what I write


I got really excited about old man Corvo today

From the moment they met, Jack knew this was the man with which he would spend the rest of his life. 

“I hope y'all like pecan pie,” Eric Bittle said. He was small, blond, and southern, with a smile that could brighten a room and a pie that smelled like heaven held gently in his hands. Ransom and Holster were on him in seconds.

“Holy shit, did you make this? It’s spectacular!” said Holster, pieces of pecan flying from his mouth. He hadn’t bothered to grab a plate, or a fork, or anything resembling kitchen ware for that matter. 

“Uhh, yes?” Eric looked scandalized. Ransom and Shitty had joined in, grabbing bits of pie and cramming it in their mouths with a voracity that challenged wild hyenas. 

Jack was perched on the edge of the dining hall table, watching the chaos unfold. This wasn’t how he thought it would happen. After a moment, he rolled up his sleeve, tracing his fingers over the soul mark that occupied the inside of his arm. ‘I hope y'all like pecan pie’ was written in large loopy letters. From where Jack sat, he could see the rest of the boys converging on Bittle’s pie. He smiled at the horrified look on Eric’s face. He would be easy to love, Jack thought. 

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aw heck, what’re these? Here’s a sneaky deaky preview of my @theadventurezine submission, and my artist icon for good measure. What could that spicy little wizard up there be so worried about?

The Adventure Zine Generosity campaign will be launching in a matter of days! I’ll be posting about it so you guys can learn about the Facing Hunger charity and the zine itself! Get hyped, friends!!!

I was in the mood for some fluff. I’ve always headcanoned Nico as being a really good drawer idk. And this revolves around that hc. So, enjoy!

An afternoon sun lit up his skin and made him shine even more than usual, the wind was messing up his hair, the heat had dropped and he was a little chilly, but not too much to be really uncomfortable; it was a relief after the day they had. His duties for the day were over and that meant he had time to do what he wanted. Which was Nico. Okay, that came out wrong. (Not that he would mind, exactly.)

Right now, Will Solace stood in front of the Hades cabin that belonged to the dark-haired, Italian kid. Also known as Will’s boyfriend, which made him feel giddy inside whenever he thought of it.

He lifted his left arm and knocked on the door.

‘Come in’, he heard Nico answer and Will pushed the door open. Nico looked like he might have been lying down before Will arrived, but sat up when he heard the knock. The sheets were rumpled and his hair was mussed. But that wasn’t particularly surprising; Nico’s hair was always a mess.

‘Sunshine’, Will said as a way of greeting while closing the door. He pecked Nico on the lips and sat down on the bed, next to him.

‘I still think that nickname’s better suited for you.’, Nico said.

Will smiled. ‘I don’t. That would be too predictable.’

‘So? Who cares if it’s predictable or unpredictable? Who are you trying to impress?’

‘I don’t know. The world.’ They had moved and now they were leaning against the head-board of Nico’s bed, his head on Will’s shoulder. Nico had made a few changes to his room after the war, which had involved getting rid of the coffins and getting one enormous bed instead.

Will continued. ‘Anyway, we can’t both be Sunshine and since I came up with it, I get to use it.’

Nico huffed, but smiled lightly. ‘Whatever. You’ll just have to settle with ‘loser’ as nickname, then.’

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Zom’s Useful Synonyms for Balls

Hey smut writers. Having a hard day in the sweaty, moan-filled mines of the naughty imagination cave? Do you find yourself yearning for synonyms that truly capture the beauty and majesty of nature’s most important dangly bits? Well yearn no more! Here it is, the masterpost no one wanted you’ve all been waiting for: every term I could think of to describe testicles!!

  • Leathery man hamsters
  • Sacks of surging flappiness
  • Wiggly wand huggers
  • Shriveled, quivering seed warmers
  • Bulbous thwappin’ sacks
  • Bean bag rejects
  • Dryer lint covered sweat holders
  • Stanky dribblers
  • Ticklish twitchers
  • Discarded giblets full o’ gravy
  • Crevice keepers
  • Wrinkled thrusting pillows
  • Veiny crotch pouches
  • Hairy muppet eyes
  • Dick cushions
  • Penis pals
  • Balding, twitchy gerbils
  • Trembling love juice holders
  • Naughty nuggets
  • Floppy. Just floppy. 
  • Dejected gerbils
  • Sad sin saucemakers
  • Gonzo’s empty stare
  • Kibbles and bitterness
  • God’s lumpy accidents
  • Rubbery dickstache mounts

Well, I think that’s about all I have in me for now. Feel free to add your own!

Mystic Messenger High School AU (Fanfic)

Sooo I’ve had this sitting on my computer for a while now and haven’t posted it. I’d like to work on it some more yet, but figured I’d share what I’ve written :P Feedback and ideas more than welcome!

Summary: High school AU, pretty much what’s on the tin. This is just the intro – essentially covers part of MM’s prologue. I might use this setting to write a request or two if I like it enough~ E for everyone, no spoilers. I named the MC Kassi (Kasumi) because this would be really hard to do without a name for her. Enjoy!

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Can anyone else see the sex scene happening if Abby’s the one to give him the Chancellor’s Pin after it’s decided Marcus is going to be the next Chancellor? Hear me out on this semi-fic thing that doesn’t have actual smut because I’m the worst, folks.

It’s late in Arkadia, and everyone’s just gotten back from Polis. Everyone’s exhausted mentally and physically, and almost the entire population of the camp runs back to their rooms, jumps in bed, and is out within a minute of putting their head on the pillow.

Everyone except newly-appointed Chancellor Marcus Kane.

Abby knows where she’ll find him - it isn’t difficult to predict where he’ll be, not after everything they’ve been through - and she doesn’t bother knocking before opening and closing the council room door behind her.

“It’s late,” she says. It’s both an observation and a bit of an accusation: Marcus, why aren’t you sleeping?

She knows the answer to that question, so she doesn’t bother asking. It’s the same reason she isn’t sleeping, the same reason Clarke and Bellamy and Raven are still awake.

Six months. That’s all they have.

“It is,” Marcus agrees, turning from the map of the areas surrounding Arkadia to give her his full attention. “You should be getting some rest, Abby.”

“I’ll sleep when you do,” she says, moving closer until she’s in his arms with her head resting on his shoulder. She hears him sigh a tiny sigh as she runs her fingers through his messy hair, hair he won’t have time to trim with all the chaos that’s about to erupt.

Clarke may have been the one to free them from the City of Light, but Abby knows how heavily this burden rests on Marcus’ shoulders. She can see it in his eyes when he looks at her, in the tension in his shoulders when he pores over maps and data.

“I have something for you,” she says as she leans back just enough to look in his eyes, rummaging around in the pocket of her jacket. For a small, frightening moment she thinks it’s lost - resting somewhere between Polis and Arkadia, submerged between countless layers of dust and leaves - but then she checks the other pocket, and thank God.

She pulls out the slightly tarnished Chancellor’s Pin, taken off Pike’s jacket before they left Polis.

“We’re still in this together, you know,” she whispers as she places the pin in his hands, remembering that sunny day in the market that feels like eons ago.

“No matter who wears the pin,” he says with a small smile. That by itself is a triumph - she’s managed to make him smile again. But he sets the pin down on the table instead of securing it to his jacket, and she worries her efforts may have been for naught.

When he looks at her again, there’s a level of despair in his eyes she’s never seen on the ground: not since their time among the stars. Her heart sinks.

“Abby, I-” he starts, then stops. “I have to figure this out. They’re looking to me for answers, and I can’t let them down. Our people need hope. They’ve been through so much.”

“You will,” she reassures him. “You’re going to be the best Chancellor our people have had.”

Another smile, this one slightly sheepish.

“Well, I don’t know if I can live up to you,” he says. “You were a wonderful Chancellor, Abby.”

She doesn’t think so, but that’s not what he needs to hear right now. What he needs right now is comfort and confidence, and neither of these things can be achieved on the less-than-three hours of sleep he obtained the night before.

“Something tells me you’ll be a tough act to follow,” she says with a smile, he laughs a self-deprecating Marcus Kane laugh, and she doesn’t know quite how it happens but suddenly she’s kissing him with all the force and passion she can muster at this ungodly hour of the night.

She traces her tongue along his lower lip, asking a question he answers by allowing her entrance with a soft moan. He tastes sweet, like the berries Lincoln taught her to find in the forest.

When she was under ALIE’s control, she hadn’t been able to think about how he tasted. But this is the opposite of that, this is all sensation and emotion, this is about exploring each other instead of getting information.

His hands find their way underneath her shirt as they stumble toward the couch, an endearing mix of clumsy and graceful. Her shirt and boots get lost somewhere along the way, as do his, and everywhere he touches her feels like she’s catching fire.

He pauses for a moment as she fumbles with the zipper on his pants, pupils wide with lust and love and a thousand emotions she doesn’t have names for.

“Are you sure?” he asks as his cheeks glow slightly red, and it’s all she can do not to laugh. Only Marcus Kane.

She answers his question with another deep, slow kiss, sliding out of her pants as the back of her legs bump against the soft surface of the couch.

“We have six months, Marcus,” she says, laying down and beckoning him to join her. “I don’t just want to survive. I want to live.”

An excerpt from……..something…

(Still don’t know what to name it):

[Context: Jason is chasing the man who killed their parents]

“Get back here!” Jason screeched. “Get back here, you coward!”

His shoes slapped the wet pavement as he ran. The pain had left his arm. In fact, he couldn’t feel anything at all, save for a strange throbbing sensation. It spread throughout his body until everything was throbbing: his heart, his throat, his ears…

It was a rhythm; echoing the beat of his footsteps. It quickened as they did.

And then, someone grabbed him. His body continued to throb, despite the fact that he was no longer moving. The teenager shouted and thrashed.

“Jason,” Lucius said sharply. “It’s me!”

Jason turned and Lucius grabbed his shoulders. The boy flinched in pain, regretting it; the silver eyes spotted the wound. The next few seconds made for one of the most chaotic moments of his life:

“Are you crazy?” Jason screeched. “He’s getting away!”

“Are you crazy?” Lucius yelled back, shocking the teenager. “You could have gotten yourself killed! Look at you. What did he do?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding!”

Jason pushed away from him and began to run down the alley once more.

Lucius’ screams struck harder than the knife had: “Jason, get back here! I’m not going to have you endanger your life over this!”

“I don’t care about my life!”

“Well, your parents sure as hell did!”

He screeched to a halt at the angry remark. He could barely hear it over the rain, despite the fact that the supervillain was shouting. Jason genuinely couldn’t remember the last time that Lucius had done so. The teenager turned and saw that his guardian looked nothing less than impassioned.


Jason broke off as he realized that he didn’t even know what to call him, let alone what to say.

Lucius stepped forward and put a hand on his good shoulder. “You know that I would never say this under any other circumstance but damn it, Jason, your parents died to protect you. Why in the world would you just throw their sacrifice away?”

“B-but I’m trying to avenge them.”

“They don’t want to be avenged,” Lucius said, even though he really wasn’t the best person to talk about the desires of his nemeses. “They want to know that their sons are safe. That’s why they died. That’s why they fought. That’s why they were superheroes. They wanted to protect you and Tyler. Don’t ever take that for granted. Do you hear me?”

His voice had risen again.

Jason closed his eyes, balling his fists, even if that made the pain return.

“Do you hear me?”

“No!” said Jason, his neck aching as he shook his head. “No; I need to get him. I need to—”

“Jason, I am not going to let you end up like them!”

“Why are you yelling at me?” Jason asked, his eyes flying open. They were wet for reasons other than the downpour.

“Because you scared the crap out of me!” Lucius screamed. “For Pete’s sake, Jason, for a moment I—”

“You what?”

“I thought I was too late!”

With that, he pulled Jason into a tight hug. The teenager broke down, sobbing into his chest. From the sounds of it, he wasn’t the only one crying in the alleyway that night.


I’m going to die a hero. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”
“I wanted a hero. I didn’t want you to die.
—  from an unfinished story #214

grigorisultimatum  asked:

What was your process while making Eao's Lament? Do you have a history with of education about such epics? If so, what can you recommend to an aspiring writer?

Hello friend,

Since you are now the second person to ask such a question in as many days, it seems as though this might be an interesting topic for more than a few of you. Apologies for the non-Destiny content, though since I’m usually happy to talk about writing but lack the time to do so, perhaps a short discussion is in order. I’ve never openly broken down my own writing before, so perhaps it’ll be fun.

Besides, I really like Eao’s Lament (shameless plug). 

First of all, let me say that I have no formal poetic training, am not a poet, and aside from that I certainly don’t think I’m the greatest writer of all time. Part of why The Mothyards has been great is that it’s been a way to constantly edit myself. I do this as a writing exercise before I move on to real work (which is also writing, but the boring kind), and I rarely put as much time into these entries as I would like. I could go back to just about every single post and change something.

I’ll start with the second question and move into the first. Yes, I have read more alliterative Anglo-Saxon poetry than most people, and that was the starting point for Eao’s Lament. I had two particular poems in mind while writing: the Anglo-Saxon epic Beowulf (link) and the Middle-English Alliterative Morte Arthure (link). While there are many other examples of alliterative poetry, I have always found the melancholy mood of these works appealing. This was also the basis for most of the poetry I’ve written for the Iron Banner (link), but Eao’s Lament is obviously a longer exercise.

I wanted it to sound antiquated. I also wanted to emphasis the oral nature of the language. Beowulf in particular sounds wonderful when performed (keep in mind that Anglo-Saxon pronunciation is largely reconstructed), and I tried to aim for a similar sense of spoken tradition.

I had originally considered trying to tell the story of the Vanguard, City, and Tower, of which the Great Ahamkara Hunt is but one small part. After playing around with some words I quickly nixed that thought, because I would have doomed myself to 300+ pages of poetry as opposed to 4-5 (and writing about Crota was boring). Instead, I decided that these last moments offered the best opportunity for emotional impact in an internet-friendly length (although I realize that describing a 100-line alliterative poem as ‘internet friendly’ is a bit stupid).

I had only two real goals in mind at the beginning: alliteration and mood. I wanted something epic, something melancholic, something that gave the reader the feeling of overlooking a kind of vastness - of watching from a distance as the old gods died. That desire came partly from Destiny’s in-game Ahamkara lore, and partly from my own obsession - in this case, the two matched up well.  

I started by hand-writing what became the 14th-17th stanzas, and these are my least favorite stanzas in the poem. I wrote several hundred lines one evening, then scrubbed them all the next day - this happens a lot - while preserving the few words I found worthy.

After I’d decided what I wanted to do, I started writing (and reading) more seriously. I went back to the two texts I mentioned above, and spent some time reading some old favorites as well: Keats’ La Belle Dame Sans Merci, Pound’s Canto I, some Byron, and even a bit of Wilfred Owen. I only mention this because reading is, for me, a large part of writing - consuming has always inspired the desire to create.

Then I got back to it, scribbling notes while reading a lot of poetry. 

One difficulty I ran into is that the stress patterns of modern English don’t lend themselves as easily to alliterative poetry as they do to something like iambic pentameter, which mirrors our way of speaking more naturally. I imagine that greater poets than I - such as Pound - didn’t feel this as much, but it was hard (and fun) for me to work around. Much of this is grammatical, since modern English isn’t inflected, which results in far more prepositions than you would have seen in 900AD. It also means that I ran into the danger of sounding like Yoda when inverting sentence structures to match the stress patterns I wanted.

Once I got into the rhythm it moved more quickly, but for every 20 lines I wrote I probably kept 2-5. Focus also became an issue: even if something sounded good in my head it didn’t necessarily fit with the narrative, which is a problem I often experience with other projects. 

Finally, writing alliterative poetry doesn’t mean that every word starts with the same letter, and that’s a trap that can easily make your work sound cheap. I recited everything under my breath, and tried to focus as much on internal rhyme as on alliteration.

The pleasure comes when you finally get something you like onto the page. There are two stanzas that I thought came out well. One is the first stanza, which was the very last stanza I wrote:

Long had Eao lain in solitude,

Feasting on wishes and fears also,

Fat it had grown, from offerings many;

Boons begged by Guardians, grief-stricken or greedy,

Made up the meat of the meals Eao ate.

I needed a strong opening, and finally managed it. Although it’s not grammatically perfect, it was both close enough and struck the note I wanted to lead with. The second is stanza 8:

Eao sensed their coming, slid its great bulk

Down from the dream-cache it had long hoarded.

Up towards the champions spiraled the serpent,

To treat with the war-beasts, play host to their wishes.

The fourth line begins with an unstressed syllable, but it’s perhaps my favorite example of alliteration and internal rhyme. I was also particularly happy when I came up with “wish-wyrm” and “dream-serpent.”

You’ll note that up until stanza 8, every stanza is 4 lines. I wanted Eao’s speech to be different from the regimented form I’d kept to this point, and in the end I don’t think it turned out perfectly. It’s a little too haphazard and loose, which is part of what I wanted  - as a way to suggest that Eao is ageless, wise, and potentially long-winded - but might have gotten out of hand in places. In particular, the bolded line in this stanza:

Intoned Eao then, unlocked its word-hoard:

“Heavy burdens you bear: despite your tongue-silence,

Your sorrows I sense, your hopes I have heard.

To you I offer, wield them as you will;

- Bones, claws, scales, skull -

Drives me insane. I worked on this forever and never managed to get the right combination of stress and syllable count. I think that to improve it I’d have to re-craft half of the stanzas in the section.

The last little thing I had fun doing was inserting a bunch of allusions to other works. “Unlocked its word-hoard” is a translation of a line in Beowulf that I’ve always loved, “Take them up screaming!” is a nod to Odin’s discovery of rune-magic after hanging himself on the Tree, and there are other moments as well - the word “fallow” has a lot of interesting connotations in Anglo-Saxon literature, the fifth stanza riffs on the Beasts of Battle motif I discussed in this post, and I really loved the “gun-sworn, gold-lit” description of the hunter.

Aside from being amusing to me (and hopefully others), including these moments was a good way to maintain the mood I’d laid out. 

Finally, I wanted to end the poem on a melancholy note. Finishing with a description of Eao’s death felt too literal. I wanted those responsible to have time to consider what they’d done, and to feel unsure about whether they’d done the right thing. I pictured the three Guardians trudging back through the wastes in silence, carrying their trophies but getting no joy from them, their heads and hearts heavy. 

One of the questions that’s been around since the release of Destiny is: who’s in charge? The feeling of choice vs. being chosen has always struck me as important, and not just in this particular universe. So I wanted them to feel unsure; a bit betrayed, even - that they’d been ordered to do something terrible by people who didn’t fully understand their decisions, and that they didn’t realize the weight of what they’d done until it was too late to consider their options. It’s a sensation I’ve played with in a lot of these stories, and I’m sure I’ll continued to do so (example 1, 2, 3, 4), since a moment of horrible realization and horrible choice is always fun to witness.

Really, I could go on, but part of why I enjoy writing is the mystery - seeing how people react to the words and stories, letting them come to their own conclusions. So I suppose I’ll force myself to end there, and instead I’ll say that I hope that Eao’s Lament won’t end with just the poem. If I ever find a suitable scribe, perhaps I’ll commission and illuminated manuscript to hand on my wall.


Now, for your very last question: “Do you have any tips for aspiring writers?” Well, keeping in mind that I am but one voice among many, I’ll tell you what have been the most important lessons for me:

First, the most important: if you want to be a writer, you have to write. Not sometimes. Not when the mood strikes you. You have to write every single day. It doesn’t have to be a complete chapter of a novel. It doesn’t have to be a coherent thought. It can be a list of words you think sound good together, or an idea you had while you were doing something else, or even your very own silly fan fiction blog. You’re allowed to write whatever you want, and you don’t have to worry about “being good at it” to start.

This is hard for young writers in particular: you have so much going on all the time that it feels impossible to make room for anything else. But the truth is, you gotta. You’re not going to get better at writing if you’re not writing. 

Share your writing with anyone who will read it. That’s really hard - it opens you up to things that people say, and not all of them will be nice or even helpful. Do it anyway. Send emails to your friends. Ask them to read things. If you’re in school (whether it’s middle school, high school, college, or grad school, or anything else at all), talk to your classmates or your teachers.

Write about things that happen to you. Write about people you know. Writers are parasites. Embrace it. 

Copy other writers. Don’t, you know, plagiarize, but have fun with pastiche. Write in different styles and genres all the time. If you’re in school, care about your academic papers. It doesn’t matter if you don’t give two shits about the historiography of witchcraft and ritual in the religious texts of 15th Century Northern Italy. At the very least, make the words sound good. A single excellent sentence can make the whole thing worthwhile.

Write your own Lovecraft story. Write a Sherlock Holmes mystery. Write part 2 of Eao’s Lament.  Sometimes I see people who are obviously inspired by my own writing (not necessarily on tumblr, but elsewhere), and the temptation to be angry is strong - but then I tell myself to be flattered, and remind myself that I’m a better writer anyway. The world needs more writers. Write. 

Read. Read a lot. Read whatever you like. Hopefully some of it is good, but it doesn’t really matter. But while you’re reading, take the time to think about the words. If you really like a piece of writing, ask yourself why you like it. Try to mentally edit other the work of other writers. How would you have written it differently?

My own background is very, very heavy in literature and language. Yours doesn’t need to be, but I’ve found that studying other languages and taking pleasure in words and etymology constantly gives me new things to think about. A Nigerian friend once asked me to write an short epic about Ogbanje (I am not Chinua Achebe), and even the process of immersing myself in mythology and culture - even just the way he spoke English or his other native languages -had an incredible effect on everything else I was working on.

And since everyone always asks for rules to follow, here are my rules, which are similar to everyone else’s rules:

  1. No adverbs. The verb “to be” is equally egregious in most cases. And while I am not always averse to the passive tense, try to avoid that as well. 

  2. Show, don’t tell. Harder than it sounds.

  3. Check your work. Spelling and grammar matter - language is fluid, but if a reader is desperately trying to unpack unintentional errors they’re not going to enjoy what they’re reading.

  4. Change things up. Don’t use the word “and” for a whole day. Write a paragraph in iambic pentameter. Make your brain work. 

  5. Understand that you are always writing for an audience.

  6. Write all the damn time.

  7. Rules are useless. You’ll break them all as you develop your own style. Except for number 6.

This has been strangely entertaining, so thank you for asking. As I’ve said before, knowing that people read these stories is the best part of all. I hope that you made it through all five pages of this, and that it gives you - and ideally, others as well - some food for thought, if not any real advice. 

And I really do hope that you keep writing.


The Mothyards

fauvistfly  asked:

Sterek. Summer evening breeze. Mutual pining, preferably with hints of a happy ending.

I’m gonna go ahead and apologize right now that there aren’t really hints of a happy ending. I am terrible at happy, and probably terrible at pining. I’m trying


Stiles sat on the edge of the roof, heels banging gently against the brick of the wall beneath him as he looked out over the city. Everything seemed so peaceful from this height, like there wasn’t a supernatural war going on nightly, like they weren’t all fighting tooth and claw to stay alive to protect the people they loved. Up here it was quiet, a soft summer breeze ruffling at his hair, ghosting over his skin, whispering of familiar, warm times long past where things had been simpler, comforting even.

He closed his eyes, tipping his head back a little and letting the sensation wash over him for a few heartbeats as he took a long, slow breath and let it out even slower.

When he opened his eyes to the evening sky, his gaze ticked over the stars, the blanket of night just beginning to quench the fire of day. He smiled.

Behind him, the roof door clicked, and he was on his feet before it opened, though he relaxed his grip on his steel-barbed bat when he realized it was just Derek.

“They’re out,” Derek said, controlling the close of the door so it shut quietly. “Time to go.”

Stiles nodded, because he’d been up here as a sentry, making sure nothing came in at them from the sky unannounced, but in the utter quiet, he’d started to relax. He knew that they weren’t supposed to be here, that the grotesques that guarded this sector of the city would be wakening in the next few minutes, but he just…

“In a minute,” he said softly, nodding his head toward the cityscape laid out beneath them. “Come look.”

Derek gave him a searching look, and then stepped over to the edge of the roof. Stiles watched as he took in the city, face softening just a little in fondness. The warmth in his expression brought a smile to Stiles’ lips, and he didn’t bother to hide it. Derek was beautiful when he loved something.

“It looks better from up here,” Derek said, gentle, like he wished things could be different up close. “Can’t smell the blood.”

With a sigh, Stiles followed his gaze out over the city one last time. Two buildings over, one of the demonic grotesques began to stir, the stony stiffness fading from its leathery wings as it stretched. They needed to leave, to get back to the pack before things got dangerous.

“Yeah,” he agreed, barely a breath but knowing the wolf would hear him. Knowing that Derek would hear the resignation in his voice but not having the energy to hide it. He turned away from the city to head for the door.

He didn’t see the way Derek watched him leave, gaze clinging to him as though he wished he could drag Stiles back to where things were not quite so broken for just a few more minutes. By the time he opened the door and looked back, Derek was already moving to join him, not quite meeting his eyes. 

Stiles let him pass, and, as he had always done, followed after him.

KisaIta Week Day 1
:: First Meeting - Goodbye ::

We are human, not fish.
We are human.
We are.

Merely a simple words, but not really in the same time. Not in Kisame’s mind.

They just meet, but Itachi already gives Kisame what he had been looking for all this time.

As a human.

Kisame feels foreign emotion come inside him. It feels weird, but not unpleasant one. He ignores it, but the feeling never fade away even in his death.


ー初会合の想い, shortfic for KisaIta Week August 24th

angst sentence starters yay

“It’s nothing,” Sasuke supplied as an unsatisfactory reply. “It looks worse than what it is. I was careless after being dragged into a needless fight.”

Sakura’s sharp gaze was enough to reveal her built worry. It cascaded down her face, rendered any sense of anger for keeping things from her again. “I need to know you’re safe out there,” she said, more to herself when examining his torso.

It was difficult for him some days, to remember that it was alright to confide in others, especially to the young woman he was falling for. He hadn’t expressed the sentiment yet, unsure of how to go about anything pertaining to emotions. He knew her love still existed. It revealed itself in every motion she made.

Sasuke turned his eyes away, unable to watch her. Whenever he did, something about her attraction remained fixated in his mind and he didn’t know what to do about it. “Safety isn’t my main issue.”

“Well, it’s one of mine,” she snapped. “You matter to me. You know that.” The medical ninja huffed, spinning around. “If anything happened to you out there… You need to stop being so reckless. I’ll finish healing you in a minute. I have to check on another patient.”

He lightly took hold of her arm. “There’s something else I’ve been neglecting to tell you.”

She slowly turned, facing him again. He wouldn’t look at her, avoiding the jumble of what was expressed. She mentally scowled herself. He didn’t need to hear about that again. He made his point before. He didn’t look at her that way.

“What is it?” she hesitantly asked.

He swallowed, finding the purpose behind his action. “I’ve realized that I…” He paused, taking a breath. This shouldn’t be so difficult, but he felt as if his chest was being compressed, his lungs burning. “I realized that I have feelings for you.”

She blinked a few times, the confession unable to be processed. “You what…? You just admitted that you…”

He stood, taking a step closer despite the pain searing in his ribcage, the proximity between them shrinking, his hand placed against her cheek. “I have feelings for you,” he said again, but quietly this time.”

So I did this for fun and I-…???
have a lot more bastion ships than I thought i would.
i love bastion ok