#I've been on a writing kick

[fearsomefairytailfan]

I wrote a little ficlet!

Rating: T

Summary: A ficlet of a scene from when Gajeel and Levy were working for the magic council.

Excerpt:

“Yeah, but now the paperwork I have to do has tripled,” She put her pen down and looked up at him. “Which means I have to stay late tonight if I want to get this stuff in on time.” Her fingers traced up his arm and she leaned in towards him. “Which means by the time I get home my boyfriend, who I haven’t seen in almost two weeks, will already be fast asleep and neither of us will get any.” She ran her hand under his chin, lifting it slightly. “So we’ll both be pent up until we can finally find time for each other in our busy schedules, which could be weeks.” Their faces were no more than an inch apart, he leaned in for a kiss, but she pulled away and began writing again.

[marlynnofmany]

It’s back!

If you missed it the first time around, the “human are weird” anthology is back for a second printing. (There’s even a new story included: “Black Box” by Dara Brophy.)

Here’s the blurb:

In science fiction, humans are usually boring compared to other races: small, weak, with no claws or tentacles, and no special abilities to speak of. But what if we were the impressive ones, the unsettling ones, the ones talked about by all the other aliens? What if we're weird?

If you’d like a collection of excellent stories about humans inspiring awe, fear, and utter confusion, it’s available everywhere books are sold!

[cerise-on-top]

hi just want to pop in this request how would 141 react to reader who likes to uh.. chomp down on almost anything like maybe their arms? or random bites on the finger?? but its just in a playful way what would their react to it?? anyways you're a lovely writer have a good day <33

Hello! I wrote something similar to that for Gaz already here, so I left him out! His biting section is a bit short since that ask encompassed something similar to it, but it's there!

Price, Ghost and Soap with a Reader who likes to Bite Them

Price: He’d be so utterly confused if you bite him. Depending on whether or not you’re close with each other the scenario could go one of two ways: If you’re close, he’ll raise an eyebrow and ask you what you’re doing. If you respond with showing affection then he’ll be more inclined to let you continue doing whatever it is you’re doing. Truth be told, he’s not the biggest fan of you biting him, but if you’re his partner, then he’ll tolerate it. He knows you’re just being friendly and showing him that you love him in your own way, so he won’t say anything, but he’s not particularly too happy about it. Price doesn’t like how you’re getting saliva on him, he’s not a big fan of something like that. If you’re not his s/o then he’ll tell you to stop.

Ghost: Like Price, he’ll raise an eyebrow upon finding you chomping on him and will ask you what in the world you’re doing. Unlike Price he’ll be more understanding of it all and won’t really mind it too much. He won’t do it back to you in fear of biting your finger off or hurting you otherwise, even if biting people really isn’t his style either unless he has to. He’ll allow it and won’t really comment on it too much, aside from asking you whether or not you want an actual snack instead of him. Bite him and he’ll awkwardly pat your back, he does appreciate you being affectionate with him, though. Doesn’t mind you getting saliva on him either, he’s been through far far worse. Overall, just don’t bite him too hard and he won’t mind, but if you’re genuinely hurting him then he’ll put an end to it all.

Soap: I wouldn’t be surprised if he bit you first, in all honesty. Not by accident, but on purpose. Soap isn’t a biter normally, but he can and will bite someone if dared to or if they lovingly annoy him. However, if you’ve bitten him first then be prepared for him to bite you back. He’s not grossed out by anything, but he will bite down harder than you bite him. Affection like this is a competition and he is hellbent on winning. If you’re his S/O then he’ll also try to leave marks on you to show everyone that you’re his and that you’re having fun with each other. And by that I mean he’ll bite your cheek since that’s one of the most obvious places out there. By the time you’re done being affectionate with each other you’ll both be covered in bite marks, each one deeper and more concerning than the last. But you’re having fun, and that’s all that matters.

[recklessfiction]

Keep an Eye Out As You Travel West

You see a church, you just keep on walking. Most are abandoned anyhow, nothing left in 'em but the hollowed out husks of their priests. The rest have been filled by now; old pretenders, zealots, and self proclaimed prophets snatching up any man fool enough to worship. And that's if you're lucky. There are older things, other things that have curled up amidst the altars of the Lord like worms in dirt. If you're wanting to do any worshiping, best do it out under the sky.

There're things that roam the dust, figures of men with eyes deader than any corpse and smiles as bright and pretty as a lady's. They come around sometimes, always trying to pawn off some bizarre thing; elaborate crowns made of rusted nails, gold lockets with strange portraits inside, letters that can't be read without getting a deep pounding in your head, and keys rusted with so much blood it'd be a wonder if they turned anything at all. Now, I've seen what comes for folks who trade with them and I'll tell you this. Wherever they got their goods, it sure as shit wasn't from here.

You'll be hearing now about the "Oil Baptisms," I'm sure. Black sea water dredged up from some abyss, thicker than any water I've ever seen and you can smell it long a mile away. They say it gives people "the sight" but of what I can't say. All I know is that once you start smelling that briny shit on the wind, the screaming don't start long after.

Be careful what deals you make out here. There're plenty of strange folk who would be more than glad to work you down to the bone and long after, too. Work is work, crops need harvesting, graves need digging, meat needs carving, and idols need worshiping. Watch your words and read your contracts, else you might just be stuck washing the feet of the righteous until doomsday.

Best stay indoors once night comes, that's when a lot of the "families" start movin' out. They take to the roads, long lines of them, a parade of the ugliest sons of bitches you've ever seen. In the daylight, their skin never fits quite right and stinks to high heaven but once the sun dips past the trees, they start taking it off. They move from place to place, sloughing off their decayed flesh and stealing new off any traveler they come across. Lock your doors and put out your lights before they coming knocking on your door, asking sweetly, "Do you have anything I could wear?"

I am of the opinion that the woods ought not be traversed by folk who ain't been called there. Keep to the roads and towns, there's enough foul mess there if it's strangeness you're looking for. But what's in the woods has always been in the woods and if you pass the treeline with no business being there, well. The woods will give you business.

While a useful tool, a gun won't save you from drowning in the bathtub of a family of fanatic prognosticators, or from having your skin torn clean off by the night sky. Keep your ears up for any kind of protection you can get and learn to speak well because a lot of smart talk can get you out of a whole mess of trouble.

Keep on moving, friend. If you're looking to survive this trek, don't stop for anything, not even to bury the dead or feed the starving. It ain't worth what'll catch you, cause there's always things waiting for a fella to slow down so's they can get their claws in faster, deeper. You wanna be stuck here, in the fields and the dirt, under the big sky while hymns are burned into your skull? No?

Then keep on moving.

[allastoredeer]

I found an Alestial fic! ヾ(⌐■_■)ノ♪ it is so hard to find Alastor/Zestial content, but I found this and I loved it and I wanted to share because it needs more attention. I'm obsessed with how they wrote Zestial's dialogue, especially because its so fucking hard to write (for me at least).

It's not tagged Alastor/Zestial (which might've been why it took me so long to find it), but they fuck and give ship vibes, so here we go. Also, in case it's not evident, this is rated Explicit LMAO.

Alestial nation rise! Also, if any of my fellow shippers have Alestial fics squirreled away, please send them my way. I have a mighty need.

READ AND MIND THE TAGS!

[quoththemaiden]

Aziraphale: The Sword that Guards the Tree of Life

Looking where the furniture isn't

This post is dedicated to @meatballlady's excellent insistence that if we want to try to predict where season 3 will go, we need to look at where the furniture isn't. That is, what must have been there but wasn't shown?

For this one, my source material is going to be Genesis. That is, in no small part, because it does in fact fuck severely that Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett took the angel with the flaming sword and the serpent of Eden and made them kiss (@joycrispy, @ouidamforeman). It's also because Genesis, quite simply, exists, and it seems safe to assume that most everyone in Gaiman and Pratchett's intended audience has been exposed to at least its first few chapters dozens of times.

What does Genesis tell us about Aziraphale's purpose?

3:22 Then the Lord God said, “Behold, the man has become like one of Us, knowing good and evil; and now, he might reach out with his hand, and take fruit also from the tree of life, and eat, and live forever”—  23 therefore the Lord God sent him out of the Garden of Eden, to cultivate the ground from which he was taken.  24 So He drove the man out; and at the east of the Garden of Eden He stationed the cherubim and the flaming sword which turned every direction to guard the way to the tree of life.

@joycrispy's analysis above highlights Aziraphale's role as given in the last verse: as the angel chosen to wield the flaming sword, he was sent down after Adam and Eve were expelled to prevent them from returning. Instead, he chose to protect them by giving that sword away. His desire to protect humanity is indeed beautiful (@give-soup-please, @snek-eyes).

But wait, what came right before that? "And take fruit also from the tree of life...?"

2:9 Out of the ground the Lord God caused every tree to grow that is pleasing to the sight and good for food; the tree of life was also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

That's right: What we see in the show is that Adam and Eve were sent out of Eden so that they'd have to deal with the rain and the animals and have to work for their food, but that was never the primary motivation. God planted two special trees, and after Eve and Adam ate from one of them, God was terrified at the prospect of them turning around and eating from the other. And thus, the Garden of Eden was made off-limits and set to be permanently guarded by an angel with a flaming sword.

So, the flaming sword.

Twice now, Aziraphale's sword has helped humanity survive complete and total destruction (@nottobehornyonthemain). The first time, he handed the sword to the first two humans, which protected not just them but the entirety of the human race via Adam and very pregnant Eve.

The second time, he let it be wielded by The Them, who used it to best the Four Horsepeople of the Apocalypse and save the billions of humans already alive as well as unborn generations.

Perhaps the flaming sword was only intended as a plot point in the first season. However, if its purpose were completed, it could have easily been destroyed. As a narrative piece, it could have broken dramatically at the end of the face-off against the Four Horsepeople. Or, Watsonianly, God could have chosen to break it Herself; after all, it was already used against its intended purpose twice, so why let it keep existing?

Instead, it's carefully taken away to... where? Heaven?

The place Aziraphale is now going?

Or at least a place where he could likely find a record showing where it's being stored?

Whether you call it "rule of threes" or "Chekhov's gun," I think it likely that Aziraphale will be getting his sword back in season 3. He probably doesn't want it (@createserenity, @ineffableigh, @doctorscienceknowsfandom), but he'll need it.

The question, then, is what would Aziraphale do with the flaming sword he was given to prevent humans from reaching the tree of life?

If we're looking at where the furniture isn't, the biggest stretch of an interpretation would be to say that the missing furniture is the tree of life. If anyone knows where Eden is, it would be Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate. We know that both Heaven and Hell want to end humanity. The opening credits have humanity walking to their judgment after their deaths; what better way to prevent that than by preventing those deaths?

The most intense version of this theory says that the audience should be familiar with the story of the Garden of Eden and know damn well that there are two special trees there and that Aziraphale was put in place to guard the second one — the one humanity hasn't eaten from yet, the one that grants immortal life. That's where, if I were truly trying to swing for the hills by aiming at where the furniture isn't, I would ideally like to end this post. If that were the case, season 3 could even open with Aziraphale walking towards the Garden of Eden, sword in hand, but this time approaching it from the outside with the intention of tearing the wall down.

But, let's be honest, making individual people immortal doesn't feel like it would fit with the themes of Good Omens, nor with Neil Gaiman or Terry Pratchett's world views.

So, let's take the tree of life symbolically: Instead of the tree of life granting individual humans immortality, it could instead represent giving humanity immortality. In that case, the thing that's where the furniture isn't is Aziraphale's sword. You know, the sword that's already saved the human race from extinction twice now, with both times being because Aziraphale gave it away.

I suspect that the sword will wind up in Aziraphale's hands again in season 3. I also quite suspect that it won't be staying there. In the end, I expect it will once again be up to humanity to reach out their hand to take the apple from that second tree.

[becca-e-barnes]

I'm not really feeling like myself today so I'm gonna indulge myself a little.

I don't remember the last time I talked about anal on here but more specifically, I'm imagining Lee and his little innocent wife again (I know you've all missed Lee as much as I have 🥵)

I think anal would be something she wouldn't often ask for because I always imagine she's quite shy about asking for what she wants but anal becomes one of their mutual favourites very quickly.

The way Lee would dote on you before anal just makes me melt. He's not nearly as reckless and rough. It's all gentle praises and soft kisses, trailing his thick fingers against your soaked sex until they're well enough coated in your arousal that he can slide two into your ass.

He'd be so mesmerised by the way you enjoy it; watching the sweet, innocent woman he married begin to explore her own sexuality and slowly start to indulge in fantasies she'd never admitted to anyone else just does it for him.

Lee's not a stranger to toys in the bedroom but nothing makes him hard like the memory of the first evening he came home from work to his wife, a couple of days after he'd got you a cute little princess plug.

He's usually greeted with a brief kiss when he comes in the door but that night, you couldn't tear your mouth off his if you tried. He tastes faintly of the toffees he keeps in the car but his mouth is so warm and distinctly his, it's addictive.

"What's gotten into you, sweetie?" You've pressed yourself flush against his body, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him while your fingers hook his belt loops, pulling him closer.

" 'm sorry. I need you." You've been worked up all day, imagining how your husband will touch you when he gets home and now he's here, you don't want to wait. The dinner can burn for all you care.

You notice how warm his hands are as they shift from your waist, reaching down to squeeze your ass and when you whimper against his mouth, it all clicks for him.

"Livin' room, sweetheart." That's exactly where he wants to be right now, instead of cramped in your tiny little hallway and when you don't make a move, he scoops you up and carries you there before sitting down in his armchair.

"Turn around. Bend over." They're clear instructions. Your feet are planted between his as you follow his lead. He pulls the skirt of your dress up and your underwear down your legs.

"God, do y'have any idea how wet you are?" The sparkling end of the plug sits neatly between the cheeks of your ass but it's hard to miss the way your slick arousal seems to almost glisten on your skin in the dim lighting.

Your breath catches in your throat feeling your husband trail his thick fingers from your neglected clit, back to tease your soaked entrance. Your body resists him pressing into you though. Having one hole filled at a time is more than enough for you for now.

"Thought I'd try it this mornin'. Slipped it in before I started the cleaning." You might feel embarrassed at how exposed you are if you weren't so turned on. "Couldn't even think straight by noon."

"Such a good girl for me. Shoulda called, honey. I'd have come straight home" He taps the base of the plug rhythmically and even that's enough to make you squirm. With his other hand, he's palming his own cock through his work trousers but that's not his main focus in that moment.

"Let me take the edge off for you. I'll take real good care of you after dinner, how does that sound?" His fingers circle your clit with the kind of ease that only comes with practice while he taps the base of the plug with the fingers of his other hand. Your body flutters around the metal inside you, offering a pleasant reminder of how full you feel and you're quite sure nothing will compare to the evening you have ahead of you.

[sailing-through-hawkins]

wanting, chasing

✧ written for 'suck' ✧ word count: 480 ✧ rated: T ✧ cw: none ✧ tags: cowboy au (set in the same universe as previous cowboy entry), deputy eddie, flirty steve ✧ @steddiemicrofic o( >ω<)o✧

"Gettin' real sick of these games, Harrington." Eddie glares, arms crossed. His cheeks burn and his face is red, but it's purely because all the blood is rushing down to his head because, guess fucking what? He got caught by a damn trap and now he's hanging upside down from a tree like a damn dog's tongue hanging from it's maw.

"Really?" Steve laughs, leaning against the tree all casual-like, all confident, all cocky. "I don't think I can get enough."

"You say that now," Eddie squints as he rotates towards the sun, the sound of Steve's laughter so close behind him. "But wait 'til I get my hands on ya -"

"Oh but deputy -"

Eddie spins and faces the tree again but now Steve's there, his face right in front of Eddie's. His hand gently holds Eddie's upper arm, stopping him from twirling away from those hazel eyes, sharp and mischievous.

"I think we both know," Steve murmurs, his eyes glancing up at Eddie's mouth with a smirk. "I've got you in the palm of my hand already."

He should feel anger, indignation, some kinda threatened by that. But all Eddie can think about is how Steve's still wearing the bandana, the one he stole from him that night at the saloon, around his neck. How it looks like it belongs there on him, Eddie's signature black tucked into the collar of his tan shirt.

"Eyes up here, Munson."

His eyes do flick up and he stares at the golden glow of Steve's smile, soft and sweet. Without a single thought in his damn head, he uncrosses his arms and reaches out, fingers ghosting over his lips. Steve inhales and before Eddie can blink, he's somehow pulled Eddie's glove off with his own damn teeth and ah fuck.

"Yer a terrible man," Eddie grumbles half-heartedly, as Steve spits out his glove onto the ground.

With a chuckle, Steve presses a kiss to Eddie's fingers. "And you just can't get enough."

"Maybe I have," Eddie says weakly (they both know he'd never). "Maybe I've decided I've had enough, 'n it's time to start chasin' other -"

He hisses when teeth almost pierce his thumb, low-lidded eyes staring him down, warning his running tongue.

"You ain't chasin' nobody else, deputy," Steve gently sucks at the skin where he bit Eddie, something of an apology, but his eyes, dark in the shade of the tree, tell Eddie it's more of a promise. "'S you 'n me, end of the line."

"Ha," Eddie clears his throat. "Anyone would think you had somethin' to claim here."

"Somethin'," Steve pulls Eddie's hand out and just barely grazes the air Eddie breathes with his lips. "Someone."

And with that, Eddie's on the ground, a throbbing echoing in his skull, staring up at the man above him, who winks and runs out of his sight, out of his grasp.

[httpiastri]

dear everyone,

a while ago, i hit 1.5k followers on this blog.... i didn't want to get too sappy but i really wanted to write something, so:

the fact that over one and a half thousand individuals follow me is truly insane and too much for my little brain to grasp. i want you to know that i'm so extremely thankful for each and every single one of you and this makes me so so so happy. this is way more than i ever had expected when creating this blog.

i made this account back in june purely for my own enjoyment; i created it mainly because i was disappointed in myself for having stopped writing, since writing has been such a big part of my life since forever. ever since i stopped writing about kpop, i had barely written anything at all... i made this account just for fun with no pressure and no expectations, and before i knew it, this blog turned into something so special for me. the blog, all of the people i've met through it and all of the moments we've shared, all mean the world to me.

honestly, i'm not sure what i would do right now if i didn't have this blog and this community. these last few months have been pretty rough for me, but i've always been able to come back on here and gain a smile or some laughter. you've all helped me so much, even if unintentionally – every single interaction helps me push forward. i'm eternally grateful for every single like, comment, reblog and ask i've received on here, and your kind words really do mean the world to me. i don't know where i would be without you.

i hit 1k a while ago but didn't celebrate it properly, so i decided to make an 1k/1.5k-celly that i will be releasing soon (when i have more time to actually write)(hopefully at the start of december). please stay tuned!

and once again, from the bottom of my heart, thank you all so so so much. you truly are the best. 🧡🧡

[willowser]

right now i'm obsessed with the idea of hot, super-nerd bakugou 🥺

like !! you knew him in junior high when he had little wire framed glasses and braces 🥺 and was kind of scrawny and a huge know-it-all 🥺 and he was probably very serious about like d&d and didn't allow you to play because it would "take too long to explain" and he did all your paired projects by himself because he didn't want you "screwing them up" !! a brat !! but then high-school comes around and you both separate and don't see each other again. not for a long time.

you go to college not too far from home, but the distance calls for a new apartment and a roommate that you get along with more than you expected to. she's the one with the car and occasionally you have to borrow it, or she'll drive you in to work and pick you up after your shift, when it's too dark out to walk.

every tuesday and thursday she has calc 2, and every tuesday and thursday, she spends most of the ride to work talking about the cute, quiet guy that sits alone at the back of the room. never pairs up with anyone or talks more than he has to. wears big, black headphones so everyone knows he's not interested. top of the class; someone somehow figures out he's been acing every exam, throwing the class average out of whack.

you're called in to work early one day and therefore have to borrow the car earlier than usual. you sit on the bench in the hallway, waiting quietly outside the room for your friend, and the minute the door opens, you're on your feet, peeking past student after student so you can grab the keys and run. you don't even notice him at first, the wall of man he is now; dressed in a black long-sleeve with a beanie on his head, almost hiding his hair but not quite. no glasses, no braces, and there are little hoops in his earlobes and he's grown into his shoulders really, really well.

the reason you look up is because he doesn't hide that he's staring at you, this guy out of the corner of your eye, and you don't even put two-and-two together when you see his face — at least not right away. he comes to a stop directly in front of you and you're just left staring at each other in the middle of a herd of other students, and he simply pulls one headphone off one ear and says,

"hey."

and — that's it. you kind of gape at him because he's much different than the version of him you knew and not half as sweaty or unapproachable and he remembered you. as soon as he saw you. stopped specifically, even though he doesn't talk to most people, apparently.

"uh, hey bakugou." you have to blink several times and clear your throat and your face warms under his unwavering stare.

whatever else he plans to say dies out when your roommate appears, too eager to be involved in your non-conversation, and he simply readjusts his headphones and walks off, only looking back once before he exits the building.

"what the fuck!" a swift smack is delivered to your arm as if you've done something wrong. "that's him, that's the guy!"

and you can't help but to remember him in class, the red rubber bands he wore in his teeth, arguing with a smaller, freckled boy about halo 3. slouching in his seat, leaning back too far until you had to flick him in the ear so his head wasn't all up in your space. sticking your tongue out at him, when you got your test scores back and they were lower than his. wary of how red his little face would get, when he offered to help you study after class.

"yeah," you say, snorting in disbelief. "that's the guy."

[lavenderstobins]

in the stars | part 1

robin buckley is four years old when she hears her prophecy for the first time.

it had been later than expected. another delayed milestone, she’d hear her mother say when she’s older. most children heard theirs by age three.

still. far too young to hear how she’ll die.

most prophecies, she learns, aren’t straightforward, and even less speak openly of death. usually they’re vague, open for many interpretations.

robin can’t think of another way to interpret “you will give your life for a man who loves you”.

it’s a heavy weight to carry. her family keep it quiet. her parents, in particular, seem to take it upon themselves to mourn her in advance. saving themselves future heartache, maybe, by not getting attached. they don’t have anymore children. she hears her father’s whispered fears that they’d lose them, too.

robin, in truth, grows up mostly okay. she doesn’t share her prophecy, even without her parents warning her to keep it to herself. it’s hard enough to make friends as it is.

she is, however, resentful. she thinks it’s fair enough. her life is to be stolen from her. by a man, no less. she doesn’t even like men. when she realises that she likes girls instead of boys, that she’s a lesbian, it’s just one more layer of resentment.

dying for a man who loves her. what a joke.

the only consolation is that it must be a distant tragedy. no men in her life love her, and with how she keeps to herself, she doesn’t see it happening anytime soon.

then she starts working at scoops ahoy, and her world is turned on its axis. steve harrington confesses to her, and she feels sick, but he understands. time continues on, and steve ribs her for her taste in women, and it’s… it’s nice. nicer, still, to know it’s not him. she doesn’t tell him about her prophecy. he doesn’t ask. she doesn’t ask about his, and he doesn’t tell her. she wonders if his life is signed away, too.

the corruption in hawkins comes back, because it always does, steve tells her. they fight for their lives again. they don’t win, but they don’t quite lose. they survive, though not without casualties. they keep struggling on.

max’s prophecy, dustin tells her in a quiet voice one day, said that she would know love blind. a sick joke from the fates, seemingly. he tells her about his. when he was two, his mother was told that he would fix things without knowing they’re broken.

robin thinks of steve, and how dustin helped him find himself. of eddie, and how dustin’s fierce loyalty protected him. of max, and how dustin unknowingly brought her back into their fold of friendship and love.

true enough, she thinks.

he asks about her prophecy. she… hesitates, in truth. it’s been a long time since she’d spoken the words. she trusts him, though. she tells him what she was told all those years ago. dustin frowns, and she shrugs awkwardly. then, he says that they’ll just have to fight men away from her, won’t they? she laughs at that. his optimism is a welcome breath of air. she asks that he keep it to himself; it’s not something she chooses to share often. he nods, glowing with pride of being chosen. they don’t talk about it again. sometimes, she sees him side-eyeing boys around her.

then they’re thrust into the fight again. the earth opens up, belching out endless monsters, and they fight tirelessly. they split into groups. she and steve are together, as always, side-by-side. they’re joined by nancy and lucas, a party of four to defend their home.

she should have seen it coming, she thinks. it had been staring her in the face and she had closed her eyes.

steve, ever the self-sacrificial fool, had risked his life for them, taking on monsters alone, and she had moved without thinking. she had dived after him. she had followed him—she would have followed him to the ends of the earth—and when he had taken a hit, she had cried out, begging the universe: not him. please, not him. the universe said nothing. and then it dawned on her; the universe had already answered her.

when steve collapses, wounded, she steps over him, separating him from the swarming monsters. she holds her weapon high and makes herself his shield. you will give your life for a man who loves you, she had been told. it never mentioned she’d love him. that she’d give it gladly.

when she takes the hit, the slashing claw meant for steve that burrows into her abdomen, she almost laughs. she’d been so blind; it never said the love would be romantic. of course it had been steve. steve, who would give his life for everyone else in a heartbeat. she had been born to keep him alive.

it’s an almost comforting thought, and it sticks with her as she beats back the monsters, as they finally collapse around them, no doubt after the real villain is brought down by el. as she sinks to her knees, as steve starts cradling her.

“robin,” he says, pleads, and he’s crying, his teardrops hitting her face like rain. she takes his hand, unable to stop a whimper escaping her, and he sobs, pulling her closer. he starts babbling, repeating words like a mantra: not her, not her, please.

he’s shaking, she realises, clutching her in his arms, like sheer willpower can keep her alive. it can’t, she knows. nothing is more powerful than a prophecy, not even love.

“steve,” she whispers. his head snaps to her, almost hopeful. she cracks a small smile. “i love you,” she says, and his hopeful expression falls.

“i love you,” he says, tears falling freely down his cheeks again, and she knows. she’s always known, even before she’d realised.

she closes her eyes.

[northern-passage]

i haven't shared a lot of tnp lately because i have been working on a different project, but i do plan to update tnp sometime this year. i know people aren't fond of less frequent updates, and "one update a year" is not exactly what i would like either, but tnp is massive at this point and i'd be lying if i tried to pretend like i could get out monthly/frequent updates. the branching is complex & it's not easy for me to put out smaller bits of content, because my branching just doesn't work that way, and i prefer to do big, chunky updates for all of you to really have something to sink your teeth into. if i could do giant full chapter updates, i would, but then we'd really be sitting around twiddling our thumbs for a while...

i never planned for tnp to take this long or even for it to be this large, but it is what it is! as they say, the time will pass anyway

[mishkakagehishka]

here's my entry for @enstarsbb !! it's a slowburn shmk in a historical au :3 tho um. unfinished for now ! but won't be abandoned, i promise.*

I worked with @heibon-hiroo (check out the accompanying artwork !!!) and @korwwa (thank you for beta-reading <3)

[marcusagrippa]

hey hi hello!! stupid old men in a desert fic was promised and i shall deliver. there is no concrete plan there's just two and a half chapters of sad Vibes so far. cw for suicide refs and suchlike because - well, i mean, who on tatooine doesn't want to kill themselves? no cannibalism (yet) sorry :[

spiracle: chapter 1/? (3924 words)

↓↓↓

He is here.

Maul knows from experience that the Force can be a fickle mistress, but there’s no question in it this time, no room for error. He would know that signature anywhere - the steady, pulsing stream of consciousness spreading lazily through the desert night like a drop of ink in water. Broken and ragged and distant though it may be, the Jedi’s presence is unmistakable. So it hasn’t all been for nothing. 

He lets out a low growl as he presses forward through the shifting sands, the particles already starting to clog the joints of his prosthetics. The path ahead of him is lit only by the faint light of Tatooine’s moons - Maul is almost upset to have missed the suns-set. Force knows it’s likely the only beautiful thing about this damned dustball. The end of his cane digs into the ground as he feels the air beginning to cool around him, and this is one of the few times in his life he wishes he’d had the foresight to wear something that covered his chest. 

Too much fabric inhibits his movement in combat. There’s nothing more to it than that, of course. And Maul is certainly planning on fighting tonight. 

The Zabrak starts to struggle a little as he clambers doggedly up a shifting dune, servos whining in protest as the mechanisms of his legs start to seize up. Damned Death Watch craftsmanship - you’d think that Mandalorians would be at least half-decent working with metal, but no, these legs have to struggle at the slightest inconvenience. Maybe they were good, once upon a time, but… he’s getting old, and so are his cybernetics.

A decidedly unflattering scowl creases Maul’s features cresting the dune, but all that melts away into a small, evil smile the second he senses it. 

It. It. Not a ‘him’, not ‘Kenobi’, it, the pulsing Force-presence growing steadily stronger as Maul squints out over the wastes, lightsaber cane clutched in one hand. His fingers tighten around the hilt. A fire, closer than he’d dared dream it could be. 

It. 

Tired limbs infused with a new rage-born strength, Maul practically races down the dune, already fumbling to extract his lightsaber from the cane disguise. That smile grows wider even as his breathing grows heavier - look, and there’s a silhouette there, too, he’s right there, he can see him, not just in his mind’s eye but in the flesh - 

The sand clouds around his heels settle in his wake, the desert returning to tranquillity once more as Maul’s chaos passes it by. 

Closer now, almost there - he slows his approach from an almost mad sprint into a crouch, as stealthy as he can manage with his prosthetics squeaking. The noise rings loudly in his ears, amplified a million times by the otherwise silence, but right now Maul doesn’t care for the specifics. What he cares about is the fact that Kenobi is there, right there, barely a hundred metres away from him, out in the wastes, alone and his for the taking. A sitting duck. 

His finger itches on the ignition switch of his saber as he stalks closer. It may have been a few years since Mandalore, but Maul’s about ninety percent certain he still knows how to make an entrance. As soon as he’s in earshot of the fire and the blobby vaguely-Kenobi-like shape slumped in front of it - the Force presence is still weak, why is it still weak? He must have gone soft in his old age - Maul clears his throat dramatically.

“Keno-”

His voice dissolves into a hacking cough and he doubles over, nearly toppling forwards before catching himself with his cane. This, it goes without saying, was not his ideal entrance. Force-dammit. He can’t be showing weakness, not in their first meeting after all these years! His eyes stream as he hacks his guts up, blood spattering the sands below him. Perhaps all those years on Lotho Minor had lasting effects even the witches’ magicks couldn’t counteract.

He straightens up after he’s somewhat recovered, looking towards the fire expectantly. He’s expecting the figure to have stood, drawn his lightsaber, shied away, even moved… but nothing. One of Maul’s eyebrows raises without his permission, and he takes a few steps closer, into the light of the fire. 

“Kenobi…?” he says hesitantly, peering at the - ah. Right.

What he had assumed was the Jedi sitting slumped forwards on a log is not, in fact, that. Instead, Maul comes face-to-face with a pack strapped to the back of a slumbering eopie. The eopie has a harness attached to it, but the end isn’t tethered to anything. 

It farts in its sleep. How quaint. 

“Oh, Obi-Wan. You’ve aged terribly,” Maul mutters, scowling, as he jabs the eopie with his cane. The beast snorts, but doesn’t wake. 

Mistaking the great Jedi General for this… creature? Perhaps he’s losing his vision as well as his mind. The thought brings Maul little comfort. 

But no - the faint trickle of Force energy is still there, humming in the background. It’s the strongest Maul’s felt since landing on this hellhole, but it’s still exactly that: faint. Broken. He could attribute it to distance when he was further away, but now, at what he presumes must be the Jedi’s own camp, it still feels broken. Shattered.

What has happened to the old man? What has he done?

The campfire is still burning, casting an orange glow over the sands and reflecting off of the few still-shiny parts of Maul’s prosthetics. If the fire is still going strong, he cannot be far - perhaps he’s just taking a piss. Maul sniffs, taking another look at the unconscious beast, and sits down in the sand to wait as he takes in the sorry state of affairs that is Kenobi’s camp. He’s waited decades for his revenge; he can serve to wait a little longer.

It’s pathetic, really, what the Jedi’s life seems to have come to. The camp is in disarray: old Republic ration tins strewn haphazardly all over the place, a bundle of rags shaped into something that vaguely resembles a bed, a dented kettle half-buried in the sand near the fire. The Jedi’s stench is drenching the place like a particularly unpalatable perfume - that disgusting, lingering feeling of kindness and weakness that Maul simply cannot abide. 

That confirms it, then. He was here. He should return. And when he does, Maul will strike him down like he deserves. Besides, he’s always liked a dramatic reveal - just the thought of emerging like a wraith from the shadows to surprise the old man, catch him entirely off-guard rather than storm up to him like a man possessed, makes Maul’s face crack into a twisted, thin-lipped smile. 

So he waits. 

And waits. 

And waits.

The sands shift. The moons rise. And Kenobi does not return.

Maul is mildly offended by this. Surely the old Jedi has sensed him by now? Does he not think him worthy of a duel? He had been expecting his quarry to be ready to attack him the moment he set foot on the planet. But… judging by the state of his camp, by the weak pulse of Force where he had assumed there would be the same steady-flowing, roaring waterfall that was present during the Clone Wars…

Something is wrong. 

Maul scowls as he gets back to his feet, cracking his back and wincing as the fire burns lower and lower. He’s going to be pissed if something has broken Kenobi before he has even had the chance to. Ah, well - he’s alive, at least, the presence confirms that - so if worst comes to worst, Maul can at least watch him suffer. The taste of second-hand revenge is not so sweet, but it is miles less bitter than no revenge at all. 

His eyes close for a brief moment and he reaches out with his senses, probing the frayed edges of the Jedi’s psyche. He’s not far, of course - not far at all, barely more than a hundred feet or so away from the embers of the fire - but that’s all he can make out from this distance. The Jedi’s spirit is weak. It will bring me great pleasure to see it decay into nothing more than the ghost of rot. 

With a huff and a muttered curse, Maul snatches his cane from the sand and stalks off into the Tatooine night. Again. The eopie snorts as he passes by, and he has to resist the urge to decapitate it. 

All in good time.

---

The moonslight is faint, and the wind is starting to pick up, but as Maul crests yet another dune neither dimness nor background noise can disguise the distinctive silhouette and choked-back wails of a man sobbing.

The sight fills Maul with more glee than it really has any right to. Oh, this is going to be easy. It may not be as fun as torturing those tears out of him would be otherwise, but the sound of the Jedi crying is the sweetest melody in the galaxy to Maul’s ears. He stands atop the dune and looks down, wreathed in darkness, tattoos faded with age and wear made brilliant yet again by the weak splashes of moonslight that grace his skin, before grinning to himself and half-walking, half-skidding down the slope to reach him. 

Maul is behind him. The Jedi doesn’t turn. 

He’s definitely weeping, Maul can tell that for certain. Hooded figure slumped forwards onto his knees, shoulders shaking, muffled little whimpers coming from his mouth. How pathetic. The Force ebbs and flows around him weakly, the once-great waterfall of his presence reduced to a trickle. 

Maul takes a few steps forward. The Jedi doesn’t turn.

Peering over his shoulder, Maul can just about see that he’s… clutching something in his hands. His shaking hands. The thing he’s clutching is a dull box, dented and dust-covered, not unusual in any way - except Kenobi is holding it like it’s a child, his touch light and almost reverential in its gentleness even through the sobs that wrack his body. 

Maul takes a final step forward - close enough to touch the Jedi’s shoulder, to stab him, to end this all. The Jedi doesn’t turn, but his sobs cease abruptly.

“...hello, Maul,” a voice says from the figure’s hood. Maul blinks. 

The voice is hoarse and scratchy, thick with tears, with the resigned tones of a man on his deathbed. The strident, cocksure voice he knew during the war has all but disappeared. The voice is Coruscanti, but other than that… 

This may as well be a stranger. Another old, forgotten soul in a galaxy full of them.

“Kenobi,” Maul spits with all the venom he can muster - which, to his surprise (and annoyance), isn’t much venom at all. He must be getting soft in his old age. He shifts his stance almost imperceptibly, hand tightening on his cane. “Cease your wailing. It’s unbecoming of you.”

“It is, is it?” the voice says forlornly as the owner drops the box back to the ground with a thud. He does not turn to face Maul, nor does he stand. He simply waits. “My apologies. I don’t have much dignity left these days. I wasn’t aware my… ‘wailing’ would offend you so.”

Maul ignores the comment and lets out a low growl. His thumb brushes against the ignition switch of his saber. “Don’t tell me someone’s finally knocked the fight out of you, old man.”

Not before I’ve had the chance, at least.

“I’m afraid that happened a long time ago.” The figure sighs, and pulls his hood back. Faint shards of moonslight illuminate an unkempt mane of greying locks, lank and unwashed. “You’re here to kill me, then, are you?”

“No, I’m here for a nice cup of h’kak bean tea and a gossip. Of course I’m here to kill you, you old fool.”

“I’d appreciate it if you stopped calling me old. We’re the same age, as I recall.”

“Yes, well, I’m not the one who’s gone greyer than a Kaminoan stormcloud, withering away out here all these years.” Maul scowls and jabs his cane into the figure’s back, eliciting a very satisfying yelp. “Stand up and face me, Kenobi, you coward. Don’t hide behind those pathetic tears.”

The figure sighs again, and somehow the sound is even more pitiful than the first time. “If you’re hoping for a duel, you won’t get one.”

“I don’t need a duel. I need you to face me like a man.”

“Why? You don’t strike me as someone who’s averse to a bit of backstabbing.”

“Just face me, you insolent wretch.”

“As my Lord commands,” the figure says drily. He shifts in his position, carefully moving the old box to the side, and begins to get to his feet. Begins being the key word there.

The process probably takes about thirty seconds in total, the silence punctuated by the occasional sniffle or pained groan from the figure. Maul’s anger is slowly starting to turn into confusion, and then disbelief. This is what’s become of him? A haunted, doddering old man with grey hair and back pain? The cane almost slips out of his grasp as he gapes at the man formerly known as Obi-Wan Kenobi, one of the galaxy’s most feared and respected warriors, struggling to stand on his own two feet.

He manages to steady himself and finally - finally! - faces Maul, and the former Sith Lord visibly winces as he catches sight of the Jedi’s visage. Weathered almost beyond recognition, wrinkles gouged deep into his skin, tears still clinging to his cheeks, all eyebags and gaunt features and hollow, blank gaze. 

“Have I got something on my face?” the husk wearing the skin of Kenobi asks, rubbing his beard. “You’re staring.”

“You look terrible,” Maul says bluntly. A smile graces the Jedi’s cracked lips, a smile devoid of humour, dignity, or hope.

“Thank you. I try. Now, are you going to kill me or am I going to have to do it myself? You did show up at the worst possible time, you know. You’re actually prolonging my lifespan by being here.”

Maul’s eyebrows raise. “...pardon?”

“Well, I was planning on killing myself before you showed up,” Kenobi says mildly. “You’re disrupting my schedule. I would appreciate it if you hurried things along a little.”

"..."

Suicide? Maul makes a choked gagging sound in the back of his throat. The cane finally slips from his fingers, landing with a soft thump in the sand as he stares dumbly at Obi-Wan, who just smiles placidly back at him. No, not Obi-Wan - not the General, the Jedi, the war hero. Whatever this thing is, it's not the warrior that Maul knew. He manages to mask his surprise with another snarl, though, before this - this husk can comment on it.

I should be happy about this. The fool has lost himself entirely. I should take pleasure in it, watching him so hopeless, so destitute. But all Maul feels is a gnawing, biting, crawling sense of dread clawing its way up from the pit of his stomach. He cannot fight this ghost. He cannot give him what he wants.

Obi-Wan sighs wearily and gets down on his knees in front of Maul. How is he so - so calm like this? When he's facing his doom - looking his death in the eye? What happened to him to break him so entirely?

"Well?" he prompts. "Strike me down. I haven't got all day."

Pathetic.

"Look what has become of you," Maul murmurs, stooping to pick up his cane and using the tip to tilt Kenobi's chin up. The fool doesn't resist - Maul's stomach twists with a pang of something unfamiliar. Could that be… pity? No. Impossible. "How did they break you, Obi-Wan? What… happened to you?"

The Jedi raises his eyes to meet Maul's, half-lidded with exhaustion, piercing blue dulled to a weak grey. "Nothing that wasn't my fault," he says quietly. His weak - weak, broken, weak - Force presence spikes with something Maul has never felt coming from the Jedi before. Grief. Fear. Darkness. 

This is not what Maul wanted. This is not what Maul wanted at all.

With a growl, he pushes Kenobi roughly away from himself, leaving him lying prone in the dust. The foolish, broken thing does not even make an effort to get back to his feet. He simply… deflates, eyes blank and devoid of the familiar cunning intelligence Maul has grown to expect, tracking his movements almost lazily as the former Sith stalks towards the discarded box. He can feel echoes as he approaches it, ripples in the Force that concentrate into two separate infinitesimal points, ripe with memories that linger like fat storm clouds around them. 

“This,” Maul hisses, snatching up the box and shaking it. It gives a satisfying rattle. “What is it? Why is it so important to you?”

Obi-Wan does not deign to grace the former Sith with a response. His eyes have suddenly turned from exhausted and uncaring to hollow and haunted and staring, gaze locked onto the box with the precision of a sniper. His fingers dig into the soft sand as he mumbles something incoherent under his breath, makes a sound like a dying bantha, and still does not get up.

Maul scowls. "Weak," he snarls, and tears the box open. The hinges aren't quite rusted shut - not enough moisture on this force-damned planet for that, he supposes - but there's a definite age to it, sand clogging the mechanism, and he struggles for a few seconds before it clicks open - 

And Maul is suddenly hit with a wave of the Dark Side so strong it makes him damn near drop the thing. 

The two lightsabers nestled inside the box, wrapped neatly in clean cloth in stark contrast to the perpetually dusty landscape around him, both stink of festering hatred and unimaginable, inconsolable grief. Maul’s hands start to tremble as he looks down on them, blood-and-bile eyes widening. Even second-hand, the pain that lives within these weapons is just… more. More than the former Sith has ever seen before, even among those artefacts his old Master used to keep scattered around the LiMerge building whilst he was being trained. Maul baulks at the memory - failure, you are a failure, he cast you aside like you were nothing because you are nothing - and reaches out a hand to touch one of the sabers.

“Don’t,” Obi-Wan’s hoarse, broken voice calls from behind him, tone gone from resigned depression to almost desperation - Maul jolts at the sudden tone change. He whirls around to face him, face stony. It doesn’t matter if he’s suicidal or… whatever. The Jedi cannot tell him what to do. Still, he feels a twinge of what might be compassion in his chest, which he immediately forces down and tries to disguise with aggression instead.

“Don’t what?! Why in the galaxy are you keeping Sith artefacts with you?! Don’t you know what they can do to you, what they can do to any Jedi in such close contact with the Dark Side? Oh, Force above, it’s a wonder you haven’t -”

He stops short, then, because the Jedi appears to have started crying again. Kenobi lets out a series of gulping sobs as he reaches one shaking hand towards the box, aged body still lying crumpled in the sand. “Please,” he rasps out between ragged breaths. “Don’t - don’t touch them. Don’t touch them, they’re not Sith artefacts - they’re mine -”

The old man dissolves into incoherent mumbles and muffled crying again, curling into a pitiful little ball of greying hair and frayed edges as his presence in the Force pulses with pain. Maul stares at him in disbelief - he seems to have been doing a lot of that when it comes to Obi-Wan, lately - and slowly withdraws his hand from the box. He sets it down gently on the sand in front of him and shuts the lid.

There is something seriously, seriously wrong with this Jedi. 

For years, the only thing that has sustained Maul has been Obi-Wan Kenobi. He has breathed for him, bled for him, spent decades of sleepless nights half-mad as he imagined ripping the Jedi limb from limb, bathing in the scarlet of his spilled lifeblood. He has wanted nothing more than to get his revenge on the man that destroyed any semblance of a chance that Maul might have had in the first place - make him hurt as he has hurt, make him feel every last drop of pain that Maul has ever felt. 

But staring at the shaking, sobbing bundle of robes and skin and bones, Maul finds that his rage has deserted him for the first time since he can remember. He cannot break what is already broken. He cannot hurt what has already been ruined beyond repair. There is no retribution for him to deliver to such a hopeless, lost soul. 

He finds the mirror of his own madness in the shake of the Jedi’s shoulders, the hushed mumblings that come from behind his hood, the way his fingers dig like scrabbling claws into the sand. The Jedi has disappeared - this is all that is left. Maul’s mission, his only mission, his reason to be… has been left unfulfilled. Washed away by the husk’s choked sobs. 

Maul leans heavily on his cane, just watching Kenobi silently for a few more seconds. Behind the fog of his confusion, however, something begins to formulate. 

The Jedi has disappeared. I am incomplete. There will be no justice until I am the one to break Kenobi’s stride, until I am the one to finally douse that fire in him. I shall just have to… rekindle it. 

I will be his saviour, nurse him back to life, liberate him from his chains - and then I will grind him into dust beneath the heel of my boot. As is my right. 

Maul bends down, picks up the box. The mere sight of the thing makes his stomach lurch, but he dares not risk touching the contents again. He slides it into his pack, then strides over to where Obi-Wan lies drowning in his own sorrow, clearly in the middle of some kind of… episode? Disgusting. 

“Come, Jedi. Enough of that.”

He grips Kenobi’s forearms with his gloved hands and hoists him to his feet. After a few seconds of awkward, weak swaying and ragdoll-like limbs, it becomes abundantly clear that the Jedi is not going to be able to walk on his own. With a weary, resigned sigh - oh, I’m already regretting this - he picks Kenobi up as easily as if he were a child, putting him over his shoulder a little haphazardly. This brings forth a pained grunt that Maul takes far too much satisfaction in, and Kenobi starts pummeling his chest weakly with clenched fists. 

“Cease your whining. You need to eat. You’re skin and bones as it is,” Maul chastises, voice dripping with false cheerfulness as he starts to haul the Jedi up the dunes. His skin is cold against Maul’s back - far too cold to be healthy. Maul hopes to all hope that the meagre fire at the camp has not gone completely out yet. 

“And sleep. You look like you haven’t slept in the past three years.”

Kenobi manages to get out a weak ‘I haven’t’, before his body goes limp, leaving Maul with the long and arduous task of heaving an unconscious, unwashed, slightly smelly nemesis back towards his salvation - and, eventually, his doom. 

[soup-appreciation]

new year's at 221b - ID under cut

I don't know how much I've drawn them over the past few days but god I'm obsessed. I wasn't feeling well this evening and just wanted a cosy warm vibe, and I like how it turned out. I think I was vaguely inspired after reading this short fic by AthingcalledR.

Image description:

A greyscale drawing of John and Sherlock sitting on a couch together, looking at each other and raising their mugs to each other. They're both wearing comfy jumpers and socks. Sherlock's hair is tied back in a small ponytail. The background consists of a quick sketch of a pair of windows and the outlines of buildings outside. A string of lights are hung messily above the windows.

[End ID]