#jase writes

[sonadowcentral]

okay bitches I made a fanfic but I’m lowkey ass at writing!

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

I hope you guys enjoy it, this is my first time really planning out a fanfic with key plot points in mind!

[mcaelius]

catullus 51 - translated by: me!

[jasethegooberton]

Some out of context interactions and just some silly scenarios I had for Back into the Pit:

[siowdreams]

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

Chapter 2 is up! :)

[mcaelius]

anakin was not born with the teeth of a star-eater, ferrous-black and always dripping blood. his halo did not used to shine so brightly that it hurt his master's eyes, his skin did not always shift and ripple like the surface of a newly-forming planet as the magma churns beneath. his eyes used to be soft and blue and human. he did not grow into his own radiance like it was an oversized sweater, nor did it grow from within him, transforming him gradually from within; his greatness was thrust upon him by a creature who whispered dark promises with the voices of a thousand evil men. he does not want it, this power, and it does not want him.

he is glad his mother has never known him like this. in the depths of his spiralling despair he finds himself almost glad she died, so that she remembers him as human and not... this. supernova child, borne of the cosmos. sky-walker. he is not the son of the stars, he is the son of shmi - wide-eyed boy, sunburnt cheeks, shock blonde hair. the galaxy will not remember him that way.

they will know him as monstrous. she knew him as kind.

[mcaelius]

youuu 🫵 want to read the shitty awful prologue for my bad self indulgent story Now

[mcaelius]

.it's not very subtle who i've been thinking about today

[mcaelius]

you met him when you were ten, and some might say it was by chance but you know it was not. fortuna was his uncle’s mistress, after all, not his. there were scraped knees and bloody noses and a gravitational pull that scared you (something apollonian, maybe - a disc around the head that only you could see), young as you were, and you lost a tooth that day but gained a friend. he was almost a head shorter than you and half the size, and he wheezed when he talked and his bones were the wrong shape and you could fit your thumb and forefinger in a neat circle around his wrist with room to spare, but something old in you knew that the world would be brought to its knees by those grey eyes and slim hands. 

you ran away from the house where you saw your father’s skull crack open on the kitchen floor and he taught you greek on the temple steps below a red-faced god, and the first time it happened it was over aristophanes, of all things. you were twelve but looked older and he had a limp and his hair was too long and when you kissed him he didn’t stop you, he barely even blinked, he just smiled and went back to correcting your pronunciation after you pulled away. you’d wonder later whether you’d dreamed it but at night you knew that there would always be a part of you stuck in that moment - under jupiter’s gaze with a hand in his hair and greek on your lips. 

the first time you begged him you were sixteen and your brother was in libya. you didn’t think suicide was contagious, but it couldn’t hurt to make sure, so you asked him for mercy over dinner and he said he’d think about it, of course, you had to understand that his uncle was a very busy man with a lot to worry about, a lot on his plate, but he’d see what he could do. you both climbed the tower that evening, the one he nearly fell from as a child, and he watched the sun set over the city’s skyline but all you could watch was the way the shards of fading light touched his face. you’re still not sure if he knew just how deep you’d already managed to fall but it didn’t really matter when he met your lips with his own that night. the second time was better - longer - and he tasted like wine and honey, and it would not be the last.

you were seventeen and at sea and he looked like he was dying, all sunken cheeks and pale skin and sweat-soaked hair clinging damply to his forehead, and your shared quarters smelled like vomit for a week while the ship crossed to hispania. his voice was weak and that halo had dimmed and when you held him in your arms to try and quell his trembling he was lighter and frailer than a bird. you were scared. the strength was there, the strength was always there, but it was buried under feverish sweats and wracking coughs and hatchling bones that felt like to snap at the gentlest touch. you stayed - because you always stayed. you wiped his brow, held back his hair, soothed him and cared for him even in the height of his delirium. that voyage was when you found out about his nightmares; the ones that tore through him more savagely than the fever and left him sobbing and shaking like a child in your arms. they sent words spilling from his lips, words you can’t remember (don’t want to remember), frenzied and hoarse and almost incoherent. 

you wonder now if curses can flow backwards in time. you wonder now if he deserved it. 

the news came the week after the prophecy did. (the astrologer had kissed his feet - fallen to the floor and kissed his damned feet, and you had seen the strange distant look on his face as he was revered and worshipped, and that was the first time you remember that ice stab of fear piercing your chest as you watched him.) the letter fell from his hands like last summer’s dying leaves and he had stumbled, because who wouldn’t, really, in that situation, and when your hands hooked under his arms to keep him up you could feel the way he shook. that was that, then - the idyll was shattered. the future was set. alea iacta est. 

the lists went up a year later and you knew without words that your sword would be the one bloodied by the end. 

you were twenty-one years old and on your knees in front of him. his hand was in your hair and his eyes were dark and you swore you could feel the drained life still caked under your fingernails, and when he forced your head back to make you look up you couldn’t tear your eyes away - he would be a god, you knew then, beyond a shadow of a doubt he would be a god. (if only you had known what kind.) a few soft words and a sharp tug and you found yourself pressed to him, mosaic tiles digging into your shins, neck aching as he held your gaze. a quiet question and a whispered reply - ‘yes, caesar,’ you said, but the words under the surface were all too clear. don’t think them, don’t speak them. the name was a promise, you thought, and the promise was not worth the struggle to take back. 

he took you in the temple against the column and for a little while, with your face pressed into the hollow of his neck and your fingers digging into his skin, you could imagine with the sun within you that nothing had changed at all.