#this is actually a work in progress fic

[theflyingcosmos]

NO SHAME SORRY FRIENDS WHO FOLLOW ME ON HERE

Anyways I'm falling back down the UTMV rabbit hole and making an AU type thing, but just with the Sanses because I'm insane(aren't we all)

ANYWAYS X2 my little AU idea is ofc using the NMs castle idea and it's like kind of a fantasy world also Cross is a Lycan HEHEHEHE I'm losing my mind I feel 14 again /pos

[yuwuta]

love f2l where he’s already hopelessly in love with you and pining in a way that’s so obvious to everyone else but you, but also love the moment in f2l where it clicks that “oh shit… i think my friend just turned me on.” even better when one person doesn’t realize they’ve turned the other one on and they’ve just gotta live with the memory replaying in their head for a few days. friends keep saying they’re distracted and they just nod their head like yeah uh sorry… was uh… sorry what were we talking about? bc these days if it’s not about that moment, zero processing has gone on 

megumi and satoru are the worst at coping with this. 

for megumi, it’s such a 180, a switch has been completely turned on when it happens, that it makes him upset. he can’t even tell if he’s angry that it happened in the first place, that he couldn’t tell he was attracted to you before, that he can’t stop thinking about it now, or that it’s possible that other people could have already had this realization and be thinking of you like this too. every option brings a mean scowl to his face. and it’s embarrassing above all because you were just trying to take off your shoes. when lifting your leg and holding onto to his bicep wasn’t enough, you crouch down to struggle with the straps instead. megumi sighs—all he wanted to do was get your drunken ass home in one piece and now you’re crouched down in the middle of the street, and when he looks down to see what’s taking so long, that’s when it hits him. you bent down like that, looking up at him and groaning and pulling on his shirt and whining for him to help you does very terrible things to him. and it shouldn’t, you’re only calling for him because you lack the hand-eye coordination (and clearly critical thinking because this is the middle of the road and you cannot walk barefoot) right now to undo your shoes, but it’s your blown pupils and pout and the calling for him—you have to stop whining. and saying his name. immediately—not to mention the angle and tilt of your head to look up at him. megumi can barely help himself, much less you, which is why he grumbles, hoists you up by the scruff of your neck so you’re standing up right. you giggle in your haze but megumi just hisses his teeth, tells you “stop looking at me like that,” and before your mind can catch up, he grabs you by the waist and hoists you over his shoulder because looking at your face is not an option right now. and this is for the best for everyone—now your feet don’t hurt, you’ve stopped groaning, there’s no more eye contact, and megumi has the rest of the walk back to your apartment to contemplate what the fuck just happened to him 

for satoru, it’s actually partially his fault, because not only is it so far from sexual and yet turns him on anyway, but he’s so annoying that his actions lead to a cascade of other terrible turn-ons that and now it’s a cyclical problem. you’re just borrowing something of his for the convince of it—his glasses because it’s sunny, or maybe his jacket because it’s cold, something small and innocent—but it ignites such a strong flame in him that his visceral reaction is to snatch it right back from you, and run away like some school girl. “hey—satoru what the fuck, come on, you weren’t even using it!” you call, but your voice is already an echo at the speed he’s scurried away from you. the flash vision of you in his belongings was terrible, but it’s the memory of it that makes it worse, brings a blush to his face, and leave him shaking his head like a crazy person because what the fuck this is insane. you didn’t even do anything so he has no reason to act like this, there’s no way the slightest insinuation of you thinking of him/his belongings as something to borrow, or hold, or have should make him react this way, but it does. and he hates it. and he’s not normal about it at all, and it takes you confronting him, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him back and forth, asking him what the fuck is wrong with him, which is warranted, but worse because that also leaves him red from his face to his check with Awful Realization Numbers 2 and 3: (2) you usually just Deal with him being strange, but right now you’re mad and you’re really hot when you’re mad, and (3) you’re very close to choking him out right now and if you did, he wouldn’t stop you

yuuji is the one who has had this effect on more people than he knows, which is hilarious to think about because he’s either completely oblivious, or using his charm to play innocent. and when you have that moment, you’re definitely left stunned. you were just fishing for more snacks for your self-care night—a tradition that used to between you and nobara, but now includes megumi, and most times yuuji, but tonight, he had plans with todo, which you were grateful for because there’s no way you could have been around him after what happened. in a hurry to grab his water bottle from the fridge, yuuji doesn’t bother you with words to maneuver through the cramped kitchen, just mindlessly puts his hands on your hips, lifts you, pivots, puts you down, grabs his water bottle, puts it on the counter, lifts you again, pivots, and places you right back where you were, flashing you a million-dollar smile, before grabbing his bottle and rushing out to catch the bus. you’re left blinking, body on autopilot as you finally reach for the chips, and zombie-like when you make your way back to the living room where nobara’s putting a sheet mask on megumi. when you’re finally seated on the couch, you blink for the first time, blurting out to nobody in particular, “is… is itadori hot?” and it’s comedic how quick, blasé, and autonomic the in-sync replies from both megumi and nobara are, “yes”, “unfortunately.” oh. well that’s reassuring you suppose. you might have been the last to realize it, but at least you’re not alone. 

if you told yuuta he had the ability to seduce anybody he would probably just laugh awkwardly and think it’s some kind of joke. the great irony is that rooming with him has left you with many instances to confirm that he is attractive, but the defining moment is when you realize just how much yuuta has grown in his year abroad. your apartment is nice and relatively modern, but there are still some tight spaces. usually you and yuuta just giggle while shuffling around each other, but today, you feel like you’ve gotten between a rock and another rock because when did yuuta—your scrawny, awkward, endearing yuuta—gain fifty pounds of muscle? it’s a terrible moment for you to be squished between him and the tiny enclosure of your storage closet and even worse that he’s the one who apologies, and smiles, and carries on reaching for the spare napkins while you’re left with the filthy thoughts about your best friend. 

[starflungwaddledee]

from: @starflungwaddledee to: @post-it-notes7

message from santa: "happy holidays post-it-notes! 🎄🥳 i know you very politely only wished for a few modest things- characters high fiving, or struggling in christmas attire- but i hope you'll still enjoy this given that i kinda went the opposite direction entirely! i'm an enormous fan of your work and most times you post anything i wind up browsing your art tag from tip-to-tail in enraptured delight. as such, i thought it was only fair i give back something a little more significant in gratitude for all the joy your work has given me. i knew i wanted to do a comic, so i was thrilled you already had a whole storyverse for me to work from!! this scene seemed the most obvious choice (chapter 8 of "wishful thinking" on ao3) given that i enjoy a dramatic fight scene 😂 i tried to stick as beat-by-beat to the writing as i could and worked in as many details as possible; i hope it'll be fun to see it envisioned this way! merry christmas! ~starflung 🎀🔔 "

[johnslittlespoon]

https://www.tumblr.com/johnslittlespoon/744374471821017088/would-just-like-to-point-out-that-once-again-a

i love this so much omgggg. imagine bucky is in a mood one day with buck but still just collapses onto buck’s bunk and curls into the sheets. buck would think it was the most endearing thing ever. maybe buck is standing in bucky’s way, forcing bucky to grumble out an excuse me that’s just dripping with attitude but buck can’t even be upset about it because bucky proceeds to shove past him and throw himself into buck’s bunk and bury his face in his pillow. or imagine buck coming over to talk to bucky and bucky rolls away from him but it’s like. that kind of loses its effect when ur in BUCK’s bunk😭

linked post | gigglingsjdgk yes omg. this is so so THEM i'm gone

it doesn't matter how much they bicker or fight during the day or what type of mood either of them might be in– john will not sleep in his own bunk if his life depends on it once he gets a taste of sleeping in gale's. over the winter, the bunking for warmth excuse works just fine, but as the weather starts to heat up, his new excuse is "your bunk is comfier."

gale doesn't point out that this makes no sense with all of their bunks being the exact same; he'd love to tease john about it, but he doesn't want to scare him out of climbing into his bunk night after night, and he makes damn sure the other guys don't rib on him for it either. everyone's got their coping mechanisms, and they all know john's hanging on by a thread, so they're not going to question his vices.

imagine what goes down after that scuffle in the yard? john spends the rest of the evening pacing the yard, cooling off until it's time for lock–in, and gale's waiting leaning against his bunk when john comes back into the room, expecting a conversation. but john doesn't even look at him fully, just brushes past with a short bratty "scuse me" and drags himself into gale's bunk and curls up as close to the wall as he can get without another word.

gale turns and stares at him in disbelief, shaking his head but still feeling so fond because they can have the worst fight of their friendship and john still crawls into his bed at the end of the day like it belongs to him just as much as gale, even in his silent treatment.

gale half wants to go crawl into john's bunk instead to make a point, but he's not sure he can even fall asleep alone anymore after so many months of sharing a bunk, and he knows it's not really him that john's mad at– they're all mad at the world right now, and john's just taking it out on him because he's there and real and he subconsciously tries to sabotage anything good because he feels undeserving. the silent treatment is as much geared towards gale as it is john punishing himself for the guilt he feels after lashing out at him.

john presses his face into gale's pillow when gale climbs in behind him with a huff, pulling the thin blanket up over both of them, only hesitating for a moment before he slings his arm over john's waist all the same, deciding he's not gonna lay awkward and uncomfortable facing the opposite direction with nowhere for his arms to go; if john wants to be touchy, he can lay somewhere else.

john barely manages to put on a show of being tense against him for more than a few minutes before he's relaxing into his arms anyway, back pressing to his chest, a quiet sigh puffing out against the pillow. gale steals a gentle press of his lips to the nape of his neck, a silent apology, because he knows they'll talk properly in the morning once john's not as antsy and worked up, and john squeezes gale's hand where it rests over his stomach, and everything feels okay again. <3

[that-bloody-witch]

L'amour et la Mort

Chapter 1

The years of King Arthur’s reign had been, so far, a largely peaceful time. Granted, the first half-decade or so after Uther’s death had been wrought with strife, remnants of his cruel regime which stained his son’s hands red. The battle of Camlann, and the defeat of Morgana, had marked a distinct shift in the balance of the world. Light began to pour where darkness had festered for a lifetime, seas too treacherous to sail once again gentled, poisoned fields were found to have nutrient-rich soil; nature itself had begun to heal. Some of the more faithful scholars, ones who still followed the Old ways, believe that this change had been paid for in blood, could have only ever been paid in blood. 

Followers of the Old Religion have held many beliefs throughout the ages, some less sensible than others. They preach that royal blood, truly royal, holds a certain weight against the natural order of things. One ruler’s death will plunge kingdoms into centuries of depravity, while another might pave the way for an age of enlightenment. After all, the weight of royal words, of royal actions, hold much more power in them than any other person’s. Where else should that strength come from, if not their blood? Camlann had soaked its fill of Pendragon strength, between Arthur and Morgana, and the world had flourished because of it. Even in the long, terrifying months of the king’s recovery, no attacks had been waged on Camelot’s borders, the other nations of Albion instead vying for favor with the young ruler. 

The first few days after Camlann were not easy for anyone in the realm. Merlin and Arthur had arrived weeks before the army returned, on a damned dragon. Only the sight of their wounded King being carried in thinly-muscled arms had kept the castle guards from striking against the creature. Several hands had tried to pry Arthur from his manservant’s grasp, none successfully, as Merlin carried his friend to Gaius’s chambers. 

“What happened,” the old man had gasped at the sight of his bloodied apprentice, seeing through the dirt and grime to the naked fear on his downturned face. He immediately motioned for the guard who had followed them to clear the workbench, knowing that the next hours would be long and uncomfortable for every party. 

“He was stabbed.” The words fell from Merlin’s chapped lips like a death sentence, eyes never leaving his King’s face. A single tear dropped onto Arthur’s cheek, trailing down his cheek as if produced from his own sorrow. Gaius raked his eyes over Arthur’s body, finding that the blood was covering too fully to see where the wound lay. He pointed a bony finger to the table, now cleared, a gesture which Merlin had never needed before. Usually, after so many years of working side-by-side, his apprentice moved almost before he even knew which direction to tell him. 

“Merlin, you must let go.” The words seemed to float by Merlin unnoticed, his focus on the King unwavering. “Merlin, I cannot help Arthur if you do not put him down.”

“I can’t,” he whispered, voice breaking over the syllables like waves on a rocky shore. “I’m not sure I can keep him alive if I let go.” Gaius felt a sharp intake of breath as wide, golden eyes met his. This was much worse than he had feared. 

“You must,” he pleaded, “set him down, hold onto him if contact is needed, but I cannot work if I cannot see the damage.” The words, at last, seemed to convince Merlin into action. He took short, unsteady steps to the table, and laid his King down without letting go entirely. Arthur’s gloves had been removed, at some point, and Merlin’s first clenched around limp fingers like a prayer. At once, Gaius began ordering the guard to help remove his King’s armor, cutting his shirt off entirely so as to not disturb whatever fragile stasis Merlin had upheld this long. “What happened, my dear boy?”

“Camlann was worse than I imagined.” His voice was still shaky, but seemed to steady itself as he regaled the battle. Gaius took his tale in stride, nodding along in encouragement as he cleaned Arthur’s skin enough to see the wound’s extent. He listened as graciously as he was able, barely pausing as Merlin recounted laying waste to Morgana’s army, and the lady herself, with lightning. His apprentice spoke of a sea of bodies, of barely arriving in time to be of any use at all, of being too late to help Arthur when he was most needed. “They’re dead,” the words shattered over thin air as Merlin spoke them, seeming to finally run out of whatever strength he had pulled out of himself. 

“This wound should have killed Arthur,” Gaius whispered, feeling every year of his life in contrast to his young King. He had birthed this boy, now a man, had held his squalling, naked body as Uther mourned his wife. The only thought which seemed to rise above the cacophony in his head was a prayer, to anyone who should listen, that his old hands would not carry Arthur into death as they had life. “Merlin, what exactly have you done to keep him breathing?”

Merlin let out a heavy, unsteady sigh, scrubbing his free hand down his face roughly. “I’m not sure, really. I called for Kilgharrah after Morgana found us in the forest. He brought us to Avalon, and Freya told me to place Arthur in the lake’s waters. It took all three of us,” he swallowed against the words, trying to push past the lump which had lodged itself in his throat at the sight of Mordred’s sword embedding itself into Arthur’s stomach. “He was just barely alive when I got there. If anything had held us for even a moment longer.” Merlin’s words trailed off, a haunted look marring his face. The gold still had not bled from his eyes, and it seemed, to the old physician, that the impossible magic his boy was performing had become second nature, much like anything else regarding Arthur’s safety. “We did what we could, but he was still unstable. Freya told me that I already had the power to keep him from passing, and then I just started keeping him.” Gaius’ eyes flicked up from where he had been examining the wound, now as clean as possible with the slow trickle of blood leaking onto the table. Merlin’s eyes were locked onto the gash across Arthurs gut, glowing impossibly brighter against the fading light filtering into the room. Gaius motioned for the guard to light the room’s plethora of candles, so that he may continue to work as dusk fell. Instead, every single sconce in the room burst into flame simultaneously, Merlin’s concentration on the King remaining unbroken. The guard flinched towards the door, nodding curtly at Gaius’s instruction to wait outside in case anything was needed of him.  His eyes once again fell to the injury, widening as the candlelight threw the wound into more clarity. The skin was slowly stitching itself together, vessels and musculature repairing itself in a shocking feat of magic. 

“Merlin, my boy, how are you doing this without an enchantment?”

“I don’t know. I can’t stop.” Another gulp, another shaky exhale. “Every time I think it’s better he starts fading away.” The picture in front of Gaius suddenly sharpened into a horrific reality. The wound, as Merlin had described it, was given days ago. Even the greatest sorcerer of all time, and Gaius had seriously begun to doubt that even those words were enough to encompass all of Merlin’s abilities, could not uphold this magic for long. His mind raced, coming up with contingencies and platitudes that might convince his boy to release his hold on Arthur’s life. 

“Son,” he began, “you-”

“I can’t do this for much longer, can I?” His words, more sobs than syllables, cut off Gaius’s explanation. “I can feel it, magic was never supposed to best fate.”

“No, my boy, I would imagine not.” The words lingered in the still air, riding the chill to sink into their very bones with the grim truth. 

“He’s not gonna make it, not just with medicine.” It wasn’t a question, yet Gaius felt the need to answer anyway.

“There is a chance, Merlin. Arthur is strong, and much has already been done.”

“Not enough.”

“It could work.”

“No,” he shivered, a brutish exhale ruffling rust-stained blonde strands. “I’ve seen better odds rob men just as strong as Arthur of their lives, I cannot risk that with him.”

“You cannot go on as you are, it is too slow, you could kill yourself in the process.” Gaius’s statement seemed to shake something loose in his apprentice, a prayer angering the gods. 

“It doesn’t matter, Gaius. I am nothing without him.” He did not shout, though Gaius had expected it. His words instead came like a wave, slowly building onto themselves until they grew strong enough to sink fleets. “Camelot cannot survive if he is gone. The Once and Future King, that’s what Kilgharrah had said. Gods dammit, Gaius, that future will come to pass in my lifetime if I have to kill Death himself. He doesn’t get to die like this, not here and not now. Arthur will die at the age of eighty, warm in this castle, surrounded by heirs, and he will not leave me.” Merlin finally seemed to break at the end, raking in a harsh gasp to keep himself from devolving into senseless wails of anguish. 

A moment passed, maybe an hour, in which the only sound was Merlin’s sharp inhales and shaky exhales. Gaius knew, as much as he knew his own name, that this was something he could not sway the boy on. Merlin had always been reckless in his care for the King - Gaius had often wondered if either of them would ever pull their heads out of their arses long enough to see why - and in this, Merlin was surely unmovable. His mind raced, finally landing on a solution which seemed most likely to grant both of his boys to keep their lives. 

“Okay,” he began, golden eyes once again snapping to attention. “You’re right, this wound is still too risky to try and heal with science. Magic is the only solution.” He raised a hand as Merlin opened his mouth, to protest or add his own opinion. “Listen to me. Whatever it is you’ve been doing these last few days is too slow, and it’s not sustainable. You need to fix as much as you can, as fast as you can, and let me do the rest. It will be a slow process, depending on how much magic heals, but I cannot see another way.” 

Merlin looked back down to his King, his friend, his Arthur, and visibly tensed when he realized the plan’s validity. He nodded, not breaking his gaze, and readjusted his grip on Arthur’s hand. His voice tore out of his chest, ancient words that he had never consciously learned filling the air like a dragon’s roar. A wind stirred in the room, sending pages of notes and vials flying into the tornado that had formed around the workbench. The light from Merlin’s eyes grew too intense for Gaius to look at, and he shielded his vision as his apprentice pleaded with Magic itself to save the man in front of them. 

As instantaneously as it had been stirred into chaos, the room fell silent once again. The candles, shockingly untouched by the vicious wind, lit the mess left in magic’s wake with vivid detail. Merlin had slumped forward, unconscious, his head falling just beside Arthurs, hand still clutching the King’s. Gaius immediately moved forward to assess the damage to Arthur’s abdomen, calling for the guard to move Merlin to his cot. It was nowhere near the first time either boy had been under his care, but having them both unconscious, splayed in front of him and injured, made his chest ache in a breath-stealing way. 

He could not afford to lose his focus, working with experienced hands to fix as much of the crevice in Arthur’s flesh as humanly possible. Merlin’s magic had done a lot of good, most of the dire internal problems repaired in an instant, but the blood started to trickle in steadier streams as arteries began flowing once again. Gaius flashed a look to Merlin, not liking the deathly pallor to his ward’s skin, or the apparent stillness of his chest. 

“Guard! Wash your hands! I need your help.” The young knight squared his shoulders, peeling off his gloves and following orders deftly. Gaius instructed him to press and cauterize where it was needed most, all the while thinking how Merlin wouldn’t have needed instruction to aid the physician. Gaius stitched muscle and skin back together, pouring tonic after tonic down Arthur’s throat in an effort to replenish as much blood as possible. He whispered a quick prayer to the Old gods as he worked, begging with the skies for the survival of both his sons. After several dozen minutes, seeing that the King’s wounds would hold for the moment, he moved to check on Merlin’s ashen form.

“Merlin! My boy,” Gaius wept, finding that against every science he knew, his body had grown cold in mere minutes. No breath filled his lungs, no pulse beat in his chest. Gaius allowed one solitary, earth-shattering moment to mourn the boy in front of him, pressing his wrinkled lips to a glacial brow, before moving back to the King.  

As Gaius worked, and weeped, the kingdom held bated breath for news on their sovereign. Kilgharrah had flown back into the forest, knowing that his master would call when he was needed, and every soul which lived under the castle’s shadow had flooded the city. Time had seemed to trickle through the citadel as molasses, peasant and noble alike holding constant vigil outside the palace walls. Hours passed, dawn enrapturing the skies in a beautiful background to one of Camelot’s darkest days, before an announcement was made.

Gaius stood on the dais where Uther had condemned thousands, looking over the tear-stained faces that matched his own, and made his proclamation.

“The King was mortally wounded in the Battle of Camlann. It is thanks, only, to his manservant, and my apprentice, Merlin, that he shall survive. He remains unconscious, but the blow dealt to his stomach would have killed any lesser man before the battle’s end. Merlin protected his King until his last breath, using the magic which the gods had given him to heal as much as he could.” Gaius paused, raking his eyes over the crowd to find familiar faces, who would all hold fond memories of his boy in their hearts. “Merlin has faithfully served the throne of Camelot since his arrival in the citadel nearly ten years ago, and has given his life to ensure the survival of the Pendragon line. King Arthur will have a long recovery in front of him, but he shall live.” Cries rang out, both in joy at the news of their King’s health and misery at the loss of Merlin, and Gaius felt his own eyes moisten at the thought of his body growing colder in the physician’s cot. He could see many faces of shock at the admittance of Merlin’s magic, though Gaius supposed that riding in on the dragon had already clued most in on the worst-kept secret in Camelot. 

The long walk back to his chambers gave Gaius time to adjust to the gaping void in his chest. He knew exactly how many years he had lived, how much loss he had endured, yet never before had the old man felt old. Now, in a world without Merlin, he could feel every second of his life weighing against his back, turning his movements sharp and painful. The council would need to meet, soon, to discuss how to proceed with the nation’s rule while their King remained unconscious, but Gaius did not dwell on these thoughts for long. He exhaled as he entered his chambers, still wrecked from the aftereffects of impossible magic, and abruptly halted where he stood.

“Will he live?” The corpse had pulled a chair over to Arthur’s side, once again grasping his hand in a white-knuckled grip. Gaius felt his heart stop and start in the space of a breath, and nearly fainted at the sight. Merlin, his Merlin, was sitting up, with enough life flowing through his veins to look worried over his King’s prone form. The physician held no reservations as he raced to envelop his boy in a bone-crushing embrace. 

“Merling, oh Merlin, you’ve come back,” he cried as Merlin’s arm came to wrap around him, hesitating for a brief moment of curiosity. 

“What do you mean, Gaius? I was on the cot the entire time.” Slowly, the old man released his apprentice, searching his face with a haunted look. “What? Is Arthur going to be okay?”

“My boy, the King will make a full recovery, in time, but you.” Gaius paused, not sure how Merlin would take the news that he had been dead for ten hours. “Merlin, you died. That spell, whatever you did, you were dead for an entire night and morning.”

Blue eyes widened, so large they might have popped out, and Merlin let out a noise of shock. “That’s impossible,” he whispered. “You must be mistaken.”

“Your body was cold almost immediately, Merlin. It was as if you had given your life to Arthur. You haven’t had a pulse, nor a breath, in ten hours. You were dead.” Gaius could see the cogs turning behind Merlin’s brow, processing what this meant for him. The old man’s mind suddenly threw a memory to the forefront, of treating Merlin for the deadly serket sting which should have killed him. Their eyes widened simultaneously as the truth of the gods’ will revealed itself to them. “Surely, you don’t think-”

“Oh, I do think.” A thunderous expression crossed Merlin’s face, his fist clenching even tighter around Arthur’s as he glanced at the unconscious King. “When has anything about my life ever been normal? Why should my death be any different?” Gaius winced in sympathy, reaching to offer comfort with a hand on his apprentice’s shoulder. They both fell into a contemplative silence, pondering the extent to which the gods would see their prophecies fulfilled, and watched as their King slept.

Suddenly, a chuckle burst forth from the physician’s lips, causing Merlin to shoot a wounded expression his way.

 “Are you laughing? I cannot die and you’re laughing in my face?”

“I’m sorry, my dear boy,” Gaius began, stifling the unbidden humor as much as possible and forcing a calm expression onto his face. “It does appear,” a smile cracked across his face, and he cleared his throat in a bid for sobriety. “I mean to say, that is, I might have just announced to the entire citadel that you nobly gave your life to save Arthur.”

A dumbfounded expression fell over Merlin’s face, before a sudden bout of laughter erupted, surprising both master and student. 

“I did!” They fell into hysterics, both men clutching each other until their sides ached. Merlin supposed, at some point, the court would need to be informed of his apparent immortality, but at the moment he could not care less. Arthur was safe, Gaius was strong despite his growing years, and Camelot faced no immediate danger. Surely, the coming weeks would reveal heartaches and wounds not yet scarred, but for now, as the laughter slowly died and the only father he’d ever known moved to brew tea, he was choosing to be optimistic. 

[crit20art]

[ID: a digital drawing of Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood from the Magnus Archives, kissing on a sofa with a gentle glow surrounding them. Jon is depicted as a short, thin man with dark brown skin and scars across his body. Martin is a tall, fat man with light brown skin and freckles. He is about eight months pregnant. Jon balances with one foot on the floor and one leg over Martin’s thigh, lifting himself up to wrap his arms around Martin’s neck and cradle his head in his hands. Both of Martin’s hands rest on Jon’s back, one drifting beneath the hem of Jon’s shirt. They kiss with intense, slightly sad expressions, though Martin has a bit of a smile as Jon’s nose smushes against his cheek. End ID.]

Indulging in my favorite pastime: sketching scenes from my own wip instead of writing the damned thing. this is the reunion kiss from chapter 3 of Do It All Anew.

[thickenmyblood]

hi maca :) do u already know when you can post chapter 20? im so sad about hiuh ending but also so excited for some happiness :( also, will it really only be 20 chapters or will you add one or two more? in any case, thanks so much for all the time and effort you put into this! I loved every second I spent reading this fic <3

hello!!! well, i was supposed to post ch20 on feb 1st . . . but that obviously did not happen. this month is the month though!!!! I'll try to make it happen before march.

about the chapter: yes, it's the last chapter ever. there will be no more. ever. honestly, I don't think you'll want another chapter after this considering the rough draft I'm working with is 250 PAGES

[mishy-mashy]

Kudo makes funny facial expressions

[novella-november]

Is this fanfic friendly? I feel like an outlier.

I guess this is my sign it's time to throw together a FAQ post to link to lol.

Yes, every event for this blog is fanfic friendly :D

Though as I mentioned on my Ominous October post, for events that include multiple short stories, I encourage everyone to flex their creativity and take one of their planned short story fanfics, and at least *attempt* to turn one of them into something entirely original; rebuilding a character and story from the ground up to stand on its own two legs is no easy feat, and that is what makes it so fun!

It really gets your creative gears turning, to make an "au of an existing material" to be something entirely original, and you can be pleasantly surprised about the things you come up with!

As a few people say, its not just a matter of "filing the serial numbers off" -- you have to add in just as much *or more* as what you take out when you are turning a fanfiction into something that is original and completely divorced from its original source material / inspiration, and that is a hard, but very rewarding challenge!

Obviously, this is not a requirement (there's no hard requirements for any of the challenges, other than no cheating, including no using AI),

but if you would like an extra challenge for the short story events and you're planning on doing entirely fan-fiction, I highly recommend trying it out at least once, and seeing where it leads you--

you may find yourself pleasantly surprised by what you find down that rabbit hole!

[kalofi]

zl fic idea

hii everyone i wrote something yesterday about an au idea i had for zolu and. i thought i'd share it here since its a bit too messy and disjointed in places to post on like. ao3 or something.

4.7k words, warning for temporary major character death but do not worry all will be fixed in due time. i'll put the rest under the cut

ok i have an idea for an au thats like kind of reincarnation but like reality displacement but like. okay just listen.

so we start at laughtale. its a couple years into the future from where we are in canon the strawhats are achieving their dreams luffy is about to find the one piece theres a big battle happening between them and the blackbeard pirates and whoever the fuck else is there idc. the rest of the strawhats are fighting the bb crew while luffy and zoro head off to find the one piece and also end up fighting black beard himself. luffy and zoro atp r like basically a thing but they never talk about it cuz theyre luffy and zoro and they kind of just exist with each other but like. theyre basically in love and everyone knows it. anyway they go off together luffy has the one piece almost in his grasp blackbeard attacks they fight its a big battle blood is shed bones are broken uumm in my mind luffy and zoro are like teaming up against bb bc his devil fruit is lowk broken and op and like ok theres gear5 too but i didnt rly consider that so lets just assume bb’s devil fruit can negate gear5 somehow or luffy exhausts it before bb is fully defeated. 

finally theyre able to knock bb down and hes out and theyre both tired and worn but they DID IT and the one piece is luffys and theyre facing each other grinning ear to ear and zoros saying “you ready, king of the pirates?” and luffy laughs and goes “not just yet zoro, i still gotta-“ and then theres a spear piercing right through his chest. and in the next moment its gone. 

theres a gaping hole through his captain and theres blood, theres so much blood and luffy’s still smiling like he hasnt realized it yet, like it hasnt even registered. zoros ears are ringing and he doesnt know what to make of whats hes seeing because its just not real, it CANT be. 

he looks over luffy’s shoulder and blackbeard is on the ground with his hand outstretched , black energy coiling back into his form and he’s laughing and laughing with bloodstained teeth. hes fucking laughing. one moment zoro is still standing parallel to luffy and the next hes in front of blackbeard and the mans head is rolling through the dirt and gravel, wado dripping crimson, a terrible gap toothed grin still stretching the man’s cheeks. 

zoro is breathing heavy, hes trembling and hes almost mesmerized by the blood pooling around a lacerated neck— then he’s remembering luffy and turning around and calling his name and he can see right through him theres a HOLE right through him and he chokes and stumbles and rushes to his side right as luffy starts to crumple to the floor . catches him and lowers him gently and doesnt know what to say. 

hes still shaking but cant move his mouth and everything is muffled, the sounds from the battle outside are distant and they dont matter but what does he do. what does he do. 

he snaps out of it when luffy gently calls his name. a strong “zoro,” like hes not fazed at all. like there isnt blood soaking into zoros clothes. 

his brain kickstarts and he’s speaking. saying things like “youre ok you’ll be ok” and “choppers right outside i’ll just call him and he’ll fix you right up” and “you always bounce back, right captain?” and hes thinking “dont die please dont fucking die. not now, not when we’re this close please dont fucking die” and hes silently praying to all the gods he doesnt believe in but luffy calls his name again and his mouth clicks shut. luffys saying it’ll be fine, that he had fun. that hes proud to have made it this far with all of them. and those sound a lot like parting words so zoro’s shaking his head no but luffy is still smiling. hes saying that hes glad he had zoro, that he made him happy. hes saying to tell everyone he’s glad they met, that hes glad they all had each other, that he knows theyll be just fine . 

zoro wants to say that luffy should tell that to them himself, when hes wrapped up and recovering and alive but his mouth is glued shut again and he feels that interrupting luffy now would be cursing him to death, like his words are the only thing keeping him tethered here, he just needs to get him to keep talking to stay awake. 

he tries to smile but it comes out ugly and wrong and he feels his lip wobble so he drops it. he settles on rubbing his thumb on luffys shoulder. something to keep him here. 

so he rubs and luffy talks little things until he cant anymore. until his eyes grow dull and his skin loses its warmth and still zoro rubs and he rubs.

—

thats how law finds them. zoro hunched over a body that should never be as still as it is. and its really no surprise hes there, hes been gunning for the one piece since the time he could captain a ship (or a submarine) but it all feels so wrong. 

zoro either doesnt notice him or doesnt care, but either way the man doesnt acknowledge law until he’s right behind him. its not like law can say anything to announce himself either, not after seeing the state of the body that zoros currently holding. the body that used to be luffy’s. hes still processing it all when the other man(the one whos alive) finally speaks. 

zoro asks if hes got a devil fruit. less of a question and more of a statement, but he should know anyway since theyve spent considerable time together and hes literally seen him use it. law cant unstick his jaw so he hums in affirmation. “and you can switch stuffs’ places?” another hum. “what about time.” 

that makes law pause. “what?” his voice comes out stronger than he feels. 

“what about time? can you switch things in time?” by this point law has awakened his devil fruit or some shit dont sweat the logistics but hes never tried anything of that sort so he kind of stumbles “im not- maybe? ive never attempted-“ zoro interrupts “send me back” 

“what?” 

“send me back so i can fix this. you can do that, right.” it clicks. law would pity zoro if he didnt know any better, instead he just feels mounting despair and resignation. 

he may not be crew, but he knew luffy too, he was allied with the man for fucks sake, and this just feels- wrong. he sighs, a tired, heavy thing. 

“what about your crew?” its useless. zoros as stubborn as his captain, with arguably a handful more screws loose. “it wont matter. they’ll never know because i’ll make sure this doesnt happen.” he still hasnt turned around. law doesnt know what expression hes making and hes sure he never wants to find out. 

hes ready to deny it, cut his losses and head for the one piece himself (hes not heartless, but if he stands here any longer and has to look at. well. he think he might never be able to move again) but then he really thinks about it. could he? would it even be possible? surely this isnt the way things were supposed to go, surely this isnt right. luffys never been one who was supposed to die just like that, like this, law knows that much. he thinks hes going to regret this, but he counts it as one last thank you for everything luffy did for him. 

youre gonna owe me big time strawhat-ya. if i even remember this, that is. 

he puffs a breath “i can try. i cant- promise anything but. i think we both know this,” he makes a vague, weak gesture, “isnt right.” 

zoro doesnt say anything, law didnt expect him to. he just bows his head slightly and law takes that as the acknowledgment it is. 

he brings his hand up, “dont do anything stupid, zoro-ya. or, at least, make it stupid enough to bring him back.” 

he positions his fingers in way so familiar, but the weight of it now is nearly unbearable.

room.

shambles

—

zoro’s world shatters, differently than before, and then theres nothing.

—

he wakes up in bed, bleary eyed and a pounding headache assaulting his senses. his alarm clock is going off which only adds to the drumbeat against his eyes. he grumbles and whacks around aimlessly to shut it off. the silence lasts a moment before his eyes fly open and he jolts up, sheets pooling around his waist. luffy. where was he? where was zoro? did the crew find him and take him back to the ship? did law fail? but this didnt look like chopper’s office.

he looks around to find hes in a room hes never seen before in his life, yet he instinctively knows is his. it all feels so wrong, like he doesnt belong in his own skin. he scratches lightly at his arm. he needs to go to work. 

work?

what the fuck is happening. 

its like his mind is at war with itself, one truth trying to dominate over the other. he trained at sensei’s dojo. he aged out of foster care. he was a swordsman, he was the first mate of the strawhat pirates. he didnt go to college, hes working construction. he made a promise, and kuina died. kuina…died. huh. his captain, his luffy, someone he knew so intimately and who knew him in turn. hes never met someone with that name his entire life. he needs to go to work, he needs to find his crew. 

he doesn’t understand what the fuck is happening. 

without his permission his legs stand him right up and he moves confusedly, surely, to the bathroom he didnt know he had. his reflection stares back at him in the mirror and its him, of course it is, he doesnt know why he expected someone else, but hes also…different. he has both function of his eyes, first of all. a scar in the same place as before but its light and healed over and doesnt seem to have blinded him like it once did. his hair is green, sure, but black roots peek out from underneath the familiar shade. hes grown stubble, he should shave. he needs to go to work. 

hes so confused, but his body moves like its been doing this its whole life. as far as zoro knows, it has. 

he continues getting ready, mind still at odds, and makes himself a cup of coffee (in his own kitchen. his own kitchen? the state of it leaves less to be desired. sanji would surely skin him alive) before tucking into his shoes, grabbing his wallet and keys and heading out the door. he seems to live in a single room apartment, and a crummy one at that. his legs move him faster, he has to go to work, he cant be late again (again?).

his car is parked outside the building, he has no fucking clue what it is but he unlocks it all the same and settles in. he feels like he shouldnt be operating this sort of machinery. franky would know better than him how it must work. he starts it up and backs out. trusting his gut to get him where he needs to be. he should be more concerned, he should be frantic and inconsolable, his captain was dead in his arms and now hes? what? going to lay some bricks or some shit? but he finds that part of him dulled in favor of following whatever mundanity this body is pushing him towards. 

uumm whatever whatever he arrives at work eventually i dont know how construction jobs work are there offices or something. idc thats not the point. johnny and yosaku are there and zoro is surprised to see them since, as far as he knows, the last time they were with each other was at arlong park which was years ago for him. but the two greet him like this is a daily occurence, like theyve been working together for years. and zoro thinks, knows, they must have. but this is good, this is great fucking news actually because until now theres been no confirmation if zoro was here alone (wherever “here” is) but now his proof is right in front of him because if johnny and yosaku are here, and they exist the same as from before, then that must mean everyone else is here too right? he clings onto this hope with both hands trembling. 

nami, usopp, the cook and chopper and robin and franky, brook, jinbe and fuck. fuck, luffy. theyve got to be here somewhere, zoro just has to find them. hes not sure if they remember things like he does but hes got to try because they are his as much as he has always been theirs and they should all exist together as it has always been. 

so then yeah he finishes his shift because its what hes ‘supposed’ to do but he doesnt go home. he drives around aimlessly before pulling into a random lot and pulling out his phone (theres no snail attached to it. weird.) he doesnt even know where to begin. hes not usually the one coming up with plans, he just goes where theres blood need to be shed. but no one seems to be in any danger here except for maybe himself, and its not like he has his swords anyway- shit. fuck did he still have wado? he must have right? he knows there was a kuina that existed here too, he knows because he remembers. and she, well she wasnt around anymore so he must have wado. he must. with shaking fingers he pushes that aside for now, though barely. he needs to find luffy, but he wouldnt even know where to start. luffy could probably find the rest of their crew by simply wandering around and happening upon them, thats how he did it before. but zoro has no idea where he’d be, he doesnt even know where he is. nami or robin would be a good bet to at least form a plan, but he wouldnt know how to find them either. 

is there even a coco village here? would robin still be part of baroque works? he needs someone who has a defined location that he could google or something (what the hell is google?). usopp would be at syrup village right? shit. is there even a drum island? these are all too broad, he needs something specific. specific…..a place with an identifiable name, somewhere smaller that would be easier to stake out…

a lightbulb goes off. 

fucking shit he thinks. of course. of fucking course it would come down to the cook. 

he types in “baratie” to his maps and a location pops up, just 27 minutes from where he is now. he hasnt eaten yet either, so he figures thats killing two birds with one stone. he taps the address, backs out of the lot and drives. 

(if it takes him nearly an hour to get there thats nobodys business but his own)

he pulls up to the building about a quarter after 7. it seems packed enough already, but if memory serves him right then that was just par for the course for baratie. he parks, gets out and locks his car, then shoves his hands in his pocket and resigns himself to another oncoming migraine hes sure to get upon interacting with the man hes certain is waiting somewhere inside. 

the tables are full, the host tells him, he slips a 20 from his wallet and suddenly (of course) theyre more than willing to serve him. 

he gets settled in a far and somewhat isolated booth and a waiter comes up to him, but he cuts the man off as hes introducing himself and says “you got a blonde working here? stupid ass side part with a weird eyebrow? goes by sanji” the waiter looks shocked and put off by his rudeness but quickly collects himself and says “we might. depends on whos asking” zoro snorts “just tell him hes got someone who wants to talk to him,” he cringes at this next part, tries to smile but knows it comes off as a sneer. hes not sure if he still has conquerors haki wherever he happens to be now, but he tries to channel that energy the same way he would if he were in battle and says “tell him im a fan.” the waiters eyes widen, in fear or surprise zoros not sure (most likely a mix of both) before he nods and scurries across the floor, weaving in between patrons and coworkers alike until he disappears behind the double doors to the kitchen. 

zoro sits with his arms crossed and skims through the menu out of boredom and impatience. its a couple minutes before he sees a familiar head of blonde hair emerge from across the way. a smile climbs onto his face despite himself. sure, the guy annoyed him to hell and back and their…friendship (if you could really call it that) was a tumultuous one, but it was good to see someone familiar nonetheless. he schools his expression before the blonde can spot him. a few moments pass before hes standing right in front of zoro, his stupid suit primped and pressed as always, and a cautious look on his face. 

“you asked for me?” his tone is the one he only reserves for men who he deems not worth his time. zoro grits his teeth but says “yeah, theres something ive gotta discuss with you.” 

hes never been one for tact, forever blunt unlike his swords. 

sanji quirks a brow “i dont plan on talking about anything with anyone unless theyre a paying customer” zoro feels his eyebrow twitch but grabs his menu nonetheless and points to a random item without looking “i’ll have this then, and whatever booze you got.” sanji leans in to see what hes pointing to before his one visible eye widens and a grin slowly overtakes his previously unaffected face. 

he speaks condescendingly. “wonderful choice sir, coming right up.” before zoro can get another word in he grabs the menu out of his hand, spins on his heel, and marches back to the kitchen. 

zoro clenches his fists and does his best not to grind his teeth into a fine dust. no matter where they are or what displacement in time the fucking curly brow never fails to be absolutely insufferable. at least this way though, zoro knows its him for real. 

its another 20 minutes before the shit cook reemerges from the back with a platter and a mug in his hand. he steps up to zoros table and places the plate and cup down in front of him with a smug look. zoro has no idea what the fuck hes looking at on his plate. he doesnt have time to question it before sanji plops down in the booth seat across from him, disregarding all previous faux-professionale and asking “so what do you want” zoro tears his eyes away from his plate and looks into sanji’s, trying to convey as much emotion, as much urgency as he possibly can. 

“luffy needs us. and we have to find him” whatever the cook was expecting him to say, it definitely wasnt that. the other man regards him more warily now, looking him up and down with a tense frown before replying “i dont know what the hell youre talking about. and i dont appreciate being mocked or having my time wasted” he goes to stand up but zoro grabs his wrist, yanking him back down unceremoniously. 

he blinks before rounding back on zoro, flaring his nostrils in a way zoro knows means hes about to get himself in deep shit “oi, what the fuck do you think youre-“ he doesnt let him finish “im not mocking you. this isnt some stupid prank or whatever youre thinking. and despite how much i would enjoy punching your teeth in right now im not looking for a fight either.” 

the cook still looks affronted but seems to actually be listening. zoro continues “look, i dont know what the fuck is going on. i was at laughtale with you and the others, with luffy, and then i woke up and now im here and i dont know how but this is all wrong. its all wrong but i need to find luffy and fuck, i cant do it alone. i need your help to find him. find everyone.” the blondes eye is wide, but he blinks and its gone. he looks more tired than zoro has ever seen him 

“im not paid enough for this shit. i dont know why i even-“ he looks like hes getting ready to leave again but zoro is desperate at this point so he blurts out whatever he thinks will convince the other man hes not bullshitting.

“we met you here, at the baratie. me and nami and usopp and luffy. luffy busted through one of your walls so your old man punished him by making him wash dishes. i dont, i dont know what luffy said to you, or how he convinced you to join us, but he changed your life like he did mine. we sailed together, and we had each others backs no matter how much we got on each others nerves. you were our cook. i was our swordsman. luffy was our captain and youd do anything to help him, i know you would, same as me. youre a pervert and an asshole and a damn annoyance, but youre strong. i could still kick your ass though” if the cook’s eyebrow could go any higher hes sure itd be clear off his forehead by now. 

“and you- your dream. you wanted to find the all blue.” he stalls there, engine sputtering. zoro doesnt know what else to say, so he snaps his mouth shut. 

the blonde is still gaping at him like a fish, but he mouths the phrase “all blue” like hes been searching for it his whole life, like he always knew but just never had the words. 

he blinks. 

then he blinks again, rapidly. there are tears pooling in his eyes. his mouth flaps for a moment before he seems to finally be able to push out words. 

“you- zoro?” he sounds small. he sounds hopeful. zoro grins. 

“yeah, yeah its me.” sanji stares at him a moment, then looks around, as if hes seeing everything with clear eyes for the very first time. zoro figures he might as well be. 

“holy shit. holy shit.” 

zoro laughs, a rough thing. theres a ball in his throat that he cant seem to dislodge. “nice to have you back, curly brow” sanji’s gaze snaps back to him before he scowls and tries wiping away the tears that are now streaking down his cheeks. its useless though, it seems they cant stop. zoro laughs again at the sorry state of the asshole in front of him, this time more full and genuine. he feels so relieved he doesnt know what to do with himself. 

“yeah yeah, whatever dick head.” sanji grumbles. zoro quiets down, glances away, lets him have his moment. “fuck, mosshead, im still on the clock and you unload all this on me? how the hell am i supposed to finish the rest of my shift?” his words are sharp but he doesnt sound angry at all. in fact, when zoro turns back to look, hes smiling. 

“you remember now though, dont you?” he has to be sure. 

“what does it look like, dumbass? think im tearin’ up cuz of pollen or some shit?” the cook rolls his eye. theyre both silent for a moment, trapped in their own heads, before he speaks up again. “so, what now?” zoro doesnt even have to think before he answers “we find everyone else, obviously.” “well no shit, but how?” zoro glances to the side. “i was hoping youd figure that out” sanji stares before bursting out laughing. zoro scowls and hunches into his shoulders. 

“of course!” sanji cackles “of course your dumbass wouldnt know what to do! you probably just typed in the most recognizable place you could remember and hoped one of us would be there!” zoro doesn’t answer, because yes thats what he fucking did, but it worked didnt it? he doesnt see whats so funny. 

“fuck you.” 

he wants nothing more than to bash that smarmy mouth in, but the familiar egging settles something in his soul. sanji gasps a few breaths before calming down, now wiping tears from his eyes for a completely different reason. 

“alright alright, well lets figure this out then, yeah? we figure out how we got here then we can figure out how to get back right? simple enough” 

zoro nods, “law was-“ he stops. remembers dull eyes and clammy skin and wrong wrong wrong. he shakes his head, “no, no we cant” sanji looks at him confused. 

“we cant go back,” zoro presses, “not until i fix things. i promised i would” the other man seems to pick up on his panic and his mood dampens, becomes more serious. “promised what?” 

zoros never been one to sugarcoat, but now he wishes he could find a way to soften the blow hes about to deal. he inhales, pushes the breath out. says, “luffy died, sanji.” the fact the hes actually using the other mans name seems to fly right over his head in favor of the first part. “what?” zoro huffs, is he really gonna make him say it again? “luffy di-“ sanji interrupts, angry now, fists clenched and whitened from the pressure “i heard what you said. but what do you mean.” 

he doesnt want to have to tell sanji what happened, doesnt want to talk about it at all, wants to slice it up into small enough pieces that it very well may have never existed.

he told law the others wouldn't have to know, that he would make sure of it, but he's realizing now just how unrealistic that is. as much faith as zoro places in his own abilities, he's aware he's only one man.

and, he figures, if there's anyone i can trust enough to share a burden heavy as this with, might as well be the one who's strength i'd count on just as much as my own.

sanji cant help if he doesnt know what went down once they got separated at laughtale, so zoro sets his shoulders, clenches his fists, prepares himself like hes riding into a battle he knows he has no chance of winning—hes the first mate for fucks sake—and resigns himself to filling the other man in on every horrible detail

by the end, the cook looks much the same as zoro feels, pale-faced and shaky. he runs a trembling hand through his hair and clenches his eye shut. “fuck mosshead, thats…” he doesnt bother finishing, and zoro stays silent—already knowing just how much of a shitty situation it is that theyve found themselves in.

—

(btw the reason sanji was so smug about what zoro randomly chose on the menu is bc its one of their most expensive dishes. even upon regaining his memories he still makes zoro pay it cuz hes an asshole like that. business is business 😁)

uuummm i dont feel like detailing the rest basically my idea is that they work together to try and track down all the members as well as law, since hes also a part of this. i dont know how or when or in what order but i do know finding luffy would come last. so yes its zolu but for a majority of it more in spirit than anything. maybe i can throw in some luffy pov of him living with ace and sabo . he knows something is off but cant place his finger on what. he knows something is missing but hes got his brothers with him so what else could he possibly need? etc etc. you get the idea

[heademptie]

many thoughts. no write.

been staring at the doc for an hour.

(Fic ships in order: Ghoap x reader, Price x reader, mostly Ghoap with some x reader)

[cuubism]

In Waking Dreams

Part 1 || AO3

----

Hob Gadling was halfway through his third drunken karaoke rendition of “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” when he learned that he had a husband.

It came in the form of what Hob could only describe as a ransom letter, passed to him by the bartender as Hob paused mid-song to take a swaying, unsteady breath.

God, seven drinks was too many. Way too many. Hob couldn’t die, but he was pretty sure he could still get alcohol poisoning.

The song’s backing track continued on behind him, a grating bass line to the melody of his self-pity, as he read the letter with glazed eyes. The words, pasted together from magazine cutouts – Christ, was he in a cheesy action film or what? – swirled in whiskey-laced currents, but Hob managed to make it out.

heLLo ur Husband is In a GlasS JaR in Some Guy’S BaSeMEnt plS geT hIM out i cant taKE the mopiNG ANYmore -- A concerNed SisteR

What in the ever-loving fuck?

“Hey,” Hob said to the bartender, mouth uncomfortably tacky around the word. He really should swear off drinking when he was feeling morose. “Who left this?”

The bartender shrugged, already shaking another martini. The clinking ice met the ending chords of the song and set Hob’s head to pounding. “Some lady.”

Helpful. “She still here?”

“Nope.”

Hob let out a long, arduous sigh. So much for that.

He dropped his karaoke mic onto the stage with a clank and got up from his stool, letter in hand. “That’s it for me, then,” he said, not that anyone was listening. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Hopefully not,” grumbled the bartender, but Hob waved him off.

Outside, the air was cool and crisp, nudging away the haziest edge of Hob’s intoxication. He stumbled towards home, taking deep, settling breaths of the night.

The letter crinkled in his hand. Hob looked at it again, under the moonlight this time. It could just be a very strange prank. Hob didn’t have a husband, after all. Technically, no men had husbands, but he’d known more than a few who’d considered each other as such, so he wouldn’t get too pressed about the details.

Also, a jar? A JAR?

Really, this woman should go to the police if she thought her brother had been kidnapped and was being held in a basement somewhere. The least helpful thing she could do was to give a vague letter to Hob, who knew neither who this brother was, what was meant by jar, nor whose basement it was supposedly in.

Except…

No. That was stupid. Hob was drunk, not completely insane. There was zero chance this was about some guy Hob’s delirious and probably lonely brain had dreamed up. Zero. None. Dreams didn’t just… walk into the waking world.

Except.

There was the small matter of Hob being kind of…

Immortal.

Always threw a bit of a wrench in his ‘reality follows such-and-such rules’ monologues, that. It was kind of hard to make declarative statements about how things should be when one was violating several natural laws just by walking around every day.

And Hob’s Dream… he hadn’t seen him in a while, had he?

“Where’ve you gone?” he murmured, looking back down at the strange letter. “Stuck in a jar somewhere, love?”

Then he shook himself, snorting. Christ, he really was drunk, wasn’t he?

He continued on home, already anticipating tomorrow morning’s brutal hangover.

He tucked the letter into his pocket.

----

It was a quiet ceremony. Incense hung heavy in the chapel, candlelight flickering over the handful of guests arrayed in the pews. Sunlight streamed in from high stained-glass windows.

Hob stood at the altar, silk robe slipping over his shoulders. Waiting.

A man stepped up beside him, giving him a quizzical look. Hob wasn’t sure what that look was for. This was who he’d been waiting for, wasn’t he?

“You’ve drawn me into your dream,” said the man, a curious tilt to his head, intrigue in his voice. “How interesting.”  

“You’re my dream,” Hob told him, and got a tiny, startled smile in return.

“How interesting,” repeated his Dream.

Later, Hob would wonder about so much of it. The fact that he’d dreamed himself into a wedding. The fact that his fiancé was a man. Hell, the silk – Lord knew he couldn’t afford it in reality. But, in the moment—

Hob and his betrothed stood face-to-face, hands lightly clasped. Past Hob’s field of vision, an officiant read out the marriage rites.

“Last chance to back out,” Hob teased his fiancé.

His Dream looked around at the chapel, the officiant, up at the ceiling, as if wondering how the surroundings had come to be. Then he looked back at Hob, giving his hands a tiny squeeze. “This is your dream, isn’t it?”

“Our dream,” Hob corrected. “Marriage isn’t just a one-sided thing, you know.”

“Hmmm.” His Dream’s eyes were like tiny stars. “You are a strange man, Robert Gadling.”

“Hob.”

“Hob,” he agreed. Then, strangely tentative, “…Husband?”

Hob couldn’t help his broad grin. “They haven’t finished reading the rites, love.”

His Dream chuckled. “They have,” he said. And they had.

Hob leaned in and gave him the softest kiss on his lips. His Dream was stiff at first, surprised to be kissed, but then his lips softened. He let Hob cradle his face in one hand and draw him in closer, pressing their foreheads together when they parted on a breath.

Hob laughed. “Husband,” he said, and got an answering smile.

----

The morning brought a full-body ache and a desperate need for coffee.

Hob stumbled into the kitchen, switching on the radio to catch up on news while his coffee brewed. He didn’t know why he bothered. Things had been shaky for so long now that sometimes it felt like they’d never stabilize.

Usually, Hob was pretty decent at looking on the bright side of things. Appreciating the coffee in the aftermath of the air raids, and so on.

But this century…

Well. He hadn’t been sleeping very well, for a start, and that never helped anything.

He turned the station to music, and sat down at the table with his coffee. He'd meant to open the book he’d been reading, a romance novel of all things, but found himself looking at that strange letter, instead.

In the daylight, the absurdity of it fell away, leaving only a more concerning message:

Your husband is trapped.

Hob worried at his lower lip. “Dream guy,” he murmured to himself, “now would be a great time to show up again.”

When had Hob last dreamt of him? It had been… longer than he’d thought, he now realized. He didn’t think he’d had a proper dream about his Dream since near the turn of the century. Occasionally, he’d have dreams that were more memories of things he and his… dream husband had already experienced. Like repeats of their wedding. But that was different; Hob could always tell when his Dream was really there with him.

Which was… a strange thing to think about a figment of his imagination.

He ran his thumb over the jagged edges of the pasted-on magazine letters. It really was like a movie ransom note. Begging for a life.

Stupid as it seemed, Hob couldn’t let it go. And it was better to try, and end up looking incredibly stupid, than it was to ignore it and later learn that his dream husband was real and Hob had left him stuck in a jar. Which, the more times he thought it, sounded less ridiculous and more horrifying.

I’m coming, he thought, hoping his Dream could hear it. If you’re out there, I’m coming.

There was a problem with this plan, though.

Hob had absolutely no clue how to find his husband.

----

The landscape was cracked and broken, an endless expanse of black lava fields, shattered mountains sticking up in jagged spikes, empty riverbeds curving into the distance. It looked nuclear. It looked long abandoned.

Hob picked his way across the rock, black sand scuffing the soles of his boots. He looked up at the grey, smoky sky, wondering just what was so familiar about the dreamscape. A relic of the war – wars – stowed away by his subconscious?

He knew it was a dreamscape, now. Over time, his dreams had clarified, became easier to navigate. That didn’t mean it didn’t feel real, though. The cold wind raised real goosebumps along his bare arms; the sand, when he bent to touch it, was harsh and scratched his palms; the smoke prickled in the back of his throat.

Something fluttered down from the sky before him. Hob reached out and caught it.

The solitary raven feather he found in his palm was soft where the sand had been harsh. Blood clung to the shaft where it had torn from the flesh. Hob looked up, but there were no ravens to be found in the sky. Just the whistling wind, and the clouds churning overhead.

His Dream had liked to carry a raven on his shoulder. Perhaps Hob was just missing him, again.

He held the raven feather in his hand and turned to go, to see if there was anything else here but devastation.

The ground rumbled.

Hob was flung into the sand as a crack! echoed across the lava fields and a gaping crevasse opened before him. Steam lifted from it, burning his face. Don’t cross, it seemed to say. Don’t go.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Hob told the dream.

A swarm of ravens erupted from the crevasse, steam streaming from their wings, caws echoing in the air. They blew past Hob’s face like a cyclone, feathers all a-flutter. Their wings brushed his cheeks. Claws grazed his skin, but didn’t draw blood. He closed his eyes, held his breath so as not to be smothered.

Then they were gone, and so was the feather in his hand. It had left behind a pile of dark sand, softer than that on the ground. Hob tried to disperse it into the wind, but a sudden visceral aversion to doing so had him closing his fist over it instead.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he said again. “I don’t know what you’re telling me, my Dream.”

He didn’t know why he addressed him directly when he was hardly present. Perhaps he just missed him, so much that he wished this strange and gruesome landscape was a message of some kind.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said. “You’re going to have to give me a little more to go on, if that’s really you there.”

The ground rumbled again in increased agitation, the rock below him fell away, and Hob tumbled into an infinite abyss. The knowledge that it was a dream abyss didn’t stop his breath from lurching into his throat, and he flailed for a grip somewhere above him.

The sand streamed from his grasp and was lost in the falling wind.

----

The nineteen-thirties were, quite frankly, shit.

Everyone had partied it up in the twenties, and that was all fine and well. Hob had partied it up, too, why not? Whichever year you found yourself in, you’d never see it again, would you?

Now, he couldn’t help but feel this cursed decade was some kind of recompense for all that indulgence.

Everybody was out of work. Hell, Hob was out of work, and would have been fucked if he hadn’t been like five hundred years old and thus had had plenty of time to squirrel away money. Plus, something was stirring up in Germany – nobody seemed to be paying much attention to it, but Hob had witnessed enough wars in his long life to recognize the ingredients for one, and dear God they did not need another.

So, the thirties thus far were decidedly terrible. Hob was greatly looking forward to the time when things finally tipped over for the better, whenever that was. He wasn’t confident it would be soon.

But, if he was being honest with himself, all of these growing problems paled in comparison to his personal life. If he was really being honest, it wasn’t a problem with the nineteen-thirties; Hob’s life had been steadily going downhill since around 1916 – when he’d, well, basically stopped sleeping.

Or stopped sleeping well, anyway.

As the war ended, Hob’s dreams had grown restless, shadows curling in the corners of his vision every time he closed his eyes. Where before, he’d been able to find peace in sleep, even during the most brutal of historical times, now his dreams were just chaos.

He wished he could attribute it to the war. But his terrible dreams weren’t full of young boys’ bodies broken in the trenches, or the green English fields empty of horses. Instead, they were, well—

Birds rushing through a dense forest, stripping the trees of their leaves as they went and leaving feathers behind—

Flashes of an empty altar and rotting rose petals—

A bloody hand pressed against glass—

Echoing gunfire—

Strange creatures shredding apart into dust—

Book pages fluttering to the muddy ground—

Hands, briefly holding each other—

A child’s terrified face—

A phantom press of familiar lips against his own—

Incoherent images tumbling over each other in an endless stream, straining, pounding at his mind. Hob could find no consistency or narrative to them, not even the nonsensical type of narrative common to dreams. He could make no sense of it whatsoever.

He never woke up well from those dreams. He woke up troubled, unsettled, like there was something he needed to be doing but he didn’t know what it was. He carried that feeling from his dreams and into the daylight. It trailed him like a shadow.

Hob used to love dreaming. Now, any night that he didn’t dream was a mercy.

Hob felt bad trying to get a job when there were so few available and others didn’t have five hundred years of savings to back them up. Instead, he’d set himself to trying to help other people get jobs using whatever connections he had. Admittedly, he’d let his connection with society slack a bit in the last few years – if his sleep had been bad since 1916, it had been downright atrocious since 1926 – but he was doing his best.

In reality, this effort entailed a lot of waiting around. Sending letters, waiting. Submitting documentation, waiting. Calling people, waiting for a call back. Etcetera.

In the middle of one of these days, Hob slipped into a doze at his desk. He was tired, after all. He was tired almost all of the time, nowadays. And in his dream—

His husband was sitting in the tall grass, his long coat arrayed under him as a blanket. Hob sat across from him, legs folded underneath himself. Between them was a plate of pastries that Hob had brought, because his Dream was seemingly incapable of procuring food; he never ate it unless Hob prodded him to, either.

The sun beamed down gently upon them. Insects buzzed and sang in the nearby grass, but none bit or even landed. Such were the privileges of dreaming.

His Dream gave him a tiny smile, as if Hob had dozed off and just come back to him. Hob remembered that smile. That exact smile, as a matter of fact. That exact scene. A memory, then. Not real, not really there.

Christ, Hob missed him so much. He wanted his real Dream back, not the memory-version. Not that he was entirely sure what the difference was, in a dream world. Both had been conjured by Hob’s mind. There was a difference, though. He knew there was. The more lucid, the more aware of his dreams he’d become, the more he’d known.

“My Dream,” he said anyway, as he had before. “There you are.”

“My dreamer,” replied his husband in a familiar refrain.

Hob picked up one of the pastries, a tiny strawberry Danish, and bit into it. The Danish was perfect, buttery and flaky and sweet, because of course it was. This was a dream. Hob wished, with a sudden, strange fervor, that something about it would be imperfect. A little too tart, a little too sticky. A little more real.

He held the other half of the pastry out to his Dream. Held it to his lips until he finally took the hint and let Hob slip it into his mouth, his tongue brushing Hob’s fingertips. Then Hob leaned in, rising onto his knees to get closer. He drew his Dream in with a hand on his cheek and kissed the corner of his mouth. He watched him swallow.

“You are in a good mood today,” observed his husband, voice rumbling under Hob’s hand.

“When am I not, when I’m with you?”

“Hmm. This is true.”

“You’re in a good mood,” Hob pointed out. “That’s far rarer, isn’t it?”

His Dream smiled. Hob was still close enough that their cheeks were brushing, so he could feel it. “That is even truer.”

Hob kissed his cheek, then under his ear. “You should be happier.” He amended his phrasing. “You deserve to be happier.”

“I am happy. When I am here.”

Why haven’t I seen you, then? Hob thought, but it was pointless to ask this of a memory.

Instead, he drew him down into the grass, which, being dream-grass, was unnaturally soft, like a wild blanket. Hob couldn’t help being hyperaware of how it wasn’t scratching his skin. He didn’t know why he couldn’t quite lose himself in this dream. He could not seem to let go of the fact that it was a dream, and not only that, but a memory. He couldn’t stop thinking, thinking, thinking, and remembering.

Where are you? he thought. Where are you?

“Where are you?” asked his Dream, lying beside him in the grass. There was still humor in his gaze, as if he hadn’t caught on to the depths of Hob’s troubles – but of course he hadn’t. This had all already occurred. “Your mind is in the clouds. Found a better dream?”

Hob kissed him, one hand cradling his cheek, the other sweeping through his unruly hair. His Dream hummed, satisfied.

“No such thing,” Hob said against his lips.

His Dream tangled a hand in the collar of his shirt and—

Hob startled awake to the sound of his desk phone ringing. He brushed his hair from his forehead and a line of drool from the corner of his mouth, and picked up the phone.

“‘Ello?”

He listened to his acquaintance on the other end of the line, who was trying to tell him about a job that might be open for one of Hob’s ‘clients’. Hob took this in, but most of his mind was still on the dream.

He hadn’t seen his Dream, really seen him, in so long, now. Was it his fault, somehow? Hob had dreamed him up, after all. If he’d been absent, it must be Hob’s mind failing to conjure him. Failing to find him.

These memory-dreams were almost becoming more agonizing than the chaos of his usual nights, for all that they reminded him of what he had lost.

I miss you, he thought, doubly despondent over being so distraught over a dream. Still, his Dream’s elegant face hovered in his mind. I miss you. Come back to me.

----

“Hello.”

Hob looked up. Standing in the doorway to his tiny kitchen was a thin man, finely dressed in black, his sure steps stuttering to hesitance as he hovered on the threshold. A smile broke out on Hob’s face before his mind had even caught up.

“Hello, you. God, you’re so lovely that for a moment I thought I might have just dreamt you up.”

The man – his Dream, or so Hob thought of him because having such a man must be a dream come true – let out a startled huff and sat down across from him at the kitchen table. “I had wondered how much you might remember.”

His movements were tentative, like he wasn’t yet sure of his place in Hob’s space, here, so Hob took his hand. His Dream looked down at where their skin touched, flexing his hand experimentally.

“Forget you?” Hob scoffed. Forget his own husband? Who could do that? “I could never.”

“Evidently so.”

“Never,” Hob repeated. “I believe you’re rather stuck with me now, love.”

His Dream studied him, looking for an answer to an unknown question in Hob’s eyes. “Hmmm,” he agreed at last, squeezing Hob’s hand in return. “I do believe that I am.”

----

Hob had once declared that he would never die, but it was highly likely that he did, in fact, have a death wish.

Or so his dreams seemed to be telling him.

He could not, would not, get that one dream out of his head. He was so lost in thought that he stumbled in the mud, sword clanking at his side, and would have fallen were it not for one of his mates pulling him upright with a laugh.

“Had too much to drink last night, Hob?”

Hob affected a smile. “Something like that.”

If only.

No. Something far more troubling had Hob’s mind in a haze and his feet tripping over themselves. Someone.

What in the bloody hell was he thinking about, dreaming about a man?

Generally speaking, Hob did not care much what other people did. He also could hardly be considered the arbiter of all morality, so who was he to tell other people what to do, really. However, Hob was very aware that many people did not hold this sort of live-and-let-live mentality, and that those people could get rather upset about certain things.

These were dangerous dreams to be having.

“Hob!” called his friend from up ahead. “Quit lagging behind!”

Hob supposed he was fortunate it was just dreams he was having. Not that he was necessarily opposed, the more he thought of it, but it would certainly make his life more complicated, having such a thing in the real world. More dangerous, too.

And yet, he couldn’t get his dream husband out of his head. The dark swoop of his hair over his neck. The intensity of his eyes. The curiosity he seemed to have about Hob, about the marriage Hob had unknowingly dragged him into.

Hob had kissed him, after. Not the chaste kiss at the altar. After, when they’d slipped away to the back of the church, hovering in the shadows at the base of the stained-glass mural above. Lost in the dream, he’d had no hesitance, no self-consciousness, had simply pulled his Dream closer and kissed him. Hands twisting in the lapels of his long outer coat, he had held him close and tasted his mouth, and his Dream had kissed back, dragging a moan from him with the skillful use of his tongue.

Hob hadn’t known kissing could feel like that, buoyed by the very real dream-love he held for his dream-husband. The passion this nameless, mysterious man he’d dreamt up had inspired in him.

And how real it had felt in the moment. Not only consciously, but bodily, the very real pounding of his heart and the heat under his layers of clothes, the very real wetness of his Dream’s mouth and the ache in Hob’s bones for him. He could still feel the press of his lips on his own, and touched his hand to them now, absently. He shuddered.

“Hob!” yelled his friend again. “Supper is not getting any warmer!”

“Yeah, coming,” Hob said. “I’m coming.”

Physically, he trudged on through the mud, hefting his pack higher on his shoulder. Mentally, he stayed in the shadow of the church, lost in the press of his Dream’s warm body.

Dangerous dreams, indeed.

----

There were an ungodly number of buildings in the United Kingdom that had basements.

Hob knew exactly how many now. This was, of course, assuming that the basement in question was, in fact, in the United Kingdom, and not Papua New Guinea, or somewhere.

Hob looked at his extensive list of basemented houses in dismay.

No. Fuck this. This was never going to work. It would take him years to search them all, and who knew if his Dream had that kind of time. Hob didn’t know how long he might have been imprisoned for already.

He threw the list on the floor.

Time for a different tactic.

Assuming his Dream, was, in fact, a real individual who existed in this world as well as in dreams… Hob could only assume something supernatural was afoot. Unless both he and his Dream had somehow acquired the powers of dreamsharing, such as it were.

But also, Hob was immortal. How, he still didn’t know, but he was. He had no choice but to believe in some element of the supernatural, or the divine, or the occult, or whatever it was. The idea that his Dream was some kind of supernatural figure, one that existed in dreams as well as reality, was certainly within the realm of possibility. Was likely, even, as, while it was certainly not impossible that someone would be keeping a normal human in some kind of glass prison in their basement, it seemed somewhat of a strange thing to do with a prisoner. Wouldn’t they want to hurt them, or get something from them? Torture them? Why simply leave them there, and in a glass prison, of all things, rather than just a locked room?

No, Hob was feeling more and more certain that his Dream was supernatural, in some way. It explained far more than the alternative. He pushed all the weirdness of that aside for now – there would be plenty of time to have a minor crisis about his apparent six-century-long marriage to God-knew-what later on. Right now, he had a more pressing investigation.

Who would know about a supernatural being, have the means and knowledge to trap one, and the ability to keep one for who knew how many years?

Hob knew what he had to do. Rather than searching through basements –-

-- he should be searching through occultists.

[poppy5991]

After the death of his son, Enji takes what revenge he can grasp against a corrupt church by helping the harpy that is intended as a religious sacrifice escape to safety. But each and every one of their fates is much more intertwined than any of them had imagined.

A wind blows and a storm begins to brew on the horizon.

——

I’ve been workshopping this one for a while and I’m really enjoying it! So hopefully you guys will too!

[scribblurri]

where time flows backwards and hearts don't beat fanart for @littlestbook

[blizzardfluffykpop]

alright~ a few updates about everything! so this weekend I'll be seeing changkyun in chicago- so I prolly won't be posting until after I'm alive again from that 😂😅 (I am vv excited about it- I just know I'll be vv tired when I return home). Anyways, I have a few fics in the works~ one of them that is a request 🤭 I'm vv excited to work on them! But I think I'm going to change my masterlist a bit when I come back. I'm going to retire a few groups from the main masterlist and I've been debating for the past year about it... But I think I'm going to add a yearly masterlist- So it would go from most recent to the beginning of this year~

I'm also thinking about changing my pfp- I haven't been really into stray kids for uh... years- But I will be sure to make an update about that if I go thru with that too- (It may be ji changmin next 🫣🤭)

Anyways those are my few updates 🥰💖

[ghostoffuturespast]

Tagged by @shimmer-like-agirl for a WIP Whenever. Thank you kindly! 🧡

I've mostly been doing a lot of transcribing, organizing, cutting, and rearranging to iron out the speed bumps so I can actually get to slapping my own words on the page. This is all I have of the next chapter at the moment. Already off to a trippy start :

The plan was fucking suicide. Yet, it was the only logical solution forward. Insane as it was. The same mistakes, with the same results. Flipping the case on both the switches, pushing the buttons on both the detonators, and watching it explode. Failing to escape its radius. But that was the nature of it. Pavlov’s needs. Maslow’s dog. You just couldn’t deny it. The hierarchy of survival would make you drool every time the bell rang. Whenever the reaper came knocking through half-deserted streets to make his visit. So, here they were. Two brain-dead gonks in one body, well past the eleventh hour, loitering in the parking lot and booking a one-way ticket to the Afterlife. To pay their final respects to Night City’s most sanctimonious and malevolent of gods. V exhaled a blessed wash of smoke from his lungs, sating their craving for nicotine and bending to the reptilian will of one more inhale. Johnny brought the cigarette to her lips to take another drag. A pattern. A rhythm. Of repeated histories and constantly sliding back.  That hope of another breath. And another. The one song that every living thing marched to. Went to war for. But there were no assurances, and no insurance, for situations like these. Johnny flicked the ash off with her left fingers and V wondered how his cigarette had ended up in the wrong hand.

Here's all the previous chapters for So It Goes.

Tagging, with no pressure: @morganlefaye79 @merge-conflict @corpocyborg @mynonsenseistingling @darlingicarus @aggravateddurian @genocidalfetus @tarmac-rat @fly-amanitaa @dani-the-goblin @luvwich

Your WIPs don't need to be writing or even CP2077 related, I'm happy to see what you all are working on regardless of what it is! And if you're names not on the list, and you wanna share you're WIPs with me, tag me and I'll come find you!