#the write stuff

Rules: Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous, and tag other people. People can ask about the title(s) that most intrigue them!

Tagged by @darkwingerduck! I really only have a couple of WIPs – most of my stuff is just done and hasn’t been posted anywhere (sorryyyyy)

As Winger did before me I’ll put a couple sentences of whatever anybody asks about in my reply to that person!

A GOLDEN CONSEQUENCE ch.3 (fated not to be a WIP for much longer)

Paraklausithyron

TEMPTATION’S HOOK

Hi nonny,

Thank you so much. Getting comments and notes like this really helps me want to get past this burnout/block and get to writing again. Thank you, it means a lot.

It’s different this time and he’s woefully unprepared for it.

He’s been in love before, countless times with countless people. Small whispering trysts and loud bellowing tempests; he’s loved in pieces, in halves, in what he thought were wholes before. He’s been the first love and the secret love, the right one and the one who’s alright for now.

But this.

This is love like he’s never felt.

The face that looks back from lakes and mirrors and a lonely glass at a table for one - it’s been transformed. That bit of lightness from hope and potential has dimmed, and the crack of a smile feels too close to the cracks in his heart.

This is far from what he had wanted, in that beginning so long ago, those idealized heroics and heartbreak.

He’d been hungry for the heroics and poised for the heartbreak - excited, even, in his naive youth. He’d thought he was an old hand at unraveling himself from another, and everyone loves a good ballad filled with love found and lost and found anew.

But this.

This he cannot put into words, into song. The verses line his throat like dust, and his name no longer slakes that thirst. The melodies slip through the empty spaces of hands that can no longer clasp a shoulder or tangle in silvery locks. His feet get lost in the dance between tables, with no footsteps for him to chase after.

This is not just material for another story.

This is the story itself, grown too vast and indescribable to be pinned down and shared. And a story not shared is a monster in the making, nipping at his nape and curling claws into his stomach; it makes tears gather, but they never fall - he sometimes wishes they could.

There is too much here - quiet nights, fires burning low, laughing, yelling, heart, hurting, sweet, yet sharp, two steps forward, giant leap back, a touch, a caress, a cradling, a shove, and lust, and love and love and love and how can he call it something as simple as love?

Four little letters seem so inadequate, so small, and nothing else, in his large and long and varied vocabulary of words can seem to fill up all the space left over. Space carved out by moment and minute and months and years, only to be left wanting and waiting.

He is so tired of waiting.

He is so tired of this.

This part of his life, this magical monstrous story that he can give no tangible word to -

This, that he cannot coax out with the right notes or the right form -

This, that he cannot touch -

Well, fine.

He won’t touch it.

Let it look on as he gathers his feet under him and settles the shaking of his fingers and learns to live for himself and not someone always out of reach, always leaving him behind. He will make his own path, and weave new songs, and come up with new words, better words, words that won’t ever leave him ever again.

He won’t be too little or too much or bound by qualifiers and conditions, good but, perfect except -