#fey's writing

[feybarn]

And I return with some ghost Obi. Thanks @queenaelinwildfire!

Spinning off of Sparky, ghost Obi haunting Jango Ooo bonus points if it’s smol obi wan

When the boy first appeared, Jango had been sure it’d been the spice. Hallucinations were hardly new and the young boy who stared at him with frightened eyes was hardly the strangest thing he saw. In fact, the boy who whispered warnings about when the slavers were coming, and told him that Neeva—the young togruta girl a few slaves down—was dying, and told him stories about men in white armor who died forgotten heroes, was perhaps the kindest hallucination that Jango experienced.

Except the boy didn’t go away. Not when Jango killed the slavers. Not when Jango detoxed. Not when Jango left behind all but the scars of his time with the slavers.

Jango hadn’t quite believed in ghosts before, but he had no other explanation for the boy that followed him unerringly from the slavers’ ship to Concord Dawn to the ugly, worn down ship he eventually acquired.

“You have a reason for haunting me, kid?” he asked.

The boy frowned. His hand came to his neck where a collar rested.

Jango had tried not to think about that particular accessory too much.

“I don’t know,” the boy admitted. “I… I don’t remember how I got here.”

Jango was going to guess that the answer included ‘dying’. “You need help moving on?” Jango asked. Though he had no idea how he would help some ghost move on. Jaster would have, though.

Jango blocked out the thought.

“I don’t know,” the boy admitted. “I don’t think so. I think I’m here for a reason.”

Great. A reason. That explained so much. “What’s your name?”

The boy’s brow furrowed. “I… I don’t know.” The boy sounded alarmed, as though he’d just realized he didn’t have a name.

Well, there went trying to track down where the boy had come from. All Jango had to go on was the rough mining clothes the boy was wearing, several sizes too large for him, and the collar around his neck.

Mining colonies weren’t exactly sparse in this galaxy. Even narrowing it down to mining colonies that used slavery didn’t help.

The Republic might claim that slavery was outlawed, but that didn’t mean much, Jango had discovered.

“Do you have a name you want me to call you?” Jango asked, because while Jango could keep calling him ‘the boy’ it seemed…

Wrong.

If Myles were here, Myles would have already named the kid. It’d probably have been something meaningful and well thought out.

If Silas were here, he’d have helped the kid come up with a name on his own. He’d have turned it into a game, until the kid didn’t even remember he was upset.

If Jaster were here…

Jango tried not to think about what Jaster would have done.

The boy frowned and Jango could tell he was thinking. “Obi,” the boy said finally. “I think… I think I like Obi.” 

“Obi,” Jango agreed. He wondered if it was the kid’s actual name, hidden in the depths of his mind. “You going to keep following me around?”

Obi tilted his head. “I think so. I don’t want you to be alone.” Obi’s gaze was piercing. “Are you going to go home?” he asked. “Now that you’re free?”

Jango swallowed. “I don’t have a home to go to.”

Obi’s eyes echoed with a terrible sadness. “You’re afraid.”

Jango closed his eyes. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said, words coming out short. 

“Sometimes I dream I can’t go home either,” Obi whispered. “In the dream, I want the desert sands to strip me to my bones.”

Jango flinched, but added the piece of information to the possibility of where Obi had come from. Though, there were a spare few mining colonies on desert planets. The combination was rarely conducive to the most valuable of mining operations.

“It’s not the same kid.”

Obi stared at him. “I think they’d want you to come back.” His hand rubbed at the metal collar around his neck again. “Wherever home is. They… they probably miss you.”

Jango scoffed. He’d gotten so many of their people killed, the ones that remained could hardly want him back. “Not likely, kid.”

“In my dreams, they died because of me,” Obi whispered.

Apparently being a ghost made the kid telepathic. Jango was not a fan. But it was… it was a kid, a dead kid. Jango didn’t have the heart to try to get rid of him, unless it was to bring him home.

“Just a dream, kid.”

Obi looked away. “What if it’s not? Do… do we never get to go home?”

Jango sighed. “Come on, let me teach you how to navigate in and out of hyperspace.” He’d noticed that the kid looked like he enjoyed watching Jango in the cockpit. Sure, the kid would never need the skills himself, being dead and all, but Jango didn’t know what else to do with the dead kid that was stuck with Jango.

Obi nodded, following Jango back to the cockpit. It was the end of the conversation.

Or it should have been. 

The question haunted Jango as the months passed. Would he ever get to go home? With the sins that weighed so heavy on his shoulders? It’d been years. Years as a slave and now nearly a year free.

He looked at Obi, who hadn’t aged since the day he’d found Jango in the hull of the slave ship. Just a kid. Always a kid. A dead kid that couldn’t go home. Whose closest thing to home was Jango and Jango’s ship.

Jango had been determined not to think of it, of what he’d lost, of what was gone, of what he could never allow himself to have again.

Do we never get to go home?

Was that why the kid was stuck as a ghost? Had he told himself he was never allowed to go home? Had he trapped himself in some sort of eternal punishment.

Jango had never heard of it happening before, but he wasn’t a scholar, and this universe was full of things stranger than Jango could believe.

Do we never get to go home?

Was that why the kid had found him? Because he saw Jango’s punishment as his own?

Because this life Jango lived now, constantly chasing the next bounty, with nothing but a ghost at his side… was it a life? Was Jango just as much a ghost as the dead kid that haunted him.

“Where are we going next?” Obi asked when the next hunt finished.

Jango stared at the controls on the cockpit’s dashboard.

Do we never get to go home?

Did he? 

The kid needed a home. Jango… Jango couldn’t give him the one he’d been taken from. But…

“Concord Dawn,” he said.

“Where’s that?” Obi asked. “Is there a hunt there?”

Jango shook his head. “No, kid. We’re going home.”

#star wars #fey's writing #obi-wan kenobi #jango fett #ghost obi-wan

[feybeasts]

For funsies, and to flex my writing muscles again, I thought I'd write up a little faux-research-article on the wereplush concept I've been playing with and y'all seem to enjoy- what follows is both a vague lore framework and description of the curse via one of its first bearers... yours truly!

If it's a fun idea and you wanna subject yer own OCs to it, by all means, feel free! I'm not gonna act like I have the last say in a fun little idea, ehehe.

Below the break, then, I present to you:

THE CURSE OF THE WEREPLUSH: An Examination of Virulent Arcana

by Lena Hart.

Foreward

If there is anything I'm known for among my kind- and the many friends I've made across the greater multiverse- I would hope that chief among these qualities is my dedication to my work. In the scant few years I've acted as the Spirit Archives' caretaker, I've worked hard to document, understand, and put names to its many lost pieces of arcana, its once-nameless denizens, its peculiar quirks. I've treated my responsibilities with the utmost care no matter what sort of proverbial wrenches are thrown in the works, whether that be restless spirits, outside intervention, or- and I will fully admit this one is significant, even if it embarrasses me somewhat- my own... let's say poor luck with volatile artifacts. Such a dedication is not always easy, for when one's form is often altered, one's mind assailed, and one's breaks frequently disturbed, properly-written research papers can be the last thing on one's mind.

Even so, I endure not because I'm stubborn- though I AM that- but because this work is important. Because I believe in it.

So, with that prefaced, I hope you can fully appreciate the gravity with which I say now that the following report is... one of the most difficult things I've ever had to write. Not because the subject matter is transgressive or challenging; no, if anything, it's anything BUT that. What I've taken to calling the Curse of the Wereplush is, if anything, frankly ridiculous on the face of it- but what makes it difficult to write is... well...

...The effect that selfsame curse has had on me, as patient zero.

As far as I can surmise, I am the first wereplush in the modern age, as any mention of such creatures is... all but nonexistent before now. Before me, there was simply no such thing, no papers written, no need for classification, and that the curse has now reached such a pitch that I feel the need to write all I know on it... well... that stings a little.

"My bad," as they say.

Of course, I'd be a bad scholar if I proclaimed my difficulty in writing about a subject is borne entirely of my proximity to it. No, the challenge in writing this paper has been almost exclusively physical, as you'll soon understand. The transformation I've undergone has been so drastic both in its effect on my body and the changes in my very mind, that I've had to rely on voice transcription to write, which may lend this paper something of a more... conversational... tone than you'd expect.

Still, I carry on, and I hope that the information provided in the following pages serves some use to anyone in the future who needs it- even if it seems more and more likely it's... too late for me.

Section One: Overview

The Curse of the Wereplush is a transformative contagion of wholly magical origin. Insofar as this scholar can tell, there are no records of its creation, no mention of its original creator, and no previous cases before... well, before myself. Though it bears some outward similarity to the likes of lycanthropy in its physical transmission and transformative effects on the victim, hence the name I've given the curse, it differs significantly both in its physical effect and its... peculiar... set of 'rules'.

Upon becoming afflicted with the curse, a victim experiences a rapid set of physical changes after a brief delay, and then further set of physical and mental changes over time. In the short term, usually a few minutes to hours after transmission (depending on, as far as I can ascertain, one's magical resistances,) a victim experiences a rather dramatic physical transformation. Their body, whether previously biological, mechanical, or even magical in nature, becomes a simulacrum of itself made of living fabric and some manner of thick, soft polyfill. Defined shapes become simplified forms, digits lose dexterity, and their eyes become simplistic pseudo-plastic dots. In essence, the victim is transformed into a living plush toy, complete with knitted seams (though no actual yarn or string is visible, as far as I've been able to tell,) and a tag somewhere on their form. In addition, the newly-made Wereplush gains a squeaker somewhere within their body, usually within what was once their abdomen. Though the transformation is dramatic, it isn't painful, and in some ways, the added weight, plushness, and soft, fuzzy "skin" is... rather pleasant...

Given the wildly varied natures of the faefolk, this alone wouldn't register as much of a shock- I've personally met everything from living boulders to a rather talkative sentient volleyball, but this initial set of changes also isn't the most pressing thing about the curse. No, it is what comes next, in the ensuing days, weeks, and months, that truly makes the Wereplush curse unique- and in some ways, insidious.

To be a Wereplush is not an unpleasant thing, if I'm wholly honest. One loses the need to eat, gains impressive flexibility without bones getting in the way, and it's hard to deny just about all victims of the curse are... rather delightful to observe. It would be hard to call it a curse when one is first affected, and indeed, once you're used to your new body, you may even consider it an improvement. But one must not forget that they don't stop changing after this initial metamorphosis, and it is these slower, persistent changes that represent the more... concerning... aspects of the curse.

The first of these changes is mental. Slowly, the pleasantness of being in this new shape changes into a sort of dopey self-affection for the victim. One finds they greatly enjoy squeezing and handling their new form, a sort of mental stimulus not unlike a cat's desire to scratch furniture or a dog's need to wag their tail. Slowly, this need to be handled and squeezed begins to become their primary concern, rendering most other thoughts an easily-forgotten haze at its worst. The harsher edges of one's personality fall away, it becomes harder to grow angry or agitated, and laughter comes easily. A developing Wereplush becomes someone who is delightful and huggable, and this is only made more pronounced by the second change that occurs over time. This characterizes itself as what I can only describe as "pillowfication".

Simply put, the longer one remains a Wereplush, the plusher they become. Limbs become thicker, bellies swell rounder, cheeks fill and fill to crowd out one's snout. After a week or so, a formerly skinny Wereplush may seem to have grown chubby, but after a month, they can hardly hold their increasingly-orbicular body upright. Stuffing eventually crowds one's body in such density that they become a sort of enormous, living mattress, and this process, as far as I can ascertain, does not cease. Even if I wanted to, having been this way for so long now, my digits are too thick to hold a pen, and I could hardly lift either of my arms to do so if I wished, nor see past my own... prodigious... abdomen to boot.

Less... nuanced friends have told me I quite resemble a pink hippopotamus now... if said hippo was the size of a house.

To say I'm soft to the touch, squeezable, well, that would be the understatement of a lifetime, but it is exactly this nigh-comical plushness that presents a problem, for though one is tempted to cuddle a developed Wereplush for all they're worth, it is exactly this process by which the curse is spread- for as I mentioned previously, every Wereplush has a squeaker within their cursed form- and if a non-Wereplush manages to squeak it, usually through such unrestrained contact, the curse is transferred to them.

It almost seems ridiculous, doesn't it? Accidentally get a Wereplush to squeak, and you turn into one. And make no mistake- even at my size, one can easily still strike my own; with how deeply the curse has taken root within me, they even get a rather... dramatic headstart on their pillowfication. The last poor soul who couldn't help themself nearly instantaneously became so round they had to be rolled away, though they did seem quite pleased with themselves...

But I digress. These aspects combined have made the curse quite... astonishingly virulent, and yet they've done so simply by exploiting a desire nearly every living being has- the need to squeeze something soft.

Section Two: Origins, Treatments, Cures(?)

As I've mentioned previously, the origins of the Wereplush curse are a mystery, though I am in a unique position to speak on the original transmission vector. Deep in the Spirit Archives' storerooms, where I've tried to organize yet-uncategorized artifacts before they are studied and displayed, I have boxes upon boxes of smaller objects- pins, buttons, tags, odds and ends. In a moment of clumsiness, I was pricked by a rather nondescript sewing needle, and thinking nothing of it, I tossed it out. That the spot I was poked did not heal, instead forming a patch of strange, felt-feeling fur should have been my first indication that something was amiss, but it was only later that evening, as I readied for bed, that the curse overtook me. By then, the needle was long gone, and all that remains of its origin is the tag now affixed to one of my flanks- one that depicts the very same needle, pulling a length of pink thread, as if taunting my mistake.

Having no shortage of magical know-how at my disposal, I've tried every method I could think of to cure the curse. Brute-force dispelling has no effect, and as a Wereplush cannot eat or drink, potions and alchemy are hardly viable. I've even tried transformation magic in desperation, but even the wildest polymorphing only makes oneself a Wereplush in the shape of a given animal, it does not restore the old form. I must admit, then, that without the original implement of my transformation to study, I am without any other avenues to seek a cure, and finding it- well, that's like finding a literal needle in a proverbial haystack.

With no apparent cure, then, I must turn to treatments, ways to minimize the more... dangerous effects of the curse. Chief among these, for the safety of others, is that under no circumstances must one allow themselves to be cuddled or squeezed by a party not affected by the curse. Though a Plush is a lovely, huggable thing, soft and squishy beyond compare, though it brings us no greater joy than to be needed, loved, cuddled... transmission of the curse under such circumstances isn't simply probable, it's all but assured. To nullify this, I've found that cuddling with other plushes can satisfy the need somewhat, if not entirely. If a non-plush coming in for a hug is unavoidable, try at least to direct them to your tail, if you have one, or less important limbs- squeakers are known to migrate, but this at least helps to reduce risk until the mortal can be made to... restrain themselves.

As for pillowfication... I'm afraid there are even fewer ways to mitigate the onset. There is no visible cause of it, one does not gain weight in the traditional sense, and though one may be tempted to try to pull apart a seam and empty themselves of fluff, as far as I can ascertain, our fabric "skin" is completely unbreakable. Pillowfication is an inevitability once you bear the curse, so the best one can really do is find loose-fitting, comfortable clothing, and get used to their newfound bulk as it grows. Though it isn't much of a silver lining, I can wholly attest that the process is quite comfortable, and if nothing else, the lack of a biological body means one will never become wholly immobile.

I would like to consider this paper a living document, and rest assured- if in my research I can find a cure, I will do my best to disseminate the information promptly, but for now, the best any of us can do is try to mitigate the effects on ourselves and others.

Section Three: Miscellaneous Points

As I've been asked a number of questions that I cannot place within the broader text, and there are peculiarities to the condition I've only recently discovered, I'll try to provide a few below in bullet-point.

As mentioned above, Wereplushes appear to be functionally indestructible. We're fireproof, waterproof, can't be cut, and flattening is really just inconvenient. More aggressive victims have been kept at bay with large weights laid atop them, which work well enough, until they're too plump for the weights to find purchase, anyways.

The process of pillowfication feels not unlike having eaten a large meal, albeit the sense of "fullness" permeates one's entire body. Quite honestly, by this point I feel quite like I've been feasting for ages...

Though lighter than one's biological body at first, as a Wereplush's condition grows more advanced, their internal fluff grows denser. A new plush may be quite soft and malleable, but a deeply pillowfied plush feels like memory foam, and is just as heavy to boot!

A Wereplush's voice can change over time, some becoming squeakier and higher, some deeper and more syrupy, some not changing at all. It is unclear if this holds any significance.

Even if they were once human, a humanoid synthetic, what have you, all Wereplushes seem to take the form of anthropomorphic animals, with more animalistic folk more closely resembling their original form when transformed.

A Wereplush's tag seems to embody some aspect of themselves or the circumstances of their transformation, and is usually a simple pictogram depicting some aspect of their personality or history.

The rate at which a Wereplush pillowfies seems to vary from victim to victim, and the extent of the process appears to be limitless, though it slows once they've grown ploddingly large.

The sensations one feels if they've hit a Wereplush's squeaker, and warning signs that they've been afflicted by the curse, are an immediate sense of lightheadedness, butterflies in the stomach, and difficulty standing upright. These feelings intensify up to the point of transformation, at which point their body changes into their new, plushie self.

It is unclear how many Wereplushes now exist, but given the multidimensional nature of the Spirit Archive, and the decent number of initial and subsequent victims, there could be hundreds, even thousands...

#feylore #oc lore #c:lena #fey's writing #plushie #tf #wereplush

[thefatedthoughtofyou]

He's been at Steve's house a week before he manages to gather up the courage to ask.

He shuffles into the living room, Steve's old slippers on his feet, Steve's old pajamas hanging off him. He'd lost weight in the hospital. And hadn't gained much back yet, still in too much pain to really have an appetite. But this, it needed doing. He needed it done.

"Steve?" He asks, throat clicking, voice scratchy from underuse. Steve looks away from the tv immediately, hits the mute button, eyes wide and on Eddie.

"Hey. You okay?" He asks, turning his whole body on the couch, towards Eddie, giving him his full attention.

Eddie just nods. Slowly. His eyes going unfocused, staring at the floor.

"Eddie?" And Steve's in front of him now, he hadn't even heard him get up.

"Hmm?" He hums in his throat, eyes still feeling foggy.

"Did you need something?" Steve asks, Eddie's eyes focus, the concern in Steve's voice bring him back into his body. He looks at Steve, nods, says,

"I need you to cut my hair." His lip trembles, he digs his teeth in.

"You... what?" Steve's confused. Rightfully so. Eddie swallows around the fire in his throat, tries to explain it to Steve. This thing he can barley figure out himself. Has a half formed idea at best. He wipes at his nose with the back of his hand, Steve steps a little closer.

"It's just- it keeps- I keep laying on it. And it... pulls. And I'm sleeping and it pulls and I wake up and I can't breathe and it's-" he inhales, sharp and shakey and then Steve is there, his hands on Eddie's shoulders.

"Okay. It's okay. I'll do it. Whatever you want Ed's." He pulls Eddie upstairs, into his bathroom. Stands with him in front of the mirror, scissors in hand.

"Where do you want it?" Steve asks, his eyes meeting Eddie's in the mirror. Eddie takes a deep breath, brings his hand up, winces at the pull on his ribs but keeps going.

"Above my shoulders. But like... I wanna still be able to tuck it behind my ears?" He's not sure why it comes out as a question, but Steve just nods, Eddie sees his lips twitch into the start of a smile before dropping again. He reach up, drags his fingers genlty through Eddie hair.

His stomach sinks, his hair is gross. He hasn't washed it in days. Too tired. Too much pain. Too much effort.

"Sorry my hair's gross." He mumbles, lips barley moving.

"It's not. It's fine." Steve assures him, his voice soft, sections out a small lock of hair, he looks at Eddie in the mirror again.

"You're sure about this?" He asks, he looks sad. Eddie hates it. But also doesn't. Because it means Steve sees him, understands him, and how important his hair is to him.

But it doesn't matter right now. That his hair is a peice of him, a peice of the Eddie he'd built to keep himself safe. A peice of his armor.

"I'm sure. Please." He isn't begging, exactly, but his hands fist in his pajama pants, and it feels like it anyway.

"I'm gonna go just above your shoulder at first okay? And then if you want more off we can do that." Steve waits for Eddie to agree and then starts cutting.

Eddie closes his eyes when the scissors sink through his hair. Keeps them closed as Steve works. He stops a few cuts in and tells Eddie to wait there. Eddie sits on the toilet seat as he waits for Steve to come back.

He brings a radio with him, clicks in one of the tapes Eddie made him, and gets back to work. Eddie's eyes stay closed. He finds himself smiling as he listens to Steve hum behind him. Scrunches his nose when Steve full on sings a few times.

Not because he's bad. He's got a really nice voice actually. Eddie loves listening to him sing. But if he didn't scrunch his face he might to do something else instead, something stupid, with Steve so close.

It only takes a couple songs before Steve's hands are on his shoulders, gentle, reassuring, an anchor.

"Okay. It's done. Or at least. Might be. I can take more off if you need me too." His voice is soft in Eddie's ear, Eddie can feel the heat of his chest on his back he's so close.

He opens his eyes and feels his heart flutter in his chest. His head swimming a little. His hair hadn't been this short since junior year. He can see Steve watching him in the mirror.

"Good?" He asks, dragging his lip into his mouth and letting it go again.

"I think so." Eddie says, feeling a bit dazzed, a bit dizzy. And then Steve fucking reaches up with both hands, tucks Eddie's hair behind his ears genlty, his fingers moving down his neck to rest back on his shoulders.

"I could take another inch. It'd still fit behind your ears." Steve's eyes are moving over his head, like he's doing some complex math equation. Eddie wants to cry. His chest tight.

"Okay. Take it." He says, Steve's eyes move to his in their reflections again.

"Yeah?" Steve asks, reaching up and smoothing his hand over Eddie's hair. Eddie nods.

"Yeah. One more inch." He breathes the words out, like he just needs them gone, out of his mouth. Steve smiles at him, untucks his hair from his ears and starts cutting again.

Eddie watches him this time. Watches the way his tongue sticks out as he concentrates, measuring Eddie's hair between his fingers before he cuts. His tongue peaking out between his lips, brow furrowed in concentration.

Eddie watches him and tries to convince himself he actually wanted it shorter. And maybe he did. But he knows too, that he didn't want Steve to stop touching him. Steve's eyes meet his in the mirror and he smiles again. Eddie looks away. His cheeks burning.

"Okay. You're done Munson." His voice is teasing, it makes Eddie's stomach flutter.

"Thanks. Harrington." He teases back. Too soft. He knows. But he can't help it. His voice is stuck in his throat. Steve snorts as Eddie turns, takes a step toward the door.

"Actually. Can I-" Steve stops, his hand curling around Eddie's bicep, stopping him there. Eddie looks at him. Waiting.

"Can I wash your hair for you?" Steve asks, his voice quiet, Eddie barely hears it over the radio.

"My...?" Is Eddie's articulate reply.

"Please? It'll make you feel better. I- I think." Steve stammers a bit, always so endearing when he does that. Eddie loves when he's flustered.

"I uh... yeah okay. If you want." Eddie shrugs, tries to act normal. Like any of this is normal. And Steve fucking beams at him, that beautiful smile on full display.

"Okay cool. Just uh... here you can sit here while I get this cleaned up and get a towel and I'll be right back." He's talking fast, his hands flailing and jumping around as he talks. Eddie just nods, smiling at him as he watches him toss Eddie's chopped hair into the trash. Watches him take a lock of it and tie it in a knot, tells Eddie he'll put it somewhere safe. So they'll know when it's fully grown out again.

Steve wipes up the counter and disappears, comes back with two towels a few seconds later. Instructs Eddie to sit on the floor. He sets a towel down for him to sit on and lays the other over the side of the tub.

Eddie lets Steve guide him. His hands gentle as he lowers Eddie's head back over the tub, asks if he's comfortable, Eddie hums an affirmation. Steve makes sure the water is warm, not too hot, because Eddie doesn't like hot water. He gets it perfect. And then starts pouring water onto Eddie's hair.

Eddie's not sure where he got the cup. Or if it was already there for some reason. He means to ask but Steve's fingers sink into his hair and his brain short circuits. The shampoo smells amazing. Minty. It tingles against his scalp in the best way as Steve's fingers move in slow circles.

Eddie's eyes fall closed. He's sure he makes some obscene noise but Steve is kind enough not to comment. His fingers working magic in Eddie's hair. He rinses with warm water, the contrast from the cool minty feeling making Eddie shiver.

He hears Steve laugh a quiet laugh as he does and smiles himself. He hears another bottle pop open and closed and then Steve's fingers are back. Working the conditioner into his hair slowly, massaging it into his scalp as well. His hands moving slowly, with a purpose, for what feels like hours. He pulls back eventually, fingers dragging slowly through Eddie's hair as he goes.

"I'm gonna let that sit for about two minutes and then we'll rinse okay? You doin okay? Not in pain are you?" Steve all but whispers in Eddie's ear. The radio is still playing in the background. But Eddie couldn't tell you a single fucking song that had played since Steve started touching him.

"I'm good. Kinda tired. But that might just be your magic fingers." He peaks one eye open, watches as Steve laughs, shakes his head. He closes his eye again and laughs too. Only it wasn't a joke. Not really. Steve's fingers were magic. Just like the rest of him.

Steve hums along to Queen's Radio Ga Ga as they wait, Eddie tapping out the beat on his thigh as Steve hums and sways. The song ends and Steve scoots closer.

"Ready?" He asks, turning the water back on.

"As I'll ever be." Eddie deadpans, scooting back a bit from where he'd slid down.

"You're not gonna try and put products in my hair and blow dry it are you?" Eddie asks as Steve starts pouring water over him, fingers moving quicker now, moving his hair around to get it clean, he snorts again.

"No. Just wanted to get you clean." He says, pouring one last cup of water over his hair and turning the tap off. He grabs at each side of the towel under Eddie's neck and lifts, pulling Eddie up and wrapping his hair in one smooth motion. Eddie's eyes land on him and he can't help it.

"So my hair was gross. I knew it." He sighs, watches Steve's nose crinkle.

"It really wasn't that bad. But you thought it was. So i figured this would help." Steve shrugged, like it was nothing. Eddie bit his lip as Steve patted and scrunched his hair in the towel, being careful not to pull.

He claps his hands down on his thighs and helps Eddie get back on his feet. Pulls him genlty to stand in front of the mirror again and smiles soflty when Eddie takes the towel off his head and drags his own fingers through his hair.

It's short, leveled at his chin, a little above when he tucks it behind his ears. And he feels... better. Lighter. He shoves his hands up into the back of it, taking a deep breathe when his fingers drag over his neck, it makes him shiver.

"Fuck. I'm gonna be cold now." He mutters, chuckling in his throat, he hadn't thought about that.

"I'll keep you warm." Steve's voice is soft, when he speaks. The tape in the deck clicks and goes quiet as they stare at each other in the mirror.

"I just wanted you to feel better. But I'll gladly keep you warm too. Whatever you need Eddie. I- I mean I'm here. For you. Not goin anywhere." He shrugs after he mumbles through his little confession, his eyes on the floor when he turns to Eddie.

"I feel better." Eddie whispers, bites his lip and decides to be brave.

He steps forward, into Steve's space, Steve lifts his head, hazel eyes darting around Eddie's face. Eddie hears his breath stutter when he leans closer, presses his lips to Steve's cheek, firm.

Wanting no doubt in Steve's mind that Eddie means this. Means to kiss him. Means to pull him into a tight hug after. Means to hum happily into Steve's neck when Steve pulls him close, arms wrapping around Eddie's skinny frame and holding him tight.

"I'm not going anywhere either." Eddie breathes into his shoulder, presses another kiss there, into his shirt, like a promise. Steve squeezes him tighter, Eddie thinks he might be crying. His chest fluttering against Eddie's as he breathes shakily.

"Can I sleep in your bed tonight?" Eddie asks, lets Steve pull away a bit so he can see him. Eddie was right, there are tears in his eyes, but he's smiling as he looks at Eddie.

"Yeah. Course you can. You can sleep there every night if you want. Forever." Steve says, nuzzles into Eddie touch as he wipes tears away from his flushed cheeks.

"Forever huh?" Eddie teases, kissing acoss Steve's cheeks genlty as he laughs, it's wet, and wobbly, and Eddie is so fucking in love with him already.

"Yeah. Forever. Or however long you want me I guess." He shrugs again, dismissive, as if he really thinks Eddie would ever give him up.

"Forever sounds good to me. Not fucking letting you go now I've got you." Eddie whispers, his hands holding Steve's face, Steve's hands on his wrists, holding him too.

"You're gonna keep me forever?" Steve asks, his lip trembling as he looks at Eddie with hope in his teary eyes.

"Forever and ever, if I can." Eddie nods, and it seems to break Steve. He sighs, grabs at Eddie's pajama shirt and tugs him forward. Their lips crash together, a little rough at first, their teeth clicking until Steve seems to calm and slow down. His lips move genlty against Eddie's, soft and slow, and when he pulls back he's smiling again, his crooked little half smile that Eddie loves so much.

Steve scrunches his hair a few more times and then drags Eddie upstairs, gets them both comfy in his bed. And he holds Eddie as they fall alseep, pressing kisses into his hair and against his temple before sleep takes him.

Eddie wakes up warm. Drapped across Steve's chest as the sun hits them. He feels lips press into his hair, smiles when Steve makes exaggerated kissy noises. But he keeps his eyes closed, nuzzles deeper into Steve as he feels his fingers press into his hair.

Eddie hums as they drag through a few times, nimbly untangling rats or snags as they move. He sinks deeper into Steve, his heart fluttering as Steve's hand moves through his hair genlty, scratching at his scalp as he goes, before settling against the back of his neck, his thumb moving in slow cirles against the newly exposed skin.

Eddie whimpers into Steve's chest and snuggles closer, Steve keeping him warm, just like he promised. Eddie couldn't wait to spend forever with him.

#steddie #my writing #mine #my fic #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #Fates Endless Inkwell #fei #just a random little idea i had

[u3pxx]

⚖️☀️🌻 we always hear about propaganda from the fans... but how about from the characters? luckily interviewer, anita knough, is here to ask our lovely ace attorney cast!

little comic for this poll from @theyrebasicallycanonpoll !!! (no being toxic to em! we're here to just have fun oki!!)

you heard the aa cast!!!! now go vote nrmt go go go!!!

#ace attorney #phoenix wright #miles edgeworth #narumitsu #wrightworth #trucy wright #klavier gavin #simon blackquill #franziska von karma #maya fey #athena cykes #apollo justice #ema skye #dick gumshoe #sunnysidedraws #if they dont win thats ok too pfttt #i just had this cute idea abt the characters talking about em! #i loved writing the dialogue for this its all just very silly shggfdfdh #they're basically canon #sunnysideattorney

[whereserpentswalk]

#poll #196 #fantasy #urban fantasy #writing #werewolves #werewolf #vampires #vampire #dragon #dragons #fey #faries #quest #wizard #robot #cyborg #alien

[tojisun]

still thinking about him 😔

#suns #text from fey’s many pics of joel (tlou hbo) #toji fushiguro #toji fushiguro x reader #<- BECAUSE I MIGHT JUST WRITE A FIC (i have three homeworks due tonight but fuckkkkk i need him) #jjk

[a2zillustration]

I carried this thing for MONTHS with the EXPRESS PURPOSE of putting Raphael in it (knowing full well Larian wouldn't let me do that, mechanically) and I had one major miscalculation.

| First | | Previous | | Next |

[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

[[ All Croissant Adventures (app) ]]

#Ok I'm gonna ramble in the tags about all this get ready: #I KNEW Larian wouldn't let me actually pull this off but I PROMISE you that stupid flask sat in my inventory since the moment I grabbed it #WAITING for when I could write this little bit about putting Raphael in it #I even threw it at him in the fight with a 30% hit chance and it succeeded so I considered that Larian giving me permission to say it workd #But as I was reading up on it again when I was sketching this I saw the bit about native planes and I cried LMAO. But it's dnd- #so I rewrote is as it would've happened in a game. U kno. #Also I have been waiting to use that fox line for SO LONG bc of Croissant's dad being a fox-like fey creature #So much backstory that's slotted in PERFECTLY with the BG3 narrative #Anyway absolutely wild that we managed to take out this ancient powerful devil - and on the first try! #Lae'zel with a potion of speed did WORK. Gale came in clutch with hold monster. Astarion gave Raph stage fright. Croissant made him dance #(I'm pretty sure he just doesn't have a dance animation in ascended form lol) #Hope didn't even need to use divine intervention - this party is terrifying #Croissant hated him but in the end I loved Raphael I see why all you people like him #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #act III spoilers #house of hope #croissant adventures #tav #raphael #lae'zel #iron flask #comics #ALSO shoutouts to you if you both noticed and knew which worthikids animation I borrowed the expression in panel 5 from

[wulleooo]

Doodles i made instead of studying

#ace attorney #aa #phoenix wright #miles edgeworth #wrightworth #narumitsu #maya fey #nrmt #doodles #art #ajdhajsh #failed history test but THE GAY IS MORE IMPORTANT 🔥🔥 #gay #homosexual behavior #they're gay your honor #silly #they still look off to me somehow grrr #i'll learn anatomy.... someday.... hopefully.... #new pen (definitely for writing #ARHASHDHSKJSH #ace attorney brain rot is real #my art

[door-insurance]

“Surprise for maya” - Franmaya

#ace attorney #franziska ace attorney #maya fey #franmaya #ace attorney franziska #franziska x maya #pheonix wright #pearl fey #my hand writing is an scp

[trlvsn]

she would. in my mind she would

#ace attorney #aa #maya fey #raystextpost #phoenix wright: ace attorney #aa maya #aa maya fey #aa steel samurai #steel samurai #maya fey writes fanfiction about the steel samurai it's just a fact #ace attorney meme #aa textposts #ace attorney textposts #textpost #ace attorney maya fey

[one-time-i-dreamt]

Tina Fey wrote the Bible.

#dream #text #February 14th 2024 #tina fey #the bible #writing

[feybarn]

I'm not going in any specific order, just in the order in which these prompts nudge at me. This one is from @bolithesenate. Not entirely sure this is what you were imagining... the crime got replaced by Dooku being... Dooku-y and judgmental. It also got a little longer than planned... But I kind of want to play with Komari and Obi-Wan some more... so maybe???

*tosses Komari & Obi or Rael & Obi as Master-Padawan pairs here and runs away real quick*. I just like imagining the total chaos these would bring. Especially the Komari & Obi,,,, what crimes would they commit.

Yan stared down at the tiny thing—an initiate in pristine white tunics, staring up at him with wide, guileless eyes—in front of him. “What is this, Komari?” he asked, edging away.

“My new padawan,” his apprentice informed him, tone nearly belligerent.

Yan sent her his most censuring look, but Komari didn’t quail or retreat. Instead her jaw jutted out in sheer obstinance. It was… unusual. Komari had always been nearly desperate to keep him happy with her, but in this moment, such thoughts seemed to be the furthest thing from her mind.

“You are a padawan,” he informed her. “And still several years away from your knighting.” He glanced back at the—oh Force—child, who was still watching him silently, those wide eyes making Yan entirely uncomfortable.

“Well, he will be my padawan,” Komari informed him, not even the slightest bit deterred. “His name is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I found him and a padawan crawling through the air ducts trying to get into the kitchens.” She sounded disgustingly proud. “I’m going to teach him how to do it better.”

Yan wanted to know what, exactly, Komari had been doing investigating the air ducts, but decided that was a lesser concern at the moment. “And where is this other initiate?”

“Quinlan’s a padawan, Master Dooku,” the initiate corrected him. “Master Tholme took him on as soon as he turned ten.”

Tholme. Tholme was from Qui-Gon’s creche clan, he remembered. A Shadow. Yan had heard that he’d taken on some sort of rapscallion apprentice, but he hadn’t had a reason to be introduced. “And how old are you?” Yan asked the initiate.

The initiate shifted on his feet a little. No sense of confidence, Yan diagnosed. They’d have to do something about that. 

Force, no, there would be no doing something about anything. Because this was not Komari’s future padawan. 

“Eight,” the initiate told him.

Five years until the child was thirteen. It was possible that Komari would be knighted by then. But highly unlikely.

Yan narrowed his eyes at the child, who didn’t look away. Perhaps he didn’t lack confidence entirely; Yan was aware that many of the younger generations considered him… intimidating. An impression he had done nothing to try to alleviate.

“Well, Initiate Kenobi, I’m afraid that Komari is mistaken. She will be returning you to the Initiate Quarters immediately.” He turned his gaze on Komari, making certain that it was perfectly clear that he would not take her insubordination on this matter.

Komari glared at him, but wrapped an arm around the Initiate’s shoulders. “Come on, Obi-Wan. I’ll take you back to the Initiate Quarters. For now.”

Yan shook his head as she left with the initiate in tow.

Her future padawan indeed. Yan thought not.

5 years later

“Where is Knight Vosa?” Yan asked, searching through the ranks of Jedi. Galidraan’s air was cold against his skin where his robes did not protect him. They were preparing to approach the Mandalorian encampment with orders to surrender, but he could not find his former apprentice.

Knight Thriff winced. “Uh, the padawan said something about a bad feeling?” Thriff said. “Knight Vosa decided they needed to investigate. They left before dawn. No one knows where they went.”

Yan had not expected for Komari to be knighted so soon, but finding Initiate Kenobi five years ago had lit a fire inside of her that he hadn’t been able to temper. She’d been determined to be knighted in time to take Initiate Kenobi on.

She had dedicated herself so entirely to her training that Yan had run out of reasons to keep from Knighting her three months before the boy’s thirteenth birthday. She had arrived at the Council Chamber the day after her knighting with Kenobi in tow and the first bead already picked out for his braid.

The council had agreed unanimously to allow the partnership, despite Yan’s own concerns on the matter. Mace had actually gone so far as to tell him that the shatterpoint between the two of them was bright and beautiful and that Mace expected great things from them.

He had not wanted her to bring her new padawan with them to potentially fight Mandalorians. But Komari had been adamant that she wasn’t leaving him behind at the temple.

His comlink chimed.

He pulled it from his utility belt. “Master Dooku,” he answered curtly. 

“Master.” That was Komari’s voice. “There’s a second encampment of Mandalorians in the southern quarter to blame for the death of the civilians in this quarter,” she informed him. “Death Watch.”

“How do you know this?” he asked, surprised. “We had no intel—“

“Well, Obi-Wan and I found the intel,” Komari said. “I’ve left Obi-Wan with the True Mandalorians—“

Horror filled him. “You what?”

“—Fett and I are investigating this second encampment. I’ve negotiated a temporary truce between our group and his.”

”You—“

“See you soon, Master.” The comm call cut out.

Yan felt the wind curl around him as it blew. He was not sure whether it was that or the sense that Komari was falling further and further from his reach that sent the chill down his back.

“Your Master is going to be okay,” Mand’alor Fett comforted a shaking Padawan Kenobi where the boy hovered over Komari’s sleeping form. Yan stood a few steps away, staring down at his unconscious former padawan, bacta patches over her side where a slug thrower had ripped into her.

Yan knew that it was likely his responsibility to comfort his grandpadawan, but he had never been good at comforting. Nor could he bring himself to do so when it was, in many ways, young Padawan Kenobi’s fault that Komari had been hurt.

If she had just listened to Yan and left the boy at the temple… But no, the boy had run into the battle against Death Watch despite orders to stay out of it.

“She’s a fighter,” Fett continued.

“It’s my fault. I should have stayed out, like she told me, too,” Kenobi whispered.

“You should have,” Fett agreed, not bothering to soften that blow. “Kyr’tsad isn’t the place for an ad, but you saved Myles’ and Alena’s lives. We won’t forget that.” Fett rested a hand on Kenobi’s shoulder. “You were trying to protect people, your Master is going to be proud of you for that.” He stood from his kneeling position. “Come on, I told Vosa that I’d keep you safe until you were off planet. Let’s see what we can do about teaching you to use a blaster in the time we have left.”

Yan watched as Fett led a reluctant Padawan Kenobi away. Yan looked down at his former apprentice. He remembered when she had been entirely devoted to him. But that hadn’t been the case in nearly five years. Now her devotion lay elsewhere. Yan had never thought he’d yearn for those days. But at least then, she’d have listened to his words of caution.

Still, perhaps she would listen now, when he cautioned her about her padawan.

If the two of them were not careful, they would stain the legacy of their lineage.

10 years later

“You trained her well,” his Master said, voice low and cruel. “Perhaps, too well.”

“She is a credit to my lineage,” Yan said, keeping his voice even. He hadn’t been pleased when Komari had been chosen to go to Naboo to spring the trap that his master had set. It could be no coincidence that it was one of his own apprentices sent. He knew that his Master was attempting to ensure that his ties to the Jedi be more… permanently cut.

A sickening part of him had just been grateful that it hadn’t been Qui-Gon that had been sent. Qui-Gon who, when he was honest with himself, he could acknowledge as loving most. But then, if Qui-Gon had been sent, then perhaps his Master would not be quite so displeased with him. Qui-Gon had always been something of a maverick, but a maverick who could be depended on to follow certain expectations.

Qui-Gon would have removed the Queen from the planet, would have gotten her to Coruscant to plead her case.

Komari and her padawan had never been quite so predictable. Galidraan had been the start, but not the end, of disobeyed orders and unsavory partnerships. Yan had fought constantly with the horror that could not quite stop the pride he felt when Komari and Obi-Wan became known as the team to send before the boy had even turned seventeen.

Perhaps Yan should have known that Komari and Obi-Wan would have ruined his Master’s plans now. But, neither he nor his Master had expected for Komari and Obi-Wan to join forces with the Queen, her handmaidens, and a force of Mandalorians to take the planet back.

Yan wasn’t even sure how they’d gotten word out to the Mandalorians that they required aid. But then, his former apprentice and her apprentice had always been remarkably capable and entirely unorthodox.

He had tried to caution Komari against maintaining the friendship she had built with Jango Fett ten years ago on Galidraan, but she had retained it regardless. Had done worse and encouraged an impressionable young Obi-Wan’s own friendships with the two Mandalorians he had saved on that Galidraan battlefield.

The fruits of that relationship had borne out now. Naboo relieved from their blockade before his Master could use the circumstance to gain the power he desired and his Master’s more brutish apprentice—Darth Maul—captured and contained.

“A credit to your lineage,” his Master repeated, disgust cool beneath the words. “There will be consequences to this setback, Tyrannous.”

“I understand,” Yan said evenly. He steeled his heart. He knew what this would require

He had lost Komari fifteen years ago, when she had arrived in his quarters with an eight year old initiate with wide, guileless eyes. It had been a gradual loss. That his new Master sought to make it permanent… Yan had made his choice.

But perhaps…

Yan did not allow his new Master to see the small kernel of hope that burned in his chest that maybe his former apprentice would subvert his expectations in this, just as she had in everything else since that day fifteen years ago.

#fey's writing #star wars #obi-wan kenobi #komari vosa #dooku #not at all relevant to the story #but Jango has an absolute crush on Komari #the rest of the true mandalorians laugh at him #Komari has a crush back #whenever they meet up they flirt by teaching Obi-Wan to be deadly and dangerous

[feybeasts]

HEY I'M STILL ON A CALLIE AND ROSE KICK please enjoy this goofy lil' script I wrote for a scene I imagined about the Battlemoms:

Backing track is: Waltz of the Tornado

[0:00 to 0:33]

We open on a slow zoom into an austere northern european-style city at night, something like Paris or Barcelona. The central focus of the shot is a palatial hall, lit up in amber hues against the cold evening sky.

Callie: She wasn’t born into this, you know. Where she came from was… about as far as you could get from it.

[0:34 to 0:55]

The zoom continues, now through a dressing room. Centered in front of a mirror is Rose, but not as we know her. Her hair, white as snow, runs down her back, and she’s dressed in a beautiful ballgown, a member of some manner of nobility. As the pace picks up at 0:45, we cut to her walking across a ballroom, where other nobles are dancing and partying, not a care in the world. Rose’s head is bowed low.

[0:55 to 1:05]

Callie: She was a member of her country’s nobility. She could have just run like most of them did when things went sour- but…

As the music takes a dark turn at 0:55, Rose approaches a banner, which takes precedence over all other symbols in the ballroom. Below it stands a smiling, male wolf- her apparent partner. As the whine of an electric guitar enters the music, we cut to Rose’s face. She’s not smiling at all.

Callie: Something kept her there.

[1:06 to 1:32]

We cut to a different scene. It’s daylight in some ruined city. Starting at the boot-clad feet of a disheveled soldier- a rebel of some kind from the looks of them, we watch as the camera pulls back to reveal them racing to ready a rocket-propelled grenade launcher with their allies, pointing it down a roadway strewn with rubble- waiting, watching…

[1:33 to 1:45]

Suddenly, a tank explodes through the rubble of a nearby building and onto the street. The rebels fire, and there’s a deafening blast and a cloud of smoke… from which the tank emerges unharmed, the badge on its turret the same one as on the banner in the previous scene, and starts firing, cutting the team to ribbons.

Callie: There was a war. A rebellion, really. Her whole world crumbled around her.

[1:45 to 2:00]

Our rebel from before manages to take the RPG from one of their dead comrades, loads it, and fires- just as the tank rolls over their former position. There’s a moment of relief as it comes to a halt- but only a moment.

[2:00 to 2:12]

The rebel hears someone wordlessly yell a warning, the action drowned out by the music, but as the music swells with tension, we see what the rebel’s eyes are drawn to- other comrades in an anti-aircraft gun, who frantically start to swivel the weapon towards a new target… high above. We follow their gaze upwards and see… contrails. Dozens of them. Bombers.

[2:13 to 2:30]

We cut to two scenes, intercut. The same ballroom from before, shot from above. Nobles in finery dance to a waltz, all paired up. Rose is paired up with the male wolf, dancing the waltz elegantly, but expressionless. Contrasting this, the other scene is of the bombers, their bays opening silently, one by one by one… as a pilot thumbs the release on his control stick.

[2:31 to 2:50]

Devastation. The bombers drop their payload, and the city below, which we only now realize is the one from before, is bathed in fire and death, indiscriminate destruction.

[2:51 to 3:04]

Callie: Her whole life was in the nobility, the monarchy. The rebellion threatened it all. But you know what the funny thing was?

The bombers turn off target one by one. There’s no hope at all for the rebels below, it would seem. Our rebel, bloodied, dirty, covered in dust, tries in vain to pull their wounded- or dead- friend from the rubble, looking up to the skies as the bombers set up for another pass…

[3:05 to 3:22]

A sudden lull. We cut back to the lead bomber, to the pilot from before, who reaches for a switch… but hesitates. He looks up, and we see it’s the wolf Rose was dancing with. His eyes are transfixed on his aircraft’s heads up display… which has begun to flicker with electronic interference. He looks up, eyes widening. We see the bombers ahead of him in the formation, seemingly motionless in the air, unperturbed.

[3:22 to 3:30]

We cut to Rose in the dressing room, beautiful, noble… sad. She looks to the side… her expression changes, growing intense, furrowed, fiery… and then.Callie: ….She threw it all away anyways.

[3:31 to 3:43]

We cut back to the previous scene, and suddenly the bombers ahead of the male wolf EXPLODE violently. A figure cuts through the formation at incredible speed, a blur of metal and fury, throwing his bomber into a shuddering panic, like a startled buffalo.

[3:43 to 3:53 ]A wide shot of the formation of bombers as something cuts through them effortlessly- fighter aircraft. Their own escorts break off to chase these new interlopers, before more harm can be done. We see them pursue the apparent leader of the formation from the back, which we can’t quite make out… until it suddenly noses up, showing the whole cruciform of the aircraft, its wings… and the rose emblem on its roundels.

[3:53 to 4:14 ]This mystery pilot easily reverses the pursuit, gunning down the fighters on their tail, then cuts back towards the formation of bombers, heroically scattering them before more harm can be done to the rebels below. We cut back to them briefly, and they’re cheering, as we cut to the inside of this mystery fighter’s cockpit… and see Rose at the controls.

[4:14 to 4:27]

Callie: Rose follows her heart- no matter the odds. No amount of plush and luxury could take that out of her.

Rose sets her sights on the lead bomber as the rest of her wingmen fall into formation. We briefly cut to the ballroom, Rose miserable, the male wolf smiling. But when we cut back to the dogfight, now it’s Rose, fiery, confident, proud… and the male staring down the god of death herself.

Callie: She threw her lot into what she believed. She always has.

Rose fires her aircraft’s cannons, annihilating the bomber, then dives for the deck.

[4:27 to 4:38]

The rebels below cheer and hug one another, grateful to be alive as their saviors race overhead. We cut back to a wide shot as the formation of fighters pull up, clearing the grey, devastated city below to climb into the clear blue sky. 

[4:39 to 4:53]

Callie: And no matter where that lead?

Once more we return to Rose in the dressing room. She pulls something from her dress, and places it gently on the table before her. As she rises to leave and the music swells one last time, we see her family crest- the same rose emblem on her aircraft’s wings.

Callie:  I’ll always love her for it. [FIN]

#c:callaghan #c:rose #fey's writing #oc drabbles #feylore #oc lore #COOL ACTION SCRIPTS #etc etc

[thefatedthoughtofyou]

{ Thank you for the idea @imsodonewiththissite !! It almost got angsty but i controlled myself!!! }

"What in God's name is that?" Dustin’s voice goes almost shrill as he walks behind Steve, looks down at his pumpkin. Eddie's head shoots up from where he's carving his own pumpkin, his legs shot out in front of him, his feet hitting Steve's across from him. Steve flushes, tells Dustin to shut up, and shoves at his legs to get him to move on.

"Alright alright jeez! It's just... I've never seen a pumpkin like that. Did you even try?" Dustin huffs as he settles back into his own carving area between Lucas and Will.

"Yes. I did try. Thank you very much. Henderson." Steve huffs, wipes at his pumpkin, then wipes his hand in the grass to get the bits of guts off. Eddie sits up taller, making a show of trying to see Steve's carving, but not really trying to see, they'd agreed to show each other at the same time.

Steve hadn't really had any idea what to do, so he'd just done something silly. But he could see Will and Dustin’s and theirs were detailed, and spooky. And his just looked... stupid, now. Steve sighed and put the top back on his, waiting for Eddie to finish.

He was staring, he knew he was. He couldn't help it. He loved when Eddie was in full concentration mode, his tongue poking out between his lips, his brows crinkled. Steve would never tell him that. But he could look. No harm in that.

Eddie looked up and met his eyes, smiled brightly, and dusted of his own pumpkin before popping the top back on. He tilted his head, this way and that, a few times and then looked at Steve again.

"Okay. You ready?" He asked, drumming his fingers on the gourd resting under his hands. Steve scrunched his nose.

"I'm having second thoughts." He said quietly, the kids were all yelling, in their own little world, but he still didn't want them to hear.

"Aww. But I'm excited to see it! Especially with the way Dusty Buns reacted." Eddie drooped, his eyes going wide and sad, the way Steve was weak agaisnt. He sighed, his own body drooping.

"Ugh. Fine. On three?" He tilted his head. Eddie nodded.

"On three."

"One."

"Twosie." Eddie wiggled his fingers, Steve rolled his eyes fondly.

"Three!" They both said it together and turned their pumpkins toward each other.

Steve's eyes shot open, Eddie's was... good. Like really good. Everything a spooky jack-o-lantern should be. Creepy eyes, sharp teeth, what looked like a skull nose.

"Holy shit Eds. That's... holy shit. Mine is so shit compared to- why are you making that face? What's happening?" Steve changed directions mid sentence because Eddie's mouth had dropped open as he stared at Steve hideous excuse for a carving.

"Oh my god you hate it." Steve grabbed at his pumpkin, about to turn it back toward him and hide it forever but he froze when a sound started coming out of Eddie's open mouth.

It took a moment to really form, but once it got going, Steve could hear it. Manical giggles were bubbling up out of Eddie's mouth. He slapped his hands over his face to stop them but they just kept coming.

Steve wasn't sure if he should be offended or not. He frowned though, his brows dropping on his head and Eddie immediately shook his head.

"Oh my god he's ADORABLE!" Eddie cackled the words, shoved his own pumpkin genlty aside and crawled toward Steve's, his hands outstreched and grabbing.

"I know it's- wait what?" Steve was so confused.

"Steve I love him. Look at his stupid little face." He'd devolved into baby talk and was scratching at the pumkin like you would a babies chin. Steve felt himself smiling.

"Wait you actually like it?" Dustin guffawed from behind him. Eddie spun around fast, guarding Steve's pumpkin from sight.

"Excuse me?! 'It'? Don't you ever speak like that about my son- our son!" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Steve. Dustin rolled his eyes.

"It's not even scary! It's just a big mouth!" Dustin’s hands flailed. Eddie screamed at him dramatically, clutching his chest.

"He has a tooth! And two adorable teeny tiny eyes!" Eddie moved, pointed at the face Steve had made. El and Will both aw-d, Max and Lucas smiled, Mike just rolled his eyes.

"He's not- it's just-" Dustin stammered a bit.

"What? Dustin. He's what?!" Eddie asked, his hands still clutching at his chest.

"He's ugly! Okay? It's an ugly pumpkin!" Dustin yelled, Steve didn't even have time to feel hurt, because Eddie shrieked again, his voice going impossibly high.

"Dustin Henderson! I can't believe you just called your brother ugly. You heathen!" Eddie practically hissed the last word before he hopped to his feet and bundled Steve's pumpkin into his arms.

"Unbelievable. We don't need them Steve. Let's go." He popped his nose into the air and looked to Steve. He knew he had to look like a deer in headlights, not sure exactly where they were meant to be going.

"Kitchen." Eddie whispered, giving Steve a wink.

"Oh right. Okay yeah." Steve stumbled toward the door, opening it for Eddie as he stomped after him.

"Oh what you're going inside? Just leaving us out here?" Dustin called, Will and El booing him as he kept taunting Steve and Eddie. Eddie spun, looked at Dustin, propped the pumpkin on his hip like a toddler and pointed his finger accusingly.

"Yes. And we are leaving... in a huff!" Eddie's accent sounded slightly French at the end as he spun around again and stomped into the house.

"Slam the door Steven. Show them we mean it." Eddie said with an air finality. Steve grinned, fighting back laughter, and slammed the door. He tugged the blind closed too, for good measure. He turned to find Eddie wiping at the pumpkin with a wet washrag, getting all the little shavings off.

"You didn't have to do that." Steve said, moving to stand next to him. But not too close.

"Do what?" Eddie asked, grabbing the dish towel off the little hook and drying the pumpkin now. Steve sighed, leaned his butt against the counter and looked at the floor.

"Play it up liked you love the pumpkin. To make me feel better about my complete lack of skill." Steve laughed a little, shrugged, and looked up to find Eddie staring at him. He tossed the towel down and took a step forward.

"Oh no. Unfortunately for you, Steven. That was a genuine reaction. I fucking love this thing." He patted at the side of the pumpkin and grinned at Steve. Steve frowned.

"Really? It's not... I mean it's nothing special. Did you see Will's, I swear there was a castle on it." Steve shook his head. Dismissive.

"Oh I saw it. Still like yours more." Eddie said, matter of fact.

"Why?" Steve was still frowning. Eddie sighed, walked over and stood next to Steve, his arm pressed agaisnt him, warm.

"Me and my mom used to buy four pumpkins. Every Halloween. Always four. Two for her. And two for me." Eddie's voice was soft, the way it always was when he talked about his mother. Steve found himself trying not to breathe to loudly, he wanted to hear everything Eddie had to say.

"We'd each do a classic, spooky guy. But the other one. The other one we used to make just... the most ridiculous faces. Or the dumbest ones. Anything cute and silly." He looked at Steve for a moment, a soft smile on his lips at the memory.

"It very quickly became a contest of who could make who laugh the most. Just by carving some silly face." Eddie shook his head and laughed gently.

"I haven't made a funny one since she died. And you turned that pumpkin around and it took me back. To all those stupid pumpkins and how we used to laugh. And I mean really laugh." Eddie's voice was getting tight as he spoke, a little wobbly, and Steve wanted to hug him, wasn't sure if he could.

"She had the best laugh Steve. She'd have loved this." He moved his hand over the pumpkin again, gently stroked down it's side.

"And you."

It was almost too quiet. Steve almost didn't hear it. Wasn't sure he had until he looked up and saw the way Eddie was looking at him. Steve is so sure that it's the same way he'd been looking at Eddie for months now.

"It's the perfect pumpkin Steve. The best one I've seen in years." He's so serious, when he says it. Steve feels like he might cry. Feels a bit reckless, with Eddie looking at him like that. So he leans toward Eddie, his heart fluttering as Eddie smiles, just a barely thing, and leans toward him too.

The kiss is soft, Eddie makes a little sound in the back of his throat when Steve's hand moves to his neck and pulls him closer. They kiss until they're both smiling so much it's just their teeth clicking together and Eddie dissolves into manic giggles again and buries his face in Steve's neck as he holds him close.

"You have a good laugh too Ed's. " Steve sighs, pulling Eddie closer as he hums and nuzzles into his neck, his fingers pressing into Steve's back as he cuddles closer. Steve breathes deeply, his nose buried in Eddie's hair, and feels Eddie smile against the soft skin of his neck.

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( below is an approximation of their pumpkin faces. I fucked up the eddie one's mouth dont looookk at meeeee )

#Halloween blurb #steddie #steddie ficlet #Fates Endless Inkwell #fei #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve x eddie #mine #my writing #my fic

[battybiologist]

Of all things in the final case of the Original Trilogy, this is the one that made me cry.

I'm not arrogant enough to pretend to be able to decipher Misty Fey, she's a very enigmatic character whose motivations and actions are complicated. However, I can't remain unmoved by her choice of photograph to keep in her Master's charm.

She did not pick a family photo where everyone was smiling, she did not choose a picture where her children accomplished something traditional parents would be proud about.

She chose a spontaneous photo of her children being very worried that they would get in trouble for a common childhood antic. A picture that represents their sisterly bond and respective personalities more sincerely than any other planned photo

What's worse is that, seeing the broomsticks near each Fey kid, the conclusion is obvious: they broke the urn while playing together. They also both feel responsible, as seen by Mia trying to fix the mistake (classic older sibling behaviour, I get you, girl) and Maya crying over being in trouble.

How did it make Misty, whose relationship with Morgan turned sour to the point of homicide, feel to see her daughters get along so well?

#ace attorney #trials and tribulations spoilers #bridge to the turnabout #mia fey #maya fey #misty fey #ace attorney original trilogy #i got teary-eyed just writing this

[whereserpentswalk]

Imagine you played with faries as a kid. You were close to them. They took care of you. You don't remember much about them, just them taking you places, and showing you magic, sometimes just for fun, sometimes things that would help you with your life. They would take you to the abandoned beach, to the underground, to temples nobody knew the name of anymore. They would tell you ancient secrets, and use their magic to help you because it amused you. It was freindly for awhile, at least under you grew up, and people got worried, you moved to a new apartment that was further inland, further from the shore, and slowly you drift away from them.

And now that you're an adult, you've been hearing about eldrich horrors in the same parts of the city. Dark things that must have taken over the places where the faries once lived. Things that are beyond time and space. Things people barely know about.

And because you knew the faries, because they protected you when you were small, you decide to go see the horrors. You know there are things out there protecting you.

And when you go to the abandoned beach, to the underground, to the forgotten temple, you see the same faries you always knew. You realize what the eldrich horrors are. You realize that those are the same things you played with as a child. The fungel being, the shimmering woman who almost looks human but doesn't, the massive insectoid creature with radiant wings, they're all the same creatures you always knew, faries to one eye, eldrich to another.

Adult eyes see things differently when they're not used to accepting things they don't yet know.

#196 #worldbuilding #fantasy #urban fantasy #writing #my worldbuilding #my writing #fey #faries #fairies #faecore #fae folk #fae #faerie #eldrichcore #eldrich horror #eldrich horrors #elder gods #eldritch #cosmic horror #lovecrafian #short fiction #short story #flash fiction