#I’d encourage reading the document

[theoppositeofprofound]

#israel #palestine #child death mention #sorry but this keeps messing me up #the children from the same families #the silly modernized names #the religious ones #the children who weren’t named yet #there’s an Al-amash in there #a former us rep named amash lost family #sheltering at a church #there is something about losing a name when you’ve just been given one #I have such mixed feelings about the usual brands of Look At This Sad Baby tragedy gloop #which so turns the worst moments of a child’s life into clicks #save the children fearmongering of all breeds is usually to be avoided #especially in an environment rife with anti-semitism #but there’s also a return of dignity from reading the names of the dead #and dead children have so few people who remember them to mourn #I’d encourage reading the document #there is nothing more devastating than the names of the dead

[hellodarling1357]

I am BEGGING YOU!!!! Please can you write a Cassian x reader one shot based on this Tik Tok?

IDK I tried to link it up there but not sure if it worked so here’s the link again

thank you!!

Massages of Disappointment

I love this request! Thank you so much @cassianstannn32 for DMing me the link and asking me to write it, this was so much fun!

Here’s the link to the Tik Tok mentioned in the request 🥰

Word Count: 1.4k

After months of misaligned schedules and late nights working, you and Cassian finally had a free weekend with no plans, no responsibilities, and, as a rule, no work. The thought of being able to lazily wake up in his arms, spend the morning in bed together, and finally, finally, being able to simply be with one another that got you through what felt like the longest week of your life.

A beam of sunlight flittering across your face had you stirring from your sleep. With a soft smile you reached out across the bed for Cassian, only to be met with cold sheets and an empty bed. Your happy, content mood quickly made way for a frown and a groan as you pried yourself from underneath the covers. 

With bare feet, you patted throughout the house in search for Cassian, not surprised when you found him at his desk buried in paperwork.

“Cass?” Your voice is still coated in sleep as you walk into the room, coming up behind where he sits so you can wrap your arms around him.

“Y/N,” he turns his head, reaching up to give you a kiss. “You were asleep, so I thought I’d get a bit more done.”

“We were meant to stay in bed,” you say against his neck, breathing in deeply as you blink the sleep from your eyes. “We said no work this weekend.”

“I know, sweetheart. Give me five more minutes and I’ll be back.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” You press a kiss to his cheek, giggling as he pats your ass as you walk away.

Five minutes quickly turned into 10, then 20 and there was still no sign of Cassian.

Jumping up from under the covers you make your way to his study where you find him still at his desk as he thoroughly reads through some documents, his face the epitome of deep concentration.

“Cass,” your voice is firm, but you let out a sigh when he jumps in his seat as you make your presence known to him.

“Fuck, Y/N, I’m sorry. I’m almost done.” You stay silent as you walk towards his desk, motioning for him to lean back so that you can make yourself comfortable in his lap.

“You said five minutes,” you murmur against his skin as you place kisses along his neck and jaw. His hands come up to rest at your hips, giving them a squeeze as you slant your lips over his.

“I’m almost done with it all, I promise” he repeats but you shake your head as you stand up.

“Nope, now. Come on, it’s our day off, we’re going back to bed.” With his hands grasped tightly in yours, you give a tug as you step away from him. He looks torn between following after you and remaining at his desk but with the encouragement of the sultry look you give him, he is quick to jump to his feet, trailing after you as you drag him back to bed.

Cassian was quick to climb over you, trailing kisses along your chest and up your neck as his hands wandered lower and lower. Tugging his head up, you pull him in for a kiss, followed by a small peck to his lips as you shoot him a cheeky grin.

“You missed your chance for any of that this morning when you decided work was more important. You’re here to cuddle with me.” With a satisfied smile as you noted the disappointment on his face, you flip him over and onto his back so that you can slide up against him and rest your head on his chest. Cassian let out a sigh, his arms wrapping around you as he traced soothing circles against your skin. 

“Fine, but I’ll make it up to you later.” He promises you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

*****

The next hour was filled with soft and sweet kisses between idle chatter as you talk about everything and nothing, content in the fact of simply being in the others company. That was until Cassian’s stomach let out a low grumble, bursting the bubble you were in that blocked out the rest of the world.

“Guess that means it’s time to get up,” you said as you kissed him, smiling into it as you both detangled from the sheets.

****

The rest of the morning had flown by perfectly. The two of you had cooked a late breakfast, cleaned up the dishes as you danced around the kitchen together, then decided to head out on a walk into Velaris to pick up some more groceries and browse a few shops.

Once you had arrived home, Cassian offered to put on a pot of tea, leaving you with a deep kiss before he headed off in the direction of your kitchen. With a content smile on your face, you settled into the plush couch that looked out over the sprawling woods behind your house. Curling your legs underneath you, you leant back against the cushions and cracked open the new book Cassian had bought for you that morning.

Quickly becoming entirely immersed in the story, you lost track of time, only noticing how long had passed and that Cassian was yet to return after finally shifting into a more comfortable position.

With a frown, you placed the book on the coffee table as you made your way towards the kitchen. Your frown deepened when you saw it was empty, bar the cooling kettle and the two mugs that Cassian has set out beside it.

Instead of looking around the house for him as you had done that morning, you headed straight for Cassian’s study and found him sat in one of the armchairs, a tall pile of paperwork balanced on the small side table.

Without a word you walked over, kneeling in front of him as you snatched the report out of his hand and set in aside.

“Sweetheart, what- what’re you doing? I need to finish that off for Rhys.” You didn’t reply. Instead, you maintained eye contact from where you knelt before him, pulling your hair away from your face and into a ponytail. A smug feeling spread through you as you watched Cassian sit up straighter in expectation, a coy smirk stretching across his face. “Sweetheart,” his voice had deepened as he watched you pull a band around your hair to keep it in place, “What’re you doing?”

“I just need your attention for a second. Well, a couple of minutes.” You sweetly smiled up at him, letting your eyes widen in a look of innocence that you knew drove him crazy. 

“Now? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Well, if you insist, I’m not going to say no…” You bit back a grin as Cassian leant against the armchair, shifting his legs wider apart to make space for you to kneel between them. You moved closer to him, turning around at the last moment so that your back leant against the chair, his legs either side of you.

“Thanks, love. I’ve been so tense, really needed this massage,” you make your voice sound absentminded, as if you didn’t just set up his expectations purely to have his attention back on you. When he didn’t react for a moment, you wiggled your shoulders, turning to crane your face up as you offered an appreciative smile. 

Your smiled widened as Cassian’s warm, calloused hands came to rest on your shoulders, tenderly kneading the muscles.

“Oh, thank you. That feels really good.”

“That’s alright,” You giggled at the slight disappointment that laced his voice, he was clearly trying to hide the fact that he had been expecting something else from you.

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence as Cassian continued to work his way along your shoulders until you finally let out a satisfied sigh and pulled away. Lifting yourself up, you sat down in Cassian’s lap, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you thanked him again.

“It’s fine, I was working though…”

“Oh, I’m sorry. But we did say no work this weekend…” Innocence laced your voice but from the look Cassian was giving you, you knew that he knew exactly what you had done. Your innocent smile shifted into one of pure wickedness as you whispered into his ear, “Want me to give you a blowjob to make up for it?”

#cassian x reader #cassian acotar #cassian x y/n #cassian x you #cassian imagine #cassian fluff #rhysand acotar #azriel acotar #marley writes

[scrumpster]

Jewish Resources (Assorted)

Since my last post seemed to be helpful to a lot of people, I thought I’d make another to share some additional resources. This list includes a bunch of stuff, meant for Jewish people in general. I would definitely encourage you to explore them! There’s a lot of useful stuff here. Goyim are welcome to reblog, just please be respectful if you’re adding tags or comments. Jewish Multiracial Network, an organization for multiracial Jewish families and Jews of Color Sefaria, a free virtual library of Jewish texts Sephardic Studies Digital Library Museum “The SSDC includes key books, archival documents, and audio recordings that illuminate the history, culture, literature, politics, customs, music, and cuisine of Sephardic Jews all expressed in their own language, Ladino.” (from their website) The SMQN, an organization for LGBTQ+ Sephardic and Mizrahi Jews Keshet, a group for LGBTQ+ Jews JQY, a group for LGBTQ+ Jews with a focus on those in Orthodox communities  Queer Jews of Color Resource List (note: this list is way more than just resources, there’s a LOT there) JQ International: “JQ celebrates the lives of LGBTQ+ Jews and their allies by transforming Jewish communities and ensuring inclusion through community building, educational programs, and support and wellness services, promoting the healthy integration of LGBTQ+ and Jewish identities.” (from their website) Jews of Color Initiative, an organization dedicated to teaching about intersectionality in the Jewish community, focuses on research, philanthropy, field building, and community education Nonbinary Hebrew Project: It’s hard to describe, but they’re working to find/create/add suffixes that represent nonbinary genders in Hebrew. If you speak Hebrew/another gendered language, you might know what I mean about gendered suffixes. Jewish Mysticism Reading List  (These are related to our closed practices, goyim should NOT be practicing these things) Ritualwell (you can find prayers and blessings related to specific things here, I personally like that they have blessings related to gender identity)  Guimel, an LGBTQ+ support group for the Jewish Community in Mexico. The site is in Spanish. I’m not a native speaker, but I was still able to read a little bit of it.  SVARA: “SVARA’s mission is to empower queer and trans people to expand Torah and tradition through the spiritual practice of Talmud study.” (From their website) TransTorah is definitely an older website, but there are still some miscellaneous pdfs and resources up on the “Resources” page. Jewish Disabilities Advocates: “The JFS Jewish Disabilities Advocates program was created to raise awareness and further inclusion of people with disabilities within Jewish organizations and the larger Jewish community.” (from their website) Jewish Food Society (recipes, have not spent a lot of time browsing here but maybe I should in the future) Jewish Blind & Disabled, an organization that operates mainly in providing accessible housing and living. Jewish Braille Institute International: “The JBI Library provides individuals who are blind, visually impaired, physically handicapped or reading disabled with books, magazines and special publications of Jewish and general interest in Audio, Large Print and Braille formats.” (from their website) Their services are free!)

#jumblr #jewish resources #jewish #lgbtq resources #disability resources #jews of color resources #jewish bipoc resources #judaism #jewblr #jewish community #sephardic #mizrahim #nonbinary jews #jews of color #lgbtq jews #trans jews #disabled jews #multiracial jews #sephardi jewish #sephardi #mizrahi jewish #mizrahim jewish #mizrahi

[books]

Writing Workshop Week 1: Show & Tell

Hello, writers of tumblr! It’s @bettsfic again with this week’s generative workshop. 

Today we’re doing what might be my favorite class activity: Show & Tell. 

You might be thinking, do you teach kindergarten or something? No, I teach college. But my students are often weary, downtrodden 20 year olds who are more than happy to go back to basics. Tumblr—being a website of people who care deeply about things and share that passion with others—seems like a great place to host Show & Tell.

Speaking of basics, let’s first talk a bit about…

The Writing Identity

The goal of many writers is to become better at writing. While I think this is an admirable goal it’s also a complicated one, because good writing is entirely subjective. Everyone has their own definition of what good writing looks like based on their knowledge base, history, and personal tastes. And so I often encourage my students, before they begin their journey of becoming a better writer, to step back and ask themselves, “What does good writing look like to me?”

And that’s the thing: you can’t really become a better writer. You can become a more patient writer, with the ability to write and revise multiple drafts of a work. You can become a more ambitious writer, with the ability to write longer stories and deeper themes. You can become a more detailed writer, with the ability to render images and the small details of living that maybe other people don’t notice. Writing is a skill that requires practice, but it also requires joy. You have to enjoy the work more than you fear the potential for failure. And to enjoy the work, you need to honor yourself, your interests, and your ideals. In other words, to become a better writer, you have to become more you.

I remember when I first started writing, I frantically sought out writing advice. I clung to simple adages and rules: active verbs are stronger than passive verbs; remove words like “think” and “realize” and other indicators of your characters’ interior experiences; take out adjectives and adverbs. If you were to adhere to all this advice, your writing wouldn’t become stronger, it would become colder. You would write like Hemingway. There’s nothing wrong with Hemingway, but Hemingway already did Hemingway, and that means you’re free not to be Hemingway. 

Don’t we read to feel closer to people, to experience that which we couldn’t otherwise experience? The beautiful thing about prose is that it’s the only medium that conveys consciousness, because language is the way we contain our thoughts, and writing them down offers others the chance to understand them. E.M. Forster in his book Aspects of the Novel says that the only difference between a character and a person is that a character’s secret inner life can be known, but a person’s can only be understood in observed behavior. Novels are stories of consciousness; biographies are stories of deeds. 

In my early days as a writer, those inane adages of “good writing” began to weigh on me, and I found myself frequently opening a blank document and telling myself, “I’m just going to write something for fun, for me, and so I don’t have to follow any rules.” Every time, that lawless thing I wrote would become better than anything I’d written when I followed the rules. And in this case, “better” means I was proud of it; in writing as close to myself as I could, I was able to help my technical skill reach the level of my personal taste. 

Good writing advice doesn’t spout shallow adages of what should be, it tells you all the things that could be; it opens your mind to possibilities and techniques. “Should” restrains creativity; the entire point of writing is to be creative. To be creative means to make something that has never existed before. And so one of the first things I tell my students is: You already know everything you need to know about your own writing. You already have good and important stories in you. You just have to sit down and write them.

“Show, Don’t Tell”

One such adage that still really gets to me is “show, don’t tell,” which a lot of writers believe. Many people take it to mean that you should describe the exterior circumstances of your narrator in order to allow the reader to interpret meaning. Instead of describing how your narrator feels, these people would rather have you describe their facial expression. But if you’re so interested in rendering the exterior rather than the interior, you’re better off becoming a director. 

Others take it less literally: you show your story instead of tell your story, which, sure, is a valid personal belief for your own work but it’s ambiguous and impractical, and also denies the nature of people to tell stories. Fairy tales and fables are stories that are told. Telling stories came long before showing them.  

In some ways, “show, don’t tell,” can be useful. If you spend a thousand words of character A lovingly and carefully describing every detail of character B, you don’t then need to say something like, “She was pining for him,” because you’ve allowed your description to do that work for you. So no, you don’t need to say it, but maybe you want to. Maybe you want to make it inarguable that character A is pining for character B; you don’t want a reader to say, “I think she’s paying that much attention because she wants to kill him and she’s looking for his weak points.”

And so that’s what it comes down to—choice. Ultimately, writing is about making decisions, and those decisions are stronger when you understand all your options.

Behind the adage is a more difficult truth to swallow: prose is both infinite in its potential and also frustratingly limited, because you have no control over your audience. You can lovingly describe every snowflake that falls in a blizzard, and your reader will be taking their own meaning from it—for people who can mentally visualize things, it’s the images their mind conjures; for those who can’t, it’s a mass of facts. And there are also those who are sleepy and missing details, or who are skimming to get to the bits they’re most interested in, or who accidentally dropped their book in the bath and now the bottom half of every page is warped and unreadable.

Or you can say, “It snowed.”

No matter what your beliefs are on “show, don’t tell,” the truth is that it’s a false dichotomy. The very nature of prose is to navigate this divide. Some stories call for more showing, for example when your narrator is at a distance, when we don’t have much access to their thoughts or feelings. Other stories will ask you to tell, especially if we’re deep in your narrator’s head and they’re giving us everything. Showing lends itself to setting, imagery, and plot. Telling lends itself to character, voice, and style. One is not inherently better than the other, in the same way that a screwdriver isn’t better than a hammer—the tool you use depends on the task at hand.

Any time you encounter a trite rule in writing, it’s usually pointing to something much greater and more fun to think about. In this case, showing and telling are two integral tools in meaning-making. For this week’s activity, we’re going to use both show and tell to make meaning.

Prompt time!

In Donald Barthelme's essay “Not-Knowing,” he calls objects magical. “What is magical about the object is that it at once invites and resists interpretation. Its artistic worth is measurable by the degree to which it remains, after interpretation, vital.” 

So what does that mean? Although this essay is a hot mess (lovingly), part of its intended work is to be a mess. In fact Barthelme describes the mess of his desk and allows it to define him. It’s covered in coffee cups, cigarette ash, unpaid bills, and unwritten novels. In reality, those objects are just objects, but when rendered in prose, they give us an impression of this particular world and the character within it. The writer renders; the reader interprets. The things we own, that mean something to us, are also things that can define us. Who is the person who carries a leather wallet embossed with their initials, with the inside holding credit cards and a stack of neat bills? Who is the person who carries a canvas wallet with a faded Punisher logo on it, attached to a chain, and the only thing inside it is a Subway rewards card?

Objects are important. Especially in this world we live in where so many things have become virtual, tangibility will always be integral to us. We are a species that reaches out and touches. We like to hold things in our hands. We love things which cannot love us back. 

For this week’s prompt fill, I want you to find a magical object for Show & Tell. Ideally, it’s something with a long personal history that’s important to you. Maybe it’s the object you would save in the event of a fire, or maybe it’s something you lost long ago. 

First, I’d like you to show us the object by describing it. Then, tell us the story of it.

You can write about how you acquired it and the memories it conjures. Allow yourself to link and associate memories and feelings. Don’t box yourself in too much—just see where it takes you. 

But you can also put a spin on it. Here are some ways you can do that:

If you want to try fiction, you can write the same story about your favorite character’s beloved object, or you could completely make up an object and its history. 

If you want to try something experimental, you can write a story from the perspective of the object, and maybe its beloved thing is you. 

If you want to try poetry, write a poem of your object. This is a separate lesson, but T.S. Eliot’s concept of an objective correlative may be illuminating to consider. 

The purpose of this activity is to dig through your memories and/or observations, connect them, and use something external to conjure meaning from them. You begin with what your object is and it will eventually lead you to what it means.

Questions? Ask ‘em here before EOD Tuesday so @bettsfic can answer them on Wednesday. And remember to tag your work #tumblr writing workshop with betts if you want her to read your work and possibly feature it on Friday!

And, for those just joining us: @bettsfic is running a writing workshop on @books this month. Want to know more? Start here.

#tumblr writing workshop with betts #writers’ room #writeblr #writing advice #show and tell #long post #long text post

[drarrypotterrenaissance]

the day you were sentenced to azkaban

When I saw this fantastic piece by @longdaytogo I couldn't stop myself from writing - look at Harry's face! Draco's tension! The hands! So, here's 1.3k words of artsy, self-indulgent angst wrapped up with a hopeful ending. If you like it, thank my betas, @wecanthavenicethingx and @starlitsilvereyes for making it so much better, and being so encouraging that I was able to share it 💜 Read on ao3, or below!

The day you were sentenced to Azkaban, you were all alone. Your father had already been taken away to a life in prison, starting with a year of solitary confinement; and your mother had been sent back to the Manor to begin her house arrest. You were on your own, stoic and pale and thin and drawn in the chair in the center of the room, darting glances around the court and staring at the floor in turn. You flinched when the Wizengamot announced your fate; five months in Azkaban, a strict parole after that. You were silent, just bowed your head and trembled, but the Wizangemot chastened you anyway, reminding you of your crimes, and outlining exactly how severe your punishment would have been if you had been a year older when you took the Mark, one of them shuffling their papers and mockingly wishing you a happy birthday a day in advance; you didn’t say anything, so I did, standing up because I couldn’t stay seated anymore and trying to protest, so tired of all the hate and vitriol that hadn’t stopped even after everything.

Hermione stopped me, of course. She pulled me back down onto the bench and she and Ron kept me there until the Wizengamot had all but filed out, trying, I’m sure, to keep me from making any more headlines or forcing the court to give me an official censure. But once the worst of them had left the room, and only a few plum-coloured hats could be seen at the door, I broke free, and reached you before the Aurors coming from the edges of the room did. You were still standing from when you were required to out of decorum for the magistrates, and your hair had fallen across your face, so I couldn’t see the look on your face, but I could still imagine it. I’d seen it on enough other faces during the previous few years, and by that point, I knew exactly what despair and fear and panicked isolation looked like.

We had both been children, caught up in a war from the first year of our lives, and I felt that youth more in that moment than any before. I was so young and powerless, you looked so small and fragile, and I wanted to cry for how tired I was from being angry all the time for all the problems that hadn’t yet been resolved. I don’t even know what I thought I was going to do, why I was approaching you in the first place - you were just all alone, standing there, and looking at you in that moment felt like looking into a mirror, because that was how I felt too, even surrounded by so many people. Everyone else seemed to have their name intertwined with someone else’s; Ron-and-Hermione, Molly-and-Arthur, Bill-and-Fleur. Ginny and I had never really been Harry-and-Ginny, we hadn’t been given the time to forge that link properly, and it fizzled out before we could solidify it; when she moved on to be Ginny-and-Neville, I was left alone as just Harry. And in that moment, when I saw you standing by yourself in the middle of the room, you were just Draco, just like me.

I didn’t go up to you because I wanted to become Harry-and-Draco (although I am so glad to be linked with you now, our names connected on every legal document and letter we sign), I just walked over to you because you were all alone and I was too, and it made sense in that moment that we should be all alone together.

I think I started trying to apologize, for not doing more to help you, for how the Wizengamot treated you, for my part in our petty, schoolboy rivalry; I think I started to tell you that it would be okay, that it would only be a few months, and the dementors were gone now and so it wouldn’t be fun, but you would be alright, but I don’t think I got any of those words out of my mouth.

You shook your head, a small no, and the sight of the tears pooling in your eyes silenced me before I could begin. You were so absolute, so determined to be proper even after everything, and you told me… you told me no. You said, “Thank you, Potter, but you’ve done more than anyone could have asked of you already.” Your lower lip trembled a bit on the last word, despite your best efforts, and I couldn’t stop myself from acting once more, despite my best efforts (although I didn’t really try my best to stop myself).

I hugged you, and you trembled like a leaf, frozen other than the little tremors that wracked your whole body. You kept your arms stiff at your sides, and I could feel you tightening your chin where it pressed into my shoulder, determined not to let your tears or defenses fall.

It took a few moments, but then you inhaled, deep and shuddery, and you grabbed onto me like we were still fleeing the Fiendfyre, and I held you back, just as tight. I saw the Aurors start moving in again, coming to take you away, and I pulled you even closer, watched them falter with uncertainty as I held you and let you cry out your tears and put yourself together again.

I didn’t cry, but I did a good deal of self-repair for myself while we stood there. You were holding me like I’d never been held before, like you needed me, like you wanted me to be there, like you cared about me and wanted to give as much comfort as you were getting. I thought, at the time, that might have been wishful thinking on my behalf, just more of my loneliness striking out at an empty void, but I was so glad to hear you tell me, later, whispering under cool linen sheets on a hot summer night that you felt the same way then. I just wanted to comfort you, and be comforted myself, in a way I hadn’t previously known.

A few moments more, and I started to think too much. I could see the Aurors moving again, and their motion in the corner of my eye made all my thoughts come back, moving too fast and looming too big to focus on them. I didn’t want to let you go, and yet I was going to have to, I would have no choice in what happened yet again. I wanted to keep giving you comfort, I wanted to let you take everything you needed, while you held me right back, and that was warm and safe and terrifying, because you were Draco Malfoy and I was Harry Potter, and I didn’t know what that meant anymore.

(I know what it means now. But we weren’t Draco-and-Harry then. There were still two more years ahead of us before we got the first letter addressed to Mr. Potter and Mr. Malfoy, together, and it was another ten months after Luna’s baby shower that we even talked about making that link permanent. It took us five years from that first hug in the Ministry for us to return there to sign our names on the license that made us legally Draco-and-Harry Malfoy-Potter.)

I held you, and I held you, and I held you. I didn’t figure anything out then, and I don’t think I fixed any problems in those too-short seconds either, but I felt better, even as we clung to each other tighter still in the moments when the Aurors reached us and started to gently pull us apart.

The day you were sentenced to Azkaban, I watched you walk away between crimson-robed Aurors, and I started counting down to December, when I could see you again, and when things might start to feel alright.

#my fic #drarry #drarry fic #inspired by amazing art #everyone please go look at it now!!

[kybercrystals94]

The Hostage (Part 3)

Read here on Ao3!

(Part 1 & Part 2)

Rated: T | Words: 1736 | Summary: The boys wait, and unexpected consequences are met...

Hunter approaches their prisoner chained to the lower rack, and holds out a ration bar and canteen. The twi’lek man, Cenrar Kedess, sits up, shifting so that his back is against the wall. “It is not too late to accept my offer,” he says. 

Hunter scoffs. “Not interested.” 

“But I can give you twice whatever the price on my head is.” 

Hunter narrows his gaze. “Are you hungry or not?” he asks. 

Kedess snatches the meal, glaring up at Hunter and baring sharpened teeth. “You are very foolish, refusing me,” he growls.

Hunter ignores him, turning to Wrecker slouched in the crash seat across from Kedess. He hands his brother two ration bars. “I’ll come take the watch in an hour,” Hunter mutters. 

Wrecker nods. 

Hunter hesitates a moment, then reaches out and grips Wrecker’s shoulder, shaking him softly. “We’ll get her back.” 

Wrecker frowns down at ration bars in his hand. “They still haven’t made contact,” he rumbles softly. “It’s been five days.” 

Five days. Five long, terrible days…the monotony only broken by the small effort it had taken to track down Kedess. Between Tech and Echo, they’d quickly pinpointed the twi’lek’s location in a nearby sector, on a small, disreputable planet with little Empirical influence. Wrecker and Hunter had then convinced Kadess that it was in his best interest to come quietly…with the encouragement of Hunter’s blaster gouged into his spine, and Wrecker’s iron grip latched around his arm. 

“He’s just giving us time,” Hunter reasons, the same reason Tech gave him when he’d fretted over the delay in contact himself only a few minutes ago. 

“We’re us,” Wrecker says, “We don’t need this much time.”

“He doesn’t know that.” 

Wrecker tears open one of his ration bars, but doesn’t eat it, just turns the brick around in his fingers. “Do you think he’s giving her enough to eat? I’d hate for her to be hungry.” 

The question is only one of the many that have haunted Hunter ever since Omega was taken. Is she warm enough? Is she getting enough sleep? Is she being fed and hydrated? Does she have injuries? Is she scared? Does she wonder why her brothers hadn’t found her yet? Does she know they were coming, that they were doing everything they could to find her? 

Does she know they would do anything for her?

Does she know that they love her? 

Unable to find any words of comfort, Hunter doesn’t say anything at all. 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Echo is mindlessly reading through old reg manuals, not even sure when he’d opened the file on his data pad. The familiar documents feel safe and comforting, losing himself in the lingo and wording that had occupied so much of his mind as a cadet. It is better than where his mind tries to wander when it is left unoccupied. 

“We have coordinates,” Tech announces.

Echo pushes himself up, coming to stand over Tech’s shoulder. “About kriffing time.” 

“I’ll tell Hunter!” Wrecker is about to barrel out of the cockpit and nearly collides into the sergeant himself. 

“No message from Omega?” Hunter asks, pushing past their bulking brother. 

Tech shakes his head, already transferring the coordinates into the navigation system. “No, but they are close. Only three hours from our current location.” 

“Why wouldn’t he ask for proof that we’ve got Kedess?” Echo asks suddenly. “Seems strange that he would simply give us the coordinates to his location without ensuring we have the bounty.” 

“I’m not complaining,” Wrecker says. 

“It could be a trap,” Echo states. 

“To what end?” Tech asks. “If the kidnapper had wanted us specifically, why send us to find Kedess at all? It would have been advantageous to simply give us the coordinates from the start and ambush us then.”  

Echo crosses his arms. “It still feels like something is off.” 

“We’ll be ready for a fight,” Hunter says, “but those coordinates are the only connection we have right now to Omega.” 

Tech nods and prepares for the hyperspace jump. Echo slides back into the co-pilot’s seat, trying to squash down the uneasy feeling rattling in his chest…his brothers are right. This is their only link to Omega. 

What other choice do they have?

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

The ship is small, unassuming. 

Hunter isn’t exactly sure what he was expecting the monster-that-stole-his-kid’s ship to look like. However, he is relieved to see that it is not equipped with any sort of heavy weaponry. It is also alone. 

“What were you saying about an ambush, Echo?” Wrecker chortles. “I’d like to see that tiny little thing try and take on the Marauder.” 

“I never said I thought it was an ambush, I said I thought something was off,” Echo retorts. “I still do. I don’t like this.” 

A transmission chimes and Tech patches it through. Omega’s voice, frantic and breathless, filters through the speakers. 

“Hunter, I don’t have much time…something is wrong…you need to–” Her voice breaks when the transmission cuts out and the kidnapper’s ship explodes. 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Tech cannot prise his gaze away from where only moments before, a full ship had been. Shock and horror permeate to the very core of his being. His mind had calculated dozens of outcomes to the matter that was Omega’s capture. Not one of them had concluded like this. Even with the evidence quite literally splayed before them in mind staggering destruction, he finds himself unable to comprehend this version of reality.

“Scan for survivors.” The voice is Hunter’s, but the emotion behind it is foreign to its speaker: desperation. 

“Hunter…” Echo begins. 

“She can’t be dead,” Hunter growls. “She’s not.” 

“No one could have survived that,” Echo says. 

Tech begins the scan anyway, even though he knows that Echo is correct. There will be no survivors. He scans again, and again. 

[No lifeforms detected]

[No lifeforms detected]

[No lifeforms detected]

Tech forces his hands into fists to prevent himself from starting another scan. The result will be the same. Over and over again. 

Omega is gone. 

“Maybe she wasn’t on the ship.” Wrecker’s voice shakes. He is most certainly crying. 

“She hailed us on a short range transmission. There is nowhere else she could have been.” Tech hates how indifferent his voice sounds, as though he doesn’t care. 

Because nothing has ever been further from the truth. 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Hunter’s mind is silent and roaring. The static of a comm left on an empty channel. A droning hum numbing and excruciating all at once. Breaking through it all, a small voice whispers, curling around the chaos, gripping with sharp claws: She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead…

He is aware of arms wrapping around him, holding him too tight. He is aware of familiar voices speaking, saying familiar words and names, but his mind will not comprehend. He is aware of his own throat constricting around sounds that might be words or sobs or screams. He is aware, but he doesn’t understand. 

The only clarity is the whisper. She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead…

You couldn’t save her. 

She’s dead. 

She’s dead because you didn’t protect her.

She’s dead because of you. 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Wrecker wonders how many times Echo has felt this ache. It is so raw and physical that Wrecker looks down at his chest to make sure that there isn’t a gaping wound where his heart is. It isn’t the same pain he felt when they left Crosshair on Kamino. That is a dull throb, a constant reminder that Crosshair is separated from them. However, the little sliver of hope that he will come back makes the pain feel temporary and tolerable, like it will heal and leave a welted scar. 

This agony though, is deadly. Life ending. Bleeding out. A black hole consuming any past or present or future Wrecker can imagine. How can he keep breathing when Omega isn’t; his heart keep beating when Omega’s doesn’t; mind keep tripping over thoughts and memories when Omega’s won’t…ever, ever again. 

We were designed to resist emotional stress, Tech had said once, when they’d seen natborns in a village become distraught – inconsolable – over the death of several of their men who had fought alongside the Batch for a short time during a mission. Wrecker had sympathized, but had mostly felt bad that he didn’t share in their grief. That, Tech had continued, and we did not have a bond with these individuals. I’m sure we would feel differently were it one of our own. 

Somehow, they’d gone an entire war without losing one of their own…that is, one of their own. Clone Force 99 remained intact, even adopting a reg along the way. Echo was haunted by ghosts, but he always kept fighting, always moved forward. 

But how? How had he done it? Over and over again? 

Maybe Tech was wrong. Maybe the Batch hadn’t been equipped with that ability to resist emotional stress. Maybe that was part of their defect.

Wrecker rubs at the salty residue of tears on his face, long dried. Tucked under one arm is Hunter, having finally fallen into an exhausted sleep. He’d fought and snarled like a cornered, feral tooka when it’d first happened. He hadn’t cried as Wrecker had, or gone silent like Tech, or resigned like Echo. 

It had terrified Wrecker at first, seeing his composed brother about-face. He was scared of what Hunter might do, so he’d done the only thing he could think of…wrapped him up tight in an embrace. Hunter struggled against him, biting out indecipherable words, but Wrecker didn’t let go. Couldn’t let go. It felt like he might be the only thing holding Hunter together, and if he let go, Hunter would burst apart from grief. So Wrecker had held on until Hunter sagged into his grip with deep, gusting breaths, then he’d led his brother to the hold, made him sit down in a crash seat and sat next to him, pulling him close. 

Wrecker feels Kedess watching them, remembering their prisoner for the first time in maybe hours. Wrecker doesn’t know how long it's been since their whole world ended. 

“The girl,” Kedess says when Wrecker meets his eye. “She is gone?” 

Wrecker growls out an affirmative noise.

The twi’lek is quiet for a moment. “My sister died during the war on Ryloth. It is a pain I would not wish on my greatest enemy.”

Wrecker’s heart bleeds anew. “Me neither,” he manages to say, voice barely above a whisper.

A/N: **checks tags** No major character deaths, y'all! I promise!

✨Let me know if you'd like to be on my tag list!✨

Tag List: @dumfanting @isthereanechoinhere96 @amorfista @groguandthebadbatch @followthepurrgil @arctrooper69 @proteatook @mooncommlink @ezras-left-thumb @nagyanna424

#star wars #the bad batch #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #tbb tech #tbb hunter #tbb omega #tbb wrecker #tbb echo #the hostage #part 3 #NO MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH #Kidnapping #hostage situation #hurt no comfort (yet) #angst

[alihartwrites]

Aaron Bushnell - Transgender Woman?

SHORT VERSION (14:53)

LONG VERSION (48:25)

FULL Version: who is lillyAnarKitty?...   Aaron Bushnell - Transgender Woman ??? (FULL version) by Kat_The_Vat on YouTube

PLEASE READ THE DESCRIPTION!

this is my (kat_the_vat’s) effort, through my platform, to amplify Bushnell's protest and platform the Palestinian human rights violations that are currently ongoing in Gaza.

In her death, Bushnell donated all funds towards the Palestinian Children’s Relief Fund via her will. I’d like to encourage you to donate as well. You can find their website here:

https://www.pcrf.net/

Additionally, any money made on this video will be donated to the PCRF

Free Palestine, humanity will win.

The document, written by Isabelle Moreton @epistemophagy : Redemptio memoriae

#lillyanarkitty #lilly bushnell #aaron bushnell #bushnell #kat_the_vat #alihartwrites #Youtube

[bradshawsbaby]

Hello Lovely ☺️💗

No rush or pressure whatsoever to this but I’d be so wholly delighted to read the products of your wordsmithery with prompts 2 and 15 (separately is what I was thinking 😆 but if you wanna put them together more power to you👍🏻💗) for The Bradshaws. From that November prompts list. Only if you’re still wanting to write drabbles. 🫣💗 Okay thank youuuu 😘

💗💗💗

Anything for you, darling! You are literally too cute! ☺️ I have another request for Prompt #2 in my ask box, so I focused on Prompt #15 (Looking through an old photo album) for this one!

“Oh, honey!” you gasped softly, blowing away the light layer of dust that was clinging to the cover of the large photo album you’d just pulled from one of the many boxes strewn across your living room. “Come here!”

Your fiancé’s head popped up from across the room, where he had been engrossed in rummaging through a box of his own. With his backwards baseball cap and old college hoodie, he somehow managed to look both extremely casual and devastatingly handsome at the same time.

“What’s up, baby?” Bradley asked, wiping some dust from his hands onto the front of his sweatpants as he rose from his spot on the floor and moved towards you.

“I found an old photo album in this box,” you told him, smiling up at him from where you were sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the couch. “It looks pretty full,” you added, eyeing the width of the rather hefty album.

With just a few months to go before your wedding, and before you and Bradley moved into the new apartment you’d just signed for, there was still so much to do. But tonight had nothing to do with wedding planning. Instead, you had encouraged Bradley to bring boxes of his parents’ things over to your apartment so that you could go through them together. They’d been sitting in storage for a long time because they’d been too painful for Bradley to go through on his own.

“But if I have you with me, I think I can do it,” he’d told you when he agreed to bring them over.

Now he was sitting down beside you, one strong arm wrapping around your waist as he gazed at the large photo album resting on your lap.

“Oh my God, I haven’t seen this thing in years. My mom kept so many pictures in it,” he breathed out, almost reverently, as he reached out to brush his fingers across the cover.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see his throat constricting tightly. “Do you want to look through it or would you prefer I put it away?” you asked him gently.

Bradley glanced up and caught your eye, offering you a tender smile. “No, it’s okay. Let’s look through it,” he said, slowly flipping it open. He stopped immediately when he saw the words Bradshaw Family Memories written in a clear, bold hand across the first page. Running his fingers over the dried ink, his lips curved up into a nostalgic smile, tinged with only the tiniest hint of sadness. “That’s my mom’s handwriting. She wrote everything down in this thing,” he explained.

You smiled warmly, rubbing his back lovingly and letting him take the lead with flipping through the album.

Carole really had kept so many pictures in this thing. There were pictures of her and Goose when they were dating, pictures from their engagement party, and pictures from their wedding, all carefully documented with names, dates, and places, just like Bradley had said. There were pictures of Carole during her pregnancy, including a few old ultrasound photos.

“My baby when he was a baby,” you laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek, which made Bradley smile. “Oh, and look at this!” you exclaimed excitedly, pointing to another photo when he turned the page. “‘Bringing Bradley home from the hospital!’ So sweet! Your parents look so happy,” you murmured, noting the expressions of joy on Goose’s and Carole’s faces as they gazed down at their precious son.

“They were,” Bradley said quietly, his eyes shining. “God, look how young they were.”

Younger than the both of you were now. It was crazy to think about.

Resting a comforting hand on Bradley’s upper arm, you leaned over and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I know they’d be so proud of you, honey.”

Swallowing slowly, Bradley nodded and dropped a kiss on the top of your head. “And I know they’d have loved you. They’d be so excited about the wedding.”

You nodded, laying your head on his shoulder and curling up against his side as he pulled you closer to him.

“I can’t wait to marry you, baby. To start our life together,” Bradley murmured, turning his head to look down and meet your gaze. “We’re gonna fill so many photo albums just like this one, so that one day our kids and our grandkids and our great-grandkids can look back and know how much we loved each other.”

“That sounds perfect, honey,” you whispered, managing to get the words out past the lump of emotion in your throat.

Sitting side by side, you and Bradley continued to flip through the album together, each page offering a new reminder of the ways Goose and Carole had loved each other, and their sweet boy.

Their love would live on forever, just like yours and Bradley’s.

November OTP Writing Prompts

#bradshaw drabble #mr. & mrs. bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #mrs. bradshaw #rooster x wife!reader #rooster x reader #goose x carole #top gun: maverick #november writing prompts

[stellaeviventem]

Man fuck 🍉. truth be told I don’t feel sorry for 🍉 at all. Maybe I’m just not a very forgiving person but to me she’s just been let off easily. I can’t sympathize with someone who constantly Harasses their ex and current partner and encourages their friends to do this shit. The audacity to shit talk in your server with ur FANS and in the document allegedly stalk in someone else’s server is fucking crazy. But when people do the same to you, you run and hide and temporarily close the server??? All bark but no bite type shit. That bitch made 4 videos of their ex and was sneaking dissing all the time on her discord status and her streams🤣 and the ex she” hates” she’s drawing herself with and drawing herself in their clothes. Saying that she fell in love with the “old one🥺” weirdo ur ex was like 13 that time and ur 17. then made a doc claiming that her ex friend is a pedo and another steals shit and stuff, which wasn’t even true 😆.

Then she had the GUAL the AUDACITY to point out how one of the ex friends made NSFW in the past like SHE never did, like SHE didn’t have a whole tumblr page dedicated to it. This is one hypocritical ass bitch let me tell you that.

why haven’t most of her friends called her out previously? Why did none of them be like “hey guys, this is kinda a trash ass move we’re doing, let’s stop” but they were probably scared to ngl. I’d be scared too . Though if y’all really cared for her you guys would’ve wanted the best for her and told her to stop. At least that one friend wanted to try to get her into therapy and was scolding her.

Not to mention they lied about being fucking sexually assaulted…. Does 🍉 not know how hard it is for victims to be believed already???? How fucked up do you have to be to lie about something so fucking serious. Do you wanna ruin ur exs life that bad?? Your ex doesn’t even think about you anymore. Like how can I forgive someone who lied about being forced to do sexual acts.

‘But her mental health isn’t good rn’ bruh ur mental health will always explain ur behavior, but it will never fucking excuse the shit you have done.

she definitely wasn’t thinking about her ex’s mental health when she was making videos about them and shit talking about them. She wasn’t thinking of anyone’s mental health when her little whitenight dick eating friends went and attacked her ex’s current partner multiple times on their YouTube and even their tumblr. She wasn’t thinking about anyone’s mental health when making her private drama with her ex and ex friends public and dissing them in video descriptions and captions lollll.

This is another reason why kids shouldn’t live and breathe on the internet for so long until they’re adults. They end up being fucking weirdos who can’t think critically. The fact she isn’t even home schooled either, she just sits around all day on her computer screen for days on end since she was like what 12??? 🍉 if you’re reading this , which you aren’t, do us all a favor and get off the internet for a while, get some therapy too dude.

nothin to add to this because yeah thats pretty real

can i offer a gnola bar in these trying times?

#asked and answered #anon #🍉

[ask-de-writer]

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Science Fiction

SUBMARINE! 1812 an Alternate History

Chapter 6 : KRAKEN

(Part 1 of 5)

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

5462 words

© 2023 by Glen Ten-Eyck

All rights reserved.

This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

TUMBLR EXEMPTION

Blog holding members of Tumblr.com may freely reblog this story provided that the title, author and copyright information remain intact, unaltered, and are displayed at the head of the story.

Fan art, stories, music, cosplay and other fan activity is actively encouraged.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

KRAKEN-

Anchors were dropped with a rattle of heavy chain, followed by the hiss of heavy cable through the hause-pipes as the hooks sought and found purchase in the bottom of Hampton Roads. We were home at last.

The seaman beside me was precariously standing on the rail of the Maryland, one hand on a line for balance, the other waving enthusiastically at the small boats approaching from shore. “I got me more than two thousand gold Continentals in prize money to blow,” he confided to me. “I’d ha’ stayed out longer, iffin’ I was the Commodore. We chewed ‘em up and spit ‘em out so good.”

“Indeed we did, though I was one of those who said that we should return,” I replied.

“So why’d we come back? You got the inside skinny?”

“Only part of it. If it helps any, even Commodore Marks shared your view. We had two attack boats damaged in loading accidents there at the last. Shark lost her mast and a tackle failure caused Polliwog serious damage to rudder and diving planes. We had not the facilities to refit the Shark. Still, we were willing to continue, with altered raising tackle. There was something in that last messenger packet’s dispatches that changed The Commodore’s mind. What that was I do not know.”

“What’s up? Green Jackets in boats is turnin’ back the harbor boats...” The shrill of the bosun’s pipe sounding assembly interrupted him. He leapt nimbly down to the deck and ran aft with the rest of the crew. Commodore Marks was standing on the poop deck, ready to address the crew.

“Men,” he cried, “you have done what no nation has ever done before. You have humbled the Beast of Britain on her home seas. Even the least among you has enough prize money to buy a decent farm. Our holds bear a secret and that secret is the rocket, nothing else. If any man or woman questions you about other weapons or even the submarine boats, what do you do?”

There was a pregnant pause, followed by one man saying, “Report ‘em!” Suddenly the whole crew caught it. “Report ‘em!” they thundered as one.

“That’s right! Report ‘em! There are no submarine boats! Anyone who says that there are is a liar! An arrested liar at that! It’s rockets that sent the Brits to the bottom! Is every man here clear on that?”

“Aye, Sir!” they responded.

“Signal man! Clear the boats to approach us! Bosun Harding has the harbor duty assignments. Those not on harbor duty may go ashore and God go with you.”

Bosun Harding read off a dozen names and was met by as many groans of disappointment.

The many small boats swarmed like a gaggle of geese about our ships. Many were carrying liveried servants from great houses, and at least as many more were carrying ladies. They all were bearing invitations to come to parties being held in the honor of our deed. The servants wanted officers, or at least the highest ranking men that they could get for their master’s “rocket parties.”

The ladies were mostly less discriminating. They were there to invite any man that they could get to come to their ‘parties.’ Some of those parties were very private and some were open invitations from the brothels of Norfolk.

One boat cut through the swarm and all made way for it. It bore the ensign of the Office of the President of the Continental Congress. Riding stiffly erect, in his fine coat of green broadcloth with red and gold trim, was the President’s personal aide, my grandfather, Tall Bear. He had three eagle feathers in his braid. The bosun piped him aboard.

In spite of his age, he climbed the ladder easily and swiftly gained the deck. That he saw me in his brief glance about the deck, I was sure, but he went straight to the Commodore and they went into his cabin. Whatever the discussion was, it was brief. They emerged moments later, and he strode gravely across the deck to me.

He looked me up and down, quietly. “You have done well. We have read every dispatch and all of your letters too. It would appear that all of your devices have done as well or better in real action than we had hoped.

“Your mother, Sun on the Cloud, misses you. Also your sister, Cornflower, wishes you to meet her new husband.” Here he at last grinned and clapped me on the arm and thrust a letter into my hand. “Harvest Moon wants to see you, too. Most urgently. When are you two going to settle down together?”

“I don’t know, Grandfather. When the war permits. I, too, wish to see the forests and lakes of home. I will come home as soon as I can find the time. I have missed you all.”

“It will have to wait a bit longer. I bear an invitation from your Uncle, President Arnold. All of the principal officers and you submariners are to go to Philadelphia for a special reception at the Presidential Mansion. Something big is in the wind. That is all that I can say about it here.”

“May I come with you, Grandfather?”

“I fear not, Tecumsah. I have a number of errands to accomplish yet. I will not get back in time to be at the fete. Smollet will be there.”

“Mister Smollet! I haven’t seen him for ages! What is new from his workshops?”

“I cannot say. I am sure that he will tell you himself. You two always did understand each other better than any two men ought. Now, I must go.” With that, he strode across the deck to the ladder and the bosun piped him off the ship.

To be continued

NEXT==>

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Science Fiction

#Submarine! 1812 Chap 6 #Part 1 of 5) #Science Fiction #Alternate History #Written by De Writer

[mementoshay]

Hello, firstly I’d like to extend my sincere condolences to Shay and their family and friends. I’m so sorry to read what have happened and pray that nobody else would have to go through such harassment. I’d like to ask if Shay’s family is ok with people discussing the document and what happened? I ask because I’ve had a number of people interested in me covering the event, in the most respectful way possible of course, and in hopes to raise awareness in order to prevent something like this happening again. As well as to ensure Shay’s story isn’t forgotten or “swept under the rug”, so to speak. I asked my community on Twitter about covering it, while some encouraged me to do it for reasons I’ve explained others are rightfully skeptical that it would be a means to “profit off of someone’s passing”, which is not my intent at all. If Shay’s family would rather people not cover it, that’s completely understandable and should be respected. Thank you for your time.

Here is the tweet I made asking for the feedback:

https://x.com/arteicetb/status/1765770648750854344?s=61&t=htGTYaIJq-EyX1ml1fI07w

As well as my channel:

https://youtube.com/@ArteiceTB?si=0jetxGan4GPPEpvR

Hi, thank you for reaching out.

At the present time, Shay's sister has requested to be allowed to grieve without any more interference. However, our document was shared after getting her permission to do so, and she also gave us permission to open these two memorial accounts after the original link was taken down.

So yes, discussing the contents of the document and the events that led to Shay's passing has been green-lit since day one, as long as the way the discussion is approached is respectful and accurate to the events, which doesn't seem to be an issue here.

We understand the concern to "profit off of someone's passing", as we made it a strict rule to not accept any kind of money ourselves. The fact that you're thinking about this, however, speaks volumes for your genuine intentions, so please don't worry about it. YouTube allows to disable monetization on specific videos anyway, so you could always do that without issue.

Thank you so much for your kind words and thought, to you and all those who remembered Shay.

- Liv and Eden

#HazbinHotel #Vivziepop #Askbox #MementoShay

[lostcauses-noregrets]

hey, lost. I'm really deep into the eruri fandom and I really love all the fanfics I come across on AO3 and even read some of yours. some fics I've read these past months have really inspired me to pursue writing as a hobby. but, that's my problem. I don't think my writing is the best and I've been having a rough time looking for inspiration for stories. as a long-time writer for the eruri fandom, do you have any tips for new writers like me? appreciate it a lot!!!

Hey Anon, I’m glad you’ve been enjoying reading Eruri fanfics and it’s wonderful that they’ve inspired you to try your own hand at writing. Starting out as a fanfic writer can be pretty daunting, especially if you’re coming to a long standing fandom that already has an impressive “canon” of writing. I can vividly remember how nervous I was when I posted my first ever fanfic on Livejournal way back in 2009.  The thing to remember though is that all writers had to start somewhere, and that the best way to develop your writing is to keep doing it! 

A good piece of advice when you’re starting out (heck it’s good advice all the time!) is not to judge your own writing against other writers.  It’s also worth remembering that “best” is always subjective when it comes to writing, and popular doesn’t necessarily mean “good”.  Everyone has their own preferences and I’m sure that if you keep writing there will be readers out there who will love your particular style. 

In terms of inspiration, don’t be afraid to start small with headcanons, twitfics or even just snippets of dialogue.  You don’t have to have a whole plot mapped out, in fact you don’t even need a plot at all!  Some of the fics that have left a real impression on me have been little character studies. I’ve always really enjoyed writing missing scenes and different perspectives, that can be a helpful starting point if you’re struggling for ideas. Also don’t be afraid of writing scenarios that other people have already written. We’re talking about fanfic here, almost every conceivable idea has already been written at one stage or another.  The thing to remember is that your ideas will be unique to you. I’ve lost count of the number of post-ACWNR fics I’ve read over the years, most of which tread very similar ground, but all of them are unique and captivating in their own way. I can never get enough of them! Beyond canon, you can find inspiration almost anywhere; books, music, films, news reports, friends, you name it!  I used to keep a document of snippets of text and ideas that I’d jot down as they came to me. Some of these got developed into actual fics, often years later, others are just still notes.  I might use them some day though! 

I’d also encourage you to share your writing.  Writing on your own can be tough but the good news is that the Eruri community has always been really supportive and encouraging to new writers and artists.  Again, you don’t need to wait until you have a complete fic, lots of writers share snippets of writing on twitter with the hashtag #WIPWednesdays. There are also a couple of Eruri writing servers that you could try joining. DM me if you’re interested and I’ll pass on the details. Kicking headcanons around with other fans is a great way to spark inspiration. Fanart provides fertile grounds for inspiration too, and most artists are flattered to know that their work has inspired more creativity.  The Eruri fandom also has loads of ship weeks running throughout the year, catering to almost every taste, all of which come with their own list of prompts. Modern Eruri Week is 10-16 July, Eruri Angst Week is 2-8 October, and NSFW Eruri Week is currently voting on prompts. 

I hope this helps to encourage you Anon.  Good luck with your writing!

#asks #eruri #writing #fanfic

[itsohh]

Sleep

A/N: Female reader, wasn’t really in the mood for smut recently. I’ll probably change Nøkk to be green when I get around to patching my rules again.

Word count: 1134

Warnings: None

AO3 Masterlist

Being part of the R&D team was something you always loved. Elena was fantastic to work under and it gave you the great opportunity of working with some incredible minds. Yet being the Vice Director though, it came with a lot of responsibilities. A lot of responsibilities meant a lot of paperwork. Alone in your little office, you were shut off from the rest of the world. The sound of your keyboard clattered away. Another email popped up in the corner of your screen. Your mouse hovered over it for a second and you skimmed over it.

Just wanted to check that you received my email requesting…

Mentally you slapped yourself, you have received the email but had forgotten to scan and send the documents over. That had been almost a week ago when you first got that email. You jumped up from your desk and started to search through your filing cabinet for your copy of the blueprints. Elena's voice came back to you for a moment while you placed the files one by one on your personal scanner. Her voice when she discussed her step back from fieldwork and how the option was open for you as well.

It was an option that ultimately, you had decided against. Fieldwork, specifically training for it, always gave you a bit of an outlet. Over to your computer you went, the files soon checked and attached.

Apologies for the delay I have attached…

A yawn stiffed from your mouth as you sent the email and returned back to your previous work. Lips pushed together you had hunched over in your chair while you attempted to read the document, the words sometimes required you to read them several times to be processed in your mind. So focused on your work, you didn't notice the fogged glass door to your office open. You didn't notice the figure that moved without a sound.

It wasn't until a light contact with your shoulders did you jump in fright. The purr of a chuckle next to you met your ear while a small amount of fabric brushed against your kneck.

"Don't you think it's a little late to still be working?"

"Wouldn't be working if there wasn't stuff that needed to be done. I'll come to bed later." You waved her off and were met with silence. Her contact diminished and you were left to continue focusing on your work. Yet, soon a small squeak came from the couch behind you. One you had admittedly spent a few nights at.

"Nøkk, I might be a while. Don't wait up." She didn't reply and you didn't have the energy to try to convince her. So you just let her sit there. About five minutes later you had gone back to your rather slow rhythm.

A small sigh came from behind you and the couch squeaked again. "Come to bed, you're barely getting anything done." Her hands graced your shoulders and you practically melted under her touch.

"Barely means I'm still getting it done." You moaned out just as her fingers found that tight spot. "I'd relax if I could but this really needs to get done. It's important work which- oh right there." Your mouth dropped open and you pushed into her touch, eyes fluttered close. Temporarily lost in the relaxing pleasure of her touch.

"I understand you have a lot of work to do but this isn't good for you." Nøkks vision focused on the auto-save that popped up on your screen. "Imagine what Elena or Gustave would say if they saw you overworking yourself like this."

"Uhhhhh don't make this a thing Nøkk, I'm fine."

"Your back is telling me a different story. Someone didn't listen to Gustave's lecture about how stress can kill."

"Gustave is a hypocrite when it comes to overworking."

"Which is why his team is there to support and encourage him to take breaks and rest. Things that you should be doing."  In a moment she leaned over and pressed the off button on your PC.

"Hey! My work-"

"Is saved. Come on honey, you have me worried. Let's go to bed." She pulled you out of the chair via your arm and you stumbled into her from the force. Nøkk caught you with grace and you let out a small yawn. Finally giving in to her demands she led you through the department. You were a little surprised to see the place completely empty, all dark and shut off. "What time is it?"

"Almost 2am." She hummed and your eyes widened slightly, you hadn't realized how late it was. "I'm glad I brought you dinner earlier or else you would have just kept working without it wouldn't you?" She tsked with a teasing but concerned tone that had you let out a groan while you leaned on her, feet practically dragging against the floor. "Take tomorrow off, you need rest."

"Nooo, I don't have the time to take an extra day off."

"Why not? Your work can wait, your health can't."

"It needs to be done and if I don't do it then Elena will have to do it and she's already way more overworked than I am."

"I'll get Harry involved."

"No god don't get Harry involved-"

"He will make you look after yourself."

"Don't be a snitch." You whined and any other time she would have found the sound amusing.

"Then you agree you're not doing something you're supposed to then. Can only snitch on something naughty."

"Nøkkkkk." The pair of you reached her bedroom door and she opened it with ease.

"Please, for me." Her mask was removed and you could hear the softness in her voice. A sigh left your lips and you flopped down into her bed face first, fully closed.

"Fine." Your voice was muffled into the bed and slowly you could feel Nøkk undressing you.

"Thank you." She stripped you down to your underwear, bra dumped on the ground before she handed you one of your oversized nightshirts. Slowly you managed to slip it on and she moved you under the covers and onto your side of the bed. Now that you had allowed yourself to fully relax on the bed, you could properly feel the tax that working had taken on your body.

A moment later Nøkk slipped into the bed next to you and pulled you slightly towards her in a cuddle. Your head used her clothed breast as a pillow and you felt the light touch of her lips against your head. "Thanks for looking after me." You managed to mutter kt, eyes shut as you snuggled up with the woman.

"It's hard work but it's worth it." Her arm wrapped around you slightly and gently stroked your hip. "Goodnight Karina."

"Goodnight hun."

#r6s #r6s x reader #rainbow six siege #nokk x reader #nokk

[mitchelldailygames]

Heroes of Song Devlog Part 11: Picking It Back Up

I set this game to the side for a bit to work on some other projects, but recently have found some new motivation and have been diving back into it! As always, the design principles:

The heroes are cute.

Kindness matters.

The world is weird.

Sometimes you don’t fight. Sometimes you do.

Health is hearts.

Art Announcement

One of the main drivers of my new motivation is that I got art back! Check back here on the Wednesday after Christmas to see the first piece! You can also follow me on the website I continue to call Twitter to see it.

Having something to look at, something to grasp of this world I’ve been imagining, is very exciting and life-giving. On all other projects I’ve released, I’ve either done the art myself or used stock images, so there were always limitations. Having a very talented artist actually create the perfect artwork for this game is incredible. I highly recommend it. 10/10.

The artist is @warrenbutgnome. You should definitely check out his stuff.

Layout or “The Look”

I’ve recently been trying out some layout ideas and feel like I’m approaching something that I like. You can see it below. The pixelation is hiding some of the art I will be revealing soon, and the text isn’t final, but you can get the idea. I’ll just say, I’m sticking with “The heroes are cute.”

I like having the solid color corners so you can easily find chapters. The dots in that solid color field are the forj’d rune numbers for the chapter number. I think overall, this look is pretty clean and doesn’t interfere with the text. This is friendlier and softer than a lot of the stuff I’ve made (especially recently) which I think is good for this game.

The text will be justified, not left aligned. I’ve already changed it on the document. The fonts used here are Da Pandora for the title/chapter headings and Palatino for everything else. I don’t know what else to say about it, but getting this done, even though I’m a long way off from actually finalizing text and laying everything out, is really encouraging. If you have suggestions or feedback, I’m open to it!

Character Sheet

I’ve also been working on the character sheet. You can find the current version of first page, which contains the essential information for a character, below.

Knowing how much space I actually have while looking at the page on a computer is always a challenge for me. I have a tendency to give way too much space for some things and not leaving enough for others. Looking at it now, I see there is much more space for writing out the second piece of gear than the first. That could definitely be improved. Earlier versions had huge boxes for the character portrait/description, and I like it slimmed down.

I liked the idea of coloring in the symbols with color for hearts, effort, and spirit based on how much your max was. Trying it out with just normal pencils is a little awkward, so I might end up making a version that doesn’t have that so I can free up space for writing out move descriptions or songs, runes, and rituals. I’m also not sure how to get a fillable pdf that allows filling up the images for the pools without doing some programming that I don’t know how to do. That’s definitely no the top priority at the moment, but it’s on my mind. If someone reading this knows exactly how they’d do it, I’d be willing to pay to get it done.

Other Stuff

I’ve been tweaking the rules. I’ve been stat-ing out enemies. I’ve even been working out some downtime systems including a community building mechanic and mini-games for a variety of leisure/non-adventuring activities like fishing/hunting, foraging, and cooking. I also made a list of prompts for getting to know your characters a bit better when nothing else is going on. Sometimes you don’t fight.

I was going to get into all of that, but as I started writing it, I realized it really was its own post. So keep an eye out for that down the line!

The world is weird; kindness matters.

--Daily

#indie ttrpg #ttrpg #ttrpg design #ttrpg dev #heroes of song #legend of zelda

[hedgewitchgarden]

Until a few years ago when I finally moved northward from Florida, you could have told me that apples grow in February and blackberries in March, and I’d have had little reason to disbelieve you. Moving from the tropics gave me an appreciation for when certain plants are cheaper to purchase and that snow is something to contend with, but I also had to face the reality of SAD, seasonal affective disorder.

The well-documented phenomenon of seasonal affective disorder affects roughly 10 million Americans and can crudely be summed up as a form of clinical depression tied to the changing of the seasons. Most who are affected by it feel it in the winter months, though there are many who feel depressive or even anxious symptoms in summer. The cause for the disorder is unknown, but theories range from people staying indoors due to the cold and dark, thus messing with melatonin production in the body, to an evolutionary leftover encouraging us to be more lethargic and energy-conserving due to the lack of resources our species once dealt with during the winter.

For a very long time, I was a skeptic about SAD. To a certain degree, I think it was just a lack of exposure. Most people who told me they were depressed around the holidays seemed to have the same objections I did to commercial Christmas co-opting and being forced to participate in insincere, even corny rituals. As I mentioned earlier, I grew up in Florida, a state noted for having about one percent of its population affected with SAD (compared to ten percent in Alaska).

Even more embarrassingly, I think that I dismissed the disorder out of hand just because of its criteria and name. That psychologists would go so far as to come up with an entire category of depression tied to something as trite as the weather and name it using an acronym that spelled out the word “sad” seemed indulgent at best, ridiculous at worst.

My outlook on SAD changed when I married someone who contends with it.

My wife’s seasonal background is not terribly dissimilar to my own. Before she moved to the same area of Florida in which we met, she had been born and raised in Orange County California. While we both had near-constant sunlight, for whatever reason, she actually did pay attention to whatever seasonal changes were available to her. When she eventually made her own trek to the north, I saw for the first time in the near-decade we’d known one another the true extent of what an early sunset and a sub-freezing thermometer could do to a person.

My wife is not like me: where I am (affectionately, I hope) referred to as a bit of a curmudgeon, she has a reputation for being an absolute delight. She’s pleasant and effervescent, sweet and energetic, loves people, and is always adventurous. She loves the outdoors and the fresh air, and absolutely must leave the house at least once a day or else she feels as though waking up might be a waste of precious time and opportunity.

Autumn is her favorite time of year. She loves crunching leaves underfoot and eating pumpkin-flavored anything and apples. When the mountainsides near our home turn brown and yellow, she feels a peace with the world that I envy every moment I witness it. Then the winter comes and she begins to talk about how she doesn’t want to leave our apartment anymore, how she hates that the sun sets before six and how she’s tired all of the time.

Christmas and New Year’s give her some joy for a while, but she describes February as “Dark. Cold. Depressing.” I hesitate to say that she becomes a different person—it’s more like the person I’ve always known her to be is slowed to the point that I need to work much harder at recognizing her.

More Radical Reads: Depression Is Not a Weakness

Now, anyone who has ever helped a loved one or a partner through depression is aware of how every instinct in your body cries for you to help them get better. All you want in the world is to remind them that their smile is more luminous than any summer day, and you can drive yourself to exhaustion looking for gestures and foods and conversation points that can bring them around. That’s natural and part of caring. It’s also rarely the most productive use of your energy.

There are therapies that have been used to varying level of success when it’s come to SAD: therapy using various lights and lamps is frequently used, and has been shown to have few side effects. In some serious cases, medication can be prescribed—SAD has been linked to suicidal thoughts in many cases–and any such options can and should be discussed with a mental health professional whenever possible. In most cases, explicit attention to self-care is seen as a great response.

More Radical Reads: Undo the Stigma: 10 Things Not to Say to Someone Managing Depression

For me, my job as a partner, and ally, and a witness to SAD is to just be supportive. It isn’t my place to try and step in and attempt to “fix” anything my wife is dealing with. I only need to recognize it for what it is and give it the proper attention that it always deserved and I had so much difficulty giving it for so many years.

I’m absolutely privileged to be an individual who does not suffer from SAD. I easily could have been. I have reason to believe that it may run in my family among a number of other depressive tendencies, but I’m fortunate not to. And I’m fortunate to be able to stand in for someone I care about and be there for her as she handles it in her own way. Sometimes that looks like listening and being in her presence while she contends with a dark bout for a day or so. Most times, it’s shouldering a little more of the load that we carry as a couple trying to make it through and survive and exist.

And sometimes, it’s as simple as warming her up and being a little bit brighter than I might have felt like being, just for her, just for that cold, dark day.

In order to continue producing high quality content and expanding the message of radical, unapologetic self-love, we need to build a sustainable organization. To meet these efforts, we’re thrilled to share the launch of our #NoBodiesInvisible subscription service. This service will provide our community with access to additional content and rewards for your monthly investment in furthering our radical self-love work.

[Feature Image: A photo of a person sitting on a large gate.  The person is wearing blue shorts and blue sneakers.  The gate is in a field of wheat.  Source: Rebecca Thorp]

#sad #seasonal affective disorder #depression

[separatist-apologist]

They Say I Did Something Bad

Then why's it feel so good?

Summary: All plot, no porn

Chapter 6: I'd Do It Over and Over Again If I Could

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Read on AO3

Elain woke to darkness and Lucien. He was propped in the bed, regretfully clad in a pair of breeches though he had removed his shirt. He was pouring over some document or other, likely business far too important to be done in bed and yet there he was. Hair unbound, his handsome face cut and scratched, his cheekbone sporting an ugly yet healing bruise.

“How long have I been asleep?” she asked, her head filled with cotton. Lucien let the paper in his hands flutter to his lap. 

“We sedated you,” he admitted, flinging out his arm as he dragged himself down the headboard so he could hold her. “I don’t suppose you remember all the screaming?”

She didn’t. “No.” “It’s for the best,” he murmured, kissing her forehead. “You suffered an ordeal.”

“And the baby?” she asked as memories flooded through her mind, of Beron chasing her through the house, of shoving her down the steps.

“Perfectly content,” he assured her. “The doctor and the midwife have come by twice now. They assure me the baby is right as rain and you just need to rest…perhaps in bed for the duration of the pregnancy.”

“Absurd,” she whispered. “How is Arina?”

“Healing,” he replied tightly. “She will be scarred but…she is on the mend. Eris has been attentive, I ah…I think he means to marry her just as soon as she can stand to put on a gown.” “Because he feels guilty?” 

Lucien sighed. “Because he is a sentimental bastard. I have assured her she could do better.”

Elain poked Lucien in the stomach. “What happened to not meddling?” she asked.

“Yes, Elain,” he agreed, his voice suddenly grave–serious. “What did happen to our promise not to meddle? A poison? How could you keep such a secret from me?”

“Eris knew–” “You understand that is worse, right?” Lucien replied. “Eris should have told me your plan, not encouraged you.” “Someone had to act,” she replied, unable to summon any true outrage. Her body still ached, her soul still bruised at the thought she might never see him again. “What happened?”

“A very minor kidnapping,” Lucien replied breezily despite the muscle jumping in his jaw. “I assure you, I was never in any danger.” “I was,” she whispered, tears flooding her eyes all the same. “I thought you were dead and I—” Lucien shushed her softly, holding her against his body to stroke her hair. “It would take far more to take me from you, Elain. An act of God, and for all his delusions, he has never come close.” “How was I to know that?” she asked, swatting at him angrily.

“Sweet, lovely wife,” Lucien murmured, hooking his finger beneath her chin. “You merely have to trust that I love living with you far more than anything else.”

Elain gulped down air until her tears settled, leaving her exhausted all over again. Lucien rose from the bed after her sniffles were gone, donning a shirt and slippers.

“Where are you going?”

“What was the point of marriage if I can’t fuss over my wife, at least a little? Don’t move,” he added mischievously, slipping from the room before she could remind him there was no where she could go. With nothing left to do but think, Elain replayed Beron’s murder in her mind, waiting for the revulsion and guilt to fill her senses. She ought to feel something, right? Elain felt nothing but satisfaction, which, in turn, made her feel a little guilty.

He is Lord Dayton’s son.

The thought popped into her mind unbidden just as Lucien returned in a familiar black jacket and red vest…and a mask she hadn’t seen since she’d met him. He grinned, tray in hand, clearly pleased with himself.

“We meet again,” she murmured, drawing the blanket around herself as if there were a stranger she ought not let see her in her thin pink night dress.

“I told you I’d steal you away,” he replied, setting the tray of food and water on the foot of the bed. Lucien cocked his head, red hair spilling around his half hidden face. It was so silly and yet almost fun, a moment of levity in which she could say whatever she liked to this man without feeling the need to be perfect. Just as before.

“How did you sneak past my husband?” she asked. “He just left this room.” “He leaves you alone far too often,” Lucien replied with a grimace. “Working when he ought to be attending to his wife.” “He is a busy man,” she agreed, picking apart a piece of bread absently. 

“And is he cruel?” Lucien prodded, as if he did not know the answer. “Is it as terrible as you thought.”

“He gives me no peace,” she agreed, catching how he smirked. “I am at his beck and call each and every night.” “Does he please you?”

Elain put bread in her mouth, cheeks flushed. “Terribly.”

“So you like this horrible lord and no longer wish to run away with me?”

“Where would we go?” she asked, curious if Lucien would have made good on his promise were he not her intended. What if suddenly burned her gut, her body reacting instinctively to the notion that somehow, they were meant to be together. In this life, in every other life, Elain was certain it would always be him behind every mask, in every corner, tied to every thread. 

“Anywhere,” he replied, scooting closer as though he could not help himself. “The continent, perhaps. Far from your husband’s reach.” “He would find me anywhere,” she whispered, drawing nearer until she could feel the cool material of his mask brushing against her cheek. “We would never be freed of him.” “I am beginning to think that is what you prefer,” he replied, his eyes on her lips.

“I’m in love with him,” Elain admitted, as if she hadn’t told him so already. “Cruel and capricious as he is.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Lucien whispered, threading his fingers in her hair. “Because I am in love with you and I suspect I cannot compete.”

“You cannot,” she agreed. 

“And still, I have to have you,” Lucien replied, kissing her slowly, his hand holding her face with a gentle firmness. “You are all I think about, all I dream about.” “Tell me more,” she whispered as he laid her back, cradling her head, legs parted so he could push between. “Say it again.” “I love you,” he whispered between nipping kisses over her neck and collarbone. “You are the air in my lungs, the beat of my heart. I am lost without you—” She tugged at the strings keeping that pretty little fox mask on. Lucien paused, eyes so dark they were nearly black, as she tossed to the side of the bed. “There you are,” she whispered, brushing her fingertips over his stubbled jaw. “I was looking for you.” As for the truth of that, Elain couldn’t say. Still, perhaps fate had known just what she needed that night and had merely shown her what she might have. The odds of it being her husband, her best friend…the love of her life, hiding behind that mask…seemed far too great to be anything but divine intervention. 

“I want you,” he whispered, grinding his body against her own, letting her feel the proof of his arousal.

“Take me,” she replied, her fingers already undoing the buttons on his jacket. “I’m yours.”

Lucien shed himself of his clothes quickly, kneeling between her legs so she could watch, well aware that he was not the only voyeur in their relationship. He was magnificent, a work of art and though he was bruised just as she was, Lucien was wholly untouched by the cruelty of his father and family name. 

Naked, Lucien slid his hands up her body, coming to rest on her stomach. Elain had to writhe to get the nightress off over her head while her husband unhelpfully dragged his tongue over her breasts, hands caressing her unblemished belly. He was so sentimental without even trying. She might have teased him had his head not dipped between her legs, placing a messy kiss against her cunt.

“You’re hurt,” he murmured, looking up with sensual eyes when she tried to tug him back up the bed. “I will do all the work.” As if it were any big inconvenience. Lucien loved to eat, as he famously liked to say every night at dinner, much to her embarrassment. She didn’t complain, not when he’d come into the room as his masked persona and asked if he was content in her marriage. Elain had many expectations, that day when she’d all but tripped down the aisle. Cruelty, neglect, perhaps even violence. A husband who worshiped her with his tongue and teeth was certainly not one of those expectations. 

He didn’t let her finish on his mouth, his tongue moving in broad, slow strokes until she was panting, grinding her hips against his face. She knew what he wanted and when he tried to crawl back over her, Elain shoved.

“You can still do all the work,” she told him, straddling his hips and sinking onto him with a sharp exhale of air. “I want to look at you.” Lucien nodded, biting his lip and rolling his hips. “Do you like what you see?”

“Yes,” she whispered, hair falling around her face. “You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

Lucien groaned. “Christ, Elain, you’ve made me so soft. What am I going to do with you?”

“Fuck me faster, I hope,” she replied, digging her nails into her chest. Elain knew what he meant to do even as his legs drew up, tightening around her waist to push her back to the mattress. Lucien snapped his hips hard, swallowing her moan of approval before anyone else could hear. 

“Who taught my wife to speak such filth?” he asked, lips pressed to her jaw.

“You did. You’ve been a terrible influence,” she replied, gripping his taut biceps as her release built like a bright spark threatening to ignite. The glide of him was everything and when Elain came, she let go entirely, giving in to him and only him. Lucien fell just behind her, panting roughly against her neck like some sort of wild, out of control animal. 

In the aftermath, Lucien held her against his slick body while Elain drifted towards sleep. He had work in his hands again, looking over the top of her head. She didn’t complain, running a finger up and down his chest absently.

“Lucien?”

“Hmm?” he replied, kissing the top of her head as if he’d just remembered she was there. 

“Who is Lord Dayton?”

His body stilled for a moment. “Why are you asking?”

“Something I overheard,” she admitted, pressing her chin against his stomach. Lucien heaved a sigh.

“He is unimportant,” Lucien murmured, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “To us, at any rate.” “And your mother?” she questioned, noting the way his eyes tightened at the corners. 

“She has time to decide.” “What did you tell the authorities?”

“Nothing,” Lucien replied carefully. “The doctor came and declared his death an act of nature.” “Act of…an act of nature?” “He has been the family physician for many, many years,” Lucien murmured darkly, fingers still caressing her face. “He made Eris and I swear he would never return to treat the wounds of our wives…by pain of arrest. Beron died of a heart attack and will be buried without ceremony or remorse. From any of us,” he added, as if he expected her to admit guilt. Elain felt none, at all. She supposed people would talk, would accuse her and Lucien of having done something awful. Something unthinkable. 

Elain kissed Lucien’s skin. She’d do it all over again if she could.

**

Lucien could not bear a second more of the screaming. “Sit down,” Eris ordered, shoving another glass of whiskey to Lucien. “We’re celebrating.” “Celebrating what?” he demanded, pacing the room like a caged panther. “The death of my wife?”

Eris rolled his eyes. “Women have children every day–” “Not my–” “Yes, Lucien, your wife is special. You have been saying so all morning. Now sit down before the midwife murders you.” Eris didn’t bother to respond, glass swirling in hand. Lucien heard another scream, louder than the last, shredding what little self-control he possessed. How did men manage to create such large broods if this was what they had to endure in order to achieve such families? His nerves were frayed, his mind utterly empty. Not for the first time, Lucien burst into the birthing room, well aware all he would find was his wife, face pressed into the mattress she leaned over, one hand gripping the bedpost.

“Lucien!” Arina exclaimed, exasperated with his constant instructions. “Go away!”

“No,” Elain panted, looking up at him through her mass of tangled, sweaty hair. “No, Lucien, don’t go, please–” her words crumbled into a cry, fingers gripping the bunched blanket. Lucien looked helplessly to the midwife carefully pouring bloodied water into a tub as to not contaminate the rest of her rags. 

“Any moment now,” she told him, bright eyed with excitement. Lucien only felt dread, reaching for Elain’s hand.

“I can’t do this,” she told him, her face beet red as she sank to her knees. “Lucien, I can’t–” “You can,” he assured her, using the hand she wasn’t gripping to oblivion to push the hair off her face. She had to, though he had the sense she didn’t need to hear that. “You’re so close, Elain. C’mon…” he looked up at the midwife, unsure what to say.

“Big push,” she murmured, a blanket in hand. “Hands and knees, now.” Elain shook her head no, sobbing quietly as Lucien and Arina helped put her in position. The mood was strange–behind Elain, the midwife was practically humming, a towel slung over the shoulder of her brown dress. Arina’s face was stark and pale, perhaps reconsidering her own child that would be due in mere months. Elain pressed her forehead into Lucien’s forearm as the midwife asked, “Would you like to cut?” “The baby?” he gasped as Elain screamed in frustration.

“The cord, Lucien!” 

“Yes, yes, of course,” he replied, utterly oblivious and terrified of making things worse. He wasn’t supposed to be there, was only allowed to stay because she’d begged. 

“Big push,” the midwife told her again. “Do you feel that?” Elain screamed as Arina reminded her not to hold her breath. She was gripping his hand so hard he genuinely thought she might break it, her teeth sinking into his skin.

“There she is,” the midwife murmured as Elain gasped, eyes flying open. “One more, she’s all but out.”

“Her?” Lucien asked, her stomach tightening. “A girl?”

No one responded, too focused on getting the baby entirely out of Elain’s body. She pushed again, this time without biting him, exhaling relief when she finished. There was a moment of terrible silence and then the midwife asked, “Lord, your daughter–” “Let me see her,” Lucien demanded, pressing a quick kiss to Elain’s forehead before scrambling to his feet. The midwife offered Lucien, cord already cut much to his dismay, and wrapped in a thin blanket.

“Rub her back,” the midwife ordered, turning back to attend to Elain. Lucien pushed back to the blanket from her little face, sinking back to his knees to show his wife. 

“Look at her hair,” he murmured, feeling as if he might weep at the sight of the little red curls peppered over her scrunched little face. The baby opened her mouth, emitting the loudest scream Lucien had ever heard in his entire life.

“I don’t think she’s as happy as we are,” he told Elain, who was quietly crying beide him. Arina and the midwife helped her into bed, laying blankets beneath her for the blood. He was instructed to keep an eye on her and call for the physician downstairs should anything change before the pair left, congratulating him softly.

Lucien climbed into bed with Elain, who reached for the furious infant. She looked so tired, had been laboring for so long. Lucien couldn’t decide if taking the baby to allow his wife to sleep or staying and forcing both of their presence on Elain was the better course of action.

Elain nestled the baby at her breast, sighing with releif. “That’s better,” she murmured, head dropping to his shoulder.

“You were wonderful,” he assured her, noting the way her eyes cut towards him slyly.

“Do not think you will escape our arrangement so easily, Lord Vanserra. This is a daughter. I promised you two sons before you could return to your rakish ways.”

As if he could even remember them. Grateful she was teasing him instead of screaming in agony, Lucien opted to play along. “What a terrible conundrum. I am, of course, deeply displeased…” he trailed off, his words far too affectionate to be believed. 

“She is the loveliest baby I have ever seen,” he told Elain. “You did this. I would not ask it of you again.”

“You better,” she replied easily, some of the life returning to her face. “I knew it would be difficult…next time you’ll stay?”

He nodded, though the thought of a next time made his stomach churn. “There is no need, Elain, I am content–” “You will have your sons,” she insisted with that sweet gleam in her eyes. “Just so I might rub it in your face that you are far too busy and far too content to take a mistress.” “You are so utterly charming, darling wife,” he said with a kiss to her cheek. “Let us hope your daughter has half your spirit.” “Ivy,” she murmured, brushing her fingers over the suckling cheek. Lucien had not considered any names at all though he and Elain had gone through more than their fair share. 

“Lady Ivy Vanserra,” he murmured, noting how her eyes opened wide to look up at him. Whether she saw him or not, Lucien could not say. It was recognition all the same. His chest tightened at the sight, his wife cradling his daughter in his bed. Safe. Happy. Loved. 

“Are you crying?” she asked him, rubbing his face. Perhaps he was. “Is this marriage everything you hoped for.”

Lucien settled beside her, head atop her own.

“I would do it all over again, if I could.”

And he would.

#elucien #elain x lucien #elucien fic #elucien fanfiction #elucien fanfic #i hate writing endings #they are literally the same ending every time #no one says anything to me about this #but i know you all must see it #anyway #never forget the plot is the fault of everyone who commented #i look at the graphic and i laugh #i had such plans