#wist's writing

[rjthirsty]

Kintsugi

Kintsugi is an ancient Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. The gold creates visible seams where the cracks once were. This celebrates the imperfections of the pottery rather than hiding it.

I received this fanfic from @wistfulwanderingone as a Secret Santa gift, and when I tell you that I teared up several times, I'm not joking. She has given me permission to post and name the fic, and Kintsugi was what I thought of at the end of the story. That's how this fic makes me feel. Like Clavis is piecing me back together with gold to celebrate everything I try to hide.

I'm chronically ill, as some of you might know. Wist knows. She is also aware that I'm bed bound often. Sometimes for days at a time. It's hard to be seen as more than my disability, especially when my illness controls so much of my life. But, while it is part of me, it is not all I am. It has been hard to accept that this year, but I'm working on it. And I know Clavis (and Wist, and all my friends) are behind me to remind me that I'm still wonderful even with my imperfections.

Thank you, Wist, for the beautiful gift. It was so personal and thoughtful and I was literally just complaining about how hard it is being sick during the holidays. And then you gave me this. And it's perfect.

The room is quiet except for the faint crackle of the fireplace, casting warm shadows on the walls. Snow blankets the palace grounds outside, muffling the world in a soft hush. You sit nestled in a pile of blankets, your body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that refuses to lift. Your gaze lingers on the window, where frost has painted delicate patterns on the glass, and you wonder what it would feel like to be part of the life outside those frosted windows—free, light, unburdened.

It’s been days since you left this room, the weight of your chronic illness pinning you down like a cage. The days have blurred together into a slow, muted haze, a rhythm of stillness you’ve almost grown used to. Almost. A sigh escapes your lips, soft and wistful, filling the quiet. You’re so lost in thought that you barely notice the door creak open—until his unmistakable voice breaks the stillness.

“Ah, my poor, suffering muse,” Clavis exclaims, sweeping into the room with all the flair of a traveling performer. “Still sulking in here, I see. I was starting to fear you’d been devoured by this cocoon of blankets. Shall I prepare a eulogy?”

The tension in your chest loosens, almost imperceptibly, as you glance over at him. A faint smile tugs at your lips, unbidden but welcome. “I’m not sulking. I’m just…tired.”

Clavis crosses the room in a few long strides, his golden eyes soften as they sweep over you, taking in the weariness you can never quite hide from him. It’s a look that makes you feel seen—truly seen—in a way that isn’t suffocating or pitying. “Sulking, tragically fatigued—semantics. Worry not, for your savior has arrived.”

You raise a skeptical eyebrow, already fighting the pull of a smile. “Clavis, I don’t need saving. I just need rest.”

“Rest?” He clutches his chest as though your words have mortally wounded him. “Oh no, no, no. Rest is for mere mortals, and you, my dear, are anything but mortal. You’re practically divine.”

The corners of your mouth quirk up despite yourself. You roll your eyes, pretending to dismiss him, but already you feel something shift in the room—the heaviness inside you loosening, just a little. “What are you even doing here?”

“I’ve come with a mission,” he declares, dragging a chair to your bedside and plopping into it with far more drama than necessary. “I’m going to make you laugh.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. No one else bothers with this—this effort to distract you from the heaviness that fills the room. “Clavis, I’m fine. You don’t have to—”

“Oh, but I do,” he interrupts, his tone shifting to something more serious beneath the playful lilt. “You see, your laughter is my favorite sound in the world. And the fact that I haven’t heard it in a whole day? Why, that’s a travesty. A true tragedy of epic proportions.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “As if that’s a travesty. Do I need to buy you a proper dictionary?”

“As if I’d read something that boring.” Clavis shakes his head, tutting like a disappointed teacher. “And let’s not deflect, my love. Full disclosure: I’m not here for a polite chuckle. No, I demand the real thing—the uncontrollable kind of laughter that leaves you gasping for air. The kind that makes you wonder if you’ll survive the sheer joy of it.”

Your heart warms, despite your exhaustion. He’s ridiculous—insufferably so—but there’s something in the way he speaks, in the light in his eyes, that makes you feel like you’re more than this room, more than this illness. Like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

True to his word, Clavis dives into his antics with the enthusiasm of a man on a mission. He recounts exaggerated tales of palace mishaps, complete with elaborate gestures and voices for every person in the palace. His impersonation of Chevalier—smirking and sly, his voice an octave too high—nearly makes you choke on a giggle.

“And then,” he continues, launching into a pantomimed escape, “I, ever the hero, evaded Chev’s villainous clutches with unparalleled grace and daring!” He stumbles over the rug, nearly losing his balance, then bows with a flourish. “Ah-ha! And thus, a legend was born.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, trying to stifle the laugh threatening to escape. It doesn’t work. The sound bursts free, light and unrestrained, and you feel the smallest weight lift from your chest.

“Ah-ha!” he exclaims, pointing at you as though you’ve just confessed a great secret. “But no, that won’t do. A giggle? My dearest darling, I demand full-blown, uncontrollable laughter. The kind that could summon Chevalier himself, just to tell us to keep it down.”

You roll your eyes, though your smile widens. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re radiant,” he replies smoothly, leaning in closer. His words send warmth blooming across your cheeks. “But I digress. Back to the mission at hand.”

He pulls a small, poorly wrapped package from his coat pocket, holding it out to you with a flourish. “A gift for my one and only.”

You hesitate, your brow furrowing. “You brought me a present?”

Of course,” he says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “But beware—it’s no ordinary gift. This one is…revolutionary.”

Curious, you unwrap it to reveal a snow globe. Inside, a miniature replica of the palace gardens sits encased in glass, complete with tiny skaters gliding on a frozen pond. You shake it gently, and glittering snow swirls inside. It’s beautiful—breathtaking, even—but before you can say as much, Clavis leans closer.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, touched.

“Ah, but you haven’t discovered its true charm,” he states, his voice low with mock suspense. “Turn the little lever at the bottom.”

You do, and the melody that follows is anything but elegant. The tinny, off-key tune crescendos into a jumbled cacophony of squeaks and clangs, pure absurdity. Your eyes widen, and before you can stop yourself, laughter spills from your lips. It’s loud and genuine, the kind of laughter you haven’t felt in weeks.

“There it is!” Clavis exclaims triumphantly, pointing at you like he’s just won a grand prize. “The fortress is breached!”

“It’s awful!” you gasp, shaking the globe again as the absurd tune restarts. “Who thought this was a good idea?”

“Clearly a genius,” Clavis replies, looking utterly pleased with himself. “I made it specifically for you. A one-of-a-kind masterpiece, for my one-of-a-kind love.”

You laugh again, your body lighter than it’s felt in days. His antics are absurd, yes, but they’re more than that. They’re a reminder that you’re still here, still capable of joy. And when he looks at you—his golden eyes warm and bright—you feel seen in a way you haven’t in a long time. Not as someone to pity, but as someone worth every ounce of his energy.

“Clavis, this is—”

“Brilliant?” he interrupts, tilting his head like a smug cat. “Oh, I agree. But don’t let me sway your opinion. Go ahead, laugh some more. It’s my favorite part.”

The hours slip by, each moment brimming with more of Clavis’s relentless antics. He begins with an over-the-top reenactment of how he supposedly triumphed over Leon in an epic snowball fight, claiming victory not just with skill but with the “tactical brilliance of a true general.” His makeshift cape—a blanket he pilfered from your bed—is tied dramatically around his shoulders, fluttering with every exaggerated gesture. In his hand, a sugar cube serves as his noble weapon.

“And then,” Clavis declares, leaping atop the nearest chair with the grace of a performer on stage, “when all seemed lost, when the forces of nature turned against me, I made a daring move! A single, decisive strike!” He hurls the sugar cube onto the bedside table, where it lands with an unimpressive plink. “And just like that, Leon fell before me. And I? A hero crowned by destiny!”

This time when the laughter bubbles over, it doesn’t feel so foreign anymore. Each laugh feels more natural than the last, weaving itself into the fabric of the evening, no longer leaving room for the shadows that usually cling to you. Your cheeks ache from smiling, and you revel in the feeling. “I don’t think Leon would agree with your version of events,” you manage, your voice tinged with amusement.

“Ah, but history belongs to the storytellers, my dear,” Clavis replies with a wink, his grin sharper than the frost on the windowpane. “And fortunately for the world, I have an exceptional gift for embellishment. It’s a heavy burden, being this remarkable, but someone must bear it.”

As if to punctuate his words, he picks up another sugar cube, examining it with mock seriousness. “But wait,” he says, his golden eyes narrowing conspiratorially. “This is no ordinary cube of sweetness. This, fancy fiancée, is a weapon of unparalleled power, forged in the icy winds of battle. A true artifact of destruction.”

You shake your head, still smiling. The weight on your chest feels a little lighter, the tight grip of exhaustion momentarily loosening. “You’re impossible,” you say, though your tone holds no real rebuke—just warmth.

Clavis gasps, clutching the edge of his blanket-cape as though you’ve mortally wounded him. “Impossible? My dear, I am legendary.” He straightens with a dramatic flair, his makeshift cape sweeping the floor as he strikes a pose. “A true visionary never limits himself to what is merely possible. Why settle for reality when imagination is so much more thrilling?”

The absurdity of his words pulls another laugh from you, one that shakes the remnants of the fog you’ve been drowning in. For a moment, you’re not the sickly figure confined to a room—you’re just you, laughing at his ridiculous antics.

But Clavis isn’t finished. In an unexpected move, he drags a chair toward the window and flings it open, letting in a gust of icy air that sends the curtains billowing. You shiver instinctively, clutching your blankets closer as the cold nips at your skin.

“Behold!” Clavis exclaims, pointing dramatically to the snow-covered gardens below. His golden eyes glitter with excitement as he straightens his posture, looking every bit the theatrical knight he imagines himself to be. “The battlefield of legends! Where courage is tested and heroes are made! But fear not, my love—I shall defend your honor!”

Before you can stop him, he flicks a sugar cube out the window. You track its arc through the air, and to your horror (and slight amusement), it lands squarely on Prince Gilbert’s shoulder as he strolls below.

“Clavis!” you gasp, caught between laughter and panic.

Gilbert pauses mid-step, slowly brushing the sugar dust from his shoulder. Even from this distance, the chill of his predatory smile sends a shiver down your spine.

Clavis freezes for half a heartbeat before shutting the window with a flourish, leaning casually against the sill as if nothing happened. “Well, that was unfortunate,” he remarks, the slightest twitch of his lips betraying his amusement.

“Unfortunate?” you hiss. “You just sugar-bombed Prince Gilbert! Do you have a death wish?”

Clavis turns to you with a grin that’s far too relaxed for the gravity of the situation. “Darling, life without a little danger is simply dull. Besides,” he adds, with a conspiratorial wink, “I’ve always been curious about his sweet tooth. Consider it an experiment in diplomacy. I’m practically doing Chevalier a favor.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands, but even then, you can’t stop the laughter that spills out, bright and uncontainable. It fills the room, a sound that feels out of place after so many days of silence. The world outside your window is still heavy and cold, but in this room, warmth floods in. 

“You’re going to get us both killed,” you manage between breaths, your voice tinged with exasperation.

Clavis wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth. The gesture feels grounding, safe.  “Don’t worry, my love. If it comes to that, I’ll charm my way out of it. Or…” He pauses, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’ll say it was your idea.”

You swat at him, your laughter spilling over again, but this time it’s not just his words that fuel it. It’s the way he looks at you, like you’re the center of his universe. The way he knows exactly how to lift the crushing weight you carry without making you feel small. His devotion cuts through the haze of your illness in a way nothing else has.

Clavis watches you, a look of unguarded affection softening his features, and you realize his joy isn’t just in hearing your laughter—it’s in knowing he’s helped you reclaim it.

“There it is,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. “That’s the sound I love most.”

Your laughter fades into something softer, more fragile. “Clavis…”

“Do you know what your laughter does to me?” he asks, leaning closer. His golden eyes are warm, searching yours. “It’s the most perfect sound in the world. Joyful, bright, and just a little bit mischievous—just like you. It makes me believe there’s magic in this world after all. And trust me, I don’t say that lightly.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion. Your cheeks flush, and you glance down at the blankets covering your lap. “You’re being dramatic again.”

“No,” he says firmly, his voice gentler than you’ve ever heard it. “Not about this.” He sits beside you, placing a gloved hand over his heart. 

For a moment, the world feels impossibly quiet. Clavis reaches out, brushing his gloved fingers against your cheek in a rare gesture of tenderness.

“You’ve been through so much,” he says softly, his grin fading into something more serious. “And yet, you still laugh. You still shine. That’s what I love about you. And I swear, I’ll keep giving you reasons to laugh as long as I’m breathing.”

The weight on your chest doesn’t feel quite as heavy anymore. The room feels lighter, brighter, infused with his warmth and presence. You lean into his touch, letting the moment wrap around you like a balm.

The day fades into evening, the golden light of the fireplace softening the edges of the room. The warmth flickers across Clavis’s features, painting him in shades of amber that seem almost otherworldly. You’re tired—bone-tired in a way that feels insurmountable—but your heart feels lighter, buoyed by the warmth of his presence. The ache in your limbs is still there, the heaviness of your illness lingering like a shadow, but for the first time in days, it feels bearable.

Clavis lingers by your bedside, his golden eyes scanning your face with an intensity that makes you feel exposed, but not in a way that stings. It’s a gentle kind of scrutiny, one that doesn’t search for flaws but treasures. No one has ever looked at you like that before, as if you’re more than just the sum of your weakness and weariness. His gaze sees you—not the fragile shell you feel like most days, but the person you’ve almost forgotten you are.

“Rest, my lovely lover,” he says softly, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. The warmth of his lips lingers like a promise, grounding you in the moment. His voice is low, coaxing, as if he’s whispering a secret meant only for you. “And when you wake, I’ll be here to make you laugh all over again.”

The corners of your mouth lift into a faint smile, and for once, it doesn’t feel like a strain. Clavis’s devotion is a strange thing—intense, unwavering, and entirely consuming. He doesn’t just want to ease your pain; he wants to rewrite it entirely, to fill the cracks in your world with light and laughter until there’s no room for the darkness to creep back in.

As your eyelids grow heavy, you feel the edges of your mind soften, the weight of your body giving way to the pull of sleep. The warmth of the blankets surrounds you, but it’s his words that linger, wrapping around your heart like the coziest of comforts.

You realize, in that hazy space between waking and dreaming, that you believe him. You believe in his promise to stay, to bring you laughter when you feel like you’ll never smile again. You believe in the joy he carries, the way it spills into your life like sunlight breaking through clouds.

With Clavis, there will always be laughter—unpredictable, unrelenting, and healing. There will always be joy in the smallest moments, like the off-key melody of a snow globe or the glint in his eye when he’s plotting his next ridiculous scheme. And, most importantly, there will always be love—the kind that sees every broken part of you and holds it close, never letting go.

You drift into sleep with that certainty nestled deep in your chest. The world outside is still cold and quiet, but here, with him, there’s warmth that promises to last.

[vaguely-concerned]

on the one hand I think inner demons could stand to have a bit more romanced rook specific content, but on the other hand the underlying in-built implication that 'yours is the one true voice of comfort and safety in my inner world' is a sentiment and intimacy so way beyond the romantic or the platonic or any secret third thing you could care to name that it makes me lose my entire poor little mind a bit. it's so big and fundamental — near-existential — that in that exact moment at least the distinctions kind of seem irrelevant.

all the people lucanis' mind conjures up along the way are relationships he has that are unavoidably mixed and fraught in some ways even when they're also full of love (they are fraught BECAUSE they're full of love) — the good in them inseparable from things that hurt him at the same time. (it's about: the basic disorganized attachment patterns this poor guy is dragging around with him. careful with those, they're dellamorte heirlooms. what you love also inevitably hurts you and you won't be allowed to have one without the other, you have to surrender parts of your soul to hold on to what little you have left: this is the story up until now.) and the idea that rook isn't that to him — that beneath the fear of wanting them when romanced (which is more its own separate thing because within this psychology, actively wanting something and not just clinging on for dear life to even a meager status quo lest you lose it is in itself dangerous bordering on catastrophic), this is a relationship where there isn't resentment, or guilt, or shame, or dread, or rage, or self-hate, or any of the other emotions that keep him paralyzed, unable to move this way or that. no debts, nothing owed of yourself and your soul's substance except what you can freely and safely and happily give. love and freedom don't coexist — but, I mean, you're almost starting to make me think........... unless...👀👀👀. the unconditional and undramatic 'you are here and I am here with you, you can be exactly how you are right now with me and it's safe for us both even though you're afraid it won't be, I'm not going anywhere' acceptance rook shows him here that he returns to them in the big romance scene, when it's rook who needs it. the way he's just. standing there in the center of it all, like a child desperately helplessly waiting to be found, hiding in the place he hopes you'll know to look first. (rook does know. it's one of the first things they say in there.)

in short the most important room in his little mind palace for the romance is the very first room — the one where rook isn't. where, in fact, rook cannot be, because they disprove the entire structure of the place with their existence and presence in his life. with everyone else he's putting words in their mouths about what they think of him, and rook is the one who actually gets to come in to speak their own words to him — and have him listen. ('he'll listen to you, he always listens to you', 'your voice is a comfort'.) of course rook isn't present anywhere else in there — at the risk of stating the obvious to a tedious degree, they aren't one of the locks, they're bringing the key. in the very finest 'the messenger and the message' sort of way.

[wisteriagoesvroom]

sunshowers

🧢 🔶 a franco colapinto x lando norris fic 🌆 a sunset, from franco's pov ✏️ 2.1k words, rated g 🔗 read on ao3

preview

Lando, for his part, seems content to study the horizon. He used to talk so much, in every video, haphazard energy to fill the silence. These days, it seems he is happier to play the part of a wizened, if a bit eccentric, sage.  “How are you finding it? Like. Everything,” Lando asks. Franco does not look at him, but they are both looking at the clouds. “It is… a lot. It’s everything I ever wanted. And it’s all happening so fast.” “Completely understandable. It’s like, it’s normal, and you’re nobody, until you’re… not? And everyone wants a piece of you. And it’s nice, people, like, knowing your name and stuff. When it’s new. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.” “Do you still like it?” Franco glances over at the other driver. Lando doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back on his palms, and tilts his face upwards as if to soak in the surreal, sundrenched sky.

and! thank you @ocontraire for the readthrough !!

taglist for those who wanted to read it... @rigmarole-07 @redbulldotgov @lovelylotusf1 @jusst-you-race @lyslsstuff @daughter-of-aphrodite

[weirdmageddon]

It's not totally clear here why Dave's dream self appears to be already awake while his real self is also awake. I think we must infer that his dream self is in some sort of "waking trance" where he's technically awake but too preoccupied by certain things to be considered fully awake.

thinking about jade being lonely as hell on her island and going to sleep waking up on prospit and seeing john (not knowing his name yet) asleep plagued with the creepy dersite doll dreams with the scary teeth and just aughhhh

and she’d like overhear the white queen talk about the dark kingdom derse and the prince(sse)s of the moon that are there and trying to attract as little attention as possible jade would fly out there through the medium because shes so lonely. and she’d go to the purple moons’ towers. she’d find a girl is sound asleep in her purple robes and bed. but the other kid on the moon she finds is awake! except… not really. more like in a trance state. awake but not conscious. but she likes to hear whatever garbled stuff this triangle-speced boy has to say

the trip is long but jade visits this boy a few times since he’s the only non-asleep person like her she can interact with face to face. he usually seems lost in his own world, usually listening to music or talking to himself about stuff that doesnt make much sense. when she’s deprived of sapient affection she’ll touch him in small gestures like holding his hand while he listens to his music and he’ll squeeze back instinctually, and it helps her experience a microdose of the human connection. maybe he doesnt get much in the way of sapient affection either. when she hears The Horrors of the furthest ring another dream headset pops into existence for her to listen along with him and they listen to whatever music hes making. who is he

[thestuffedalligator]

Pushing Daisies would make for a killer stage musical, by the way.

[cupophrogs]

…I can see why Rich fell in love with Charles. He’s handsome.

"He is, isn't he? I'm glad to see that he kept his hair long, he always said it such a hassle to care for. Made me braid it every night, before bed. It got less tangled that way."

[agrlsname]

Thank you @therealsaintscully for the tag! I'm soon about to post what might be my very last fic, so it's quite fitting to look back on my journey now.

How many works do you have on ao3?

38 – all Johnlock, except for one GO fic. On New Year's Eve I will post number 39!

What’s your total word count?

371,360 (will soon top it off with another 221 words ;))

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

What Friends Do (by FAR), Who I Really Am (personal fave), The General Idea, Coldness/Heat, Tomorrow's Song

Do you respond to comments? Why/why not?

At first I responded to every single one! And I still try to respond to every single person. But now, I sometimes only respond to the last one if it's a reader who's commented on every chapter and I get all the comments at once. I like staying connected to the readers, that's one of the most fun parts about fandom!

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

It has to be This Is Your Song. I mean, there's another one within a series that end in an angsty cliffhanger, but MCD surely has to take the prize?

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

Oh my, nearly all of them have happy endings – so what would count as happier than happy..? Maybe it's actually the one that isn't posted yet – stay tuned for the resolution of the New Year's Kiss series!

Do you write crossovers?

Nope. I've written a fusion though (Johnlock and Moulin Rouge!).

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Yup. Some people get really angry at John in What Friends Do and they take it out on me. It's interesting because many MANY others adore the story with all their hearts! I even wrote a sequel from John's POV just to try to get people to understand, but the haters didn't understand anyway.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Even though at the beginning I said I'd never, half of my works are now rated E or M. What kind? Um, is "emotional, gay sex" a genre?

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I hope not!

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Many of them, into five different languages! Coolest thing ever.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, I think I'm too pedantic for that. I've loved working with my beta on some poem translations, though, that The Sky is Full of Fiddles is based on.

What's your all-time favourite ship?

38 fics – you all know it's Johnlock, right? There are others that I love, but nothing can ever compare.

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

I don't have WIPs! I'm too much of a control freak and perfectionist when it comes to writing – I want to be able to change the beginning when I'm writing the ending. I don't even have unpublished WIPs – I hate the idea of leaving works unfinished. If I was still in those first years of writing frenzy, when I was single and didn't have a child, I'd have expanded on This Time – but as it is, I knew that I wouldn't have the time to do it justice. So I purposely ended on a cliffhanger that would still allow it to stand on its own the way it is.

What are your writing strengths?

Emotions, according to my beta! If you ask me, I'd say describing things – often emotions, I suppose – in new, poetic ways that play on different senses and therefore make them immediate. It's something I love reading myself, anyway, so it's something I've been practicing for... well, decades now. I'd like to think I've gotten at least somewhat good at it.

What are your writing weaknesses?

I'm weirdly bad at coming up with the small details that aren't important, but needed. A recent example is I needed a character to text another with an invented problem to try to get him to come over. It wasn't at all important what the problem was, but it also couldn't be just anything; it had to be in line with his character. I could not for the life of me come up with this problem myself – eventually my husband did it for me. So those kinds of details in my stories are rarely from my own brain!

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Hmm, well, I've tried not to do that. As a reader I find it annoying to have to look things up, or scroll down to the notes. I have three fics in which characters aren't English; in This Is Your Song I added a couple of "Bonjour"s for flavour, which is about as far as my own French knowledge reaches... In the Fiddles series they're Swedes and speak my mother tongue, but I've written everything in English except for the words that English doesn't have (like for example "polska", a kind of dance), and at the very end, some song lyrics that are then translated into English in the end notes that come immediately after. I did want to add that song for flavour, but I didn't want it to be annoying.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Johnlock! I started in the aftermath of season 4 back in January 2017 and then couldn't stop.

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

I'm wondering whether I will come back to fic writing at a later point, but for another fandom. I've long wanted to write more for GO, although I already have written one fic. It would probably be a lot of fun to write for OFMD too. Doctor Who maybe? I don't know, it intimidates me to write for a new fandom where I don't yet know the characters as well as I know Sherlock and John.

What's your favourite fic you've written?

This question is too cruel! There are so many of them that I love. Maybe I have to say The Sky is Full of Fiddles, after all – it holds such a special place in my heart for many reasons that go beyond the story itself (although that's true for several fics). Other faves are Your Daughter, The Zebra Sheets and of course Who I Really Am, which I'm liking enough to turn it into a novel I'm now trying to get published. See, I couldn't pick one!!

I'm on Tumblr way too sporadically to have any idea of who's already done this and who hasn't, so I don't dare tag anyone... Feel free to take it and tag me if you feel like it!

[n4rval]

the way his words are so carefully curated, not only for the sake of precision, but so it fits a rhythm that is breathable for a slow speaker.

to say exactly what he means in a short sentence, with recurring pauses and a clear pronounciation. to prefer periods(.) over commas(,).

not to be needlessly verbose – much the opposite; because this vocabulary serves the purpose of clarity, organization and to hold the attention of the listener.

[kentuckyfriedmegumi]

catgumi

[definegodliness]

25-5-2024

[teastainedprose]

Homelander learning how to drive

"Why are we doing this again?" Ashley hisses, panic in her eyes as she stares out the window.

"-because Ryan wants to learn to drive and he can't exactly learn from his dad if I can't fucking drive, Ashley." Homelander snarks back, grip tightening on the steering wheel hard enough to give an ominous crack. He huffs, a silent snarl threatening to curl his lips as he tries to focus on piloting the vehicle.

Ashley's attention snaps back to Homelander at the sound. She's free to do so now that he's no longer creeping the car in the slowest reverse out of the parking spot she's ever witnessed. It's a miracle he didn't hit anything. Despite the lack of other cars within this level of the parking garage, the tight spaces and pillars throughout worry Ashley.

"Yes but why me?" She whines.

That earns her a sharp look from Homelander, eyes narrowed and a warning tic in his cheek signalling that was the wrong thing to say. He doesn't speak, only glares. He also doesn't watch where he's going as the car creeps forward.

"-because I don't know how to drive!" Ashley rushes on in a panic.

Homelander blinks and promptly slams on the brakes, "What!?"

[willowser]

to me, this feels like being in a crowded room, overstuffed with the people you love and the memories they've given you. it's too warm from all the laughter and the gentle lighting and the beer in your hand is sweating over your fingers—not that you're drinking it much, really; more interested in chatting—and someone somewhere is playing music you remember from a few years ago. when things were different.

and you look up at the perhaps right time, glancing in the direction of the radio, searching for the source. you know exactly who's playing this song and why, and you want to see the look on their face when they see the look on yours, but—

instead you find bakugou. katsuki. standing near the door with his coat still on. expression soft, cheek strawberry-pink with his scar. once it sinks in for both of you, his eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but you catch the flutter of his dark eyelashes, how his ruby eyes shine with the same intensity they've always had.

it's been so long since you've seen him, long enough that you worried you might never again—but the memory of it is here, too, with all the others. the weariness on his face matching the too-deep frown, uncharacteristically unhappy. there was so much you wanted him to say, so much you wanted to say—and the words have haunted the space put between you for as long as you can remember.

your stomach sinks at the sight of him, but not in a bad way. not entirely, at least. it feels like tracing a faded scar: skin marred but fully healed, with you forever. distantly, you can't help but think he's so handsome; on instinct, like you could love him through the worst of it without meaning to.

across the room, his lips pull into a thin line and he nods once, elusive, tucking his chin a bit when you smile. you reach a blind hand forward to pat your friend gently on the arm, wordlessly bidding them goodbye before turning to squeeze past whoever is in your way. whoever is in the space between you.

his eyes widen noticeably, then, but his expression schools quickly or—dissolves, rather, into a truth he's never had with you, determination for something other than heroics. he, too, moves through the room, a little less politely than you, and his hand stays raised, like he'll reach out the minute he can.

you already do, unable to help from laughing as his jaw clenches, and the minute your fingers find his, you think—this time, neither of you will let go.

[funsize-cenobites]

Thinking of a tentatively canon-compliant AU I might expand on later, possibly write a fic for, of Mihawk being a half-mink of a very rare avian variety. Bear with me..

I love love love wing aus and avian species and Mihawk with these big beautiful hawk wings is such a stunningly gorgeous mental image I could cry... But I am merely a vessel for angst and there's nothing so uniquely painful as having something beautiful for just long enough that it aches once its gone.

I have ideas about what all happened but without going into too much detail, in the present day no one, save Shanks most likely, knows about Mihawk's origins. He's 'human passing' despite his eyes- which he inherited from his mother and often wonders, when looking in the mirror, what she would've thought of the things he's seen and things he's done.

His wings are long, long gone. Cut from his back entirely as punishment and example to others by marines who's duty to Justice should've seen them help free Mihawk's people rather than simply take their original captors place.

Yet he still to this day dreams of flying. Of familiar sea cliffs and soaring rather than falling. In dreams he feels the strength of the extra muscles in his back stretched taut and true as his feathers hold him aloft. In dreams he rules the Grand Line by sea and sky and Shanks chases him, playfully threatening that he's going to snatch Mihawk out of the air the next time he swoops too low

Then he wakes.

And his back aches as it always does. The specialized muscles having shifted, healed, and adapted to give him ample strength to put into his sword work but always yearning for what was. The scars still burning as he dresses, shirt or coat it hardly matters so long as his back is never bare.

Yoru's familiar weight settles across his shoulders and for a moment he remembers the weight of his wings folded in neat.

He looks into the mirror and tries to remember what his mother's smile looked like, hoping that it was nothing like his..

"A swordsman's greatest shame indeed.."

[karimelthefloof]

Did somebody say "Dandy's World Art Dump"??? No? Oh...

Well ur gettin my AU Designs anyways >:3

Link to the 2nd art dump of this au

[ahollowgrave]

-pokes you gently- so what's it like getting a reading from Selenite and how likely is she to tell you outright when you'll die? For reasons :)

(Mentions of: Bones, Animal Sacrifice below the cut.)

The reading room is small and cramped -- Nite prefers the word ‘close.’ Scarfs dyed hues of blue are draped over the light sources, casting a watery mosaic onto the low ceiling. The smell of incense hangs in the air, hazy. There are no windows and only two doorways; the one you just came through has a fall of fabric serving as its door. As it drapes shut behind you it muffles the waiting room and the city beyond, making the sounds distant and otherworldly.

The center of the room hosts a small, round table with a lip around the edge. Two equally plush chairs face each other over it. Shelves line the walls, each one filled to bursting. Jars of buttons, of coins, of metal shavings, bags of varied materials and sizes, some with drawstrings open and their contents spilling out: dried seeds, teeth, bits of bone. Locks of hair carefully glued and pinned into intricate knots or frames or braids. Bits of rock and brightly gleaming crystals in wide-ranging hues. Feathers and scales and claws of beasts. Not to mention the trinkets; Lockets, charms and their bracelets, rings, keychains, and necklaces fill the empty spots, or their own jars, or hang precariously from the corner of shelves. It is hard to take it all in, truly. As your eyes adjust they find that Nite is already waiting for you. A low, pastel light emits from her hair and in the quiet room, barely audible, you can make out the whirring of her eyes as they focus on you, take you in.

(I talk about bones and animal sacrifice from this point on!!) What happens from here depends so much on the customer and their question! Nite uses bones in her reading in the forms of Osteomancy and Scapulimancy. The former is when one is ‘casting’ with bones and other objects and diving things from the way the objects fall. The latter is divining the future from the markings on the shoulder blade of an animal; often an animal sacrificed in the name of the question asker.

Her strongest, clearest readings are done via Scapulimancy. However, because this involves venturing outside of the safety of S9 most of Selenite’s customers don’t reach for this method. Mostly, hunters or fighters of The Arcadion. Thankfully, if a client truly wants a reading done this way, Obsidian (@iron-sparrow's S9 beauty) is happy to do the perilous part for them. For a fee, of course! Maintenance isn’t cheap, even if being done by your best friend.

So, most of Selenite’s readings are done via Osteomancy.

For reference, Osteomancy heavily features bones (of animals) hence the name! However, a practitioner will mix items of importance in with the bones. Hence all those trinkets! Depending on the client, depending on the question, depending on recent events, and the vibes of the day, Selenite will change out the items in her basket.

Selenite does not wear a regulator anymore and when she realizes a client will meet with death soon she makes a promise -- often just to herself but sometimes directly -- to remember and mourn them. Sometimes she asks for something of theirs on that last meeting and often this gets added to her collection and used when she feels moved too.

Not all her clients are seeking answers related to their death! In fact, few are. But that doesn’t mean Selenite doesn’t know, doesn’t learn.  If they haven’t asked directly she won’t tell them directly! S9 already fears death and grief too much for her taste and she won’t add to it. Truly, this knowledge is a burden and it is not one Selenite seeks to give to lay on her client’s shoulders. Mostly she wants them not to be scared when Death comes.

When asked directly she answers directly.

Thank you for the ask! And your patience in my answering!

[wiststudies]

loved.

loved but never enough to fight for.

loved but only when it's easy.

loved but only when everything is right.

loved but not enough to work through it.

loved but not in the right way.

loved but never enough.

'loved' - is this what being loved really is like?