#wip excerpt

Their color reminds him of the thicket at the edge of Lake Calenhad where he rested after his long swim from the tower, summer sun winking through gaps in the canopy. Gazing into them, he’s struck with the same giddy excitement as that fleeting prospect of freedom.

This is not a good idea.

Anders pulls in a long breath. It’s a mistake. She fills his lungs and, with a shaky sigh, leaves him hollow.

She watches him in quiet consideration, eyes resting on his lips before flickering to his.

“You don’t want this,” he murmurs.

“What could you presume to know about what I want?” She rolls her eyes, a smirk curling her full lips.

A chuckle rises in Anders’s throat that he swallows when she hushes him. His smile lingers until the clamoring overhead grows louder. The two press against the wall, almost sure they won't be seen from overhead.

“What were you like?” Hawke whispers. “Before the blight?”

A laugh puffs through his nose. “Before Justice?”

She shrugs like it's the furthest thing from her thoughts.

“Rebellious,” he admits. “Impulsive. Reckless.”

Her mouth splits into a scandalized grin. “You mean you used to be fun?”

“When the rare opportunity presented itself.”

[Ben]

With the Mand’alor tucked beneath his arm, helping him traverse the halls, they began the journey to his quarters. He was grateful that Jaster was helping him, since he highly disliked the idea of being put on a gurney and had no desire to anger the medics further. Even though he honestly believed they were fussing over nothing. He’d had to walk with far worse injuries before.

Glancing down at the ruggedly handsome and very physically fit man pressed against his side Ben had a hard time keeping the heat from his face. Coupled with Jaster’s sharp mind, firm kindness, and stubborn determination to be a good man… Ben couldn’t help feeling doomed. Especially when the man continued to surprise him with his easy acceptance of the Force.

The way Jaster had denied the Darksaber, the one thing that could supposedly legitimize his reign as Mand’alor, had spoken of someone with both honor and integrity. And to top it all off the way he treated Jango had something inside Ben’s chest turning warm with desire. The way he spoke to his son, and how his son responded, was very telling about his character. Jaster adored the boy and was fiercely protective. In turn Jango was devoted and wanted nothing more than to make his father proud.

It was a little concerning just how endearing and enticing Ben found that combination. Then again he had always been accused of having some sort of fixation on Mandalorians, or warriors in general.

“Thinking deep thoughts?” Jaster asked with a small chuckle, his voice so close to Ben’s ear it was like a caress.

(i'm behind but ah well) today's kiss comes from The Storyteller, The Djinn, and The Prince, my main wip! i am...kinda sorta challenging myself to write kisses that aren't kisses between people lololol length: 279 words

 ↳ in which Hira joins a hopeless quest to rescue a child from the djinn who have taken him, Intisar refuses to give into despair, Raoul is tangled in a web of love and loss, and there are many stories

Sorry folks. When I've had spare time lately, I've been focused on writing original content rather than fanfic. More on that when I can talk about it.

But in the meantime, I'll do my best to get something going here. I feel bad that it's been so long. 🧡🧡

In fact, as penance, below is a tiny snippet from the last in the Lessons series that I need to finish.

Undercut as explicit content, minors DNI.

He’s also holding a baby in one arm. It’s the baby who holds her gaze. Soft blonde curls, startling blue eyes and a tiny little birthmark.

“Can I help you?” The man asks, growing at her and then shifting his baby slightly further out of her reach as though he’s worried she’s going to snatch the little girl and run.

“I’m looking for Evan,” she tells the man.

“He’s not here.”

“Oh. Sorry, I, uh - he lives here, though? Evan Buckley?”

“Yeah,” the man confirms slowly. “Who are you?” He still sounds wary and she feels so wrong footed. She hadn’t really thought much beyond running, beyond finding her baby brother.

“I’m Maddie,” she says, and even as she does, she wonders if it will even mean anything to this man. This man who is holding a tiny little baby version of Evan.

But the man’s eyebrows shoot up and he takes a step back, not to protect himself further, she realises, but to give her room to come inside. “Oh, wow, uh, you should come in.”

“I can wait out here,” she offers, still remembering his earlier caution.

The man snorts. “And let him come home and find you waiting outside? Nah, he’d kill me.”

“He might not want to see me,” she cautions because she has to prepare herself for the the possibility that he won’t want to see her.

The man snorts. “I’m Eddie by the way,” he introduces, shutting the door behind her. He bounces the baby in his arms gently, adding, “This is Maddie.”

The sob that tears out of her is unplanned and raw.

Maddie.

Greetings all :) I’ve had some big, unexpected changes this week. Remember when I said I like being surprised because it means I’m not at the end yet? Well, I still feel that way, actually—the changes in question aren’t of a pleasant nature in and of themselves, but it’ll be the start of new adventures. I’m feeling pretty good overall. It’s starting to feel and smell like autumn here, and waking up to that is just about the best.

I was really happy to have it suggested to me that I write a Watford-era fic based off a line from Working from Home, the one where Baz imagines having used a ‘stay put’ spell on Simon back in their roomie days. I liked the line when I wrote it, so it was cool to know it caught other people’s eye as well. I’m now plotting a fic for that out, as well as still trying to finish Time Will Lie Down and Be Still, and I’m also doing the Exchange this year. Despite or maybe because of having so much in the works, I have of course begun noodling around with another separate fic idea. The plan is that Simon is going to inadvertently cast a spell that causes him to become Baz’s (still human) Familiar. Baz’s magic won’t work without Simon close by, and Simon really won’t be able to function at all without sticking by Baz’s side (not much change there, lol). Here’s a snippet from the opening, wherein Baz is barely holding onto his sanity due to Simon’s slovenly housekeeping (dormkeeping?) skills.

“These,” Baz is saying, holding a pair of my boxer briefs aloft with the end of his biro, “are completely unacceptable, Snow. Have you no decency?”

I squint, trying to follow what he’s saying. Does he mean that my pants are indecently short, or worn out, or is he upset that I left them on the floor? It’s hard to concentrate, because I’m utterly knackered after a day of clearing loverboybug nests from the Mage’s cabin. (That’s what he wanted me for. Loverboybugs sing increasingly treacly pop ballads while stinging the daylights out of you. The Mage said I should practise my pest-removal spells, but of course I just used my sword.)(It wasn’t very effective even after I cut the nests down. In the end, I had to drag them out to a clearing and set them on fire.) (I can’t quite forget the plaintive crooning emanating from the flames as I walked away. ‘My heart’s on fire, giiir-rllll!’)

I jolt back to the argument at hand when Baz waves his pants-draped pen under my nose. ”Snow! Are you even listening to me? Why are you bopping your head like that?”

“No reason,” I lie.

From Applicant Larry Fletcher.

Question: Understanding that your application’s outcome will be made based solely on this interview, do you have any final statements to add to the record?

"No, not really.

"Well, it sounds so stupid I feel like I shouldn’t even mention it. But . . .

"I was going on a walk about a week ago, down seventh district. I remember it being cold and there were leaves scattered around with the trash and outdated flyers on the street. White and yellowed paper, brown and yellowed leaves, and one thing that jumped out at me: red and white. It was a playing card—you know the kind, like for Poker or whatever—laying face-down on the street. The back was this really intricate red paisley pattern on a white background. I have no idea why, but I just kind of stopped and stared at it. I felt my mind going in so many directions. I wondered how it got there, what the story behind it was, and what card it must have been. Maybe just a number, maybe a face card, maybe an Ace. I wondered if it would mean anything if I picked it up and flipped it over. Like, was it some kind of sign? I mean, I had been asking for a sign for so long. But I knew—I just knew—if I picked it up I would assign some kind of significance to it no matter what it was. I was so desperate for a sign that I was totally aware I would just turn anything into one. So I shook the feeling off and just kept walking.

"But the rest of the day I couldn’t stop thinking that I’d gotten it backwards. It was a sign and I just ignored it. It had to be a sign, right? I mean, this bright red playing card, pristine and lonely in the leaves and trash, steadfast against the wind and the cold—it had to be a sign. And I was just convincing myself to ignore it because . . . I dunno, I think I was scared. I was scared it would be a sign and that I’d have to make a real choice instead of just showing up for this interview and letting you make the decision for me.

"But it just kept eating away at me. So I went back to look at it.