened to her, in the two years that she had been gone? Had they reshaped her into a different person entirely?

“So let me make sure I am understanding correctly,” Johanna said at last, folding her arms over her chest as she leaned back in her chair, looking directly at Agnes. “You, Agnes Gallatus, want to help me? Assist me, even? A prospect which was apparently unbearable, unthinkable to you two years ago? Maker, how things can change in time.” Then, sliding her eyes to Emmrich (having not failed to notice, he was sure, how he had been unable to keep his eyes off of Agnes since he had seen her) she added, with just as much dry humor, “And yet how many things stay the same. Wouldn’t you agree, Emmrich?”

For the first time since they’d nearly collided in the doorway, Agnes glanced at him, however briefly. Emmrich only locked his eyes on Johanna, praying that Agnes had not also caught him staring. He shrugged, made only a vaguely tortured, noncommittal noise in response. 

Johanna turned back to the others. “Lace Harding, you do not know me, nor do you seem to be fully privy to the drama surrounding Watcher Gallatus’ dishonorable desertion from the Mourn Watch in the first place. So you do not understand the true depth of pleasure it would give me to tell you, Miss Lutara here, and your companion Rook to fuck right off and leave my city, and never return.” 

Bellara blanched at Johanna’s language. For a brief moment, Agnes looked almost hopeful. 

Then Johanna sighed, uncrossing her arms, leaning her elbows on the chair’s armrests and steepling her fingers. “That being said,” she continued, “I cannot deny that patrolling the Necropolis has been an absolute shit show for the last few months.” Johanna’s voice was sober, now, no teasing to be heard in it. “We have lost more Watchers to incidents in the Necropolis in three months than we have in three decades. Our ranks are thinning faster than we can replenish them by training new initiates. In short, we are in over our heads. I am many things, but I am not a fool; and no matter how spiteful I may be, I would not do something so foolish as to refuse help when it is freely offered and so desperately needed.”

“However,” Johanna said, lifting a hand to point up an emphatic finger (and here her voice took a turn for the sharper), “therein lies a dilemma. Because when it comes to you, Agnes Gallatus,” Johanna said, pinning Agnes under her gaze, “the trust has been broken. I am truly and utterly incapable of believing that you, or by extension your associates who are outsiders otherwise unknown to me, will conduct yourselves as instructed and keep me apprised of your progress. And yet, because of how completely fucked we are at the moment, and because of the unique position of leadership in which I find myself, I am truly and utterly incapable of carving out the time or the energy to keep a close eye on you myself.”

Emmrich’s heart had begun to pound against his ribs; he wondered if the rest of them could hear it, frantically beating like a dance drum. 

Agnes was staring at Johanna, her jaw set. He saw by the muscles in her cheeks and her neck that she was grinding her teeth. A strained edge to her voice when she asked, “How do you propose we resolve that dilemma, Commander?”

And at that, the smug note returned to Johanna’s voice. 

“Well, it just so happens I have a solution.” 

And she extended her hand, palm up, to gesture at Emmrich.

“Johanna—” Agnes began to protest.

“Do not,” Johanna said, with a light and deeply unamused laugh, “‘Johanna’ me. We are not friends; we are not even colleagues. You saw to that.” Johanna took a deep breath, regaining control of her composure. Quietly, evenly, she explained: “A long time ago, I recruited you to the Mourn Watch to keep an eye on Emmrich, to make sure he did not get himself into any sort of trouble he couldn’t get himself out of. Emmrich, it is now your chance to return the favor. Is that acceptable to you?”

Immediately it was clear to Emmrich that Johanna had planned this all along, from the moment she had called him down from the study by the sending crystal. That she thought herself terribly clever, pairing the two of them off, making them each other’s problem and no one else’s. As for what he thought of it himself, Emmrich could not say. He could barely wrap his head around the reality that Agnes was here, beside him; the idea of descending with her into the Necropolis again after all of this time was almost too much to fathom.

Taking care to use her new chosen name, Emmrich answered, “I am not confident it is acceptable to Rook.”

Without missing a beat, Johanna snapped right back, “Well Rook and her friends will have to stomach it, because those are the terms.” Then, with a malicious gleam in her eye, Johanna turned to Agnes. “Or if you prefer, I can call Watcher Rolf down here to accompany you instead…?”

For a minute Emmrich thought Agnes was actually considering it. She was not looking at him, but he could see the wheels turning in her head, just the same. Weighing the options. How deeply it cut him! The thought that even after two years, her anger with him was still so fresh that she would prefer the company of a man Emmrich knew well she found to be an intolerable dullard to having to spend even a moment longer with Emmrich himself. Emmrich was not a fool. He did not think for a minute that after all this time and everything he had done to obliterate the bond between them, that any part of Agnes still loved him. Perhaps it was bold of him to hope that she would tolerate him, even just for a few days. But what a blessing it would be! What a pleasure, to discover what sort of woman she had grown into while she had been away from him—even if the years had hardened her into someone who could never forgive him. He did not deserve it. Selfishly, holding his breath, still he hoped for it.

At last, ever so slightly, Agnes dipped her head in Johanna’s direction. 

“Thank you, Commander Hezenkoss. Watcher Volkarin will be an acceptable escort.”

[just-some-random-blogger]

Hello, how are you? I wanted to know if you could make an imagine where the reader is admiring the beauty of Morpheus' lips, please. great party and thank you

A Thing Of Beauty

Dream of the Endless x Reader

Summary: Head empty, only Dream.

Word Count: >500

Warnings: gender neutral!reader, touch deprived!dream, dream needs words of affirmation asap, simp!reader (me), fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: the title is also an excerpt from john keats work Endymion. just wanted to say although this has nothing to do with it Tagging: @pinksirensong @deniixlovezelda @shadow-pancake9

Dream sighed. He exhaled what felt like the weight of the cosmos through his delicate lips and closed his heavy eyes. He had been going through much of his tasks in his throne room. I was gladly spectating it all.

I looked at the curve of his nose, the way it sloped and pointed. I looked at the curl of his lashes, recalling how I'd witnessed it laced with snowflakes... laced with tears.

He rolled his arm atop the armrest on the throne, palm now upturned. He spoke nothing but I knew he was reaching out to me.

I had been on a tiny stool by his side the entire time. He offered to manifest another throne by his side, but I thought it would be too much. I reached out for his hand then kissed his pulse.

"Come to me," he whispers. He does it in a way that commands all the attention, and alerts all the Dreaming. Still, it was only a whisper.

I stand. The next moment my stool is gone. I circle over to him and make myself comfy on his lap. He pulls me close and seals me in his arms. I prop an arm around his shoulders and kiss his jaw. I retrace the area with my finger.

I do the same with his nose, with his cheek, with his brows, with his lips. He kisses my finger after the fact.

My hand then slides down to his neck, then his shoulder. I massage the area, the knot on his form. He sighs and pulls me closer to him, allowing himself to lean against me.

I feel his hot breath when he mutters, "what are you thinking?"

I barely chuckle, "don't you already know?"

"Narrate your thoughts," he says, "I wish to hear your musings of me."

I cannot hold back my laugh. I pull his face close to kiss his cheek, "what makes you think I'm thinking of you?"

The King of Dreams and Nightmares allows himself an airy chuckle, "it would be my complete devastation if the scent of your redolent thoughts were of anything but of me," he opens his eyes and looks at my face, "a desecration in my throne room, no less."

I give him a thoughtful look, "thoughts have smell?"

"And yours are the sweetest," he brings his face near mine, "when you think of me."

My nostrils flare and I shake my head. I brush my nose against him, "well, my lord, if you must know," I smile, tilting my head, "I was thinking of just how pretty you are."

Dream's lips curve into a soft smirk.

I snort and roll my eyes, "I feel like I should take that back. Your head is already too big for your body."

He pulls me tighter against him when I try to pull away. His brows furrow in offence.

I am repositioned on him, from how I was cradled to my side, I was now being pulled to his chest with my back to him. He presses a kiss on my nape then breathes out, "tell me how pretty I am."

I break into a loud laugh. I lean against him as my amusement slowly dies down. I crane my neck to look at his face, "like... so pretty."

[thatonebirdwrites]

Finally! I wanted to debut this in September, but I didn't feel well enough for it. My posting schedule will likely be 1 to 2 times per month.

I don't want to overwhelm myself with writing projects, so that's why it's only monthly posts at least for the start. (The Supercorp stories such as Shattered will be finished this month, but I still have Unraveling Realities. Once I'm back to two main projects and random one-shots, I think I might be able to increase the post schedule. But for now, let's hope my health stabilizes and makes it easier to write and edit.)

I admit, I missed Korrasami, so I'm glad to be diving back into it. : )

EXCERPT:

BOLIN

Somewhere by the Si Wong Desert

Bolin ran. Not a typical run, but more of a so-damn-tired-why-are-we-still-running-jog. He wasn’t entirely sure why his commanding officer insisted they follow the bandits into the searing hot desert. Seemed a great way for them to just melt into the sands or get eaten by a sand shark. Korra and Asami's stories of the one they faced still haunted his dreams.

He slid in the sand and fell face-first into a dune. Sand coated him, and he spat it out in disgust. Ahead, he could hear the rumble of an engine, which was a trifle strange. He crawled up the dune and peered over it.

Sure enough, two planes sat in the dune canyon. Their design strongly resembled Asami’s latest, which was also weird. 

But what took the cake — speaking of which Bolin was damn hungry too — was the man in the Earth Empire uniform. No way could Bolin mistake the tailored green suit and helmet with its air mask. Oddly a green bandana was tied around the empire’s symbol on his shoulders as if that somehow hid his true nature. They exchanged a sack of something. 

Bolin guessed money. Isn’t it always money? Definitely not food, the bag would crush any delicious treats.

One of them started to turn their head toward his dune, and Bolin ducked out of sight. He looked back the way he’d come, and wondered if this was the sort of intelligence Asami needed. But who would believe him? It’s not like he could record them. No voices spoke, and Varrick’s mover cameras were huge and way too hard to carry. 

He slid back down the dune and carefully retraced his steps. Sweat poured down his back and dampened his hair roots. He didn’t run this time, but instead placed his feet in the footprints he’d made in his dash to not lose the bandits. Asami had taught him this. It made it seem like he vanished on the dune where his footprints ended.

Pretty cool trick. One of his favorites for sure.

By the time he reached the edge of the village, Bolin wanted to pass out from the heat. The uniform was far too hot for this weather. 

“Private Bolin!” his commanding officer called. “You sure took your time. Did you locate the bandits?”

Bolin wiped sweat from his brow and placed a hand on his belt. He pressed the button Asami had installed there ages ago to activate the recorder. “Yeah, but they parlayed with one of our people. Had two planes too.”

The man stepped closer and grabbed Bolin’s jacket. “You best not repeat that.” His green-gold eyes glared into Bolin’s, his mouth set in a grim line. “None of our people works with bandits, you hear?”

The grip choked Bolin, the collar tightening as his commanding officer clenched his fist tighter and tighter. “Yes sir,” Bolin squeaked out. 

“Good.” Abruptly, he released Bolin and patted his shoulders. “So you found nothing. Go clean yourself up, soldier. Mess is at sundown.”

[gun-roswell]

WIP GAME!

Rules: You will be given a word. Share one sentence/excerpt from your WIP(s) that starts with each letter of that word.

Thanks @odekiisu for the tag!

The word was CAMP. And so here is a snippet from one of my Spocktober fics I have in progress:

“Can we somehow retrace their steps, from the ships databanks? What happened to them?” Kirk sounded hopeful, but then again, he was really grasping at straws while trying to make some sense into this all.

“As this is out of our own dimensions, the computer had only blank space recorded for those crewmen disappearing.”

Meanwhile, Spock already having ran through queries into the database while trying to find some logical answer to this, odd and rather out of control situation they had once again found themselves in.

“Place, time, dimension, all becoming jumbled together and leaving the lot of them without any memories of what happened to them.” McCoy explained, having assisted Spock in his research.

Tagging: 

@kybercrystals94, @thecoffeelorian, @donut1642, @rendomski

Your word is: CHICK.

[stevesbipanic]

A present under the tree just for you, it's chapter 3!

Excerpt: “Where are you, Eddie?” He whispers to himself as he retraces his steps back outside. His eyes flicker to a deep red stain on the wall near the deck, something had been here, and had definitely been injured in a fight. On the horizon, Steve could make out a dark cloud.

“Not bats, please not bats.”

Ao3

[celinamarniss]

Year in Review

In 2023 I posted 4 fics at 58,153 words.

Previous years:

2022: 4 fics at 45,096 words.

2021: 3 fics posted, 55,788 words.

2020: 7 or 10 fics posted, 125,738 words.

2019: 7 fics posted, 72,149 words.

2018: 7 fics posted, 87,752 words

2016: 9 fics posted, 51,643 words

2017: 9 fics posted, 115,336 words

2016: 9 fics posted, 51,653 words

In total, 49 fics posted to Ao3.

We Can't Keep Meeting Like This

34,355 words, gen, Din/Luke/Mara

The Din/Luke/Mara fic I told myself I wasn't going to write! As these things tend to do, it expanded into a much longer fic than I expected. The "five things (plus one)" structure helped to keep it from spiraling even further, but those individual chapters ended up being much longer than I expected and took much longer to write. At first, I serialized the first couple of chapters in smaller excerpts for WIP Weds on tumblr. It was fun to get a little feedback and the weekly deadline compelled me to write those chapters quickly. But when engagement dropped to basically nothing I stopped posting updates and waited to post each chapter to ao3 when it was done. My progress slowed down considerably, but the chapters got longer. I had fun, most of the time.

The Girl Who Traveled the Ways Between the Walls

4,938 words, gen, Animalis verse

Written for the 5k AU fic challenge. Luminous Creatures begins with Mara and Luke's daemons settling, and I regretted never writing a story with an unsettled daemon character. I wanted to write a fic with a fairy-tale vibe and I wanted to explore the weirdness of the Imperial Palace. The Palace becomes a fairy tale wood, and Mara sets off on a quest in which she encounters strange people who aid her or demand aid. Does she learn the right lesson in the end? Perhaps not.

Echo, Revenant, Targeter, Phoenix

15,431 words, gen, Winter Retrac character study

I wrote this one for the Star Wars Big Bang, an experience that ended up being so stressful that I dropped out. I still finished the fic on time and posted it. The fic attracted a modest number of readers (unsurprising given Winter has been basically forgotten these days), but their enthusiasm was very gratifying. I've always liked Winter and I wanted to give her a chance to shine.

However, while I love the worldbuilding and individual scenes and images in this fic, as a whole I don't think it's very gracefully written and I've never been very happy with it.

Cascade

3,429 words, mature, Luke/Mara

I wanted to include A Non-Zero-Sum Game in Vol II of my printed fic collection, but the series felt unfinished without the fourth and final story that I planned to write after Tether. So five years later, I finally wrote it. It was interesting to go back to those old fics and try to write a story that fit the series. I wanted to post it before the new year broke so that I could count it in the 2023 list, and I rushed to get it out. It could probably still use some work.

As the year went on, I failed to meet a lot of the arbitrary deadlines I set myself, and that made writing frustrating and unfulfilling. I don't want it to be like that! I want fic to be fun.

However, I have a lot of non-fandom projects coming up in 2024, and I'm going to have to shift my focus away from fic, at least a little bit.

GOALS FOR 2024

(almost exactly the same as the goals for 2023)

Triumvirate Finale! (explicit, very) The big finale of the Triumvirate series, in which the trio returns to Coruscant to face the Emperor. Doesn’t have a proper title yet. Progress so far: three chapters drafted, 15,410 words.

A Smuggler’s Guide to Joining the Rebellion (gen) The sequel to The Things You Find on Tatooine. Progress: the first chapter finished, 2,241 words.

Lando Calrissian and the Jewel of Andara (gen) The Lando and Mara heist romcom I’ve been promising forever. Progress: three chapters drafted, but in need of heavy revision, 6757 words.

Other fics on the backburner:

Courtship remix

Experiments

Daughter of the Rain and Snow

More daemon fic! 

[sopherfly]

One more small fic before I return to my bigger WIPs ☺️

This is another one for @temple-mistress, who adores these goobers at least as much as I do (a Very Normal Amount).

an excerpt—the full fic has more sweetness (and also some 🌶🌶🌶)

The light outside creeps further into the sky, becoming more visible through the blinds as the minutes pass. Anakin studies Obi-Wan’s face, his gaze tracing and retracing the lines he already knows by heart. Finally, Obi-Wan stirs.

“Hmm.” Obi-Wan cracks one eye open. His presence in the Force is still soft, thick with a calm, drowsy haze. “Are you watching me sleep?” he asks slowly.

“Maybe,” Anakin replies, skimming gold-tipped fingers along the line of his beard.

Obi-Wan’s mouth curves with a lazy smile. “Why?”

Because Obi-Wan is the most handsome man Anakin has ever met. Because he looks so serene, so unburdened while he sleeps. Because Anakin needs to commit the image to memory—he needs to remind himself that this is real.

“A lot of reasons,” Anakin answers. “But you’re awake now, so.” He shifts closer, pressing a lingering kiss to Obi-Wan’s lips. “Good morning.”

Obi-Wan tilts his head up, brushing their noses together. “Hello there.”

[distilled-prose]

(for some reason, @pocketfullofpoesies the day is full of reminders of you. this is just the latest.) great article/story excerpt: "This determination also characterized Aéropostale’s founder, Pierre Georges Latécoère, a manufacturer of World War I aircraft. After the war, Latécoère hatched an audacious vision for idle planes and pilots: to carry mail unprecedented distances through West Africa, then across the Atlantic to South America. “I have redone all the calculations; they confirm the specialists’ opinion: our idea is unfeasible,” Latécoère famously uttered. “There is only one thing to do: make it happen!”

[protoslacker]

Had her name been scribbled on the back of the albumen print, there would be at least one fact I could convey with a measure of certainty, one detail that I would not have to guess, one less obstacle in retracing the girl’s path through the streets of the city. Had the photographer or one of the young men assisting him in the studio recorded her name, I might have been able to find her in the 1900 census, or discover if she ever resided at the Shelter for Colored Orphans, or danced on the stage of the Lafayette Theatre, or if she ended up at the Magdalene House when there was nowhere else to go. Instead, I have pressed at the limits of case files and documents, speculated about what might have been, imagined the things whispered in dark bedrooms, and amplified moments of withholding, escape and possibility, moments when the vision and dreams of the wayward seemed possible.

Saidiya Hartman at Bunk (Via The New Yorker). An Unnamed Girl, a Speculative History

What a photograph reveals about the lives of young black women at the turn of the century.

I have been reading Keguro Macharia online for nearly twenty years. Since Elon Musk's takeover of Twitter I don't frequent the place much anymore. But Twitter is a still a place where I can hear from people in Africa. Today I noticed a thread by k'eguro:

“You read Saidiya Hartman and if, like me, you are easily influenced, you aspire to write something as attentive to the richness she imagines and maps and outlines and colors.”

“Wayward Lives is extraordinary. Simply extraordinary.”

And so listening to Hartman read from Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments at Youtube from a reading at Politics and Prose, and answering questions, she mentioned this photograph. She was responding to a question about her method and talking about the "fact checking" for this The New Yorker article. Hartman also mentioned a second photo--the girl peeking out the third storey window--which is linked in the excerpt at Bunk. I was happy I still had a free article left at The New Yorker to read the whole thing.

Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments

Henry Adams on Eaton: Thomas Eakins: Brilliant painter, gifted photographer … sexual predator?

[elavoria]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @tallmatcha, thanks!

Have another excerpt of Amaryllia and Samson at Skyhold:

Despite their words, they retraced their steps at a leisurely pace, and even stopped when Amaryllia spotted a red rosebush. Without sparing a thought as to whether it was allowed or not, she unsheathed the small knife hanging from her chatelaine and deftly cut a beautifully blooming rose, long-stemmed and fragrant, sheathing the knife and slowly wrapping the leather guard around the handle with one hand as they continued onwards. Despite his curious look, they maintained a companionable silence until they were well out of earshot of the garden’s denizens.

“For you,” she said, holding the rose out to him once they emerged from the winding staircases onto the walkway overlooking the garden.

“For... me?” he asked.

He stared at her in stunned silence, and when she didn’t retract the offer, he took the rose and ever so hesitantly brought it to his nose and breathed in its scent, then lowered it to reveal a smile so peaceful that it made her smile in turn, albeit much more mischievously.

“It matches your eyes,” she said, and when those eyes widened, she let her own wander down his body and back up again, giggling softly when she saw that his cheeks had reddened as well. “And the rest of you.”

He smiled shyly, then said, “Suppose it does, doesn’t it? Thanks.”

Tagging @nostalgic-breton-girl, @sheirukitriesfandom, and whoever else wants to join. :3

[lunastarhawk]

Truth in the Undertow

Part 12 of Julian post-route series Tides of Memories (on AO3)

Summary

Angry and emotional, Asra retraces Altheia's final steps before her death three years ago, and her echoes speak her truth with potentially devastating consequences. Altheia needs Julian to trust himself and his own magical capabilities, but when all the pieces of her puzzle come together, they threaten to drag her into a suffocating undertow of her own making.

Excerpt

The echo reached the door, paused, and went through it.  Asra stumbled forwards, tripping over his feet, leaning on the wall.

As soon as his hand came in contact with the door handle, the pain tore through him, from his heart to his gut to his mind.  His eyes closed tight, and he would have screamed if he could have taken a breath.

His step over the threshold felt as if his heart shattered.  Grief overwhelmed him, desolation crushed him.  Darkness pressed in the periphery of his vision.  He held both sides of the doorframe.

Like walking into a room and forgetting what you went there for.

Walking through a door and forgetting.

Forgetting her…

… and he couldn’t sense Ilya now, only Altheia, and that was enough.  The trace of her spell remained, like paint faded in the sun.  Ilya had stood where Asra stood now.  It had shot through him, to the core of his memories, targeting everything of her.

Her face, her voice, her laugh.  Every moment they’d spent together.  Every kiss, every touch.  Wrapped up in a web of magic, tight and impenetrable.  Not gone, but forever held back, sealed away, forgotten.

Asra didn’t feel himself fall.  But his heart shattered as surely as hers had.  On his knees, as she had been, he reached out with his magic, gripping the note with her handwriting tightly.  A trembling hand reached out.  And there was hers, a pale shade tinged plague-red.  He followed in her wake, holding back tears with nothing but willpower and determination to finish this, to save Ilya from this grief.

But Asra’s magic cleansed.  Like water washing away paint, until there was nothing left.

He scrambled across the alley, as she had done.  Dragged himself up to lean against the wall, to look to the door.

Asra gathered every bit of magic he could.  Whispered hoarsely to Faust for her aid.  He had to know, he had to be sure, beyond any doubt.  Taking a deep breath, he sent his magic out.  

A tall, pale, shifting echo, sensed more than seen.  

He was hers, and she was his.

A slight, barely perceptible change in his expression.  Fear and heartbreak in dark eyes became confusion, and then a cool detachment.

“Let me help you.  What’s your name?”

He was gone.  It was all gone.  And just like that, he was no longer hers.

It was hers, the spell, Forget Me.  So that he wouldn’t grieve for her, wouldn’t hurt, wouldn’t suffer her loss.  And he doesn’t.  He doesn’t hurt, and he doesn’t cry.

The apparition shimmered and faded.  

The crush of the loss, and the disease, Asra felt as keenly as if he were her, slumping forwards onto the cold ground.  He dug his fingers into the dirt between the old paving slabs, the weeds that clung to life there, too young to have known her as she fell.  But the stone, and the earth between… her magic had left her here.  Not her life, not quite, but her essence, and it had seeped into the stone like oil separating into swirling, shimmering rainbow colours in a clear pool.  He felt her there, as he had when he’d dug into the ash, when his fingers had bled.  But now the pain wasn’t just his for losing her, but it was hers, for losing Ilya, her love and life.  

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

12, 30, 46 & 49 for writer asks uwu

Thank you, Dim! 😊

12. Are there any tropes you used to dislike but have grown on you?

Let's see...I'm usually very open to tropes so I'm sure there's not many. The few that I dislike I'm still not touching with a 12-ft pole. 😆But I guess I've been playing with more angst/no comfort stuff that 100% didn't used to be my thing. And like YEARS ago I didn't care for m!preg/baby fics, and now we've got the Cursed!AU...so I'm sure anything is possible and I may end up having some of those grow on me too.

30. Have you ever written something that was out of your comfort zone? If so, what was it, and how did it affect your approach to writing fic thereafter?

So I've written several pairings this year that are "outside my comfort zone" just because I had never done them before. But one that definitely stuck out was the fic I just wrote for THAUC: Secrets in the Blue Mountain Apartment and it's because I was writing primarily from Dis and Vili's POV...and seeing as they don't appear in canon books or movies, it was like writing two OCs that everyone has their own HCs for. 😅 So that was tough, but I would definitely like to use more of them in my future writings now that I've at least laid some "groundwork" for myself.

46. Do you prefer writing on your phone or on a computer (or something else)? Do you think where you write affects the way you write?

Oh, computer. 100%. When I was in college, I used to keep a "writing notebook" that I would pull out during class, but yeah. Only at my most desperate do I write on my phone.

For one thing, I type faster on a keyboard than what I can text on my phone. For another, I have all my shortcuts memorized for "bold" "italics" etc., so that just takes time typing. And then writing on a phone is so deceiving to me word count wise. Luckily, I carry my laptop around with me everywhere, but I definitely do my best writing when I'm comfy at home.

49. What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it!

Currently, I am trying to finish up this next chapter of The Twelve Transformations of Bilbo Baggins so I can update on Saturday. 👀 Here's a small-ish excerpt. 🤣

Bilbo quickly retraced his steps, pretending to sleep as he felt Balin gently scoop him up in his arms. His heart felt like it was thundering away in his chest though. Would Thorin really leave him behind if they couldn’t find a cure? It wasn’t like he was going to be a child forever, but then again, what if the next transformation was worse? Thorin wasn’t going to risk the quest all for Bilbo’s sake.

“Thorin,” Balin’s soft voice broke through Bilbo’s worries. “Am I interpreting these proceedings correctly? You and Master Baggins…?”

Bilbo nearly broke his cover right there. What about him and Thorin? There was a long pause before Thorin answered, but it sounded half-hearted even to Bilbo.

“The wizard knows not what he insinuates. My view of the hobbit is strictly professional.”

Professional?! No wonder more people didn’t do business with dwarves if that’s how they behave in a professional atmosphere. Still it was nice to know that Thorin didn’t hate him. He just didn’t see the need to cultivate an acquaintanceship with Bilbo. That was fine. He could be okay with that. His chin trembled slightly, but he blamed it solely on his guilt of eavesdropping.

“You’re a poor liar, lad. You always have been, but I can understand not wanting to consider such things now. However, you’re a fool if you think holding him at arm’s length will make this quest easier.”

“I will handle it how I see fit.” Thorin growled. “In any case, nothing can come from him being the way he is, so I will hear no more on the subject.”

Ask me some fic questions!