inthewildwood | Girls Like Girls! A femslash ficathon

Ay, dios mio. That's true, I just have a tendency not to do that lol. Thanks for reminding me! xx

“Beastie, this party was for you and you alone." ♥♥

And married!! YES. Thank you!

Oh my goodness this is so sweet, thank you so much!

If you put it on AO3, please let me know so I can give you Kudos, etc!

Since I wasn't sure about ratings, and this is explicit in more ways than one, and I post all my stuff there anyway, I put this to ao3. It's 250w.

She's always had a capacity to keep her mental faculties intact, but within the cold castle-like fortress of the wards of the dark manor, they fail her. (http://archiveofourown.org/works/4450133)

Aurora grabbed Mulan’s hand, tugging her towards the pool. Precious babies.

I actually like that you didn't make Phillip physically abusive.

So sweet... guh.

Everything was supposed to become good once Rumple's soul was cleansed. Once there was nothing standing between them, no power or darkness left to chose over Belle. And Rumple did try, made her favorite dinners and brought her flowers from all over town, but she couldn't help the bitterness from sinking into her heart. With every gesture she thought how new and novel they were, how she had never been chosen before. (And now, she'd think, in a dismal mood, she was only being chosen over loneliness.)

Rumple expects the break up for the wrong reasons, and she doesn't correct him.

She goes to the Rabbit Hole to drink, her other self's tastes surely couldn't be that different. And she knows her other self knew how to forget, how to make any pain go away.

Marian's tending the bar, and Belle's sudden curiosity distracts her from thinking about what she just ended. (She knows it was the right choice, but it still hurts.) She sits at the corner bar stool, fiddling with a drink menu as she waits for Marian to finish the dwarves' order.

“Belle,” Marian greets with a smile, “what can I get you?”

Belle bites her lip, “I don't know I'm afraid- something strong?”

Marian's look turns sympathetic, and she comes back moments later with a tall dark blue drink.

“Should I ask?”

“I discovered it last week, it'll do the trick.”

“Cheers,” Belle says, and the blue beverage is surprisingly delicious and hard to define. “Is what happened last week why you're working here?”

Marian sighs, “Yes. I'm surprised it isn't all over town that my... ex, husband chose Regina.”

Belle winces, “If it makes you feel any better, my ex chose power over me.”

Marian lets out a small chuckle, “It kind of does. What a sad pair we make.”

Perhaps the drink is already hitting her fast, or perhaps she's lonelier than she thought, because Belle's next words flow without thought. “I would have never chosen Regina before you.”

“Sweet,” Marian says, “but unnecessary. I know she's good now, she saved my life- and Roland's when I wasn't here.”

“Good doesn't equal nice you know,” Belle says, tipping her glass to Marian, “and I bet you don't steal the covers.”

Marian is a little shocked, and looks around quickly as though the Queen herself might suddenly show. “What?”

Belle grins, “Pour me another and I'll tell you about the time she incinerated some children's books in the library.”

“She didn't,” Marian begins, but she can imagine it all too easily. “Well, why?”

Belle grins, “They were factually inaccurate.”

Marian's shaking her head as she mixes Belle a new drink, and Belle thinks maybe Lacey wasn't half so bad as her recollections suggest, or at the very least, her alternate self can really pick a place.

Hermione In Captivity (harry potter, bellatrix/hermione, x, 250w) comment (http://inthewildwood.livejournal.com/40383.html?thread=183743#t183743). fic (http://archiveofourown.org/works/4450133).

Sidenote about keeping track: I have an up-and-coming femslash comm - if you wanted, it'd also probably be a good start for the comm to have an alphabetized masterlist of the fills (and/or unfilled prompts), and I could do that there if you thought it was a good idea. I don't know how long you want this to go on or w/e, if you think there will be many, but just know the offer stands xx

priority (ouat: belle/marian) (http://inthewildwood.livejournal.com/40383.html?thread=151231#t151231)

Loved writing this AU. :P

I couldn't see Phillip doing that so went in that direction. :) It just wasn't like Phillip.

These two will kill me with their adorableness. :P

Thank you. ^_^ It was!

It was lovely to write these two again. I wrote a fic awhile back where they got married and couldn't resist throwing that in there.

The link is over here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4449494 . :) Thank you!

♥

~~it's 2,5 k words now~~

I THINK I MIGHT POST IT TOMORROW <3

I understand if no because sometimes it's hard just to have all-femslash spaces, but I was wondering if f/f/m or similar poly arrangements that have two or more ladies but at least one dude are okay, especially if they focus on the ladies, or are to get around a canon relationship or something?

Luna walks into the Room of Requirement and thinks Elsewhere.

Obligingly, the Room becomes a hole, and she falls for a while, first down then sideways. The hole ends with a door, set into the floor which is a wall which is a ceiling, and when she reaches out it opens for her, as is always the way.

Was always the way, she amends to herself. No longer.

She greatly misses the days of her earlier youth, before Alice closed the dreaming doors, when falling asleep had been all she needed to do to find her way to the world beneath the world that is. It’s hard, now; she’s tried many things, and some of them have worked, but all of them only ever once.

It’s a hard thing, to be exiled from the home of one’s heart. All her life, she has spent her nights in the land beyond and below her dreams, wandering away from the real in the soft hours of the night. All her life she has found joy and solace elsewhere. Now she can’t, and now she is tired when she has never been tired before.

What use is sleeping now, if the doors are shut?

As a child, Luna rarely slept except to dream, and now she finds it difficult, unnatural. Before, she had found no rest there, only adventures, but she had no complaints. What child would, to spend each day’s sullen shadow talking to flowers and riding on the backs of smiling cats?

(The healers think that might be why she is so... so much herself, now, always so much apart from the world. They say it does a mind good to rest, and hers spent years and years without. They might be right, she admits when she’s feeling uncomfortably reasonable, but she hates it. She hates to drink down those bitter flasks of dreamless sleep, hates to lie insensate in the dark like so much ordinary flesh and sinew, mired in the small and ordinary dreams of her mortal body. It's a little death and it frightens her.)

There are still open doors, of course, because Underland would die without them, asphyxiated. They’re just better hidden, less accessible. Most of their number, though, are closed now. The border to the dreaming world is shut up like a high stone cliff, and the foxholes and sinkholes and old wells dotting the hills and valleys of the real are just holes, with ordinary bottoms of earth or stone. Anyone falling down them would break their necks and go nowhere but the afterlife of their choice.

Underland is not an afterlife. Underland is a now-life, an ever-life, both more and less than real. No holding place for the disintegrating souls of the dead, no matter what one calls it.

She is twenty-six now and it has been two years since she’s been back. The door in the thicket near her home failed her, eventually, the gnarled gap between the willows leading to nothing but dirt and dead grasses. She had cried for a while, sitting in the dust with only the grasshoppers for company. Then she had gone looking for others, in ever-expanding circles, finding nothing.

So now she is visiting a place that was also home once, searching for the way through it to an older one.

This was the last door she had any hope of, and she is so relieved to find it open that she cries all the down, all the way in.

The door opens, and she is beneath the world, home at last.

Alice is there to greet her, sitting perched on a mossy rock as if she’s been waiting there for days, golden head tilted up to the singing canopy of the familiar forest. For all Luna knows, she has. Alice always knows.

(Luna has never been sure whether that’s a privilege granted to Underland’s queens or if it’s just because it’s Alice, the soul this world chose for its own all those years ago.)

Either way, she has been ruling here with her sisters for nearly a hundred and fifty years, the pale queen, last of four, and one gets to know a place in a span of time like that even if time doesn’t run quite the way it ought.

Alice might have felt the door opening an hour ago, a week ago, a year ago, and walked over on the wind at her leisure. There is magic in the real world, but Underland is magic. Possibility is its nature, unreality its only rule. It’s especially bad at time. Luna has always liked that about it.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were ever coming back,” Alice says mildly, rising to reach out her hands.

Luna takes them, tilting her head. “I was beginning to think you didn’t want me to,” she says, also mild in her reproach. “If you did, you wouldn’t have shut all the doors in my face.”

A flicker of regret mars Alice’s sun-dappled face, just for a moment. “Not all of them,” she says defensively. “I left some. But you know why it was necessary.”

That much is true, and why Luna can’t really be angry with her.

Underland is fragile, and cannot bear the weight of many visitors. There are many more people in the world now, billions more, but the proportion of dreamers amongst them has not changed, and so there are many more dreamers and wanderers than there ever have been before. Alice left the borders open as long as she could, until Underland began to fray and collapse about its edges, being a wanderer herself and not wishing to deny others the chance to find their home. Even her great magic has limits, though, and she had made the only choice she could when she reached them.

No, Luna does not begrudge her that, however sad and difficult it has made things for her. Nor can she begrudge the world for forcing Alice to it. It was only acting according to its nature, mindless on the whole, desperate to grow.

Still, it is so good to be home, so sweet. She has missed this more than she has let herself feel, denying much for fear of her heart breaking beyond repair.

She is home. Underland curves upwards around her, land of mirror and shadow. The flowers are singing and the chatterbirds are pontificating and it has probably been teatime on this gentle autumn day for years. In some nearby clearing the Hatter will be serving crumpets to the March Hare; she can almost taste them. Far off she can hear the dignified roaring of the White Queen’s waterfall, sourceless and eternal. Home.

Alice is smiling, still holding Luna’s hands between hers. She is human still, despite her immortality, and so her hands are warm. Something like enough to blood still runs beneath her skin.

She is beautiful. She will be beautiful until the end of every world.

“You know you are always welcome,” Alice says softly, raising one hand to stroke Luna’s hair, tuck it behind her ear. “Whenever you are ready.”

Luna frowns. It’s not like Alice to be cruel. “You know yourself that a life given has to be lived until the end,” Luna says, a little sharply, not without regret. “You stayed real until you ran out of time because you had to, and so will I. I know better than to bring all my unspent time here. I can visit, for a little while, but if I were to make up my mind to stay with all those years still hanging over me, it would weigh me down until I could hardly move. I would carry my frustrated mortality everywhere I went, regretting, unable to move forward or go back, trapped and suffering.”

“I’m sorry,” Alice says immediately, shame written all over her lovely face. “I’m sorry, you’re right, it was cruel of me to tempt you. It’s just that the world is lesser without you, little moon.” She kisses Luna’s forehead, a more potent apology.

“I miss you, too,” Luna says after a moment, biting her lip. “I always miss you. And I can’t get to Hogwarts very often, so I’ll miss you a lot more before the end. But it can’t be helped, can it.”

It can’t, and they both know it. Reality has no heart with which to be kind.

Alice smiles ruefully, fondly. “There is no one like you in any world, Luna Lovegood.”

“There’s you,” says Luna.

this is an unofficial sequel in spirit to this (https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5912003/1/Pale-Queen), which I wrote five years ago. I assumed because of the "Kingsleigh" surname that you were thinking of Burton's Alice. this might not make much sense if you weren't, haha.

Shinobu has never liked the queen matches, and she likes this one even less.

It's one thing to have a crowd of eyes on her, even the lower levels have crowds, but it's different at the top. Here they expect a spectacle, they demand entertainment, and that... that isn't why she's here.

Across from her, Chihaya appears to have no idea the cameras are there at all. She tucks a stray lock beyond her ears, automatically, never looking away from the board for even a moment. Her hakama, sleeves expertly tied up by her little pigtailed friend, is managing to maintain some show of elegance, but she's sweating and the humidity is doing her hair no favours. She doesn't care. She never cares, even though she's the reason the crowds have gotten so big lately.

Shinobu doesn't care either, but she has a harder time of it because she can't pretend she isn't aware of every single eye on her. She can feel them -- judging, expecting -- and she resents them, whether or not she has any right to.

It's true that their presence hones the pressure to a fine point, gives this match a thrill that no other can claim. That’s worth something. She’ll admit that. Even so, she doesn't like it. She'd rather be in Chihaya's apartment, annoying the downstairs neighbour with their racket, alone with the only person whose presence actually matters.

Some nameless fool in the crowd shouts her name, cheering her on, and she hisses through her teeth.

This isn't for you, she thinks, almost angry enough to be distracted from the game.

"Shinobu-chan," Chihaya says softly, trusting in Shinobu's ears to pick it up. "I know it's bothersome, but...."

"Ugh, don't," Shinobu says, annoyed at herself most of all. "If I can't handle it, I have no business playing competitive karuta, I know. I know."

A pause, accepting. "After this," Chihaya says, voice feathering away to the finest point, "you should come over."

A hard breath worms its way into Shinobu's chest, curls up in her lungs, solidifies.

They aren't friends, exactly, even now after all these years. They don't call each other to talk their little daily miseries out, they don't go places together (at least, not often), they don't have any mutual agreement -- silent or otherwise -- for support or understanding. They aren't friends, but they're something. Something a little warmer than rivals.

Whatever they are, it means endless late-night games on the narrow expanse of Chihaya's floor. It means leftovers and sleep and sometimes it means Shinobu goes home wearing Chihaya's clothes, her own too soiled with effort to wear on the train. They no longer cry when they lose to each other. They don't gloat, either, too aware of each other's feelings for that.

Shinobu wants to win this match but more than that she wants to win the match after this one, the one no one but them will witness.

Looking at Chihaya isn't always like looking in a mirror but right now, right now it is. Chihaya wants to win this game, there is that familiar fiery yearning for victory in her eyes, but it isn't the end. The queen matches are the pinnacle of the public competition, yes... but not the pinnacle for them.

There is a higher, more exalted space waiting for them in the shadowed hours of the late evening after.

She looks at Chihaya, finds that Chihaya is looking at her. The cards murmur gently between them, waiting for their names to be called. The crowd, at last, falls away into a meaningless abyss of soundless chaos. Static. White noise.

She is free, they are both free. Nothing but the game is real.

Chihaya smiles.

The reader draws a breath.

Chihayafuru - Chihaya/Shinobu - forget all the rest (http://inthewildwood.livejournal.com/40383.html?thread=148927#t148927) (@AO3 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/4453631))

Edited 2015-07-29 17:11 (UTC)

Burton's Alice / Harry Potter - Alice/Luna - Wanderer (http://inthewildwood.livejournal.com/40383.html?thread=169919#t169919) (@AO3 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/4453547))

Edited 2015-07-29 17:08 (UTC)

Nope, no limit! (Though it would be cool if you warned for anything explicit.)

Hmm. Do you mean in terms of prompting, or fills? If fills, I'd suggest asking the prompter if they're cool with it being F/F/M, and if they are, then go ahead. If prompting . . . I think I'd prefer to keep it just women for now.

That would be fantastic, thank you!

She’s breaking the world, she knows.

Every time she forces time to halt and trundle backwards on its clumsy wheels, along a track that was never meant to be retread, she can feel things tearing around the edges. Every time she gathers a new fold of time to stitch over the old layers, dozens deep, she can feel the fraying.

It isn't even helping. That’s not the worst of it, but it’s something, and she thinks about it sometimes. She's breaking the world for nothing, but Madoka is the world to her and so she can't stop. The problem is that if she accepts -- even for an instant -- that perhaps Madoka can't be saved, that it's fate, that the world wants or needs things to be this way, it becomes very difficult to see anything about the world worth her guilt.

Homura has her answer. The world will let Madoka live or the world will deserve its death.

Another failed attempt, today, this month. At least Madoka doesn't ask for her death at Homura's hand this time. Walpurgisnacht is enough. A soul is a hardy thing, but there's only so much even the hardiest it can take, and there's already a wound in Homura's from the first time that won't ever heal. She hears the gunshot in her dreams. It echoes like an earthquake. No human being can kill what they love most and survive intact.

Homura might have wished to be less human, and suffered less. But she didn’t.

Time lurches forward, mindlessly yearning for fresh tracks, uninterrupted momentum. Screeches as she drags it back.

No, she says, and because the Incubators broke the universe, it listens. So much power, and yet she is helpless to accomplish the only thing that matters.

No.

She wakes up to a familiar ceiling, familiar sunlight, familiar grief. It won’t be different this time either, but she will try.

For Madoka, again, she will try.

Puella Magi Madoka Magica - Homura/Madoka - Fray (http://inthewildwood.livejournal.com/40383.html?thread=145087#t145087) (@AO3 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/4453667))

Edited 2015-07-29 17:10 (UTC)

Hahaha oh my god... I genuinely feel like crying at this: “There’s you,” says Luna.

You have a beautiful vocabulary! My goodness. And your style is perfectly fitting, as well. I love it so so much! Thank you for taking the time to write something so wonderful and dreary but hopeful all rolled into one. It's gorgeous! I love the hints at their background story, too!

Will you be posting this to an archive as well?

Also, yes, I was referring to Burton's, but I'd honestly take any rendition of Alice with Luna.

Girls Like Girls! A femslash ficathon

RE: Got questions?

RE: Moonlit Dance

no subject

RE: You Are The One (Part 2)

priority

RE: Fills

RE: Fills

RE: You Are The One (Part 2)

RE: Moonlit Dance

RE: Moonlit Dance

RE: Moonlit Dance

no subject

RE: Got questions?

Wanderer, 1/2

Wanderer, 2/2

PS

no subject

RE: Fills

RE: Fills

RE: Got questions?

RE: Got questions?

Re: Fills

Fray

RE: Fills

RE: Wanderer, 2/2