Ugh, my writing slump just will not end, I’m back to looking through old partially-written fics trying to find the will to finish one of them. If you’d prefer one over the others let me know. Samples available upon request:
- Kima and Allura’s story, from could-have-been-but-never-quite-was to it’s-complicated to married-and-forever. (Very little written of this one.)
- Perc’ahlia marriage of convenience–when VM visits the twins’ father to ask for help against the Chroma Conclave he agrees to secure them aid on one condition: that Vex agrees to the political arranged marriage that had prompted the twins’ initial flight from Syngorn. Percy steps in and offers to be that match to provide a political tie to Whitestone and allow Vex to agree without really compromising anything. It all goes about as you’d expect. (Even less written of this one.)
- Percy’s first love, a.k.a. young teenage!Percy falling in love with Whitestone. (Like. A couple of paragraphs written.)
- “Don’t Be Such a Girl, Vex” a.k.a. “Oh My God I Think I Like You” a.k.a. Perc’ahlia fuckbuddies-to-feelings. Vex proposes a mutually beneficial arrangement to satisfy physical needs with no emotional complications. None at all. Also goes … about like you’d expect. (Two entire scenes written for this one! A record!
Hey y’all here’s some samples:
Vex had prepared herself as best she could, but her first breaths after seeing their father's house again feel thin and shallow, her chest constricting until her lungs have to struggle to pull in air. She can't quite fight down an old, familiar wave of shame and anger, and her eyes travel up, up, up to the topmost floor with its small, narrow window. The last time she saw it was when she slid from its ledge and onto the rooftop below, her brother fast behind her as they made their escape.
For a moment she's a girl again, still shaking as Vax paces back and forth in the cramped little attic that they've claimed as their own, tossing a seemingly random assortment of their possessions into one of the threadbare satchels they brought with them from Byroden.
“We can leave. We can just—go,” he'd said then, crouching down in front of her to grab hold of her shoulders, his face alight with fury and determination. “You and me, right now. I'm serious. Fuck him, fuck all his grand plans. Let's just . . . Vex. Let's just leave.”
And that's exactly what they'd done. But here they are now, back again, metaphorical hat in hand because this situation is bigger than all of them. And because, as ever, they lack any other, better, choice.
“Are we going to knock?”
Percy's inquiry is cool and unconcerned, and nothing like he'd sounded on the walk here. He's a bureaucrat, Vax had said dismissively. Excellent, Percy had responded, that single word sharp with vicious, and Vex had wanted to lean into it.
“Is that why you're here?” Percy's attention has gone sharp now, focused in a familiar, all-too-appealing way. “To distract yourself from worrying?”
Vex considers, for a moment. Considers lying; considers evading; considers brushing the whole thing off as a joke, walking away and never talking about it again. But she's here for a reason, isn't she? In for a copper piece, in for a platinum, she thinks, and pushes away from the wall.
“Partly,” she admits. “Sometimes I need a good distraction. Sometimes I just need.” She ambles a few steps closer, crossing nearly half the distance between them in the narrow room. “But it's a risky thing, finding a partner, and the balance between risk and reward tends to be uncertain with a stranger. I trust you with my life on a regular basis—I figure I can trust you enough for sex, too.”
She's close enough to touch, now, close enough to smell the sting of gunpowder that he'll carry on his skin until they find a place to have a proper bath.
“I trust you not to make more out of it than it is,” she says, blunt again, trying not to look for the approval in his eyes that tends to spark when she refuses to mince her words. “You're deliberate, and detail-focused, which seem like potentially good qualities for these particular purposes.” Her gaze flits down, taking in the length of his limbs, enjoying how much more obvious his height is when she's standing this close to him before looking back up to take in his interested if uncertain expression. “I like your hands. And I think,” she says, tilting her head in a deliberate, practiced move, “that you find me attractive, as well.”
“...ah...”
This idiot, she thinks, another wave of fondness cresting through her, and smiles.