Sing, Muse

Here to write fanfiction II She/they II Main: annebrontesrequiem II Genshin and miscellany II No. of requests: 10/15 [Closed]

[aminiatureworld]

Masterpost II Information

•Carrd • About Me • Ao3 •

•Rules • Requests: 10/15 [Closed] • Posting Schedule: Saturday/Sunday or Sunday/Monday •

Masterlist is organized by fandom and chronologically under the cut

Masterlist Updated: 12.1.2022

Genshin Impact

Frustration (scenarios; Childe, Diluc, and Xiao x gn!reader)

Part 2 (Albedo, Kaeya, and Zhongli x gn!reader)

A Little Rest (scenarios; Childe and Diluc x gn!reader)

Part 2 (Xiao and Zhongli x gn!reader)

Injury (Albedo, Childe, and Diluc x gn!reader)

Part 2 (Kaeya, Ningguang, Xiao, and Zhongli x gn!reader) 

Give and Take (requested, oneshot, Albedo x gn!reader)

Time and Chance (Albedo, Childe, and Diluc x gn!reader)

Part 2 (Kaeya, Xiao x gn!reader)

Honesty (requested, oneshot, Kaeya x gn!reader)

Disappearance (requested, scenario, Diluc, Razor, and Xiao x gn!reader)

Part 2 (Albedo x gn!reader)

Part 3 (Childe x gn!reader)

Small Secrets (requested, scenario, Ganyu, Scaramouche, Xiao, and Zhongli x gn!reader)

Part 2 (Childe, Kaeya, and Ningguang x gn!reader)

Steadfast (requested, oneshot, Childe x gn!reader)

Shadowed Rationale (scenario, Albedo, Childe, and Diluc x gn!reader)

Part 2 (Kaeya, Xiao, and Zhongli x gn!reader)

Stars (drabble, Diluc x gn!reader)

Affection (requested, scenario, Albedo, Beidou, Keqing, and Zhongli x gn!reader)

Part 2 (Childe, Ganyu, Kaeya, x gn!reader)

Voice (drabble, Zhongli x gn!reader)

Careless Words (requested, scenario, Albedo, Childe, and Xiao x gn!reader)

Following the Recipe (requested, scenario, Diluc, Xiao, and Zhongli x fm!reader)

Return to Me (requested, scenario, Albedo, Scaramouche, and Xiao x gn!reader)

A Sea of Fragments (requested, series, Scaramouche x gn!reader)

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

Etched Words (oneshot, Xiao x gn!reader)

Irrational (requested, scenario, Ganyu, Jean, and Keqing x gn!reader)

Heart in the Hearth (drabble, Kaeya x gn!reader)

Deserving (oneshot, Childe x gn!reader)

An Unexpected Rival (requested, scenario, Childe, Scaramouche, and Xiao x gn!reader)

Enigmatic Feelings (requested, scenario, Albedo, Diluc, Xiao, and Zhongli x gn!reader)

Part 2 (Beidou, Childe, and Eula x gn!reader)

A Slow Flame (requested, oneshot, Scaramouche x gn!reader)

Reanimate (requested, scenario, Ganyu and Zhongli x gn!reader)

In My Dreams (requested, scenario, fm!reader)

Albedo, Diluc, Kaeya, Xiao, Zhongli

Distance (requested, scenario, Childe and Kaeya x gn!reader)

Part 2 (Ningguang and Zhongli x gn!reader)

Opposites (requested, oneshot, Xiao x gn!reader)

Mannerisms (requested, oneshot, Zhongli x gn!reader)

Damocles (requested, oneshot, Zhongli x fm!reader)

Old Faces (requested, scenarios, Albedo, Xiao, and Zhongli x gn!reader)

Elevated (requested, oneshot, Xiao x gn!reader)

Leaden Dreams (requested, scenarios, Albedo, Kazuha, Scaramouche, and Xiao x gn!reader)

Wings (requested, oneshot, Xiao x gn!reader)

Melusine (requested, oneshot, Albedo x gn!reader)

Little Bits of Love (requested, headcanons, Lisa x fm!reader)

Spotlight (requested, scenarios, Albedo, Kazuha, and Xiao x gn!reader)

Siren (requested, oneshot, Childe x gn!reader)

Burden (requested, oneshot, Xiao x gn!reader)

Musings of Thanatos (requested, oneshot, Zhongli x gn!reader)

Needled Words (requested, oneshot, Childe x fm!reader)

A Collection of Moments (900 Word Prompt)

Gigil, Kilig, Kilig II, Hiraeth

Interest (requested, scenarios, Albedo x gn!reader)

Part 2 (Kaeya and Xiao x gn!reader)

Stranger (requested, oneshot, Kaeya x gn!reader)

Small Bits of Memory (requested, oneshot, Scaramouche x gn!reader)

Patrimony (oneshot, Diluc x gn!reader)

In Sickness and in Health (requested, scenarios, Diluc, Zhongli x gn!reader)

Fairy Circle (oneshot, Scaramouche x gn!reader)

Midnight Secrets (requested, oneshot, Scaramouche x gn!reader)

Ikemen Vampire

Shall We Dance? (oneshot, Napoleon x gn!reader)

Snowfall (oneshot, Arthur x gn!reader)

Mystic Messenger

Storms (headcanons, RFA + Minor Trio x Reader, rewrite)

Debris (requested, scenarios, Jaehee and Yoosung x gn!reader)

The Witcher

Every Third Day (oneshot, Geraskier)

Connection (oneshot, Geraskier)

Hypnos (oneshot, Geraskier)

The Music of the Night (oneshot, Geraskier)

A Light in the Storm (oneshot, Geraskier)

Moonlit Words (oneshot, Geraskier)

Little Things (oneshot, Geraskier)

Snow Spell (oneshot, Geraskier)

Lord of the Rings

Lembas Bread (drabble, old, Legolas x Reader)

Pelennor Fields (requested, oneshot, Legolas x Aragorn)

Woven Family (requested, oneshot, Legolas x Aragorn)

Mute (requested, oneshot, Legolas x Aragorn)

Peace (requested, oneshot, Legolas X Aragorn)

Headache (requested, oneshot, Legolas x Aragorn)

xxxHolic

Watanuki (drabble)

[annebrontesrequiem]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Come get your fic

[aminiatureworld]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Fay D. Fluorite/Kurogane Characters: Fay D. Fluorite, Kurogane (Tsubasa) Additional Tags: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, (Once), Spoilers, KuroFai Olympics, Syaoran and Sakura are also here, but the focus is really on KuroFai, so I didn't tag them as characters Summary:

"The brightest Fai ever shined was when Kurogane first met him."

Kurogane watches as the Fai that is only an illusion dims, revealing the real Fai underneath.

Written for the KuroFai Olympics 2023 for Team Fate.

Yeah that’s right I’m still obsessed with CLAMP

[aminiatureworld]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair Characters: Annie Cresta, Finnick Odair, District 4 Male Tribute (Hunger Games), Mags (Hunger Games) Additional Tags: I'll update the warnings as I post, Canon-Typical Violence, you know I'm serious about this one cause I proofread and edited three rounds, instead of 0 Summary:

'Under sod gorse and furze/There lies a young wren/Oh, by the saints she was cursed'

An account of Annie Cresta's Hunger Games

I am very tired so have the Chapter 2 link. I’ll post the full chapter on Tumblr tomorrow.

[aminiatureworld]

Hunting the Wren

'Under sod gorse and furze/There lies a young wren/Oh, by the saints she was cursed'

An account of Annie Cresta's Hunger Games

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Discussions of death; implied character death

Author's Note: Reread and rewatched the Hunger Games in May and proceeded to write 16k words of fic that week. And now I'm finally starting to post it, so I hope you all enjoy!

For notes see the ao3 version, link will be in reblog

Go dig my grave both wide and deep

Place a marble stone at my head and feet

And on my breast a snow white dove

To tell this world

That I died for love

I.

There is no quiet near the sea.

No silence, rather. There will always be the cawing of the gulls, the lap of the waves, the gentle hushing of reeds shifting against one another in the wind. But it is not loud. It is not overwhelming. It is calming. It is the quiet of nature, which blocks out the sound of the real world.

Annie buries her bare feet within the silky sand and sighs. Her skirt flaps at her calves, airy, compared to the slight burning sensation of her soles. Not a few hours ago she probably would not have been able to walk barefoot without guaranteeing sunburn. The breeze whips salt into her hair and on her lips. The gulls sings their songs which no one but the sailors can understand. When she takes in a deep breath she can almost taste the seaweed, the mussels, the fish.

Annie loves the sea, more than she loves most things. It’s a beautiful place after all. Beautiful and filled with life, as long as you know where to look for it that is. And she does, even if people think she doesn’t. She is of District 4 after all, and everyone of District 4 knows the sea better than the land. It’s a source of wealth, security, power. In a place where temperatures vary wildly – scalding hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter – there is not a lot that can be counted on. But the sea always can be, for it never freezes over and its bounty never dies. Not like the fruit buds on a tree during a cold snap. Not like the meager crops in the field during a drought. It is dangerous to fish, but it also brings stability. Everyone knows something of the sea.

Now the sea looks like some threw gold into it, yellows and orange mixing with the blues. The sun is lazily sliding underneath the horizon, getting ready for when it must rise again, this time on the opposite side of the world. It is getting dark, too dark, but Annie doesn’t want to leave. Because tomorrow is the day. The day when the extra Peacekeepers come and the lady with the colorful wig and all the children line up and wait to see who will die. That awful day. The Reaping. Reaping children, uprooting them; cutting off their lifelines the way the farmer cuts the tops of wheatfields with his scythe. The scythe that hangs over them all, hangs over Annie. Always there. Even when she pretends it doesn’t.

But it’s almost over, almost. Eighteen. Almost there. Just one more time, just once more. She just needs to stand there one more day and then she can go home and sob her eyes out for the relief of it. Annie knows she should feel happy. Should be reaching desperately for the end of the dark, dark tunnel that has blocked out any peace she might have. Six years of terrible fear. Now it was almost over.

But Annie feels only dread. She can sense it, sense the unwelcome visitor. Death passes over them all, but for two people it stretches out its cold hands. Annie does not think of herself as made for death. But then again, none of the tributes probably think that.

And Death likes to chase those who are the most unsuspecting.

Finally the sea fades into a dark shadow, hiding itself until the new dawn finds it. Annie bids farewell to the sand, to the seagulls, to the bits and pieces of driftwood poking out here and there. It’s a good thing, to thank the sea. It feels impolite not to. Especially if you were never going to see it again. Then it might resent you forever for the lack of kindness.

In the wintertime if you were the last person to bed you were the one to blow the candles out. But it is no longer winter, and so the candles stay wrapped up in their beeswax paper, waiting for colder days to signal their work beginning.

Annie knows the house better than the rest of the family, knows which places tend to creak the most, where the floorboards are probably rotting a little bit. She picked it up from pacing. Pacing is very difficult when there is a constant rattling and creaking. She needs things to be absolutely quiet, so the only thing she can hear is her thoughts. Along with the sound of her socks padding lightly over the floorboards.

Stepping her way past a chair she scuttles into the children’s bedroom. The sight of all her brothers and sisters, piled up in clumps, makes her smile. There is something soothing about seeing them all sleeping peacefully. They always seem safer than they are, more content than their waking selves. She cannot judge them for their discontent. She certainly is rarely happy in her own waking hours. But in sleep, there is usually refuge.

She makes her way to her corner of the room, where all the grown up, or almost grown up, children sleep. There her brothers lie like carelessly piled up clothing, making as much space as possible out of the too-small beds. Annie lays down on her pillow and puts a ragged fold of blanket over her eyes and ears. It muffles the breathing around her, which is sometimes difficult to fall asleep to. Muffled, the sighs of the sleeping sound just like the sighs of the sea. For a moment she thinks about mermaids. Then her mind tumbles into the incoherency of half-dreams and she sleeps.

Annie would have liked to gone and see the sea one more time before the Reaping starts, but no one wakes her that morning. It’s a tradition within the Cresta family. Let the young ones sleep. Who knows, it may be the last time they are given peaceful sleep – or as close as they can get to one.

The eve of her first Reaping Annie did not remember sleeping. Oh yes, she must have slept. Theoretically she slept. But she did not remember sleeping. Only staring out at the darkness, terrified, sure that it would be her name pulled out of the lottery. She thought she would never be able to sleep before a Reaping. But six years dulls the sharpness of fear – though the fear itself remains. Now Annie sleeps because she must sleep. Because she is always tired. Because she is in desperate need of rest.

So by the time she wakes the light has cracked through the dusty curtains and the smell of food is wafting through the house. There are pancakes today, made with the high-quality flour that is so precious. District 4 is not rich in grain. Then again, who knows, no district probably is. Even District 9 surely sends it all to the Capitol. But you don’t say these things.

Taking care not to immediately shove the luxury into her mouth, Annie studies her family for a moment. Counts them. Sometimes it’s good to count them. Her two older brothers aren’t there, probably getting in some fishing before the Reaping. Today’s supposed to be a holiday, but really it just means getting behind in business. The tradesman doesn’t pay for late fish. She wonders how early her brothers got up. Perhaps they barely missed each other. She went to bed awfully late. Something that she’s now regretting.

The little ones’ plates are cleared, the crumbs appeared to have been licked off. But there is no light in their faces, for the Reaping casts a shadow over all but the youngest babies. No, that’s not quite true, Annie corrects herself. There are some who are excited for today, but those are the people with money and training. It pays to be a Career district, but only for the richest of the District 4 citizens. The ones who aren’t slaving away on their own little family boat, or on the boat of some other, bigger family. Even in the face of death, their District is never truly united. Again something you shouldn’t say.

All her thoughts start overwhelming Annie. She can feel the laughter beginning to bubble up inside of her. But it would do no good to laugh. It would be bad luck, and though Annie doesn’t really know whether she believes in bad luck sometimes, she wants to err on the edge of caution.

Besides, people don’t like when she laughs like that. She doesn’t like when she laughs like that. It’s never at the right time. And even if her family never admonishes her, she’s still feels their stares.

Soon enough the pancakes on her own plate are gone, though the crumbs remain there. Standing up Annie smiles nervously towards her mother, who offers a wan smile back. Almost there. Almost there. Just a few more hours and then she’ll be free. Only, there’s no guarantee. There never is any guarantee. There’s no point in pretending that you can see the future. There’s no point in telling yourself that the chance of being chosen is low. Someone has to be the tribute. Someone. Anne makes her way back to the children’s room to change.

There is no such thing as privacy in a small house with a great many children. As such there’s no point in calling out for help with buttoning up the back of her dress, she just waits until someone walks in. In the end it’s Paul who comes in first, unusually fidgety for the most staid of the family.

“Need help?”

“Yes please,” Annie replies.

She waits as Paul gets the top three buttons, then turns around. “Are Elijah and Lucien home?”

“Just got back. Now that they aren’t in the running anymore, there’s less of a reason to come back quickly. I don’t think Elijah will even change. He keeps forgetting to wear his hat on the water too, so if any of our family gets chosen the tv execs will have to put up with interviewing a lobster.”

Annie raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Paul is only a year younger than her, a mere seventeen. He knows the stakes as well as she does. He also knows that only the final few get their families interviewed by the production that hosts the Games. That such a privilege was quite a long shot.

But she says none of this, because it would be bad luck, should one of them end up getting picked. And with five children in the running, there is no guarantee they will be spared. Should it be one of them, well, Annie very much hopes for an interview. Even if the idea of being interviewed was about as palatable as salmonella. But then again, perhaps she’ll be the one dying of hypothermia.

She shakes her head, as if to throw off the thoughts inside her head. Turning back to the matter at hand, she replies, “Elijah knows that you need to protect yourself in the sun, cancer is expensive.”

“He won’t get cancer.”

As if Paul has the power to predict such things. For a moment the idea of Elijah dying swirls in her head. Annie sighs. Saying nothing more to her brother she walks out of the room and towards the door.

District 4 is quite a large district, so greyish-blue buses cart everyone to the large square where the tributes are picked. Waiting in line, Annie catches glimpses here and there of her peers. Classmates, people who work with her father, who buy the nets she makes with her mother. A man and a woman who Annie worked for two summers ago are there, their son clutched tightly between them. He’s twelve, and learning to be a cook.

How funny, that children are expected to have career paths when everything might be cut off all of a sudden, with no one to save you from falling and hitting the ground.

She can never remember the name of the woman who comes and announces the tributes. Why should she? Somehow one person from the Capitol always seems so much less important than the two that are being stolen from them. Stolen. Offered. Slaughtered. Like that old story of a maze and a monster, the one that you weren’t supposed to be taught in classes. It got tossed around anyways, though no one could remember the name of it. Or how it ended. Probably in death.

The sun is hot in the sky, but not the nice, burning sensation of the beach. Instead it stagnates, dries everyone up. Everyone wants this to be over. And it seems the sun wants it to be over too. It makes sense, for surely the sun doesn’t want to see the unwilling sacrifice of two children any more than anyone in District 4 does.

Waiting’s the hardest part, but it seems like it will soon be over. The mayor – the term governor would probably be more accurate – has finished speaking, and is handing over the mic to the woman. Today she’s wearing a pink wig, salmon-like. For a moment Annie images a salmon on a pile of wool. Terrible. Only a truly awful restaurant would do that.

The woman is speaking, and even if you don’t want to listen, you have to. Or at least Annie has to. Her brain won’t let her do otherwise. She wishes it would, but it won’t, so you might as well listen. Already the familiar anxiety is flooding her, the panic that, when it gets bad enough, spots the corners of her vision black. She takes in a deep breath, closes her eyes. It won’t be her. It won’t. She needs to calm down.

Almost on reaction, she flips through the quotes that’s she’s memorized in her head. Poetry, music, the familiar lines that she hoards. There are a great many of them, and each so often repeated that they come almost reflexively. The craigs and dips of unfamiliar patterns have been smoothed away by time, and now they set like smooth marbles in her mind.

She reaches for one of them at random, finds it. “Dust thou art, to dust returnest, was not spoken of the soul.” She can’t remember where she read it, but it gives her comfort. This was all going to pass, pass as it did every year. Every year there is the same struggle. There’s the burning hot certainty that it will be her, followed by the flood of relief when it’s not. Her legs will wobble, but not give way. Her anxiety will be replaced with sorrow. She will stare up towards the tribute and feel anger. She will go home and cry over the evil of stealing two children away, to slaughter them at the pleasure of the Capitol. And it will all be over. And then she will be free.

“Ladies first!”

So close. Only a few more seconds. Only a few more and she will be free. The lady is walking towards the bowl. Annie sees it as if through a film reel. Almost there.

“Annie Cresta!”

For a moment the world is silent, fogged out. Like when you go under too quickly and the water swallows up the world. You have to surface and shake the water out of your ears as you take deep breaths. Only here, there is no air to breathe.

Annie stares bewildered up towards the woman in the pink wig. Then hysteria bubbles up inside her and she laughs. A desperate, crystal laugh in the silence that is her death.

[aminiatureworld]

Days Gone By

On the eve of battle Grantaire drinks with his friends, and wonders what his life has meant.

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: Discussions of death; implied character death

Author's Note: Crawling back from months long no fic hiatus to drop Les Mis angst onto you all. Saw Les Mis this past December/January and it did something to my brain - even more so than joining the fandom at like 12 did. Whoops. Anyways, thanks for anyone who's waited for me to post fic in a while. I hope you guys enjoy!

Drink with me, to days gone by

Why was he here? Grantaire couldn’t quite remember. Normally he would chock that up to the liberal amount of alcohol that he drenched himself in on any given day, but tonight he was feeling quite sober. Not for lack of trying to be otherwise.

How did he get here? Why had he walked into that café that day? There were plenty of cafes in Paris after all. There were too many cafes in Paris in fact, and one always seemed to be going out of business right next to another that had just sprouted up. Fate? It would be a nice idea, except Grantaire didn’t really believe in fate.

Setting foot into a café was one thing, but joining a ragtag group of cohorts determined to change the world was another. Now what on Earth could have compelled him to join in that? Sure, his fellow compatriots – if he could be called a compatriot himself – were nice. Joly and Bossuet were great drinking partners. But you could be drinking partners with someone and not join a revolution.

‌

Was it him? Sometimes Grantaire couldn’t tell. Sometimes he thought he might become a bona fide Jacobin, if only for the smile of Enjolras. Enjolras, who didn’t really seem to notice he existed.

Of course Grantaire usually wised up soon after those thoughts. Yet here he was. On the barricade.

‌

Sing with me the songs we knew

Feuilly was singing an old drinking song. Grantaire had heard it first when he was quite young. Though some of the words were different than he remembered. Go figure. Nothing ever seemed to be quite like he remembered it. Even the light of the sun seemed different than he was young. Now everything seemed shadowed. Now he always remembered his apartment as darker than it was. But the house of his childhood continued to be suffused in sun.

‌

Grantaire began singing along, not truly realizing that he was until he hit a word different than the one the others sang. He wondered if anyone was looking at him. They only looked at him when he was playing the fool. Sometimes it was on purpose, and sometimes it just happened. Grantaire didn’t really care either way.

‌

He glanced over at a corner of the barricade, saw Gavroche playing with a bit of rope. The activity was so childish. It was peculiar to that time in someone’s life when grownups talked of silly things and the bangs and flashes of guns were much more exciting. But if there were no flashes and bangs to be found, there were always scraps of rope to make up for it.

Something in Grantaire’s chest tightened. He felt a sudden disgust for the planks of wood protecting them from the soldiers. He felt disgusted by himself. He felt disgusted that he’d not managed to keep this child away from here. He’d tried, he had. But he hadn’t tried hard enough. And to Gavroche guns were just spectacles and bullet wounds merely battle scars.

‌

Grantaire wanted to cry very badly. Too bad he wasn’t drunk enough.

‌

Drink with me, to days gone by

It was time for him to do something. If he didn’t do something right now he would cry. And he’d suddenly decided he didn’t want to cry. It wouldn’t do to cry. Everyone would look at him strangely. And no one would trust him with anything after this. Not that Grantaire really wanted to be trusted with anything. He’d never fired a gun. He didn’t plan on starting to now.

After all, what did he have to fire a gun for?

Grantaire stood up, noting pessimistically that his feet were quite steady. He seemed to be cursed to spend tonight far from plastered. And what if tonight was the last night? There was no point in spending your last night on Earth sober. In spending your last night on Earth getting some of the worst sleep of your life.

After all, this dirty Parisian street was hardly the most comfortable bed in the world. Had Feuilly been singing about beds? Grantaire couldn’t quite remember. His version of the song talked about beds. Who knew if everyone else’s was different. Probably.

‌

Can it be you fear to die?

It started out alright. He was laughing, just as he always did. He was dancing just as he always did. He was winning the cheers and chuckles of his friends. That was his job. After all, what other job could be given the sad sot who wasn’t even a full Ami? Clown. That was Grantaire’s job. To be a clown.

Too bad he’d grown careless. He’d forgotten to practice. The words just slipped out of him.

‌

Will the world remember you when you fall?

Why did he even care if anyone remembered him? It didn’t matter. He’d be dead. Nothing mattered once you were dead. Hell, nothing really mattered when you were alive either. He knew that. He lived by that. So why was he asking himself this? Why did he feel like screaming? Why did he want to cry again?

People were looking at him. Someone was reaching for him. Joly, Joly was reaching for him. Joly was looking at Grantaire like he was something fragile. Something to be pitied. The way that Grantaire sometimes looked at the rest of Les Amis, pitying them for their love for the world. Envying them.

No one envied Grantaire. Least of all himself. And yet.

‌

Could it be your death means nothing at all?

Was he going to die? Was he going to die for something he didn’t believe in? He realized all of a sudden that he didn’t really understand death anymore than Gavroche. Grantaire didn’t want his friends to die. He didn’t want to die himself. But he didn’t really understand it.

Death didn’t happen to you. Not really. It was something you feared, but it never actually happened. He wasn’t going to die, right?

‌

Death seemed like some cruel gift life forced upon you. And he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die on a dirty Parisian street for something he didn’t even believe in. He didn’t want to become some poor drunk bastard who met his end for no reason.

‌

Is your life just one more lie?

He already knew that though. He already knew that this whole thing meant nothing. That it was ridiculous. That it would fail. That he should never have stepped into the god forsaken café. That he should have kept Gavroche away from here. He knew that. He knew that.

All these thoughts spung around in his head. He tasted gall in his mouth. It was all so repulsive. What had he done with his life? What happened to the light that suffused his childhood? What happened to the warmth?

Why was he shouting?

He hated these thoughts. He hated them. He didn’t want life to be worth nothing. Wasn’t that why he kept chasing a man who would never look at him, who would never trust him? Wasn’t it the hope that he might, even only by proxy, be bathed in light? The light that could only belong to those who believe in life fully. Who believed in the world, who believed in fate, who believe in their fellow men. Didn’t Grantaire want that? Even when he said he didn’t, he secretly wanted it. He coveted that light.

Enjolras was looking at him now. Why now? Why now of all times did Grantaire have to be noticed. He wasn’t playing the clown right now. He’d obviously forgotten how to. And yet Enjolras was looking at him. Staring down from his perch on the barricade.

Even in the darkness Enjolras was full of light. It emanated from him as if he were some faraway angel. Come down to rouse the people of Paris from their beds. Come down to show people into the new dawn.

But he wasn’t here for Grantaire. He never would be. Grantaire could not, it seemed, even touch that light. All he could think about was death. He didn’t believe. He wanted to, so very badly. But he didn’t.

‌

Enjolras climbed down. Fell down. Floated down. Graceful, so graceful. Like a dancer. He reached out towards Grantaire.

Grantaire didn’t really remember lunging away. Only for a moment he thought, he knew. How could an avenger of the people touch a man who didn’t even trust in them?

‌

He needed to clear his head. He was drunk.

Even if he still didn’t feel like he was.

‌

Drink with me, to days gone by

Spindly arms circled themselves around Grantaire’s waist. Tried to. Gavroche was still little. His hands only made it to the pockets of Grantaire’s tattered coat.

He turned around. He looked at the kid. Grantaire had promised to himself that he’d protect Gavroche. That he’d make sure Gavroche came out of this unscathed. That Gavroche would not come out fearing and hating the world the way Grantaire did.

But now Gavroche was the one looking out for him. How funny. How strange. How topsy turvy tonight was. Grantaire let out a shaky breath. Maybe it was a sob. He wrapped his arms around Gavroche, practically engulfing the kid. Inexplicably, he felt a little better. Little people indeed. Gavroche was a good kid.

God, Grantaire didn’t want Gavroche to die. He’d give anything, to make sure Gavroche didn’t die. Gavroche was much too young to die. It would be unfair. It wouldn’t make sense. Not even in this world that didn’t have much logic in the first place.

Grantaire wasn’t really the praying type. The last time he’d gone to mass he’d dirtied his best shirt and his mother had scolded him until he’d cried.

He prayed anyways. He wanted Gavroche to live. Even if Grantaire died. Even if he had to meet what he feared, what he didn’t understand. Even if he had to, there was no reason Gavroche did too. He was just a kid after all. And wasn’t this what they were all here for? The future?

‌

Enjolras always talked about the dawn. The new day. Grantaire could never imagine it. There was nothing beyond today. Nothing even beyond this minute, this second.

If Grantaire had to imagine the future, he figured it probably looked a lot like Gavroche. Just a kid, a thing that had to be looked out for. That had to be protected. That didn’t understand things like guns and armies and revolutions. But that still managed to make its way to them.

And you had to protect it. Even if you didn’t think you’d succeed. You at least had to try.

‌

Grantaire fell asleep staring up at the sky, Gavroche huddled against him for worth. Parisian nights could be surprisingly cold. The clouds hung low in the sky, trapping in the damp. Grantaire imagined reaching out and pushing them away. They’d part easily, like bits of mist in his hands. They’d feel like paint brush bristles against his skin.

Somewhere next to him was Enjolras, watching. Not sleeping, or probably not sleeping anyways. Did angels need sleep? Grantaire wasn’t sure. He wanted to apologize to Enjolras. He wasn’t sure why.

The night was filled with the sounds of gentle breathing. His friends were piled up around him, also trying to find their way to dreams on the cold cobblestone of the streets of Paris. Maybe some were trying their luck on the barricade. They were all trying their luck, in one way or another.

The tune everyone had been singing earlier came to Grantaire again; he hummed it softly. Tomorrow they might die. Tonight might be their last night. What could any of them do? They were at the mercy of life. Of fate – not that Grantaire believed in that.

‌

At least they were spending it together. At least they were not alone. At least they’d spent some good times together. Maybe that was enough. Maybe that meant something. Even if nothing else did.

‌

Here’s to you, and here’s to me.

[chaoticentropy]

[aminiatureworld]

Just going to say I love the implications of Scaramouche having an anemo vision. Venti really said I’ll take all the mentally ill ones

[aminiatureworld]

AHAHAHAHA

[aminiatureworld]

Aughhhhhh

[aminiatureworld]

Haven’t actually played it but Scaramouche really just fell right on his head, like full (genshin) impact on his skull

[aminiatureworld]

Making myself and y’all a promise that when Scaramouche drops I will release another chapter of the series I haven’t updated in a year lmao

[zephyrine-gale]

scaramouche | wanderer drip marketing

[actualbird]

hey i made this fanfic writer meme. drop in my ask which one u think i am!!!!

(okay to rb!)

[aminiatureworld]

hiya hiyaaa hru?

🕵🏻‍♂️ - What's a trope, AU, or concept you've never written, but would like to?

Hii! I’m doing alright, actually I feel I’m doing pretty well! Hope you’re also doing alright♥️

And hmm, there are so many possibilities. Soulmate AU is definitely up there - the best fic I ever read was a now deleted soulmate Enjoltaire fic. And, though I don’t actually want to write it regularly, I think writing a yandere fic maybe once would be a really interesting challenge since I don’t actually like the trope that much. But I think it has a lot of interesting potential. And then maybe reincarnation. As you can see, a lot to try in the future!

[aminiatureworld]

For the weekend writer's ask! :DD

✍️ -Share a piece from one of your current WIPs!

Thanks for the ask!☺️☺️

This is an idea with an Ikemen Vampire OC that I’m not sure will ever see the light of day, but here you go!

“And if we are merely lowly humans, than what are you supposed to be?”

“Vampires,” Napoleon said quietly. Louise once more focused her gaze on the man. “We are vampires. The Comte de Saint-Germain is our creator, we were merely pulled from our deaths. It may be an abomination, it may be something you cannot believe. But it is the truth. We are vampires.”

Beyond that I have an outline for my old Scaramouche fic (rip no update in over a year) but nothing properly written out beyond the outline for that.

[the12thnightproject]

Weekend Writer's Slumber Party An Ask Game...

🤗 -What fic are you emotionally attached to; or one that you read for comfort?

🙌 - What’s the best engagement/interaction/feedback you’ve received from a reader?

😁 - Has a comment someone left on a fic of yours ever made you laugh out loud? What did they say?

✍️ -Share a piece from one of your current WIPs!

👨‍👩‍👦‍👦 - If you wrote a spin-off of any of your fics, what would it involve?

🧩 -If you wrote a “missing scene” from any fandom, what would it be?

🕵🏻‍♂️ - What's a trope, AU, or concept you've never written, but would like to?

👁‍🗨 - Link a fic that made you think, "Wow, I want to write like that."

📣 -Promote one of your own “deep cut” fics (an underrated one, or one that never got as much traction as you think it deserves!). What do you like about it?

📕 - What is your favorite sentence/paragraph from any already published fic?

😘 - In general, what is the steamiest fic you have written (or are writing if it is a WIP)?

😥 - In general, what is the saddest scene you have written (or are writing if is a WIP)?

💄- UST… share a scene (or a description) of something you’ve written that is full of sexual tension or subtext.

🎵 -If you had to assign a theme song to your current WIP what would it be?

👠 - If your WIP (or a published fic) was a pair of shoes, what kind would it be? Describe the shoes.

🧦 - Describe one of your wips (or fics) in the weirdest way possible.

Tag yourselves in!