#fantastic_nonsense

[fantastic-nonsense]

me, randomly dropping the next chapter of the knife fic on a Wednesday morning after months of no updates? it's more likely than you think!

When Inej left the golden halls of her personal hell days after her fifteenth birthday, she flinched at the shadows. Two years later, the Wraith of Ketterdam made others flinch at her shadow instead. There were countless moments that forged the woman she would become, endless memories of late night stakeouts and heart-pounding fights that marked her time with the Dregs. But the remaking of Inej Ghafa began with a knife and an order to “be useful.” Or: The story of how Inej acquires her knives, keeps her faith, and reclaims herself in the two years between leaving the Menagerie and the job that changed her life.

Chapter 4: Sankt Vladimir

She could help him. She knew she could. She was bigger, stronger, with better weapons and more fighting experience. But this wasn’t her fight, and the boy wasn’t a Dreg.

Put herself in danger to save a rival gang member, or ignore the fight below her? 

Inej decides to save a child in the middle of a gang war. It goes poorly.

[Read the fic from the beginning on Ao3!]

[thefoxtricks]

it me.

thanks @dippedmoonshadow

[fantastic-nonsense]

good morning, everyone! At long last, the first chapter of the knife fic is finally up! I hope you all enjoy it!

When Inej left the golden halls of her personal hell days after her fifteenth birthday, she flinched at the shadows. Two years later, the Wraith of Ketterdam made others flinch at her shadow instead. There were countless moments that forged the woman she would become, endless memories of late night stakeouts and heart-pounding fights that marked her time with the Dregs. But the remaking of Inej Ghafa began with a knife and an order to “be useful.” Or: The story of how Inej acquires her knives, keeps her faith, and reclaims herself in the two years between leaving the Menagerie and the job that changed her life.

[fantastic-nonsense]

Third chapter of the knife fic is up! Come get your Inej angst and angsty pre-Kanej feels!

When Inej left the golden halls of her personal hell days after her fifteenth birthday, she flinched at the shadows. Two years later, the Wraith of Ketterdam made others flinch at her shadow instead. There were countless moments that forged the woman she would become, endless memories of late night stakeouts and heart-pounding fights that marked her time with the Dregs. But the remaking of Inej Ghafa began with a knife and an order to “be useful.” Or: The story of how Inej acquires her knives, keeps her faith, and reclaims herself in the two years between leaving the Menagerie and the job that changed her life.

Chapter 3: Sankta Anastasia

The morning after she killed a man for the first time, Inej walked out of the Slat to buy a new knife.

[Read the fic from the beginning on Ao3!]

[fantastic-nonsense]

Chapter 2 (Sankta Marya) of the "How Inej got her knives" fic is officially live!

When Inej left the golden halls of her personal hell days after her fifteenth birthday, she flinched at the shadows. Two years later, the Wraith of Ketterdam made others flinch at her shadow instead. There were countless moments that forged the woman she would become, endless memories of late night stakeouts and heart-pounding fights that marked her time with the Dregs. But the remaking of Inej Ghafa began with a knife and an order to “be useful.” Or: The story of how Inej acquires her knives, keeps her faith, and reclaims herself in the two years between leaving the Menagerie and the job that changed her life.

Jurgen’s wife has started going to a cafe off the Boeksplein once a week to meet Arnoud Van Hollen for lunch. He’s a philosophy professor with no known connections to either them or their orange trading business. I want to know why.

Inej huffed in irritation. Two weeks of watching the pair’s lunches and she was no closer to figuring out what they were really meeting for. It had been easy enough to disguise herself as a student and take a table close enough to Ada Jurgens to listen in on their conversations. It was harder to understand if there were any hidden meanings tucked away underneath their political discussions and lighthearted ethical debates. The lack of progress was frustrating. She was usually better at her job than this.

[Read it on Ao3!]

[thefoxtricks]

Run Away with Me - Gravebone

for @eriakit with the prompt “Run Away with Me” without angst. 

it’s short??

“Run away with me,” Mr. Graves breathes into the otherwise silent room.

Their skin is still tacky with sweat, their hearts somehow stampeding in sync–or so Credence thinks with his cheek against Mr. Graves’ shoulder as he has it. His hand rests on his chest, where his heart thuds steadily against his palm. They’re very in tune with one another, Credence realizes, if the equivalent push and pull of their lovemaking was any indication. It could just as easily be Mr. Graves’ magic, but Credence hopes–prays, really–that it’s them and not some external power Credence can only dream of harnessing.

It would have startled Credence–it still startles him, really, but Mr. Graves’ arm around him, the way his thumb strokes steadily against his shoulder stops him from pulling away as he might have ought. But Mr. Graves’ touch is a grounding, solid thing; a juxtaposition to the obscurus that still hums just beneath the surface of his skin, so he stays.

Truthfully, he stays for much more than the touch. Touches. How Mr. Graves kisses him keeps him there, how easily he let Credence slot into the empty spaces of his much-too-large home, his much-too-empty life. Or so Mr. Graves tells him, anyway. Credence struggles to believe Mr. Graves is anything but content with what he has–his home, his career, the colleagues that skirt the line of friends. It’s so much more than Credence had ever known, though, sometimes…

Sometimes Mr. Graves looks at him with haunted eyes, unafraid of the fragility in his gaze, of how it tries Credence’s own fragility. Sometimes, when Mr. Graves kisses him, it’s with a shivering breath and uncertainty on his lips. Sometimes, beneath Mr. Graves’ rough, calloused hands, there’s more pressure than necessary, as if Mr. Graves is testing the solidity of Credence’s form, as if Credence could collapse into mist beneath him.

And Credence very well could. It’s why MACUSA wants him, after all.

“Run away with me,” Mr. Graves repeats, but with more conviction. “My family has an estate up north. MACUSA knows of it, but they don’t know where it is. We could be safe there. We could be happy.”

Credence has never considered escape, never realized he could harbored or could summon the strength to do so. Even beneath the lashings of his very own belt in Mother’s hands, he never considered escaping. Perhaps he learned early that there was no escape. Perhaps, with the omnipresent weight of God’s judgment–her judgment, he quickly corrects–he instinctively knew the futility of escape. It nestled deep in his thoughts, made him hunch his shoulders and accept the beatings because there was no other way.

Then he met Mr. Graves.

“Credence?” Mr. Graves hedges, and there’s uncharacteristic uncertainty in his voice. He still strokes Credence’s shoulder, but he shifts so he lays on his side, facing him. With his free hand, he brushes back Credence’s hair, caresses his jaw, then gently guides his face up to meet his gaze. “Would you?” he asks.

Credence closes his eyes, weak beneath the intensity of Mr. Graves’ stare. When Mr. Graves traces the seam of his mouth, Credence licks his lips out of habit. With a soft sigh, he disentangles himself from their threaded limbs and sits up, resting his head in his hand. Mr. Graves remains lying on his back, but he touches Credence’s spine with the tips of his fingers until Credence’s shivers. “I’ve never…”

The touching stops and Credence mourns its loss.

Mr. Graves waits, patient as a stone, for him to continue. Mr. Graves is always patient with him.

“I’ve never considered it.”

With a gentle laugh, Mr. Graves said, “How could you? I’ve never mentioned the estate.”

“I meant running away, Mr. Graves.”

He hums, then says, “Surely you’ve considered it before?”

Credence shakes his head, drawing his knees closer to his chest. “Never once. Not until–not until you.”

“It doesn’t have to be now,” Mr. Graves says gently. “It doesn’t have to be tomorrow or the next day. It doesn’t have to be, Credence. I only thought–”

“–of me,” Credence finishes for him. “Yes, I know. You always think of me.”

“Guilty,” Mr. Graves admits, and Credence can almost hear the smile in his voice. Then, more somberly, he asks, “Will you think about it?”

It’s Credence’s turn to laugh, and as he does so, his melancholy evaporates. He leans back onto the bed, into Mr. Graves’ awaiting arms, and holds himself over him on his elbow. When Mr. Graves’ traces the line of his jaw, Credence leans into his hand. “You’ve given me so much to think about, I don’t know how I’ll sort through it all.”

“With time,” Mr. Graves answers easily. “And distance. Hence…” He arches a brow and Credence laughs again.

“Then, yes,” Credence declares. It’s so natural, so easy; but that’s the way of things with Mr. Graves. It’s how they’ve always been.

Mr. Graves blinked as if befuddled. “Yes?” he repeats.

“Yes, Percival,” Credence murmurs. “I’ll run away with you.”

Mr. Graves hauls him into a kiss, one Credence meets halfway, and it feels like a promise. Credence has never known hope, but as Mr. Graves guides him to lay atop him, Credence thinks he likes the taste of it.