#saved writing

[elizababie]

J-J-J-J-June Day 01: Treasure

Collab with the beautiful and endlessly talented @just-get-fucking-lost

Jade Manath. Maeve Blackwood. Fluffy F x F.

Special thanks to @cecilebutcher for the prompt list that we shamelessly appropriated-slash-appreciated. So sorry, so much love.

Jade Manath buries bird bones.

She buries bird bones and a sachet of small, round river stones and a bundle of sweet-smelling twigs. She's digging a hole at the fourth corner of her property, the most important corner, the last corner, the one that will offer the most protection, when it becomes apparent that she was not fast enough.

A shadow falls across her path.

She has a guest.

Jade breathes in and in and in through her nose then out, once, sharply through her mouth.

"What can I do for you?" Jade asks. Her words are icily polite even while every syllable of her tone screams, 'what the fuck do you want?'

"What does anyone want these days?" A female voice responds, pedantic and falsely inquisitive. "Money, wealth, fame, someone to spend forever with." Maeve. She whispers into Jade's ear. Even though Maeve isn't in view, her curls are; fiery red and orange strands, curled and sticking what seems to be every which way. The scent of charcoal and birch trees floats forward and wraps itself around Jade's head, a gentle pressure with a slight warning of suffocation. "Trying to hide, little bird?" she asks softly, the smile on her lips audible in her voice.

"Some people," Jade says very slowly, very carefully. "Only want solitude."

She sits back on her heels and puts an imperceptible distance between Maeve and herself. It's not enough. It's not enough by far.

Maeve stands out starkly against the landscape around her. Jade is a product of her environment, dusty brown skin and hair and eyes that match the pale earth, the newly sprouting stalks of wheat, the livestock Jade surrounds herself with. Maeve is a fire blazing in the center of Jade's carefully planted, grown, and protected oasis.

Jade wants to hate her for that. Jade also wants to hate herself for her all-too-human desire to keep warm.

She holds her spade in one hand and the leather bound journal she came here to bury in the other. She's going to have to do something dramatic after this. She's going to have to bury her mother's gleaming gold grandfather clock in the creek. She might even have to find some other, more powerful, treasure and some other, more powerful, spot to bury it in.

If Jade litters the earth with trinkets, they will grow into a force that is equal parts magnificent and impenetrable. They will keep her safe. Jade will sow the earth until she is the only thing that could possibly sprout up out of it.

First, though, Jade has to purge her land of the intruder imposing upon it.

"Why are you here?" Jade asks. She stands and brushes dirt off on her pants. She asks one thing and means another, what she wants to know is how she was found.

What she really wants to know is how she can be lost again.

She doesn't get her answer before muscle memory kicks in. Jade starts back towards her cottage and waves Maeve along after her. "Tea?"

Maeve never stops smiling but follows after Jade. The world around them is painted in dusty, neutral tones and, as always, Maeve makes sure to shine bright right in the middle of it. Maybe one day Jade will see that even plants need to burn every once in a while to start off fresh.

"Why wouldn't I be here? It's not like you're hiding or anything," Maeve says. They cross the threshold into the kitchen together. Jade keeps going, deeper into the guts of the room. "You offered me tea, people who hide from me don't offer me tea." Maeve leans across the doorway and watches Jade work. "Why are you here?"

Jade sets the kettle out to boil and collects herbs. She gathers teacups and thinks about strychnine. A corpse would be a powerful talisman to bury.

Jade has done it before.

"Hiding," Jade says. "Not from you, don't flatter yourself. Just in general. I'm tired. Tired of everything, of all of it." Jade waves her hand vaguely through the air.

ALL OF IT: the Manath druids, her clan starving for leadership, her brother sitting at the helm.

ALL OF IT: Jasper's endless needs. His endless demands. “Sister, we're moving camp! Where should we go?” and “Sister, I ruined everything again! Clean up after me!” and “Sister, mother is dead! Bury her while I fuck around!” and-and-fucking-and

ALL OF IT: eyes and ears, always on her. So many fingers, always pointing.

Jade got sick of it, of taking all of the blame for none of the credit. She never wanted that life anyway. She has never wanted to be a leader. Jade Manath just wants to watch her crops grow.

"Here." Jade sets Maeve's tea down at the table. She left of the strychnine. If Jade is remembering correctly, Maeve is too smart for her own good, she's most definitely told someone where she was going. If she doesn't come back there will be more visitors. Corpses take a long time to bury, Jade can only give them so much of her time without neglecting her other trinkets.

Maeve glances down at the cup and picks it up with both hands, She maintains eye contact and drinks the entire glass.

"Hide away with all your treasures, here at the end of the earth," Maeve says, setting her empty cup down and finally seating herself. Her presence alone makes the room feel warmer, brighter. Doesn't Jade know you need a little sunlight to grow? "Sit on your porch at the end of the day and admire your work, not anyone else's." She smirks, brushing some of her curls back. "I guess deep down we all just want a simple life, solid rewards for the effort put in." Maeve rests her hands on the table, her nails are painted a deep, olive green—But why should that matter?

Maeve pushes her cup towards Jade and nods slightly. "Delicious as always. May I have some more?"

Jade looks at Maeve. She looks back at Maeve's nails. They don't match Maeve's eyes the way they always used to. They don't accent her hair. They're the color of Jade's tea cups. They're the color of the ivy that climbs the walls. They're the color of all the things Jade suspects might be buried down deep inside of her.

HER: Jade.

HER: Maeve?

Jade tucks her hair behind her ears. She is not the person she was the last time they sat across a table from each other like this.

SHE: Jade.

SHE: Maeve?

“No,” Jade says. She tucks her spade into her back pocket and heads for the door. “Come with me. Bring that.” She doesn’t specify what that is. Maeve’s choice is her own. They all have their own secrets to hide from and their own protections to build. Maeve grabs the porcelain cup in front of her and stands, following after Jade without question.

Jade doesn’t mean to smile but it sprouts up anyway: dandelions growing between cracks in the sidewalk. Determined. Improbable. She's silent as she leads Maeve to the most powerful spot in the farm, the beginning, it’s heart.

ONCE UPON A TIME Jade Manath ran away. She ran away from her home, her family, the responsibilities that were not hers but ended up in her lap anyway. She ran away right to the end of the world and then she sat down, she built a fire, she decided that this was far enough.

Everything else sprouted up after that, veins connected to a still-beating heart. That’s where she leads Maeve. They walk to the memory of that first fire. It’s been years-years-years but Jade thinks the ashes might still be warm. The sacred and the holy have that effect sometimes, they live forever. 

Jade passes Maeve her spade and keeps her silence. If she says anything the spell will break. If Maeve needs to be told what to do then maybe she does not belong here after all.

Maeve kneels and she digs. She digs and she gently places the teacup into the hole and, using her well-manicured hands, she scoops the dirt back in, gently patting the surface down before she stands and dusts her pants off.

Jade takes her spade back and digs a second hole directly beside the teacup. She sets the spade into its bed and gently tucks it in. She thinks that she's not going to be needing it after all. Maybe nothing needs to be buried in the creek. Maybe her new life is perfectly protected after all.

Jade's mind is made up. She nods resolutely at a job well done and stands shoulder to shoulder with Maeve.

"Come on," Jade says. "Let's go home."

[evermoreal]

price would be strangely possessive over his assistant.

referring to her as things that really aren’t work appropriate at all. “swee’eart,” “dolly,” “sugar.” once, a “baby” slipped through his teeth, but he was switching the subject before she could really catch on.

it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when it was he started tacking “my” in front of his pet names. “my angel,” “my love.”

even when she wasn’t in the room — it was impossible to know he was talking about a colleague with the way he spoke about her. “my woman’s always on my case abou’ shit like that — cholesterol levels, sugar intake. fuckin’ bullshit, but i do it to make ‘er happy.” or “can’t stay long, lads — got my lady waitin’ on me.”

in the summer months, her skirts get a bit shorter and her tops a bit tighter. he doesn’t blame her, the AC is shit and the heat can be suffocating. what does bother him, though, is the way his men ogle her as they stroll past her desk. how they’re coming up with excuses to visit her throughout the day.

it’s an easy enough fix. “why don’t ye come work in my office for the day, lovey?” he’s already collecting her paperwork. “keep an old man company, would ye? i’ve got a nice little fan too, keep ye nice an’ cool.”

though the job came with benefits, perhaps more than an assistant should be getting, price didn’t think it was enough. when her phone started to slow and the screen cracked, he left a new one on her desk. didn’t bother mentioning it came out of his paycheque. if she complains about her outfit — all my good clothes are in the wash — he’ll take her shopping, doesn’t let her worry about the totals. and, hey, if they end up at a lingerie shop, no one has to know, right? he’s just being a good boss. it’s only crossing a few boundaries when he gets her to model it for him in the fitting rooms. when she disappears behind the curtain, john adjusts himself in his slacks — it’s a natural reaction. on that note, it would make too much of a fuss if he were to correct the worker when she asks if his wife needs any help.

when day turns to night and she’s refusing price’s suggestion of hitting another shop, he pulls into a nearby restaurant, insists on treating her to a glass of wine to end the night. finding out she’s a lightweight is a pleasant discovery — two glasses in and her skin is warm to the touch, she’s giggling and hanging onto his every word. he likes her like this, he decides — but it’s not safe to leave her alone. no, she should stay with him tonight. another few sips and she’s agreeing, changing into one of her new lingerie sets and falling into john’s bed, dozing off with his hand splayed over her tummy, beard tickling the back of her neck.

it’s been too long since he’s had a woman in his life. his wires have gotten a bit crossed. you can’t blame him, can you?

edit! here’s more <3

[frigidfries]

happy birthday deltarune. happy late birthday undertale. here's a comic!

cheers to best friends forever & ever & ever & ever & ev

[novakiart]

spideypool but it's a comedy of errors

[dreamgirljune]

yes yes characters doomed by the narrative always slap BUT what about characters saved by the narrative? characters who have already given up hope and don't know they have a happy ending? characters who believe they are a lost cause, characters who feel irredeemable, characters who think there's nothing left for them, but the narrative does provide a way out? what about the characters who don't expect anything good, who don't even remember how to wish for it anymore, who get the things they need anyway? what about the characters who actively run from being saved getting saved in a way they can't stop or control. what about being saved by the narrative!!!

[bishy437]

he won

bonus:

[crazywolf828]

To all my writers who have a tough time with smut terms and not knowing which ones to use, I have found the holy grail for us.

This reddit user, who I've recently found out is @kjscottwrites here on tumblr, took a poll of 3,500 people and went really in depth with asking their favorite terminology, along with actual pie charts on what the readers preferred to see in their smut.

Check out their post with the link to the Google doc here!

[greenteaandtattoos]

A traditional "knight saves the princess" story except at the end, the princess sighs and goes, "I suppose you want my hand in marriage as a reward" and the knight goes, "Oh, no, I'm just new in town and wanted to make friends but I've got really bad social anxiety" and the princess is like, "Rad, because I was never gonna fall in love with you" and they live happily ever after as besties (they're both aroace).

[bluerosefox]

Always Favors You

Another Sibling Danny and Jason idea!!

"Are you Jason Peter Todd?!" demanded a deep and commanding tone from the strange glowing being in front of them.

All the Bats stiffened and tensed, no doubt gearing up for a fight against the being that somehow knew Red Hood's full name.

Jason, Red Hood, decided to put on a brave front despite no doubt cursing in his head and wondering how the heck did this thing know his full freaking name.

"Whose asking." he snarled out, his hands twitching for his gun when the huge glowing knight with purple flames coming out of his helmet and cape, who was riding on a nightmare looking horse while they all had been in the cave going over tonight's patrol.

The Knight didn't seemed bothered by his response nor did he even seem to care or flinch when Batman made his own demand on 'Why was he there and who was he' or when Damian unsheathed his sword and pointed it towards him. Instead the strange glowing Knight reached to it side and pulled out... A glowing scroll? Huh. (Also he completely unnerved everyone in the room when the Knight didn't even react when Batman had tossed a Baterang when he reached for his side)

The Knight opened the scroll and spoke clearly with purpose.

"Jason Peter Todd,

You are hereby invited as a special guest of honor to the crowning of our future King of the Infinite Realms.

Daniel Phantom, once Daniel Jackson Fenton, and once Daniel Austen Todd.

Prince of the Infinite Realms, the Keeper of Balance, The Peacekeeping Halfa, the Defeater of the Tyrant King Pariah Dark, The Great One, Youngest of the Ancients, Ancient of Space, The Bridge between Life and Death.

You, the half-brother of our King, have been given the highest of honors for your past actions and will be given housing and food in the Realms and Phantom's Keep, for the week long event. Personal servants and attendants will be at your disposal and a seamstress will be on hand to tailor make your attire for the Coronation.

Signed: Clockwork. Ancient of Time. Watcher of the Infinite Timeline. Kronos. Mentor and Adviser.

PS: I shall have Fright Knight ("Me" the Knight bluntly said for a second) leave this scroll along with a personal one for you from Daniel to read over and once you make up your mind sign the bottom of the scroll.

I do hope in time you will pick the right choice Jason Todd, we of the Infinite Realms would like to reward you for your actions. After all, if you hadn't gotten young Daniel away from your father that night all those years ago, we would never had gained our Prince nor be free from our once Tyrant King.

Ah, one more thing.

The Infinite Realms will always favor you Jason."

Jason felt like he couldn't breath as Fright Knight? Rolled up the scroll, pulled a letter from his side, and held out the two items for him to take.

[imsodishy]

I know we all love when writers go deep down a research rabit hole on something really specific for the sake of a fic (I certainly am not immune to doing ridiculous research into minute details for no real reason lol)

but allow me, just for a moment, to sing the praises of ✨️vagueness✨️

Unfamiliar with a city's precise geography? Be real vague.

Want a character to be a doctor but don't know how surgery works? Mention it in passing.

Character plays a sport you know nothing about? Vague it up!

You don't know what specific brand of a thing would have been popular in that time and place? Go generic baby!!

You really can just hand-wave stuff that's not where you want the focus of your story to be without anything falling apart. The audience will look where you point them, like a magic trick! If the research is stopping you up and making progress hard or frustrating you can just... not do it.

[elizababie]

J-J-J-J-June Day 02: Coffee

Hitting this prompt a second time bc I have zero self control and got in my feelings lmao

Jowan Vahara. Jowan (dragon age). I gently angst myself into oblivion.

This one got a playlist bc I have zero self control

Thank you so much to @cecilebutcher for the prompts!

A day in Jowan's half-life: Morning.

Eyes open. Do not think about the dreams. Do not think about the days left behind. Do not think about the day to come.

Jowan takes a breath (one-two-three). He listens to the early morning breathing that chokes the dormitory around him (three-two one). He doesn't want to be awake—Right now? In general? Don't think about it don't think about it don't think—but no more sleep is going to come.

Jowan closes his eyes tight. Jowan opens them again, resigned. He has to learn when to cut his losses before he is taught. Tranquility would, will—

Do not think about that.

Jowan doesn't think about it. He rolls over and greets his reflection.

"Another sleepless night, Jowan?" Jowan asks.

The mage in the cot beside Jowan's shows his teeth. Jowan knows him well enough by now to recognize the gesture: a smile. It's a crude approximation, it is cruel and wild and cold and all he was ever taught to give. The Vahara Dalish, from the stories that Jowan's it-is-a-mistake-to-consider-me-a-friend has shared with him, are all like this. They are teeth and claws. Bark and bite.

Jowan Vahara does not speak of the clan he left behind often, but he doesn't need to. He is living proof of the keen-edged kindness grown in the Vahara clan, after all he's here. fed to the wolves by his own.

Vahara sighs. It's a sharp sound because everything about him is sharp. "Speak for yourself, Jowan," he says.

It's a tired game, one that the two of them have been playing for far too long, but the two of them share a name and a cage and years upon years of history. The classics are all they have left, but that's fine. Nothing much will matter for—

Don't think about that.

"So, Vahara—"

Vahara says, "Do not call me that."

"Apologies. So, Keeper—"

"Far be it from me to correct you, but if you'll remember I never quite attained that particular accolade before being left to a fate akin to death but twice as demeaning." Vahara sits up straight. He meets Jowan's eyes. "But I cut you off. What's on your mind, abomination?"

Jowan flinches. He hears Vahara's words in his mother's voice and it makes him think about the dreams—

Do not think about the dreams.

Vahara leans his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. He's not going to apologize at all elsewise Jowan would apologize first. It's a relief that neither of them bother. Apologies have never had any space between the two of them, why start wasting breath now?

Jowan says, "Fair play."

Vahara runs his hands through his hair. He looks like all of them: his pale skin is drained of color and starving for the sun, his eyes are shadowed, his long, dark curls are tangled from fitful sleep. He looks like none of them: Vahara is healthy and whole, even freshly sprouted from his Harrowing he smolders with quiet ambition.

"Little about life is fair," Vahara says. "You should be angry."

"Angry?"

"Angry. You should be furious. To watch apprentice after apprentice conquer their Harrowing all while remaining stagnant yourself... You should have strangled me in my sleep. That's what I'd have done, in your position."

"Doubt I'd have gotten very far," Jowan mutters. Vahara looks lanky and frail and likely to break under the pressures the Circle places on their shoulders, but Jowan sees Vahara for what he truly is.

Teeth. Claws. Bark. Bite, bite, bite.

"Always underestimating yourself. Weakness will not be tolerated, Jowan." A shadow crosses Vahara's face. Those words belong to old stories that Jowan has heard, they haunt old scars that Jowan has seen. Vahara smiles. That expression is never more of a weapon than when it is wrapped around words that belonged to his clan. "You could have whatever you want, all you have to do is take it."

"That's easy for you to say." Jowan sits up now too. Their knees nearly touch. The knowledge of Vahara's Harrowing hangs thick in the air around them. Jowan does not think about that or tranquility or the sharp scent of blood.

Vahara shakes his head, another sharp movement from a razor-sharp man. "Do you think so?"

Jowan thinks about his mother's eyes, about the hatred and fear in them. Jowan thinks about his father's hands, about the bruises they left on Jowan's small wrists the day he was dragged off to this mausoleum. Jowan thinks about the blood on Vahara's mouth and under his nails and soaked into that long, long hair of his the day he was fitted for his chains.

They were younger then, both so tiny and so fragile. Vahara came after Jowan and now he, too, has seen his Harrowing before him. Vahara came after Jowan and will see many more days and days and days after Jowan is—

Don't think about that.

"It's not a question of easy or difficult," Vahara says. After that first day he learned the system and worked it. He got himself into Irving's good graces. He endeared himself to the Templars he could and picked at thread after thread until he'd thoroughly unnerved the ones that he couldn't. After he cleaned the blood off of himself way back at the beginning of their half-lives Vahara kept himself that way. Healthy. Whole. Untouched and untouchable. "It's a question of will and won't. Will you survive, Jowan?"

Vahara leans close, close, close.

Jowan knows what decision Vahara made. It's written in the blood that the Templars do not spill and the bloodthirst that boils deep in his eyes.

Vahara stands. He stretches. He turns to leave. "You should think on that, Jowan. The time to decide is long past, and when the Knight-Commander comes knocking, you'd do well not to be left wanting.

A day in Jowan's half-life: afternoon.

Eyes open. Think about what you want. Think about what you will do to get it. Do you want to survive, Jowan? Think about blood and blood and blood.

Think about it.

One day, Jowan could wake up after eight hours of sleep. They'll be blissful and unburdened, they'll come easily and dissipate restfully. He'll wake up beside Lily in a room of their own, a life of thier own. He'll boil coffee on the stove and let Lily sleep late. He'll wake her when it's done and They'll drink together on the floor of their bedroom. They'll laugh loudly with no fear for watching eyes or listening ears.

They will be unafraid.

Jowan is never going to be afraid again.

Eyes open. Face the day ahead.

Jowan takes Lily's hand. He looks Vahara in the eyes. "I am going to survive," Jowan says. He tastes fresh coffee. He feels the fire in Vahara's eyes spark up in his own. "Will you help us, Vahara?"

Vahara smiles. It unfurls like a razorblade. It's all teeth. Bite-bite-bite. "Good choice, Jowan."

A day in Jowan's half-life: night.

Jowan's phylactery is destroyed, he bought his future with blood and now it belongs to him. He is free. He is safe. He thanks Vahara with every beat of his heart, he can taste the coffee and lazy summer days he'll share with Lily.

Heavy boots fall on the stone. Greagoir. Irving. Templars and Templars and Templars. Their path is blocked and the coffee is burning and Vahara—

Vahara does not look surprised. Templars and Templars and Templars. Bite and bite and bite.

Knight-Commander Greagoir's eyes glint. His words wrap themselves around Jowan's neck as surely as the hangman's noose; they condemn Jowan to every fate he scratched, clawed, and fought so hard to escape.

Jowan asks, "You won't lose a single night of sleep over this will you, Jowan?"

Vahara smiles. It is a smile. "No, Jowan, I will not."

"We were friends."

"We are friends." Jowan lounges. Catlike. Sanguine. "You know more about me than anyone in this new life of mine."

It's true. It's exactly as true as the fact that Vahara is not a creature that is willing to be known. Any vessel that holds his secrets will one day become disposable. Jowan's foundations are shattered and cracked. He should have known. He should have guessed.

Jowan Vahara is going to survive. No matter the cost, he will save his own skin. He will feed his own to the wolves.

He will always be exactly what he is, nothing more, nothing less.

Jowan looks at his maybe-this-is-what-friendship-is and shows him exactly how much he taught him. Jowan slices open his own palm: blood and blood and blood.

He is going to survive.

The last day in Jowan's half-life: goodbye.

[seamistgale]

Of @ghostreblogging, Where Danny has the same tax evasion skills as his parents. Kind of a coffee shop AU, but well, its gotham.

[soranker]

my girlfriend

[my-heart-of-heart]

So normal about Jon being like I don’t remember what you looked like but the man who let you die is going to suffer for what he did to you. If only Sasha coulda seen that.

So normal about Jon being like you died hating me and wanting me dead but I’m still gonna make sure this man knows I’m ending him in your name. Sure wish Tim coulda seen that.

So normal about the fact that everyone believed Jon was losing his humanity but no one got to see the ways his love and compassion for the people he lost or who hurt him drove him to that final moment.

So normal about the fact that even after everything Jonah’s done to Jon, the only person he never thinks to get justice for is himself.

[feelo-fick]

request doodles on stream in a server :D

[bishy437]

チーンホワ君の日常。

sqh’s everyday life.