#a short thing

[jinxedwood]

Into the Woods (Klaroline fanfiction)

Caroline slouched into the deep armchair in front of the pub’s fire, holding onto the tumbler of whiskey in her hand. She had chosen a hotel in one of the most touristy areas of Dublin because she’d thought she’d blend in better but she needn’t have bothered, it was like a god damned spooky Mardi Gras out there. If there was ever a night in Dublin a vampire could disappear into a crowd, this was it.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34851919

[razaks-wheel]

Flower crown

@nostalgic-breton-girl​ Thank you for the prompt! :D

22. Wildflowers, from from these prompts

---

Lior sat on the banks of Lake Amaya by her house on Nirn. She had forgotten to try to keep track of how long she was out there, but it was still daylight, and she was not yet excessively hungry, so it could not have been that long. She was having what she had heard mortals call an "off day." She missed her realm and Oblivion in general, she missed her true form, she even missed her Prince in a strange way. And that was mixed with the anxiety that her Prince would try to reclaim her again or otherwise harm her in order to get her back under her control. There was a lot on her mind, and so she sat looking over the lake as if it were a scrying pool, trying to calm her thoughts.

The ground behind her shook softly with footsteps. Lior did not turn around, nor did she pull her thoughts away from the lake to reach her senses out and detect who was walking around behind her. The person was clearly not trying to be sneaky, so if they had business with her, they would approach her soon enough, and if they did not, they would move on.

The footsteps did not recede, instead ambling in a seemingly aimless pattern around the grass. She let her attention fade back to the lake.

After some time, the footsteps approached her directly, and she felt something being gently placed on her head. Minmari sat down next to her and wrapped an arm around her without a word.

Lior's winged twilight aspect, which had been sitting nearby without much of Lior's attention in it, flew up to see what they had placed on her human-like body's head. It looked like a circlet of wildflowers with their stems intertwined. She gave Minmari a questioning smile.

Minmari shrugged and returned the smile. "You looked like you could use some flowers."

Lior leaned against them, careful not to let the crown fall off.

"Thanks," she whispered.

[voidwhump]

“Oh, I’m really not great with stitches.” They inched away from the medic holding the needle, closer to the friend holding their hand. Their gash was throbbing and leaking blood down their ribs from under their fingers.

“Like as in you need me to hold both your hands, or as in you need me to hold you down?” Their friend gave their hand a squeeze and they leaned closer, away from the worried medic.

“As you need to hold me down.” Their friend let go of their hand and moved to pin their arms. They flinched back towards the wall.

“No! Wait, wait a second, I just need a second.”

“You’re bleeding, we don’t have a second. Quit stalling.” The medic motioned to their friend to pin them. Their friend did, mumbling an apology.

“No, I just need a second, please,” They tried to get their hand back over the injury, and their friend took it, holding it down both to try to comfort them and to keep it out of the medic’s way. They continued begging, they just needed a moment to collect themself. As the medic began stitching the wound shut they pressed their face into their friend’s shoulder, pleading words giving way to muffled sobs.

[bisidneycarter]

oh my god like.

a sid/sullivan merlin au. with sid as merlin. sullivan as arthur.

omg

[hhemeraa-a]

@burnishcd liked for a starter 

          “...so you have been trapped in this house for how long?” Undead thing sat at the edge of the couch watching the other with tilted curiosity, a pang of understanding and pity at the idea of being caged for so long. They shared a similar curse, but the benefit of his own was that he could at least roam free. Within reason. “The last time you ate then? I can’t imagine food simply falls from the ceilings for you.”

[theaceace]

I said long ago that I wanted to write a pushing daisies style au for tma, and I have managed to churn out a prologue of sorts. Trying a different writing style, more in keeping with the surreal but lighthearted tone of pd. Enjoy?

The young archivist – a scrap of a boy by the name of Jon Sims – was eight years, thirty two weeks, four days and twenty minutes old the first time he saw something die. His cat – a rather striking maine coon by the name of the Admiral – was twelve years, sixteen weeks, two days and eleven minutes old, and was, at that precise moment, harbouring an undetected but ultimately fatal heart condition. While not necessarily aware of the thickened muscle of his heart that was soon to be his downfall, the Admiral was aware that something was very wrong, and so had quietly taken himself down to a quiet patch of bushes at the bottom of the garden.

Today the patch of bushes was considerably less quiet than usual, as the young archivist sat nearby taking notes in a large journal (it’s not a diary, Grandmother, children have diaries – I’m an investigator so I have a journal) and narrating aloud to himself as he did so. His current mystery, though hardly groundbreaking, had already led him through several back gardens along the street, and he still had the racing heart and skinned knees to show for it.

So it was that between scribbling diagrams and notes, and rubbing agitatedly at his sore knees, he happened to glance up and spy the Admiral lying very still only a few feet away.

Now, this was not unusual. The Admiral, though not a lazy cat by any means, was still unquestionably a cat to his core, and so would spend most of his hours in a patch of sun utterly motionless but for the occasional flick of his tail. So Jon, naturally, thought very little of it. It wasn’t until he looked up a little later to see that the patch of sun had moved rather to the left and the Admiral had not shifted to follow it that he began to think something might be amiss.

Of course, being eight years, thirty two weeks, four days and now fifty minutes old, Jon knew roughly what death was. Both of his parents were dead, after all, though he had very little recollection of them and certainly no real notion of the circumstances surrounding their untimely demises. And so, when he crept close enough to see that the Admiral was definitely not breathing, or blinking, or any of the other things living cats traditionally do, he quickly realised what had happened to his beloved friend. Despite this knowledge, and already deeply entrenched in the first stage of grief, Jon reached out to press a careful hand against the Admiral’s flank.

He immediately fell backwards when the Admiral flinched, rolled to his feet and stretched, before taking off over the fence. This was fortunate for the both of them, as Jon’s next reaction would doubtless have been to reach out and try to scratch behind his tufted ears, something that would only have ended in tragedy.

Neither of them noticed the seagull perched on the neighbour’s roof suddenly stiffen and topple to the side – why would they?

The entire affair, having taken place on a late Sunday afternoon, quickly took on a dreamlike quality in the young archivist’s mind; something that was exacerbated by the fact that the Admiral disappeared for two weeks, and thereafter would not come within five feet of Jon. Later, Jon would be inclined to wonder if this was due to some animal instinct on the part of the Admiral that informed him of just what a bad idea it would be to get within grabbing range of the boy; or if it was simply that he had taken to associating Jon with the singular sensation of being yanked back to life.

But Jon would not have cause to ponder that for a good long while. In fact, he had almost entirely forgotten the whole thing by the time he was twelve years, eighteen weeks, one day and two hundred minutes old, and he came home to find his grandmother deceased in her recliner following a catastrophic stroke.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Jon did not remember straight away his apparent talent for resurrection. Rather, he spent a moment indulging in blind shock, a slightly longer moment drowning in panic, before finally settling upon an odd sort of tranquillity wherein he picked up the ancient telephone and dialled 999. Throughout all of this, the Admiral sat silently on the radiator, tail swishing and eyes unblinking.

The very calm woman on the other end of the phone first asked the young archivist about the nature of his emergency, at which he could only say – in a tone so blank as to be eerie – that his grandmother was dead.

This, naturally, resulted in a great deal of questions – or so it felt to Jon – asked in an almost insultingly soothing voice. The one that did, however, catch his attention, was the operator’s request that he check for a pulse. Jon dropped the phone when he tried to do so and his grandmother immediately pushed herself upright and asked him how long he’d been home and why hadn’t he woken her up. Jon, both extremely shocked and also somewhat reluctant to explain to his grandmother that she had been dead until a few seconds ago, merely picked up the phone, pressed the button to hang up, and set it back on the stand. He offered no verbal response, but eventually his silent staring unnerved her to the point that she sat up and offered to pop the kettle on. Whatever it was that was bothering him, she reasoned, would no doubt seem far more trivial over a cup of tea.

Neither of them noticed the clock ticking in the background – why would they?

It took a little more than a minute for the kettle to boil.

By the time a cup of sweet, strong tea was set in front of the young archivist, an ambulance was eight streets away, and closing in fast. It would not arrive in time for the young archivist’s grandmother, or for their next-door neighbour who was at that moment, scratching his head over his geography coursework.

Jon folded his hands carefully around his mug, swung his legs where he was sat at the kitchen table, and tried very hard not to think of his grandmother’s slack face, or of a Sunday afternoon several years ago. Instead, he stared at the crochet coaster in front of him, and the little snag in the yarn that he always picked at when his grandmother wasn’t looking. He remained silent.

His grandmother, long since used to his abrupt changes in mood, resigned herself to a fretful evening, and clasped an arthritic hand on his shoulder.

Jon was, perhaps, less surprised than he should have been when he felt the little spark of life leap at the touch, and heard the tell-tale thud of a dead weight hitting carpet. The Admiral leapt from his perch on the radiator, and sauntered over to sniff at the body that once again occupied his home, before settling back with an expression of feline exasperation, and proceeded to wash his paws. Jon stared at them both until the wail of sirens sent him to the door, movements sluggish, and a sudden weight settled on his mind.

[adam-haley]

Winter wasn’t normally something Adam complained about. The cold didn’t bother him and if he got sick of it he’d change his route to head for a city in the south. Staying put in Hollow Grove limited his ability to escape the cold in search of tropical weather. Noticing snowflakes once again falling outside out of the corner of his eye he sighed heavily, throwing his head back to emphasize his annoyance. “Do you remember what grass looks like? I think it was green but I’m not sure anymore. Might’ve been pink, maybe purple.”