#wilt excerpts

[literaryvein-reblogs]

more words for worldbuilding (pt. 2)

ANIMALS

Animal: adult, beast, buck, cat, chicken, cur, father, frog, goat, half-breed, horse, hybrid, litter, mongrel, monster, parasite, pig, stock, young

Bird: bird, chicken

Fish: aquarium, aquatic

Group of animals: drove, herd, insect, pack, stock, team

Insect: bee, grub, pest

Limb or appendage of: bill, coat, feather, fur, mop, pelt, scale, trunk, wing

Mammal: cat, dog, father, goat, hound, mother, pig

CLOTHING

Accessory: bag, belt, buckle, collar, pocketbook, purse, satchel

Clothing: apparel, array, bathing suit, cape, clothes/clothing, costume, dress, dungarees, falsies, frock, garment, girdle, gown, hat, jacket, negligee, nylons, pajamas, pants, quilt, scarf, skirt, suit, swimsuit, thing/things, trappings, underwear, veil, wash, wrap

Part: collar, crown, pocket, strand, tiara

State of dress: bareness, nudity, try on/try out, wear

FOOD & DRINK

Beverage: alcohol, coffee, drink, potable

Beverage, alcoholic: beer, liquor

Change in: curdle, turn

Food: appetizer, bite, brew, bun, casserole, condiment, cracker, diet, doughnut, feed, frosting, grub, helping, hors d’oeuvre, leftover, macaroni, meat, nosh, nurture, nutrition, pastry, produce, refreshment, seasoning, stew, subsistence, support, sweet, treat, vittles

Food part: morsel, nip, taste, tidbit

Meal: banquet, bite, buffet, diet, fare, picnic, repast, spread, table

Produced from animal: comfort food, feed, food, frosting, grub, hero, macaroni, sandwich, submarine, vittles

Produced from plant: condiment, doughnut, loaf, pastry, produce, sweet

Quality of: acerbity, baked, done, edible, mellow, nourishing, perishable, rare, ripe, salty, short, stale, strong, sweet, unappetizing, weak, wholesome

NATURAL RESOURCES

Electricity: beam, spark

Energy: electricity, fuel, nuclear energy, petroleum, power

Expression of energy: blast, bonfire, chill, concussion, discharge, fire, flash, noise, thunder

Natural event: eclipse, meteorology, weather

Resources: fuel, resource, rock, substance

PLANTS

Flower: bloom, bouquet, flower

Fruit: berry, produce

Growth or death of: bloom, bud, germinate, growth, wilt, wither

Part: bark, branch, cereal, flavoring, foliage, grain, juice, limb, nut, pod, scion, shell, stalk, trunk

Plant: algae, bramble, bush, crop, fossil, grass, harvest, hybrid, organism, produce, wreath

Tree: timber, wood/woods

Vegetable: produce

WEATHER

Object connected with: avalanche, breeze, climate, cold, dew, film, flurry, frost, gust, haze, hurricane, meteorology, moisture, puff, thunder, weather, wind

Quality of: breezy, clear, close, crisp, dismal, fair, fiercely, fine, furious, gloomy, hazy, humid, intimidating, misty, oppressive, raw, rugged, soft, stormy, sultry, temperate, thick, tranquil, turbulent, wild, wintry

Type of: blizzard, cloud, drizzle, fog, hail, mist, puff, rain, shower, tempest, torrent, tremor

NOTE

Excerpted from Roget's 21st Century Thesaurus, Updated and Expanded 3rd Edition, in Dictionary Form, edited by The Princeton Language Institute.

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary. Writing Resources PDFs

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary

[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.

[universe-friday]

EXCERPT #77:

Hello…? God, I hope somebody is listening.

I just keep thinking, old sport… What if Solus was the last one?

They were listening to me before I met them… An unknown spectator… What if they were a one and only…?

At least… I suppose… I know you’re always here, February.

Even if you’re just a thought in my head.

Even if you’re an exploded star in the sky.

Even then… My idea of you is skewed.

My head feels skewed.

Every time I take a hit from the City I say, “Well, it can’t get worse than that…” And then it does.

I’m not well, February.

I wish you were here so I could tell you that.

I wish you were here to hold me.

Hell, I wish you were listening just as you were that one night… My sobs filled the silence, yet your presence was all that I needed to feel better.

I mean- You are listening. That is what I’m supposed to tell myself.

Supposed to…? Yeah, yeah.

I just don’t know if I have the strength to believe myself anymore.

How many times did I tease Solus? How many times did I get annoyed by them sliding those papers under my floor? How many times did I say those things and believe them?

Everything feels quiet. The City… My set-up… It feels as if it has been so long since I’ve had an uninterrupted broadcast… I never would have expected to be one day upset about that.

When will the day come, February, when I hear back from you? 

I cannot bear the thought that you, too, were left to wilt in a tank, floating boundlessly, yet so confined.

I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know. I don’t…

[...]

[chaoticdesertdweller]

Excerpt from "Wilted Flowers" by Divi Maggo

[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 ]

[physics-of-one-piece]

Merlot & Primroses Moodboard + Excerpt

Doflamingo x Reader

You can read the first chapter of this fic HERE

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.

[distant--shadow]

the witch and the widow chapter 8 WIP

The room is a thick cloud of incense and darkness, with the occasional sharp edges of vinegar and formaldehyde, settling vapours soft-furnishings of sulphur and petrichor.

Her breath does not come easily; wheezing a possibly-damning soft whistle from her nostrils between heaves from her throat that feel as though someone is standing on her chest.

Her eyes strain against the dim light; a soon-to-be-extinguished candle in a brass holder in her right hand, its flame catching in the thick glass lenses that sit on the end of her nose-

Her eyes slowly attempt to adjust.

When she looks down her hand is gnarled beyond recognition; freckles now liverspots and teal veins and purple capillaries barking the texture of the dense clusters of scars that entangle all of the visible skin of her arm. She wishes to pull back the sleeve further, but she can’t - realising her body not to be her own, watching, dreaming (assumedly) - as instead the candle is set down at a desk, the edges of tomes and vials and metal contraptions barely illuminated in flickering orange, phasing in and out of existence.

Her joints ache, abrasive like the points of her incisors dragging across the gritty base of fired fine porcelain, daring the bone to grind down and allow raw nerve to make the contact, porcelain jesters and singing blackbirds, her head heavy, spine wilting like a dying flower.

Her hands – their hands – (whose hands?) brace themselves momentarily on the lip of the crowded desk, before one slips under - feeling almost blindly - fittingly blindly, her vision foggy with a blizzard of cataracts as her fingertips read the woodgrain in the underside of the writing area of the desk, colliding into mortise and tenon, cornered in mitres.

A draft persistently licks at her- their- neck, the tips of their ears feeling frost-bitten, their nose dripping, heart beating in their ears, a longing for a copper tub filled with steaming hot water and perfumed tinctures-

Their fingertips meet their mark, a dull mechanical click sounding as something pushes into their thigh

They step back, their right hand taking the candleholder back into it, the shadows slowly pulling back like bed sheets to reveal the contents of the hidden drawer

A book - untitled, clearly bound by someone who at best was an apprentice on their very first day, the leather rugged and almost liver-spotted like the hands that marvel at it; pages loose and dog-eared, including those dogs that lost their ears from a mauling or were cancered bulbous then away from too much time with their pale fur in the sun.

A diary - though as the pages fly by they are written in a number of hands - and later, much later towards the end are excerpts - torn from manuscripts with monk-skilled dexterity and margin embellishments, and finally, the uniform type-face of a printing-press-

“My love-” they startle, as a hand rests over theirs - feminine, skin cold as though petrified, perfect, carved from marble so smooth it may be free of fingerprints “Your mind is not well enough to see this.”

Under the movements of their hands in puppeteered unison, the book closes shut.

The woman kisses them at their temple.

“You wrote down all that you can, the book will be his.”

The room brightens, though barely; a soft blue light as though the moon had entered through the window, exposing the faces of the individual stones that make up the masonry, the carving of barley twists in varnished wood.

The woman’s skin, almost iridescent and paler than fresh milk, her hair draping over her shoulders down to past her hips like perfectly spun silk

They look back to their overlapping hands, as though they were swearing an oath over the tome.

“Why do my hands look so old?”

“We are old, dear.”

“Why don’t you look it?”

She smiles,

beautiful, formidable.

“Because we made a promise.”

~

It’s always been hard to re-adjust to reality in the morning; Imogen had heard the haze referred to as being sleep-drunk, and it feels apt with how the beams of the stable roof bulge towards her, her eyesight slurring as if struggling for the words to quite decipher what they’re seeing, her motor instinct to marinate in the emotions that her sleep had given to her.

So often she wakes up as though in fight or flight, sleep certainly not affording her the rest it is supposed to.

There was no terror or gore last night, only the aches of a withering body and mind - clouded, outside of itself - Imogen can relate to the disassociating.

She wishes she had influence, rather than to only be a passenger, curtained off behind carriage windows. If the room wasn’t so dark, maybe Imogen could have caught themselves in a mirror, could see how much skin the scars had claimed, could look upon the woman’s face a moment longer-

Could have actually read a single word on any of the pages.

The book. That book.

The Lady’s Library.

Imogen sits up from out of her bedroll, rubbing her head and peering over the edge of the attic space, partially expecting another flower to fall from the sky.

Maybe this time it will become a ball of light - a comet with a long tail hurtling towards the floor and melting through it, maybe it would wilt in moments- slowly greet the ground as the body she had joined had in her dream, liquidising into a puddle of organic matter that flows between the gaps in the flagstones-

some power that would be-

though it is a blessing, to get that old. It is much easier to leave before then.

(she believes she was able to properly dry and preserve the dahlia.)

She stops rubbing her forehead and focuses.

The saddle stand still remains in the middle of the tacking room.

Imogen feels her stomach almost turn at its confrontation, almost undiscernible; how her belly drops to how her legs weaken and her insides lunge.

Her face flushes, her whole body

The Lady. The library.

Focus.

~

Ms Laudna is in the deceivingly large herb garden.

Deceivingly - ‘caus Imogen hadn’t quite realised how many of the herbs from around here had blooms - or at least maybe she wasn’t used to seeing them this densely arranged and in flower beds with consideration given to their orchestration by colour and height and shape and shading and scent.

Ms Laudna is kneeling on a cloth-

Now that they had taken that trip to the seaside together, Imogen recognises it as the one they had laid the oysters on.

“Imogen.”

Ms Laudna greets her before Imogen has had the time to clear her throat.

“Ms. Laudna-”

“Do you wish to talk with me? I assume you haven’t lead Foie Gras here to graze, I would have to draw a line before that.”

“What? No – I mean yes – yes, I did wanna talk.”

Ms Laudna smiles as Imogen contradicts herself; and Imogen buckles at her focus, eyes diverting down – down besides Ms Laudna’s knees and onto the embroidered cloth, where a pile of long and purple-flowered stems of bishopwort amasses.

“Should I stand?”

“I don’t wish t’disturb you-”

Imogen decides to kneel down as well, and Ms Laudna bows her head to her in acknowledgement and carries on with her work.

 “What’re ya harvestin’?”

“Nothing in particular, you have to cut many things back in order for them to grow fuller.” She continues, the meeting of two blades satisfyingly snipping as the bouquet grows fatter. Imogen finds herself unusually jealous of the flowers getting so much attention, even if they are being cut down.

“That’s bishopwort.”

“It is - betony - betonica officinalis, by the old language.”

“I’ve never heard someone talk the old language.”

“Times have changed.”

snip snip snip

bees hum

Ms Laudna maintains her focus on the flowers.

“I was given it at Master Faramore’s when I got sores on m’hands.” Imogen offers, thinking back again to the earlier days of her scars manifesting, before they had been there a long enough time for her to realise they were indeed scars and not sores.

“And how did it treat you?”

“Well enough.”

“If you ever need more then please, help yourself.”

snip snip snip

“Thank you Miss.” Imogen continues to watch as the lady prunes stems back to the stalk with the small  pair of shears, gathering another small bouquet in her other hand before she sets them down to add to the pile by her knees, Imogen trying to understand what makes these flowers in particular so worthy of Ms Laudna’s focus.

This part of the garden - as are many areas of the garden that are not the grassy paddocks - is alive with the thrums of bees’ wings and grasshoppers’ legs, some of the bees so round and fluffy that they look like pom-poms or dandelion heads caught on the wind, the honey from the hive in this very bed some of the most valued, complex and medicinal

the early morning sun dyes the downy and stray hairs at the nape of Ms. Laudna’s neck white gold.

-of course Imogen wishes to trace her fingertips over them, curl them around her knuckles. She could pretend the touch were a bee’s, hum in her Lady’s ear-

snip, snip-

‘help yourself.’

The library.

“Can I help y’now?”

“If you would like to.” Ms Laudna stops, turning to face Imogen, her hands still holding the shears resting on her lap.

“I would.” Imogen admits, though it had not been what she had planned. She had at least momentarily won her attention, maybe her favour too.

“Alright.” The look Ms Laudna gives her is far too coy, Imogen feels as though she is at her feet shucking oysters again.  “We’ve seen your knife skills, how about you show me some sewing? I believe it should be coriander, sorrel, and tarragon at this time, I would say.”

(link 2 previous chapters on ao3 caus tumblr hates me linking to there the programmed way)

[iamthelemonlord]

Duke of death and his maid au:

CW: // animal death

Lwj gets cursed where anything he touches dies. He discovered his curse when he went out one the morning to his rabbit hutch.

No one had ever heard lwj scream, let alone cry before. When lqr comes running out to see what had happened, lwj was crying over the dead bodies of his rabbits. Seeing him distraught, they had kept coming towards him to comfort him, only to instantly die when they came into contact with lwj.

Lqr walked towards him to ask what had happened and comfort him. Lwj screamed as he saw his uncle come close. "Don't touch me!" His back hit a tree, causing it to instantly wilt.

"Wangji!?" Lqr exclaimed, confusion and horror clouding his features.

Lwj watched as the tree withers and dies. He falls to the ground, confused as to why this was happening to him. His uncle watches helplessly as the grass in contact with lwj shrivels up, becoming lifeless.

Not knowing what else to do, lqr urges lwj up without going near him and rushes him inside the manor. He sits him down and orders the servants to bring him tea and something to eat but warn not to touch him.

As the servants run about, lqr discovered that before this curse had taken hold, lwj had dreamt that someone had visited him and placed the curse on him, their parting words to him were that now no one will be able to truly love him. He'd thought it was just a dream until this morning. This was all anyone could go on. With no way of knowing the truth and no trace of the witch, there was no known way of breaking the spell. They know of none who are familiar with magic.

As he is only the second heir, lwj is taken to a secluded manor and locked away where there is nothing but wilderness. Someone comes by once in a while to clean, but they never stay, fearful of coming in contact with the lord of the manor. All he can do now is search for answers as he rots away alone. The Lan family would continue to provide for him and help with his research but other then that, lwj was on his own.

Try to imagine if you would, a life where you can never embrace the one you love, never once feel their skin against yours. He takes the life's breath out of anything he touches. That was the curse the witch so cruelly inflicted upon him. No animal, human, or plants were except, of course. Regarding his nephew doomed to live his life without knowing the warmth of another, his uncle only complained:

Lqr: That child is like death incarnate!

(Authors note: The last paragraph above and the character line are not my own. It is an excerpt from the English dub of the show. These are not my original words. This narration goes hard, I swear!)

Then, one day, someone appeared at his door, claiming to be his new butler who would be living there from now on. It was wwx who lwj had grown up with, wwx's mother being close friends with Iqr. He was no butler. He didn't have a title, but his family had some land and prestige. Lwj turned him away, calling him insane for wanting to work there. Wwx tells him not to worry. He knows the circumstances and is prepared.

Wwx: Come on, Lan Zhan! We're friends! Let me work here 😁

Lwj: Get lost!

Wwx: Don't be like that! I received permission from your uncle! I'm to stay here and serve you while researching the curse.

Lwj: I do not need help! I am fine on my own! Leave now!

Wwx: Nope! I'm staying!

Lwj slammed the door in wwx's face before he could take a step into the manor. He left him out there thinking he'd get bored and leave soon. Wwx did not leave and stayed sitting on the front steps playing with a stick in the dirt. As night fell and lwj saw that wwx was still there, he relented. He opened the front door and stared down at him.

Lwj: One night, and you're out by morning.

Wwx: Once I take a step in there, you'll never get rid of me.

Lwj: Wei Ying! 😡

Wwx: Laaaan Zhaaaaan! 🙄

Lwj groans in frustration but lets wwx in. Wwx practically skips inside avoiding contact with lwj. He soon makes himself at home and a week later he's still there. Working. Lwj had contacted his uncle only to find that yes wwx was hired by him to help care for lwj and assist in his research. Apparently wwx was an expert in witch magic, specifically curses.

After a heated back and forth with his uncle, wwx was permitted to stay.

He did everything he said he would: oversees the manor and helps with research albeit late in the day since he isn't an early riser. The only issue lwj sees with the arrangement is that the man gets TOO CLOSE to him!

Lwj tends to wear gloves and long sleeves but the curse works through clothes. The layer has to be thick enough that it is not HIM someone is touching, yet wwx seems to not care! One too many times now their noses had almost touched! The man was courting death.

One night while they were sitting together wwx brought up a new topic.

Wwx: we should hire other people. This place is too big

Lwj: No

Wwx: Laaaan Zhaaaaaan!

Lwj: it is too dangerous. Either way, no one besides you would want to stay here.

Wwx stands from his seat and leans across the table, their faces almost touching causing lwj to almost tumble over his seat.

Lwj: WEI YING!

wwx ignores him: What if they can't be affected by your curse?

Lwj: That's impossible. They would have to be invulnerable or dead.

Wwx: if I find someone, will you hire them?

Not thinking he would, lwj agrees with an eye roll.

The next day wwx drags a man to the manor by the name Wen Ning who had been looking for a job. He was from a branch of a prestigious noble family but has been cast out due to being cursed to continue walking the earth after his death. He had died a year ago and now no one but his sister wanted anything to do with him.

Wwx: Your curse stipulates that they have to be living.

Wwx shoves wn towards lwj. In reflex he catch him. Horrified he looks at the man in his arms who blinks back at him.

Lwj: Wei Ying!

Lwj was furious. He righted wn before facing off with wwx

Lwj: That was completely out of line! You could have killed him... again!

Wwx: and I was sure you wouldn't. There's no breath to take. Now what room should we give him?

Wn became the gardener.

After a few weeks a woman showed up to their door announcing herself as WQ, WN sister. She request to stay so she can be with her brother in return she can be their physician and help with the research on curses. At this point lwj has no say anymore and wq is invited to stay The house used to be so quiet and now noise kept filling the space. He may not be able to touch his friends but he could once again feel their warmth. Lwj had become so accustomed to being alone that he forgot he missed being around others. Now he doesnt feel the least bit lonely.

Fin for now.

Kind of wanna do a longer thing with it either way but it's the general idea.

Notes on things to happen:

-At some point wwx gets bunnies that wn cares for in the garden and lwj can enjoy from afar.

-They solve the curse (duh)

- some magic fuckery. Some friends they make alongb the way are witches

- lots of edging stuff (nsfw)

This is very much from an edging type of anime. The original with the maid (Alice) all she likes to do is tease the Duke (very wx coded)

[dragonnan]

Fanfic Word Game

Thank you so much for the tag, @disappearinginq!

Rules: you will be given a 4 letter word. Then you share one short excerpt from your wips that starts with each letter of your word. My word is RUNS

______

R - Untitled Sherlock Faun AU WIP

Reaching into the foliage beneath the oak tree, Sherlock tugged out his bag. Throwing it over his shoulder, he preceded Mycroft back towards the car park; scuffing leaves and twigs from his curls.

The drive to Surrey was predominantly made up of Mycroft interrogating him about his classes, professors, and other students while Sherlock offered up various minimalist replies crafted to avoid implicating himself. Needless to say, he said very little.

By the time they finally pulled to a stop in front of the house - Sherlock had seriously begun contemplating leaping from the car to escape the drudgery. Alas, opportunity squandered, he was made to face the next stage of the gauntlet as the front door swung open and their mother strode out forcefully.

“What is this I hear that you missed the last two hours of classes, youngling? And of course your school nurse called me. Did you truly believe they wouldn't inform us?”

Heat flushed across Sherlock's neck and he could practically feel Mycroft gloating beside him. Of course this was nothing to the punishment that was ultimately handed down.

Mycroft, once the sentencing was read, was hardly pleased either, in the end – which gave Sherlock at least a dim sense of satisfaction.

“I hardly see why I must be punished as well.”

U - Untitled Sandman WIP:

“Undoubtedly my presence is a source of merriment for all of our siblings.” His sister cocked an eyebrow at his sour tone.

“Well, not if you’re Mr. Doom and Gloom. You could wilt cabbages with that mood.”

Dream didn’t bother with a reply.

He could scarcely admit that, for the first time, he was… intrigued by the upcoming gathering. Almost always it was Destiny to call them together for one of their wretched dinners. As eldest, it was his purview to do so. And, yet, this time, it had been one of the younger siblings to take on that responsibility. Olethros was often jovial and one of the loudest at the table. However, it was not in his nature to take a leading role in any engagement – preferring to participate in a more carefree manner; or mediator of various sibling squabbles.

So it was they passed the afternoon and, as torches were lit and stars began to light the skies, it was time to gather together.

They arrived, there in Destiny’s garden, in ones and twos. The twins were already at the table – Desire with a large goblet of wine while Despair fed a crust of pastry to one of her rats. Destiny stood some distance away – book in hand, as always, and looming like the specter he was. With a giggle and burst of perfumed fish, Delirium tumbled into sight – immediately drawing a grin from Desire. They held another goblet of wine towards their sister, who took it happily.

N - Untitled Sherlock AU WIP

Not entirely amicable – quit a few domestics in fact and many of their battles had revolved around John’s words that last Christmas. A part of John couldn’t blame her for that but, then, there was plenty that he could blame her for and thus their parting of the ways. So, yeah, his choice to stop trying. It was Mary’s choice, though, to leave. It had twisted something ugly inside of him to see his once wife walk away from her daughter. Because when she’d decided to leave, it hadn’t only been from the townhouse they’d shared, but London altogether. Of course, this had only reaffirmed John’s concerns about her vanishing without a trace.

John rocked his daughter as she fussed. Mary had pumped enough breast milk to last them for several days but a rubber nipple wasn’t comparable to the real thing and he’d been hard pressed to get Rosie to take a bottle.

He was lonely.

He missed what he thought they’d created.

After Rosie was down for her nap, John wandered back out into the sitting room. He’d never imagined this house could feel so… big. So empty.

It was almost like pain – to feel the grief of his former life stuck in his throat like a backed up pipe. His eyes were dry but all of the effects of that sadness remained. Perhaps it was worth attempting distraction, again. Dropping onto the settee, he felt around under one of the small pillows for the remote – finally throwing the damn thing across the floor in a flash of welcoming anger. The remote just peeped out from behind the seat cushion. He tugged it free and settled back with the remote in one hand and wishing he had a beer for the other. Sure, he could get up again and go fetch one but that seemed like so much effort. And he really, really didn’t want to risk getting too comfortable drinking through his emotions. Not again.

S - Untitled Iron Man WIP (Tony versus Fisk)

“So what wrong side of the bed did I wake up on this morning to earn this clandestine meeting before my Kai Jiew has had time to settle?” One hip resting on the edge of the railing, Tony managed to shudder back a yawn before it became embarrassing. Behind him, the familiar snap of a briefcase lock barely drew a glance as “Dilbert” pushed up his glasses and withdrew a thick file from the depths.

Further in the shadows, the larger man, silent, stood with his head at an oddly subdued angle. Often reticent in the blessedly few interactions Tony had ever had with the man, it was little surprise that it was his assistant who spoke.

“Apologies, Mr. Stark. I assure you this won't take long.”

The unstated request, of course, was that Tony sit at the table positioned within the large room. Tony raised an eyebrow. “You didn't say please.”

______

Tagged with a word

Word: SAND

@sevdrag @sgam76 @teejaystumbles @the-apocrypha @totallysilvergirl @helloliriels @ceruleanmindpalace @aelaer @kitcat992 @gabessquishytum @cuubism

[detta-pica]

Suguru sits still and kind of tense for a moment, then slumps sideways against the back of the sofa, sighing. “How did you even make it here, if you can’t see?” It’s a good question. Satoru has surprised himself with his ability to traverse the streets of Tokyo at night. The disgustingly sentimental part of him that he generally tries not to listen to these days insists that he’ll always find his way to Suguru, no matter what. More realistically, he knows the city well, has (had?) excellent spatial awareness and memory, and so he didn’t really need his eyes for navigation. “I followed my nose,” he says nonsensically, sniffing loudly for good measure. It’s not fully a lie. Once he got close to Suguru’s building, he found that he could, in fact, detect the faint, unmistakable scent of Suguru’s cursed energy. It’s so unique, the way it smells, the way it looks, swirling near Suguru’s stomach, smoky, malicious, like Suguru has to be careful to keep it contained. It’s always been like this. It makes Satoru feel safe. As if he’s read Satoru’s thoughts, Suguru changes his demeanor. It’s subtle, especially when all Satoru can see is his cursed energy, but the atmosphere, the vibe, definitely shifts. Satoru has a sixth--uh, seventh sense for that sort of thing. “Don’t you think coming to me was maybe not the smartest move?” Suguru asks softly. And, sure, there is a small possibility that Suguru might use this as an opportunity to take over jujutsu society or something. But if that’s the case, Satoru would rather know right away, and also, Suguru might as well end him, then, because he doesn’t want to live in a world in which--yeah. It’s all the same, in that way. “It was you or becoming a hunter-gatherer halfway up some mountain,” Satoru says honestly. “Or a remote island, maybe, but an island I could swim to probably doesn’t count as remote, does it?” “I’m gonna make you eat so many vegetables,” Suguru threatens. “And you’d better not grumble, because I will strangle you if you make the girls think peas are gross or something.” Satoru finishes his tea quickly, waves his mug at Suguru until he takes it, then wilts, all the tension leaving his body until he’s mostly horizontal, head propped up awkwardly by the arm of the sofa. He gets to stay. He’s not gonna die, and maybe the entire jujutsu society won’t be thrown into chaos. “Hey, no. You can noodle out in bed.” Satoru blinks behind the sleep mask. “Your bed?” “I don’t have room for an extra futon, so yes. Trust me, this sofa is not big enough.” That sounds like a only one bed situation, and Satoru is so down.

Another excerpt from Pathways for WIP Wednesday. This fic is so weirdly difficult to write. First it was research forcing me to slow down, and now it's the (very) dubious morality that's making me reconsider some things. I am making progress, though.

[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?”

[khywren]

find the word tag

rules: i'll give you five words. find the word (or closest approximation you can) in your works and post an excerpt. tag others to play and give them new words too!

thanks so much for the tags, @xxnashiraxx, @vividiana, @deadly-diminuendo, @bloodinwine! i am, of course, doing every single one of all your words, so this one's gonna be a bit long, but why not? it was fun going back through some of the fics i haven't looked at in a long time~

dream

In her struggle to wake, she had anchored herself to his presence in her own mind, heart thundering loudly in her chest as she had finally torn herself from the dream as if surfacing for air.

( adrift, chapter 1 )

fire

When he pulls back to look at you, his eyes are the fire that finally sets you alight, blazing red embers that simmer with need. You feel warm, almost deliriously so, as the heat that had been pooling low in your stomach begins to ebb throughout the rest of your body.

( denouement )

pull

The anger that's been simmering inside him erupts, and his eyes flash in warning. But she meets his ire with determination, either too drunk or too stupid to realize what she's done. The memories she's pulled to the surface, long since locked away.

( mist and shadow )

sweet

( vis medicatrix )

His eyes pin you in place, wine-dark and hungry. You're left with no option but to look at him as he watches you carefully, considering. “Or are we going to pretend that you're not aching for my cock already?” His voice is honey-sweet, rich and thick and sinfully decadent.

tears

Tears well in her eyes, blurring her vision. Ysera brushes them away with the back of her hand. She seethes with anger, both for herself and for the lives that were lost because of her inaction. Astarion practically wilts beneath the venom in her gaze. Her voice is strained and stretched thin when she finally finds it. “You really are awful, you know?”

( adrift, unpublished chapter )

sunshine

The roaring of the rapids is what finally catches her interest, and she stops on the river’s edge, gaze trained on the churning, frothing water as it rushes past. The whispers in her mind are an ever-present companion, especially after sunset, like an itch she can't quite scratch. It's easier to drown out their mournful serenade here where there is so much else to draw her attention.

( adrift, chapter 3 )

melt

The snow is falling thickly now, settling in an icy blanket along the rooftops nearby. Astarion makes a small noise and sighs quietly through his nose, resisting the voice in his head that tells him how ridiculous he must look when he sticks out his tongue to catch a snowflake drifting towards him. No sooner has it melted on his tongue than does he hear Ysera's muffled laughter beside him, hand clapped over her mouth when he turns to frown at her.

( frost & flame )

stay

( adrift, chapter 5 )

It's almost concerning how much she likes it. How, for the first time in her life, she feels like she can be of use to someone, instead of just a burden. She likes that, too. Astarion makes a show of gathering the remaining blood on the corners of his mouth with a flick of his thumb and licks the digit clean. He never stays for long once he's finished with her, but tonight it seems he has other plans in mind, and it's more than just the weather that's keeping him.

smile

Astarion’s mouth was made for sly smirks and flirtatious grins, but the tender smile that spreads across his lips now looks better than any of them, the hard edges of his face smoothed by Gale’s profession of love. It suits him, Gale thinks – he will dedicate his efforts to ensuring that Astarion will never again need to hide behind the echoes of his past.

( between the lines of fear and blame )

greed

“Greedy little thing aren't you?” he says, his eyes darkening. He steadies himself with a hand on your hip and hovers over you, lowering his mouth until he's just above your lips. “How lucky for you that I'm feeling exceptionally generous tonight.”

( ravenous )

blood

His rage is a volatile thing, barely leashed behind the fangs he presses into her throat. A soft whimper escapes Ysera's lips, and she clutches at his shirt. Somewhere on the periphery of his mind, he realizes he's hurting her, but the rush of blood that pours into his mouth as he punctures her neck without warning washes the thought away on a current of red. Her pulse pounds in his ears, and with every swallow he can feel his own strength returning. He had been purposely avoiding her before, vexed by his concern for her wellbeing, but it all seems so pointless now.

( mist and shadow )

lips

( khywren's kinktober 2024, prompt 8 )

“You’ve got me dead to rights,” he says eventually, hands held up in surrender. The irony occurs to him, then, and he giggles mischievously, “Well, even more dead than I already am, of course.” When she doesn't laugh at his joke, his expression sours, lips pursed as he pouts miserably at her and sighs. “My humor is wasted on you.”

sun

“She sat with me until sundown and made sure that we – that I – had somewhere safe to go,” Astarion continues. His smile turns sardonic as he adds, “In that moment, all I could think of was how weak and ashamed I felt, and she never made me apologize for any of it. She never has. I've never understood why.”

( khywren's kinktober 2024, prompt 11 )

tempt

“I’ve been thinking about it ceaselessly, that delicious little moment we shared.” His voice is low, all gravel and practiced temptation, so quiet that it forces Ysera to focus only on him. And it's not exactly a lie, far easier to weave into the fabric of the fantasy he hopes to paint in her mind.

( adrift, chapter 5 )

adore

There's a sort of aloof detachment in her voice that Astarion finds rather amusing. It's the same sort of subterfuge he often uses, one of his favorite habits that she's picked up from traveling with him these past few weeks. Oh, she isn't nearly half as subtle about it, wiggling her hips in his lap as she is now, but gods if her efforts aren't adorable nevertheless. Astarion spares a cursory glance at the book in her hand, a roguish grin spreading across his face as he finally understands why Ysera chose this night in particular to pay him a late night visit.

( khywren's kinktober 2024, prompt 4 )

soft

With a soft sigh, Astarion grasps Gale’s hand and brings it between them, lacing their fingers together. He smooths the pad of his thumb across the back of Gale’s hand with absent, subconscious strokes. It is a profoundly romantic gesture, one of many that Astarion has gained a proclivity for since their settling in Gale’s tower in Waterdeep. Through mirroring the comfort that Gale’s touch has brought him during their time together, Astarion has begun to learn how to use his hands not to hurt, but to heal.

( between the lines of fear and blame )

lust

( what am i supposed to do (but sink my teeth in you?) )

He revels in bringing her this uncontested pleasure, safe in the knowledge that no one has ever made her feel so whole, so complete. His eyes rise to meet her own, so dark with lust that the rich gold of her irises has become like molten honey. She watches him with rapt attention, committing the moment to memory as best she can.

promise

( mist and shadow )

One after another over the course of the evening, he has watched from afar as the tieflings that had survived the journey to Last Light have circled her like vultures, taking what they needed from her – reassurance, hope, a promise to ensure their safety. Alfira is but the latest scavenger, coming to collect the final scraps. And Astarion is furious. At the tieflings, for being too weak to carry their own weight. At Ysera, for letting them use her without a second thought. And at himself, for being no better than any of them.

faith

“The terms seem rather generous, don't you think? You have so little faith in me.” She clearly doesn't believe that he can avoid waking her, even with the tea to lull her into a deeper sleep. “I'll remind you that I am a rogue – and a rather skilled one at that.” Ysera remains unconvinced. “You're also a man,” she says confidently. “Most of you lose all rational thought the second the clothes start coming off.”

( khywren's kinktober 2024, prompt 6 )

death

Astarion had begun his new life – his undeath – on his knees. How strange it had felt, to be on the other side of the equation, as Ysera had knelt so willingly at his feet and offered herself to him with no strings attached.

What else might she be willing to do for him with the right amount of persuasion?

( adrift, chapter 5 )

i know most of you have been tagged or done this already, but if any of you feel like doing it again, here's your chance i guess. 😅 that's what i get for always being super late to the party.

no-pressure tagging: everyone who tagged me, plus @verbenaa, @nyx-knox, @roguishcat, @pinkberrytea, @obsessedwhyyes, @elinorbard, @ladyduellist, @nerdallwritey, @hellethil

my words: caress, fang, embrace, brush, smirk

[sakshinarula]

I couldn’t forget you but you will be forgotten my love, my stubborn miracle boy, owner of this earth, owner of salt and sea, barley and wheat. You are no God, no oligarch. You are made of skin, blood and nothingness,just like the rest of us. You will be forgotten, Ozymandias. Old horse that doesn’t know only love remains everything else wilts, everything gets sick, everything fails

-Excerpt from the poem Ozymandias, Bad Poetry and This Loving, Sakshi Narula

[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) ⬇️

[alenablack]

Excerpt from Chapter 8 of Saint Harry…doing some edits while we write up the next arc and i forgot how excited i am about this story! So excited to share what Chaos and I have in store. ••••••••

Harry pushed open the temple door with a gentle press of his palm, quickly glancing down the silent corridor before slipping into the empty antechamber. Still magic and the scent of crushed cypress and lilies filled the air as he quietly shut the door behind him. Septima did his best to ensure Harry didn’t enter the temple unattended, afraid a worshiper would wander too close or, more accurately, afraid Harry would wander too far—too curious for his own good, Sev always said. The magic of the temple trilled happily around his legs, winding tendrils that made him laugh breathlessly at the welcome.

Unsteady legs carried him towards the red door off the side of the main altar, wincing at the wilted flowers he crushed underfoot as he made his way downward to his mother’s resting place.

If one could even call it that.

Harry couldn’t be sure how he felt entering the sacred place. His mother was more of an idea than a person; he had a vague memory of dark red hair tickling his face and a gentle voice whispering his name. Mostly, he remembered her here, too scared as a young boy to look at the preserved remains. Her bones lay in a coffin made of marble and glass, with white silk laid over her that spilled down onto the floor. Only her skull was visible through the thick glass, a golden wreath placed atop.

Every member of the congregation knew his mother, and prayers and offerings were often left in the circular room. On Halloween, the priests would invite the most devout to look upon her. Harry hated those services the most, often clinging to Severus, silent throughout the orchestrated weeping of the flock.

He thought it was odd how celebrated the day of her death was when no one dared to visit on the day of her birth; there was no sorrowful weeping or rejoicing at her sacrifice then.

It was just Harry and her silent tomb. He wondered how she would feel about being here, separated from both child and husband. Harry stepped closer to the raised dais and rested his hands on the glass. He leaned his face as close as he could to the chilled tomb, his breath fogging up the glass.

“Happy birthday, Mother.”