sometimes i fic

“Watch your head, Krav,” says Magnus.

“You’re taller than I am,” Kravitz points out, amused, but he ducks as he moves into Magnus’s study. 

The scent of fresh-brewed tea and scones waft with them up the stairs. Higher in the house pervades the scent of raw wood, lending the top floor a permanent earthy smell, accompanied nicely by the food cooking downstairs. There’s another picture on the wall. It’s tucked between the image of Taako and Kravitz on their wedding day and Carey and Killian on theirs. (Magnus was best man for both.) The new one is of Angus, playing catch with Magnus: it’s composed of thick, dark strokes, clearly sketched in Lucretia’s hand, and the frame is of hand-wrought oak, the same oak of the trees surrounding Magnus’s home.

“Here we go!” Magnus says, retrieving the letter with a pleased a-ha!, and handing the letter to Kravitz. “For Julia.”

Kravitz accepts the letter with a reassuring nod, tucks it in the pocket of his suit. There are creases around the corners of this pocket where he’s tucked a letter in there hundreds of times before.  

Angus is teaching Magnus to write more neatly, to line his letters correctly, where to use commas and where to use periods instead. Kravitz never reads Magnus’s letters, but Angus tells him that Magnus makes excellent progress. 

The invitations to his and Taako’s wedding were written in Magnus’s own, painstaking hand.

Magnus shuts the drawer and says, almost absently, “Tell her I love her, okay?”

Kravitz pauses, debating. He takes a deep breath. “Magnus,” he says, and Magnus, detecting the shift in his tone, looks up immediately. “You know that she already knows, right? She knows that you love her,” Kravitz says gently. “You do tell her every time.”

Magnus chuckles, rubbing a sheepish hand along the back of his neck. “I know,” he says, turning a bit pink. “I just - I love her, you know? I really do. And I guess, when you love someone, you want to tell them that every chance you get.”

Kravitz thinks of Taako. Kravitz finds himself nodding, then finds himself blushing as well at Magnus’s knowing look. “I suppose you’re right,” Kravitz concedes.

Magnus smiles, gaze drifting to the picture-laden wall. The entire wall is pocketed with dozens of pictures of his family, all smiling back at him. “I can’t wait to tell her myself,” he says, voice wistful.

Kravitz stiffens. He struggles to find words. “Magnus….”

The hesitation in Kravitz’s tone breaks Magnus out of his reverie, and he laughs. “Don’t worry, Krav. I don’t look forward to dying anymore,” he says, and gestures around his home with one hand, the other clasping his Stone of Farspeech, a small smile suffusing his face. The smell of tea and scones drifts lightly around them, the burnished afternoon light cheery as it dapples off the wall. “I’ve got too much to live for.”

“Good,” Kravitz says, and means it. Magnus slings a companionable arm over his shoulder as they head back down the stairs, and after so long in the man’s company it’s a comfortable weight.

“Do make sure you tell her though, yeah?”

Kravitz laughs, a glint of humor in his eye. “Ten years and I’ve never failed you once,” he says, and Magnus chuckles at that.

“I know, I know,” he says, and his smile softens. “But I can’t tell her myself, so I’m entrusting it to you.”

He pats Magnus’s hand reassuringly as they reenter the kitchen. “Okay,” Kravitz promises, smiling quietly. “I will.”

Taako doesn’t believe in words. Words are too easily manipulated, he claims, and his manner of speaking reflects that: he is flippant, his inflections curling up with indifference. It’s not often that he makes promises or declarations with solemnity. 

So when he says I love you Kravitz treasures it, not because it is a sacrifice, but because it is an absolute truth - it’s an admission of trust, that Taako loves him enough to hand over a part of his very soul and know that Kravitz will care for it, gently.

For a while Kravitz wondered, because Taako doesn’t say it often - not nearly as often as Magnus, who says it every time Kravitz retrieves this month’s letter. Then he realized: Taako cooks. He says I love you all the time; he just doesn’t use words. His affection goes into the pot roast that Magnus marks as his favorite, the perfectly-grilled salmon that Kravitz loves, the oolong-and-scones for Merle and the cinnamon-chocolate cookies for his sister, because Lup loves peanut butter but Barry is allergic.

In this regard, Kravitz is more similar to Magnus than he thought. Magnus, brave and brash Magnus - when he’s not crushing people in an embrace, or slinging a casual arm around them, or letting them rest a head on his shoulder, or pulling them into a noogie reminiscent of a bear’s iron grasp - sticks with his tried-and-true “I love you,” which he says with such painful earnestness that he leaves no room for doubt. 

Where Magnus says those three words, Kravitz says “Thank you.”

Thank you, to Taako, for the salmon. Thank you, to Lup and Barry, for a tirade of relentless jokes after a long week of reaping. Thank you, to Merle, for the nuggets of wisdom he dispels and the return of Kravitz’s green thumb. Thank you, to Magnus, for the hand-crafted piano that is their living room’s crowning jewel.

Magnus’s wall is full, now. His pictures spill over to the opposite wall, ringing the window that leads to the field outside, where Angus and Johann scamper around the yard. The most recent addition is a group photo of the Starblaster crew at Merle’s beach bar. Twenty years after the Day of Story and Song, Lucretia and Davenport are arm-in-arm.

He hands Kravitz a letter. His handwriting is smoother these days, but he retains the thick lines that demonstrate just how similarly Magnus wields a pen and an axe. Before Magnus can say anything, Kravitz stops him.

“Thank you,” he says.

Magnus looks up, a smile on his face that suggests he knows exactly what Kravitz means. “What for?”

And Kravitz says, simply: “Everything.”

Magnus dies surrounded by family, smiling.

In the white space between life and death, Kravitz steps forward and outstretches an arm. Magnus accepts it gratefully. He’s as young as the day Kravitz first met him.

Kravitz leads him beyond, gently, easing the passing as much as he can. Magnus slings an arm around Kravitz’s shoulder as they go. They step onto an island, a cottage that is familiar to Kravitz. Kravitz can hear barking inside, as he always does, and Magnus steps forward, about to rush in, and -



Kravitz turns. “Yes?”

Magnus looks at the cottage for a long, long moment. Already, his eyes grow red, and Kravitz feels his own prickle sympathetically. Then he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sheath of letters. After so long, the words are perfectly-formed. He hands them to Kravitz. 

“You know what to do, my friend.”

Taako, says the first letter. Then, as Kravitz shuffles through the stack: Merle. Lucretia. Angus. Lup. Barry. Davenport. And at the bottom: Kravitz.

When Kravitz is confident he can speak without choking up, he says, “I’ll send these along.”

“Thank you.”

Kravitz laughs, quietly. “Of course, Magnus.”

Magnus watches him for a long moment, then steps forward and pulls him into an embrace.

Kravitz returns it gratefully. This is certainly not goodbye, but it’s melancholic all the same. 

Magnus’s voice is almost small. “Tell them I love them, okay?”

We already know, Kravitz thinks. He thinks of the wall full of photos, the ever-present scent of homemade food in Magnus’s house, the vines curling up the woodwork. He thinks of the sketch of Julia, sketched in thick, dark strokes, that was created on their wedding day by a woman with curly black hair but a hood tight over her head. He thinks of the thumbtack under which Magnus has pinned every single one of Davenport’s postcards. He thinks of the second stack of letters Magnus keeps tucked right next to Julia’s, addressed in the same small, neat hand that taught Magnus how to write.

But he says none of that. Instead, he nods.

“Okay,” Kravitz promises, smiling quietly. “I will.”

“What’s your favorite color, Cas?” Dean asked, smiling from across the table.

“Green.” Castiel said, brows furrowed in concentration. “Uno.”

“Really?” Dean’s smile grew into a smirk. “Is it ‘cause of my eyes?”

“No.” Castiel set down his last card on top of Dean’s - a green four - and looked up. “It’s because I just won.”

@phil-the-stone can we consider this one as a “holding hands”?

sometimes i really love my fics. i wrote that because i wanted to read it. i love it. nobody visits my fics more than me. they remind me that i’m a hard worker, that i created something. it’s mine and i cherish it and love it because it’s exactly what i wanted so i made it.

and other days i’m crippled by self criticism and hate everything and can’t bear to look at my own work because i know it’ll never compare to the greats

but i live for the days i love my work. because it’s mine, and i made it. i didn’t wait for somebody else to make what i dream about. i went and did it myself.

so don’t feel like your work is awful

it’s the stuff you dreamed about. it’s the stuff you decided to make a reality. it’s not about quality, or poetry, or how perfectly your sculpt your words or keep it so deeply in character; because it’s what you dreamed and it’s what you wanted to see, so you made it.

keep writing; it’s yours, and you made it. and if you want to continue to sharpen and improve yourself? then do it. it’s all yours and you can make it whatever you want.

keep writing.

AU where instead of going to Samwell, Jack starts a widely successful Publicly Broadcast show for children.

Jack learns that he is great with kids after coaching them for a little over two years. Moreover, kids are good with Jack. There is no pressure to be anything other than who he is.

It all starts with a local news program doing a fluff piece on Jack Zimmermann’s coaching ability. But then it turned into something completely different when Jack skated onto camera and started to introduce every single one of his kids and what was special about them. He was…really enchanting actually. He didn’t ever really talk down to them. Jack just treated them as a tiny friend. 

They ARE his tiny friends, but that’s not the point. 

The footage they got of “snack time” was really the best. Imagine a good 16 kids piled around this massive man teaching them the best way to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

 It should have been obvious that a local channel would contact him. It still surprises Jack. They want him to host a show? Why? Everyone always teased him about how impersonable he was during interviews. Is it because he’s Jack Zimmermann’s son? Or Alicia’s? 

Jack asks all of these questions to his mother and she just laughs. “You made a PB&J interesting to 16 kids just by being you”

Jack figures it wouldn’t hurt to give it a shot. 

Keep reading

“I’m not afraid,” Adrien says to her, softly. “Are you?” 

more fanart of inking indigo by my dearest carmen!! @matchaball

i love her writing with all my heart and it always inspires me to draw the most. love you carmen i cant wait for the next chapter!!

Why Did You Capitalize The Word ‘Cabbage’ But Not The Word 'France’ : an adventure in reading fanfiction

coming soon, the thrilling sequel: 'You’ve Gone Through Three Different Tenses In The Space Of One Paragraph And I Think You Just Invented A Whole New One All Of Your Own’

and the long anticipated conclusion to the trilogy: 'I Have No Idea Who Is Supposed To Be Speaking Right Now’

My SPN Reverse Bang fic is up!

I got to work with @diminuel on this, which was so much fun, and she’s going to be posting the gorgeous art on tumblr later so keep an eye out for that!


It’s A Terrible Life AU with some a/b/o thrown in.

Explicit, 14.5k.


“Dean Smith,” he says, meeting Castiel’s eyes as he moves the mouse on his desk to wake up his screen and squint at the details of Castiel’s meeting. “You’re here for, oh, the building down on 7th? You took it over?”

“I did,” Castiel says, drawing a file out of his briefcase. “Well, my company did.”

“Your company?”

Castiel looks at Dean, his gaze steely. “You think because I’m an omega I can’t have a company?”


“Because if that is how you think, Mr Smith, I can find another place to do business with.”

Read on AO3


its-the-tenerife-sea  asked:

Hello! I have an idea for the ficlet (feel better btw!). Okay: HS AU with popular!Dean and popular!Cas, they're those two annoying guys who make funny (but also obnoxious) comments in every single class, and make stupid, flirtatious remarks to each other like "Cas looks pretty hot today guys" or "I'm totally dating Dean, everyone" etc. Only thing is, they're secretly in love, but neither will admit it. I've had this idea for a while and I'd LOVE for a talented author to execute it.

Aaaahhh it’s been too long since I’ve done a High School AU and I’ve missed it. Thanks for this one and thanks so much for asking me to fufill the prompt! I hope I do it justice :)


“Please take your seats quickly. I want to discuss your quiz scores so we can go over any questions you may have before the final test.” Ms. Mills said with a stack of papers clutched against her chest.

Dean stretched his arms above his head as he flopped into his usual seat on the third row, next to the wall so he could lean up against it in times of extreme laziness. He sprawled out accordingly, dropping his backpack to the floor and draping his letterman jacket over his seat until the air conditioning kicked in during the middle of class like it usually did.

“Hey, hot stuff.” Dean said with a nod as Castiel sat down in the seat next to him.

“Good morning, Dean.” Castiel said, barely looking up as he aligned his binder and world history book neatly on the small desk in front of him.

“How was that student council thingy yesterday?” Dean asked, popping a piece of gum into his mouth.

“Absolutely dreary without your shining personality to brighten all of our days,” Castiel murmured, completely straight-faced.

Dean winked as Ms. Mills began talking again.

“Some of you need to look at your notes from the beginning of the year again,” she said as she began passing back the quizzes. “And some of you need to remember that - if you want full credit on the final test - the answer to ‘What are the seven wonders of the ancient world’ is not ‘Castiel Novak’s Ass’ written seven times.”

She frowned when she got to Dean’s desk, dropping the paper on his desk as the rest of the class laughed.

Dean clicked his tongue and made a finger gun at Castiel with another wink.

“Really, Dean? Don’t be childish.” Castiel said, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “We all know that’s not true. I haven’t done any squats in at least a month.”

Keep reading

Dating Advice

Friend : how do I solve this relationship issue

Me (never dated in my conscious years) :  *quotes some relationship advice from my OTP’s best friend from a fic I re-read too much*

Friend a day later : you are a relationship genius, where do you get that advice

Me : *sweats about my secret night life* fairy tales

spn 12.12 coda, dean/cas, g.

Dean doesn’t want Cas driving after that, doesn’t really want him doing anything except coming back to the bunker with them; he makes Cas hand his keys over to Sam, and Mary says she’ll ride with him in the truck, which—okay. Dean, alone, with Cas, after watching him almost—.

He can’t stop watching Cas, part of him feeling like if he takes his eyes off him for even a second, this will be revealed to be some kind of fucking mind warp and they’ll be back in that barn, Cas so close to taking his last breath and Dean helpless to prevent it.

“I’m fine, Dean,” Cas says, his eyes closed in the passenger seat of the impala. “But you won’t be if you don’t watch the road.”

“I wasn’t—”

Cas cuts him off with a snorting noise of disbelief and Dean shakes his head, hands tightening on the wheel.

“Okay maybe I was, but Cas you—I mean we almost—I almost—” Dean presses his lips together in a vain attempt to suppress what he’s feeling. “Thought I told you not to do that again,” he says, finally. “Can’t have you dying on me.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

continue reading at ao3

Sweaters uwu

Rich Goranski’s presquip wardrobe is sweaters ok 

fic: Hangman is Comin’ Down

Gabriel Reyes shows up at the New Overwatch with his mission of revenge completed and waits to die. But instead of shooting him where he stands, they take him in and Angela breathes life into him for a second time.

The biggest problem now is that Jack Morrison won’t meet his eyes.


Revenge. And yet, Jack is still alive and still drawing breath. It hadn’t been like Gabriel to leave loose ends. He should have been the last person on Gabriel’s list. No one’s hands dripped more steadily with blood than Jack’s own.


“Baby, let’s take a walk in the snow.”

“Mm, but I like sitting here with you. We have heat, blankets, hot chocolate–”

“But wouldn’t it be nice to put a fire on and cuddle once we’ve been outside?”

“We don’t have a fireplace?”

“We can find a fireplace video on YouTube.”

Even takes Isak’s face in his hands, studying him. “Who are you?” he says. “And where is my Isak?”

Isak rolls his eyes, and oh. There he is. “I like it when your cheeks get all red,” Isak says. “And that you always hold my arm when it’s slippery.”

Even can see there’s more hidden behind Isak’s blush. While Isak surprises him every day, Even was teasing before. Yes, he is grumpy and occasionally cynical, but he also cried when they watched Love Actually. Isak Valtersen is a hopeless romantic at heart. 

Even tilts his head and smiles, knowing how to prompt Isak’s sappiest side. Isak huffs like he’s lost a great battle. 

“And it’s fucking romantic to kiss in the snow, ok? Like one of those shitty Hallmark movies.”

“You mean the ones you suggest we watch?”

Isak tries a new strategy, leaning in close enough to kiss, but pulling away when Even tries to close the distance. “Take a walk with me?” 

It’s a whisper on his cheek, and Even is helpless against it. “Evil.”

“Maybe, but you are so fucking in love with me.”

He’s right, and Even is a hopeless romantic too. He gets his coat to go outside.

“You’re going to die tonight.” 

So, the mood’s changed a little.

Isak and Even are in a face-off, each holding a snowball in their hand. Isak started it, the little shit, but Even’s not one to surrender in a fight.

“Come on, Even. How could you hurt me?” Isak widens his eyes and Even regrets ever telling him that he’s cute. “When I am your sweetheart, your angel, your baby–”

Even fires and clips Isak’s shoulder. Isak retaliates by throwing one right at his heart. Their laughter is louder than the wind, and Even suspects it’s even more capable of carrying them away. 

When they’ve exhausted themselves, Isak lies down in the snow like he’s about to make an angel–a self-portrait, really. Even places his hands on either side of him like he’s pinning Isak down, leaning over his lips.

“Do you know what my favourite thing to do is?” Isak asks. 

Even shakes his head, smiling at the way Isak’s biting his lip.

“Just telling you that I love you.” And oh, fuck this hopeless romantic. It’s incredible Even can feel this warm in the cold. “Whenever I feel like it. I love you so much, Even.”

“You’re ok.”

“Fuck you.”


Isak grins in a way Even’s only seen since they got together. He’s still discovering all of Isak’s smiles and laughs, and each one is the best present Even’s ever received.

“Now kiss me in the snow.”

I’m sure you’ve heard a million times over how important it is to comment on fanfiction - maybe even from this blog. I’ve been a frequent advocate of supporting stories with feedback, often reblogging posts about its importance (and even making one or two of my own). For me, every time a post about comment culture crosses my dash I find a fresh determination to be a commenter and vow to leave feedback on every fic that crosses my dash from there on out.

But here’s my secret: sometimes, I don’t feel like leaving a comment.

It’s not that a fic is undeserving or that I have nothing positive to say, in fact it’s usually quite the opposite.

Sometimes, I look at the large number of comments a fic has already received and I think “What difference will it make if I just add to the masses?” But then I remember how excited I get every. single. time. someone leaves me feedback, how much my heart soars whenever I receive a comment notification.

Sometimes, I see that a fic has zero to little comments and I think “Oh, it would be awkward if I was the only commenter, I don’t want to stand out.” But then I remember the stories I’ve published that never received any responses, merely gathering a few reblogs and a handful of likes and leaving me disappointed and discouraged.

Sometimes, I read a fic long after it’s been posted and I think “Why bother commenting now? It’s way too late for that.” But then I remember that one time someone found a fic of mine months after it had been posted and still left a comment, making me feel as though my story had a permanence and a lasting impact.

Sometimes, I read a fic that is already multiple chapters in, and I think “I can’t possibly comment on any chapter but the last, otherwise it’s going to seem strange.” But then I remember all the effort that goes in to a single chapter, all the courage it can take to publish those words and how reassuring it can be to hear that a particular piece of a story had an impact.

Sometimes, I read a fic and I can’t think of anything insightful to comment, and I think “If I don’t have anything profound to say, I may as well say nothing at all.” But then I remember how it feels to stare at a blank comment section, wondering where exactly my story went wrong and wishing for even the smallest of reassurances.

And sometimes, I read a fic and I’m just tired, and I think “What’s it going to hurt if I just skip the comment this time? Who will even notice?” But then I remember how much time and energy a writer put into their story, how exhausting writing can sometimes be.

I read a fic, I remember these things, and I decide to leave a comment. 

Comments, from the smallest of keyboard smashes and heart eye emojis to the largest of analyses, mean the world to a writer. A comment can be the difference between an abandonment and another update, the divide between a story of requirement and a story of passion. Comments truly are everything to a writer, and they require so little from each one of us.

So please, I beg of you: swallow your excuses, realize that leaving feedback has an impact that extends beyond you, and LEAVE THAT COMMENT.