#fable writes

[triforce-of-mischief]

Older, Younger, In Between

Summary: Legend has realized that he has no idea how old Four is. He asks, and learns a lot more.

Words: 600

AO3

Written during the @lu-community-write-a-thon!

Please reblog if you like, do not reblog to communities.

The question had haunted Legend’s mind ever since Hyrule’s casual statement back in the dungeon. Legend had tried not to think about it, focusing on matters of teamwork and safety rather than information that could turn his dynamic with the group upside down. He had always assumed… how had Hyrule sounded so sure? Was the kid just more observant? Legend rarely saw Hyrule hanging around Four. Actually, Four didn’t really socialize with anyone. He kind of just bounced around to where he was needed, and stayed quiet otherwise.

Four was very secretive about himself, but admittedly Legend had never gone up and just… asked him.

There was a good chance that Legend was about to make a fool of himself, but he grabbed a bowl of stew from Wild and chose to sit beside Four. The smith had been staring into the campfire, and looked curiously at Legend as he made himself comfortable.

“There’s still plenty of room over there,” Four pointed out mildly, pointing to the other side of camp where Legend usually sat.

“Yeah,” Legend said. Damn it, he felt like Four was already seeing right through him. How could he ask this casually?

“Did you want something?” Four asked, his voice still light. Nonjudgemental.

“How old are you?” Legend blurted out.

Four’s eyes widened. His eyebrows raised, ever so slightly, on the verge of disappearing into his headband. Then he snickered, his hand too slow to cover his grin. “That’s- you- are you so concerned about that?”

Legend’s face was burning. He very pointedly did not check how many people were staring at him right now. “I’m just curious! Hyrule said something a while ago and I haven’t been able to stop wondering. I’m not judging you, I know you don’t like being treated like a child or anything. I get it. I just… wanted to know.”

“Hm.” Four nudged a chunk of carrot into his spoon, lifted it, then watched it fall back into the stew. “I most recently drew the Four Sword when I was around fourteen. It’s been about two years since then.”

Legend gawked at him. “…That’s it?”

“What do you mean, that’s it? I can’t manipulate time like he can.” Four pointed to the eldest of their group, who was watching them bemusedly as he took apart his plate armor to clean it.

“You’re only sixteen? You said you’re older than Wind but somehow I thought you were older than me.”

Four cackled, “I’ve never been read for twenty before! I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Twenty? Wait, how old do you think I am?”

“With the amount of quests you’ve done? Nineteen, at least.”

“No, I’m seventeen. I met Ravio about a year ago. I never stop exploring, that’s all.”

“Wow.”

“Hang on, we’re the same age?” Wild butted in. “I can’t believe all those times I let you boss me around.”

“WHAT TIMES!?”

“Hyrule, do you have something to share?” Four asked before Legend could spring up and strangle Wild.

Hyrule crossed his arms, his smug grin making Legend’s blood run cold. “I’m older than Legend.”

Legend covered his face and screamed.

“This, of course, is news to Legend,” Hyrule continued brightly.

“I thought you were like sixteen,” Legend mumbled into his hands.

“I was, two years ago.”

“So I thought that Four was older than me… and Four thought that I was older than Wild… and Hyrule’s the only one who knew that he’s older than me and Four is the second youngest… is there anybody else we should know about?”

“I’m sixty, if that helps,” Time said.

“Shut up, old man.”

[queerfables]

title: nothing, honey, if it ain't free (part 1 of ??)

fandom: stranger things x the hunger games

ship: steve harrington/dustin henderson

notes: title is from me and bobby mcgee by janis joplin, and also a reference to synecdochic's classic stargate: atlantis fic, freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose. if you are familiar with that story, you may consider it a warning.

Steve stretches back on the raised outcrop, fingers splayed against the rocks, heels kicking the cliff face they're dangling against. The sun is just barely peaking over the desert, which in midsummer means the light spilling over his face is only blisteringly hot instead of suffocating. Below him, seven hundred feet down and then some, the water looks still and calm.

Sometimes Steve thinks about how the river must have run all those hundreds of years ago, before the dam went up. Bold and reckless, strong enough to carve the gorge it rests in, teeming with since forgotten life. It's tamed by concrete now, and the land adapts. Dustin says it would take the force of a nuclear explosion to bring that wall down.

Another kick, and Steve's foot dislodges a clump of earth. He watches it fall, grains scattering in the wind.

"Nice day for it."

Steve doesn't turn. It's a voice as familiar as his own heartbeat, and anyway, there's no one else who would come looking for him out here.

"Just taking in the view," he says.

Dustin says nothing to that. Steve listens for the crunch of gravel beneath his feet, tracking his approach.

"They say the river used to run all the way to the ocean," Steve says. "You think that's still true?"

"Planning on making a break for it?"

Steve shrugs. "How far do you think we'd get?"

With Dustin to his left, he's outside the sight line of Steve's good eye. Still, Steve can imagine his wry expression.

"About seven hundred feet."

Steve laughs softly. "It is beautiful though, right?"

"Sure," Dustin says, and Steve knows he's not looking. "Only, we've got other plans today."

Hands scrubbing him down and dressing him up. Microphones taped to his skin and camera lenses obscuring his vision. Cheerful, overlapping questions that make a spectator sport of death.

Steve stretches his neck out and looks up at the sky.

"That's how you talk someone off a ledge?" he asks.

"If I was talking someone off a ledge, I'd say something like, 'it wasn't your fault,' or 'we'll get through this together.' I'm not being graded on originality, right?"

He's closer now, Steve can feel him. Boots anchored as far back from the cliff line as he can manage, Steve would bet, but the rest of his body curving forwards to meet him.

"But," Dustin says, "you're just taking in the view."

Steve sighs. For a moment there, he'd really thought it was going to be today. But Dustin's right, and they have other plans. Maybe even something to celebrate tonight, morbid as it is. Someone else's name called in the reaping, someone else's love going to their death, and Dustin, nineteen in the winter and no longer eligible as tribute, untouchable for the rest of his life.

Steve turns from the water and reaches for Dustin's outstretched hand. Careful and sure, Dustin pulls him back from the edge.

Behind a line of rocks that once might have been a safety fence, Dustin drags Steve into a fierce hug.

"You're such a fucking asshole."

"I know," Steve says. "I'm sorry."

And because they're both here and alive and that has to count for something, Steve tucks his chin over Dustin's soft curls and breathes him in.

[thehearthlightcafe]

Evening In” Scenario

A Cozy Night in With Your F/O 🍿🛏️

Imagine this: You get home, tired and weary. Your comfort character has transformed the living room with plush pillows, fairy lights, and a takeout spread that makes your heart happy. They greet you with a soft smile and say, “You deserve a break. Go get comfy I’ve got everything handled.” Describe your dream cozy night with your F/O below, or respond with a GIF that captures the mood!

[fabled-whump]

Sins of the Mother: Misery to Delight

Content: defiant whumpee, demon whumpee, immortal whumpee, choking, collared and leashed, malnutrition, dehydration, manhandling, female whumper, nonbinary whumpee

Word Count: 906

“Tuberculosis, the doctors say. He may only have a year to live, if he can’t fight off the disease. Please, Prophet, call on your deity for a blessing. Turn my son’s misery to delight.”

Magpie watched the man kneeling in front of Flora, tears streaming down his cheeks. His eyes were fixed on her in desperate adoration. He did not even glance at Magpie itself, pressed as far behind Flora’s chair as that damned leash would allow. It’d seen him around the congregation before. He knew the price to be paid if the Prophet’s deity would grant a blessing. The price Magpie would pay. And yet he didn’t even look at it. 

Flora leaned down, cupping the man’s face in gentle hands.

“I am pained to hear of the hardship that has befallen your family, Isaac. I assure you, I will petition your case with much urgency.”

Her voice was kind, genuinely so. Magpie believed she really was sympathetic to his sorrow. Hell, even she could find a spark of pity somewhere deep inside her. She may be a demon, but she didn’t necessarily relish suffering, especially not that of the innocent. She just knew it was an unavoidable necessity. The cosmos liked its balance. 

Isaac gave profuse thanks as he left the chamber, leaving the two alone. When Flora turned towards her, she no longer saw any trace of sympathy. 

“So what will we do about Isaac’s poor son, demon?” She drummed her fingers.

Many scathing replies rose in Magpie’s throat, but it did not release them. It set its jaw, and stared straight through her, keeping its gaze blank. 

“Nothing to say? You’re usually so chatty.” Flora yanked its chain. Magpie, weakened after years without a proper portion of meat, fell forward. She caught one of its horns and hauled it up, forcing it to meet her eyes.

Fine. If she wanted to be confrontational, then it’d get confrontational. It returned Flora’s fiery gaze with its own challenge. A low growl rumbled at the back of its throat.

“So stubborn,” she tsk’ed. “I really thought you’d come around once you figured out your Goddess isn’t coming back.”

Magpie jerked, breaking her eye contact. That one stung like a bitch, more than she wanted to admit. 

“Would you like to share any suggestions for devotion?” Flora asked as if she hadn’t noticed. The smug triumph in her eyes told Magpie otherwise. “No? Maybe I should ask the angel instead.”

She glowered. Lately, the woman had caught onto the fact that she and Haven had actually become fond of each other. More importantly, she seemed to realize she could use that against them. Magpie hated that she’d caught them out, but what she really couldn’t bear was watching Haven get hurt just because she couldn’t behave. Cold fury roiled in her gut.

“Or maybe,” it panted, struggling to hold the awkward position Flora held it in, “you should give devotions a try. I’m sure your deity would love to see your sanctimonious excuse for an oracle offered up on a platter.”

Flora threw her down. Magpie’s head bounced off the wooden floor, sending stars across her vision.

The Prophet stood, looking down on her impassively. It didn’t matter what violence she was carrying out, she always remained infuriatingly cool. Magpie had only ever seen her get truly upset by her own daughter, the creepy little brat. 

“I think I know the perfect suffering to enact,” Flora mused. She drew something from her pocket. “A fitting misery to bring about delight.” She knelt down, pressing her knee into Magpie’s chest. It wheezed.

“Tuberculosis is a terrible disease, isn’t it?” She mused, wrapping a cord around her hand. “Stealing the breath from its victims, damning them to a slow, agonizing decline.”

Flora lifted it by the horn again, ignoring its feeble squirms. She looped the cord around its neck. 

“So why don’t we offer your breath, and your agony, instead? You bear it far better than a mortal.”

She pulled the cord tight. Magpie jerked against the sudden sensation of choking, scrabbling at the thin little fiber denying her air. It was embedded so deep into her skin she couldn’t get her fingers around it. 

Flora cupped her hand around its rapidly purpling face, a mockery of the affection she had shown her congregant. Magpie felt blood start to well under her fingertips as it tore at its neck.

“Perhaps if you could hold your tongue, you wouldn’t have inspired such things.”

The Prophet started to gray in her vision. Her lungs screamed, but nothing escaped her throat except choked gags. At the edge of her quickly-diminishing awareness, she felt her limbs convulse against the cruel floor. Still, Flora watched her, calm as ever. Magpie devoted the last of her consciousness to fix her with a venomous glare. She would outlive this woman, and when she did, she’d piss on her grave.

~~~

Each time it woke from its pathetic excuse for a death, it had just enough time to notice a new detail before succumbing again. 

First, that it was alone. The Prophet had apparently left it to its “devotions”. 

Then, that its hands were bound, which it discovered after deliriously failing to tear away the cord. 

Finally, that it had been days, as even the torture of suffocation could no longer mask its terrible thirst and howling hunger. 

After that, it stopped noticing very much at all. 

Notes: A soft retcon here about why exactly Flora torments these two in the name of her deity

Taglist (ask to be added or removed, must be 18+): @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @scumashling

[cannibal-stag]

short snippet from the fic im working on

***

Hannibal’s sympathies for dogs had never been particularly strong until he met Will. Perhaps it was only the association between Will and his pack that brought about such emotions, but even so; seeing the animal in the grass, half-dead, elicited a feeling long forgotten in Hannibal’s sternum. It ached and squeezed his innards. The dog’s eyes shined like Will’s. Her cries echoed Mischa’s. In an instant, she was more human than anyone he’d ever killed.

I still dream about Abigail.

Almost anyone, anyway.

[fablewritesnonsense]

I FINISHED THE FIRST DRAFT OF MY NOVEL WHOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

[gay-fae]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

(slight warning for some mentions of gore/organs but very very minor)

**********

“Katya, Katya listen to me, dammit! You know what happens to you if you do this.” Goncharov’s eyes were tethered to Katya’s, never breaking focus, not even to look at the pistol in her shaking grip. “This won’t save Sofia. You don’t understand.”

Katya tightened her already white knuckles around her weapon, only a twitch away from guts on the wall and blood on her hands. “You don’t say a word about her. You leave her out of this, you bastard.”

Goncharov leaned back against the desk, the sharp wooden edge of it pressing into his skin. “Put the gun down, Katya. We can talk about this. Sofia doesn’t have to die.”

“Neither does Andrey.”

The air froze, still as a rock, dead as a fool.

Dead as Goncharov if he made the wrong move.

OR

A slight turn of events from the original plot, where Katya's love for Sofia runs everything into the ground, and Sofia's best kept secret is revealed.

**********

1.1k words

Teen and Up Audiences

No archive warnings apply

Read tags before reading fic if you worry you may be somewhat sensitive :)

Well, I finished my goncharov fic. I hope you guys like it!!

[possessive-crowley-central]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Oops my hands slipped on the keyboard.

In all seriousness I just wanted to write something based off Archangel Michael. So this happened.