#tried to find a nice variety of tones for these excerpts

[artsyunderstudy]

WIP Wednesday

Good morning! Hope everyone is surviving the first week of January. I'm still riding the high of finally finishing a fic which I have been struggling with since completing Someone Wicked so. Can I get a woop woop? Sharing a little bit of that today since I'm genuinely really happy with it. And I also shared some more of my two other definitely not abandoned WIP projects as well.

Also, quick COC update: I will finish my prompt list for sure, but I'm taking a quick, necessary break, so it might not be for a minute. But rest assured, there are some more fic recs and illustrations incoming.

Enjoy!

One December Night (Read on AO3)

“You’re impossible, Simon Snow.” That makes me smile, the way he says it, the way he keeps talking to me, looking at me. [...] I touch his jaw and draw my thumb over his bottom lip. My wings make a red canopy above our bodies. “Show me your fangs,” I say quietly, rubbing the edge of his mouth. For a moment his hips still, and he looks properly scared. I don’t want that. I kiss him the way I kissed him at the market, slow and full of things I’m still not sure I can say out loud. “I want all of you. Not only halves.”

Close Your Eyes

“I don’t have to tell you everything,” Baz says coldly. “You don’t, but you’re doing a shit job at pretending to be okay and I’m sick with fucking nerves every time I wake up in the middle of the night to you gone. I didn’t like it at Watford and I like it well fucking less now.” “Simon—” “Christ, I just need to understand. Because you’re—because I’ve been trying. Right? I’ve been trying. But I don’t know what to do.” “I know you have. I just … I can’t.” “Can’t what?” “Talk. About this. I just …” He’s a lump under the blankets, shoulders hunched, knees up, chin tucked low. I could cover his whole body with mine. “I can’t.”

Sober

I’m not surprised when I shuffle out of my room at half ten only to immediately trip over his mess. Cold tea left sitting in the middle of the floor for fuck’s sake. The ceramic rattling across the hardwood and my muttered curses startle Snow from his supine position on the sofa where he apparently took up camp while I slept in. Crouching to retrieve the cup, I huff audibly as I notice it’s one of my growing collection of Twilight-themed mugs, his idea of a running joke since we lived in student housing. This one says ‘This is the skin of a killer, Bella’ and it’s covered in sparkles. Some get stuck to my skin every time I handle it. (Which would be never, if I had the choice, but it’s the closest thing I’ll probably ever get to a gift from Snow so I can’t actually bear to throw it out.) (Or the rest of them, for that matter.)

Tags under the cut!

@imagineacoolusername  @martsonmars  @valeffelees @bazzybelle  @ileadacharmedlife  @aristocratic-otter  @urban-sith  @letraspal  @palimpsessed  @whatevertheweather  @nightimedreamersworld  @carryonsimoncarryonbaz  @raenestee  @erzbethluna  @confused-bi-queer  @moodandmist  @yeonjunenby  @shrekgogurt  @thewholelemon  @whogaveyoupermission    @onepintobean  @ebbpettier  @orange-peony  @theearlgreymage  @ic3-que3n @captain-aralias @fatalfangirl  @prettygoododds  @stitchyqueer  @you-remind-me-of-the-babe  @forabeatofadrum @ivelovedhimthroughworse @mysterioussheep @rimeswithpurple @c0nsumemy5oul @facewithoutheart @hushed-chorus @blackberrysummerblog @larkral @j-nipper-95 @alexalexinii @iamamythologicalcreature @supercutedinosaurs @wellbelesbian @that-disabled-princess @cutestkilla @youarenevertooold @emeryhall @best--dress

#tried to find a nice variety of tones for these excerpts #we have a taste of soft monsterfucking #some domestic angst #and even an attempt at humor #*slaps the top of my ao3* #this babys got everything #artsyfic #snowbaz fic #wip wednesday

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Put Me In a Movie

Keanu Reeves x Reader. Requested (A/n- I know huge age gaps aren’t for everyone, but alas, it is the bases of this series. Warnings will be included on a chapter by chapter basis. This is sort of a half chapter to set the tone between the two, next week, things are bumped up a few notches. For more info, you can heck out the series summary here) 

Prologue

“Stop doing that,” Walter warned as he sank down next to her on the plush grey sofa in the private waiting room. They were in Los Angeles, at a popular studio; Y/n had recently gotten a part in an action film, where she’d play a nurse who had found a rogue C.I.A operative bleeding out near her apartment. It was seemingly your run of the mill; young girl getting caught up with an older guy, damsel in distress, high action movie, but her agent; Walter thought it would be a good way to transition onto the big screen as the television show that she starred in came to a close after six seasons. 

Y/n’s head snapped up, turning to face him, her eyes wide, “Doing what? I’m not doing anything!” She frowned, though she knew exactly what he was talking about; Y/n hand been wringing her fingers since they were in the car, on the way to the studio. Walter had been her manager since she started her career at sixteen and knew her almost as well as her own father; he could tell when she was doing one of her nervous ticks, even the subtle ones.

The graying man chuckled, offering her one of the disposable cups filled with coffee, which might not have been the best choice of beverage when one was already vibrating with nervous anticipation, “Here, drink this. And try not to spill anything on that top; Grace,” her stylist, “Will kill us both if you do.”

“I won’t,” Y/n grumbled, “I’m not a kid, you know,” she rolled her eyes, bringing the scalding hot latte to her lips.

“Relax,” Walter went on, “I know,” he sighed, drinking from his own coffee before he continued, “I guess I’m nervous too, my wife says that I micro-manage when I’m nervous.”

At that, Y/n chuckled and slowly, the knot in her stomach starting to loosen, “She’s right. The last time we were here you kept asking me if I was sure I wasn’t cold.”

“It was raining and the A.C was on,” he defended, “What the hell is taking them so long?”  Walter grumbled lowly after a couple minutes.

“We’re early,” Y/n reminded, “There’s still,” she glanced at her phone in her lap, “Fifteen minutes.”

Sighing again, Walter didn’t respond, opting to deal with a few emails on his own phone; getting back to other clients and organizing her appearances for the week.

Keanu stood, near his car, smoking a cigarette while browsing through the excerpt of the script that they were using that morning. He had already read it through a couple times earlier that week but wanted to be sure that he had everything right. The scene was supposed to be the one where his character would meet his co-star’s; Y/n Y/l/n.

Prior to that day, Keanu had heard of the young girl and had seen her on television interviews in passing. Up until then, she had starred in drama series called Behind Lipstick which chronicled the life of a young model combating struggles with addiction, her mental health issues and the pressure of fame in the superficial world she lived in. Keanu himself had never watched the series but his sisters loved it and Y/n had even won a few Emmy's and Golden Globes for her performance. 

The film was supposed to be her introduction to the ‘movie’ side of things and while Keanu was excited and honored to star alongside her what was to be a milestone in her career, finding out that she was also supposed to be his love interest in the movie was still something that he was having trouble getting used to. She was just so young; twenty-two seemed so far away from fifty-five. “Hollywood has a daddy kink,” is what his agent had said when Keanu had first found out and while he could certainly see the appeal, he wasn’t sure if working with a woman that young was his wisest move. 

“Keanu!” Someone called from behind him, and he shook off his thoughts as the familiar female voice grew closer, “They’re almost ready to start.”

It was his agent Eleanor, a woman just about his age, who Keanu had worked with for most of his career, “Yeah, okay,” Keanu pushed off the side of his black Porsche, tossing the stub of his smoke to the ground stomping it out with the toe of his worn boot. At an unhurried pace, Keanu shoved his phone into his pocket, joining Eleanor as she headed back towards the large building in the near distance.

“Are you ready?” Walter asked quietly, close to Y/n’s ear as they took their seats at the long, varnished table. The conference room that the director had instructed them to meet at was a large one, with floor to ceiling windows that let the bright L.A sunshine in, the hint of warmth mellowing out the air-conditioning. It was a huge contrast from the window-less, flat-toned minimalist room that Y/n had auditioned in a few months prior.

“Of course,” Y/n nodded, shifting in the cushions of the leather chair. Laid out in the center table were several varieties of refreshments; hot water and over turned cups for tea and coffee, and a selection of finger foods. Though everything looked inviting, Y/n wouldn’t say it out loud, but she was far to nervous to eat and was certain that any more coffee would have her bouncing off the walls. 

Closer to the edges of the table, nearer to the seats; were copies of the script along with pencils. Not too long after Y/n and Walter had taken their place, an older woman in a well-fitting pale pink skirt suit, her heels clicking softly of the black tiles, entered. Close behind her, a taller man with dark hair falling just past his ears walked in, looking like every sin in a movie where the girl next door falls in love with the older man who just moved in; wearing a sport coat over the plain black t-shirt and dark jeans. Keanu fucking Reeves. He was still wearing his sunglasses, though the minute he walked in, he removed them, hooking the Prada shades on the ‘v’ of his t-shirt.

For some reason, though Y/n knew that they’d be in the movie together, she was still a little in awe of his presence at their scheduled table read. ‘Awe’ that Walter would argue was vastly misplaced; she had earned her place in Hollywood and through she hadn’t been in the business for as long as Keanu had , certainly her status should have granted her some immunity to being star-struck. If only that were true. 

Quietly, greetings were exchanged and to her surprise, Keanu took the seat directly to her left, shifting awkwardly to offer his hand, “Keanu,” he said briskly.

I know were the words she almost stuttered, but thankfully, she was able to sum up enough courage and push away her initial ‘breathless wonder’ and coolly return, “Y/n, it’s nice to meet you,” she smiled politely. Keanu’s hand was large, easily swallowing hers up and was rougher than she expected, though the little embrace was still warm, welcoming and seemed genuine. 

At that, Keanu returned her smile with a faint one of his own, “The pleasure is mine,” he assured her. So he really was as humble as they said. 

The end of their introduction was met with a bout of awkward silence; Y/n was too shy to initiate a conversation and Keanu couldn’t think of a thing that he’d have to talk about with a girl her age. When the director; Jackson Gardener, a known name in the genre, walked in, they both straightened in their seats and quickly, another round of introductions were exchanged. 

Sinking into his seat, Jackson glanced between the two, pushing up his black-framed glassed up onto the bridge of his nose with the joint of his thumb. Jackson’s whitish-grey hair stuck out widely on all sides, looking severely wind tousled and his beard seemed to be overgrown. “I see you two have met,” he said, gruff and absent, shoving up the sleeves of his charcoal sweater, “Good,” he nodded, “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get into this.”

Y/n’s lips quivered; was he really just going to get started, no setting the scene, no background on their roles and not even a hint of what he was expecting from them? She was about to speak up, ask a question or two, when, surprisingly, Keanu put a tentative palm on her jean clad thigh, his eyes barely meeting hers as if to say, ‘its not worth it.’

Sucking in a nervous breath, Y/n nodded slightly in understanding, grateful that Keanu had possibly just saved her skin. Even after he moved his hand, the warmth of it lingered on Y/n’s leg and she had to fight the feeling that came with the thought of Keanu’s hands on her. Y/n wondered if every other woman who had come in contact with him felt like that. Trying to ignore the whole thing, she picked up the script and tried to immerse herself in the role, hoping that her flustered feelings weren’t seeping through. 

Thankfully, the table read was over in just under and hour and while Jackson’s praises were limited and were delivered with his same stoic tone and un-meeting eyes, he had been kind enough to let everyone go shortly after it was over, with promises that they’d all meet in the near future on location. 

Y/n was a few paces behind Walter in the parking lot when someone jogged up beside her, his long legs easily bringing him into pace with her steps; Keanu. “Hey,” he said, an she nearly jumped.

For the briefest second, Walter slowed down to turn round and look at them, though, quickly dismissing his concern when he saw it was Keanu. “Hey,” Y/n tried to smile, combating the reappearance of her nerves, “Uh....what’s up?” She couldn’t believe that he was speaking to her. Why was he speaking to her?

Keanu’s hands were in his pockets and his sunglasses blocked out the sun from his eyes, not mention adding to his cool, suave appearance. How could one man be afforded the opportunity to look that good in his fifties?

He towered over her, though Y/n supposed it was because she had opted to pair her light-washed ripped jeans and stylish button up with flat pumps, not aiding her small stature. Maybe it was because she was so nervous, or maybe it was just a part his nature that didn’t translate through the camera during interviews, but Keanu seemed more confident that she’d thought he’d be, seemingly not noticing what a nervous mess he was making of her. 

Removing one hand from his pocket to rake his nails through his short beard, Keanu thought on his words for a moment, before he eventually spoke again, “I just wanted to let you know; working with Jackson is gonna be a little tough; he can be kind of an asshole sometimes,” that was something she had quickly caught on to, “But don’t let him spook you, he’s really just one of those ‘crazed artist types’; lots of talk, loads of talent, but sometimes his head is so far up his ass that he forgets that he’s working with actual people,” at that, Keanu chuckled quietly, “The point is; don’t let him get to you. And if you wanna talk, I’d be happy to listen.”

They were approaching a black SUV and Walter was already waiting at the back door for Y/n, though, she knew that he’d give her the space that she needed. “Sure,” Y/n blushed despite herself, “Thanks.”

“No problem, why don’t you take my number, and I’ll take yours?” Keanu had already gotten his phone out and Y/n took a minute to do the same. Briefly, they exchanged devices and by extension; contacts. “Alright,” Keanu determined, reclaiming his cell, “Well, I've gotta get going, but I’ll see you around Y/n,” he quickly patted her shoulder and was already turning to walk off before she could muster up a dumbfounded goodbye.

She had just traded numbers with the Keanu Reeves.

It was about to be an eventful three months.

******

Tagging- @fickensteinn​  @harrisongslimited​  @babygirltaina​  @fanficsrusz​  @paanchu786​ 

#Keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves fanfic #john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick fanfic #put me in a movie #ff #fanfiction #fanfic #fulff #angst #keanu reeves series #keanu reeves fanfiction

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Bad Vegetarian | Feeding Habits #1

Hey People of Earth!

As you can see from the title, not only do we have a new series of writing updates, we have a new series of writing updates for a whole new novel that was! not! supposed! to! happen!

For any of my friends who miss Moth Work (aka myself), guess who started writing a sequel literally no one asked. :)

I’ve had ideas for spinoff stories for Moth Work (as if MW wasn’t enough of a spinoff) and was peer pressured into starting this novel by @sarahkelsiwrites​ and I’m really happy about it! I have yet to come up with a title, but the moment I do, shall inform you, but for now, we’re calling this MW2!

This book (if it even ends up being a book) starts with chapter one, Bad Vegetarian. Unlike MW, MW2 starts in Lonan’s POV (not sure I’ll switch but I’m sure it’ll be inevitable), and I’m here for it!

I’ve been wanting to explore Lonan and Eliza’s relationship in more detail since having them come together in MW by complete fluke, and oh! is the tea piping!

This chapter really illustrates how truly dysfunctional this relationship is on both sides. Here’s a break down by scene:

Scene A:

Lonan is paint shopping with Eliza who has just gone vegetarian (which is the def the most normal thing she’s spontaneously done lately). Eliza feels like celebrating by painting their entire kitchen red.

Lonan particularly is drawn to blues, but since this ain’t what Eliza wants, they go with a brilliant red.

Scene B:

Lonan lines the kitchen with painter’s tape as Eliza bothers their neighbours for paint rollers, while trying to convince himself this relationship is still somewhat okay.

While doing this, he gets his weekly call from Unknown Woman who he’s been in contact with for the last few weeks. What for? We don’t know! They talk in code, and he realizes Unknown Woman’s situation is getting worse, and impromptu, tries to do something about it.

Scene C:

Lonan and Eliza bump into each other as he’s exiting the apartment and she’s entering, and have a short, strained conversation about why he’s leaving (she’s not aware of top secret phone calls that make this book feel lowkey like the old dystopians!)

Scene D:

Lonan attempts to drive to Unknown Woman but only knows she lives in Arizona (not great for directions lol). While in the car, he realizes it’s essentially impossible to get there without knowing where he’s going, and eventually gives up and heads home.

Scene E:

TW: blood

Lonan re-enters the apartment only to find Eliza “bleeding” in the kitchen. She’s actually just being wild and this “blood” is wall paint.

Scene F:

If we haven’t already seen the dysfunction, oh does it get worse! As Lonan and Eliza try to have a *moment* Eliza has a conversation by herself and gets a lil gaslighty.

Halfway through this, Lonan gets a phone call from Unknown Woman who we finally find out is his ex-girlfriend Glenne. Sounds like tea but he’s genuinely only helping her out of her toxic situation (which will be clarified later) though Eliza’s skeptical.

This chapter was a lot of fun to write! I wrote a majority of it today, and am really happy to have a *chill* project. While I love my other books (the three I am apparently now working on at once), it’s nice to have a place to dump my ideas with characters I know very well in situations I’m comfortable in whenever I feel like writing but don’t have tons of time/ideas/energy.

Excerpts:

Here are the opening three paragraphs! The first sentence sets up the POV a little weirdly, but I think it works with a later sentence that sort of mimics this “reminder” kind of style:

There are no rules, just remember, Eliza is vegetarian. She’s into earth tones, neutral tones, leafy greens, root vegetables. It’s all new. The day she announced her diet change, she also announced a desire to repaint the kitchen, to fit the new aura, to fit the new ethics, but she wants to paint the kitchen blood red, and Lonan is still a meat-eater. He reminds himself: there are no rules, just remember, Eliza is vegetarian.

In the hardware store he thumbs paint chips. They’re set up in an array, almost like checkers, dissolving in a gradient from reds to purples. Eliza wants red, “Not necessarily earthy, but the root of organism, of life,” so Lonan looks at the blues. They’re all a variant of a seaside theme—Sea Breeze, a cloud-like blue, Beach Umbrella, a wispy aqua, Seafoam Serenade, muted like the soft side of a turquoise. Repainting the kitchen matters little to him, and so do the blues, but the red section, devilish, makes him shuffle his blue deck faster.

Radio from the store’s intercom tins through the speakers, dampened by the hustle of carts, the thud of bodies against the concrete flooring. He holds many cards up to the light, Secret Getaway and Parisian Summer almost the exact shade, but still he flicks through, until half the pile is indistinguishable, and the other half are blues he likes and not reds, like Eliza’s asked.

The next excerpt sort of highlights the last six months of Lonan’s life as he’s been on this whirlwind of keeping up with all the things Eliza has tried. I have added kudzu pudding and other kudzu food just for my pals @sarahkelsiwrites​ and @shaelinwrites​ (rlly want kudzu pudding):

Her sudden vegetarianism is not confusing to him. Eliza tries new things all the time, something he’s learned after living with her for half a year. One time, she brought home four different kinds of dried beans to make into tea, and together they drank it atop the balcony, the Vegas strip across them somehow tasting better. One time, they ate a variety of kudzu foods for a week because Eliza said invasive species had to be killed somehow, and so they spooned kudzu pudding into their mouths, kudzu root powder into their water, kudzu salads with salted almonds. One time, she put them on a warmth ban, and they ate only frozen peas, potatoes, raspberries, turned the thermostat down until every surface crackled. She liked the feeling of subtle frost on the countertops, how it jolted her when she touched it accidentally in the morning. He found her many mornings awake before him, transfixed to the table with both palms soldered to its surface, like she’d forgotten she wasn’t a part of it. One time, she paid to have the furniture in the house rearranged, not good enough for her spirit, and then reverted it two days later. “The couch doesn’t like being so close to the refrigerator,” and he could’ve asked “did you ask it?” but said, “Understandable. It shouldn’t be forced to catch a draft.” So her vegetarianism is normal. Already, she’s switched their meat supply to beetroots, chickpeas, tofu she rips apart bare-handed. For the last three mornings, they’ve both taken a shot of spinach and gingerroot, a liquid that burns to make you feel alive, as if you weren’t already.

The next excerpts kind of surprised me with their amount of humour! Not something I expect from Lonan, but I’m glad he has some sass back lol (CW: some upsetting animal imagery):

There is nothing wrong in this relationship. Everything is Eliza’s new favourite adjective—stunning. Everything is scrubbed with kitchen bleach, glittering like a plasticky pool float in the shallow end, stunning. Everything is planned, put in a calendar, a notebook, a flitter of receipts, but always planned, stunning. Everything is better, even better than better, a better that can only be described as stunning.

Lonan uses this word frequently now, rolling out a strip of blue painter’s tape and trying to find different ways it stuns. Sticks when he sticks, peels when he peels, keeps its edge when it needs to keep its edge, so it’s stunning. The bubble television is turned onto a channel about sheep, and as he lines the baseboards, outlets, catches glances of a sheer buzzing against skin, sometimes a hunting knife slicing until there’s blood. 

Eliza is asking a neighbour for paint rollers because they bought four cans of wall paint, two paint trays, a box of garbage bags, three rolls of painter’s tape, and a small paintbrush each for both of them but forgot the rollers. Stunning.

The following excerpt highlights that Lonan has a cellphone! Is Fostered just a bizarre alternate reality of a time period that doesn’t exist? Perhaps! (CW: some upsetting animal imagery):

Today, they’ll prime the cabinets, the walls, and tomorrow, scroll a coat of red onto both. The kitchen will look more like the inside of an anatomical heart, the sinks and drawers like ventricles, but this is Eliza’s vision—her tastes come alive.

The sheep are being herded by a collie. As Lonan rips another strip of tape with his teeth, he stares at the screen mounted in the corner, at the almost-naked sheep dashing across a field. How many will be slaughtered, he doesn’t know. The narrator must’ve said that, but there is no plan, really, for death. Even for sheep.

He kneels toward the kitchen vent, the tape roll linked around his wrist, and smooths a line of tape down. Eliza doesn’t want to paint the vent—it wouldn’t complete her vision—and so it will remain the original wall colour, a square of cream so worn, it’s almost grey.

Here we have some hints at Eliza’s weirdness:

He straightens and looks at her. She’s bundled in her fur coat even though she has always insisted she’s good at even Vegas’ warm winter. Since going vegetarian, she’s insisted it’s fake, even though he’s read the lining tag—100% mink. He doesn’t know why she’s needed her coat when she’s only walked up a few flights of stairs but doesn’t care to ask.

She approaches him with her thumb out, and when that thumb presses into his eye socket, he flinches.

“What happened here?” she smooths the dip of his under eyes, her fingertips cold. He smells her perfume, different today, always different, a smell like cloves and lavender. “Are you sleeping?” She presses onto her toes, examines the other side, and her frown deepens. “This doesn’t look like eight hours.”

“I’m sleeping,” he says, though they both know this is a lie. It’s taken her two weeks to notice.

“I can run to the pharmacy,” she says. “If you need a refill.”

“I’m sleeping.”

“I didn’t notice this morning—I would’ve given you another energy shot.”

Here’s a line I like because of a) skin and b) sun:

Lonan goes nowhere. This is not his plan. Asphalt whips under the skin of each tire, the setting sun wringing him blind. 

Fully sharing this for the verb zags (and also because I accidentally roast cities tho I love them I am one of these blink-less people):

He doesn’t know where he’s going. Arizona is the only thing he knows about her, doesn’t know if she lives in an apartment, a duplex, a house—fully detached, semi-detached. As he pulls into a residential neighbourhood somewhere along the vague line he’s drawn on the map from Las Vegas to Arizona, he watches for all these options. In the distance, a jogger zags across the street with her golden retriever, children play basketball on a driveway, still in their school uniforms, another woman clips the wilted stems off a magnolia bush. 

It’s when he gets closer to the apartments that the sameness is noticeable. High-rises with pearlescent windows that go pinkish in the sunset—all of them identical. Each building evenly spaced, more like a board game than a place to live. Even the space around each building is the same—the same rose hedges, the same iron fence, the same people bustling in and out, all wearing some variation of the same pantsuit, all holding some other hand—child, partner, lover. The same haircuts, smiles, eyes like marbles, as if there’s a store somewhere that sells copies, a catalogue for eyes that don’t blink. He’s been looking into the sun for too long, there must be a difference, but the longer he looks, the more indistinguishable they become.

To get out of explaining where he wants to go when he and Eliza bump into each other, Lonan says he’s visiting his sister (Reeve), and because she’s iconic and must make an appearance, here’s a line ft. our queen:

He could make the lie true. Reeve is somewhere in the country, he imagines, dancing in a faceless city, living in a motel room, tipping everyone well. 

(^^ all true)

Here we have Lonan identifying with the animals more than anything else for the second time in one chapter (TW for more blood imagery):

Lonan hooks the car keys onto the lanyard by the front door and slings his coat across the couch. The television is set to the same channel as before, though the program has switched from sheep slaughter to birdwatching. On screen, a heron perches by a riverbed, opalescent in the sunshine.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, the heron now frisking up the white bark of a tree. He glances at the fluorescent red dripping between her fingers, pattering against the tile.

“I was opening the paint cans.”

“With a kitchen knife?”

He gestures to the blade on the counter, blood-free, newly sharpened.

“It’s all I had on hand.” She pulls her wrist closer to her, runs her index finger along the injured area.

“It’s clean.”

“I washed it, Lonan.”

This next one has some blood imagery so TW for that!

The heron has moved closer to the riverbed. It watches the water knowingly, its subtle simmer of movement, and after a moment of watching, strikes its beak down so it spears a trout. He misses the part where it eats. Eliza’s clicked off the TV from behind him.

She slams the remote onto the counter so hard, its back clatters off and onto the tile. “I cut my arm with a kitchen knife while opening paint cans. It happens.”

“I don’t see a cut.”

“Why would I make that up?”

“I don’t see a cut.”

She walks toward him. He expects her to shove her wrist in his face, but she doesn’t. She just holds it, some of the blood fluorescing pink, splashes onto her toes.

“You got to see your sister?” she asks.

“She cancelled.”

Eliza clucks her tongue, examining her wrist, and then she extends her arm, revealing the full patch of pale skin gone red.

Lonan takes it, and with his fingernail carves a line through the red to reveal the healthy patch of skin, painted, uncut.

And finally, here’s the last line of this excerpt that essentially explains where the title comes from ft. predator VS prey symbolism:

He’s reminded once more of the heron, how it plunged into the riverbed with ease, and the trout dangling in its beak, its commitment to life most fervent the moment before being consumed. 

So that’s going to be it for this update! I don’t know how frequently I’ll be writing this, but it’s been a lot of fun so far. I’m excited to explore more relationships I haven’t turned over in a while as a little side project while I do other things! Hope y’all enjoyed!

--Rachel

#writing #amwriting #writeblr #writerblr #writingupdates #mothwork #fostered #feedinghabits

[ajoraverse]

I should probably post things I’ve been working on, so here: an excerpt from Rhapsody (teens and up, FF5, Faris and Alexander, Ghost Festival fic). It’s a follow-up to The Island and will have a cover illustration.

It's for Lenna, and for her own soul, that she's here to summon the dead. Faris needs advice that she refuses to go to anyone else for; if she has to get her hands dirty, she'd rather no one know about it so as to better shield Lenna from any backlash.

He turns up around midnight. The spirit of her father looks old, worn-out the way he did just before his death. It takes him a moment to get his bearings and figure out that he's in the family mausoleum. When the recognition finally strikes, Faris raises her glass.

"Mornin', Dad."

Her father's eyebrows go up at what she's sure is an unusual tableau: a couple of chairs hauled from the castle, a table between them with a bottle of wine and two glasses, lit candles and incense that some Istorian shaman assured her would help her raise the dead, her cello propped between her knees and its bow unceremoniously stuck in the bass-side f-hole, and his final resting place right behind her. And she's in her king's garb. That always makes people look twice.

With a grin, she stands and steps out from behind her cello to make a sweeping bow. The white trousers aren't so different from what she used to wear as a captain, though the silk certainly feels nicer against her skin than the wool ever did. She still favors boots to the shoes that are in fashion; these are just nicer than her old pair. The waistcoat works as just as well as the binder did to hold her breasts in, and embroidered silver sea dragons swim up and down the edges and stand out brightly against the pale blue-grey, wave-patterned damask fabric. The ivory and gold brocade coat is probably her favorite part of the ensemble: the brocade is in a subtle dragonscale pattern with stylized wings in the back, the gold satin lining flashes when she strides through the castle and the long skirt-like tail in the back flares out like the one on her captain's greatcoat, red stitches decorate along the seams as an acknowledgment of her role as the Light Warrior of Fire. The white satin sash with its embroidered gold band and gold sky dragon brooch might have been purloined from a portrait of her father at her age, though the white lace cravat and its Syldra-shaped pin is all her.

"You've appointed yourself king?" The tone of his voice is mild curiosity, but the crinkling at the corners of his eyes betray his amusement at her gall.

"'Twas a concession, I'm afraid. I'll not wear a dress and the minister refused to let me attend official functions in my preferred attire. Lenna's still the ruling queen. She can keep her throne." Frankly, the very notion of undertaking Lenna's workload and responsibilities drives Faris up the wall. Anyone who would want to be a ruler of a nation has no idea what it takes to be a good one.

At her gesture of invitation, he joins her on the other chair; she sits back down shortly after he does, sets aside her glass, and drapes herself over her cello like some dragon sunning on a warm rock.

Fine, so maybe she did want to reconnect. This silence of theirs is comfortable; she has her own death to thank for that. She knows now, in a way she didn't before, that he accepts her as she is. For some reason he's never explained, he even seems proud of her. It's not something she needed--she came to terms with not having a proper family long ago--but both acceptance and pride from her father are nice to have.

"When did you take up the cello?" he asks at last, once his form fully shifts from transparent shade to solid and almost alive.

"Oh, well, funny story, that." Faris pulls her bow out of the sound hole and tucks it frog-end into her palm so she can get to it quickly when she needs to. She plucks out a simple tune that goes up and down scales, altering the beginning note each time. It's meant to evoke the thought of the Crystals spinning idly over their daises, light catching and reflecting off their facets. "We lost most of the skills the Crystal shards taught us when they put themselves back together. The ones we kept were those from the Crystals that chose us. Butz still makes a good fighter, with sword or without. Lenna's still our best mage. Krile's a nightmare with her katana and a wizard with potions. Me, I sneak around better than ever, I've still got a good ear and a knack with timing, and," her eyes might sparkle when she says it and her fingers pause for the moment, "any dragon I talk to talks back."

Her father perks up and his eyes sparkle just as much as hers. "Wild ones, too?"

"Aye. Wild and domesticated. Any variety of dragon. Mind, some of that I got from you. Fire Crystal just... enhanced it, I reckon." And that was an exciting discovery, being hit with a wave of malice just before some demon dragon leapt out at them from a treasure chest. Her head still aches sometimes from Shinryuu's mental assault.

"You were always sensitive to them," her father says slowly as he works through some memory or other. "Notos said he heard you when you were born. It's why I wanted you to ride him as soon as your mother allowed it."

Admittedly, she doesn't recall much of that time. At most she has snatches of half-remembered feelings and maybe some images. She does remember her father's dragon introducing himself for the first time and running, screaming, to the nearest watchtower because his voice sounded in her head and not from outside her like human voices.

Sometimes Faris suspects that this sensitivity is why she heard Syldra in that whirlpool he kicked up when she was fifteen, just before she dived in and they bonded. Nowadays it's just a matter of course, especially once Krile helped her hone her ability, and the dragons she encounters just mentally curl up in her head until she shoo's them out. Something about them recognizing her as kin.

She sets the bow on the D string and close enough to the G string for it to resonate and starts--the notes short and spirited and low-voiced, the bow strokes short, strong, and made down-bow. It's her, strutting around her ship. Or, rather, wishing she could strut around her ship--she ties the notes together under longer bow-strokes and rounds out the sharp notes, adding a bit of wistfulness to the composition. "Turns out I can't go back to piracy. Everyone knows my face as both Sarisa and the captain."

"The price of being a public figure," her father says dryly, though he's not unsympathetic.

With a nod, the composition changes. She shifts to the A string and starts on Lenna's theme: open, clear notes and long, measured bow-strokes. Elegant but unpretentious. "I can visit my crew and offer advice to my replacement. Can't do a thing elsewise that might endanger Lenna or her political standing." Her theme joins with Lenna's for the moment and her motif turns almost martial, an acknowledgement of her protectiveness towards her little sister, before she breaks away from Lenna's notes and goes back to her own.

Her motif grows sharper, louder, quicker, the notes disconnecting as the bow bounces along the string and almost growling as she runs the bow over both D and G strings at the same time. It sounds like she was growing unhinged. Which she was. "So I'm stuck most of the time at Tycoon with the ministers hounding me about being a proper princess. Drives me up the fucking wall."

Her father, to his credit, says nothing. She shifts over to second position on the G string for Butz's theme: light, quick notes and long bow-strokes. "Butz comes along to the rescue and hauls me out for an expedition to rout out the bandits camping in Kuza Castle." Okay, maybe he didn't haul her out; she was practically out the door the moment he said "expedition". Her motif brightens as it joins him on the way to Kuza. "Found shielddragons, didn't find bandits." With that, she introduces a slow, shambling bowing along the C and G strings with languid notes in a minor key. "Undead dragons, difficult to defeat but easy to control. And since we'd already gone all that way, why not have some fun?"

This part gets tricky, the joining of her motif with the shielddragons; she has to shift her finger placement further up on the G string to avoid awkward bowing. The tune grows playful--the shielddragons liked her, and she suspects that half the reason for that is that she'd been dead once. They were mostly mindless, but what little mind they did have left propelled them to listen to her. They responded well to simple commands, and she and Butz weren't above exploiting that. "So we played with them and headed back."

Her father's face goes peculiar; likely he's trying and failing to picture frolicking undead horrors. Faris tries not to grin as she plays her and Butz returning to Tycoon and running into Lenna. Sure they'd left a message, but Lenna prefers to be personally informed and her motif grows a bit snippy for being left behind again. "Lenna gets Butz to snitch about playing fetch with the undead, because she's magic that way."  

That does it. A fond smile splits his face, likely at the thought of Lenna getting into a larger man's face to glare him down until he caves. She'd probably done it to dear old Father plenty of times. Heavens knew Faris got that particular glare often enough, and frankly she prefers it to the disappointment.

"Now, my dear little sister knows me better than I know myself. The minx." It's said with all the love in the world, of course. She expands on Lenna's theme, turning it into a full song. "Knows I need to keep busy and knows to keep me separate from the nobles. Gave me this to better manage me."

It was framed as a birthday gift and gesture of appreciation from a master craftsman for helping to save the world, but Faris has no illusions. Lenna is a canny manipulator when she sets her mind to it and the gift has her fingerprints all over it: the painting on the cello's back of her lost ship and Syldra near the bluffs of her former hide-away is too intimate a detail for a stranger to just come up with on his own. Lenna denies all knowledge of masterminding its commission, but there's always a twinkle in her eye that betrays her whenever Faris brings up the issue. She did well and she knows it.

To be fair to Lenna, it was a clever scheme. Anyone Faris practices swordplay with will let her win on account of her being the queen's feral sister. The only ones who won't are the other Light Warriors, who came away from the whole save-the-world quest with enough skill to present Faris with a challenge. Problem with that is that the queen can't always make the time for Faris and her restlessness, Krile heads the excavation of Lonkan ruins and spends all her time studying them, and who the hell knows where Butz disappears to half the time. After a few lessons in playing it right, the cello got to be an outlet. It takes well to the fast pace and high energies of scherzos, she finds its range more pleasing and more like her than other instruments, and she usually manages to burn herself out enough to not be completely unbearable at supper.

"I'm surprised you let her," her father admits.

"Oh, there's no 'let her' with Lenna. She'll get her way, and she's so sweet about it that it's impossible to say no." It's difficult not to laugh before she gets out what she wants to say, and the insistent tugging at the corners of her lips are probably betraying her. Focus, you idiot. "'Sides, I figure if she gets annoying, I'll...throw a frog down her dress or somethin'."

"Faris." Her father looks like he's torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to scold her.

"Hey, I've been good," she starts off with feigned innocence. "Haven't even started making up for the years of lost pranking opportunities. Only pranked her once in all these years."

His eyes, dragon-green like theirs, widen in growing horror. "Faris--"

"Spiders in her hair," she continues, eyes glinting, and she's sure the broad spread of her grin can be misconstrued as wicked. "You shoulda heard the scream."

His sigh is long-suffering and he looks like he's tempted to plant his face in his hands. Good. He missed out on her shenanigans as a kid and this is as good a hint of what she was like as any. "Faris, you didn't--"

Finally she can't help but laugh. It's short, natural, and she might have tears she'll have to scrub out. "Maybe it wasn't spiders, per se. Just as impossible to get out of everything, though. Glitter and sequins. Lenna still finds shiny bits in her hairbrush sometimes."

#Faris Scherwiz #Alexander Highwind Tycoon #ff5 #ffv #ajora writes stuff