#wilt excerpts

[windflowerofskellige]

Okay I'm super unhinged about this interaction in a positive way from my Shani/Radovid oneshot so here !!! Look at it!!! (It has like zero dialogue tags because it's not edited but I'm obsessed with the dialogue forgive me)

“You still in pain?” She asks, gently.

He does not know how to vocalise the answer. A yes would be admitting weakness, a yes would acknowledge the witch’s hold on him. The picking at his sleeves stops, but he cannot look her in the eyes.

“Perhaps…” is all he manages to mutter out.

“Did the treatment last time help any?”

“It… Made it easier I suppose?”

“So it eased the pain?”

“It made it bearable, yes.”

“You know, you’ve never told me how this happened. I haven’t seen a case this severe since I shadowed Professor Anemone, and we worked almost exclusively with witchers.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well I don’t suppose the King is walking around fighting monsters on the daily.”

He smiles wryly, “my dear Shani, you’d be shocked if you knew how many monsters wander about the palace.”

“This isn’t Temeria, diplomats and nobles aren’t monsters with sharp claws that tear muscles, and irreparably damage nerves the way yours are.”

“Temeria’s palace is full of monsters in the normal, less dangerous sense. Oh what's a strigga to someone who holds all the power in the world Shani? A strigga acts out of instinct, hunger, and the need to survive. Should she be blamed for the damage of her claws more than the men and women wandering about knowing full well the damage they cause and revel in it as a joyous activity? No, that’s why there’s a steel sword amongst witchers as well.”

“Don’t you want to get rid of witchers?”

“No, I want to rid of mages. Sorcerers, Sorceresses, they are a blight on this society. They are the monsters more than the witchers they create. What’s so hard to understand about that?”

“The educated man might be lumped in with those who can control the tides with a wave of their hand, no?”

“In Novigrad, perhaps. People will use it as an excuse to rid of the undesirables wherever they fall in relation to the true enemy. But my campaign is solely against mages. Foltest of Temeria, Demavend the Third of Aedirn, my father, even Henselt of Kaedwen in a roundabout extent, have fallen victim to the tyranny of those men and women exempt from society’s bounds, knowing nothing but a grab for power and control. It is a gambit. But I did not come to talk politics, I would’ve summoned you to stand before me in Tretogor if I desired to talk politics, and frankly, the look of a politician is not one that suits you.”

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt behind the cut for Derpsheep; obligatory sugar baby Kon. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Kon laughs sheepishly, shakes his head, and then leans down and presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth. Tim boils alive. Like. Just a little. Then Kon straightens back up and gives him another grin before looking back down to the bag and digging into it. He comes up with the chocolates first, since they’re what Tim put on top, and grins wider again at the sight of them. 

“Dude, how much are you paying in shipping?” he asks with a laugh, shaking his head again. 

“Not that much,” Tim lies. It wouldn’t have been that bad if he hadn’t sprung for expedited, so he figures that counts as true. Like, arguably. From a certain point of view or whatever. 

Look, he’s spent more on less important things. 

Kon laughs again, then puts the chocolates in his coat pocket and pulls out the jewelry box, inspecting it curiously before flipping it open. 

“Oh, sick,” he says, looking delighted, which makes Tim feel as good as nailing a landing on the edge of a skyscraper, and then frowns again. “But how much was–” 

“You can’t tell me not to buy you things anymore,” Tim interrupts him as politely as he can. Kon pauses, then flushes again and ducks his head a little, smiling helplessly. 

“Okay,” he says, then bites his lip and stares down at the bag. “Um . . .” 

“Yes?” Tim asks. 

“I can kinda, uh . . .” Kon trails off, then looks embarrassed. “I mean, it feels like . . .” 

Right, Tim thinks. TTK probably does take away some of the element of surprise from unwrapping presents. 

“It’s fine if you don’t like it,” he says. “I just found, well . . . an option that wouldn’t wilt over dinner.” 

Kon looks very embarrassed. 

“You really didn’t have to,” he says, a little stilted. “I mean–you already . . .” 

Tim tilts his head. Patiently puts on what he’s decided to make his “you can’t tell me not to buy you things anymore” face. 

Kon turns red again, then pockets the jewelry box with the chocolates before pulling out the last gift to look at too. He opens the box gingerly, and stares into it for a long moment before taking the actual gift out. 

Tim really hopes he likes it. 

“You really didn’t have to,” Kon repeats as he turns it by the stem, his face still all flushed and his eyes and voice both just barely soft. 

It’s a slender little branch of blue orchids, all shiny and pretty. The company that makes them lacquers real flowers and then accents them in gold. So it’s still obviously an actual flower with the petals all visible under the lacquer, but the stems are gold-plated and the petals are edged in more gold, and the flowers themselves are preserved by the lacquer, so . . . yeah. 

He could’ve waited for the cul-de-sac and just started giving Kon fresh flowers like he’d originally planned, Tim guesses, but he’d stumbled across the site while looking for gift ideas and kinda just . . . gone from there, pretty much. He’d actually seen roses first, but the orchids had felt a little more . . . creative, maybe? And likelier to be to Kon’s tastes, given how obviously fondly he remembers Hawaii–and misses it, maybe, though that might be assuming a little much on Tim’s part. 

Even if it, unfortunately, doesn't miss him. 

It’s just . . . a hypothesis, really, that Kon misses Hawaii. Just going by certain things Kon’s been willing to say and show in front of Tim Drake, and hasn’t been willing to say or show in front of Robin or the team. 

So when Tim had seen the orchids, well . . . 

Blue orchids are a rarer color, apparently, and he’d just thought–well, Kon’s eyes are blue, and so is a significant percentage of his suit. And so is, obviously, the sky he flies in, and the water he might miss. And blue orchids are supposed to be symbols of rarity and uniqueness, so, uh–maybe it’s a bit much, but he’d just thought . . . 

Kon clearly wants to be seen as someone unique and individual, and clearly deserves to be, so . . . yeah. Well. 

It’d just fit, he’d thought. 

They’re supposed to represent sincerity, too, but that’s a whole other thing.

[eidingate]

Excerpt from a letter to a little sister: Eden Foxglove is the name I called myself when I moved to Gridania. Something a bit earthy, a bit easier for the locals to pronounce. There are some in those woods who still call me that. Foxglove is certainly easier on them than Kupfohcwin. Daughter of copper fox. What do you suppose our Sharlayan grandparents were thinking when they imparted that name upon fatyr? Did they hope he would be clever as he is? Did they forget that foxes are known for their tricks? I remember the other time I changed my name, how you and Wilt teased me. "Why would you call yourself Eidin? What oath are you pledging?"  You misunderstood. I'm not swearing an oath. I am the oath.

[mizgnomer]

Behind the Scenes of The Star Beast - Part Two

Excerpt from Benjamin Cook’s Star Beast Set Visit in DWM 597:

Phones up, everywhere. But it’s not just the extras playing their parts. It’s almost midnight, but 50 or so dedicated fans are still braving the elements, to witness TV history – 18 months early, a sneak peek of the Fourteenth Doctor. One of them’s filming it on an iPad. Some post pics on their socials. In between downpours (“Gotta watch David’s hair,” says Scott. The Doctor’s quiff is wilting in the rain), the Doctor Who crew scroll Twitter, to see the backs of their heads online, almost in real time. “Of course word got round,” says Catherine, “and there’s a crowd. They’re not supposed to be seeing it, and you’re trying to hide it from them – because you want to keep the surprises, as much as you can – but it does feel like quite an event, for sure. It’s flattering, isn’t it? But you’ve got to stay focused.” “On the one hand, you’re delighted that people are interested and enthusiastic,” agrees David. “On the other, you’d like to be able to film it all in absolutely secrecy, if you could… because when plot details leak out, that’s always a shame. But you have to just accept that, sadly. It is what it is. It would be churlish to complain.”

A huge THANK YOU to everyone who posted set photos (credit to hat for the one in this post)

For other posts in this set, please see the #whoBtsBeast tag. The full episode list is [ here ]

[allsadnshit]

Excerpts from "Wilted Scallion Heart Revival 10,000" to celebrate springs arrival + air out my feelings so my qi can move

[physics-of-one-piece]

Merlot & Primroses Moodboard + Excerpt

Doflamingo x Reader

Your husband’s brother finds you. Life with him and his sham of a family is as cold as the snow your husband was found buried in, the dog tags around his neck missing. You're going to wilt slowly living with Doflamingo, you’re sure. No flower can survive in such snow.

A/N: The Red Suit Doffy fic that is set in the same setting as I'll build castles for you, my love with Reader as Rosinante's wife, except in this one, Doflamingo is faster than the marines, and gets to Reader first and takes her to his ship. The snippet below are Doffy's first lines/thoughts/scene in the fic. I'm sending this as a little gift for @fanaticsnail and her birthday celebration🎂 Have some Red Suit Doffy & Donquixote Brothers Feels, Snail. Thank you for gifting us with your writing. You're amazing. ❤️

How does betrayal feel like? 

It feels like silence. 

Silence of four years, a gap battled with taps on the den-den mushi and ink on paper.

It feels like the silence being broken by a voice. A voice not as deep as Doflamingo’s but sounding godly all the same, confident and calm, a softness Doflamingo’s didn’t possess.

His little brother’s voice, which Doflamingo mourned the loss of, not knowing he was mourning an empty lie. So many nights he spent thinking how Rosinante's voice would sound like as an adult, how his laugh would sound like, hoping maybe with time, he would hear it - one day, one day, one day — not knowing it was there all along and Rosinante had denied him all of it, had given it to the marines, to Law, to strangers Doflamingo didn't know.

Doflamingo hated them all. 

Why did they get to have it and he didn’t?

Rosinante was his little brother, his family, his only equal, the only one who understood, the one who’d been through the same hell as he had... And yet, Doflamingo never got Rosinante back, never truly met his brother as an adult, not really. All Doflamingo got from Rosinante was a mask and silence, while they got everything. 

All Doflamingo was given was a scrap, and lies. 

So many lies.

Rosi — the one who gave his nickname to him because he couldn’t pronounce Doflamingo’s full name when he was two, shortening it into a harmless nickname full of fondness — didn’t even call him Doffy.

The first words Rosi said to him after four years of silence, after eighteen years of nothing, was his fucking marine code.

Rosi talked to him like they were strangers.

“You just had to go and screw everything up! Why did you come back just to mess with me, Corazón?!”

What Doflamingo meant by those  words was: Why? Why did you come back? You should’ve stayed away from me if you hated me. Then this wouldn’t be happening! I wouldn’t have to do this if you’d stayed away from me!

The pain of betrayal is sharp and agonising.

Like a bullet.

Like red blood on white snow.

Doflamingo wouldn’t be surprised if he was bleeding in the same places Rosinante had, too.

Vergo’s words rang out in his head.

“Your little brother has a wife.”

Doflamingo stared at the picture of you. The one Rosinante gave everything to.

Finding out something like this...

It felt like... Like the first inhale of the fresh, clear sea morning, like the first bite into a feast after starving for a week, like the most pure, fresh water after trudging through a desert.

Doflamingo thinks he understands now why Rosi didn’t stay away from him, why Rosi returned.

Because Rosi couldn’t stay away. If not for himself, then for you, his wife.

Would Doflamingo be able to stay away, if he knew his brother was alive somewhere, with a wife, and hell, maybe planning to have a family? Would Doflamingo be the one considering a choice; stay away or meet? Cursed if you don’t, cursed if you do. 

Would Doflamingo be able to do it?

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be able to stay away from Rosi, or from Rosi’s family. Because Doflamingo was family, too. Rosi’s family was Doflamingo’s family, too.

Just like now, Doflamingo couldn’t stay away from you. It was impossible. It felt like his own threads were pulling him toward you, urging themselves forth from his fingertips, reaching out to wrap around you, no matter how much he was sure you didn’t want them to.

Just like how Rosi couldn’t stay away from Doflamingo no matter how much he hated him, Doflamingo couldn’t stay away from you no matter how much he knew you hated him. 

He just couldn’t. The thought was painful to bear, the mere image of staying away threatening to shred the last remaining piece of Doflamingo’s heart held together by strings.

“Doffy?” Vergo’s voice across the snail pulled Doflamingo out of his thoughts; he was still staring at your file, at the picture of you, at your name. “What do you want to do?”

Doflamingo got out of his chair, grabbing the feather coat that laid on it.

“I’m going to go get her,” he said, swinging the pink mantle over his shoulders. He grabbed a quill and parchment, writing down a note for Trebol and the others to find. He looked outside. It was early in the morning; Vergo's call and documents he sent had woken him up. It was still dark out in the sea.

“Understood,” said Vergo without question. “Safe travels, Doffy.”

Doflamingo hummed in response, and put the reciever back down on the snail. He exited his cabin, walking to the balustrade of the ship, putting his right foot atop the rail. The wind was chilly, brushing at his face.

He still had a family. Rosinante had not only left Doflamingo behind.

He left a wife behind, too.

Doflamingo took to the sky.

[thecurlyginger]

Unleashing

Summary: After choosing to not detonate the orb beneath Moonrise Towers, Gale holds in his feelings regarding Mystra's deception. Tav, however, implores that he uses her to release that anger.

Rating: NSWF - Some angry smut ahead!

Pairing: Gale/Female Tav

Word Count: 2.5k

Read it on Ao3 with an excerpt below!

Excerpt:

“I presume Raphael was referring to the same Karsus as—”

“The one who threatened Mystra once before, yes.” He released an angry sound from deep in this throat, then turned and paced until he finally rested his hand on the nearby wooden banister.

“So she purposefully tasked you to destroy it under a vague title, not caring that your life or the countless innocent lives around you would have been sacrificed as well, to protect herself,” Tav said as calmly as she could manage.

Gale turned sharply, his fiery stare nearly enough to make her wilt. “Please. You needn’t explain this to me. I have come to my own calculated conclusions, thank you.”

Before he could turn away again, Tav stepped toward him, her own irritation igniting.

“I know you have, but you’re… you’re bottling it up. She used you, Gale. Let it out!”

Mere inches apart, she could see the internal battle behind his eyes, the way he fought to keep control.

“Does it not infuriate you?” She challenged. “Is your blood not boiling?”

His hand went to her shoulder with restrained insistence. “Yes,” he said, the word heavy with emotion. “But… I have shouted at the void long enough in my tower.”

“My love,” Tav began, shaking her head slowly, “you are not alone in your tower. I am here beside you.” She placed her hand atop his and squeezed tightly around it, hard enough to extend an ache down to her shoulder. “You are safe to feel with me, to channel your anger through me. Now, I’ll ask you again – Does it not infuriate you?”

Nostrils flaring, he nodded. Her fingers trailed up his clothed chest, nails raking his throat to feel his pulse wild beneath her.

“Is your blood not boiling?”

“Gods, yes,” he growled, turning and pushing her against the wood before descending his mouth upon hers, devouring her lips.

Side recommendation to listen to the live version of The Shrine/An Argument as it inspired the losing of calm and the acceptance of anger that Gale feels!

[steddielations]

flight of icarus spoilers

Something so heartwarming and gut-wrenching about the development of Wayne and Eddie's relationship:

So, Eddie lives alone in his dad's house (on and off, he goes to stay with Wayne for long stretches throughout his life, but at the start of the book he's 18 and has been there alone for months, by his choice) and Wayne checks in on him and brings him food.

Eddie mentions that Wayne's own shelves are pretty empty, but he always makes sure Eddie's are at least half stocked with things like tv dinners that he knows Eddie can eat easily. Eddie says "Wayne has a pet theory that I can't feed myself, so every two weeks or so I'll come home to find him shoving microwave dinners and canned soup onto the cluttered shelves and into the moldy refrigerator."

When Al shows back up, he belittles this, and says he’ll make Eddie a real meal (mind you he left Eddie with nothing but stale peanut butter and flat soda for days when he was 8) which then turns out to be a big spaghetti dinner over which he manipulates the shit out of Eddie, and dangles the prospect of them moving to California together in front of him, saying they'll make a tradition out of Spaghetti Saturdays. To which Eddie responds, "Like a real family?" (ouch) Of course, that doesn't happen.

But then!! When Eddie moves in with Wayne at the end of the book, he notices that Wayne made an effort to stock vegetables in the fridge. Vegetables. It surprises Eddie and they end up wilting because Eddie just doesn’t know how to react to such a clear act of care towards him. And I just hope they had plenty of family dinners after that (Excerpts below)

(ignore my highlighting it’s irrelevant)

Al leaving Eddie ⬇️

Wayne’s empty shelves ⬇️

Al belittling the food Wayne brings ⬇️

manipulation for dinner ⬇️

Eddie doesn’t know how to react to Wayne’s care (vegetables) ⬇️

[wangxianficrecs]

a thousand fragile and unprovable things by theLoyalRoyalGuard

a thousand fragile and unprovable things

by theLoyalRoyalGuard

G, 5k, Wangxian & Mo Xuanyu

Summary: It’s a sunny Thursday when Mo Xuanyu runs away from the latest crappy foster home. He’s fifteen and he’s done. Until the day he tries to pickpocket the man in the powder blue suit. Or Mo Xuanyu gets tired of foster homes and ends up with Wangxian instead. Kay's comments: Inspired by emergent properties by luckymarrow which I have recced and loved as well. Really loved this story of Mo Xuanyu stumbling into Wangxian's life and them searching for the best way forward for him and giving him all the love and support he needs and deserves. I wish they were my parents too. Bonus feature: adorable A-Yuan. Excerpt: Lan Wangji frowns at him, thoughtful, a tiny crease between his brows. “This isn’t technically proper,” he says, slow and deliberate, “but you could come with me.” Mo Xuanyu gives him a sidelong look, weighing possible dangers. The guy doesn’t seem like a predator, but then, they usually don’t. On the other hand… he doesn’t have a lot of better options . “I, uh, I have some friends I can crash with…” the lies stick in his mouth. It’s so obvious Lan Wangji isn’t buying a word. “The friends who got you arrested for robbery and aggravated assault?” He lifts one eyebrow just the tiniest bit, and Mo Xuanyu wilts. Lan Wangji checks his watch. “My husband should be awake by now,” he says, in that careful, deliberate way like every word is calculated to matter. He doesn’t waste them. “He's making baozi.” Mo Xuanyu’s stomach rumbles. He hasn’t had real baozi in… well, since he was a kid. Despite himself, the picture in Lan Wangji’s wallet rises in his mind, the smiling man and the toddler.

pov mo xuanyu, modern setting, modern no powers, lawyer lan wangji, trans mo xuanyu, married lan wangji/wei wuxian, adopted lan sizhui, foster care, implied/referenced child abuse, homelessness, angst with a happy ending, families of choice

~*~

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

[chaoticdesertdweller]

Excerpt from "Wilted Flowers" by Divi Maggo

[windflowerofskellige]

One last excerpt of A Wilted Rose i swear but I'm also obsessed with this one too

His eyes caught on movement from the corner of the gardens, causing him to flinch and glance around only to find emptiness and then… Shani, telling stories from the wars to men who would listen and how she was as a medic.

She was beautiful and radiant in a dark green silk dress that complimented her red hair nicely. He did not approach, he was afraid she'd run off or be disappointed at the sight of him. Instead he watches, silently, anxiously thumbing at a rose he plucks from the bush.

She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not. The petals fall against the carefully paved stone path. She loves me, she loves me not. One by one until settling on, she loves me not.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Jan behind the cut; mistaken identities and interdimensional refugees. ( chrono || non-chrono )

And they must have a Clark. Kon can’t imagine how they couldn’t. 

He can’t imagine how anywhere couldn’t, if it came to it. 

Yeah, that’s a healthy thought, Kon reflects resignedly as Alfred shuts the car door and goes around to the driver’s side to slip into his own seat. Alfred starts the engine and pulls out of his parking spot, and Jon nervously grips Kon’s sleeve. He twists his wrist to grab the kid’s hand, and immediately ends up with Jon pressed completely against his side and resuming his earlier sniffling buried against his bicep. It’s whatever, obviously; Kon figures if the kid cries on the suit a bit, he can just get it . . . dry-cleaned, he guesses? Probably this is a dry-cleaning thing? 

God, who knows, Tim got the damn thing for him. It might need to be cleaned by a hyper-specific radiation or fresh water from snowmelt on the Alps or a custom-designed spray from the Batcave, for all he friggin’ knows. 

“Hello, Mr. Kent,” Alfred says as soon as the aid workers on the street have directed the towncar out of the immediate area of the refugee camp, his voice wryly but politely amused, and Kon feels an immediate rush of relief. Thank fuck, yeah, okay. Not that he really thought Alfred of all people thought he was actually a version of Batman, just . . . yeah. Just–yeah. It’s a relief. “Dare I ask why you informed the aid workers that you were Master Bruce?” 

“I did not, but I winked at a pretty lady while wearing a very expensive suit and holding a traumatized kid, so apparently some assumptions were made,” Kon admits sheepishly, and Alfred’s mouth quirks in the rearview mirror. 

“Do tell,” he says. 

“Please tell me Batman isn't gonna pull the ‘no outside capes in Gotham’ card over this,” Kon says, dragging a hand through his hair and slightly wrecking the carefully slicked-back style he had it in. At this point, he does not care. “My Batman knew I was in town.” 

“Oh, did he?” Alfred asks, still seeming wryly amused. 

“Mine too!” Jon blurts, straightening up a little as he leans back a bit from Kon. He keeps a hand on his arm, but Kon figures that’s no surprise. He’s a pretty familiar face, considering. Like, double-familiar, in a sense. 

“Ah, yes,” Alfred says, glancing carefully at Jon in the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry, young man. May I inquire after your name?” 

Well, shit, Kon thinks as Jon wilts immediately and tightens his grip on his sleeve, then buries his face in his bicep again. Not ideal, probably. At least, explaining Jon as a person is probably gonna be a whole thing, and not a thing the local Batman is gonna be thrilled to hear. 

Could be worse, admittedly. Could be “oh, Lex Luthor cooked me up in a basement”. 

Yeahhhhh. Well, at least Alfred actually recognized him, so apparently he does exist here. So like, at least they’ve only got to get through one of those explanations. 

“Jon Kent,” Jon says quietly, and Alfred . . . pauses. Kon does not let himself wince or look guilty or anything even remotely similar. Look, he’d have forewarned them if he’d had the option, okay? 

“I see,” Alfred says carefully. “May I inquire, young Mr. Kent, as to who your father might happen to be?” 

“Clark Kent,” Jon says, his voice still quiet and grip on Kon’s sleeve probably at hydraulic-press levels by now. “And my mom's Lois Lane.” 

“Ah,” Alfred says. “Please don't take this question the wrong way, young man, but would you happen to be adopted?” 

“No,” Jon says, setting his jaw stubbornly. 

“I see,” Alfred says. Kon–sighs, for lack of a better idea, and just wraps his arm around Jon. 

“I got you, Jonno,” he says, trying to sound reassuring. He’s not as good at that as Clark is, which is immediately proven by Jon tearing up and just clinging to him, full super-strength and all. A less invulnerable version of him would definitely bruise. 

And literally any baseline human would get their fucking spine crushed.

“I’m not dangerous,” Jon mutters. “And I’m not gonna hurt anybody. You know I wouldn't, right? I–I know you haven't had me yet in your reality, but–” 

Wait. 

What? 

“–but I'm not bad, I wouldn't hurt anyone, I promise, you know you and Mom wouldn't ever have a kid who was bad!” Jon chokes past an almost-sob, and Kon’s stomach sinks like a rock. 

Okay. Jon does not, in fact, have a version of him in his reality. 

Fuck. 

Also, apparently has some really concerning ideas about biological determinism and nature versus nurture and whatever else, but like, he’s like ten, that’s–normal, or whatever, that’s–

Fuck. 

“Jon, kiddo, no, I’m not–” he tries, and then the car dashboard lights up with a low, melodious sound, and Alfred presses a button on the steering wheel. 

“Report,” Batman’s voice says neutrally from the speakers, and Kon immediately winces. 

Well, this is gonna go just great, isn’t it. 

“Well, it seems Batman doesn't yet have to worry about an interdimensional territory dispute,” Alfred informs him dryly. “Superman, however . . .” 

Fuck his entire fucking life, Kon thinks. 

So much for not having to give both of the awkward explanations. 

“. . . Kent,” Bruce says, sounding immediately exasperated and also way less “Batman”, which Kon wishes he could assume were a good sign. “Why the hell did you tell the aid workers you were me?”

[slashingdisneypasta]

Jafar x GenderNeutral!Reader || Excerpt

Plot: Inspired by This post. Jafar gets insulted by someone insignificant while working a street corner with you, wow-ing passers-by with little spectacles of sorcery for money and its up to you to calm him down. Just something I wrote on my phone while watching the movie ^^

Warnings: Its Jafar so there are some sexual references.

Tags: @asperol-with-izzy , @disney-android-foundation , @lady-love88 , @marinerainbow , @moxiiscool , @ryantryan6969 , and @yesthetrashbin . I hope you are all doing well, and enjoy this small fic! ^^

"I should send him on a picturesque trip down to the depths of the underworld, for that... " Jafar growls, not even seeing you in front of him you don't think. Not even feeling your hands on his chest- too furious, watching after that man that laughed at his 'magic act' and made a spectacle of you both.

"Mhmm, you should," You allow, voice measured and your own temperament relaxed; You've calmed Jafar down a million times before, and this time will be no different. He's wrapped around your little finger... you love him. "but maybe not just this second, hm?... We have a crowd, dear... "

"Damn them all, they all agree. The filthy peasants. They think my sorcery is but trickery. Y/N, I was Sultan. I was the most powerful sorcerer in the world. How did I get here?; Cooking up spells in public for change like a pathetic, needy street urchin. They should all be destroyed, for this. Their absolute insolence! I should- " Finally, he seems to notice the affections you're laying on him, your hands gliding up and down his chest, your soft eyes watching him and listening to him, paying attention to him, looking at him like he's still a king to you. It's enough to make him stop talking, at least, looking back at you and setting his jaw. He just let's out a repressed groan, lips pulled back into a nasty scowl representing the narcissistic entitlement and hurt pride boiling and stewing inside of him. You can almost feel the heat from it all through his clothes and his skin.

Poor sweetheart... such a scoundrel... he deserves all this, really. But you can't help who you love.

"I know... " Voice gentle and comforting, you move in even closer to him, tilting your head to the side. "I know... look, how about we go home now? We've earned enough to make it tonight, and you need your rest." Delicately, you flick the wilting feather on his old Viziers turban up away from his face. ".. besides, after what that man said about us I doubt anyone else around here will give us the time of day."

His eye twitches then and fury still flickers in his deep claret eyes like fire, but his face and his shoulders relax. At least, he's no longer ready to lunge at anyone if you stepped out of the way. "... well you're right about that... disgusting, dirty peasants dont know true power when they see it with their own eyes... "

"Come on... " Now you take his hand, his long spindly fingers curling around yours without a second thought, and move away from him, leading him away from the street corner the pair of you had been working today. The late day sun is hot on your skin and makes you feel lazy, and all you want to do is go back 'home', or to the ill-furnished hole in a wall the two of you now called 'home', and lay affection on him for the rest of the evening. "Let's go home. I promise, I'll make it worth your while."

Here his eyes flicker back to yours again, a different kind of fire flaring in them. Oh, he so, delightfully easy. "Oh really?" A dirty old smirk stretches across his wickedly handsome features and follows your steps more eagerly, now. You've seen this look a million times before, and it still sends a secret, pleased shock through your depths.

"Mhm... I think you deserve it, after the day you've had."

"I agree... " Jafar quips slowly, slightly obnoxious and slightly egomaniacal- just as you want him. "And, ehem, how will you make this worth my while, dear? In detail~... "

Suddenly all the sensuality from before slips away from you and you flash him a cheeky smirk, and a shrug. "... I'm gonna build a fire and brew you a nice, hot cup of tea."

Immediately he scowls again. "You are cruel, my love."

"Well then we must be made for eachother."

Jafar lets go of your hand and, catching up to you with just a couple longer strides, creeps his arm around your waist instead. "Indeed." Then, as you watch him, he gives a mischievous shrug of those broad and regal shoulders. "Besides~ I have my ways of changing your mind, my dear, don't I?~ You'll forget all about tea when we get inside our hovel~ I promise you."

[starkjoy]

knightsong update: though i aimed for chapter 2's release this weekend, life has distracted me from my writing schedule (all good things)! i still need a few more days. however, since y'all have been waiting so nicely, i'm sharing an (unedited) excerpt below.

and if you have no idea what I'm taking about, you can read chapter 1 here first!

Rainfall haunts their steps. 

Criston prays the inevitable deluge releases once they have already settled, or that selfish clouds cling to their moisture save for a fine misting—but fortune has rarely favored him, and if he were forced to bet, he would say their chances at evasion grow slim. 

The weather above would be more worrisome were it not for the distraction trapped between his arms. Since boarding Criston’s horse an hour prior, Hightower has renewed his charade of wakefulness, maintaining a careful gap between their bodies with squared pauldrons and a firmly held chin. Perhaps their confrontation had roused vigor in the man and delayed his need for sleep, Criston had first thought, but as time passed his facade faded. Now, Gwayne wilts in a familiar cycle of sleep and start, shoulders flagging and head lolling only to snap upright moments later. 

Even after Criston’s concession of penance, the man remains stubborn. Though understandable, given the fleeting looks from their surrounding men, the pretense is foolish—refusing one’s body rest in such a state will only prolong its suffering. Perhaps Criston could dismiss his frustration, allowing Gwayne his decided fate, ill-advised or not, if his seizing motions were not such a fucking annoyance. Every swing of weight unsettles his concentration. Every sudden lurch forces him to grip his reins tighter. Criston’s horse acts skittish enough below them; he does not need added restlessness in his embrace.  

Intervention decided, Criston leans forward, nearing his mouth toward the other’s ear without closing the conscious space between them. “Stop,” he mutters.

Gwayne turns his head slightly, enough so Criston sees one fair brow arch. “I am your captive, Lord Commander,” he responds, lifting a hand as if to display the lack of options before him, “what is it would you have me cease?” 

If the Gods spare him on the battlefield, Criston is certain Gwayne Hightower will see to his undoing another way. Criston shakes his head, then fixes the man with a withering look. “Sleep, will you?” 

“I would, Ser, had the gait of your horse not deterred me.” 

“Do not paint me a fool. You deter yourself.” 

Gwayne narrows his eyes. “I have tried, Ser.” 

“Then you do not try hard enough,” he retorts, matching the man’s combative gaze. 

Hightower purses his lips and returns forward. For a moment, Criston thinks Gwayne means to sever their conversation, but then the man swivels again, peering over his shoulder. “Though you claim no intention to embarrass me,” he whispers, rehashing their earlier words, “I cannot so willingly surrender to humiliation.” 

Gwayne nods his head toward their left, directing Criston’s line of sight. He obliges, surveying the area: a squadron passes by, several soldiers immediately diverting their stares upon Criston’s sudden monitor. The sight is not novel, nor a surprising one; any observant passerby would be curious of the Queen Dowager’s brother and the Lord Commander sharing a horse—not solely because of decorum, but also their quarrelsome history. Criston resents the attention himself, but the stares are inevitable, and these are hardly the first since they embarked in duo. 

“They watch us whether you rest or not,” he says, returning his gaze to Gwayne. “Only one path serves you.” 

Hightower works his jaw. Then, after a moment, his response comes soft: “Surely you do not desire the discomfort of my weight, Ser.” 

Criston had anticipated the awkwardness of sharing a saddle with a sleeping Gwayne, but he hadn’t expected the man to speak of it so plainly. Nor had he considered that Hightower’s charade might be, in part, for his own benefit. He understands the man’s reluctance to appear weak before their army—respects it, even—but his concern for burdening Criston was unexpected. The realization sends an unwelcome warmth to his cheeks, which he quickly pushes aside. 

“You discomfort me now,” he mutters.

At that, Gwayne rolls his eyes. He’s a mirror of Otto in the moment, whenever Aegon would brandish an insult far less clever than he had aimed. “If it eases your irritation, Cole, I shall rest,” the knight concedes. “But I do not wish to hear your grumbling come evening.”

“I would not dream of it, Ser,” he promises dryly. 

With a deep exhale, Gwayne shifts himself backward, closing the slight gap he had maintained between them. Now, the man’s armor presses fully against Criston’s chestplate. Gwayne’s unkempt hair brushes over Criston’s exposed neck, a gentler cousin of the sword that once lingered in its stead. 

[fitcherslane]

I did it! I wrote a sequel for my Gortash\F!Tav fic! Now part of a wee series! Already working on the next part!

Take a gander if that’s you poison 💕

Excerpt- Speak of the Devil

It’s said that distance makes the heart grow fonder. Gortash found it brought his to rage.

“I’m going to give you a moment to reconsider what you just said.” Each repeated rap of his claws upon the desk was as heavy as a death knell. “So, I’d choose your next words very, very wisely.”

The two lieutenants shuffled in place and looked to one another for an answer — or a miracle.

Can find here:

That one isn’t spicy at all so if you’re looking for spice I would check out the first part 💕

Excerpt - Flirting with Tyranny

The sound from her throat at his touch came from the Hells itself. A succubus would wilt at it, fall to their knees, and implore mercy. Gortash gripped her tight, squeezing her supple skin, imprinting it to memory.

"The day will come where I will take you," he whispered against her lips, close enough to touch. "But that day isn't—"

She kissed him, a hard, desperate thing, tasting of wine, roses, and blood. Her tongue danced with his, wanting, eager and dizzying.

To swallow even a drop of a philter of love, was to swallow fire. To wallow within the very Hells and feel its lick against your skin, douse it, then create the flame anew. A never-ending cycle of need and want, of desire and lust, only to have it jerked away when close, leaving the drinker yearning. Demanding more.

Want more? Find it here!!

Enjoy! 💕

[annlillyjose]

WRITEBLR REINTRO – ANN LILLY JOSE

hello there!

following through with my tradition of posting a new writeblr intro every single year, here we go – a brand new reintro where i talk a little bit about myself and my current writing projects. so, here we go, onto all that good stuff!

about me

i'm ann, a twenty-year-old writer from kerala, currently based in kochi

i live with my husband, who is a musician, and lead a very creative life of sorts

i'm an infp, enneagram type 2

i write literary fiction and poetry

i'm a discovery writer and have a thing for sad stories with traumatised characters

i work as a content writer and social media manager for a wedding company

you can find all my published work on my linktree

my aesthetics: wilted flowers, fallen leaves, silhouettes, shadows, gentle friendships, indie music, unplanned trips, birds, fireflies, annotated books, old libraries and buildings, post-colonial literature, voids, romance

my wips

i recently finished a litfic novel called dairy whiskey and am editing it right now, hoping to get it ready for agent submissions in a month or two. i put my heart and soul and blood and bones into it, so if you’d like to dive into the story and read a few excerpts, you can check out the intro here and every other excerpt here!

rock salt is my main wip since finishing dairy whiskey. it is the story of identical twins rain and norah as they move out for college and navigate their lives on their own, which ends up in them growing apart. if you like complicated sibling relationships and the struggles of growing up, you’ll love this book!

i so badly want to start writing it, but i don’t think i’ll be able to until dairy whiskey is in a more secure position. so, there probably won’t be any updates for a few months, but you can read the wip intro here.

this is a gay vignette novel that i started writing back in 2021 as a source of personal joy. this is the story of how a singer-songwriter desperate for normalcy meets a boy with a heart heavy with guilt. this is the story of how they fall in love and it’s honestly quite wholesome <3

i haven’t worked on this book in so long and i’ve been trying to sneak some words in, but it feels like the book needs a fresh start. i don’t know, i just might start it all over again. but until then, here’s an outdated wip intro.

green room is a literary/experimental memoir documenting my teenage years as a writer. it is a deep dive into craft and how it affects life, particularly how it moulds you as a person. i haven’t started drafting this yet, but here’s a wip intro for now.

so, that’s about it!

if you’d like to be pinged when i drop a new publication or a wip update, just send me an ask to be added to my general taglist and i’ll tag you in those posts.

thank you so much for reading. i hope writing has been going well for you. if not, here’s some strength, some kindness, and some caffeine to keep going!

– love, ann.

general taglist (ask to be added or removed)

@shaonsim @heartfullkings @vnsmiles @dallonwrites @wannabeauthorclive @sienna-writes @violetpeso @flip-phones @silassghost @ambidextrousarcher @zoe-louvre @writing-with-l @magic-is-something-we-create @femmeniism @frozenstillicide @wizardfromthesea @rose-bookblood @coffeeandcalligraphy @rodentwrites @saltwaterbells @snehithiye @at-thezenith @subtlefires