#1300 word fic

[phanta-soba]

F/oburary day 3: Baking

This.. was supposed to be a lot shorter than it was. That's all I'm gonna say.

Fic specifics:

1300 words

Deidara x Keiharu (oc)

Fluff, swearing, Deidara really can't cook/bake, pre relationship

(fic under the cut)

It was no secret that the Akatsuki didn't like staying under one roof as a group. This is why they typically communicated remotely, staying as far from the other members as was possible. However, there were rare occasions when Pein called everyone down to Amegakure for a group meeting that couldn't be done via alternative means. Whenever this happened either they would get separate rooming in the Ame inn, but there was never enough room for all of them, forcing a few to double up.

While this was nothing new, sometimes someone would pitch a fit over spending even more time in such a cramped space that Pein would give in and let some lucky few stay in his and Konan's home.

However, “lucky” was a subjective term. Being under the leader's roof meant a lot of strict rules that essentially boiled down to “You sleep in the guestroom. The use of any facility other than the bathroom was forbidden.” which meant no use of the kitchen, no washing your clothes (or having to find somewhere else to do it), and no loitering around. Pein was always keen on enforcing these rules, discouraging anyone who valued their life even a little from violating them.

Which begs the question- who in the Akatsuki would be stupid enough to accidentally wreck their gracious leader's kitchen?

The answer is simple, really. By some sadistic sort of luck, Deidara had been kicked out of what was supposed to be his and Sasori's room at the inn. At first, he thought he was screwed, destined to loiter around a highly paranoid ninja village with nothing but the clothes on his back. All of his money-and even his clay- was still back in the inn with a spiteful Sasori. He contemplated seeing if Pein's guest room was still available, but then dejectedly remembered that Konan had already invited Keiharu to stay with them.

He sighed wistfully at the thought. If he was lucky, maybe Keiharu would let him crash with them- despite the fact that this would be a violation of one of Pein's many rules. Upon considering it, they just might let him. They got along really well, and Kei was one of the few people in the Akatsuki who could properly appreciate his art. Unfortunately, there was still one issue.

Deidara had a stupid, irrational crush on the mercenary.

He managed to keep it (mostly) under control when they were together, but that was usually when they were in a group, both of their guards still up. Still, he needed to bite the bullet and ask or he'd have to sleep outside.

Deidara approached the tall building, his hands shoved in his pockets as he steeled himself. Since using the door was for peasants and losers, he scaled the wall until he was at the guest room's balcony on the third floor. For a moment, he hesitated, seeing Keiharu still in all of their usual gear.

When he gently knocked on the glass, their head snapped up, eyes focusing on him. Confusion blossomed on their face as they walked over and opened the door.

“What the hell, Dei?” They asked, a slightly confused smile on their lips.

“Sasori kicked me out.” He explained sheepishly, walking inside the dimly lit room. It was generic but homey, a classic look for any guest room. “Is it alright if I crash here?”

Keiharu gave him an appraising look, their eyes studying his face in a way that made his heart skip. Finally, they laughed.

“The hell did you do for him to kick you out?” They asked with an amused grin, instantly calming his nerves again.

Deidara smiled back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh, you know Sasori. He thinks anyone breathing around him is a personal annoyance.” He chuckled, playing off the real reason he was kicked out.

In all actuality, Sasori had been more than patient with him, but had finally grown tired of watching him pining after Keiharu. Deidara truly couldn't blame the man.

“I know he has a permanent stick up his ass, but damn.” Keiharu mused, leaving the room to find the hall closet. Deidara hummed in agreement, following them into the hall like a lost puppy. He kept glancing at the walls, so he wouldn't be caught staring at the back of their head. “I think there's an extra futon here somewhere..”

“I thought this was your first time here?” Deidara asked, surprised. They glanced back at him, a sly smirk on their lips.

“Nah. Whenever there's a slow period for my kind of work, Konan lets me crash here.” They explain, digging through the closet until they found the rolled up mat. They pulled it out, handing it over to Deidara.

“Alright, now you're all set.”

The whole ordeal turned out to be less awkward than Deidara thought. Everything with Keiharu seemed to be- they were the sort of easy-going that almost everyone could get along with. Hell, they even managed to be good friends with Hidan of all people. Still, it only strengthened his fondness for them.

Which is why in the morning, he had the horrible idea of trying his hand at baking.

Riding the high of close, unawkward contact with his crush, Deidara didn't spare a second thought to the fact that he would be baking- an extremely messy process which he has been historically awful at- in his boss's kitchen. The only recipe he was following was the recipe for disaster. The only thing on his mind was impressing Keiharu- who was a very good cook- with his nonexistent baking skills.

To the surprise of absolutely no one, this endeavor failed. Spectacularly.

What was supposed to be sugar cookies ended up looking more like a heinous mockery of any respectable desert. Deidara had managed to scatter flour all over the floors, counter, and walls. There were spots on the counter that were sticky with either butter or water- he lost track of which. There was a broken egg on the floor from rolling off the table. Not all of the dough had even made it to the oven on account of Deidara's hands taking a bite or two (this was also a horrible decision that will later result in food poisoning). And to top it all off, he had burnt the cookies.

Fantastic.

Deidara had only just began frantically sweeping the flour into the trash when a stunned voice caught his attention.

“What.. the fuck.”

His blood ran colder than it would have if Pein had been the one to find the mess. Still he frantically waved Keiharu over.

“Please, I know I fucked up. Just help me before our leader wakes up!” He pleaded, looking absolutely wrecked. His hair was dusted with flour, barely tied back anymore. Even his eyes were wide and pathetic.

Keiharu sighed deeply, assessing the damage. After a moment, they grabbed his hand. His eyes widened, focusing on their face.

“Fuck that.” They said sternly. “We need to get as far away from here as physically possible.”

And with that, they pulled him towards the window. There was a look in their eyes that he could only identify as manic glee as they grinned at him.

“Brace yourself.”

Deidara might not have impressed Keiharu with his lackluster baking skills, but he did get to jump out of the third story window of his boss's house with them. It was a good morning after all.

(The Akatsuki lost guest room privileges entirely after that.)

[foolsocracy]

never write a directionless fic. cause why is pete having a breakdown over the shop that gave him cheap ass egg foo young closing . How’d we get here

[conceptofjoy]

context: just trust me

[johnslittlespoon]

the dog–coded bucky fic is officially a wip btw <3

[larkral]

OKAY it's late so we're going to be as efficient as humanly possible here. I've spent pretty similar amounts of time this week writing in Finally (already, always) and As yet unnamed Red White and Royal Blue Soulmates BS (BS stands for Brilliant Shit, btw: I am obsessed with my soulmates concept), so you're going to get some of each!

Two mums

(Simon POV. There is no Baz POV in this story, FYI, so it's going to be SImon from here on out)

We don't even have to sneak out. We just take the keys off of the hook next to the front door and walk right out into the night. It's lovely. On our way to the nearest park, we walk past a community building where a choir is rehearsing, and then further into a bike-walkway. It's lined with trees, and when we get to an area where the zigging of a street gives the pathway a deeper tree cover, Baz tells me to wait under a light and walks determinedly into the trees.  I can see him moving in the shadows. Not, you know, perfectly, but if I look into the trees, there's still a bit of light coming through from the other side. If I let my mind wander, I can sometimes see a too-fast movement or a flicker of a shape that I know in my bones is him.  Then there's a long moment of stillness.  I wonder what he's found. 

RWRB Soulmate BS

(Just diving right into the "if I'm writing a soulmate fic, you better believe it's going to go hard in worldbuilding" of it all right off the bat.)

"I'm not an idiot Nora," Alex says exasperatedly. He swears sometimes she says stuff just so he can shout about it. "They rely so heavily on the idea that their empire was ordained by Divine Right because they've been exclusively letting their children marry their 'soulmates' since the beginning of time, and if those children's 'soulmates' happened to help them expand the reach of their power, then that was just God's will." Alex takes a deep breath. "Why would they ever give that up?" Nora sends a half-shrug his way, and June pats his shoulder.  "You'll just have to hold your breath against the hypocrisy, little bro," June says. "Especially because I'm pretty sure Zhara is going to forbid you from more than a polite sip of champagne."  "Don't I motherfucking know it," he says.

Thanks so much for the tags this week @thewholelemon, @that-disabled-princess, @kiwiana-writes, @bookish-bogwitch, @hushed-chorus,

@forabeatofadrum, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @monbons, @mooncello and @rimeswithpurple !! What a brilliantly active Wednesday it is today! I am *loving* all the things folks are sharing. Crafts and writing and art and life events. I absolutely <3<3 fandom. A+ work everyone!

Since it's the end of the day, I'd like everyone I'm tagging to consider this a prompt to tell me about anything you're doing lately, even if it's completely non-fandom related. <3

@stitchyqueer @confused-bi-queer @raenestee @facewithoutheart @whogaveyoupermission

@cutestkilla @sillyunicorn @basiltonbutliketheherb @roomwithanopenfire @orange-peony

@ileadacharmedlife @asocialpessimist @aristocratic-otter @captain-aralias @run-for-chamo-miles

@petedavidsonscock @artsyunderstudy @carryonvisinata @takenabackbytuesdays @martsonmars

@nausikaaa @nightimedreamersghost @chen-chen-chen-again-chen @ionlydrinkhotwater @wellbelesbian

@shrekgogurt�� @palimpsessed @fatalfangirl​ @blackberrysummerblog​ @valeffelees

@j-nipper-95 @youarenevertooold @emeryhall @run-for-chamo-miles

@talentpiper11 @imagineacoolusername

[rockingrobin69]

Numbly

“I've been informed,” Harry Potter burst through the door with his habitual earth-quake of a shout, “that you don’t even like peppers!”

“Good morning,” Draco said dryly. Harry Potter glared.

With a sigh, Draco retreated to the kitchen to fetch the biscuits from the cupboard.

Around his third one, an insistent crumb hanging to his upper lip with all its tiny might: “Peppers, Malfoy!”

“Pardon?”

“Peppers!”

Draco blinked. “If you’ll be so kind as to tell me what on earth you’re on about.”

“Pansy said you hate them!”

He looked absolutely outraged. Draco sipped his long-cold tea.

“Do I?”

“She said you’re allergic!”

“Am I?”

“Stop—fucking with me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” But the corner of his lips was twitching. “I’m not allergic. I was simply a horribly dramatic child and she still naïve back when we were, what, six. Seven. I’m fine with peppers now.”

Harry Potter pouted, terribly chipmunk-ish, and even put the biscuit pack down. Down to business. “I cooked the—bloody hell, Malfoy, just, honestly. Why wouldn’t you say? That you hate peppers. I would’ve made something else. I would have happily—why?”

Utterly bemused, “I am. Honest, I mean. I don’t mind peppers anymore.”

“That’s a fucking lie and we both know it.”

Grasping at straws and failing, at least managing to stop the wobble of his stupid mouth, the automatic turning downwards. Went for his cup instead. The tea was ice-cold and flavourless and Draco poured it down his throat like it could cure him.

“Your hair’s a mess,” he then said, venomous, and turned his eyes back to the wall, where they refused to stay. It was always like this when Harry Potter barged into his flat. Even the water stains on the ceiling lost their usual allure and could not hold his attention. “If it’s raining, cast a bloody Impervious. Or take an umbrella.”

Harry Potter took a deep breath instead, sounding awfully, weirdly small. Some of the tension bled out of him in increments, his shoulders first, then the fists unclenching, then his belly un-hardening. His jaw was last. Draco was helplessly mesmerised by the transformation.

“You’re impossible,” but his voice finally not straining, his fingers not twitching towards the biscuits. No longer needing the obvious distraction. “Next time, if I make something you dislike, you have to tell me.”

“An order,” Draco huffed. “How sweet.”

Harry Potter could blush all the way to the roots of his hair. It was such a stunning, breath-stealing wonder to witness.

“It’s not a… fuck you.”

“Hmm.”

They sat there in strangely amicable silence. The oven still gave that choking, desperate cough every ten seconds, and it set a nice framework for their breathing, for the non-fidgeting. Harry Potter was always fidgety, but not when he sat in Draco’s kitchen like this.

“What’s your schedule? For today. Nev said you’re doing overtime again.” Leaning back, giving Draco that look all his friends liked to wear, the one on the border of a telling-off. It didn’t usually work on him, but Harry Potter had a slight edge to his disappointment that made Draco’s skin crawl.

“Not—exactly. Shouldn’t be so late. I’ll be home for bedtime, Mother, I promise.”

Even his mother didn’t glare like that. “Third time this week? I kind of want to strangle your boss.”

“Ha. I should inform you that violence is usually frowned upon in the workplace.”

He didn’t smile, but he came near it. Draco could tell, because the corners of his eyes were dancing. “Does it count if it's not my workplace?”

“Mm. Fair enough. Strangle away.”   

Now he was smiling. “When d’you start? Want a ride?”

And Draco was so grateful he didn’t launch yet another tirade about how Draco should quit that he said, “Why not.” (Only because he was distracted and rather tired, and not because sitting behind Harry Potter on his motorbike was in itself half-punishment, and not because clinging to his waist on tight turns at far-too-quick was—anything at all). On the downside, it made Harry Potter practically beam, and Draco still needed his eyes.

“Great! I mean. That’s good. That you won’t be late. Bad for your, er, record, and stuff, and you might not get a—bonus or something.”

They didn’t do bonuses at McMillan & McMillan, but that was neither here nor there. Draco nodded, pushed himself up on not so flimsy legs, collected his coat from where it was crumpled on the back of a chair.

“What about lunch?”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t take. Any lunch.”

Why was he so obsessed with food? It was dangerously endearing. “I have an apple in my bag. Come now, you promised I won’t be late.”

“An—” Harry Potter shook his head, loosening even more curls out of his bun. They were rain-flat and miserable and still entirely too sweet. “I’ll buy you a sandwich at that poor excuse for a cafeteria you got there. And so help me god, Malfoy, you’ll eat it, or—”

“All right,” both hands up, “no need to shout. Your wish is my command, etcetera.”

He pouted so hard it was almost comical. But there was something still wounded there, so Draco added, “As long as there’s peppers, you know,” and then he was fuming again, bouncing on the balls of his feet and ready to deliver yet-another lecture. Draco watched him, amused, and forgot to lock the door behind him, and forgot his scarf.

Did remember his umbrella, which he Leviosa-ed to follow the Death Machine, stuck it against the silly jacket's back when they reached the office. It wasn’t raining anymore, thankfully allowing Draco to arrive not wet-dog for a change, and it made absolutely no difference.

Harry Potter took off his helmet to watch Draco enter the building. Didn’t follow him inside (wise, to prevent a murder), and so Draco completely forgot about the sandwich threat until it was roughly lunchtime. At which point, a drawer in his desk suddenly jumped open, and a far-too-fancy £12 bready tower appeared. On it a note that scrawled pepper-free, git.

Harry Potter had a lot to answer for. Draco, distracted, chipped away at the sandwich all the same, and was only shouted at twice, and didn’t even spill coffee on his keyboard.

‘Not exactly overtime’ at the office meant staying after everyone else to take note of stock and arrange all the impossible paperwork. That Draco was given this task was already hilarious, and always a disaster: that his boss insisted on continuing to give it to him, possibly commendable. Maybe he thought Draco was being stubborn. Maybe he thought, nobody could really be this bad without actively trying. Well, he didn’t know Draco yet! There was always time to learn.

Stock was stocked. The backroom was stuffy and still smelling slightly of smoke (not Draco’s fault, probably), the sweet dusty smell of paperwork going to rot. It made his head spin, not unpleasantly, made him inhale a little brokenly and laugh to himself. The sandwich from all the way back lunch sat heavy in his belly, sweating. Everything was so incredibly laughable.

When he finally finished (after only forgetting three steps in the protocol), the sun had long set and the streetlights were humming. Not worrying, Draco thought, going back to the office (forgot his bag). Not worrying at all (back to the office, to check he locked the door). (Why would anyone give him the keys?) (Some disasters were just asking to happen).

On his way home he stopped by the corner shop for another pack of biscuits. Some disasters, sure, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t prepare in advance. Harry Potter would surge in soon enough with another grievance. Draco was giddy by nature, and so the shakiness was not necessarily to do with this.

To the crescent moon drowning in cloud he wondered, do I hate peppers?

Couldn’t remember to decide by the time he made it back.

[thevioletcaptain]

😔🧋🤙 for the emoji prompt!

Cas is just leaning in to kiss him, his fingers trailing warm and seductive down the center of Dean’s chest, when there’s a knock on their bedroom door. Three sharp raps in quick succession.

They both freeze, breath caught as they wait, as if silence will convince whoever’s knocking that they aren’t here.

“Dean? Cas?”

No such luck.

“Maybe if we ignore him, he’ll give up and leave,” Dean whispers, but he’s barely finished the sentence when Sam knocks again.

“Uh, guys?” Sam says, voice louder but still muffled through two inches of oak. “You awake in there?”

Cas sighs, slumping back onto his own pillow to give Dean a look that very clearly states; your brother, your problem. Dean sends one back that says, what’s mine is yours, sweetheart, but Cas only glowers in response.

“Guys?” Sam repeats, knocking a third time, and Dean groans as he pushes out of bed.

With one last longing glance at Cas, naked and sleepy and looking decidedly put out about the fact that his plans to continue what they’d started last night had been interrupted before they could even begin, Dean slips into his robe before cracking the door.

“What?”

Sam meets his gaze with a sheepish grimace.

“Hey, sorry,” he says again, wrinkling his nose. “I was gonna let you guys sleep in, but, well… I don’t wanna freak you out or anything, and it might not even be—”

Sam pushes out a breath. Hesitates.

“Dude, just spit it out. It’s early.”

“It’s eleven.”

“Sam—”

“I think there’s something wrong with Jack.”

That gets his attention fast, and Dean pulls the door wide as Cas launches out of bed. Sam averts his eyes when he notices Cas’ distinct lack of pants.

“Uh—”

“Is he sick?”

“What happened?” Cas asks, immediately breathless with worry. “Where is he? Is he hurt?”

“He’s fine, he’s safe, he’s taking Miracle for a walk. But— Cas, can you put some clothes on?”

Dean grabs Cas’ fuzzy cloud-print bathrobe from the back of the door and tosses it over to him before he can start arguing with Sam about the fact that his lack of pants has no bearing on Sam’s ability to explain himself.

“So if he’s fine and safe and walking the dog—what exactly is the problem?” Dean asks.

With an uncertain shrug, Sam nods toward the kitchen, and they follow him down the hall as he explains.

“Okay, so this morning I had to go to up to Hastings for a few things, and I asked if he wanted to come with — he normally does, y’know, because he likes the toffee boba from that place opposite the store where I get my protein powder.”

“Uhuh,” Dean says.

“So, I dropped him off to get his drink, and I went to the health food store, and when I came back to meet him he was just, like. Sitting in the middle of the sidewalk.”

“Sitting, and… doing what?” Cas asks.

“That’s the thing,” Sam says, stepping down into the kitchen. He looks back at them as he pulls out one of the swivel chairs at the table and sits down. Dean and Cas mirror him on the other side. “He was just sitting there, staring at a crack in the pavement with a dandelion growing in it.”

“So…” Dean says, waving a hand for Sam to elaborate.

“I think he’s depressed.”

“Depressed,” Cas repeats with a frown.

“You think he’s depressed because he was sitting on the sidewalk and looking at a flower?” Dean asks, narrowing his eyes. “The kid’s just weird, Sam. He’s always been weird. He gets it from his entire family.”

“That’s not— look, I asked him why he was sitting there instead of on the bench five feet away, and you know what he said to me? He said, what difference does it make? Everything is meaningless.”

“Okay, well that… that does sound kinda concerning,” Dean admits.

“Did he say anything else?”

“No, not really. But when we got back to the car he stuck the dandelion under the windshield wipers to ‘see how long it would hold on’, and… honestly, saying that out loud sounds stupid, but… I don’t know. It worried me.”

As he’s speaking, the distant whine of the main door opening echoes through the bunker, followed by scrambling claws as Miracle launches into his usual post-walk zoomies, and the heavy clang of the door slamming shut.

Miracle bursts into the kitchen a few seconds later, frantically sniffing at all of them — Cas carefully repositions himself to avoid getting a dog snout all up in his business — before sprinting back out, and Jack follows shortly after, slurping away at his boba.

Inexplicably, he’s wearing his Ghostbusters jumpsuit from last Halloween, a pair of teal flip flops, and has Cas’ floppy gardening hat hanging around his neck. Dean looks at him and then back at Sam, wondering how neglected to mention this absolute mess of an outfit as he recounted the reasons for his alarm.

“Hello,” Jack says with a wave, and walks over to the fridge.

Dean, Cas, and Sam all look at one another before Cas clears his throat.

“How are you today, Jack?”

Rifling through the vegetable drawer, Jack lets out a thoughtful hum before extracting a single tomatillo. He sniffs it before biting into it like an apple.

“Snacky. And… contemplative. Have you ever noticed how Miracle just eats whatever he finds no matter what time of day it is? That makes more sense than designated breakfast food, I think.”

“Right,” Dean says carefully, watching as Jack takes another sip from his toffee-flavored milk tea as though he doesn’t still have a mouthful of tomatillo. He’s unsurprised when the flavor combination — and presumably the added texture of a tapioca pearl — makes Jack gag a little, but it’s still gross when he spits it into the sink.

At least he takes the moment to turn on the tap and rinse it down.

“So, uh. What’s the deal with Halloween in July?”

Jack tilts his head for a moment, as though uncertain what Dean is asking, before he seems to remember what he’s wearing. He looks down. Jiggles the buckle of his utility belt.

“Oh, it’s because I realized nothing matters,” Jack says cheerfully, and takes a long, noisy slurp through his straw before wriggling it around the bottom of his cup, where the last tapioca pearl is stubbornly clinging to the plastic. It finally dislodges, and he crushes the cup in his hand, tossing it in the recycling.

“What do you mean nothing matters?”

“There’s no point to anything. It’s all meaningless, so, you know, if something is kind or fun or interesting and it doesn’t hurt anyone…” Jack shrugs. “Hakuna Matata.”

Without waiting for a response, Jack crams the rest of the tomatillo into his mouth and heads for the door.

“Anyway, I’m gonna go up on the roof and read erotica on my phone,” he says, and waves, and then he’s gone before any of them can process that — let alone react to it.

“See what I mean?” Sam says.

“Yeah, uh. He’s definitely being weird, even for Jack, but… I don’t think he’s depressed.”

“So what is it? Teen angst?”

“He’s not a teenager,” Dean points out. “And he’s not exactly angsty.”

“He’s right, Sam. I’m not certain this is even a problem.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Well, I do think one of us should actually take the time to have a frank discussion with him about sex if he’s going to be reading erotica, but other than that, it seems as though he’s just thinking philosophically. Contemplating the nature of his existence in a newly Godless universe.”

“Yeah, and I mean, as far as philosophies go? Nothing matters so just chill out about it seems… refreshingly optimistic. I say we call it a win.”

[written for this prompt game] [find me on ao3 as imogenbynight 💚]

ps: here's a bonus meme to illustrate why my brain went immediately to "optimistic nihilism" after seeing these particular emojis 😅

[freewayshark]

17k babyyyyy

[dykefever]

have started writing a little something for christmas .... first line s is being so so pathetic :-)

[cjlouwho]

I'd love to do one of those "make me write" things but it would literally just be the kidnapped fic and I couldn't actually share anything because I'm 4 chapters ahead of yall.

[secretsoftheuniverse1987]

in devastating but not at all surprising news, the one thing that motivates me to write (more than anything else) is actually writing

[hislittleraincloud]

She'll Be Alright (Rated T, Cairo Sweet/Jonathan Miller (Jairo), angst, fluff, for hurricane relief efforts in the South, 1300 word drabble)

Cergy, France 

The weather was as muggy as it had ever been, on and off, during their stay, but Jon surmised that the faint frown on her face that had weighted her bowed lips down during the times it was too hot to write wasn't there for the lack of inspiration or motivation.

“What're you doin’?” 

Jon tried to quickly slide the glass door shut, but the faint smoke smell followed him in. Cairo was curled into herself on the small couch, scrolling through her apps.

“Cairo,” he leaned against the wall, staring at her ponytailed profile. “I thought we agreed —”

“That contract is void, Jon,” she snapped, more out of despair than irritance. “I can't —”  she made a half-hearted effort to look up, but her neck was hurting from being held hostage by her compulsion towards worry. She sighed. 

It wasn't him, but he wasn't helping. 

She sighed again, the frustration having collapsed into defeat as her hand fell into her lap. “I just can't.”

Their little one bedroom apartment in Cergy-Pontoise was tiny, but she was tiny, “So it works out,” she had cooed upon her booking with her cheeky, dimpled grin. At the time, it was her romantic heart that just wanted to get away from all of the heartache that home had left them to suffer, Paris being the first stop on their year-long tour of living — and loving — in Europe.

The apartment was perfect for that, offering a cozy — perhaps slightly cramped — living space for them to begin their journey together, writing whenever and wherever they felt like it, whether it be on the queen bed or lounging in the small garden patio that reminded them of home. It was the color scheme of the listing that had drawn Cairo in, but once they arrived, it thrilled her even more; the blacks, greys, celadon and verdant greens of the paint and decor matched everything at Sweetland Manor, greatly lessening her anxiety and keeping her homesickness at bay in the slightly paler and more modern trade-up. The garden even had an ironwork table, albeit a small, round, white one whose surface was not equipped in either size or stability for the kinds of activity that the one back in Benson had seen. The only thing they hadn't quite counted on was the size of the (mini)fridge and the lack of a full stove, for as cute it was that the aesthetic fit Cairo's petite stature, it didn't cooperate well with either Cairo or Jon’s ravenous appetites for something other than sex and cigarettes. Still, it had become their home away from home, their writing and lovemaking something out of a quaint and boringly repetitive erotic novel that brought them the pleasure and bonding that she had only dreamt about when she planned her gap year around the man she was smitten with, and who was smitten with her. It had been a dream, these past two months ‘under the roofs of Paris’, until the nightmare back home invaded their tranquility.

He sat down, nudging his way against her side, his left arm coaxing her shoulders into an easy slump against his chest.

“I know, alright. You...aren't the only one scared to death about all this shit.”

She shifted, her knuckles idly sliding against his tee. “You worried about Bea?”

He blinked, his brow twitching before correcting itself. There wasn't a hint of venom in her voice at the mention of his soon-to-be ex-wife.

“She ain't even in the pathway. Neither is Benson, you know —”

“It's close enough! Knoxville —”

“Is two counties over! And even if the floods are bad, it's solid. It'll be fine —”

“How do you even know that —”

“It's Lovell Hill.  Hill. You ever get floodin’ there?”

“It don't matter if I never got floodin' this bad before, Jon! People on top of fuckin’ mountains are gettin’ affected. There's dead bodies in the trees, kids, babies floatin’ down the floodwaters. A thousand year flood done washed Asheville away,” her voice cracked. “I hate it here.”

“You don't hate it here —”

“Yes I do!  Right now I do! I can't do nuthin’ about anything!”

“And what exactly do you think you could be doin’ back home besides bein’ trapped in the house with nowhere to go except the second floor?”

“...But Miss Kitty —”

“She'd find her way to that second floor,” he spoke softly but assertively, a hand patting the air as if to quickly stamp out a flame. He accidentally let a small tick of impatience slip through his throat, but immediately recovered, reaching for her hand. “Or the attic. She'll be okay —”

“There's no one to feed her! Boris n’ Black evacuated! Did they take the cat?  No, they didn't!”

Jon recalled the text. It had been a flash flood warning, and they all needed to evacuate immediately. There was no time for anyone to drive all the way over to the Hill to get the cat.

“I'm sorry —”

“I'm just — I'm just — ” her hand bounced against his stomach as a video on her phone held a silent loop of the rushing, ochre-colored waters of the floods onscreen. “The Rainbow Bridge up in Lake Lure washed away. Peoples’ live pets are bein’ washed away. There was one lady who lost ten cats — ten of ‘em, and I can't — hey!”

Jon had snatched the phone out of her hand and kept an iron grip on her waist as he held her phone at his long arm’s length.

“Watchin’ those TikTok videos ain't helpin’, baby girl.” 

He started to chuckle as she struggled but wasn’t truly putting any effort into getting it back. She only mildly hated it when he was like this, smacking at his arms until she hugged them to her chest in a caress, too drained from all of the blunt, realtime depictions of life and death at the hands of a very angry Earth. When she relaxed, he tossed her phone two feet away onto the bed and lay with her comfortably cradled in his arm. 

“I know it's hard. It's hard feelin’ so — helpless. But there ain't nuthin’ either of us can do right now except live our lives.” He cupped her rounded jaw with his fingers, stroking his thumb against her pouty lip. “At least try to.”

She kissed the pad of his thumb, but then shook away from it. “I’m tryin’.”

“I know you are.” They lay in silence for a minute, listening to each other's heavy breaths in the damp evening air. “We can't go home now.”

“I — I know.”

“Hey,” he whispered.

“What.”

“You know I love ya?”

“...I love you more,” she pouted.

“You just love more. Explains your pain over all of that —”, his hand squeezed her shoulder, “ — stuff back home.”

“And you ain't pained? You ain't bothered at all? You…heartless old codger.”

He laughed. “That what you really think of me?”

“No. But I hate that you're so calm n’ collected. It just makes me look crazier.”

“You're allowed to be crazier.”

“...Sexist.”

“Ain't nuthin’ to do with that and you know it.”

“I hate it here.”

“That's fine, I've only been packin’ for London for the past three days —”

“And I hate you.”

“Funny, I thought I just heard a little crazy, farty little forest fairy tellin’ me that she loved me more than I love her.”

“I do,” she pressed her palms into his stomach as she lifted up, eliciting a sharp wince in his disbelieving, open-mouthed grin. She flashed a smug grin of her own and gave him a quick peck on the lips before pushing up and off, bouncing to the bed for her phone. “Imma call Daddy. I bet he can get someone out there to help.”

“...You do whatever you need to do, sweet pea.”

The region in which the Under Virgin Circumstances universe is set has seen unprecedented devastation to all life with Hurricane Helene and hurricane season is far from over. Here are a few links where you can help contribute funds to the rescue and relief efforts:

The International Fund for Animal Welfare donation pages for Helene and for Milton Efforts

The Humane Society of the United States Hurricane Rescue & Relief Efforts

Charity Navigator: Hurricane Helene & Milton Relief Efforts (includes links for pets and their humans)

[deepwoundsandfadedscars]

writing is happening so you know what that means! no sleeping tonight cause if i stop now, it won't get finished *eye twitch*

[shikai-the-storyteller]

I completely forgot today was Sunday and I was planning to post the first chapter of the "Fit & Pac bonding over prosthetics" fic tomorrow AAAAAAAAA—

I'm a "fics get posted on Monday" kind of person because the start of the week sucks and I personally always enjoy having new stories to look forward to when I get home or to read when I wake up (but it does mean that if I forget, I have to wait another week to post things, so that can be a bit annoying.)

[neptunesenceladus]

Something sweet for the summer or to tide you through winter.

[tiodolma]

Here's a short mergana AU:

In which 30 something Merlin is trying out a spell that lets the user see their greatest regret and accidentally ends up in the past, in front of the scene where Morgana confesses about her suspicions about her magic. "I would tell her about your magic if I were you," he utters, casually, making his younger self and the lady Morgana jump in surprise.

Basically, in which an older Merlin ends up ruining whatever destiny the old lizard had cooked up and earns two pupils who insist on learning from him. The End.

P.S.: He also brought his Morgana (who's not dead) along for the ride.

I'll leave what happens to your imagination. 🤣

i'm still working this one out lol but rest assured i didn't forget this. it's just.. turned into smth very big. anyway. here's a draft? :D

............

Morgana and Merlin end up in Merlin’s quarters.

“W-where are we?”

“This is my room. It’s night and..” Merlin opens his bedroom door a little and sees his younger self from eleven years ago moving to blow out a candle.

“It can’t be...”

“Emrys... what is it -”

The door burst open and a young Morgana strides in with tears in her eyes, wearing only her thin nightgown.”

Morgana looks at the man beside her just in time to see tears welling up in his eyes. “Emrys...” She glances back at their younger selves staring at each other, the Morgana in front of them desperate... desperate to hear the truth, afraid of her own magic, afraid of becoming a monster

“...was this your biggest regret?” she continues quietly. She had thought he regretted poisoning her in the throne room. She did not expect this.

All of a sudden Merlin pushes open the door just in time to hear the Younger Merlin whisper “I wish there was something I could say.”

Their younger selves freeze as they saw their own faces staring at them from Merlin’s bedroom.

“Just tell her.” Merlin pleads at his younger self.

Morgana siezes his wrist, “What are you doing?!” she hisses. “Emrys, No!” She has no idea if this will affect the future, but even Morgana knows, in her own dark heart, that time and the past should not be messed with. “Emrys, no!”

But Merlin doesn’t listen, instead he buckles down and lands on his knees, face angled towards the younger but frozen Merlin.

Consequently, even in her fear and confusion the Younger Morgana squeaks, “I-it’s magic, isn’t it?”

Morgana is at a loss. The answer is at the tip of her tongue herself. They cannot change the past, she knows this, but her heart is breaking for her younger self as well.

“We- we are just seeing things.” Young Merlin speaks out bravely.

Merlin stands and faces his younger self fully. He wrenches his wrist free of Morgana’s grip. “DON’T YOU DARE LIE.” He bellows, his voice colored with a dark and powerful timbre that even Morgana, with all their shared history, has never heard before.

Morgana whimpers. “Emrys... Merlin... no!”

“IT’S MAGIC ISN’T IT?!” Young Morgana screams this time, on the verge of panic.

Young Merlin deflates and bows his head low. There was no logical explanation to anything anymore other than the truth. Plus he recognizes and senses real power when it’s in front of him. And there is not one but three extremely powerful beings in the room. If he’s not mistaken even the Morgana, his Morgana, not the Morgana that came with the man that looks like him in his bedroom, his Morgana can probably senses power in the room too, even in her in distress.-

“Yes... it’s magic. You are a sorceress, Morgana.”

Young Morgana turns to him sharply. “NO! NO! NO!” She starts pounding on his chest.

Young Merlin holds on to her arms as she thrashes and screams wildly.

Morgana looks away. Merlin rubs at his face. What has he done?

Both of them hear shushing sounds and they look up to see their younger selves tightly entwined around each other. Young Merlin pressing Young Morgana as close as he can to his own lanky body, his hands on her the back of her hair and on the small of her back. Both youths have tears flowing from their eyes. The young man kept saying “it’s alright, it’s alright, I’m here, I’m here, we’ll be fine, we’ll be fine, I’ll help you, I’ll teach you, I’ll protect you.” over and over again.

Morgana is dumbstruck by the sight. She stumbles back into the wall and collapses on her hunches. All her life this was what she always wanted, what she always needed, this one simple thing that Merlin was never able to give, to hold her and give her the truth himself. She finds tears flowing on her own cheeks as well. It’s so unfair, so unfair. Her life was full of pain and misery. Just one gesture of comfort and understanding from him was all she needed, all she wanted from him.

Through her own tears she looks at the back of the man in front of her. The Merlin from her time. The Merlin who denied her everything. The Merlin whose biggest regret was her. The Merlin whose biggest regret was never telling her the truth when she needed it the most.

.........................

Young Morgana’s sobs abates and she pulls her head from Merlin’s chest. “How will you teach me, Merlin?”

Young Merlin gawks, in his ramblings, he had promised that. If he was going to reveal himself, he’d have to give away his biggest secret. Can he do it? Can he say it? He had been warned by everyone against doing this. Revealing to Morgana her magic was one thing, but revealing his?”

“Morgana... I...”

Young Morgana takes a glance at the other Merlin, the younger man follows her gaze to see the man nodding at him.

“But...” Young Merlin pleads, he doesn’t want to make mistakes, he doesn’t want

His older counterpart shakes his head.

“Merlin please... what are you not telling me? You told me you will teach me... I don’t want to be alone... don’t pawn me to someone else...” the young woman grasps at the front of his shirt.

Merlin raises his head up to the heavens, as if asking for guidance. The older man waits with baited breath. The older woman couldn’t tear her eyes away.

“Morgana you won’t be alone because I...” With tears in flowing down his cheeks, he closes his eyes and brings his fist to his mouth and chants “Fonbearnan”

Young Morgana gasps to see the gold in his eyes and on his palm a small ball of flame.

“You’re...”

“Yes.”

“You’re magic too.”

“I am.”

“You can teach me?”

“I am still learning but yes I can.”

“Thank you.”

..........................

The Older Merlin moves to go back to the chambers. His head bowed. Morgan is standing still against he wall, her face turned away from everything.

“Wait.” The Young Merlin calls out. His older counterpart stills.

“Are you sure that I won’t regret this?”

The younger Morgana furrows her brows in shock. But her Merlin keeps his tight hold on her.

“Emrys.” Morgana hisses at her Merlin.

“You must know... that... Gaius and the Dragon warned me not to tell her repeatedly.”

Older Morgana blinks... “What? Emrys... is that true?”

Young Morgana “Not to tell me? Dragon? Why?” Morgana is hyperventilating now.

Young Merlin lets his Morgana go. “T-They told me it was dangerous.”

Morgana’s eye widen. “Is this true, Emrys?”

“Dangerous? I am dangerous? I’m a monster? I’m going to be a monster? Uther was right! Magic hurts people! Merlin Merlin I don’t want to die!” Young Morgana screams.

“That’s not true Morgana, you have a good heart! They were wrong! You are not dangerous!” Young Merlin grasps at her desperately again.

“But I... But I... I almost killed Uther already.”

Younger Merlin pulls her into his embrace, “The important thing is you stayed your hand. You didn’t go through with it! You’re not evil!”

Young Morgana trembles, “No.. no... If.. if he hurts them again, I’m gonna kill him... I’ll do it again... I can’t let him hurt anyone again.”

“Please, Morgana, please. You are not like this. You are wise, kind and lovely and caring. You don’t have to kill the King. There is another way. I’ll help you, we will find a way together. W-when Arthur is King, everything will be better. He helped us with Mordred, remember? He’s a good man. In time... he’ll be on our side.”

Morgana nods shakily against his chest, “Yes... you are right. I can talk to him. We can talk to him.”

“Him and Gwen.” Young Merlin adds.

“Yes. We won’t be alone”

“Never alone.”