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#snippet of nothing
swbumblebee · 9 months
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Obi-Wan Kenobi is an introvert; though lucky enough to be surrounded by people he is always pleased to see he is, at his core, a private man who needs quiet solitude and to revel in his own space as regularly as possible to recharge after the long periods of constant company and communication life has forced him into.
He is also, a complete sucker for his Padawans.
Who did not get the memo.
---
General Obi-Wan Kenobi leant his head against the duratile of his small fresher shower and let the warmish water wash over him, over aching bones and dirty hair, dripping gently down his face washing the grime and pain of the battle down the drain.
It had been a hard one. A long, gruelling fight to save people who didn’t seem to realise they’d been saved.
What was the point? He just wanted to lie down and meditate and wait for tomorrow to start.
Thud.
He paused his rapidly spiralling thoughts and increasingly vigorous scrubbing at the shuffling and banging noises from his tiny cabin.
He rolled his eyes fondly. His former Padawan was not a quiet person.
“One minute, I’m in the shower!” He called, increasing the speed of his washing and reaching for the shampoo.
“Master?” he heard over the noise of the rapidly cooling water.
“I’m in the shower!” he called back, louder this time. Perhaps Anakin would put the kettle on whilst he waited? Or maybe even open a bottle of something-
“Hey Obi-Wan”
The Jedi Master was not particularly proud of the noise he made as the door swooshed open and he heard his former Padawan’s greeting much too close for comfort.
“GAAHNAKIN!” he all but shrieked, simultaneously dropping the sponge and banging his elbow on the wall. “Ow! Kark!” he yelped.
“Oh sorry” came the blasé response “Should’ve knocked” the young man admitted casually, and Obi-Wan heard the scrape of the fresher stool being moved over his thudding heartbeat.
“Anyway, was wondering if you might be up for a bit of sparring after dinner? I feel like Ahsok-“
“Anakin!” the irate Jedi Master barked, and finally popped his head tightly round the shower curtain, fixing his former student and former best friend with a furious glare through the suds slowly making their way into his eyes.
“What the blazes do you think you are doing?” he demanded. He looked down at the rest of the curtain, tightly held to the wall from his neck down. “I’m in the shower!” he said incredulously.
“Oh yeah but I just-“
“The shower!!” the composed Jedi Master all but shouted in disbelief, well aware his voice was getting slightly higher.
“Right…” the nonchalant young man was comfortably sitting on the stool, not a care for his poor Master’s dignity, or privacy.
For some reason baffling to Obi-Wan, he was looking at the irate older man with surprise.
“So do you want me to…?”
“GET. OUT.”
“Alright! Alright! Jeeze no need to be so touchy about it” Anakin straightened up, holding his hands up in surrender.
“Boundaries Padawan, for the love of Force, BOUNDARIES!”
The irritating, maddening Jedi Knight picked up the pace and opened the refresher door, barely managing to avoid the bar of soap aimed at his head as his Master punctuated his words with a projectile.
There was a beat of silence. Blessed silence. Until:
“So we’ll talk in a bit then?” Came through gloriously muffled through the door.
Obi-Wan once again rested his head on the wall, cursing himself, the Force and everything, as the water heater finally gave up and showered him with icy water.
“Yes, we’ll talk in a bit” he confirmed, sighing at the Universe and grabbing a towel.
---
“…Doing with your leave?”
Obi-Wan hadn’t realised he’d tuned his dear Commander out until he caught the end of his optimistic question.
“Oh I’m rather looking forward to a spot of relative peace and quiet I think” the tired Jedi Master replied, swinging his old canvas bag onto his shoulders and standing up as the transport docked at the Temple.
“Well you’ve earned it General” Woolley nodded at him with an encouraging smile.
Obi-Wan felt his smile turn just a touch more genuine and he turned to his men, waiting for him to depart.
“We all have” he said, as he turned to exit the transport.
The battle-weary Jedi closed his eyes, taking in the hustle and bustle of the Temple hanger, hanging back whilst the 501st transport docked behind him.
Sure enough, his smile was widening not five minutes later when Ahsoka bounced excitedly down the ramp, Anakin following behind with his characteristic confident smirk in place.
“Master Obi-Wan!”
His heart swelled as he suddenly found himself with the wind almost knocked out of him and a happy Torguta apparently trying to squeeze the life out of him.
“Hi Master”
Anakin waited patiently for Ahsoka to let the older man go, and when she turned her hug for her Grandmaster into a deep bow for a senior council member, Anakin leaned in and grasped his friends forearms in greeting, before doing the same.
Obi-Wan gave a shallower bow of his own to them both with a wide grin.
“It is so good to see you my Padawans” he said warmly, giving his Grandpadawan a wink as Anakin opened his mouth to give a familiar retort.
“Not your Pada-“
“Ahsoka dear please do stop growing, you’re making me feel old” he interrupted the traditional refrain from his former Padawan
“You are old” Anakin grinned at him and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on Snips, lets dump our stuff before de-brief.” He instructed, picking up his and his own Padawan’s packs and falling into step with his Master, heading towards the Temple main.
“Uh, Skyguy, you er…you know, remember about that thing?” Ahsoka asked slightly breathlessly as she strode next to the two older Jedi with a tilt of her head in reminder.
Obi-Wan quirked an eyebrow. Since leaving their shared flat to embark on life as a Knight, and then moving Ahsoka in, the tales of Anakin’s living situation had periodically horrified or amused his old Master.
Anakin stopped in his tracks, grimacing.
“Oh kark”
“Language – What’s wrong?” Obi-Wan asked, the reprimand automatically exiting his mouth almost subconsciously.
“Er…”
The Master’s eyes narrowed as the other man dithered sheepishly.
“Our flat’s being fumigated” Ahsoka chirped cheerfully, prompting a grimace from her Master.
Obi-Wan stared at them for a very long moment.
“I don’t think I want to know” he decided, turning around and continuing to walk down the corridor and away from his Padawan’s nonsense.
“So what’s the plan Skyguy?” he heard Ahsoka ask innocently as the pair again sprung into life and followed after him.
“Right just let me think”
“Hey, we can just stay with Master Obi-Wan!”
Master Obi-Wan ground to a screeching halt.
He hoped he managed to cover the mildly alarmed noise he inadvertently made. Turning back to them both he was greeted with enthusiastic nodding and a big grin from his energetic Grandpadawan, and large pleading eyes from his fully grown idiot best friend.
“Yeah c’mon it’ll be so much fun!” Ahsoka was clearly warming to the idea. “We can make Kenobi Surprise, and watch the racing, and play Sabacc!” she suggested excitedly.
“I..well…” Obi-Wan didn’t know quite what to say in the face of such delight.
“Would that be OK Obi-Wan? Just for a bit” Anakin met his eyes reluctantly, genuinely asking permission.
The tired and slightly battered Master took a deep breath in through his nose. There really was only one answer.
He smiled.
“Of course, I’d be delighted to have you both” he said, patting his friend on the arm and chuckling as Ahsoka punched the air.
“Aw yeah this is gonna be awesome!”
Peace and quiet was overrated anyway.
---
‘Conference room, ASAP.’
Obi-Wan looked up from his book and his tea when the chirp of the commlink disrupted his medic-mandated fifteen-minute break. He was now to take one every three hours and as much as he was loathe to admit it, they were doing wonders for his productivity and inner calm.
Except when he received emergency summons, obviously.
His stomach dropped as he read Anakin’s message again and scenarios instantly began filling his head.
New orders? An attack? He didn’t hear any sirens, so they weren’t being ambushed thank the Force. But really anything could be happening, and here he was ‘taking a break’!
Cursing he clumsily tugged on his boots, running fingers through his hair whilst simultaneously pulling on his belt.
He made it to the Negotiator’s conference room in record time, barely waiting for the doors to open before rushing inside.
Where he came to a sudden, confused stop.
“Oh hey Master”
“Hi Master Obi-Wan”
There in the main conference room, sat Anakin and Ahsoka. Both with their eyes fixed on a holoscreen showing some kind of learning module and sharing a bowl of Ahsoka’s favourite cured meat chunks. They would have made a rather cute scene under different circumstances.
“What?” Obi-Wan asked, bewildered, the wind rapidly leaving his sails.  
This is not look like an emergency.
“Are you alright Master?” Ahsoka asked, eyes widening in concern her Grandmaster’s flustered and harried state.
“Anakin, you sent me a message?” he demanded, fixing his former student with a piercing look.
“Oh uh…yeah I mean, we were just talking about Force Theory. Thought you might have some ideas.” Anakin answered, wearily looking at his confused Master.
“Yeah do you think you’d use the Living Force or the Unifying Force to breathe in Space? Theoretically.” Ahsoka asked imploringly.
Obi-Wan stared at them both.
“What?” he asked again, less sharp and now genuinely baffled at the randomness of the question.
“Yeah it just seemed like something you would know about” Anakin answered casually, about to turn back to the holoscreen. Apparently “helping” Ahsoka with her Force Philosophy module.
“I don’t…”
The Jedi Master summoned the words, and the strength, for the conversation.
“You said it was urgent?” he said weakly, still rather discombobulated by the jarring change of pace.
Anakin looked at him surprised.
“Oh no I just meant you should come here when you can, you know, as soon as it’s possible.” He explained casually.
Obi-Wan stared at him, resisting the urge to run a hand through his hair.
“You said ASAP!” he ground out.
“Yeah, ‘as soon as it’s possible’!” the young man said defensively “not like, right now!”
This time Obi-Wan did run a hand through his hair, taking a very long deep breath.
“Unbelievable! Anakin I just dropped everything, I was in the middle of-“ he faltered. “You can’t do that!” he snapped.
Ahsoka was now looking at him worriedly.
“Sorry Master Obi-Wan, we didn’t mean it.” She said contritely and seemed to dither in the face of her Grandmaster’s displeasure.
She pulled the chair beside her out from under the table.
“…you wanna join?” she asked, timidly.
“Yeah sorry Master, didn’t mean to make you panic” Anakin joined in, the tiniest of tiny smirks tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I didn’t panic” Obi-Wan muttered, well aware how sulkily it sounded.
“C’mon Master, take a seat. You really need to relax” he instructed cockily.
Obi-Wan nearly hit him.
But he took the offered seat all the same. He was here now, after all.  
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softakespics · 1 year
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Excerpts from fantasy books I'll probs never finish #1
N. B.This is like an end of days brutal thing? idk how to describe it. But if you don't like burning flesh imagery maybe don't read from here. Think like pompeii but crystal lava.
The brutal inferno had wiped out every wall of the castle. The dragons eternal breath melting it like wax. The once glistening crystal domes of the palace an endless sea of burning white orange as the molten crystal rolled across the farms outside the city. Choking the people of Henraath in the clear grey rock they had prized. 
If there was anyone left to look for survivors, may the gods of the winter wind support them. It was a brutal sight. The eternal flame had melted the domes of the crystal city. The streets were filled with frozen crystal, preserving the streets and the people who had been strolling undeneath. Devastation reigned.
The crystal held perfectly cured bubbles of air, hanging as the frost elves took their final breath. The crystal instantly slowing upon the contact with the their frost kissed skin. Their flesh burbling as pockets of heat froze greating glass blisters across their flesh. Their glass blisters elves instantly preserved by the very magic Korot previously claimed to protect. The flames of the brutal warlock shimmering across the horizon as he lay siege to claim all the land.
Any survivor who moved through the city could see the expressions of the frost elves as they took their final breath.
He had done this to the lower elven courts too. Now he came for winter. All the way through the artic deserts, calling first at the glass city on the edge of the glacier.  Though in previous cities and towns.
He wanted the energy of the world. Multiple courts had failed as he ran his way through them claiming the components of his spell. He had summoned the eternal dragon first, using the gifts of his god to create his monsterous components of legend. There was no hope now. Not when he wanted the well of worlds.
The winter court was the final stop on the Korot’s quest to get all the godly blessings of worth in the land together. The horror of winter court was a warning to all who dared to cross him. Not that there would be anyone left to fight him.
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allgremlinart · 8 months
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Jet and Zuko meet on the ferry is TIRED. Jet and Zuko meet after S2E7 "Zuko Alone" is WIRED
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clockwayswrites · 1 month
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"You bitch," Tim snapped at Jason.
"Bastard," Jason responded evenly, but the finger that he flipped Tim was concerningly violent.
"Bevel," Dick said.
Both heads swiveled to look at him, thrown out of their argument by the unexpected addition.
Dick shrugged and didn't even try to tamper his grin. "What, I wanted to get a word in edgewise."
"I hate you," Jason said flatly.
"You really are the worst brother," Tim said.
Jason nodded. "Agreed, and you know I hate agreeing with the replacement over anything."
Dick just kept smiling and mentally congratulated himself for a distraction well done.
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zinniax · 1 month
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Jurdan sharing clothes is CANON!!!
“She hasn't bothered with a gown today, either, but wears a pair of high boots, tight-fitting trousers, and a vestlike doublet over a shirt poufy enough that it may have been borrowed from Cardan.”
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shortnotsweet · 4 months
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In a Week by Hozier ft. Karen Cowley
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“The raven is death, obviously. When I die, I want a good tombstone—something right spooky. LT’s got something against the underground, though you’d think that would be just his kind of place. That’s alright. He needs to, he can cremate me. It’s not exactly Catholic, and Mam would turn in her grave, but God is a unicorn and no one is pure anymore, so. What’s all that got to do with me?”
Johnny “Soap” McTavish has a journal. Had. It is his no longer.
Simon “Ghost” Riley had dreams—awful ones, the kind that sank claws into his lungs, dragged him into sleep, and then sent him careening out of it. He still has dreams, but they’re different, now. Better. Johnny’s pages have folded themselves under his eyes and gotten into his head, brighter and more infectious than anything else has ever been. It’s more than the past, that rotting carcass behind him, and more than now. Now is nothing. Now is ash. It’s like, it’s like—blinding, is what it is. He’s a blind man.
It is biblical now. Ghost has read it backward and forward and sideways and inside out. When he runs out of things to read, he reads them again, and when that is not enough, he reads between the lines.
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Might I request a possessive hero with a smart (but slightly naive) villain who has bitten off more they can chew with them. Please and many thanks
"Funny," the hero said and the villain almost dropped their groceries. They hadn't expected their dear nemesis to show up in their apartment on the weekend. The villain didn't crave violence.
Not now. Not when they barely knew how to be normal. One time, they had slowly realised how useless they were without it. How insignificant their life would be if the only thing they were good at, namely destruction, was taken from them.
"You’re very funny, have I ever told you that?" The hero didn't look amused but they were kind enough to take the bags of groceries and put them on the tiny kitchen island. They didn't waste any time though, they pushed the villain against the fridge easily and pressed a kitchen knife to their throat.
"Well…uh…"
"You asked my team for help but you didn’t ask me."
"I think you're being unreasonably upset," the villain said and even though the quite dramatic gesture of pressing a weapon to the villain's throat was a little too much, they had to admit that it was good to see the hero. Admittedly, they worried a little too much about their enemy. The hero was...impulsive. Easy to anger, easy to frustrate. It made the hero quite easy to defeat and usually (the villain liked to think) the villain was the one who decided over victory.
One might say the hero was bad at their job but that wasn't exactly true. The hero was a lot more violent if they had to be. Just like the villain.
However, when it actually came to a battle between the two, the hero seemed to be distracted.
"I'm not upset."
"The knife says otherwise."
Silence. The hero eyed the villain all over, as if the answer was written on their body. A lot of frustration went into a reaction this…drastic. What the villain could only explain as jealousy, was new. Eventually, the hero lowered their weapon.
"…I am sorry."
"So you are upset."
"Do you know how dangerous it is to go ask some heroes for their help?" the hero asked. They were quite serious. "Do you know how easy it would've been to kill you on the spot?"
"I was careful," the villain said. "And even if I hadn't been, this is no reason to threaten me in my kitchen with my knife."
"Shit," the hero cursed quietly. They took a few steps back and went with their hand through their hair. They knew they had made a mistake.
The villain eyed them yet again, trying to analyze this behaviour but it was quite difficult. The hero was a person who punched and asked questions later. Meanwhile the villain wouldn't ask at all if they could avoid it.
"I'm sorry, I don't know what's going on...I've been upset for days and I don't know why. I cannot sleep. I want to fight but I don't want to kill. I need to do my job but I also hate it. I don't know what's wrong with me. And when I heard about you being in my agency, in the same building as me, I was just...I don't know." The villain slowly unpacked the groceries and put the milk in the fridge as they listened.
It had been a simple trade. Weapons for information. The villain was quite aware of the dangers and they had been careful.
They hadn't gone to the hero because, well, they didn't trust them. The hero acted strange around them. They were slower, not really there when they were fighting.
God, the villain wasn't stupid. They studied the hero's fighting style like everyone else's and the hero was much more aggressive with other villains. It had to be some sort of trick, some sort of game.
"Maybe you should switch sides. A hero shouldn't think like that," the villain answered. They watched the hero's hands fidget.
"You have no idea how many heroes think like that," they said. "But I don't want to cause harm, I just need to put this somewhere."
"Put what somewhere?"
"These feelings. Put these feelings somewhere. I think I am going crazy." The villain knew that feeling well. But it wasn't quite the same, was it?
"Why are you here?" the villain asked. They put the eggs in the fridge. The hero was surely not here to whine about their horrible hero-life. The villain had had the slight suspicion that the hero knew where they lived but they had actually never shown up.
And exposing themselves and their knowledge like that was a grave mistake. Now, the villain was aware that they knew where they lived. Thus, making every future plan the hero had thought of more difficult.
No, they weren't here to talk about their feelings.
"I wanted to see you." The villain almost dropped their apples.
"To fight?"
"No-- no, I just needed to see you. I'm uh-" they looked at the knife in their hand "- I'm sorry about this. I'm working on it. But...thank you."
They put the knife on the counter and left through the window.
After a while, the villain realised their cheeks were glowing and they did not know why.
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unpretty · 7 days
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Hi, I just learned about fuckbot9000..... And read your entire fuckbot9000 thread. You really have a way of writing the most ridiculous (complimentary) stories that pull me RIGHT in. I really enjoyed biffany harassing the host, it fept feral in ALL the right ways
god. perhaps in this era of dropout gamechanger and locking contestants in a room with no explanation, fuckbot9000's time has finally come
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im-not-corrupted · 5 months
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I was consumed by the idea of Merman!Hob in the last few days and now I'm writing a Dreamling fic about it so have a small, 1.7k snippet from the much larger fic :)
Includes: near-drowning, near death experiences, perhaps many medical inaccuracies because I am not a doctor and haven't edited yet, Merman!Hob, Prince!Dream and some light angst.
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He awakes with a gasping, heaving breath. His lungs are greedy things, sucking in air with desperation, and he presses a hand to his chest. Beneath his palm, his heart races. Adrenaline and panic both fill his veins and his hand shakes. His lungs feel full, but as he coughs mostly involuntarily, nothing comes up at all.
It takes a bit for him to calm down. When he does, when his lungs stop heaving and he stops coughing and he is left with nothing but an ache in his lungs, his head and a rawness in his throat, he looks around himself.
He sits on a beach, the sands golden and kissed by the sun. It shines down on him, blessing his face with its light. His clothes are soaked through and no doubt ruined, and before him—before him is the ocean.
It holds none of the fierceness he saw earlier, and he stares at it blankly. It looks as welcoming, as lovely, as it did the day he stepped onto the ship. His mind had been occupied, yes, but he had enough awareness to acknowledge the sea’s beauty.
Not enough awareness to acknowledge its dangers, though. He remembers in startling clarity the coldness of its waters, the ferocity with which it drowned him, the storm that waged and threw him overboard.
He should’ve been more careful.
It is not just the ocean that lies before him, but a man, too. A man, staring at him with honey-eyes that catch the sunlight as though they were made for it, with a curiosity on his face that, if it weren’t for the sudden anxiety twisting his all-too empty stomach, would’ve endeared him immediately. His skin is tan, golden like the sands, and some distant part of his brain wants to press his lips to that skin and find out what it tastes like for himself. Like ocean salt and sweat and the sun itself, he thinks, and then considers the possibility that he may have suffered some brain damage due to oxygen deprivation.
It takes him a bit to find his voice. During that time, the man—sitting in the ocean as though he belongs there, ignorant of its gentle waves lapping at him—continues to stare, head tilted like a particularly curious bird. “Who are you?” he asks, wincing at the hoarseness of his throat. It feels scraped raw, and he thinks he would like to simply not speak for a while, only—only this is rather strange, isn’t it?
The man’s shoulders shake with laughter. He is a beautiful creature, this man, with chestnut hair framing his face. Laughter, and amusement, becomes him. Distantly, Morpheus is aware that he should probably take offence at the man’s laughter, only—only he doesn’t really have the energy. If anything, he thinks he’d much rather sleep. “The one who saved you, obviously. Or did you forget you nearly drowned?"
He has half a mind to scowl at the strange man in the water, but only just has enough energy to narrow his eyes. "You saved me," he repeats dumbly. In his defence, he did nearly drown, and sleep calls to him now. Nearly drowning is, apparently, rather exhausting. "We were in the middle of the ocean. We weren't even close to any land. How did you—"
Come to think of it, he can't recall having seen this man's face before. Though perhaps that's explained easily. He was distracted on the ship, after all, and it wasn't like he went out of the way to remember the entire crew. Both Telute and Lucienne always said he should try to interact with people a little more than he does, but he thinks recent events made him exempt from that rule these last few months.
Still. The man's statement doesn't really make sense. They were in the middle of an ocean, and in a storm no less. It would've been impossible for the man to save him then, at least not without a boat or ship of his own.
Thinking of it made his head hurt more. For a moment he feels ready to simply shrug and accept the nonsensical answer as truth in the hopes that maybe the man would leave him to rest. Logically, he knows that isn't what will happen at all. If this man knows who Morpheus is, if he recognises him, then there will be some kind of demand. A boon for saving the Prince's life.
He can't do anything about that now, though, and the idea of laying on this beach and letting himself wither under the sun's heat seems very appealing. He doesn't even know where they are, or how close he is to his kingdom. How he's supposed to make it back in this condition, he doesn't know. The task seems impossible, in all honesty.
The man does not leave him to rest, not even when Morpheus simply nods stiffly and says, "Sure. Saved me. Alright." He remains in the ocean actually, the waves lapping at his torso, and continues to stare at him blankly as though expecting something a little more. Eventually, he rolls his eyes—Rude, Morpheus thinks, but hardly cares at all in the moment—and moves a little closer. It looks almost like the ocean parts for him, but that's ridiculous.
Then—well, then things get even stranger. Which also seems impossible, but—there they are. The man shifts in the water and brings what looks like a tail out of the ocean, all golden scales and fins. Beautiful, he thinks, knowing he's staring but seemingly unable to help it. Of course the man's tail would be golden. That only makes sense when the rest of him could've been carved from sunlight.
A little belatedly, he realises just what he's staring at. Which is the man, who had a fish's tail.
Hallucinating. He is hallucinating, then. That makes sense. Still, he can't help but laugh quietly—it makes him wince, his lungs still raw and aching, but the pain is temporary and certainly doesn't matter much if he's hallucinating—and says, "You're a merman."
The statement is ludicrous. Morpheus wonders just how much damage nearly drowning can do to a person, and then figures he doesn't want to know at all, actually.
"That is what you call us, yes," the man agrees easily.
Sure. Why not. "Why did you save me then?"
He shrugs softly. “Too pretty for death,” the—the merman, of all things, tells him. It sounds almost petulant.
He is losing his mind. He had swallowed a lot of water. A merman. “One can be too pretty for death?” he asks weakly, his throat hoarse and his chest tight with pain. The ridiculous nature of the question at least makes that pain easy to ignore. It will get him later, he knows that much, but he lets himself be distracted by his amusement at the situation for a while.
The merman blinks at him, expression entirely serious. “You are.”
”Right.” Right. Of course. Too pretty for death. That makes sense. As much sense as a merman fishing him out of the water does.
Whatever energy let him carry this conversation leaves him suddenly and he falls onto his back on top of the sand, his elbows failing to hold him up any longer. The sun glares down at him and he gazes back up at it blearily. Exhaustion clings to him just as the beach does to his sea-soaked clothes. Sleep seems like a wonderful, bright idea.
He let his eyes fall shut. It isn't very effective for blocking out the sun’s rays—it remains insistent, and closing his eyes doesn't give him the satisfaction of darkness that he dearly wants. Still, while that would’ve been a problem any other time, his body yearned for the void, to let the dark take him. It would be easy to simply lay here and wither, until either the tide takes him or someone finds him. Whichever came first. He didn’t mind either way.
Then the merman spoke again. “Are you dying, pretty one?”
It took a great deal of effort, but he grunts, “No.”
”Are you sure?”
He is not, actually. But that is no concern of this mermaid, and he merely answers, “I am certain.”
Silence follows that statement. Morpheus lets himself relax, lets himself hope this is it. He can sleep now, he thought—and is quickly proven wrong, for the merman states, “You look like you’re dying. Does anybody look for you?”
He hardly cares. Distantly, though, he thinks Lucienne might be. Jessamy and Matthew, too. “Perhaps,” he says after a couple of minutes pass, when he realises he has not yet replied. "I would like to sleep now."
The merman makes a considering noise. "I do not know much about humans," he said slowly, and Morpheus can practically feel the concern in his voice now, "but I'm pretty sure that's a bad idea. I'll stay and talk to you until you're found."
"Must you?" he asks, a desperate edge to his voice. The merman's voice is pleasant enough, yes, but rest is the preferred option here, regardless of what he says.
"Yes," he confirms. Morpheus's eyes are still closed so he can't actually see but he can imagine the smile on his face easily enough.
He sighs heavily and wonders what he did to deserve this. Then figures this is some weird, twisted kind of punishment for all that happened with Orpheus and Calliope and resigns himself to his fate. "Very well."
The merman talks, almost endlessly, until the sun is low in the sky. It is, truly, an impressive amount of talking. Morpheus doesn't remember much of that afternoon. At some point, he regains just enough energy to sit up, to listen more attentively. The merman, whose name he doesn't learn, seems to appreciate that. And just when despair begins to eat at him—I will not be found, he thinks and despite his inaction while he sank into the ocean, the idea panics him, I will die on this beach—there are calls of his name from behind him. They are voices he recognises and his heart picks up its pace when he turns around to see Lucienne, Telute and Jessamy walking down the beach towards him, each of them looking a little rough but all of them alive.
When he turns back to the ocean, the merman is no longer there, and Morpheus wonders if he dreamt the whole thing up. He does not mention it as Jessamy helps him to his feet, as Telute pulls him in for a hug, as the three of them begin to make it back home, to their duties, but he does not forget the kind eyes of the man who saved him from drowning.
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nightgoodomens · 10 days
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Love Thy Monster (snippet)
They always said he had no life. It was the type of a place where a man without a wife and children appeared suspicious, so he was probably lucky that he was a policeman and gained trust over the years of his hard work. He could move to a big city where nobody would bat an eye, but even with all its frustrations, he loved this place. Quirky little cottages and shops, market with fresh fruit, vegetables and flowers, that lovely lady who always knew everything and sold him her homemade dinners, and always left one for him on the side when he did not show up, knowing he was too busy with work and will come back home starving. That gentleman who always knew how to fix his crap car, the young woman who scared her kids with the policeman who would get them if they did not stop misbehaving, but they just stuck their tongues out at him, even the drunk who was known to everyone not so much for always being drunk but for calling everyone Kings and Queens, especially when asking for change.
Mademoiselle, any pennies?  
And then there was him.
David.
Perhaps he was the reason the people finally accepted Michael, because David came in standing out from the place like a black peacock in a desert, and he apparently did not give a single fuck and somehow everyone fell for it which Michael still could not comprehend how.
Nobody looked twice at Michael anymore or cared to talk about his ‘mysterious’ life. 
The mystery being that he was simply single in his fifties which was weird enough for this place. He was not sure why David was getting away with it.   
About a year ago someone bought the gorgeous old mansion surrounded by the forest, that was left to rot for years. Within a year it was brought to its former glory, with the amount of money Michael could not even imagine to have. The legends were writing themselves during that time, and everyone decided that royalty was going to move in. Lords and Ladies who will bring the village back to its former glory, which Michael was still not sure what that was because he dug deep enough to know that the village had always been the same. The only things he found were the shiver inducing religious stories he hoped would help him understand what was going on with the recent murders. He hoped that religious insanity was not what people wanted to bring back. 
And then instead David moved in to the mansion. Arrived at night in a beautiful car and nobody ever joined him. 
Michael looked at him leaning towards the old lady who was currently touching his cheeks telling him he was too thin. She adored the guy and Michael saw him a few times helping carry her bags and chatting like they knew each other for a long time. 
Michael did not know how old the man was. Standing there now, in a black fluffy jumper, dark skinny jeans and trainers, hair short on the sides and longer on top, curling a little, obviously ruffled by the lady, he looked in his thirties if not younger. But Michael saw him dressed in the most fashionable suit, probably costing as much as Michael’s yearly wage, hair smoothed back, face serious as he was speaking on the phone, and he looked handsome but definitely closer to his forties. 
He could not ask around because everyone would know within minutes that he did. Especially him.
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prince-liest · 2 months
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I was outlining the next radiostatic fic when I got distracted by the fact that someone needs to put Lucifer into their lap and tell him he's a good boy, and now I'm 6.2k words deep into something that's turned out way more emotional than I thought it would.
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swbumblebee · 2 years
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I love the idea of Jedi being absolutely awful at giving presents. Like, we know they have non-jedi friends who have birthdays, and obviously Life Day is a thing, and both these occasions warrant gifts.
But for people who just really aren't bothered about material goods, this poses a slight problem and occasionally highlights a gap in knowledge:
"Obi-Wan once gave me a spatula. In fairness it was blue, so it matched my house colours, but it was a spatula. He looked so pleased with himself."
"Dear Anakin turned up with the delightful courting gift of a dimmer switch. Because mine was sticking, apparently. We could have done many things in the dark few hours I spent watching him install it."
"I mentioned being in the senate involved a lot of flimsi work and Ahsoka turned up with a folder that Life Day. I believe it was one she got with a five-finger discount from the Temple admin offices. She's lucky she's pretty."
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varpusvaras · 2 months
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Seventeen really doesn't know what to think about Fox's new spouses.
They are...alright. That's the best word he can come up with, for now. They seem nice. Caring. Smart. Fox had mentioned them before, and always described them with good terms (which perhaps should've glued Seventeen in to the fact they were a thing. Fox had never been someone who would go out of his way to mention anyone just because), and the more Seventeen heard about them, the more he did appreciate them.
It just all felt fake, in a way. Not them, no. Seventeen had met enough nat-borns by now to recognise when they were being dishonest and smarmy. Not these two. Absolutely not. They were probably two of the most honest and open people Seventeen had ever met, which was also most likely one of the reasons Fox liked them. Fox had always liked it when things were said as they were. But just watching them, happy as they were, in their own little world where everything was fine and nothing else mattered, Seventeen couldn't shake the feeling of waiting for something, anything, to go wrong.
They weren't made for happy endings. Sooner or later something would happen, and ruin it all. They weren't made for soft things like this. They weren't made for things like love, not like this. Love for them meant training them, teaching them, pushing them forward and over their limits, so they wouldn't die.
That's what Seventeen had done.
It wasn't fair, some part of him screams. It wasn't fair that his love had been made to be bruises and broken bones and tears and anger, only for someone else to then come after all of it and claim that love was actually anything and everything else than that.
It wasn't fair.
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groenendaelfic · 12 days
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Faroe Gone Final Chapter Sneak Peak
So there's still lots of editing I need to do before I can post the whole thing, but with tomorrow looming I thought I'd share something "happy" and "cheerful" to distract y'all.
Have fun reading the beginning of the final chapter and hope you enjoy! 😇
Simon doesn't know if it's the sudden fog, his tears, or the fact that all he wants to do is be a fool and turn back around again—the first one, definitely the first one—but he drives back to Tórshavn at almost a snail's pace.
It doesn't matter. He has well over a day until the ferry makes its return journey to Denmark and nothing else to do except go over his time with Wilhelm again and again, replaying the good times and the pleasurable times and wondering if he could have said or done anything to change the outcome of his journey—other than realizing that all of his feelings were mere nostalgic illusion and fantasy, which of course turned out to not be the case.
Quite the opposite. Real Wilhelm was so much more than what Simon made him out to be in his head. There's so much he's missed. So much he doesn't know yet and which he desperately wants to find out.
It hurts, and yet there's nothing else Simon can do, no other choice which wouldn't hurt more sooner or later.
No. Simon tried. He did the best he could and that is enough. It has to be enough.
Simon had to leave while he still could.
The road ahead of him is empty, no one else in sight. No people, no cars, no sheep. Nothing except the wet, cold fog swallowing up everything and a rushing noise in his ears which might be the wind or the ocean or Simon himself.
Simon blinks away another tear and keeps driving, turning up the heat and hoping it will help.
It doesn't.
On the next island he passes a camper van. It's parked, and Simon thinks he can make out a brave tourist trying to take a picture, but he isn't sure. It's not as if there's much to see except an endless wall of grayish white.
Maybe that's the fascination.
Wilhelm told him that there are thirty-seven words for fog in the Faroese language, and while Simon laughed and told him to stop kidding, he's sure he's already experienced half of them, and it's only been two days.
Okay, that might be an exaggeration, but contemplating the uselessness of taking pictures of fog is a lot more bearable than lingering on the fact that he'll never get to be with Wilhelm again, never feel that satisfied ache in his muscles, not like this, and really how long can a grown man cry before he's all out of tears?
Pretty long he guesses.
Simon once stopped Ayub's baby daughter from attempting a daring escape on all fours, and Simon swears she was crying forever. Not that he blames her.
Crying is cathartic if it's anything, but if she could produce that many tears because of nothing more than a foiled plan to explore the stairway, then how many will Simon be able to shed before he's all wrung out? He’s a lot taller than her after all and guaranteed to not forget the reason for his tears even after being presented with some candy.
Simon doesn't want to know.
Simon wants to keep driving through this fog forever, because all that's waiting for him at its end is the mundanity of his never-changing life and a scandal revealing the Crown Prince to have been the victim of underage revenge porn thanks to his second cousin and presumed successor, and that is guaranteed to make it worse, to drag Simon’s name back into public awareness.
He should probably call home and warn his mom, warn Sara, but facing them will be torture of an entirely different kind, and also the investigative journalist they chose is a good one, one bound to build a case and not blindly believe her sources before going public, so there is still time.
Not too much though, as there is an impending deadline if the Royal Court and the Prime Minister are to be believed, or at least Simon would really prefer news of August’s deeds to overshadow him being taken into the line of succession.
Not that he’s so naive as to think a mere article can do more than delay the proceedings at best—although one can always hope—and ideally the journalist and whoever else gets a say in choosing the right time will see it the same way, but all of that is still more than half a week away, so why burden his family before he absolutely has to?
No, he's not going to call home yet, but maybe he should reserve a room before he gets back to the capital.
He decides to do it the old fashioned way and pulls over at the next opportunity. A viewpoint, or so he presumes the sign a few meters away from him would tell him if only it was clear enough to see.
He wipes at his cheeks and opens his phone. There are plenty of options for him to stay at. Small, privately owned places, holiday homes with kitchens and living rooms, quaint little hotels doing their best to sell their Nordic, rustic charm to tourists wealthy enough to make it there, and of course a camping ground, because unlike Sweden, the Faroe Islands don't allow one to set up camp anywhere else.
Simon doesn't choose any of them. He wants a warm but bland room, boring and inoffensive and as likely to be in Tórshavn as on the other side of the world.
Something as far from Wilhelm's colorful and most definitely handmade and expensive wooden furniture as he can get, and so he books himself a room at the first—and only—international hotel chain he can find, something he'd never do otherwise, and pretends that he's looking forward to it. The hotel has a fitness center after all and well over a hundred rooms. Simon is almost going to feel like back home in Uppsala.
Not.
He sighs and makes sure he received a confirmation for his booking, before he throws his phone onto the passenger seat and sighs again.
Somehow, magically, or rather because he's on a windy archipelago in the middle of nowhere, the fog is starting to clear. He can see a few meters of grass now, and then a cliff, and below it the cold, dark ocean pretending at being calm.
Simon wants the fog back, but when has he ever gotten what he wanted, and by the time he's back on the road he swears he can see a tiny patch of blue sky up ahead.
The hotel is on the outskirts of town and exactly as impersonal as Simon hoped it would be. He isn't hungry, and so he goes straight to his room and falls face first into bed.
The sheets are white and the pillows are white and they smell bland and clean and inoffensive, nothing at all like Wilhelm, and why would they?
Simon hates them. Simon also hates the hotel, but it's not as if he's in the mood for sightseeing, and as he isn't willing to take a shower yet—what? He's alone, no one's going to smell him, and isn't that the entire problem?—all that's left to do is turn on the TV, because he's for sure not touching his phone again any time soon.
Not when that would mean having it confirmed with every passing minute that he was a fool to leave Wilhelm his number. Wilhelm isn't going to call, but Simon would rather live in denial for as long as he can.
The TV does not greet him with an info screen as Simon expected, but an English speaking news channel, the volume turned up way too loudly, and Simon turns it off again as fast as he can.
Wallowing in self pity it is then.
Unfortunately Simon's usual answer to bouts of self-pity—angrily jerking off to thoughts of Wilhelm—is not an option right now, because Wilhelm is the entire reason for his misery, and so he grudgingly reaches for his phone after all and starts up a game which would work much better on a computer screen.
He's just about to finish off the newest boss, when a text message pops up.
If I do it, it reads. Then can we
The sentence stops halfway through, and Simon almost has a heart attack.
The delay in his reaction is enough for him to be killed instead, but it's not as if Simon notices.
Wilhelm. It has to be Wilhelm.
He taps the message, and while that makes it larger, it doesn't change the words.
He almost calls Wilhelm back right away, because Wilhelm is swaying, is reconsidering, and Simon wants that, he wants it so bad, to have Wilhelm back in his arms and his life, but also Simon already told Wilhelm that he can't be the only reason Wilhelm returns, that this is a life changing decision if there was ever any, and that Wilhelm needs to make it for himself and not for a hope of them maybe working out, and so he doesn't.
Instead he waits an excruciating minute and then another, just in case Wilhelm wants to add something or pressed send too soon, but no further message follows.
Simon curses and swears and kicks up his feet, because now he has hope again and that is great, but also torture. He doesn't want Wilhelm to get the wrong impression, doesn't want him to think that Simon wouldn't be willing to pick right up where they left off if he could—in the bedroom that is, not when it comes to fighting—and maybe they could also go on a date which has been nineteen years in coming.
Simon wants that. Simon really wants that. How can he not, now that he's had a taste, has spent time with Wilhelm, just Wilhelm, has had breakfast with him and done chores with him and played with his dog. Simon wants Wilhelm back, now more so than ever.
Simon knows he's an idiot, thinking of romance and dating when he just left the love of his life behind, and even if he hadn't, a returning Wilhelm would have much different things on his mind. He'd have to. He'd have no other choice. Things like his dying mother and the throne and the public reacting to his return after ten years in exile.
Wilhelm wouldn't have time for Simon, no matter how much Wilhelm would want him. Not for weeks and not for months. Simon would have to sneak into an assortment of palaces with the eyes of the entire nation on nothing but them if he wanted any time with Wilhelm at all, and Simon wouldn't want that. Simon doesn't want secrecy and sneaking and lies. Not that'd even be an option, what with the press and curious bystanders everywhere.
There is another option of course. The only one Wilhelm would ever consider coming back for. The one which at first glance sounds perfect because it means being with Wilhelm and standing by his side. It would also mean giving up everything else in Simon's life though, but what has he really got to lose? Why stop being foolish now?
Wilhelm told Simon that he's it for him. Wilhelm loves him. Simon's already traveled across an ocean. What's one tiny text message compared to that? Why can't he be selfish just this once and fuck the risk and the idiocy and the fear of what will be in one year? In five? In ten?
It all might end in disaster, but it might also not, and why should he be miserable if there's even the slightest chance at some fleeting happiness. After all it's not as if the email Wilhelm sent isn't bound to upend Simon's life anyway, and it's not as if Wilhelm is actually going to come.
Simon wants to be happy.
Simon wants to be happy and now there's a chance for it and so why not take it? He's done stupider things before, like coming here in the first place, so he might as well go all the way.
He doesn't text Wilhelm a yes, doesn't make any promises. He texts one word and one word alone, followed by a number, the name of the hotel and his room number, and maybe that's the biggest promise of all.
He doesn't regret it. He couldn't stay, not without making his inevitable departure even worse, but now he's done his part and the ball is in Wilhelm's court, all the balls are, and Simon is here and waiting.
For a ferry. For Wilhelm. For the life they could have had.
Fuck.
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wikiangela · 2 months
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fuck it friday
tagged by @disasterbuckdiaz @pirrusstuff @daffi-990 @honestlydarkprincess @hippolotamus @spotsandsocks 💖
just a tiny snippet of the natalia fic bc I'm excited about it and I think it might be posted by the end of this weekend👀 this one takes place before the last snippet lol
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It’s a few seconds before he hears the sound of familiar steps, recognizing them immediately. Eddie’s home. Buck hears him coming, hears him stepping on that one squeaky floorboard two steps from the door – they’ve been meaning to fix that for ages – and finally the door opens, revealing a confused but pleased-looking Eddie. He’s in sweatpants and an old, stretched out t-shirt Buck’s pretty sure actually belongs to him, and his hair is all disheveled and flat on one side, like he’s been napping on the couch. He looks so perfect and so cute, and Buck wants to see him like this for the rest of his life.
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no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gaydiaz @diazass @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @911onabc @housewifebuck @rogerzsteven @watchyourbuck @underwater-ninja-13 @eowon @loserdiaz @evanbegins @ladydorian05 @wildlife4life @nmcggg @diazpatcher @lover-of-mine @king-buckley @monsterrae1 @thewolvesof1998 @hoodie-buck @puppyboybuckley @weewootruck @buckaroosheart @spagheddiediaz @steadfastsaturnsrings @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @exhuastedpigeon @jesuisici33 @theotherbuckley @rainbow-nerdss @malewifediaz @giddyupbuck @diazsdimples @fortheloveofbuddie @jeeyuns @epicbuddieficrecs
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vigilskeep · 1 year
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scrolled through my writing document to see if i have anything scribbled down already that’s speculative abt inquisition era keir and um
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you know what. i rlly don’t know what else i expected
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