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shanastoryteller · 9 months

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Happy Pride! Can I get some trans content<3

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

He can’t be pregnant.

The curse mark on his arm tells him that he is living in this body on limited time. Eventually, he will die, the string keeping him inside Mo Xuanyu’s body snapping like a string and sending him back to wherever she summoned him from.

He’d let himself forget, a little. The body he inhabits is so different than the one he woke up in. He’s made her stronger, grown her golden core into a fearsome thing, worked and worked muscles until they swelled and hardened.

It had begun to feel like it belonged to him, liked he’d carved his body from Mo Xuanyu’s. The differences from his old body hadn’t felt important, and still don’t, it’s about how this is the body he worked for and made from the one given to him.

But Mo Xuanyu is dead and her body isn’t his to keep.

If he wants to have this baby, then he must betray Mo Xuanyu and her sacrifice. If he wants to bring Lan Zhan’s baby into the world, he cannot kill Jin Guangshan.

Completing the mission she retrieved him for will sever the connection and he will die again and so will the life he’s growing.

His only hope is that maybe, maybe the thread binding him here will hold long enough for him to both deliver this child and kill Jin Guangshan.

He looks from Jiang Yanli to Jiang Cheng, their fierceness and determination the closest he’s felt to home in a long time. He shouldn’t be letting them do this, shouldn’t be sinking into the comfort of their protectiveness when they think he’s someone he’s not, but he can’t help it. It makes him feel even sadder for Xuanyu, to think that they would have done this for her, if only she’d let them. Hadn’t Jiang Yanli reached out to him that very first day while he was a confused and terrified mess? And here she is now, offering to shield him from his husband, offering to help Mo Xuanyu choose her own path and either continue the pregnancy or have it end here.

He takes a deep breath, trying to stem the flow of his tears. Jiang Cheng’s hands on his shoulders feel like the only thing keeping him in place, like he’s pressing Wei Wuxian’s spirit into place in Xuanyu’s body.

He presses a hand against his stomach, thinking of the life shifting in his womb as the first lotuses that had sprouted from muddy mountainside. If he could grow flowers in the burial mounds, he can grow a child in a borrowed body.

But does he want to?

This isn’t what he’s here for. The best case scenario is that he leaves Lan Zhan behind to raise a child alone, the husband and child of the woman who murdered a clan leader. The worst case is he leaves Lan Zhan behind to mourn a wife and child and he dies without avenging the wrongs done against Mo Xuanyu. Or he can end this here, remove the potential child from the equation and kill Jin Guangshan as subtly as possible, something he has the time to arrange when he isn’t pushing his connection to this world to the brink. Then Lan Zhan will only be the widower rather than the husband of a murderer.

There are no good choices.

But he’s used to that.

He breathes in, holding it at the top of his lungs and letting out slowly.

A-Yuan had been the brightest light in the burial mounds. Anytime he wavered, aching for the life and the people he left behind, it wasn’t Wen Qing or Wen Ning of Granny who hardened his resolve once more, but A-Yuan.

He’d loved being a parent. He’d wished he really could grow siblings for A-Yuan like he’d grown turnips.

Wei Wuxian’s legacy is one of failure, of loss, of destruction. All those he tried to protect fell. All those he had protected turned against him. The last thing he will do on this earth is kill again, even if it is a man who has earned it.

He does not want to leave behind a legacy of only terrible things.

It could all end horribly. But he’s always been foolish enough to hope for better than he has.

He finally meets Jiang Cheng’s steady gaze.

“I’ll talk to Wangji.”

#prompt answers #prompts are closed #asks #anon #untamed

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oneeyedoctogod · 9 months

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Gods this fandom sometimes, I swear. I'm sorry I read two deeply bad takes back to back, and I have to rant. I'm sure others have said it better than I, but really. Come on. I actually have to wonder if people who talk about the extras actually read them because...

Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji didn't leave the cultivation world in canon. They elope, and then they come back. The fact they're not involved in the bigger politics is... pretty much to be expected, but they very much do participate in the day to day lives of the Lan sect. They go where the chaos is to night hunt, they teach, Lan Wangji comforts his brother in his seclusion, and Wei Wuxian meets some new Lan disciples.

As for the cottage fantasy... Again, I honestly have to wonder if the people talking about it actually read the extra it's in? Because it's just that. A fantasy. A dream. It's basically a representation of Wei Wuxian's wants for a domestic life, something he definitely has now! He's always been characterised as someone who wants to help others and who loves cultivation. Why would you think the dream is to be taken literally?

And the idea that Wei Wuxian has 'several important relationships just floating there', that he's not dealing with... Where? Which ones? He teaches the juniors and grows closer to Jin Ling. He doesn't exactly interact with Lan Xichen, but he asks after him. He meets Mianmian again and wishes her well. He asks after Wen Ning after Lan Sizhui comes back then has some father-son bonding moments with him!

Nie Huaisang and Wei Wucian aren't close. They were friendly once, but they didn't ever meet after the lectures. I don't see how that qualifies as an "important" relationship, especially with Nie Huaisang never openly admitting to his part in Wei Wuxian's resurrection. But even then, Wei wuxian says he'll be keeping a close eye on him, so one can imagine they meet again at some point.

As for Jiang Cheng... what more do you want Wei Wuxian to do exactly? Even if you want a reconciliation, why can't Jiang Cjeng be he one to actually grow up and do the work for once? He's the one who never apologized. He's the one who is still openly hostile in the extras. If Wei Wuxian wants to move on and not interact with him, he's well within his right to do that, given how Jiang Cheng treated him. Hell, he's more generous than most since he encourages Jin Ling to talk to Jiang Cheng. If I'd been treated by someone like Jiang Cheng treated Wei Wuxian and saw him hit our nephew several times, I certainly wouldn't encourage them to meet. (But that's Wei Wuxian for you, the moral ideal and better than all of us.)

Anyway, I really don't understand why people insist on making Wangxian have a sadder ending than the one they actually did. It's a HEA for them, sorry guys. And yeah, maybe Wei wuxian has some trauma to work on... but the whole point of the character is that he doesn't let his trauma define him. That he wants to forgives, forgets and moves on.

(Also, just because he doesn't have a breakdown or the cultivation equivalent of therapy in the extra doesn't mean he's not working on them? He finally is at peace, with a solid support network. Maybe he does talk about his past hurts with Lan Wangji - Lan Wangji certai ly knows when to comfort him when he needs it. But the narrative point of the extras is to show they're moving on from the past! And you know what, sometimes the beat thing to do to heal is to do just that. They're living their best lives, deal with it.)

And finally... shit did you really read the whole book and come to the conclusion Wei Wuxian should have 'learned to accept help'? Who the fuck offered help? Who did he refuse?

(Don't say Lan Wangji. 1) I love him, but "Come back to Gusu" is very much not an obvious offer to help, and when Wei Wuxian understandably misunderstands him, he never manages to correct it.

And 2) once Wei Wuxian tells him explicitly he's not leaving the Wen remnants behind, Lan Wangji understands and backs off. He approves! I'm sure he'd do more if he could, but just like Jiang Yanli, he can't!)

Jiang Cheng literally said, 'No one will help you, no one is on your side' (and then made sure that was true by saying Wei Wuxian was the enemy of the cultivation world). Jin Zixuan chose to ask the one who was ambushed to disarm rather than the 300 cultivators attacking him and lunged at him when Wei Wuxian refused to comply (because he'd be killed if he did!!). How is that help?

Who else tried to help? Whose help did Wei Wuxian reject?

Wei Wuxian was presented with a series of bad choices and took the best he could, the ones aligned with his principles, accepting he'd have to face consequences at some point but also knowing it was still worth it. He's not the one who failed or made a fatal mistake or betrayed his word.

Rant over. Sorry about that.

#MDZS #Wangxian #Wei Wuxian #I am so sorry but those two posts pissed me off #I dont want to fall into the easy argument lf 'you lack reading comprehension' but...#seriously all of that is EXPLICITLY SAID in the text #this is not interpretation!

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orchidsangel · 5 months

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Recently imagined Jason and y/n, his ex, meeting again after a few years. Still obviously caring about each other. Eating cake alone at the apartment and awaiting the New Year together. Not wanting to say that this is the least lonely, however sad-looking, night they've experienced since they split up.

(jumping off a cliff bc i missed the glaring "new year" part of this and was like "i'll get to this later" so sorry beloved, also this got more angsty than i intended.)

Exes to lovers with Jason is always in the back of my mind somewhere, eating away at my sanity. Just the idea that he loved you so hard he had to let you go, knowing the life he lived wasn't suitable for you. You told him you didn't mind, that he was so important to you that you could put aside the constant worry that would sit in your stomach like a rock every time he was off being Red Hood. You said it was fine, but he saw the way bags appeared under your eyes after too many nights of staying up for him, how you forgot to eat when he went too long without contacting you, and how the tears would slip past your lashes when you were patching him up.

At the end of it all, you had begged him to stay, telling him over and over how much you loved him. It killed him to tell you that that was the reason why it was ending, because you loved him too hard, and you were neglecting yourself because of it. He was sick, wondering if he'd made the wrong decision, wondering if this would only make things worse for you. So, despite the fresh ache in his heart, he still watched out for you, determined to make sure you thrived without him, and thrive you did.

It felt like it had been ages since the last time he saw you that couldn't be mistaken for stalking. Watching you from rooftops and alleyways, rushing fights to make sure he could see if you got home safely and intervene if there were any threats. It became routine for him to hang up his helmet at night once he knew you were safe in the confines of the apartment you once shared. What wasn't routine was you knocking on his apartment door at exactly eleven forty-seven pm on New Year's Eve with a sad-looking store-bought cake in your hands and an even sadder look on your face.

"I know we're not together anymore, but…"

Splitting a whole cake between the two of you on New Year's Eve instead of having a typical dinner had been your tradition for years. Jason took it very seriously, planning the cake in advance for weeks, testing different flavors, even going as far as calling you once in the middle of a fight, asking if you preferred chantilly or sponge. It was stupid to most people you told, but to you and Jason, it was the perfect way to end the year. Now, you stand before him, holding a cake that could never compare to the decadent black forest cake he had made the last time you'd spent New Year's together.

You look down at the cake and then back up at him, the familiar gleam of water in your eyes. He takes the container in one hand and uses the other to pull the door open more so you can come in. It had been a while since you'd been there last, but everything was the same. A wall with an extensive collection of weapons, a stack of books that only collected dust when he was gone for long periods of time, and a framed picture of Jason and Bruce from his robin days.

"How'd you know where to find me?"

"Lucky guess."

Not a lucky guess, the first place you'd told him you loved him.

He roots around a drawer, pulling out two forks and handing one to you. Silence hangs in the air, several year's worth of unspoken feelings lingering with nowhere to go but up. he pops the lid off the container and gestures for you to take the first bite, another tradition that came with his hours of cake-making; he'd always insist on you having the first taste so you could give feedback and you only ever had positive things to say. Now, the weak taste of vanilla paired with a dry crumb, and your mouth turns downward into a frown.

"I don't think it's that bad."

"You'll eat anything."

"True."

No, it wasn't that bad. In fact, before you'd met Jason, this was something you probably would've treated yourself to when life decided to be good to you, but he had spoiled you, given you so much more than you even knew was out there, and it wasn't all material.

Three minutes to New Year's now, and approximately six bites taken out of the cake, five from Jason, and you're ready to part ways again with you leaving him this time. There's still time to make a run for it and ring in the new year without the baggage of your ex hanging over you; there's still time to pretend your world wasn't shattered when he left.

"Why are you here? Why not spend New Year's with your friends?"

"Friends?"

"The people I always see you with when I-"

"Watch me?"

"Am on patrol."

"Right."

"Why aren't you with them?"

"Not friends, coworkers."

"You're with them all the time."

"Workplace comradery."

"So, friends."

Thirty seconds now, and the words you still haven't said are on the tip of your tongue and in the back of your mind, egging you on to admit the feelings you've been sitting on for what feels like forever. He beats you to it.

"Please come back to me."

"I'm not the one who left."

Fireworks go off outside, signifying the beginning of a new year, and you and Jason stand across from each other. Physically, only the kitchen island stands between you two, but emotionally, you're still miles apart. You can't hear in his words how much he needs you back in his life, how hard it is for him every night to not climb in through your window and find his spot in the bed you'd shared like he'd done so many times before; and he can't hear in your words how the wound he left in your heart never healed, how it never even started to, and how through him leaving, you found out that time doesn't heal all things.

#☆ messages from friends ☆#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd angst #red hood #red hood x you #red hood x reader #red hood angst #jason todd fic #jason todd imagine #red hood fic #red hood imagine #jason todd i’ll love you forever

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haydensky01 · 1 year

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Obey me! Lucifer loses MC the worst way (Part 1/3)

Attention: not short attention spane friendly, angst, spoilers

##############

Being in an established relationship with the strongest demon of the Devildom after the kings is all fun and wholesome untill you realise how lonely it really is.

Since you and Lucifer started dating almost 3 months ago you went on 2 dates only and spent hardly any time together with the brothers always causing troubles and Diavolo making the most out of the demon's oath.

It is not that you haven't tried. You did. You understood the importance he has in this realm and that being the demanding partner isn't an option. But not seeing him nor hearing from him for the fifth day in a row was going beyound reasonable tolerance.

it is with all these doubts and heartaches that you gathered with Mammon and Belphegor in the planetarium that day.

"Ya lookin' a lil' bit sadder every day ya know?. Havin' debts problems?" Mammon says his face shoved into yours.

"Quit playing." You answer as you push him away. "I am just ... reconsidering stuff."

"It's Lucifer, isn't it?" Belphie says seriously.

"Who else?" You say in a surrender.

"This A'hole causing ya trouble? UUUGH told ya I am better." Mammon tries to make you laugh.

"He is an A'hole. But don't say it like that. He is just too busy to even remember I exist."

"Well, it isn't a surprise to anyone. I mean, you knew all along who he was and what he does. It is unfair to expect otherwise now." Belphie wasn't wrong. But he wasn't right either.

"You think remembering to send me a good morning or a how are you or an I miss you once a day is unfair? Come on."

"Yup, He ain't even eating with us for a few days now. Thinking he is SOOO important. Pleasing his one and only true love, Diavolo." Mammon laughs hysterically before realizing your mortified face expression. "Oie .. MC. Listen, it was just a stupid joke." He suddenly becomes serious. "Those kindda things need to be talked about. Ya can't just expect them to be magically fixed only through patience. Ya guys are a couple after all. Even if I persist that choosing him over me was a SIN" He finishes in a laugh.

"Would you stop that Mammon, you are embarassing yourself." Belphie interrupts. "As much as I hate to admit, but Mammon is right. You guys need to sit and talk."

"Both of you are right" You say as you gather your courage and stand up all motivated. "If it is fixable it needs to be addressed now. If it isn't we at least could break up with dignity and not keep dragging this more than we should. I am going to him now." You turn your back to the boys and leave rapidly.

"Oie ... Can't ya wait untill he comes out of his retreat at least? He is dangerous ya know!" Mammon screams as you run off. "Don't worry! Lucifer would never harm me." You say from afar as you enter the house. Not knowing you couldn't be further from reality.

Lucifer was a dark soul with rays of lights. Sometimes the light shines bright enough to leave only shadows. Some others, any sparkle is hardly found. What was it like to be the eldest of the 7 most powerful and problematic demons? To have lived thousands of years in service only to live even more still serving? To be the connection between two realms where you are a source of fear in one and hatred in the other, ending up in love with someone from the third? Was it hard to be him? No. It wasn't. It was impossible to be him. Simply impossible.

Somewhere between the hundredth cup of coffee and the 3rd bottle of Demonus, Lucifer couldn't make sense of the letters between the authorities of the three realms discussing current and future trades anymore. Those letters written in diffrent languages, diffrent alphabets. Each discussing a diffrent topic and all must fall in the right laws of Devildom and correspond to the budget allocated by Diavolo. You know, easiest thing on Earth ... or hell should I say really. Several days after starting, Lucifer just doesn't seem to see the end of it. *Beep* oh great another fax from Diavolo, only the 4th since this morning. The letter sent from the Castle falls on a pile of other faxes on the floor accumulated for days. *Beep* oh a fifth one. No, this one isn't from Diavolo. With a side eye Lucifer recognizes the redish words on the paper. This is yet another notification from the family bank. "How much debts are you able to generate Mammon?" Lucifer thinks to himself.

It was amid this atmosphere that you knocked on Lucifer's study before letting yourself in the dark room without waiting for an answer from the demon. There you saw him. Tie loose, bags under his eyes as if he took a punsh on the face, messy hair, red eyes. He was sitting at his desk, more like thrown at his desk, between buildings of files. He doesn't even raise his head to the intruder.

"Luce!" You say.

"What brings you?" He says without looking at you.

"I am doing fine, thanks." You respond coldly. "I was hoping we could talk a moment."

"Now is not the time." Yet not looking at you.

You approach and stand in front of his desk.

"No. Now is the perfect time." you say as you reach to his face with your hands lifting it for a forced eye contact. "Hi!" You say smiling.

"You don't understand MC, I said no." He answers as he gently takes your hands off.

"Luce, I .."

"NO!"

The last NO was loud, very loud. What was that you just felt? Fear? Did you just get scared of your loved one? No. Not you. If everyone is scared of him, you know better than anyone that Luce is more than just a pile of power and pride. You shake the feeling away and go straight to the curtains of the huge to the ceiling window and open them wide. An avalanche of light invades the room filling every corner. You turn all smiles to your lover. Lucifer was up looking at you ... in his demon form.

in a brush of wing he sends the papers flying across the room and throws his desk to the wall.

"YOU FOOLISH HUMAN!" He screams at you.

The feeling came back stronger than ever. Heart pounding, body shaking, eyes filled with tears, you were freightened. You were terrified. No, no you refuse. Remember. This is Lucifer, the one who saved you so many times, the one caring for a bunch of ungrateful brothers, the one who sold himself to save Lilith. The one who just wants to be useful. You refuse to let the fear win.

"I refuse, I refuse to be scared of you. I love you!" You yell as you run towards him and hug him tight.

##############

Barbatos goes out of your room with bloddy pieces of cotton.

"She will be alright Lucifer." He says to a mortified Lucifer leaning on the wall across the corridor. "She didn't lose much blood, the stitches won't leave any scar."

"I want to see her."

"It probably won't be a good idea." Barbatos responds as he looks at the 6 demons garding your door all fists tight, throwing threatening looks to their brother on the other side. "Besides, she is asleep now. You should get some rest yourself. You look terrible."

"Yes, go away murderer." Levi says between two sobs.

"How could you?" Asmo throws in-between his teeth.

"She loves you. You unworthy!" Belphie adds.

"You just had to, didn't you?" Satan joins the rest.

Beel growls as he steps towards his brother eyes on fire.

"Enough!" Mammon says. To his voice everyone of the brothers stops and Beel gets back. "This isn't time to make a mess. MC just slept after tremendous pain. Disturbing her won't do any good. Lucifer, go to your room. No need to feed the tension here. I will let you know when MC wakes up."

"But he tried to ..." Satan objects.

"I KNOW. not now Satan." Mammon interrupts Satan. "Lucifer, go!"

Lucifer looks at his younger brother whom caused him troubles for centeries and whom he punished more than he can remember. He was sending him to his room. Mammon was sending Lucifer to his room. He looks another time to his brothers surrounding Mammon, following his orders. To Barbatos avoiding to be too much involved in something he certainly qualifies as private matters. A final look to your door with a pain in the chest. Then goes away in the most painful, ashamed and miserable walk out.

##############

"How is she doing?" Diavolo asks Barbatos as soon as this one enters the young Prince's office.

"She is stable. Hurt but not dying."

"How is Lucifer?"

"Dying but not hurt."

"Hm ..." Diavolo puts his hand under his chin. "What happened exacly? You left me with no further details earlier after Mammon called you."

"My apologies my Lord, the situation needed urgent assistance. Lucifer apparently threw MC very violently against a wall and was transperced by one of the items on it."

"So there is an element of accident to this all."

"It would have been if Lucifer didn't try to throw her again against the same wall with the decorative horns on. I chose not to reveal, but without my ancestral knowledge of healing magic, she would have been long gone by now."

"This changes everything, doesn't it?"

"Well, fortunately Mammon wasn't at ease the moment MC went to the study and stayed nearby. He could rescue her before the second attack which would have certainly been fatal. He even overpowered Lucifer."

"Mammon overpowered Lucifer?"

"It appears so, yes. Lucifer was in a mess. He allegedly haven't slept nor eaten for nearly a week. This helped weaken him enough for Mammon to force him out of his rage mode. He is the second born after all."

"We could bet the sight of MC's injuries contributed shocking him out of it as well."

"Perhaps. Nonetheless, Mammon was able to control him without damaging him too much or himself. He even had the rest of the brothers stay away from any revenge attack and managed everything so well I arrived to a very tense yet somehow peaceful atmosphere in the house with MC already well assisted."

"Well well well, won't you look at that? It appears that our little Mammon matured and became the reliable brother Lucifer always wanted him to be."

"He has always been so. You know very well that he chooses to be the way he is. Not because he cannot be something else. It is just that he has a lifestyle that he chose and likes. On contrary to Lucifer." The Buttler says while serving to his master a cup of tea hinting to the only one who could comprehend those words.

"Well, future events won't be easy. We need to make sure to be of great support to the whole family. And especially to MC."

"At your orders my Lord."

Part 2/3 here

#obey me #obey me x mc #obey me x reader #obey me imagines #obey me lucifer #obey me angst #diavolo obey me #lucifer obey me #obey me brothers #obey me fanfic #obey me diavolo #obey me mammon #obey me shall we date #obey me belphegor #obey me asmodeus #obey me headcanon #lucifer x reader #lucifer morningstar #mammon x mc

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wolfpawzjakey · 2 months

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political marriage Jercy AU

When Juno announces exactly how the Romans and Greeks will consolidate peace between themselves, Jason wants to fall at her feet to beg or laugh hysterically and ask who came up with such a funny joke. Next to him, Percy turns pale and his legs weaken, Annabeth holds him gently by grabbing his elbow. Marriage, a divine marriage fixed between souls... the marriage of the leaders of both camps, the marriage of the most powerful demigods, the marriage of Jason Alexander Grace and Perseus Dylan Jackson. Venus is smiling at Jason, her smile is bright, dazzlingly beautiful, her hair is silky black curls, and her eyes are the color of sea waves. You didn't dare dream about it, did you? She asks, teasingly desirable and looking like Percy. Jason is bad at feelings and he experiences them at the most inopportune terrible moments - hunger when Thalia is sick, the desire to get maternal affection when Beryl is too drunk, falling in love when it's his best friend who just got out of the real fucking hell, broke up with his girlfriend, because their relationship is not the healthiest coping mechanism and just wants to go to his mother and live with her like a mere mortal.

Jason is in love and feels terribly guilty.

Percy is tired, he just wants peace and his mom.

This is such an interesting take on it and I like it a lot. Perce taking to the marriage as a chore initially, his duty has been to accept his roles in missions even if he does so backhandedly. He doesn’t go easily into it, but does all the same. He has no energy left to spit at the feet of the person who even raised the subject to the level he gazed upon.

Jason however takes it on like he usually does, silencing his complaints and just taking it like a good prince like soldier should. Sure, maybe it is the most hysterical joke his life has played on him, but what’s another one to the pile. He’s more worried about his friend whose mental health just took a dive into the deep end as the announcement. Percy being subdued is not a look anyone likes to see on him. And to make it worse, the feelings Jason has for Percy just makes the way Percy looks now feel all that much worse. Jason feels ill when he can visibly see the sick feeling on Percy’s face.

The following days just have this dreadful, sticky feeling to them. Percy is just a bitter husk and Jason is a sad puppy watching the person he loves look less than ecstatic at this new turn in their lives. And he gets sadder when their whole group grows quiet too, it’s like everyone is mourning but for what, it’s hard to tell.

Jason sitting in his pining and sadness, because he understands why the mood is so low, but marrying Percy isn’t a bad thing. He would be happy if it’d been done on better terms. But everyone is acting as if they’re soon to attend a funeral procession. He understands, but it doesn’t make him feel any better, any less rejected.

And Percy just lurks in the feeling, unable to break himself of the unannounced spell of silence he’s held especially toward Jason who’s just as much a victim of circumstance as he is. But could you blame him? He’s exhausted, he wants to live a normal life, go home to his mom and cry in her arms like he did when he was little. He escaped hell with Annabeth, their relationship severed from the sheer horrors they’d faced, from the evil he held within himself, and now he was forced into yet another plan of the gods. Forced into something he just can’t yet bring himself to accept. And he sees how his mood is affecting others, how it’s affecting Jason, but he can’t help but wallow in his self pity. He can’t help but to give himself one moment of utter weakness because this, after everything, is just too much. His wish for normalcy depleted to ash.

The idea is a lovely tragedy. It makes for great opportunity to fix broken bonds.

Thank you for send this to me :)))

#jercy #jason grace #hoo #percy jackson #pjo #pjo hoo toa #percy pjo #jason hoo #jason x percy #political marriage au #pawz replies #asks

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kurlyfrasier · 1 year

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A Wish of Something Good

Pairing: Zuko x Katara

Word Count: 1785

Synopsis: Katara finds Firelord Zuko in his mother’s garden. (My apologies, I am absolutely terrible at writing synopses) OR Zuko, pressured by council members to marry a quiet Fire Nation girl, does not want to. (that sounds better lol)

Warnings: None. PIning. Angst. Fluff.

A/N: This short little fic was inspired by the beautiful piece of art below by @beanaroony (: It got me writing again after several months so I really appreciate it! This was originally gonna be A LOT sadder with no happy ending, but I’m a sucker for happy endings and apparently can’t write sad ones lol :D Enjoy!

Katara had fallen asleep next to him. A natural occurrence when she came to visit. All Zuko had to do to get her there was tell her his chest was hurting again from Azula’s attack. It was a lie, but it got her next to him within a week - two, at most. He couldn’t help but think she had to know it was a ruse. Right? She was the healer. She had to know there was nothing left to heal.

But she was leaving and Zuko was certain his heart couldn’t take the months long separation again. It tore him apart when she left each time. The hole was becoming a chasm, never truly healing from the other times she went away.

Frustrated, he slipped out of bed, only turning back once he was closing the door to make sure Katara hadn’t awoke. Once at his mother’s garden, where the turtle-ducks liked to play, did he stop. It was a quiet night with only the sounds of the ocean waves in the distance. For a moment, he stared at the flowers Katara planted. Moon flowers. A difficult flora to grow in the brightness of the Fire Nation's capital. But if anyone were to successfully plant them, it would be her. He sighed, a smile playing at his lips with the thought. When a quick look of his surroundings proved he was the only one around, Zuko pulled a small weight out of his pocket.

It had been burning a hole there for months, but it never left his person. A constant weight - constant reminder - of what he could never have. The necklace seemed heavy in his palm. A glass stone made of lightning and sand on the beach of Ember Island was settled in molten lava rock of his volcanic home. Glued together by his own fire. The pendant hung from silky swirls of red and blue to honor both his and her homelands.

He could never give it to her. Not in the way he wanted. And there was no way he could ask her to replace her mother’s she currently wore around her neck.

With another, much heavier sigh, he pocketed it, unable to look at it without simultaneously wanting to hurl it into the ocean. Where it would be lost forever. Never to be found again.

With a deep breath of chilly night air, Zuko settled into his firebending kata only to leave it unfinished, too tired to go through the movements. He sat down in the grass, picking at the blades as his thoughts swirled.

HIs council was pushing him to marry a nice, quiet, Fire Nation girl that wouldn’t distract him from ruling. But he didn’t want that. He wanted-

“Zuko?” Katara’s voice sounded relieved and Zuko couldn’t help but think how much different it was now compared to the old days when she said his name. Full of disdain, hate, and disappointment. Full of fear for what he would become. Fear of what he could be. “What are you doing out here?” She stepped closer, a breathy giggle escaping. “I know you wake up with the sun, but even this is too early for you.”

He stayed silent, allowing her settle down next to him, knees and shoulders bumping as she sat down and rested her head on his shoulder. A heavy, burdened breath seemed to leave her body as she melted closer to his warmth, arm looping through his as she hummed, satisified. She would fall asleep like that. He knew, because she had done so a dozen times before. A closed-lipped smile couldn’t be stopped even if he tried. It was a sad thing. To love his best friend. To have her so close and so far away at the same time. To be able to touch her, but not have her. He grimaced, wishing it was simpler. Wishing he could have this one thing - this one bright spot in his life - after everything they had been through. They deserved happiness, right? He deserved something good after all the bad.

Was he good enough for her, though? Could he ask her to stay with him? In this place that must remind her of all the bad memories of her childhood. Of her mother being taken away at such a young age. Of the destruction his people caused in her homeland. Zuko couldn’t possibly hope for-

“Don’t go,” he rasped, the words were passed his lips before he could stop them. His screaming heart pounded in victory. His mind felt betrayed.

“What,” her head popped up, forever blue eyes bore into his own.

He swallowed, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stop now. He glanced away, “Stay.”

“Zuko-”

He hopped up, lost energy suddenly found in this moment of uncertainty. He stepped away toward the turtle-duck pond, anxiety needing a way out. He didn’t notice the necklace as it fell beside his friend with a light thud. The red and blue clashed with the grass. The glass glinted in the moonlight. There was no way for her not to see it.

Gently, she picked it up, hands shaking as blood rushed in her ears, letting the silence reign. She didn’t know much about the rituals of engagement for the Fire Nation, but she did know only the Water Tribes used necklaces. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She wanted to believe this was for her. She wanted that more than she needed to breathe. But the truth was, Zuko could’ve made this for anybody. She knew the pressures he was facing from his council to get married. Knew this could be for a different girl. Maybe one of the girls from the Northern Tribe he had met when they were there for negotiations. They were pretty and refined. Perfect for what he needed to tie up any loose ends between them. Perfect to show he meant peace. Not like her, who was outspoken. Hard where they were soft from all her time honing her fighting skills. And her little Southern Village meant nothing compared to the elegance of the Northern Tribe. They had little to offer the Fire Nation in terms of supplies and soldiers Zuko may need in a future ally. While her tribe was mostly made of children and older women, with very few people who could fight, let alone waterbend.

Katara let those bitter thoughts settle in her stomach before she spoke up, voice barely a whisper, “You dropped this.” She slowly stood, eyes cast down, unable to face the man before her.

Zuko’s head snapped in her direction so fast his entire body whirled with it. A few urgent strides had him standing so close he could feel her body heat. She held it out to him like it wasn’t hers. He didn’t move to take it. Afraid that if he did, she would be gone from his life forever. Never to be seen again.

“You don’t like it?” The words weren’t precisely what he meant to say, but they were out, floating between what little space was between them.

Clutching it tight, she let her arm fall, spinning so Zuko wouldn’t catch the tears starting to stream down her cheeks, “It’s beautiful.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound as shaky as it felt. She closed her eyes tight in a failed attempt to keep them at bay.

Zuko couldn’t believe his ears. She liked the necklace he made her. She thought it was beautiful-

“Who’s it for?” Her words stopped his heart. “She’s very luck-”

His arms, with a mind of their own, wrapped around her waist, “Katara-”

She struggled in his hold. Sniffles rose to his ears and his arms turned to steel, pulling her back against his chest. As much as he feared and admired her waterbending, he was not allowing her to leave this conversation. Not before his heart got to say what it wanted. Then he would let her go. Then he would let her leave. Even if it meant forever.

“Katara,” he rested his chin on her shoulder and she froze, stiff as a board. He took a moment to memorize her scent of seawater and sand before he said the words he could never take back, “I made that for you.”

“For me?” She relaxed slightly, voice breathy, eyes opening to look at the pendant through her blurry, tear-filled vision.

“If you want it,” he replied. She stayed silent and unmoving, worrying him. “That is- It doesn’t have to- It’s a gift. I don’t expect you to- But I would like it. I mean, love it. I would love it if- I love-” Zuko loosened his hold, ready to give up his incoherent babbling when she latched onto his arm and pulled it close.

An exhale rattled through her chest and he pulled her impossibly closer, steadying her. She relaxed completely, allowing her weight to settle against him, soaking in his strength.

“When?” Katara was thankful her quiet voice didn’t falter.

“Months ago.”

“Months?” She still wasn’t brave enough to turn around and look Zuko in the eye, as much as she wanted to. This - the necklace, his love - wasn’t quite real yet. “But I thought the council-”

“I don’t want what the council wants,” his voice was strong and steady as he continued to hold her. “I don’t need what the council thinks I need.”

Zuko sounded so certain to her ears, she couldn’t help but twist in his hold to get a good look at him. He let her, golden gaze searing her own, a question left unspoken between them.

“I need you, Katara,” he said, voice reverent. “I need someone who will tell me when I’ve become too overbearing. Who will fight me for what’s right when I’m wrong. Who won’t let me get power-hungry,” a small smile graced his lips before his voice turned to a serious whisper, “Someone who won’t let me become my father-”

“You would never-”

“Someone,” he interrupted, knowing she meant well, but also knowing that man’s blood still flowed through his veins, no matter how hard he wanted to deny it. “Someone I love.” He let that sink in, watching as the miracle of Katara’s uncertain gaze turned into unbridled joy. “Not some quiet girl who won’t speak her mind.”

“Then help me put this on,” Katara held out the necklace.

“I don’t expect you to replace your mother’s-”

“Shh,” she stopped him with a finger to his lips, smiling uncontrollably. “She will always live in my heart, Zuko. But I think this,” she glanced at the swirling red and blue ribbon, the fragile glass held steady by the sturdy volcanic rock. “This suits me better, don’t you think?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it!

Want to read more by me? Click here!

#writing #zutara #zuko x katara #zuko #katara #atla #Avatar The Last Airbender #my writing #fanfic #inspired #art #cute #fluff #pining #um #angst #look at me #writing again #lol

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krikeymate · 1 year

Note

Alternative scenario for the 10 year gap between the carpenter sisters.

Sam is 20 years old and hasn’t contacted her mother in over decade after she was taken by the social worker and bounced from foster home to another until she’s an adult.

One evening, someone knocks on her door and it’s the same social worker that took her, except she’s holding hands with a small girl whose backpack is barely holding on to her shoulder. The kid looks at Sam right in the eye, her gaze mixed with anger, fear, and, confusion and she doesn’t look a day older than 7.

The social worker introduces her as Tara, her little half sister and hopes dearly that Sam can take her in temporarily since she’s the closest living relative and ensured a weekly allowance to take of things financially. Just until best case scenario (mom gets clean and stable) or worst case (looking into adoption/foster care).

While feeling really empathic towards Tara, Sam wanted to say no because she was NOT ready to take of a severely asthmatic 10 year old (yes, she skimmed through her papers while they were talking) however she recognized that look in the girl’s face all too well and while she was reluctant and kinda shocked at this familial revelation, she said “okay, until you find something better.”

But there wasn’t anything better.

It wasn’t sisterly love at first sight. That took a while and they both had deep issues within regarding family, trust, and abandonment to work on and heal from.

They grew to love each other over time, they took care of each other in the ways they could, built their lives around each other that one can’t imagine life without the other.

3.5 years later, they’re at a courtroom and Sam finally got to sign the adoption papers and there was no going back.

We're one step away from straight up making Sam Tara's mum lmao.

Ok, so, anon, I fucking LOVE this. I adore you. I had to get back out of bed and onto my computer to respond to this. I've taken this in a slightly different direction, I hope that's ok? It hits the same beats, but I make it even sadder, because apparently, I love tragic backstories now.

So, nearly-10-year-old Sam gets removed from the Carpenter household, and Christina immediately gets pregnant again. She wants to fill the void that having her daughter taken from her has left (it was already there, it began the day her lover died, but she drowns those thoughts in alcohol), but it's not the same. This girl isn't like Sam, she isn't strong, she isn't his, she can't bring herself to feel anything for this mewling child.

Sam was removed because her mother was a constant drunk, she got behind the wheel with her daughter in the backseat, and crashed the car. They tell her she can have her daughter back if she gets sober, she never gets sober. Between constant drinking, barely eating, and baggy clothes, they never catch on that she's pregnant again, until 5 years later when the police are called about a domestic disturbance. Hicks finds the child hiding in a cupboard, hands cupped around her head, drawn by the noise of her wheezing.

The mostly absent father never bothered trying to get Sam back, he had a suspicion she wasn't his in the first place, drunken rambles from his wife suggesting so. He checked out of his marriage long ago, has lovers in every state he travels to for work. It's a marriage in name only, he considers leaving, until she reveals she's pregnant. He makes sure to get a paternity test this time, privately of course.

After the incident with the police, they threaten to take his daughter away from him, so he kicks Christina out, and takes custody of the girl. She never ends up going to school, he takes her with him when he travels. She spends the next 3 years mostly alone in hotel rooms, it's still not as bad as being with her mother. He still gets rough when he's mad, but she has cleaner clothes now - because sometimes he takes her with him to meetings to endear himself to the clients. And she gets sweets sometimes, a regular meal once a day. And medicine! She never knew what breathing was supposed to be like until the day the doctor handed her an inhaler.

She's 8 when her father overdoses in a seedy hotel room. She spends several days hiding in the shower, until the door is forced open by a lone security guard and a cleaner. Somehow she ends up back with her mother. That's where she stays until the day her mother tries to kill her. The neighbours hear the screaming and the crying and call the police. She doesn't put down the knife even when they point their guns at her. She just holds the child's hair in one hand and a knife to her throat with the other. They make a decision.

When Sam's first contacted, she thinks it's a joke. Both her parents are dead, and they left everything to her. Oh, and also she has a little sister, if she's interested in taking her in? She says no. They say understandable, and that she'll be handed over to the state. The man on the phone mentions the name of the home she'll be sent to - in case Sam is ever interested in connecting with her, and goes to hang up. She says wait. She remembers that home and how criminal it is that it's still open. Fuck it, she'll think about it. She wants to meet the girl.

Sam meets the girl at the social worker's office, in a room designed for children to play in. The girl sits, hunched over, in a chair at the table. She's still and doesn't lift her eyes. Sam thinks of the files she was given, the medical file, the police reports, and she wonders how this happened. Her father was absent and her mother a drunk, a little neglectful, but they weren't a bad people (not like some of the people who ran the foster homes). The files told another story, one Sam wished she remained ignorant of.

The girl is 10, but you wouldn't know it. So small and fragile, hair long and greasy, and skin pallid. It all serves to make the bruises stand out. The girl is wearing baggy clothes that Sam almost recognises, they used to be hers once upon a time.

Sam sits down and tries to greet the girl, and introduces herself. The social worker informs her that they can't get her to talk, that they think she can, that she just won't. Sam sits there for a while, observing the girl. After a while of silence, Tara looks up and the woman before her, and her eyes go wide. This woman looks like her mother, not quite the same, but enough for her heart to begin to thump. Sam sees the fear in her eyes as she looks at her, sees the way she clenches her jaw as she looks away, how she frowns, hands fisting in her lap. She remembers being this girl once upon a time, sitting in a similar room as a social worker spoke down to her.

The social worker sighs and ends the session shortly after, disappointed at the lack of progress. She takes Sam outside and apologises for wasting her time. Sam tells her she'll take her.

#/mp #ask box #Scream #Tara Carpenter #Sam Carpenter #my writing tag #AU: foster this love make me whole again #trigger warning -> child abuse #fuck christina carpenter club #I have more to say on this but it's nearly midnight and I have to get up at 6. so tune in tomorrow for the other half of this.

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starseneyes · 8 days

Text

Social Media, Connection, and the Chasms of Loss

I've heard grief discussed as many things. There are so many similes and metaphors constructed to cognitively comprehend the enormity of grief—but none are really sufficient, are they?

And there are so many kinds of loss and grief. But the one really consuming me as of late is the loss of connection—whether due to the death of a dear friend, or the severing of a cord that lasted years before finally fraying to the point it snapped.

But even sadder are the friendships that begin and end so swiftly you begin to wonder if you imagined the friendship at all. And the proliferation of Social Media in some ways united and bound us, but in the wake of Twitter's downfall, I also see the carnage left behind in the chasms of friendship scooped out simply due to migration or lack thereof.

So, in this essay that is more to help myself process an overwhelming loneliness as of late, I want to dive in a bit on the impact of Social Media, the rise and downfall of Twitter, and the avenues available to forging connection for those of us who spend the majority of our days entirely alone.

The early days of the Pandemic proved very isolating with lock downs and whatnot. I am immunocompromised and have always felt we should do what we can to protect one another.

Humans can't exist without some measure of care and protection. If I remember correctly, one of the first signs of community observed in archaeology was the setting of a broken limb—a human being offering assistance and care to another.

In the absence of in-person interactions, I know some of us became a little touch-starved, a little community-starved, grasping for the semblance of society through whatever medium available. Social Media became a lifeline in so many ways.

I started working from home in 2017, when my daughter was born. It was a tough pregnancy. I was finishing Graduate School with the worst Advisor ever at a school I would never recommend.

And when my Littlest was not even a year old, I was laid off from my job of 8.5 years when the parent company absorbed mine. I was offered a new job at the parent company that I knew would bore to me tears, so I dug into the freelance world I'd dipped my toe into.

I had friends, and we saw each other as much as possible. I still threw Chili Cookoff parties and Adult Game Nights and Unoite Parties. I was the organizer. I was the one driving the get-togethers. I loved it. I thrive in that situation.

There's a reason my eighth grade teacher looked at me and thought, "Yeah, this 12-year-old is ready to be my Assistant Director and Stage Manager for our production of Twelfth Night". I excel at organization and creativity. Combining the two is definitely my strong point.

By early 2020, I decided I wanted to get back to screenwriting, and I inadvertently started making friends in the screenwriting world, both PreWGA and WGA.

It was never a calculated thought on my part. I simply reactivated my dormant Twitter and realized Rachel of the past followed a lot of writers, and I kept going. Meeting people. Making connections. Hearing their stories. Sharing in moments big and small. And the early days of the Pandemic pushed us all together all the more.

"Meet ups" and "mixers" that previously took place at restaurants in Los Angeles were online. Folks from all over the world made connections. I was in Zooms with Brits and Aussies and Hispanics and people from all over.

Some of us really found that sense of community we were missing in a virtual setting. Which is a miracle, if you think about it.

I am never as comfortable typing as I am talking. And I am less comfortable on a phone than I am in-person. I love watching how someone reacts, listening to their inflection, considering their body language, knowing when to lean into the laugh and when to give space for the gasp of a sob. Yes, I know my Communication Nerd is showing—I do hold two degrees—but I thrive in situations where I can speak with another human and see them fully.

My father used to say all I needed to do was talk to someone, and I'd have any job I wanted in hand. And he's been mostly right about that.

I truly enjoy communication, so that feeds into how I communicate, I think. I like bringing joy to others. I like making them laugh. I like being there for them when they need someone. It's a gift to be able to hold space for someone when they need it—because even silence is a form of communication.

Twitter became one of the front runners for those who communicate primarily with words. While Instagram has always been image-forward and who knows what drives Facebook at this point, Twitter in 2020 still allowed you to follow who you wanted and see a real-time Timeline.

It became a haven for me. Remember, I'm immunocompromised. My General Practitioner—whom I adore—says, "Rachel, I wish I could write 'weird shit' as a diagnosis". And she said my immune issues are a part of me that isn't going anywhere.

Now, I'm healthier this year than I have been since my 20's. My white blood cell count is at the low end of Normal instead of 75% of what it should be. This is amazing news. But it wasn't the case in 2020, 2021, 2022. And it can go back down at any point without warning. So, I have to be careful.

So, as my friends "went back to normal", guess who wasn't hosting parties anymore? Guess who avoided indoor events far longer than others? And guess who clung harder to her friends on Social Media as a result?

And I am very grateful to have met many of the friends I made on Twitter in real life. It's been sensational to get to know people, whether at meets ups in Washington, DC or Arlington, or chatting on the picket lines up in New York last summer. But the day-to-day interactions were always on Twitter.

Then, Twitter became virtually unusable. Bots multiplied and overtook actual interaction. The destruction of the verification system eroded trust and safety. Every third Tweet was suddenly an ad for something horrible and hateful. Oh, I could go on.

But there was no universal landing pad. It was like closing time at the bar after the show. We all agreed to go to this place even though we know it closes at Midnight. But there's a dive bar across the street where we can go for a few more hours so the party doesn't have to end.

There was no established after-hours bar. Instead, there were a half dozen pop ups that may or may not become permanent locations down the line.

So, some people went to Spoutible. Some went to Mastodon. Some went to Threads. Some dug in on Instagram. Some flocked to Discords. Some went to BlueSky.

And thus this well forged and formed community of Twitter folks I'd come to know and adore fractured.

Not a one of us did anything wrong. We simply responded to the loss of our hub the best we could. But that loss is something I keenly feel.

See, I work from home. Every day. Sometimes I don't speak to another soul the entire day until my children get home. Then, I'm in Mom-mode until they go to bed, and often after that my husband crashes before we can have a conversation.

But at the same time I lost my Twitter community, one of my best friends died. Cheryl lost her cancer battle, and she was the one person I could message day or night. We understood if we didn't hear from the other that they would get to us as soon as they could. There was no expectation but there was this mutual love that I will forever appreciate.

And my IRL friends never quite went back to where they were pre-COVID. I have friends, now, who were once close but now scream against vaccines and attack teachers and curse LGBTQ folks who never did a damn thing to them. And so I'm letting those friendships fall away. I tried to talk to them about some of their views, and met nothing but a brick wall.

So, it's not that Twitter was my only community. But right now—save less than a handful of IRL friends—Social Media is my only human contact most days. And how many folks in the world have this same reality?

Whether due to disability, illness, isolation, or whatever other reason—so many folks look to Social Media as a place to engage with others in discourse, to make connections, to forge friendships.

Yes, this is possible. In the 90's, I knew a couple who met over the internet, fell in love, and one left the US for the UK where they wed and lived together until her passing. You absolutely can make real friendships via a social medium.

Honestly, the person I'm most excited about seeing at WorldCon in Glasgow isn't one of the Special Guests, but it's a human I met on BlueSky who is kindness personified wrapped in big hair and a bigger heart.

We connected somewhere around November/December and it's been one of the coolest things to get to know her and hopefully give her back some of the love she so freely gives.

We have never met in person. We forged this bond mostly via text. Little moments building, one upon the other.

That is the potential of Social Media. And that is something we are all still attempting to rebuild via all the different fractured pieces.

What compounds the difficulty is the insistence of TPTB (wow, I'm throwing it back to my Star Trek WebRing Surfing days with that one) that we trade connection for content—that we power the machine with our posts and comments but sacrifice meaningful relationship-building opportunities.

In short—we are fighting against the very systems we are forced to use in our quest for genuine connection. The systems are gamed with algorithms to push popularization of content we often don't want to see because it's incendiary and causes us to be reactionary.

The true moments of commiseration, celebration, and collaboration are born of tiny moments built upon one another over time. It takes shared time to create connection and for threads to become braided cord. If we're competing with the algorithm all the time, we lose valuable time.

So, in this time where one of my best friends is no longer with us, one of my other best friends is fading away, and the Social Media norms to which I’d adapted have failed—I am flailing a bit for want of connection.

This isn’t to say that we should all commit to Social Media to save our ails in any form. Please do not misread. I am only pointing out that for those of us for whom in-person, consistent contact is an impossibility, Social Media as it previously stood—especially Twitter—has served as a useful tool for maintaining connection.

Will another tool rise up in such a way to dominate the space and create a new centralized gathering place? I truly do not know.

At present, I spend most of my time on BlueSky and Instagram, dip my toes into Threads every so often, Facebook for the sake of distant family members who want to see the kids, and tentatively tiptoe toward Twitter only to check in on my loves who are on that platform and nowhere else.

I tried Spoutible and Mastodon. Neither really took hold. And, of course, I am here. But only about two people from the other places follow me here.

We are all in search of connection—of hearts meeting and minds mingling. Or maybe that’s in reverse depending on what kind of connection you seek. Either way, we are at once island and at the same time thirsty for the waters and waves that link us one to the other.

In this space, I am grieving the death of one of my best friends, the fading of another close friendship due to irreconcilable differences, the isolation of spending every day alone, and the loss of the social constructions that created social stability for me in absence of traditional avenues.

Friendship is precious and dear. However you make connections, build understanding, and develop trust—it is worth protecting and celebrating. So, it is natural to mourn what is lost for whatever reason.

But please don’t let it harden you. Despite all the technological and societal barriers in our way, we will form new friendships that are deep and meaningful. But that means continuing to put ourselves out there.

So, reach out to someone today—to start a friendship, to build a friendship, to nurture a friendship. With so much against us, we have to fight hard for it—but it is always worth it.

#Friendship #Social Media #Society #Friends

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jaydaaasworld · 1 month

Text

Baby thoughts

Warning:pregnancy pregnant baby

Since the second you found out, Buck had been glued to your side. It had been three weeks since you took that test, since your doctor had confirmed it and in that time you had, had to convince him every single day that he could leave you and go to work. Every day he fought you, wanting the both of you to stay home so you could rest and he could wait on your every want and need, but you couldn’t do that. You were only thirteen weeks along and there was hardly any reason to be confined to the bed just yet. You knew that he was only concerned about the safety of you and the peach you currently carried in your womb. It was endearing and one of the sweetest things you’d ever seen, you hadn’t thought that Buck could get any sweeter, but here you were one act away from having a mouth full of cavities.

What hadn’t helped was that Buck had been responding to several pregnancy calls in the past few weeks a few resulting in sadder endings than anyone wanted. They had struck a chord with Buck and had only made him hover all the more.

Adding the water to your cordial, you took a sip of the orange, a light buzz filling your taste buds. You had become obsessed with anything orange-flavored since your pregnancy diagnosis. Whether it was orange Skittles (which Buck had kindly sat and sorted out for you), or orange flavored chocolate, or even the orange-flavored cupcakes you had found at the grocery store and ate within an hour of buying, anything orange and you were all for it.

Walking back into the garden, your entire body seemed to clench a little as you stepped back into the gaze of the sun. As much as you were enjoying this downtime with the 118, it was so hot. The heatwave had only hit LA in the past few days but already it was in full swing and you were feeling every beam of it.

“Y/n,” you turned over to where Athena was sitting with Hen and her daughter May. The three of them stood around the mini bar that Athena had installed, in direct sunlight. Already hot, you fought down the urge to grimace as you moved to stand by them, the sun glaring on your skin. “We were just telling May about Buck and that kiddie ride at the mall. She doesn’t believe us.” Hen informed and a grin split across your lips, taking your mind off of the sweltering heat.

“Oh my, God. I have a photo, hang on,” You pulled your phone out of your shoulder bag and set your drink on the bar, thumb flicking through the many photos in your gallery in search of the one from the Saturday before. “He thought it was funny and I tried to tell him he wouldn’t fit but he insisted,” You giggled and turned your phone for May to see. “I honestly thought I’d have to call nine-one-one.”

Displayed across your screen was the photo that still had you giggling a week later. There sat Buck, who had squeezed his way into the small metal bus which was aimed for children 7 and under. But Buck had twisted his body at all kinds of angles and had somehow managed to worm his way into the ride. His head was poked out of the door hole, his legs curled up against his chest, unable to stretch out in the tiny space that his body was occupying.

What Athena and the others didn’t know was that Buck wouldn’t have gotten into the ride if it wasn’t for you. That morning your hormones had been playing you like a fiddle and every little thing had upset you, the bin bag had broken when you were trying to change it out for a new one, somehow a red sock had slipped in with your whites and now everything you owned was slightly toned pink and they had shown that advert with the puppy sat in a box, in the rain, on the side of the street with people walking past ignoring it. It seemed, that morning, that everything was stacked against you. Buck had offered to come with you to the mall so you could pick up your clothing order from a store, you had ordered certain items that they didn’t have in stock and they had delivered to the store the day before. You were buzzing to see the new pair of pumps you had ordered. You knew that in a few months if not weeks, the shoes would probably be pressing against the sides of your feet and ankles because of the pregnancy swelling, but that hadn’t stopped you from ordering them in your size. However, like everything else that morning, even that didn’t go as planned. The shoes had been delivered in the wrong color and in a size smaller than you wanted, making them impossible to wear. Buck had seen how disheartened you had been when you left the store, trying not to cry in frustration. He had wanted to do something to cheer you up and in a joking manner, he had made a bet with you that he could fit inside the kiddie bus ride.

It had succeeded in cheering you up, if not from how silly he looked, his large muscular frame curled up inside the ride, from when he got stuck and couldn’t get himself out straight away. You had done what you could to help him out, but you were giggling so hard your entire body went weak. When he had finally gotten out, the two of you had continued to giggle all the way home and your mood had been lifted for the rest of the day.

“Oh, my God,” May giggled. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. Please send me that!” she begged.

“Of course,” you agreed with a laugh of your own. “I could never gate keep on a photo like this.”

“What made him get in there?”

“It’s Buck, does he need a reason?” Hen scoffed. As the ladies continued to giggle, the heat seemed to make its presence known as it glared down at you. The side of your temples was beginning to throb and your skin was starting to get slick and sticky, sweat oozing from your pores. You raised a hand to swipe at your brow, glancing around the garden for the closest seat, your legs aching.

As you moved towards one of the sun loungers, your boyfriend’s eyes caught onto your movements, already on high alert.

“Y/n? What’s wrong?” he asked, abandoning his drink at the grill and rushing towards you, one arm slipping around your waist to help guide you to the seat.

“Buck, I’m-”

“Dammit, it’s too hot out here for you. We should’ve canceled,” he began muttering to himself. “Are you dizzy? Do you need a drink of water? What about something to eat? Is your blood sugar low? What if you’re dehydrated?” The only thing making you dizzy was the hurricane of questions Buck was sending your way, not even leaving a chance for you to answer them. One of his hands instinctively came to rest on the front of your stomach.

“Babe? Baby?” You tried to pull Buck out of his panicked rant, his eyes not once meeting yours as he kept scanning you for any visible injuries. Not that there were any, but the paranoia was getting the best of him and the heat probably wasn’t helping.

“We should get you in the shade,” he decided. “Shit, you should’ve stayed inside. You’re carrying precious cargo now, baby. You and Peach can’t take this heat. We shouldn’t have come. This is all my fault-”

“Buck!” You pressed your hands to the sides of his face, directing his eyes to yours so you could try and ground him. “Buck, baby, I’m fine. We’re fine. I’m just a little hot and tired that’s all. It’s normal.” He still seemed a little uncertain, and his eyes held a lifetime of worry for you and his unborn child. “We’re okay. I promise.” You offered him a reassuring smile, your thumb coming to brush against his bottom lip rhythmically, giving him something to focus on. His eyelids pressed shut as he breathed slowly for a second.

“Are you sure? ‘Cause we can go home-”

“We’re fine. I just need to sit for a minute that’s all.” You peeked over his shoulder. “While I’m sitting, we should probably talk to the people behind you, they seem a little shocked. You kind of let the cat out of the bag.” Buck twisted his head to look around at the team behind him, everyone stood, jaws dropped and eyes wide. Eddie was the most comical of the bunch, his glass halfway raised to his mouth ready to take a sip but frozen in time with the news that Buck had unintentionally shared.

“H-Hey, guys,” He chuckled awkwardly with a sheepish grin. “I guess we have some news to share.”

#buddie 911 #incorrect 911 quotes #911 fic #911edit #911 fanfic #911 season 7 #911 abc #911 fox #911 spoilers #911 show #911 s7 #911 lone star #911 fandom

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lantur · 3 months

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updates,

I got back home from Japan on March 16!! It's been such a busy time since then. I left again on the afternoon of March 18 to attend a work event in St. Louis, Missouri, and I just got back home again yesterday evening.

I was surprised to really enjoy St. Louis. I didn't know anything about the city before, but it's a beautiful place. There are so many flowering trees all over, and lots of green space with Forest Park. The Arch and the Wash U campus are impressive.

The work component of the trip was exhausting. I worked 7 AM - 7 PM every day, and it was very social. Between colleagues and other members of the public, I was literally talking to people for almost the entire time every day. Caffeine kept me going. Still, it was a positive experience. I got to meet my organization's staff in St. Louis, and they're really nice people. I also met dozens of other people who were very interested in the work we do.

But it's so good to be home. I've been gone pretty much constantly from March 7 until today. I missed the comforts of home, and Derek, and Westin.

Highlights of my last few days in Japan,

Visiting the massive Todai-ji Temple in Nara and the surrounding temple spaces. My visit in the morning lined up with several dozen students taking a trip there, and it was cute to see them so excited and enjoying the experience as well, ringing the bells at the temples and lighting candles and incense offerings. I lit an incense stick in front of the Great Buddha with them. :)

Matcha latte at a cafe overlooking Nara Park, as the deer harassed people for food.

The deer!! They were so cute! I saw baby deer too.

Walking up to Kasuga Taisha Shrine and exploring the surrounding areas, finding the deer on the way.

Walking in the old Nara neighborhood of Naramachi, where I bought the best strawberry daifuku I have ever had, and ate it while sitting on the banks of a lake.

I felt so very sad about my last evening in Gion, so I made it a special one with dinner at Gion Duck Noodles, dango, and the most delicious hot taiyaki filled with fresh chestnut cream.

The last thing I did in Kyoto was a shibori silk scarf dying class at the Kyoto Shibori Museum. It was a 1:1 workshop and the instructors at the museum were so kind and hospitable. I'm thrilled with the scarf I made!

My last afternoon in Tokyo was a chill one. I got a foot massage, went out for dinner, and visited my beloved sento public baths one last time. The peak relaxation of those baths ended up being one of my favorite Japan experiences. ❤️

I did some shopping on Saturday before heading to the airport, and it was a smooth 11-hour direct flight home. I'm glad to be home with my family and friends, but I miss Japan. The food, the ease of public transport, the public baths... My heart was happy there. The vibes were good. I felt sadder upon leaving Kyoto than I ever have for any other trips.

I've wanted to go to Japan since I was 12. I'm so happy I finally got to experience that dream come true, and I still hope I can go again someday and explore more of the country. ❤️

#lanturing

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buckys-little-belle · 3 months

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to those saying “your lack of wanting to write doesn’t mean you should abandon this blog” i understand the sentiment i really do but it’s not just me not wanting to write.

i have so many fics ready to be published because i cant stop writing, i love writing. the main problem is actually posting the fics.

if anyone pays close attention to this blog, you’ll see that i don’t post random text posts, not fic related, near as often as i used to, and i often delete them after a few minutes to hours of posting them.

i have severe anxiety as we all know, so publishing fics has always been harder for me to do, it’s nerve wracking and scary to do without feeling anxious for days on end. now i’m starting to struggle with OCD even more.

i used to just need everything even on both sides years ago, but now things have gotten to an insane point that’s new and scary and hard to really comprehend. suddenly i need to delete things or else “xyz” will happen, suddenly i cant post things with specific words or “xyz” will happen.

it doesn’t make sense, and it’s dreadful and the problem is most OCD “therapy/methods of working through compulsions” interferes with my tourettes, and now if i want to start a new therapy type i have to leave the house and get over this resurgence of severe agoraphobia.

i do write, i want to post my fics so bad, and i want to stay on this blog. but, i am one compulsion away from feeling like i have to give it all up, and it is terrifying.

this was my safe space, the one place my brain felt at peace and now i’m tearing it away from myself (albeit involuntarily) and at the moment there’s no way to stop this downward spiral immediately.

while i understand you all being sad about me abandoning ship or never posting another fic again, pleas know i am 10x sadder, and far more distraught than i could even explain.

#tw anxeity #tw anxiety mention #tw ocd #tw mental illness #tw agoraphobia #buckys little belle #tw tourettes

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canyouhearthelight · 23 days

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It's Just a Tale...

So, back in the long gone era of 2 months ago, I mentioned at the end of my last story that the next one would be something that wouldn't need any trigger warnings.

And now, after an unexpected pause in posting, I am able to FINALLY share it with you all. The idea is very much "Monstrous Rapunzel", and for the entirety of writing it, @baelpenrose was peppering me with questions about how the story would play out. As you will hopefully find out soon, the story isn't even that long, but he was hooked.

Please enjoy!

There once was a kingdom, as you would expect in this kind of tale. A greedy king who didn’t believe he was greedy, a beautiful but terrified queen, and their three handsome sons - the eldest a soldier, the middle a scholar, and youngest an artist. They ruled over their subjects as one does, neither particularly cruel nor notably kind.

The subjects of the kingdom often gossiped as common folk do, in furtive whispers over their work or mutters over watered down ale. “The eldest son had to pay off another poor girl,” the women would shake their heads knowingly, sympathetically. If daughters in the village kept turning up bruised, the king would bankrupt himself. “That youngest prince was seen on the grounds by my wife’s cousin,” the barkeep would announce gruffly. “He’s a guard, says the boy had to be pulled from his rooms again, delirious.” The surgeon and the blacksmith would wince, shaking their heads that the royal household kept allowing the boy around such chemicals.

It was when the middle son, the scholar, came into the village asking about the tower in the forest, however, that the subjects finally spoke openly. “The tower is just a tale,” the baker told him. “Something we told each other when we were boys, that the tower had a girl trapped in it and we were going to save her. But it’s just a tale.”

The owner of the bookshop chuckled when asked. “Oh, the girl with big, bright eyes, trapped in the tower. We’d be heroes, we swore, if we could just find that tower!” His eyes fogged over with the memories of youth. “But it’s just a tale.” He shook his head, slightly sadder than he had been.

The middle prince left the shop, still determined.

“I can see the tower from the castle walls,” he would urge the tavern maid. “It does exist, but it’s several days’ travel on foot. Please.”

She shook her head, setting a plate of food and a glass of wine in front of him. “The boys played that game back in my granddad’s day. Before he died, he used to swear they could hear the girl in the tower playing music. A harpsichord, he said, the first time he’d ever heard one.”

“But he was sure that is what it was?” the prince asked eagerly, hungry for any information.

“He wasn’t until the day your older brother was married,” she nodded, confused why it mattered. “Only time in my life granddad had been to church, and a lady played one in your brother’s honor. Granddad said the girl in the tower must have the same long, elegant fingers to play so much more beautifully.”

The scholar prince made notes in his book, food forgotten. The barmaid sighed and reminded herself to keep an eye on him, make sure he ate. It wouldn’t do to have the king’s son waste away with a plate full in front of him.

As these things do, the more the middle prince asked about the tower, the more was added to the tale. The girl was a princess, trapped by a wicked witch, with a beautiful smile, wide bright eyes, all the qualities that princesses in these stories tend to possess. “I saw the witch once,” a rag man with milk-white eyes confided. “She climbed down the girl’s hair to leave the tower. You always hear that witches are old and ugly, but she was prettier than a night sky and just as cold.”

“What happened next,” the prince asked, scribbling frantically.

“The witch caught me watching her,” the rag–picker sighed. The prince looked up to see him tapping his cheekbone beneath his left eye. “Last thing I ever saw.”

A woman who had been sifting through the piles of cloth swatted the old man with the piece in her hand. “You lost your sight to a fever, you old liar,” she admonished.

“A fever the witch gave me!” he protested as the prince walked away with a sigh.

Eventually, the prince gave up and returned to the palace. Life in the village returned to normalcy, even if the daughters and young widows were more prone to wistful sighs and dreamy looks for a time. Months passed. Then, one day, a herald called all the people in the village to the main road, bidding them to pay their respects for the princes and the party of knights traveling with them to the Western Wood.

With much murmuring and speculation, the men and women of the village came out to see the spectacle. “Princess?” could be heard, asked in confusion as trumpets sounded. First pennants, then horses, and finally riders soon became visible. At the front of the procession sat, not only the middle prince - “our prince” the villagers called him with pride - but both of his brothers. The eldest rode easily, head up and eyes watchful as the unmarried women of the village ducked their heads to avoid his eye. The youngest clutched his saddle for dear life, an ungainly bundle of limbs who clearly could not decide what was more dangerous: the horse, or falling off of it.

When the group of riders reached the center of the village, they stopped. The eldest prince raised his hand for attention, and the crowd automatically fell silent. “We come bearing solemn news,” he intoned clearly but with no emotion. “The crown princess went into labor last night - “ A ripple of speculation spread through the villagers, causing him to raise his voice further. “Sadly, neither she nor the child survived.”

“Girl child, then,” the tavern maid muttered, earning an elbow in the ribs from her father and flat stare from the middle prince. If an orphaned baby girl showed up in the village in the weeks to come… well, that was just a tale.

The eldest prince continued. “For the security of our kingdom, we ride forth to the tower in the Western Wood, to save the princess trapped there and bring her back so that I may remarry.”

“But how will you find the tower?” one brave soul shouted, too far into the crowd to be identified.

The youngest prince stammered. “I - I’ve made a, um… I made a map.” Flustered, he dug into the pack at his knee to pull out a carefully rolled up piece of cloth. “Starting from the, uh, from the castle.”

“And what of the witch?” the rag-picker argued, gesturing at his eyes. “What will you do with her?”

The knights surrounding the princes drew their swords, wordlessly putting an end to any discussions of a witch but not much of an end to the grumbling of the blind old man, who was thoroughly unimpressed. “The princess must be a hundred years old if she’s still alive.” He waved his hands dismissively. “She was older than I was when I was a boy.”

“Obviously the witch would have a new princess,” someone blustered.

“Oh, for the love of fish, it’s just a tale!” the woman beside the rag-picker cried in exasperation, completely forgetting the presence of royalty as she tried to shush her father and drag him away.

The old man shook her loose from him and stamped angrily. “It is not a tale, that witch was the last thing I ever saw. I still remember her face, as plain as yesterday!”

With that, it seemed his fate was sealed, as the eldest prince gestured for two of the knights to escort the old man to the front of the crowd. “You are one of the people my brother spoke with.”

“And very kind he was, Your Majesty. I could hear him writing down every word I said.”

“Can you ride a horse?”

“I can sit on a donkey as well as any pack.” A knobby hand stroked stubby whiskers, only shaking slightly.

The middle prince was able to raise one hand, only to drop it when his brother made the final decision. “Then a donkey it will be, for you will come with us and tell us everything you remember.”

The rag-picker’s daughter stuffed her fist as tightly to her mouth as she could to avoid screaming at the death sentence given to her father. It was only through the kindness of the people around her that she kept her feet.

It was the next morning that the royal procession - now with the added luggage of a blind elderly man - left the village and headed west. The rag-picker’s daughter spent a week in bed, sick from sorrow for her father, but otherwise life for the people continued. There was still bread to be baked and bought, ale to be poured and sold, gossip to be whispered while they washed and swept and carried about with their lives.

Some things still passed without comment or speculation, exempt from the favored form of entertainment. The tavern maid showed up one day with a bonnie little girl wrapped snugly to her chest, despite never having been pregnant. Everyone accepted the barkeep’s pride at his new granddaughter, and none even tried to guess at the child’s paternity. And when thunder rattled plates on cloudless days for nearly a month, hands steadied everything and eyes only exchanged hard, knowing glances. The village women made a point to check on the rag-picker’s daughter, “with all this weather we’ve been having, and all”.

It was a month after the princes had interrupted their lives that a horse bolted through the village streets, lathered and wild-eyed with a tattered bundle tied to its back. Only after it sank to the ground and began drinking from a tempting mop bucket was anyone able to investigate. The baker poked at the bundle of cloth with the peel he used to retrieve loaves, and those gathered around leapt back when the bundle began to scream hysterically.

“M-m-m-m-m,�� it started stuttering, pulling itself more tightly around the poor beast it was attached to. “M-m-m-m-mag….m-m-m-mag…”

“Saints save us, I think it’s the prince,” the baker gasped, rushing forward. After much reassurance and no small amount of whisky, the youngest prince was extracted from the exhausted horse and led into the tavern. There, he was given a bowl of broth and clean water to both drink and splash on his face.

Finally, his shaking became a slight tremor and he was able to speak. “The tower…the witch. She, she….encha…encha….” His fist hit the table in weak frustration. “A beast. In the tower.”

The tavernkeep, his daughter, the baker, and the rag picker’s daughter looked between themselves. In a village that gossiped like they breathed, everyone was more than skilled at putting pieces of a puzzle together, and the tavernkeep and his daughter were professionally adept at translating what seemed like rambling nonsense. “The witch magicked the girl in the tower into a beast?” the tavern maid finally asked, bouncing her quietly sleeping daughter the entire time.

The prince nodded rapidly.

“And you ran?” the baker asked, earning a smack from both women.

“The horse ran,” the rag picker’s daughter scolded. “Big beast like that, he couldn’t well stop it, could he?” Without waiting for a response to the prince, she asked a far less silly question. “Are you the only one alive?”

He shook his head and picked up his broth in both hands, most of it staying in the bowl in spite of his tremors.

The tavernkeep started tearing up a loaf of bread, and when the prince set the bowl back down, he dropped it in. “That will make the broth stay in one spot,” he explained in reassurance. “Are your brothers alive?”

“W-w-one.”

Almost automatically, the villagers offered their condolences. They even sounded sincere, since they did not know if it was the middle prince - their prince - who had been killed.

The youngest prince shook his head and dug a soaked piece of bread out with his fingers.

“Must’ve been the eldest,” the tavern maid sighed before shrugging. Noticing the glares from her father and the baker, she flinched. “I mean, it could have been worse. We all know he was a complete terror.”

“Ass,” the youngest prince enunciated carefully, nodding.

“Ass! Oh, my father!” the rag-picker’s daughter cried, covering her mouth as the color drained from her face.

“Alive. The d-d-d…” His fist came down on the table again.

Exasperated, the tavern maid heaved a sigh. “Da, is there anything he can write with in the back?” Without waiting for a response, she was gone in a swish of skirts and back moments later with a stack of paper and a charcoal. “You’re a prince, an artist, and a mapmaker. I assume you can write.”

With another of his energetic nods, the prince held out both hands, grasping in relief. He scribbled quickly, then held up the paper.

The rag picker’s daughter nudged her friend anxiously. “I don’t know my letters.”

Squinting for a moment, the tavern maid read aloud. “The donkey wouldn’t go near the tower, but your father shouted he was behind me when Daisypuff ran past.”

“Hell of a name for a horse that big,” the baker muttered, catching an elbow in the ribs for his joke. “Is the beast slain?” he asked, trying to recover.

A much shorter scribble this time. “You must be joking. Not a chance.”

The tavernkeep stood, hands on his hips. “Well. No sense worrying on it, then. If it’s a beast, it has never bothered anyone that didn’t go looking for it, so we might as well let His Highness get some sleep.” He nodded and inhaled deeply through his nose. “And a bath. I’ll put some water on the fire.”

The youngest prince ate his soggy bread, checked that Daisypuff was being well looked after, and, a very filthy bucket of water later, was snoring happily enough to garner complaints from the night’s tavern patrons. Most grumblings were quashed by the third round of drinks, and the snoring was a far better sound to wake up to than drunks pounding on the door in the morning. If the prince was still hiding in his tavern room a week later, nobody said anything and Daisypuff seemed to be thoroughly enjoying his well earned vacation and all the dandelions the village children would sneak him. Certainly no complaints were heard about the mute lad who was clearing empty dishes in the tavern and humming to the maid’s baby girl, enticing happy giggles from the fat and pretty baby.

Ten days after Daisypuff’s heroic dash into the village, a haggard but alive middle prince knocked on the kitchen door of the tavern, holding the rope of a fat and dirty donkey with an equally filthy blind man on its back. Again, the unofficial town council locked the doors and plied whisky and food in equal measure to the arrivals, this time with the youngest prince shoving forward bowls of stew and plates of bread.

The middle prince gave his brother a bewildered but silent look before tearing off a chunk of bread and dipping it in his stew the way the villagers did. “There was a beast in the tower.”

“We know, we know,” the rag picker’s daughter rushed as she dabbed stew from her father’s whiskers. “The witch enchanted the princess into a beast which isn’t slain, your third brother is dead, father didn’t even get within a mile of the tower because the donkey has more sense than he does. Your brother is a fine hand at clearing plates and quieting babies, and Daisypuff apparently prefers thistle to dandelions.” She turned to the wide-eyed middle prince with a slow blink. “Are we caught up?”

Taken aback, the middle prince took in what was actually around him, finally realizing that he was the one catching up. He filled in the gaps he knew they would want to hear. “For the most part, the stories were accurate. A witch is keeping a princess in the tower. The princess has long, elegant fingers - the kind with claws that tear meat from bone. She has luminous eyes, though they are far more of the large kind that see well in the dark. The music that has been heard is her way of drawing in prey, as is the long appendage that has been described as hair.”

“Appendage?” the baker asked, slightly green at the description.

Another chunk of bread and stew had the younger prince nudging a plate of crumbly cheese.

After nodding, the middle prince clarified. “Like an arm, but this one comes from her head. Very monstrous. Large, sharp teeth, too.”

Leaning over, the tavern maid murmured to the mute man beside her. “No wonder you were so scared.” He made a grasping gesture in reply, and she wordlessly unstrapped her daughter and handed the sleeping child to him.

The middle prince gave them a quizzical look but kept speaking. “Most of the soldiers with us deserted the moment they saw her true nature, and the first blast of magic from the witch sent Daisypuff off for home… or close enough to home, I suppose.” He glanced at his brother, who was too busy happily humming to the bundle in his arms to respond.

“And the witch?” the rag picker’s daughter asked, having tucked a large cloth into her father’s collar and given up saving him from stew-drippings.

“Keeping the beast contained, apparently. I surrendered and asked her to speak with me. She says she rescued the cursed princess. Poor girl is the first born of a kingdom, parents tried to kill her, witch intervened against the wizard who was hired to curse the child. Minimized the curse, but it had to play out somehow.”

That was the moment when the rag picker spoke up. “But now we know, so no more expeditions to the tower. Leave them alone, in peace, I say.”

His daughter sputtered, incredulous. “You’ve done nothing but ramble on about that tower since I can remember, swearing that witch made you blind. And now you just want to give it up as a lost cause!?”

Grasping, he finally found her hand. “From what His Highness is saying, I am willing to trust that the witch struck me blind as a favor, so I wouldn’t have to see that in my nightmares for the rest of my life. And to save herself and her ward, from the armies a poor boy could have brought down on them.”

The two women present looked between themselves, with the tavern maid being the one to speak up. “So there is a princess, who is a monster, but she’s not really a monster, and there is a witch, but she is protecting the princess?”

“That’s what His Highness said,” the tavern keeper scowled. He addressed the middle - elder? - prince next. “That stew won’t eat itself, and those carrots are the last ones we managed to save from the rascals overfeeding your brother’s beast.”

Clearly feeling properly chastised, the heir-apparent started eating. If anyone present thought it odd that a man raised as royalty was taking orders from one of his subjects, no one said anything. It didn’t hurt that no one thought it was odd, at all. After several bites, he pointed his bread-chunk directly at the tavern maid. “An orphan?”

Immediately understanding the question, she sat the rag-picker’s offended daughter back in her seat. “This child has a mother and a grandfather, not an orphan at all.”

“I stand corrected.”

With the matter of the Tower clearly over and done with, the younger prince silently handed his charge back to her mother before grabbing a broom. All of those present took the gesture to mean it was time to open the doors again, and the elder - middle? their - prince was ushered to a room with another bowl of stew and a plate of bread and cheese. Exhausted and more than familiar with the steady nature of the villagers, he took the hint and hid away with his dinner and the two buckets of hot water that arrived later in the evening accompanied by a set of patched but clean clothing.

He never did find the clothing he had arrived in, although given the smell emanating from the pile of ashes in the yard the next day, that may have been just as well.

Neither prince was particularly in a rush to return to the palace, but around a month later their hand was forced: posters were being placed across the kingdom, petitioning for adventurers to go find them and their departed sibling. With much reluctance, the younger prince was hoisted back upon Daisypuff while his brother held the lead. Thankfully, Daisypuff had learned much patience in the past several weeks - he had certainly learned the connection between good behavior and apples, at least - and was willing to plod along the road he was being led on.

And if the tavern maid and her father were paid a fine allowance for their remaining days, it was certainly not something to be gossiped upon. Genevieve - the baby - grew up with great luck in traveling tutors, and if a handsome dowry enabled her to be an independent woman for as long as she liked, it never managed to raise an ounce of curiosity in the village. Perhaps the tavern maid married a strangely quiet man with a skilled hand at both cleaning and a paintbrush…

But that’s all just a tale.

#Its Just a Tale #Rapunzel #adaptive fiction #fairy tale #original fiction #fantasy #original fantasy #humans are weird #fantasy edition

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aita-blorbos · 8 months

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AITA for helping try and destroy the world (and also lying about it)

(I realize this is absolutely gonna put me on blast in some corners of the multiverse, but I don't think it matters anymore. Anyone who'd know who I am probably hates me already, which is fair.)

OK, so, there's this guy (adult M), we're gonna call him R. I (adult F) met R several years ago, when he got me out of a difficult situation, saving my life in the process. I didn't have anywhere to go and wanted to return the favor, so I decided to travel with him. He was out looking for his fiancee, "E" (adult F), because…I'm still not entirely sure how the whole thing went down, but his dad didn't approve of her, and he was a pretty big deal magically, so he...cursed her, or something like that? And R thought he could find where his dad sent E if he just kept looking for long enough.

Except, that didn't work out. Time passed, R just kept getting sadder and sadder, and I'm not the comforting type, I'm no good at stuff like that, I did my best to help him however I could but he needed E, not me.

There's this super-magical book of prophecies that generations of his family had been guarding, because it contained information on how all worlds were gonna inevitably be destroyed and could kinda kick-start that whole process. I think he thought he might be able to find her location written in there? But either way, he left one day, grabbed the book, and went completely AWOL, deciding that the worlds had no meaning and he was gonna fulfill the world-ending prophecy. I know that sounds bad, but I swear, it was the book that drove him insane, he never would've done anything like that normally! His whole personality changed! I could barely even recognize him! It wasn't his fault OK?!

…Anyway.

R was a magical powerhouse, especially with the book, but I'm more of a specialist. So, we recruited a few people the book mentioned into a small organization to help us. The elevator pitch was that R was gonna destroy the worlds and create better ones in their place, and these guys bought it. They got really excited and were absolutely willing to defend us and help kick the prophecy in gear (because apparently, multiversal annihilation has some weirdly specific prerequisites). R oversaw them, and I did admin work and some HR + recruitment on the side.

Thing is, I knew better the whole time, but I just sort of…let it all happen. I'm not gonna say I didn't do some other pretty nasty stuff, because I did, that's not in question here. But I let these people sincerely believe, with all the enthusiasm in the worlds, that this was for some kind of greater good and that they weren't just leading themselves to their own deaths. I think they even started to think of us all as friends, which I definitely wasn't planning on, but I kept perpetuating this lie and doing my job without saying a word against it, even after I started getting attached.

…Long story short, E wound up still being alive, R got together with her and they stopped the end of the world with the power of true love. Great, I guess, but the circumstances led to them both ending up…somewhere else and I don't think they're ever coming back. I haven't really spoken to my coworkers since then because I don't know how to, and I keep wondering if I could've prevented this whole mess and if he'd still be here if I'd tried a little harder. Should I have made a better argument? Been a better friend to him while he was hurting so he wouldn't have gone for the book? Should I have told the others the truth? Or, his magic is way stronger than mine, but maybe I could've at least tried to overpower him? I don't know. I did try to talk some sense into him once, after we realized E was still alive, but he got really intense about it and I just…caved, because I made a promise to help him and I wasn't about to back out of it.

So, yeah. TL;DR my closest friend went insane and tried to destroy the world, got some innocent people mixed up in it under false pretenses, and I helped/didn't try to stop it, AITA

(And you'd better not go around blaming him for this, OK?)

#aita #am i the asshole #unreality

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evelinessa · 6 months

Text

20 Questions for Fic Writers

I was tagged by @aawrightworth! Thanks Topaz! <3

1. How many works do you have on A03?

25 currently. Technically, I have 26, including what I wrote for the Ace Attorney Holiday Exchange, but that won't be added to my profile until after creator reveals.

2. What's your total A03 word count?

103,031

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Pretty much exclusively Ace Attorney. I have one Hades Game fic and one DGS one (which AO3 technically classes as a different fandom than AA).

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Of course, the only two smut fics I've written are both in here 😂.

Mile(s) High Club

Locked Inside (The Key to Your Heart)

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

Isle of Eros

After All This Time

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes, however, most of the time I'm very slow at getting around to it. I try to match the same amount of time and effort the commenter made when responding, but I sometimes get anxious and overthink my response, which delays me getting to it. I'm working on responding to everyone I haven't yet, and then hopefully will keep up with it from there. Regardless of how long it takes me to respond, please know that I read and treasure every comment. It makes my day when I get that email! 🥰

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

This is a very hard question lol. I'm predominately an angst writer, so I've written some pretty angsty endings. It's hard to think of which one is the most when I feel like a lot are fairly equal. If I had to pick one, then probably The Time Loop Ritual. The ending stands on its own as very angsty, but I've been told the epilogue/sequel fic, All That Remains, has made people even sadder.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

This is hard as well. I've also written plenty of happy endings, and not sure if one stands out happier than the rest. I think I'll go with He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not that I've seen. The closest was something that could be interpreted as a backhanded compliment, as well as a comment that pointed out a flaw in my writing for one of my early fics (which I was already well aware of). But both those comments also contained praise.

9. Do you write smut?

I've only written two smut fics, but I do have some WIPs I hope to finish someday. I want to write more so I can become comfortable with it, but writing it sort of intimidates me TBH. Most of my ideas don't involve smut, so there hasn't really been a need to. But I also know I'd probably come up with a lot more smut related ideas if I wrote it more and became more comfortable writing it.

10. Do you write crossovers?

I haven't and don't know if I ever will. I've tried to brainstorm a Hades Game Thanzag and Narumitsu one before. I came up with some vague ideas for that, but don't know if I will ever go further with it.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of, but if anyone ever wanted to translate one of my works, you are free to do so!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! @aeronwolfao3 and I wrote Coffee and Chrysanthemums! It's currently unfinished, but we will continue to work on it one day.

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

NaruMitsu/MitsuNaru, of course ❤️💙❤️.

15. What's the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Well, I have a list of 50+ fic WIPs that are in various stages of progress (from a vague several sentence idea, all the way to mostly having a first draft done). That huge, ever-growing list is also why I've been putting off my response to the WIP tag game from a few months ago lol. I also get new ideas fairly often, and I prioritize my writing based on any events and exchanges with deadlines (which I participate in regularly, and also give me new ideas each time). That's all to say that as much as I'd like to get to every idea on that list, I most likely won't. I don't have a specific WIP to mention here, though.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Angsty emotions, especially those resulting from grief, loss, and tragedy. Dialogue. Emotional inner monologue. Creating small little sentimental moments between characters that one of the characters can recall.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Super fluffy content, especially with very little/an absence of plot or conflict. Character and setting description. Writing body language without sounding repetitive or awkward. I've still done all of this decently enough, but it's harder for me and comes less naturally. And I don't utilize description nearly enough.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Maybe someday I'll include some German dialogue for Miles or Franziska or someone else who it would fit for. But I probably will have someone fluent look it over first.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Ace Attorney! While it wasn't my first posted fic, one of the fics I first worked on originated as a script for a comic back in May 2021. It was through the encouragement of some people in the fandom that I started writing and adapted that script and comic idea into a fic: Keeping Up Appearances. My first actual posted fic (not including my co-written fic which first chapter was published two days earlier) was Never Meet Your Idol, a drabble written for a prompt on Discord.

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

Another hard question. If I answered this last year, this would probably be much easier to answer, but now I've written so much more that I'm happy with.

I'm gonna put two, since one of the ones I really like is still unfinished, and part of my joy is because I know the full extent of it (which the readers don't have that benefit). The one I'm talking about is my 1-2 canon-divergence fic, A Demon’s Justice. There are two chapters out so far that I'm both mostly content with, and five planned chapters still to go. I first thought of the idea almost a year ago now, though I didn't start actually writing it since the summer. It's grown a lot since I first envisioned it, and will probably be close to 30K by the time it's finished. While I won't know how I feel in total until I can read the whole finished version, I am excited to write more and for what I have planned.

For finished, this one is much harder, and I feel like my answer fluctuates. For now, I'll go with The Lies We Tell As Our Secrets Are Held. The idea came to me in the shower when I was brainstorming fic ideas for NaruMitsu week this year. The storytelling style is a bit different than other stuff I've written. I think it achieved the feeling I was trying to capture, and I'm happy with a lot of my descriptions.

Tagging: @azalawa-scroggs, @almarnatiaam, @gloucesterroad @wobster109 @aeronwolfao3 @theinkhiddenwithin @ziskandra @zombiekittiez @enisywrites

Tagged some people that I haven't noticed were tagged yet or haven't noticed them doing it already, but also, anyone who sees this, feel free to do it as well!

#fanfic writing #fanfiction #narumitsu #wrightworth #ace attorney #tag game

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