#putting it both on here and on ao3

[landwriter]

Hi! I hope you feel better soon!

This is a great prompt by @academicblorbo about Hob Gadling being the landlord of the Dead Boys. It has a wonderful fill already by @omgcinnamoncakes but I’d love to see what you come up with for it!

Alternative prompt from me if that doesn’t work for your brain: remember the date between Jenny and Maxine? How about one between Jenny and Esther? Poor Jenny is going to really question her taste in beautiful blonde women 😭

Thank you! I saw ‘landlord’ and ‘decades’ and blacked out. I love Hob having them as tenants. Maybe even before the modern day meeting in Sandman.

The Sandman/Dead Boy Detectives, 2.4k, G Dream/Hob, pre-slash, alternating/outsider POV, found family, a reunion and revelations etc.

---

Hob did not, strictly speaking, have tenants. It was more of a minor haunting. Pun intended.

The small room above the pub and below his flat wasn’t worth charging anyone rent for; when he first bought the building he had put a handsome oak desk in there and some bookshelves before wondering who he was possibly keeping up appearances for. Who was he going to take back upstairs that would stop and say, Wait, can I see your office? So he’d left it as more or less an abandoned room.

When he realized a pair of boys were using it as their clubhouse, he didn’t do anything at first. He saw them quietly coming and going a couple times, disappearing around the corner of the first landing. Brazen things. He meant to call after them, but the shout had died in his throat. He’d been young once. He still remembered the need to get away from it all. It was only when he went to check if they’d been making a mess of the room that he discovered it was still locked.

He’d crouched down and inspected the latch and found no marks at all. Huh, he’d said, and jiggled it again, and been a little more interested in whatever clever way they were getting into it after they disappeared up his stairs. Then he didn’t see them for weeks, and assumed they had gotten bored and stopped.

Until they came back. In the middle of an argument, striding through the pub like they owned it. Hob straightened up as they passed him.

“I cannot believe you broke the mirror.”

“I was in a rush! It’s not my fault you forgot you needed Arcana Incantatum after we arrived at the church. And found the demon.”

“I hardly forgot, I only made the mistake of assuming you would know to pack it by now.”

Hob raised his eyebrows. The boys disappeared into the back hallway. He followed them as they went upstairs, too preoccupied with their drama to notice Hob. They turned onto the landing, still carrying on. Even as they walked through the door. The locked, closed door.

Hob blinked. Then he drew his keys from his pocket and opened the door. The boys were still inside. One of them was pulling a mirror out of a backpack that was several times too small for it. They didn’t even look up, and Hob wondered how he couldn’t possibly have put it together earlier. He cleared his throat.

“Hello, boys.” That caught their attention. Hob grinned. “Seems we’re neighbours.”

---

Edwin abhorred getting involved with the living. He and Charles got along perfectly well on their own. They were a duo. An intrepid pair. Best mates, like Charles often stressed whenever he was about to ask something particularly ridiculous of Edwin. They were solid together. As solid as two ghost boys could be. The living, though, were messy and unpredictable.

Perhaps the most salient fact at present: Charles invariably became attached to them.

“He’s sad, mate. I can see it in his eyes.”

“You said those exact words in ‘94 about a dog. At least ask Hob himself.”

Before you decide to adopt him too.

Hob Gadling, irritatingly, was unobjectionable on every ground Edwin could think of. He had made no imposition upon them. When he found them, he only asked them their business, and then told them he was usually downstairs, or upstairs, if they needed anything they couldn’t procure themselves. He had an interest in rare and old books, as it happened. In explaining this, he had also hinted at being far older than his looks would suggest, which vexed Edwin twice over. He knew his curiosity would not be slaked until he talked to Hob, but then he would be the one getting involved with the living, and Charles would hardly let him forget it.

“Do you think he’s really immortal? Mate’s far too calm. Last week I saw him stop a fight downstairs by stepping right between these huge blokes. He just said something and smiled and they backed right off.” Charles lit up. “Do you reckon he’d teach me how to do that? Conflict de-escalation, innit? I could show him some moves with the cricket bat, I bet. Oh, do you think he’s a cricket fan?”

It was obviously a hopeless case, and since the Dead Boy Detectives never took on hopeless cases, there was only one course of action that remained. Edwin had long since disabused himself of the notion he needed to breathe. He had no beating heart, yet when he was startled, he would find himself clutching his chest. Now, he exhaled slowly through his nose in an entirely superfluous sigh of resignation. “Well, Charles, shall we go talk to him?”

---

When the millennium came around, Hob found himself celebrating it with his accidental tenants. There was something gloriously satisfying about being able to make a toast to the next one and have it taken seriously. He’d asked them if they had something better to do - spectral trouble to get into et cetera - and they both looked at him with almost identical put-upon and incredulous expressions.

Hob had a terrible suspicion they thought they were taking care of him as much as he thought he was taking care of them.

Edwin, with his insatiable curiosity and, deep underneath it, something Hob thought he recognized from himself: a sharp animal ferocity and a refusal to go until he’s good and done, natural laws be damned. Charles, still brightly, painfully alive for a ghost - who should be alive still, by all rights, but nothing of this life was fair - who joked to cover up hurt in a way Hob knew too, and glowed any time Hob turned so much as a kind word to him.

He wondered what they saw when they looked at him.

The year ticked over, and technology kept working. Charles grinned innocently and said he could probably possess the telly and break it that way if Hob wanted?

Hob’s heart twinged. He knew they weren’t his, not to keep, but it seemed that teenagers didn’t change at all over the centuries, even if the boys were only sort of teenagers in the way Hob was only sort of in his thirties. It didn’t change that they’d been punted from the mortal coil before having a chance to grow up, and figure out the kind of men they were, and make their own choices and fuck up and try to be better than their fathers, and everything everyone deserved. Hob had made more than his share of mistakes. They hadn’t been given the chance to make nearly any at all.

So they made toasts to the new millennium, to the detective agency, to themselves, all stuck out of time in different ways and refusing to move on for different reasons, and Hob allowed himself to think of Robyn and privately pretend that they were his all the same.

---

A week later, Hob was reminded of the other universal traits of teenagers when he mentioned his stranger and both boys began to grill him with terrifying alacrity. Before turning to his dating life, like ravening bloody wolves. When Edwin had asked, in a specifically nineteenth century manner that Hob remembered all too well, if Hob had always been unmarried, he’d nearly put his head in his hands.

“It can be hard for me to associate with the living too, you know. For obvious reasons.”

Charles had turned to Edwin and hissed “See? I told you.”

Right in front of him. Nobody had taught them manners.

“Manners, Charles,” replied Edwin loftily. “We will, of course, respect your privacy. A man is entitled to his secrets.”

“You’ll go upstairs and rifle through my personal things, is what you’ll do,” said Hob.

Charles coughed to hide his laugh. Edwin flushed and looked away. Hob snorted, and told them about Eleanor and Robyn. Properly. It was a strange relief. He’d told the story wrong for plausibility’s sake so many times he had been worried he’d forget the truth of it one day.

They had listened, and been remarkably quiet until Charles piped up and offered to set him up with a ‘really fit’ ghost. Hob had roundly shut that down. Woefully, not all explanations were satisfying enough. Charles cornered him again the next morning while he was cleaning the bar.

“No, mate, I still don’t get it.” Hob was about to say he no more wanted to be with someone who couldn’t feel pleasure from his touch than someone who would grow old and be taken from him while he stayed the same, when Charles went on, bafflingly, to ask, “Why don’t you meet your mysterious friend more often than once a century?”

Hob sighed. “Adults are often busy, Charles.” Nevermind that he had begun to wonder the same since the eighteenth century. He’d always just assumed time passed differently for his stranger.

Charles just laughed and perched himself on the bar top. “Ooh, low blow. We’re busy too, you know. Plenty of cases to solve.”

“Really,” said Hob. “You’re busy. Right now.”

Charles waggled his eyebrows.

“Charles, I am not a case,” said Hob, sternly as possible. “I’m not even a ghost. He’s not a ghost. No ghosts.”

“We could investigate. Maybe ghosts are involved. What even is he? Why every hundred years? Is it some sort of Persephone situation?”

Hob bit his lip against shouting I don’t know! I don’t know anything about him! Instead, he tried to smile, and felt it come out as a wince instead. “He’s very private.”

Charles scowled. “Yeah, obviously. You don’t even know his name. He can’t be that good of a friend if he’s too busy to see you more than once a century.”

Hob couldn’t see the expression on his own face, but he saw Charles’ shocked reaction well enough. It was so long ago for him, and still Hob knew at once what Charles saw now: that first time you manage to visibly hurt a grown-up’s feelings, people who seemed too old and too stern to actually feel pain, when you’d been going around kicking at them like a new foal, just to stretch your legs.

“Sorry,” said Charles, instant regret chasing his surprise. He was a good kid.

“It’s alright,” said Hob. He meant it. He looked down at the shining bartop. His hands were restless with the urge to light a cigarette. He gave in. It wasn’t like Charles would be dying of lung cancer any time soon if he decided to follow Hob’s example. “I don’t think he would say he’s very good at being a friend either. Truth is, I’d love to see him more often. But we had an awful fight the last time we met. If he forgives me, I’ll have to ask.”

“Mates always make up,” said Charles earnestly. He was such a good kid.

“I suppose they do.” Charles still looked sorry, and Hob clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. Thanks for looking out for me, Charles.”

Charles beamed at him. “Always. We’ve got your back, me and Edwin.”

---

Charles couldn’t bloody believe it. Hob’s friend was here. There was nobody else it could be. He and Edwin were watching from a nearby table, pretending to be absorbed in their own conversation. Neither man noticed them. They were too busy looking at each other.

He couldn’t imagine spending more than a century apart from Edwin. The way Hob had talked about him and his stranger over the years, it sometimes seemed like they were best mates too, no matter how little they saw each other. He was dead sure that’s what had Hob looking so gutted when he thought nobody was looking. He had known they would make up, though. Maybe now Hob would be happier.

“Charles, we really ought not eavesdrop,” hissed Edwin. Right as he scooted his chair closer, the cheeky hypocrite. Hob and his friend were talking too quietly to properly hear, their heads bent together. Lots to catch up on, Charles reckoned. A hundred years. He couldn’t stop thinking about the number. It seemed impossible. Funny, he couldn’t imagine that long away from Edwin, but he could imagine spending that long being best mates. There was nobody he’d rather hide from Death with.

Hob’s face was doing something strange as his long-lost friend talked. Then Hob moved and grasped him by the shoulders, so tight that his knuckles stood out in relief. The man said something in low tones and Hob shook his head, and then pulled him in for a hug. The man stiffened and then relaxed, and his arms came up around Hob’s.

Their cheeks both looked wet.

Charles swallowed and it felt suddenly a little like he was choking. He should look away, only he couldn’t.

“They must be great friends,” said Edwin softly.

“Yeah,” he managed to croak. We won’t ever need to have a reunion like this because I’m never going to lose you, mate. I won’t let them take you. It was stuck behind the phantom lump in his phantom throat. His hand, without him telling it to, reached out and grabbed hold of Edwin’s. Edwin squeezed it hard, and Charles knew he didn’t have to make his voice work after all.

Then the man pushed Hob away, but only far enough to grab his face and pull him back again, thumbing over Hob’s cheeks, and beside him, Edwin honest-to-god gasped, and then Charles momentarily forgot how thoughts worked too.

---

It happens thus: in the New Inn, just next door to the White Horse, some 639 years after they first met, Hob Gadling and Dream of the Endless share their first kiss. Neither, if they had bothered to think about it, would have intended to have an audience, but it’s a well-known fact that some kisses cannot wait, and theirs was chief among them, being that it had so much to say, and was so very long overdue.

I missed you, it said, and I came back, it said, and Please don’t go away from me again, and I could not.

And atop them, like blankets, were laid invisible the daydreams of those who saw them, including two long-dead boys, whose dreams were woven from the fresh and unaccounted-for possibilities of Hob kissing his mysterious stranger. Another man, thought Edwin. His best friend, thought Charles. Dream was the only one who could have heeded this, but he did not, because Hob Gadling was holding him tight and daydreaming loudly of this kiss and more, of this today and tonight and tomorrow, ever greedy and ever easily pleased, and Dream could hear nothing at all over their clamouring and comingled joy; the bright gold daydream between the scant space of their bodies that sounded so much like at last.

[the-holy-ghosted]

congrats 2 henry peglar for being the only bitch confirmed as to be Fucking That Old Man

[hoperays-song]

I've realized that there's this specific type of found family that I adore where it's just this one extremely concerning kid going around doing all this dangerous and reckless stuff and just summoning all these parental figures to them who all end up so stressed out and going "Kid, kid no. Go get some sleep, take care of yourself. Please, I can't keep doing this. Please just stop."

[cookiesandbiscuits]

One of my all-time favorite Devilgrams isn't a UR card but this:

Why is no one talking about this??

It has so much Lucifer x MC angst potential that makes you go RAAAAAAAAAAH!! And the ending?? So perfect!! (Solmare, please give us more of MC getting upset with one of the boys and the guy in question trying to make up to them)

Now I'm thinking about making a fic based on this.

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

choosing violence 10 + 16 + 22 !!!! >:333

ok u didnt specify a fandom but im just gonna do this for pd because its front and center in my mind !!!!!! oh boy i cant wait to be crucified for my opinions

10. worst part of fanon

this is a problem with every jrwi campaign and also like. most . other fandoms to be real. but it seems like my favorite characters are always the ones that get the worst of the mischaracterization beam -_- i cant tell you HOW MANY fics ive opened bc the premise sounds cool only to IMMEDIATELY close it due to "he would not fucking say that" this isnt pd but if i have to read one more fic that infantilizes gillion for not understanding Land Things im going to blow up. hes stupid sometimes yeah! but hes not ignorant and hes not a baby hes like. literally the oldest one on the crew even if its only by a year or two. head in hands

16. you can't understand why so many people like this thing (characterization, trope, headcanon, etc)

ok im gonna get burnt at the stake for this one but i personally dont really see the appeal of tfem ashe... like i see the appeal yeah of course i do i just dont get why people are so like... weirdly forceful and passive aggressive about it? also this is totally a personal thing no hate to anyone that does this but its kind of a peeve of mine when ppl write analysis posts ans use their headcanon pronouns like.... if u are going to talk about and analyze canon then talk about canon !!!! i cant tell u how many good ashe posts ive skipped over bc im like. we are talking about different characters here .. respect to ashe tfemers and everything but its not for me

22. your favorite part of canon that everyone else ignores

THERE IS A DISTURBING LACK OF CLARENCE ALBERT FAN CONTENT. WHY ARE PEOPLE NOT MORE INSNAE ABOUT CLARENCE ALBERT. HELLO???? am i the only person that feels this way . can anyone hear me its so fucking dark in here. every day i just want to read a fic about clarence albert and i am met with this

and neither of them are . interesting to me. hell on earth. bizly PLEASE give me more clarence lore in season 3 im fucking starving.

[pikkish]

So I was rereading How To Process a Soul (because it's one of my faves) and I just happened to look at who the author was and had a moment of like... no way... Pikkish the cool artist is also a cool author... so I just had to come over here so I could compliment you :3

Wait wait are you telling me that you found my tumblr and my ao3 independent of each other and didn't realize until now that they're the same person? Because that's hilarious.

[boxxecl]

please read my fic about wanting to kiss someone in the dark. g rated. <2k (i think)

•X•X•

A sliver of moonlight creeps its way through the gap where the curtains aren’t quite pulled to; it’ll annoy Mike in the morning, the mid-morning sun waking him too early, never allowing him the eight hours of sleep a growing boy needs. Still, he won’t check that they’re completely shut tomorrow night, and when they’re not, he’ll once again watch Will's face — cut through with silver — shift in the shadows. 

He’s awake now, whispering about a new campaign idea he has. They do this when they know they should be sleeping. Pretend everything’s normal, that tomorrow they’ll get up, get ready for school and afterwards do whatever it is normal sixteen-year-old boys do: play video games, watch movies, shoplift dirty magazines from the top shelf of the magazine section at Mr. Finchley’s general store. The world hasn’t ended and they’re having a normal sleepover at Mike’s house, same as they always did when they were younger. 

“I think there should be a dragon in the crystal cave,” says Mike after Will’s finished explaining parts of a particularly arduous-sounding dungeon crawl.

Will gives him a withering look as best he can in the darkness, one that say of course there’s going to be a dragon in the crystal cave. What do you take me for?  Then he laughs at his own attempt at admonishment. Realises he’s being too loud, clamps a hand over his mouth, because even though they’re not ordinary sixteen-year-old boys and the world did end, Mike’s mother still won’t tolerate them being up and giggling in the early hours. If they get caught again, Will’s going to be back in the basement with his brother; an arrangement a sum total of eighty percent of the house’s dependant population would object to.

Maybe she’s right, it’s almost two AM and Mike’s head aches behind the eyes, a persistent strain that begs them to close. Just for a moment, just for a short rest. He doesn’t want to sleep, though; with Will under the cloak of darkness is the only time he feels like the world is still orbiting the sun and not hurtling through space in a direct line to a black hole. 

Will drops his hand onto the mattress between them, landing curled somewhere near his chin. Mike’s own hand twitches with the urge to reach out. He doesn’t. He doesn’t push down the thought, either. Hasn’t for a while. Let’s himself indulge in the fantasy of it for a moment. Fingers brushing, the electricity of skin-on-skin, trailing over the knobbly bones of his wrist. His heart barely even picks up speed at the idea anymore, used to the wanting. The way he feels is so much less dangerous here. He’s shrouded, obscured. His emotions become grayscale at night, blending into his bedsheets, the only technicolour provided by the moonlight that cuts Will’s face in two.

It’s all there in the places where he’s illuminated. The shine of one eye, over the bridge of his nose, down to the curved corner of his still smiling mouth, the one underneath the mole. It’s barely concealed everywhere he’s not. Across his jawline, his throat, his broad shoulders. His hands, his hands, his hands.

Will’s quiet; must notice that Mike’s somewhere else, with someone else. A version of Will that doesn’t shy away when Mike tries to touch him, returns every affection with his own. Mike wonders, sometimes, if he could. If maybe when they stop talking and stay awake, watching each other for too long to be an accident, that Will experiences any of the reverence Mike does. If he, too, considers shuffling an inch, two, closer; their breaths mingling, a barely noticeable heat radiating off their skin. An invitation where the R.S.V.P. is to do the same.

Neither move, settled into something so fragile that any shift could break it. Mike’s gaze flicks down to where Will’s hand still lay, mapping out the rise and fall of his barely visible knuckles. He could. What was stopping him? Rejection? The world outside his bedroom window rained hellfire three times a week, it chased them down with bared teeth and elongated claws, it didn’t let them breath most days. Every day, month, week survived more of a miracle than the last. And Mike was worried about being embarrassed, worst of all feelings but still better than dead. Better than dying without knowing. If he dies without knowing, then what was the point of any of it?

He shifts a hand up slowly, like Will is a skittish animal that could startle at any sign of movement, doesn’t stop until it sits parallel to Will’s, four inches apart. It wouldn’t take much. Less than a second. Easier said. There’s a glacier between them, a gulf, a canyon. Light years upon light years, and an entire eternity. Mike wants to skip to the end of the chapter, see how it ends without having to get there. Wants to know if the final reprise is joyous or melancholy.  

Will doesn’t retreat like Mike fears he might, doesn’t back up to the edge of the bed. He wouldn’t anyway; these days Will’s a restless sleeper, tossing and turning even on nights where the nightmares don’t take hold and wouldn’t risk hurtling off the side. If it were anyone else, Mike thinks, it would be annoying, but with Will, it just means he’s alive, safe in the confines of Mike’s childhood bedroom. As long as the posters hung on the walls and the last remnants of his toy collection sat gathering dust on the shelves, they’d never have to grow up. They could stay untouched by time, unharmed by what the future might bring. 

Mike has long since realised it’s already too late for either of them. Will had never had the privilege of naïvety and Mike had seen too many bodies for childhood to be anything more than a nebulous concept that they clung to nonetheless. As if all the joys and simplicities of youth were stored on a game cartridge ready to be slotted in, a cheery 8-bit soundtrack playing in the background, overwriting the trauma of the real world. 

“How does it end?” Asks Mike, so quiet he’s worried that Will doesn’t hear him properly. “The campaign?”

Will smiles, softly. “Secret,” he whispers back.

Mike could push it; he’d relent if he did, always does, but really, Mike doesn’t want to talk anymore. Too tired to say anything meaningful or interesting, too scared to simply be honest. Not in words, intangible things. Words can be scattered to the winds, ephemeral then lost forever. He wants to kiss him. 

The thought is easy now. The first time the notion had come to him, unbidden and uninvited, he’d gone outside and put his fist to a brick wall. The wall had remained unharmed, but Mike’s knuckles had required some explaining when he got home. He doesn’t remember whatever lie he’d come up with, just his father commenting that it was lucky he wasn’t strong enough to break a bone. Despite the still stinging split skin, he’d wanted to punch him too.

Eventually, the rage had died down, though not before countless nights of waiting for Will to finally, mercifully fall asleep so he could scream silently into his pillow. His anger was as useless as his fear. It made even less sense in the grand scheme of everything. He’d let that one go, taken away by the storms and ravaging beasts.

He closes the gap half way, another two inches gone. Two to go. He gauges Will’s reaction; he’s watching the point where their fingers are closest, doesn’t take his eyes off it even when Mike takes a deep breath. With little more than a shift, he runs the back of his forefinger over Will’s knuckles, slowly, up and down between the ridges. Will’s so still that Mike isn’t even sure that he’s breathing. Maybe he isn’t, neither is Mike. 

He wonders for a moment if he should stop, turn over and pretend he didn’t do anything; in the morning he could let Will think he’d dreamt it. Maybe that’s what Will wants. Maybe his stillness is cold and horrified and it’s only in his shock that he can’t pull away.

But then he uncurls his hand and turns it over so the palm faces upwards, somewhere new for Mike’s fingers to explore. He does. Runs them over Will’s own, calloused, slightly shaking. He traces the lines on his palm, tries to remember what they’re supposed to mean; heart line, head line, life line. He wishes he knew how to read them, wants to see if he can find himself there. He finds the pulse point in Will’s wrist, revels in how fast it is. This here feels dangerous. He’s hurtling towards a point where plausible deniability is no longer an option; that point is crossed half way up Will’s forearm.

At this point Will starts to breath again, his breath heavy enough that Mike can feel it, warming his face like a summer breeze. If it’s stale, he doesn’t notice, doesn’t think he’d care if he did. He finds another pulse point, the one at Will’s jugular, presses into it, counts the beats for tens seconds and multiplies by six. One-twenty or thereabouts.  

“One hundred and twenty B-P-M,” he says.

Will doesn’t respond. Instead, he raises his tormenting hand, presses two fingers to the inside of Mike’s wrist. Fifteen seconds pass.

“One-oh-eight.”

“Damn, you beat me.”

Will laughs softly, dropping his hand. Mike doesn’t drop his. His fingers continue on their journey, although there isn’t much further they can go without retracing their steps and taking a different path altogether. They brush Will’s hair out of his eyes but it just falls back so he leaves them lingering at the crest if his cheekbone where the strip of light is brightest, a glowing whisper of a touch. His pale skin is stark white in the moonlight. He stays there, nowhere else to go.

“Mike?”

“Hmm?” Replies Mike, suddenly worried that he’s made a mistake, that Will’s only just realised what he was letting happen. He should pull away, he thinks. Turn over and go to sleep or at least wait and see if Will will do anything in response. He doesn’t, too caught up in the closeness. If he pulled away now and Will didn’t bring him back, that would be it. He wouldn’t try again.

Will’s eyes are wide and shining, his lips parted in a ghost of a reply as if the words won’t come to life on his tongue. When they do, Mike is struck still. “Why aren’t you kissing me?” He’s too sincere when he asks it, no hint of flirtation, like the fact that Mike hasn’t kissed him yet is of his own doing, a punishment for his wrongdoings whatever they might be. He doesn’t understand that kissing him is all Mike’s wanted to do for months and faced with the very real prospect, he doesn’t want to mess it up.

“Do you want me to?”

“Will you? If I say yes?”

“Only if you say yes.”

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches up and places his fingers over Mike’s, intwines them.

“That’s not an answer,” says Mike. It's childish and stupid and refuses to take action. But Mike's always been a coward when it comes to Will, and even if he can force himself through that cowardice to make the first move, he can't follow through.

Maybe Will's a coward, too, if he's wanted Mike even half as long as Mike has wanted him, night after night keeping up the pretense of simple platonic companionship, nothing more than the continuation of a childhood friendship that they'd worked so hard to re-establish, nurtured it until it bloomed more lustrous than ever. Filling the silence with anything to distract them from the things that the wish the other already knew.

Will's lips part, allowing the moonlight to spill into his mouth and the word that comes out is celestial. “Yes.”

[jinxofthedesert]

To all wanting an update: I am hoping to get chapter 29 of Carve My Name Into Your Skin out next month. I was really hoping to make it for January but I just haven't had the time.

To those who are unaware, I began my Masters Program at the start of Jan and that is literally all I've been doing. It doesn't leave my mind with much clarity afterward, so the writing has been incredibly slow.

Ironically the chapter is getting long despite this as I've been working on it when I can. I was hoping there would be a place to break it off, as I've done with the last few chapters concerning the scene with Thorfinn and Bjorn. Make it a 4 part, instead of my planned 3 part. But there has been no good spot to end the chapter, unless I did it mid-dialogue which isn't something I want to do.

Currently the chapter is sitting at 18k, very close to 19k honestly. I have a possible place I could break it off a bit further from where I am and end the chapter early since the conversation will be switching but . . . we shall see. That would be great.

Either way, thought I'd let you all know! Wishing you all a fantastic rest of your weekend and a good luck to the start of your week. You got this~

[aurore-parle-de-ses-idees]

36 for an oc of your choice? >:)

(it was Going to be isena & isedd, but isena only ever wants to respond Fuck This and begin stabbing, so. the scene was like two lines long. lendrain does I.9.5: Amarthiel's Hope instead):

“We must know what Amarthiel is planning,” Calenglad says. “A large party of Angmarim was sighted near the docks; you should start there. Tadan, are you prepared?”

“We’re ready,” Tadan says. “Lendrain?”

“I’ll be right there,” Lendrain calls, tightening his shield across his back. Calenglad watches him go, hopping into the small rowboat with the others and pushing off for Annúminas.

“Watch over them,” Calenglad murmurs to the lake. "They will need it." The clouds gather over Tinnudir.

---

“They were ready for us,” Hallas growls, throwing himself behind a pile of rubble beside Lendrain. “She is here, but at this rate we'll never reach her.” Lendrain curses, weighing another javelin in his hand.

“I have an idea,” he says reluctantly, and wishes Hallas’s look was more skeptical than hopeful. “When the way is clear, find Amarthiel.” His old friend frowns.

“Lendrain-” But he is already away, hurling his javelin straight for the Angmarim captain on the slope above them. Crossbows snap over the man's cry of pain, but Lendrain is already gone, throwing himself into a roll beneath the hail of bolts.

“Is that all the better your aim is?” Lendrain shouts as the crossbowmen throw aside their heavy weapons in favor of spears and swords. “It’s no wonder Múra was nearly unguarded- you must have put half your bolts in each other instead of the targets!”

“You!” Many of them turn on him, then, and ah, they really are still sore about that one. He hadn’t thought one sorceress was so much more beloved than any other, but they seem to have taken her death even more personally than that of the False King. Or whatever passes for death for one such as him, anyway.

Lendrain runs into the city and the Angmarim pursue him. He wanted to think he knew the broken streets well enough to lead them away, but fifteen years have come and gone since he last set foot in Annúminas himself, and it was not half so deadly, then. He can only hope enough of them pursue him that Hallas and Tadan and the others can find Amarthiel.

He bursts into an open court, the arches overgrown with ivy and stagnant water in the fountain. Another party of Angmarim turn at his entrance and he skids to a stop, but the others are hot on his heels and loud with rage and soon he is surrounded entirely. He hefts his axe, and slips his shield onto his arm, and prepares to stand until he can’t.

The ones he had led away from the docks are plenty eager to fall on him, and if he has forgotten the streets of the city he has never forgotten how to fight. He swings and swings and swings, and hopes this will be enough for- for everything. For the others to find what they need, for those he abandoned, for the peace of those he hasn’t saved since he came back to this.

He makes a fair accounting of himself, all things considered. Better than he has any right to, certainly, but eventually his foot lands on a stiff, lifeless arm and he falls, and his shield is torn from him and a heavy boot stomps hard on his axe-hand and he screams.

And then arrows fall among them and his enemies fall back, ducking for cover until they realize there are only two bowmen among the Rangers. Even when they realize how greatly they outnumber the five Dúnedain who rush into the courtyard, though, they keep their distance, watching the ruins about them as if they still spawn more Rangers at a moment's notice. Lendrain gasps for breath on the ground amid the bodies he made, every bruise and small scrape crying out at once as the rush of battle leaves him. 

“Lendrain?” Hallas calls, voice tight and worried. Lendrain waves a weak acknowledgement but doesn’t rise. Distantly, he wonders how many other Rangers survive within the walls of the sunken city. There hasn’t been word from Daerdan or any of his people in days. 

“Have you found-” he wheezes from his back, and chokes back the rest of the question when she arrives.

Amarthiel enters the courtyard in a rush of red, grabbing Hallas by the front of his armor as she passes and dragging him behind her. The others cry out, but she is attended by new lieutenants Lendrain has not seen before, their armor unlike that of the Angmarim champions- unlike any Lendrain has seen in his travels.

The Champion of Angmar seems less terrible by daylight, if only just. Her silver mask gleams in the sunlight and the red of her dress is nearer the color of roses than of blood. Lendrain feels again the touch of her hand on his face, the single point of incandescent heat like she wore a burning ring or else held a coal to his cheek.

“You have come a long way to see me again, Lendrain,” she says, ignoring Hallas as he grasps at her wrist. “I am glad to see you returned to Gath Forthnír alive.” His blood runs cold, and every word she says only worsens his dread. “It was useful while it lasted, but all things end one day. But you should rejoice! You and all your kin here, for I have brought a palantír to Annúminas once more, and with it I shall look out over my lands as the kings of old.” Hallas draws a dagger from his belt and strikes at her, but Amarthiel catches his wrist and looks at him with disdain, and in panic Lendrain struggles upright, making it no farther than his knees.

“Let him go!” he cries, raising empty hands. “Please-”

“Let him go?” Amarthiel laughs. “As he holds a blade to my chest? You are a bold one. What would you offer in exchange, if I were to grant such a request? You had best make it good.”

Anything, he wants to say, even with Hallas glaring at him upside-down in Amarthiel’s grasp. Anything. Just let him go. Because this is what he always feared, what he knew even as a child he couldn’t face. This is why he ran, and why he hardly dared return, even to see his dearest kin again. He thinks of Helegdir, holding back the raids from the north with the people of Aughaire, and of the nightmares of the Halls of Night, and he says nothing, only watching Hallas desperately, but Amarthiel smiles as she looks upon him, finding something in his face to her liking. She laughs, and throws Hallas aside, and strides away, her new entourage falling in behind her and the Angmarim in the court bowing as she passes.

“Morguldur,” she says over her shoulder, “deal with them.”

“Yes, Mistress,” one of the men says, stepping out of line. Fire dances around his hands, but Tadan’s bow-hand is true, and Morguldur is dead on the ground almost before his allies are out of sight.

“Lendrain,” Hallas says into the terrible, deathly quiet that follows, “what did you do? What did you offer her?”

Nothing, he wants to say, and wants it to be true, but her touch had burned and there is a blankness his memory will not fill and he doesn’t know why she turned away here. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I don’t know.”

[coralhoneyrose]

What Have I Ever Done to Rely on You? - m!Chrobin one-shot

Plot Synopsis: The Shepherds' most recent battle did not go according to plan, and Robin thinks it's all his fault. Chrom is determined to convince him otherwise. (Post-Battle Hurt/Comfort)

Originally posted on ao3 with f!Robin as part of the Day 4 prompt for Chrobin week. I thought it would be fun to share an m!Chrobin version of it here for anyone who prefers that version of the pairing.

Rating: Teen

Words: 3,774

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Chrom ducks out of the medical tent, careful to ensure the flap swishes fully closed behind him. A biting chill has entombed their camp since the sun set; gray flurries diffuse through the air like dust motes and prickle where they land against his exposed skin. Beside the tent post, Robin waits restlessly—fists balled at his sides and his lip a raw red from being worried at. His head whips up at the sound of Chrom’s steps. 

“H-how are they?” he asks.

“Awake and stable,” Chrom replies, with a reassuring smile. “Maribelle’s already feeling well enough to boss the others around again.”

“And Lissa?” Robin urges.

“Much the same. Frederick and Miriel are attending to her as we speak.”

Robin’s shoulders slump with relief. “Good…that’s good,” he breathes. “Gods, I wasn’t sure if…”

A shiver ripples through him as he trails off. Clusters of half-melted snowflakes glimmer like miniature diamonds where they’re ensnared on his eyelashes and Chrom can’t help but wonder how long he’s been waiting outside the tent. 

“Why don’t we get you out of the cold,” he suggests. “Then we can discuss how to proceed.” 

Robin gives a tight nod and falls into step alongside him. Their footsteps crunch against the thin layer of frost that blankets the earth—the only sound breaking the silence as they walk. There’s still an odd rigidity about how Robin is carrying himself, and Chrom can’t tell if it’s from the temperature or something else. 

He leans closer, keeping his voice low. “Hey, are you alright? You’ve been quiet since we got back to camp.” 

Unthinkingly, he brings a hand to Robin’s waist in what’s meant to be an offer of reassurance, but the second his fingers brush against Robin’s side, he winces away. 

Chrom jerks his hand back, rebuking himself for the momentary slip. It’s ironic: despite finally knowing they hold the same affections for each other, they must be more careful about sharing touch than ever. Lingering hands were nothing to worry about when there was no hidden meaning attached. Now, every brush of their fingers comes with the risk of drumming up suspicion. 

“S-sorry,” he apologizes hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine, Chrom,” Robin assures him, though his strained voice and gritted teeth leave Chrom less than convinced. He really needs to be more cognizant of their surroundings—no matter how distracting Robin’s nearness can be. 

They’ve made it to just outside Robin’s tent now, and he pauses in front of the entrance even as a gust of frigid air whips his hair against his cheeks. Chrom raises an eyebrow at him quizzically, unsure why he seems so hesitant to go in and take shelter from the cold.

Instead, Robin gives him a tiny smile. “Alright, what’s the first order of business, Captain?”

“Well, we’ll want to review the inventory sooner rather than later,” Chrom says, after a moment’s consideration.

“Right,” Robin agrees, “so we can stock up on supplies when we arrive in Ferox. What else?” 

“Nothing that’s pressing,” he replies. “With Lissa and Maribelle hurt, we won’t be marching tonight, so the route can wait until tomorrow. If you need a moment to warm up and rest—”

“I’m fine,” Robin interrupts. “I’d rather keep busy—you know, try and make myself useful.” He takes a long shaky breath before smiling at Chrom again. “I’ll be over to help with the inventory in a minute. I just want to change first.” 

“Alright,” Chrom agrees. “Do you want to walk over together?”

“No, no, I don’t want to hold you up. I’ll meet you there,” Robin assures him. He peels open the tent flap and hurriedly side-steps in, pulling it tight around him so only his face is peeking out. “You can just go on ahead.” 

“Okay, if you’re s–”

Robin disappears before Chrom finishes speaking. He blinks at the tent canvas, taken aback by the abrupt dismissal. Robin must be really eager to change out of his battle sullied clothing. 

Chrom is just turning to go when he remembers that the ledger for the inventory is still in Robin’s tent from the last time they reviewed the Shepherds’ expenditures together. Better for him to remind Robin now so neither of them will have to run back halfway across camp.

Chrom pokes his head into the tent. “Oh, and Robin; one more thing. Make sure you bring—”

Robin yelps sharply, severing the rest of Chrom’s sentence. His eyes catch up to his mouth, and a dozen thoughts crash into his head at once. 

Robin is sitting on his bed, his shirt pulled halfway over his head—just barely covering his chest. His coat lies discarded on the floor, and for a moment Chrom can’t manage anything but to be floored by his own thoughtlessness. Robin just told him he was going to change clothes and he still didn’t think to knock? Then Chrom’s eyes slide down Robin’s bare torso, and all of his embarrassment is swallowed by horror instead. Robin yanks his shirt back on, but it’s too late: Chrom has already seen the ribbon of weeping, scarlet skin wrapping from his ribs across his abdomen. 

“C-chrom! Get out of here!” he shouts, at the same time Chrom exclaims:

“You’re injured!” Immediately, Robin’s face crumples—guilt laden in every line. Chrom crosses the room in a few long strides and kneels beside him. “Let me see it.”

“I-it’s not as bad as it looks…” Robin mumbles.

“Robin.” Chrom’s tone brooks no argument. 

A sigh hisses out of him. With shaking hands, Robin curls his fingers around the hem of his shirt and lifts it to expose his stomach. Chrom inhales sharply as his eyes trace the wound’s path: it’s a brutal burn—furious crimson and already blistering. 

“What happened?” he asks, voice hoarse. Robin is his partner in battle—if he sustained an injury like this, he should have seen it. Unless it was when—

“...when the reinforcements showed up,” Robin says, answering Chrom’s unspoken thoughts, “and I sent you and the other infantry back to cover for our healers. There was still a small squadron of mages left to dispatch. My fault. I should have been able to handle it alone. But I was distracted and…” His voice breaks off suddenly and he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Chrom gapes at him. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter? How can you say that?” he demands. “You should have told me!”

He’s already berating himself for not noticing sooner. Robin wincing away from his touch before probably wasn’t motivated by a privacy concern at all—he was in pain. And if Chrom hadn’t barged in when he did, he might never have realized it.

“We’ve had other things to worry about,” Robin insists, a defensive edge creeping into his voice.

“Other things?” Chrom echoes. He can hardly believe what he’s hearing. “You mean the weapon inventory? Robin, you know injuries take priority over our damned camp supplies! You need to be treated for this right away, it—”

“By who, Chrom?” he snaps, voice warbling. “Neither of our healers are in any shape for that!”

Chrom’s eyes fly up to his—all his frustration snuffing out. “...Is that what this is about?”

“Well, am I wrong?” Robin counters, but he looks gutted. He drops his hold on his shirt, concealing his scorched skin again before slumping forward to hold his head in his hands. “We don’t have anyone to heal me…and I have no one to blame for that but myself.”

Chrom’s heart clenches tight. With a small sigh, he takes a seat beside Robin on the cot. “You are wrong, actually,” he says. 

Robin’s head snaps up to look at him, and he almost smiles from how obvious it is that Robin isn’t used to hearing those words. 

“There are things we can do to treat injuries even without Lissa or Maribelle’s help,” Chrom continues. “But even if there weren’t, that doesn’t mean you deserve to suffer through this, Robin. You can’t punish yourself for what happened to them.” 

“Why not?” Robin asks, voice wavering again. “It was my fault, Chrom. I’m the one who made the battle plans. I over-extended and left our healers without proper coverage. If we’d been spread any thinner, or if there were more reinforcements, th-they could have been—”

“But they weren’t,” Chrom interrupts, voice gentle but firm. “Lissa and Maribelle are recovering as we speak. This wasn’t a fatal mistake, Robin.”

Robin glares down at his own clenched fists. “But it could have been…” he mutters stubbornly.

“But it wasn’t,” Chrom emphasizes again, and this time he takes one of Robin’s balled fists and pries his fingers apart to weave them between his own. “But since you’re so concerned with hypotheticals, let me say this: even if it had been, the blame and guilt still wouldn’t be yours to bear alone.”

Robin shifts to look at him sidelong, and for once Chrom is glad that his face is such an open door to his heart: Robin won’t be able to ignore the sincerity there. Robin gives a shuddering sigh and grips Chrom’s hand more tightly.

“I just…I don’t understand why you’re not angry with me,” he admits quietly. “This is your sister we’re talking about, and one of your childhood friends. They were hurt because of my miscalculation. How could you not resent me for that?”

“Because they were also hurt on my orders,” Chrom says. “You may have made the plans, but it was my decision to enforce them. And that leaves me just as much at fault as you. I’d be lying if I said the weight from that isn’t overwhelming sometimes, but…” He runs his thumb over the familiar hills and valleys of Robin’s knuckles, soothing himself before he continues, “...but at the end of the day, I know I’m always trying to do right by the soldiers under my command—as are you. That’s all any of us can do.” 

Robin mulls on this silently, eyes fixed on where their fingers are wound together: as if their entwined hands are some riddle that needs solving. 

“What if my best isn’t good enough?” he asks suddenly. “What if the Shepherds would be better off without me altogether?”

Chrom chuckles before he can think better of it and immediately indignation flares on Robin’s face.

“Err, sorry, sorry! I’m not laughing at you,” Chrom apologizes quickly. “It’s just…you weren’t around to see what the Shepherds were like before we found you, and—” another wry chuckle slips out of him, “—believe me when I say there’s no comparison.”  

The hurt in Robin’s expression wanes into a watery smile. “Was it really that bad?” 

“I’ve seen bands of brigands with more coordination,” Chrom replies, grinning sheepishly back. “As much as I may be suited for battle, I hardly have your mind for tactics.” 

Though, to be fair to himself, he’s not sure if anyone in the world does. If Robin has a match when it comes to strategy, Chrom has certainly never seen it…and would not be eager to face them from the other side of a battlefield. Gods, sometimes he thinks finding Robin in that field when he did must have been some kind of divine intervention.

Robin huffs out a feeble laugh and scrubs at his eyes with the heel of his free hand—banishing the pin-prick beginnings of tears that had formed there. “Well, I suppose I’ve no choice but to take your word for it, do I?”

“You don’t,” Chrom agrees, squeezing his hand again. “We need you, Robin. And for much more than just your tactics. You’re the only reason I feel brave enough to face any of this.” 

Robin makes a tiny, strangled sound—a brilliant blush painting his cheeks. Chrom knows Robin finds his penchant for declaring his feelings so intensely to be overwhelming, but in truth, the cute way Robin flusters from it only leaves Chrom more eager to spill his heart to him.

Robin leans his head against Chrom’s shoulder, but for all the content in his eyes, there is still a strain to his smile. His body is contorted slightly to keep their sides from brushing—Chrom remembers all at once how much pain he must still be in. 

“Alright, enough talk,” he decides. “It’s past time we do something about that burn.”

Robin straightens up. “I was going to bandage it myself before you barreled in here,” he says, just a little petulant. 

“Well, now you don’t have to,” Chrom says. “I can do it instead.”

Robin blinks back at him, surprised enough to forget his own obstinance momentarily. “You’re going to?”

Chrom nods, moving to Robin’s trunk in search of the supplies he needs. Fortunately, most of their militia keeps at least a few bandages and concoctions on hand, and Robin is no exception. “When I first formed the Shepherds, Emm made me learn some basic first aid to use in a pinch. It won’t be elegant, but I should at least be able to keep the wound from getting infected until Lissa or Maribelle can look at it properly.” 

Robin flinches almost imperceptibly at the sound of their names. “I can manage it just fine on my own, you know.”

Chrom shakes his head as he settles back beside him on the cot, supplies now in hand. “I know you can, but you shouldn’t have to. And besides, I’ll be able to reach it more easily than you can.” Robin opens his mouth to protest, but Chrom cuts him off. “Please, love, let me do this for you.”

The term of endearment, still relatively new between them, slices right through any counterargument Robin could make. Relenting, he leans back on the bed to grant Chrom better access to the wound, and Chrom takes a breath to inspect it again. The edges are ragged and beaded with droplets of serous fluid. Despite being no stranger to injuries, his stomach roils: Robin must have immense pain tolerance to have concealed it as he did.

There’s just the matter of Chrom’s hands, then. His gloves are soiled with dirt, blood, and dried sweat from the battle—dressing Robin’s wound while wearing them would not be remotely sanitary. Chrom peels the first glove off, then tugs at the second with his teeth so as not to dirty his hand in the process. When he glances back at Robin’s face, he finds him biting down on his lip—eyes wide and fixed on Chrom’s now bare fingers with a breathless intensity. Chrom studiously makes a point of ignoring the flush it brings to his face: Robin’s injury is much more pressing, and he can’t afford to be distracted. 

With great care, he uncorks the concoction and empties the flask’s viscous contents onto the bandages.

“Alright,” Chrom says, keeping his voice steady and low—trying to inject in it a surety that Robin can ground himself to. “I’m going to put my hands on your sides to let you adjust.” 

Feather-light, Chrom ghosts his fingers against the edges of Robin’s toned abdomen, still some distance from the wound. He can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears: he’s never touched Robin here before. Silk smooth skin glides beneath his finger pads, adorned with scars like copper cross-stitches. If only the circumstances were different perhaps Chrom could learn the path of each with his lips instead. 

Stop that! You’re getting ahead of yourself, he chides. If he doesn’t focus on tending to this burn properly, Robin could well be adding another scar to his collection. The thought sobers him, and Chrom shifts the bandage against his palm, aligning it nearer to the injury.

“It’s going to sting for a moment,” he warns him. “This first layer will be the worst.” 

Robin nods around gritted teeth. “Just do it.” 

“R-right. Okay…” Chrom takes a bracing breath. “Then here we go…”

As delicately as he can, Chrom lays the bandage across Robin’s scorched skin. There’s a faint sizzling sound as the concoction seeps in and accelerates his body’s natural healing process. Robin hisses in pain, fingers digging into the blankets of his cot, but he manages to hold still, and Chrom gets the first layer of bandages wrapped firmly in place. He’s trying desperately to be both gentle and efficient, but Robin whimpers, and he wants to curse his big, bumbling hands for not knowing how to make this easier on him. 

After a few more passes, though, Robin’s shallow panting eases to something steadier—a wash of calm settling over him. Chrom’s fingertips brush over the ridges of his ribs as he tucks the bandage edges down to lie flat and secure—tight enough to hold but not so tight as to be uncomfortable. He’s feeling pretty good about it…up until Robin shudders.

“Are you alright?” Chrom asks, immediately concerned. “You don’t feel sick, do you?” It can’t have been more than a handful of hours since the battle concluded. Surely Robin can’t have developed a fever already… 

“N-no, I’m fine…” he answers, but the wavering in his voice pulls Chrom’s eyes up to his face, and he finds it flushed nearly as bright as the seared skin he just bandaged. 

“You don’t look fine.” Chrom brushes a hand against his cheek and is alarmed to find heat pulsing off him in waves. “Gods, Robin, you’re burning up. We need to get you—”

“Chrom, trust me,” he interrupts, suddenly looking away. “I don’t have a fever. Or at least, if I’m feverish, it’s not because I’m sick.”

“What do you—oh.” Chrom breaks off as he registers how he’s leaning over him—one hand cupping Robin’s face while the other lingers against his bare waist. He sits up straighter and withdraws both hands, certain his cheeks must be burning just as brightly now. “S-sorry.” 

Robin waves his hand in dismissal. “It’s nothing you need to apologize for. It’s not like I didn’t—” he stops short, suddenly shy, but it’s easy for Chrom to fill in the rest of the thought.

“W-well, that’s good then,” he admits. “Because I’m actually not sorry at all.” 

Robin huffs out a laugh, and something fizzles in the air between them when their eyes meet. Chrom’s fingertips tingle at each point where they were touching his skin. 

“Robin, I wish—” he starts, but he cuts off just as suddenly. 

Chrom wishes he could stay with him—wishes he could spend the night at his side, combing his fingers through the sleek silver of Robin’s hair and murmuring soft assurances of all that he means to him. Wishes that he could love him so fiercely that Robin would never be able to doubt his worth again. The fact that he can’t is a wound all its own.

“I know,” Robin whispers, before his eyes fall—brought right back down to earth by the weight of their duty. “I do too.” 

Chrom’s heart kicks around in his chest; an electric current humming in his blood with every beat. Blazes, this war cannot end soon enough. 

Before he can do anything he really will regret, he cuts the tension by clearing his throat and rising from the cot. “I suppose now that you’re all patched up, I should see what other matters need tending to."

Robin’s face alights. “That’s right! I almost forgot. I still need to change so that I can help you with the inventory.”

He tries to sit up, but Chrom lays a hand on his shoulder, stopping him before he can stand. “You’ll do no such thing,” he tells him firmly. “You need your rest. I’ll take care of it.” 

Robin’s brows furrow, a protest budding on his lips. “But the burn is already healing. There’s no reason I can’t–”

“This isn’t up for debate,” Chrom interjects, before adding, more gently, “Rest, my love. The most important thing is to get you feeling better. I can’t do this without you, after all.” 

Robin’s eyes soften, warm as melted caramel. With a resigned sigh, he flops back onto his bed, sinking boneless into his pillow. “I guess a break wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” he concedes. 

“Then can I ask one more thing of you before I go?” Chrom requests. Robin hums in affirmation, so he presses on. “Promise me that the next time something like this happens, you won’t keep it from me.” 

A pause. Robin cranks an eye open to look at him and Chrom wonders if maybe he pushed his luck—braces himself to sit back down and argue through it if he must. He can see Robin mentally rattling off justifications for his behavior in the purse of his lips and the pinch of his brow. 

“...Alright,” he says finally. 

Chrom blinks at him. “Really?” 

“Yes, Chrom, really,” he says, attempting to stifle a laugh at Chrom’s obvious disbelief. “If the situations were reversed, I’d want you to do the same. So…you have my word: no more secrets or silent suffering. Consider me thoroughly chastised.” 

“Thank the gods,” Chrom sighs, and on a whim, he leans down to press his lips to Robin’s forehead—chaste but lingering.

Robin huffs, his face a pretty pink. “We’re not very good at this ‘waiting’ thing, are we?” 

“I think we can afford a brief lapse in protocol every now and then,” Chrom replies, attempting to smother his grin. “It’s important for a general and tactician to maintain morale.”

“Oh, really?” Robin sits up straighter. “Well, in that case…” 

His fingers wrap around Chrom’s collar, a coy smile curling his lips before he tugs him down and into a kiss. Robin’s lips burn against his, and a rosy warmth unfurls from Chrom’s chest all the way to his fingertips. He plants a hand on the pillow beside Robin, and threads the other hand through his hair, but just as he stoops to deepen the kiss, Robin pulls away from him, laughing.

“Easy there,” he teases, lightly shoving Chrom’s shoulder. “I’m still injured, remember? What happened to wanting me to rest?” 

The tips of Chrom’s ears blaze red. “Wh—you started it!”

“Yeah, but you were the one getting carried away,” Robin counters with a smirk. “Now go on, already: the inventory awaits.” 

Chrom grumbles and rolls his eyes fondly on the way out. He knows Robin well enough to realize he’s probably still not totally at peace with what happened in the battle—his commitment to bearing the blame for a failed plan is much too dogged for that. But if he’s poking fun at Chrom again, it must mean he’s feeling at least a little better. And Chrom will gladly endure a little teasing if it comes with the assurance that Robin is okay.

[jonny-b-meowborn]

I think I'm done with the Jonny/Tim cannibalism fanfic? I'm still gonna like, read though it a few times and edit it, and I still wanna do some drawings for it before I share it, but overall I'm pretty satisfied with it. Big win for the me community

[blindedguilt]

I need Leonard and Cain to do toxic yaoi together...the two of them deserved more interaction in general

//YOU GET IT OMG YOU F U C K I N G GET IT //It's the duality. It's the difference in background and how they deal with tragedy and how that's absolutely APPALLING to both, because Leonard, who has and is dealing with a deep sense of wanting to inflict violence on the inside, and Caim, who just wants peace and to have never dealt with any of that on the inside, SEE the other's outward actions doing just the opposite and both are reminded of JUST how much they're trying to ignore that part they see in the other inside of them and how they're trying to put that down and HERE this motherfucker is, just doing it //AND ITS THE SENSE OF SOLIDARITY THESE VERY DIFFERENT PEOPLE FROM VERY DIFFERENT BACKGROUNDS GET WHEN THEY SEE THAT, BECAUSE BEYOND LOSING THEIR FAMILY TO THE EMPIRE WHICH BRANG THEM UNDER THE UNION'S CAUSE THEY'RE BOTH OLDER BROTHERS WHO KNOW DEEP DOWN WHAT IT'S LIKE TO FRET OVER AND CARE FOR YOUR YOUNGER SIBLING, OUTSIDE NUMBNESS TO THOSE FEELINGS BY OUTWARD CIRCUMSTANCES BE DAMNED. THEYRE BOTH PART OF A VERY SMALL MINORITY WHO HAVE MADE A PACT, AND EVEN SMALLER OF THE ONES WITH SOME SEMBLENCE OF A MIND LEFT AFTER DOING DO. THAT THEY BOTH CAME OUT OF THEIR TRAUMA AS THE ONLY ONES LEFT FULLY UNTOUCHED AND ARE BOTH STRUGGLING TO FIGURE OUT WHAT THE FUCK TO DO WITH THAT, AND THAT LATER ON THEY BOTH FIND SOMEONE TO CARE FOR IMMENSELY THAT THEY'RE FUNDAMENTALLY INCOMPATIBLE WITH THAT GIVES THEM THEIR REAL SENSE OF WORTH AFTER THE WAR AND THE PROFOUND ISOLATION FROM BEING SO FAR DEEP IN YOUR OWN HEAD AND TRAUMA AND KNOWING THE STUPID PIDDLING WRECK OF A HERMIT OR THE NEEDLESSLY VIOLENT BLOODTHIRSTY CRACKHEAD MERCENARY NEXT TO YOU CAN SHARE IN THAT GRIEF BUT AT THE SAME TIME IS A MIRROR INTO YOURSELF AND WHAT YOU CAN BE THAT YOU REALLY DON'T WANT TO SEE //ITS ABOUT THE PROJECTION. IT'S ABOUT THE DIFFERENCES THAT FORCE THEM TO LOOK INTO THEIR OWN SELF AND THEIR INABILITY TO COPE WITH THAT AND WHY THAT MAKES THEM FUCKING HATE EACH OTHER, BUT ALSO THE COMPANY AND RELATABILITY TO EACH OTHER'S POSITIONS THAT DRIVES THEM TO THAT AWKWARD STALEMATE. ITS ABOUT THE MISLED "I CAN FIX HIM"'S MEANING TWISTED BUT WELL-INTENTIONED "I CAN MAKE HIM MORE LIKE ME THE WAY I WANT SO I DON'T HAVE TO BE SCARED ANYMORE" ON BOTH SIDES FROM PEOPLE WHO CAN'T EVEN FIX THEMSELVES BECAUSE THEY CAN'T LET GO, AND THEN MY FAVOURITE PART

//HOW THAT RESULTS IN PSYCHICAL VIOLENCE AND/OR LOATHING AND RESENTMENT AND DISGUST. i watch this scene with SUCH yaoi-tinted glasses anon you don't even know

[calico-kiwi]

i don’t know the official day i started using tumblr (my very first account has long since been lost to the sands of time after being overrun by cobwebs) but after digging through my emails i know i’ve been here since at least May 23rd of 2020 and though that’s not nearly as long as other people, it feels like an eternity.

Happy (late) four year tumblr anniversary to me, it truly has felt i’ve been here so much longer and i love how engrained this place is in my heart

unless the site is burned to the ground with nothing left i’m pretty sure i’ll never leave <3 (despite the fact there are still problems here)

[paganinpurple]

AO3 Etiquette -UPDATED

Based on both decent and not so decent replies, I have made some changes to my original post below.

It would seem a whole new kind of AO3 reader/writer is emerging and it is becoming clear not everyone quite understands how the website community works. Here is some basic guidance on how most people expect you to go about using AO3 to keep this a fun community archive that funtions correctly:

As well as likes, kudos is for when the story was interesting enough to make you finish reading. If it sucked or was badly written, you probably left. If you finished it, you liked it - so kudos.

If you really liked it, you should try to comment. It can be long and detailed or a literal keysmash. Writers don't care, we just love comments.

No critisism unless the author has specifically asked or agreed to hear it (so use your notes to say if you want some constructive feedback). Even constructive critisism is a no-no unless an author note tells you it's okay. No, posting it online is not an open invitation for that. Many people write as a fun hobby or a way to cope with, among other things, insecurity and just want to share. Don't ruin that for them. I've seen so many authors just stop writing coz they can't handle the negative emotions the critism brings, and it's only meant to be a fun thing shared for free (pointing out tagging errors is not included in this).

Do not comment to ask the author to write/update something else. It's tacky and off-putting and will probably have the opposite effect than the one you want.

There is no algorithm, it's an archive. Use the search and filter function to add/remove the pairings/characters/tropes etc. you want to read about and it will find you the fics that fit the bill.

For this to work, writers must tag and rate stories. This avoids readers finding the wrong things and missing the stuff they want. I don't care how cringy that trope is in your eyes - it gets tagged.

The tag exception is if you don't want to tag a million things or spoil your story, you can rate it as "chose not to use warnings," and maybe tag the bare minimum.

Don't censor tags. How can someone exclude a tag if the word isn't typed out correctly? There are no content bans for terms so don't censor them.

If the tags are mostly content/trigger warnings, especially if they are things considered very fucked up or graphic, you might want to use "dead dove - do not eat" to ensure people know that you're not messing around with tags and what they get is exactly what you've warned them about.

Character A/Character B means a ROMANTIC or SEXUAL relationship of some kind. Character A&Character B is PLATONIC, like friendship or family.

Nothing is banned. This is an rule because banning one thing is a slipperly slope to banning another and another, until nothing is allowed anymore. Do not expect anyone to censor for you. Because of the tags system, you are responsible for your own reading experience.

People can create new chapters and sequels/fic series any time after they "complete" a story. So it's considered perfectly normal to subscribe, even to a finished story. You can even subscribe to the author instead just to cover your bases.

Do not repost stories or change the publishing date without an extremely good reason (like a complete top to bottom rewrite or an exchange youve written for going public). It's an archive, not social media. No one cares what's the most recent, only what fits their tag needs.

Instead of deleting a story you wrote if you hate it - consider making it anonymous or orphaning it so others can still enjoy it, without it being connected to your name anymore. If you still want to delete it, fair enough.

It's come to my attention that metaworks ARE allowed on AO3, which is something I wasn't aware of. So if you do post an essay or theory, please tag it as such so others can choose to search for it or exclude it. Art is also allowed.

The only reason this archive works is because NON ONE PROFITS. Do not link to your ko-fi or patreon or mention monetary gain in any way or you violate the terms and risk having your account removed. If anyone does link, it leaves the archive open to people claiming it's for profit and having the whole thing removed.

I KNOW there's plenty more I missed but I'm trying to cover most of the basics that people seem to be struggling with.

I invite anyone to add to this, but please explain, don't berate.

[firsttraintovictoriaville]

I can't find the og post I made but once again, the only time I age check people I see visibly interacting with my fanfics is if it's an E or M rated fic. If you interact with a fic with that rating im going to your blog and hunting for an age. If that age is less than 18, instant block.

[splinter-cat]

Ryder has been enjoying the summer with his boyfriend, Noah, and Noah's other boyfriend, Jasper, but Jasper's repeated rejection of Ryder's advances whenever they're alone has been putting a damper on things. With a little help from the campus witch, Ryder learns why Jasper has been pushing him away—leaving nothing in the way of a little fun together.

Lemon Drops - Original Smut Short

Rating: E

Pairings: OMC/his frat bros

Warnings: Mild dubcon