#this isn't a writing prompt or anything

[misscrazyfangirl321]

"Out of all the people I know, you're the one I'd most expect to be able to teleport."

"That's fair."

[tennessoui]

For the prompt list, nanny/single parent obikin would be amazing!!

(from this prompt list)

(the first time I answered this prompt two years ago, the nanny anakin au was born)

so to do something different, here's some gffa widowed anakin, nanny (sort of) obi-wan!

(2.5k)

It is hard to find time to grieve. There are too many things to do. Too many appointments to make, too many decisions Anakin isn’t sure he’s qualified for. Some decisions are easier than others. For example, the funeral will be on Naboo. There will be two services: a public one to honor Padmé’s public service, and a private one to honor who she was as a person. The casket will be closed, because his wife died when her cruiser exploded. There isn’t much left to bury anyway.

But some decisions are harder. Which flowers should go on her casket. What songs would she want sung and who should sing them? Would she prefer her grave closer to her ancestral home or the home she created in her adulthood?

If she told anyone the answers to these questions, it wasn’t Anakin. But then, the people who knew her best, who loved her most, died with her. Sabé, Rabé, Saché, Yané, all of her handmaidens—an assassination such broad strokes that it was impossible for it to fail.

So Anakin chooses Yali lilies, because Leia’s eyes linger on them the longest. He chooses a small Nabooian folk band to play after her service because their music is the first thing to make Luke lift his head from his coloring books in days. He formally requests that her body be buried among her ancestors, and the Nabierres agree immediately.

And he keeps telling himself that he will grieve, but there is so much to do. 

And then—then there’s after the funeral. Then there’s the rest of his life, sprawling out before him in a long, hazy road. 

There are more decisions to be made.

There are people who have opinions on them now, people who sat back and let Anakin muddle through flower arrangements and kriffing seating charts, who now step in to peer over his shoulder, monitor his every breath.

Should he really move the children back to Coruscant? Does he truly plan to continue to work as a mechanic in the Mid-Levels? Should he not think of the children, their needs? How can he support them on the thin amount of credits he makes? Would it not be better for the children to live on Naboo in the care of their grandparents and their extended family?

It would be what Padmé would have wanted.

Anakin cannot care about what Padmé would have wanted, because she isn’t here. Not to argue with him, not to make her wants known. She is dead. She doesn’t get to haunt him in the waking world too.

“What do you want?” he asks plainly, sitting down across the table from his two children. The twins blink back at him. Leia has finished her cereal. Luke has barely touched his.

“Bacon,” Luke says.

Anakin hadn’t meant for breakfast, but he figures it’s as good of a start as any. “Alright,” he agrees.

He stands once more and goes to the kitchen. It’s not exactly his domain. It was never Padmé’s either. The way Padmé grew up, food was made once you requested it—by droid, by cooking staff. Not by the hand of a Nabierre.

The way Anakin grew up, food was cobbled together carefully, sparingly no matter how much you requested it. And no matter how you cooked it, it always tasted a little like dust, which took the joy out of experimentation.

But the serving staff have been dismissed for the past two weeks to give the family time and space to grieve in private. 

(Padmé’s parents have been given a schedule for visiting hours for that exact reason.)

Anakin locates the pan; then, he locates the package of bacon strips.

When he glances up, both twins are watching him over the edge of their barstools, tiny faces showing both skepticism and incredulity.

“I want to know what you want to do,” Anakin says, raising his voice as he places the pot over the heating plate, the meat in a moment later. “Do you want to stay here with your grandmother and grandfather? Do you want to go back to Coruscant?”

The twins are quiet. Anakin twists his neck to look at them again, and they’re looking at each other, silently communicating the way only twins can.

“Where will you be?” Leia finally asks, looking at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes, bottom lip already jutting out.

Anakin blinks. “Wherever you are,” he answers.

“You won’t leave too?” Luke asks rather tremulously.

Anakin takes the pan off the heated plate and turns it off with a decisive flick of his wrist. “Of course not,” he says. “Come here.” He crouches down and barely has enough time to open his arms before the twins are there, pressing in as close as they can get to him. He holds them back just as tightly in return.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises into Leia’s hair. “Not without you two.”

—-----------------

It becomes apparent fairly quickly that this is, by necessity, a lie.

The twins don’t want to stay on Naboo, which Anakin is secretly incredibly grateful for. He doesn’t want to either, but he knows he’d just be called selfish should he express the opinion.

But the twins don’t want to go back to Coruscant either. This makes sense as well. It would be incredibly jarring for them to go back to living in the quarters they shared with their mother, her Upper Coruscanti apartments in the nicest district of the planet, without her there.

Anakin wishes it were as simple as sticking a pin on a planet and deciding to uproot the entirety of his family to live there. 

But it’s not.

Perhaps if he were still young, nineteen, newly free and in love with the taste of that freedom, it would be.

But he’s a widower now. He has his children to think about, their futures. Any planet he chooses must have what they need as well. 

And they are four year olds who have just lost their mother. Their needs are numerous.

What makes the decision for him in the end is that his boss knows a man from Stewjon, who is willing to hire him. Who is willing to pay a premium for his expertise with mechanics.

Anakin doesn’t know the first thing about Stewjon, other than that it’s an ocean planet in the Inner Core and his dead wife always said the Senators from Stewjon were so frigid and tight-lipped because they spent the first few days of each visit trying not to be seasick on the Senate floor.

Anakin isn’t sure why this is the very first thing he tells the man—his potential boss—he meets behind the counter in the mech-shop on Stewjon.

He’s left the children with their grandparents for the week—long enough to fly from Naboo to Stewjon, meet with his potential employer, interview, apply his work practically, and fly back out.

He’d explained to both twins why they had to stay on Naboo. He’d explained many times. That hadn’t changed the betrayed look Leia had worn as she saw him off. It hadn’t wiped the tears from Luke’s eyes.

“Ah, well, I can’t say I’ve heard that one before,” the mechanic says. He sounds amused, and Anakin is incredibly shocked to hear a Coruscanti accent. Everyone he’s spoken to since arriving planetside has had such a heavy brogue that he’d honestly struggled to understand their directions to the shop—Kenobi & Sons.

Anakin lets himself look again at the man behind the counter. He’s rather clean for a mechanic, he decides. His beard is red, a common factor around these parts apparently, but his beard is short and neat, trimmed to accentuate the strong lines of his jaw. His eyes are a stormy blue, the kind of blue that matches the Stewjoni ocean.

“Between you and me though,” the man smirks and leans onto the counter with his elbow. His tunic is dark gray, white starchy fabric peeking out beneath the v-necked collar. “I’ve never been a fan of Stewjoni politicians anyway.”

“Oh?” Anakin asks, sidling a step closer to the counter. The man has the beginnings of gray at his temples, and his eyes are lined with wrinkles. They don’t make him look old though, Anakin decides. They make him look…well-lived.

“I’ve not a head for politics much at all,” his future employer shakes his head slightly with a small smile. His eyes flick up and down Anakin’s face, lingering on his lips and then lingering longer on the scar over his brow. Anakin feels rather flushed under the inspection, and he shifts his weight forward until he’s leaning up against the counter too.

There’s something about this man that’s rather…magnetic. It pulls him in. It makes him want to linger.

Good characteristic for a shopkeeper to have, though Anakin privately decides that the man before him has a face that’s wasted on mechanics, buried under some ship’s underbelly in a backroom.

“Me neither,” he admits, a moment too late to sound anything but highly distracted. It makes the man smile again though, a flash of straight white teeth.

“Is there anything you do have a head for then?” he asks. His tone is light, airy, rather teasing.

This is the strangest interview Anakin has ever had.

“Um,” he says. “Well. There’s mechanics.”

“Oh?” The man’s eyebrow lifts at an elegant angle. He props his chin on the palm of his hand and looks up at Anakin through his eyelashes. “Then why come here to us then?”

“Um,” Anakin says, and not because the man looks rather unfairly flattering like this, amber eyelashes in sharp relief against the blue of his eyes.

They’re interrupted by the sounds of clattering in the backroom, stomping and cursing. The man before him straightens with a slight sigh and picks up the closest flimsipad. “And what brings you in here today, sir?” he asks rather loudly, pitching his voice back to the other room of the shop pointedly. “Problem with your speeder? Serving droid? Cruiser? If it’s your astromech droid, I regret to inform you that I’ll have to refuse you service on account of the fact that I don’t particularly care for them.”

Anakin thinks he splutters, but whatever noise he makes is definitely drowned out by the rather irritated shout of Obi-Wan! that comes from the back.

A moment later, a man storms through the door, looking annoyed. "We will service an astomech if that's what's broken, Obi-Wan."

Now this is a man that Anakin can believe is a mechanic. His nails are blackened with oil, and his bare, burly arms carry smudges of the stuff. He’s much broader than the man—Obi-Wan—that Anakin had been talking to. He’s bald with a reddened scalp and a rather large red beard that’s the antithesis of the other man’s in every way. His clothes are dirty, loose, and the color of ash. He looks older too—whereas Obi-Wan could easily be in his thirties, this man must be pushing fifty.

He snaps at Obi-Wan in a language that Anakin doesn’t understand. Obi-Wan shrugs and hands over the flimsi pad without argument.

“Um, actually,” Anakin says, feeling incredibly wrong-footed. “Which one of you is Kenobi?”

“I am,” both of them say. Obi-Wan’s smirking slightly. The other man’s voice is louder, carrying that Stewjoni accent so obviously lacking in Obi-Wan’s speech.

The older man closes his eyes as if he’s praying for patience. “We both are,” he says. “Though if your ship’s malfunctioned, sir, I’m the Kenobi you want to see. This one’s good for naught but magic tricks.”

“I have been told I’m rather good at other things,” Obi-Wan turns his smirk full-force at Anakin, dropping his eyes to Anakin’s lips once more.

“My name is Anakin Skywalker,” he says very quickly in a very normal tone of voice that is most definitely not a squeak. “I’m here to interview for a position. As another mechanic.”

“Oh,” the older Kenobi says.

“Oh,” the younger Kenobi says in a much different tone.

The older Kenobi pinches at his nose for a moment before turning around the counter and offering his hand. “Ben,” he says. “Ben Kenobi.”

Anakin takes his hand and shakes it, eyes traveling back to Obi-Wan. Is he supposed to shake his hand too?

“I’m the Son in the sign,” Ben says gruffly as if that answers his question.

“I’m the reason it’s plural,” Obi-Wan adds, busying himself with the contents of the counter. From what Anakin can tell, the man is just messing up the carefully organized piles of receipts. 

He decides that he would rather not get the job than point this out to Ben.

Ben huffs out something in Stewjoni that sounds downright insulting, but that doesn’t stop Obi-Wan from smiling sunnily up at Anakin. “My brother enjoys bitching and moaning that I came back home when I was seventeen, but he’s awfully quick to foist his children off on me when he’s called to shift at the rig offshore and Marci’s off-planet too.”

Anakin blinks. He feels like that’s the safest answer.

“Only thing good that blasted Jedi Order ever taught you was how to handle younglings,” Ben says, and then spits on the ground as if the words themselves have left a bad taste in his mouth.

Anakin blinks and wonders if he should say something to remind the brothers that he’s here. For an interview. “And my magic tricks,” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes slightly before catching Anakin’s eye and winking. With a wave of his hand, a flimsi-sheet flies over the counter and into Anakin’s chest. He catches it unthinkingly. “Would you like to sign in, sir?” “Get out of here,” Ben barks, snatching the flimsi from Anakin’s hand and pushing it back to the counter. “Like I said, the only one’s impressed with that is the younglings.”

“I don’t know, your man looks impressed,” Obi-Wan says slyly, even as he pushes himself away from the counter and around the edge of it.

Anakin isn’t sure what he looks like. He doesn’t think impressed is the word he’d use though.

When Obi-Wan brushes past him, the static electricity in the air jumps between their shoulders. Anakin feels as if he’s been shocked.

Obi-Wan must feel it too because he stops only a few inches away and looks at Anakin. For the first time, his expression is open. Curious. Considering.

“Get!” His brother insists, and Obi-Wan obeys, throwing one last look over his shoulder at Anakin before he slips out the door.

The shop feels somehow much bigger now that the other man has left. Ben sighs and rubs a hand down his face. He looks older now. More worn. “So that was my brother,” he tells Anakin wearily. “Who you would most likely see frequently if you were to take this job. I would understand completely if you would like to start by talking compensation.”

[amtrak12]

New fic! New fic! New fic!

Title: Should Have Been a Peacock Fandom: Warehouse 13 Rating: Probably like a G+ but I just called it G. Pairing/Characters: Background Bering and Wells, primarily a team fic featuring Myka, Pete, Helena, and Claudia Genre: Humor Word Count: 951 words (😩 It was 950 even in Scrivener, but I refuse to edit it again.) Prompt: AO3's 15th Anniversary day 2: "Angel/Demonverse"

Summary:

Surprise, surprise! The warehouse team is on inventory duty. And surprise, surprise, Pete triggers an artifact. Though no one expected him to sprout wings.

Read on AO3

[honeycollectswhump]

Whumper's title

[masterlist]

It was the end of a lazy evening. Caretaker stretched as the credits of the last movie rolled. Whumpee was draped across her lap and had apparently fallen asleep somewhere during the movie. She wasn’t sure if he even witnessed the climax. Even asleep Whumpee had a soft smile on his lips; he seemed truly at peace. 

It hadn’t always been like that.

A year ago, serenity like this would have been unthinkable. Maybe he would have crawled into her lap if she ordered him to, but he wouldn’t have allowed himself to relax. He wouldn’t have been able to.

A year ago, he still called himself Pet or Mutt. He would beg for punishment, beg to be allowed necessities like sleep or food. But never for mercy because he’d thought he didn’t deserve it. 

A year ago, Whumpee didn’t even remember they lived together for years prior. 

But he did now, and that was all that mattered. God, how she had missed him and the time they spent together. Caretaker wanted to savor it all, savor every little moment she could spend with him.

With a smile playing on her lips, she brushed a stray piece of hair from his scarred face. She didn’t want to wake Whumpee up but she would have to. No matter how much she wanted it, they couldn’t spend the night like this. In the morning, his already aching back would trouble him even more. He was frankly too big for her couch, his feet already dangling over the side. With one hand she was playing with his soft curls, scratching the nape of his neck, and trying to grab the remote with the other – without success.

It had to be done. Caretaker softly whispered his name, tracing his jawline in an attempt to wake him up. He wouldn't budge.

“Whumpee”, the name came out as a soft chuckle. “Whumpee, you need to wake up.”

Again, nothing. 

This time she held him by his shoulders and started shaking him gently. Two bleary brown eyes stared up at her, blinking a couple of times. A sleepy groan escaped his lips as he struggled to sit upright. Somehow Caretaker doubted that Whumpee was truly awake.

She stood up and held her hand out to him. “Let’s get you to bed, big guy.”

Loosely, he took her hands and let himself be pulled up, almost immediately resting his head on top of hers. 

“Yes, Master”, he breathed into her hair. 

Caretaker could feel her blood running cold. She froze, waiting for any indication of what happened, any sign that Whumpee wasn’t feeling well. 

But he didn’t. He didn’t tense up or start shaking. He didn’t fall on his knees or stare at her in adoration and obedience or wait for her order. In fact, he didn’t seem to even realize what he’d said. Instead, he just nuzzled further into her locks, almost falling asleep on his feet. 

Slowly, she took a step backward, his hands still in hers, waiting to see if he’d follow. Whumpee shuffled along, although at a snail’s pace. Caretaker didn’t know whether to bring up what had happened but one look in his half-lidded eyes told her that any attempt at communication would just pass by him. Chances were he wouldn’t even remember how he got to bed in the morning. 

She took him upstairs where –at the sight of his own bed– he staggered forward and flopped down on his messy sheets. Caretaker followed him inside to tuck him in. While she was securing the blanket under his shoulders, Whumpee loosely grabbed one of her hands in his much bigger one and pressed it to his cheek. 

“G’night…”, he murmured into her hand. 

She couldn’t understand what he said after that and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

This is very much inspired by this post by @whumpadventureprompts (i couldn't find how you want to be tagged when people use your prompts so i hope this is alright)

[dawn-til-duskk]

Writing Prompt

You wake up one morning to find an alternate universe version of yourself knocking at your door. Apparently, you live in the only universe in which your soulmate doesn't exist, and they're determined to take you to the only universe in which you don't exist and help you get with the version of your soulmate that lives there.

[musee-de-muse]

Singularity

DWC November 2024 Day 7: Peculiar/Theory (I also got hung up on this prompt, then let it stew for a day so as not to over-edit... but better late than never!) OC: Lilliana Whitedawn, Sin'dorei "Felblood" @daily-writing-challenge

She was an oddity – even now, with a decade or so to adjust to the changes, herself... Lily was still a peculiarity to many others; usually, to those such as warlocks, and Illidari – and for good reason, in truth. It might not be entirely her fault that she was... what she was, but she was unusual. One warlock had outright compared her to the undead abominations - what with her being some amalgamation of various traits of other demons... all stitched up together in one package. Another... well, he'd called her a “stitched up doll” – and that had somehow stung more than being compared to a bloated, patchwork corpse.

Perhaps it stung because she worried about the veracity of it, even after all this time – it made her think about the demon who'd done this to her, and his pursuit of “beauty.” She was far more than that, despite the attempts of some to diminish her to just that, in the time since – more than capable in combat, still... even if she'd had to adapt her much slower paladin's style to one more swift, and agile. The Fel came to her as easily as the Light once had, now – and where she lacked tutelage in the Fel arts, she'd simply approached it much as she had with the Light, and experimented from there... she could defend others with Fel almost as easily as she had with the Light - but still, no power to render healing. Such was the cost of what was taken from her...

But thus far, she'd made herself an alluring, and amusing “oddity” – not a burdensome, or fearful one. A rarity, more than an oddity – someone, and something to crave... to want to know more about - and not a monster to hunt. There were more than enough Illidari with not enough work to occupy the hands of them all, and she'd rather they not see her as their next hunt – nor the over-zealous paladins, nor power-hungry warlocks, and so on – it was dangerous to be “peculiar,” more often than not... and the Arathi lost underground had wasted no time in making sure she remembered that upon her first visit to Mereldar.

A place that should make her heart sing – to see that humans and elves had come together, should be a beautiful thing – but they knew not that she was once just as holy as them. They saw horns and Fel... and she knew they were holding themselves back. They saw her exactly as he had... as a demon. Not a person. Had she looked upon Silvermoon's Felbloods the same way, once? Had she clenched her teeth as she walked past, or had she simply ignored them?

There, she faced the sort of welcome she had feared awaited her in Silvermoon, once upon a time – but her own people had seen this sort of thing before. They knew the costs of Kael'thas' pride, and had seen more than one of their people succumb to fel – but not these Arathi. They could not fathom allowing one such as her to continue to exist among them – they would have cut down their own, if “tainted,” she had no doubt.

A slender hand rose in the mirror, to run fingers along a ridged horn, as the blonde reflected back at Lily chewed on her lip – there was no changing what she had become... not that she'd found. So she'd just kept moving forward – there was nothing else to be done.

You accept what you are... or you start to lose yourself - be it to the magic already altering you, or the reflection of yourself in others' eyes.

[magniloquent-raven]

yall mfers need to stop

[rosalind-hawkins]

Average JouKai Conversation:

“Humans,” Seto sneered, “Are repulsive creatures.”

Joey bit back a laugh.

“I’ve got some bad news for ya, pal: you’re human too.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sure thing, buddy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Whatever you say, friend.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

[peony-pearl]

@khoc-week - dreams

The encampment is quiet, save for the surrounding trills and squawks of unseen fauna hiding out in the woods and the snores from the pile of travelers all huddled up next to the embers of a dying campfire.

Mint rolls over unceremoniously as a contented snore rattles from her sinuses. Hollander's arm slaps over Magnifico's chest, both of them oblivious to the real world. The group is weary from a long week of roaming from world to world, trying to ensure they aren't caught by Maleficent. Now that it has been more than a day since seeing either her or Diablo, the team has found a sense of momentary peace.

But it still came with caution as Nimue sat propped against a large tree trunk, keeping close watch on her crew. Despite her heavy eyelids, she steeled herself and kept her mind occupied until dawn could relieve her of her duty.

Her eyes bounced from one person to the next, from Owen, who sleeps stick-still and silently with his hands folded over his stomach as he clutches his glasses; to Harle, who, if she had her way, would be sleeping in the trees. But due to the threats that followed them, she curled up with Chaos in her arms as his paws and tail twitched.

The only person not sleeping amongst the team was Merlock, who rested nearby as he mirrored Nimue, leaning against the treetrunk, not making any sound as he slept.

Nimue had learned how to gauge when Merlock was truly asleep; her sense of magic would buzz with activity as his powers loosened up in slumber. She could tell he was still wearing his talisman, which was a source of his heightened abilities.

Nimue sighed and looked up to the tree canopy, which blocked the view of the stars. While it meant security, she hated that she couldn't see the dotted diamond sky. The universal tapestry that was laid out above them that she so often craned up to look at as a child, and then as a keyblade master going out on missions, wondering if her loved ones were looking at the same stars as her.

She often looked for one particular star that her father, Knoll, told her about as a child. It was rumored to have been a living star, and one that fell from the heavens at the callings of a troubled girl who loved her city and people so much that her heart reached it from millions of miles away.

When Nimue found herself feeling lonesome or homesick, she would take the time to pinpoint where the star was in the sky, and once she did, she felt like she had found her feet again. Like she found the direction she needed to go in.

... It had been a long time since she truly felt the need to do that; as when she had met Yen Sid and became involved in him, he filled the negative space around her with calm, assured words and a bright heart.

He would smile at her, with his stars and moon motif glistening in his robes and amor.

She could remember dragging a gentle claw across the silken embroidery of his clothing, how each stitched star had special, magical beads sewn into their design. Her frantic heart and rapid pulse would ease in the presence of his light as he silently guided and grounded her.

He was her own star, helping her maintain her direction.

Why didn't it last?

His guiding light became searing, like the sun; Burning and scorching in a rage against her as he demanded to know how she could betray him. How she could betray her mother and father and her town. How she could turn her back on everyone and everything that had loved her.

Merlock awoke at the sound of a voice, and shuffling nearby.

"Wrong... You're wrong..."

Nimue's voice warbled through the still silence of the night that was just about to become dawn.

A darkness in the sky that Nimue remembered as Yen Sid destroyed the darkness she'd cultivated from her own heart; but in an effort to protect everyone, the darkness simply attached itself back to Nimue through her rage. It was a blinding, red hot rage that rivaled his searing light. Her screams were sirens, alerting the world to her blood-boiling anger at Yen Sid's betrayal.

Until the sight of her beloved home being ravaged was all she could see.

Until the sight of her mother reaching out for her hand became everything on her mind. How she tried so hard to reach her, how her mother's agony was so palpable as they held tight to light fixtures amongst the wreckage of the town and the darkness swallowed the city.

Estelle's voice crying out for her daughter was the last voice Nimue heard for thirty years.

Until Merlock's voice reached her ears.

"Nimue! Wake up!"

Gasping as large hands jostled her shoulders, Nimue opened her eyes. She felt as though she had been freefalling and her stomach was crashing back down to earth.

Merlock hovered over her as she leaned forward, placing her head in her hands as she gathered her bearings.

"... I'm sorry; I fell asleep," she croaked, not looking up at the stern face she knew the sorcerer was wearing.

Yet despite his usual severe scowl, it was worn with a mixture of tired patience.

"Hmph... perhaps I should take over," he offered gruffly. Nimue shook her head vigorously.

"No, no... I'm fine now." She lied. "I'm fine. Just a lapse."

She wasn't expecting one of his large, clawed hands to reach forward and press against her forehead.

"I said I'm fine," She insisted.

"You're burning up."

"Just some bad dreams."

Merlock listened, but still didn't move too far. He sat beside her against the tree trunk, both of them listening to the sounds of the forest. His eyes shifted as he watched her clutch at her chest. He frowned, but remained still.

He remembered finding her in the Realm of Darkness, with light shining within her like a beacon; like a lighthouse for those lost at sea.

He had no need for beacons or lighthouses. The only thing he needed was her skills to take down Yen Sid and to keep Maleficent from destroying him.

"So tell me," Merlock rumbled quietly; he could see Nimue's ears twitch as she listened. "Who was wrong?"

Slipping her head from her hand, Nimue looked back to him, her large golden eyes like saucers. Her clawed hands dug into the thick fabric of her pants.

"... Him. Yen Sid. When he found out about my research. He told me nothing good could come from it. That I was... that I was a violation of the order." She scoffed. "I was a violation because I wanted to understand the darkness! I didn't want to run from it! He treated me like a criminal for deciding I wanted to walk side by side with something so natural! He would rather cower and sit in his light and morals than be seen as anything but perfect."

Nimue looked to Merlock, her eyes intense.

"And yet, to stand so close to the light means creating a shadow as big as that light. And I won't cower."

Merlock's gaze didn't flinch.

"Even if that darkness threatens to swallow the light you have?"

Nimue smiled. "Thirty years in darkness and I'm still here, aren't I?"

"... Indeed," Merlock smiled. He noted Nimue fold back in on herself. "You should get some more rest."

Nimue shook her head.

Merlock huffed. He leaned towards her and, taking her shoulders, rested her against the tree trunk before placing his palm against her forehead.

"Close your eyes."

Nimue blinked; she looked up towards him, unsure at first. He was not a being of generous gestures, so she eyed him critically.

"I need you to trust me," he growled.

Nimue nodded, and she closed her eyes. From the space between Merlock's palm and her forehead, a spark of light glimmered.

He never liked using light-based magic; it felt like burning, like touching jagged rocks that had been baking in the sun.

He made a small exception this once. He asked her to close her eyes, not to fall asleep, but so she didn't see the crystalline rays of light snaking up his arm as she fell into slumber.

A rare favor he offered for very few.

The birdsong was jovial and exciting; the sunlight that filtered through the leaves turned the world into a golden, glittering paradise as Nimue awoke under her favorite tree by the brook. She could hear voices from the villagers in the distance, the laughter of children, and the clattering from carriages traveling across bridges.

She felt full and whole, like the light in her heart wasn't a seething supernova, but a tender hearth holding tight to a crackling fire she used to roast marshmallows over. She rolled over onto her side and smelled the sweet grass and wildflowers.

"Nimue!"

Nimue's eyes opened and she sat up to find her mother jogging forward, picnic basket in hand as she waved to her daughter.

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

"Is Nim okay?"

From up ahead, Mint looked back towards Merlock, who watched the team from the rear, with Nimue in his arms as they traveled under clear, sunny skies.

"She's fine. Just tired."

Merlock looked down at Nimue, who, in her slumber, smiled and leaned into his frame with a contented sigh.

And a light that didn't feel like sun baked rocks pricked in his chest.

[beevean]

Alucard + Isaac? With whatever number you like, actually you can ignore this one because I know they're not your thing I'm just embarrassed

Then I chose 26!

…as an apology.

(I also chose to set this after a fic I wrote, To Find The Right One, where Alucard asks Hector to have sex with him to see if he's as broken as he feels to be - he doesn't like it but he and Hector grow closer as a result. Hector also believed Isaac wouldn't care about being "cheated on", the sweet summer child :) )

~

Adrian had to ask for directions to a couple of warlocks to find the alchemy laboratory. Usually, he gave a wide berth to the place: the stink of sulfur and demonic magic was unbearable.

But, clutching the halves of his mother's sword, he knocked at the door of the place where the Devil Forgemasters dwelled.

"Come in," answered Isaac. His voice had an edge in it that did not bode well; however, Adrian had no intention of waiting until Hector came back from his mission. Not for a matter like this.

When Adrian opened the door and stepped inside, two things stopped him in his tracks. One was the pungent stench of dark magic, the same that emanated from his father when in the throes of his fury. The other was the flash of surprise in Isaac's eyes, that deepened into a dark scowl. Perhaps Adrian should have waited.

"Yes, Young Master?" the Forgemaster hissed through clenched teeth.

"Adrian, please," he said, which was the same plea he had given to Hector not too many days ago. He did not wish for Isaac either to defer to him... although, judging by the venom in his words, the reminder might be unnecessary. "I apologize for interrupting your work, but I would like to ask you a favor."

With the utmost care, Adrian placed the sword on a nearby table, where it was not covered in gem dust. Isaac peered over, his face an impassible mask.

"It is my mother's sword... It is what I could salvage from her home..."

He did not know what compelled him to say it. He and Isaac had never had anything resembling a warm relationship, nor did he ever seek it: the boy had always been too much for his eyes and ears, and the more he followed in Father's footsteps, the less Adrian yearned to speak to him. Whatever Hector saw in him, Adrian could not. However, he too knew Mother, and perhaps, they could come to a mutual understanding.

"Lady Lisa's belongings? I will take care of it," Isaac confirmed gravely. He picked up the blade and rotated it in front of his eyes, with slow, tentative movements that were not like him.

"I wouldn't disturb you, but Hector is away..."

"Naturally."

Adrian had not meant to offend him. He was all too aware of how much Father worked his Forgemasters to the bone, and did not need keen senses to notice Isaac's baggy eyes or the way his shoulders slumped. Then, did it come off wrong? Why was Isaac seething, to the point that the tendons in his neck were tense?

A sinking feeling settled in Adrian's stomach. He had done nothing to Isaac personally to incure in his anger... but indirectly...

"Is something wrong?" he dared to ask.

"No, my Prince. I know that you wouldn't bother with me were Hector here for you." His voice dropped to a growl. "I know that the two of you have become very close."

Shame burned in his chest. He was right. Of course, no secret could be hidden for long in his home. Adrian hoped that it was Hector himself who eventually confessed to their tryst, because any alternative would crush him with dread.

"Hector had told me that you wouldn't mind..."

"Of course he would say that!" Isaac yelled all of the sudden, with the full force of his anger; Adrian flinched at the crack in his shout. "As long as he can fuck someone, he'll lie and cheat his way into anyone's bed, the selfish bastard!"

Silence fell upon them. Isaac took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes, craning his neck in a practiced motion to allow his longer bangs to hide him. Adrian had no response to that outburst, and truth to be told he was not sure it was even safe to do so.

Even so, even if Adrian was painfully ignorant in matters of the heart, and his experience with Hector only confirmed so... he could not lie and let Hector shoulder all the blame.

"I will fix the sword in no time, young Master," Isaac muttered, low and deflated, still hiding himself. "If this is all you meant to ask me, I need to get back to work now."

"I apologize."

He had been the one who ultimately led Isaac to tears.

"What for?" the man asked, glossy eyes wide in surprise.

Adrian wrapped himself tighter in his cloak, holding onto the hems. "I asked Hector to help me with that... matter."

He had braced himself for another outburst, but all he got was a slow exhale from the nose.

"It is not about that, Prince. I don't care if you are attracted to him, and I don't care if he wants to put his looks to good use."

That was... not a fair assessment of the events, but Adrian had no time nor desire to correct him, not when Isaac was already volatile like Eastern fireworks.

"Then, what is it about? Please, tell me."

Isaac pursed his lips, instead, as if to prevent any word to be spilled.

In other circumstances, Adrian would have smiled that for once, the two were in the same room and they could keep the quiet. But not like this, not when every muscle in Isaac's body was stiff and his words still echoed in Adrian's mind and he felt as if a warg was gnawing at him. He had believed he had been nervous when Hector slept with him, but the awkwardness between he and Isaac threatened to choke him.

How could he even apologize for breaking his heart? He had trusted Hector, when he told him that Isaac wouldn't care: it fit with the image he had of the redhead, detached and hedonistic and already in bad blood with his friend. They had been terribly wrong, and Adrian had little trouble imagining what sort of thoughts were haunting Isaac.

While not in the matters of romance, he too had experience with feeling betrayed by someone dear to him.

Thus, if words could not suffice, Adrian only knew one other option. Before Isaac could protest, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against his cheek, over the tattoo adoring it: as he imagined, the heat radiating from him nearly singed his mouth.

That was the right thing to do, right?

"What was that?!"

Judging by Isaac's hand snapped in slapping position, apparently not.

"I..."

"Did Hector teach you how to apologize?"

"Yes."

"...why am I not surprised." Isaac barked a sound that could have been a laugh. "I'm not him. I don't need to be coddled. And you are lucky to be my Lord's son, or I would have taught you another invaluable lesson."

"My father would not approve of you talking to me this way," Adrian tugged a smile.

"Oh, so you do care about your authority."

"I do not. I prefer you like this." Adrian bowed his head, not before noticing the confusion on Isaac's face. "Thank you once again for your help. And... once again, I apologize for my lack of consideration."

"Hmph. Good to see Hector did not rub off of you," Isaac snorted, all nose turned up and arms crossed, which Adrian took as his cue to leave.

But, when he threw a glance behind his back, he did not miss Isaac rubbing his tattooed cheek, lost in thought.

Perhaps it was not his role as the Prince that stilled the man's hand.

[swissmissing]

I just saw this on X and honestly it sounds like a Johnlock prompt to me.

[lvebug]

i know i've been letting threads sit and pile up and there's a lot of starters that i haven't replied to yet so i just want to say — i enjoy and am excited to write with everyone! even with people i only have a few or maybe even 1 thread with! even if i take forever to reply, even if you are waiting for me to reply to our one thread or even to reply to the starter you posted. even if we don't talk much or at all! i am excited, i promise! no matter how long the wait is! i don't ever want anyone to worry that oh maybe she doesn't really want to write with me because i do, i really do! i mean this genuinely for every person i am following so if we're mutuals then i mean this about you

[hirazuki]

📓give me yer plots

Plots? Plural?? Okay, you get three ♡

I only included ideas that I am not currently/actively working on.

Maedhros + Mairon team up AU: After Luthien and Beren nab the silmaril and scram, Melkor actually does give chase and follows them south towards Doriath, and he cuts through Nan Dungortheb where he is ambushed by Ungoliant's spawn (I think if he was alone, given how physically weak he is at this point in time + just having woken up from Luthien's spell, he'd be easy prey) who take him and his crown with the remaining two silmarils and bear him to the south of the continent where Ungoliant has been waiting to exact revenge and claim/consume the jewels. Mairon comes home after having lost Tol-in-Gaurhoth to find Angband in panic, not being able to find Melkor anywhere. He decides to infiltrate Himring, it being the closest center of elven activity and information that is also open enough to travelers, etc. for a new face to pass unnoticed, to see if he can find out if the enemy has Melkor. Maedhros, having had him as a visitor for 30+ years while hanging off a cliff, recognizes him pretty quickly despite the disguise. They team up and go on a life-changing fieldtrip to the south of Beleriand to retrieve one dark lord (for Mairon) and two silmarils (for Maedhros).

Maeglin in Rivendell AU: Maeglin either is brought back by the Powers to help in the War of the Ring (yes, it's inspired by that one poll a while back XD) or actually somehow survived (I haven't decided which I prefer) and ends up in Rivendell. Not really a cohesive linear plot kind of fic, as much as a series of character interactions/exploration of themes: Maeglin and Elrond, Maeglin and Glorfindel, Maeglin and Eowyn, Maeglin and Frodo, to list a few of my top ones.

Eol makes a stone that outshines the silmarils AU: @melkors-defense-attorney and @mirkwood-hr-department take equal share of the blame credit for this completely wild idea yes it still lives rent free in my head, I have not forgotten about it XD. Basically, Eol is much closer to the dwarves than he is to his own kin, and would probably be more comfortable going to them for courtship advice re: Aredhel. Hence, presenting her with the shiniest rock as a gift early on in her stay at Nan Elmoth. Problem is, she has seen the silmarils, so it would have to be an extra shiny rock. He accidentally makes a stone that outdoes the silmarils; cascading world-wide consequences follow XD (These include: angry Feanorians; angry Melkor, at not having the Shiniest Thing™ and seeking Eol out in his forest a la Evil Queen style, to trade his two silmarils for this one; Eol (in this timeline, never having been to Angband) being so isolated he literally doesn't recognize Melkor and slamming the door in Melkor's face ("no solicitors!!"); angrier Melkor (that's two door-slamming elves now); angrier Feanorians (that Melkor would seek to trade the silmarils with Eol of all people); one very swoony Aredhel at the balls of this elf throwing the Dark Lord out on his ass.)

[kazz-brekker]

i do really think that comics writing in general would be vastly improved if when working with a character all writers kept in mind 1. what the general conceit and core concept of the character is and 2. that they will not be the last person to write that character and someone will have to pick up where they left off

[syxnewt]

the monster

it's an interpretation of grendel's mother, with pale skin and green hair, standing in a lake under the moonlight