#I don't usually write these things

[untilfajr]

I've always been an average achiever, sometimes even below that. Most of the time, I need to put in twice, if not three times, the effort compared to my peers. It often leaves me a step or two behind everyone else.

But this has taught me a few valuable lessons. I’ve learned to work independently, relying on myself. Being in the background has given me a perspective others often miss, and I've developed an instinct for sensing kindness in people with just a glance.

Sometimes, going through challenges makes you more understanding. And though I may not have met the expectations of being a high achiever, I’m grateful that kindness has always come naturally to me. You’d be surprised how many people struggle with it.

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[sceletaflores]

woo, my baby's got me all mixed up!

feat. logan howlett & wade wilson contains. 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, swearing, a bastard doomed polycule, more of 'why have just one bf when you can two bf's and why have just two bf's when you can have two bf's that are also each other’s bf's???', p in v, double penetration, one (1) single use of daddy, creampie(s), fingering...kind of (fem!receiving), oral sex, face sitting, face fucking, straight up nasty porn w/ zero plot, no use of y/n. a/n. this is a shorter one-shot but i can't not format it like a full fic i have to or i'll get hives. this is also just pure freak nasty gross actually probably the filthiest thing i've ever written that i thought up off too much nyquil pm last night. kisses!

"You're killing me babe," Wade groans lowly, cheek pressed to the slick skin of your inner thigh. "If my balls didn't feel like they just got the shit beat out of them in a back alley I'd be as hard as David Hasselhoff watching David Hasselhoff movies."

His hand is at work between your thighs, thick index finger slipped into your sensitive, puffy pussy.

It should gross you out that he loves doing this so much. It should make your stomach twist with all the unpleasant feelings a normal person might get.

It should, but it doesn't.

The familiar stretch is lost from taking Logan and Wade at the same time, a rare thing in your sex life because of how big they both are. But you were in a mood tonight.

Your pussy still clenches around him, trying in vain to tighten up, not used to feeling so empty.

The subtle pressure of Wade’s finger toes the line between pleasure and the sharp burn of 'almost too much' as it swirls along the sensitive walls of your pussy.

The first time he did it you were too fucked out of your mind to do anything other than ask what the hell he was doing.

"Gotta mix it up babe," was his reply, as easy as anything. "Don't want the baby batter to curdle, if you know what I mean."

Your heart stopped, flames lapping their way up your body as Wade scooped the thin line of come trickling from your abused hole to fuck it back in, back where it belonged.

It was so filthy, so depraved that it made you go liquid between your legs.

Your eyes almost immediately slid over to Logan, ready to see him shaking his head in irritation like he usually did whenever Wade ran his mouth in bed. You found nothing, no deep grimace or raised brow in sight.

There was an unmistakable heat in his gaze that matched your own, the inky black of his pupils blown so wide you could hardly see the hazel of his irises.

The casual raise of his right shoulder when he met your eye was undermined by the way his cock started to harden where it laid against his thigh, effectively tattling on him.

It told you all you needed to know about how he really felt watching Wade between your spread legs. That alone was enough to get you ready to go all over again.

It sort of became a thing after that.

"I'm not even doing anything..." you mumble breathlessly, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't have to baby," Logan purrs from behind you, lips pressed to the top of your head. His hand skimming down the side of your body is enough to make goosebumps pebble along your skin, "Look perfect just like this."

It's been hours now, but they're still going. You're convinced that the two of them are the world's biggest horndogs, just once is never enough.

You lost track of tonight's rounds sometime after number five, not counting mouth and hand stuff of course. And it's starting to catch up to you, you’re tired, spent.

Wade curls his finger just right, brushing against the spot inside you that has a broken whine passing through your grit teeth. Your thighs start to tremble as a smug grin spreads across his face.

"Yeah, there it is," he teases, his voice low. He keeps the tip of his finger snug against that spot, rubbing firm circles over the sensitive nerves. "That's that spot ain't it, gorgeous."

"Wade," you mewl, hands fisting the sheets as you fight to keep still. You're worried too much squirming will make their come start dripping out around Wade's wrist, and you can't have that.

There’s a sudden silence to your right, the heaviness of it pulling at your attention. You shift slightly, catching the faintest rustle of movement from Logan.

His breath is warm against the crown of your skill, his strong chest still plastered to your back—but he's too quiet, too still. You tilt your head just enough to peek at him out of the corner of your eye, and the sight alone is almost enough to make you come on the spot.

Logan is leaning against the headboard lazily, arm that isn't circled around your waist snaking down his own with the hard length of his cock in his hand.

Your mouth waters at the sight of him, red and leaking pre-come all over his knuckles each time he twists his fist over the thick head. Your hips grind down unconsciously, a needy moan falling from your parted lips. The wet sound of it has your cheeks burning, eyes fixed on the way his heavy balls bounce with each rough tug, still so full.

"Fuck, that's it," Wade murmurs, slipping a second finger inside you while he presses a shit-eating grin to the soft skin of your lower stomach. "You like it when daddy jerks off while I'm knuckle deep in you?"

"Watch it," Logan mutters warningly, tone gone low and dark as spilled ink. His hand doesn't slow, the loose grip of his fist slipping up and down his dripping cock in time with the slick squelch of your pussy.

Your hips buck up against Wade’s hand, a loud whine tearing from your chest at the dirtiness of this whole thing. The familiar heat starts to stir in your belly, your pussy drooling more mess over his wrist the longer he plays with you.

Wade barely muffles his chuckle against your hip, dropping a quick kiss there before pulling his soaked fingers from your velvety warmth. You whine at the loss, but he doesn’t pay it any mind.

You’ll both get what you want soon enough.

"Alright, we should all know the drill by now people," he announces to you and Logan with a loud clap, pulling away from between your thighs to roll flat onto his back.

“Time to hop on the saddle, John Wayne,” he finishes, giving your ass a loving tap.

Logan snorts into your hair, dropping his cock to grab your hips and gently manhandle you until you’re situated directly over Wade’s face while Logan kneels in front of you. The jut of his cock bobbing inches away from your mouth.

Wade’s greedy fingers pry your swollen lips apart to watch the way his and Logan’s come starts to seep out from you, falling to drip onto his bare chest. He blows over the wet length of you, the cool air from his mouth has your hips twitching down in search of any friction you can get.

“Not so fast,” he scolds lightly, grinding his knuckle against the wet seam of you. Your nails dig crescent moons into his scarred shoulders, threatening to break the skin.

“You’ve gotta savor this moment, hot stuff,” he says slowly, leaning up to press a kiss directly over your throbbing clit. “You got the best seat in the house, don’t take it for granted–”

"Enough," Logan grunts, heavy hands falling on your shoulders to push you down on Wade's face, fully closing the gap. "Quit runnin' your damn mouth and make our girl feel good, red."

Wade's hands tighten their hold on your thighs, his hips bucking up off the mattress like he can't help it. His surprised moan rumbles against your clit, loud and shameless.

You cry out at the first drag of his tongue over your aching pussy, hot and wet as it slides through your dripping slit. You pitch forward, too caught up in pleasure to think clearly as you take Logan’s cock into your mouth. You take him all the way down to the root in one swift move, burying your nose in the dark hair surrounding the base. 

"Fuck," Logan bites out, eyes twisting shut as he feels your warm throat enveloping him. He takes your hair in his fist gently, just holding it as you swallow around him. 

Your hands move to rest on his thick thighs, nails scratching over the hair scattered along his skin. His breath shutters in his chest, his hips rolling forward ever so slightly, chasing the tight heat of your mouth.

The mix of your tongue tracing along the sensitive vein on the underside of his cock and the low, wet sounds of Wade devouring you has him pulsing in your mouth.

Your thighs shake on either side of Wade's head, the steady grip of his hands the only thing that keeps you from collapsing into a boneless heap on the mattress.

Your hips twitch the tiniest bit, rocking forward enough to grind your clit over the slope of his nose. He groans under you, squeezing the meat of your thighs in encouragement as he swirls his tongue through the mess dripping from your hole.

“That’s a good girl,” Logan praises gruffly, his hips speeding up. “Shut him up, baby. Make him fuckin’ eat it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, dragging your pussy along Wade’s mouth faster. You moan desperately around your mouthful, brain going hazy around the edges.

The frantic pace you set only makes their come leak from you faster, dripping down Wade’s face faster than he can keep up, and there's just so much.

A steady, thick stream of it that feels almost never ending thanks to Logan coming like he busted a pipe and absolutely flooding your insides every single time.

Wade doesn’t seem deterred in the slightest though, swirling his tongue along you with a new sense of urgency. His hands grip your hips tighter, his blunt nails digging into your skin deliciously as he slurps and sucks with unbridled enthusiasm, chasing every drop of come.

He’s sloppy with it, come sliding down his cheeks and chin in thin rivers of white.

Logan’s rough breath hitches above you, his fingers tightening in your hair as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks just the way he likes. His growl sends a thrill down your spine.

"C'mon, Wilson," Logan grunts, his hips speeding up. When you peer up at him, you can see the goading smile that just barely tugs the corner of his mouth up.

“Spitters are quitters, you know that."

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[keferon]

.....face in hands. I don't know what to say.

I'm reading this fic at a snail's pace because after every fifth paragraph, fireworks explode in my brain and I go to draw what I just read

[shimmershy]

Just two siblings back from the dead, hanging out, totally not using this opportunity to torment one another for the rest of time! <3

Chara Week Day 4: Flowers

[Image Description: A digital drawing of Chara and Flowey from Undertale. They're on the Surface, with grass and trees and mountains stretching out behind them. Chara has golden flowers clustered around their left eye and speckled in their hair and on their hands. They're kneeling on the ground and smiling wide, holding Flowey's flower pot in one arm. Their other hand is outstretched in front of them and holding a camera. Flowey has a red bow wrapped around his stem and stickers in the shape of hearts, stars, and smiley faces decorating his pot. He looks annoyed as Chara leans their face in close to his to take a photo. /End ID]

[necrotic-nephilim]

I think what I love the most about Reverse Robin AU TimJay is the absolute potential for hero worship with Jason toward Tim. In canon we often forget that Tim didn't really care for Jason as Robin, meanwhile as I never shut up about, Jason has been weirdly respecting and obsessed with Tim since finding out about Tim's existence. So if you flip their order, make Tim Red Hood and make Jason Red Robin, there's so much room for hero worship from Jason.

As Robin, Jason has always teetered that edge of being pro-murder or not. Whether you believe he killed Felipe or not, even in his Post-Crisis introduction as Robin, he almost kills Two Face. Those concepts of lethal justice have always been brewing inside him, just reigned in by Bruce. So if you have Robin!Jason witnessing Red Hood!Tim start killing people and quickly making noticeable change in the landscape of gangs in Gotham, Jason would take quick notice. I think Tim as Red Hood would still be lethal, but there'd be a different application than Jason's Red Hood. Heads in duffle bags isn't Tim's style, even if he kills. I think you'd see something much more akin to that time Tim almost killed Boomerang, where it's such an elaborately thought out set up, it realistically doesn't even look like Tim killed anyone. It'd take months for Bruce to connect this string of deaths as anything other than coincidental, let alone link them to Red Hood. And Jason is wickedly smart, even as Robin. Jason, putting those pieces together before Bruce does and witnessing the undeniable positive change for Gotham it's enacting? Robin!Jason would be incredibly drawn in by that, and then even more-so, a Red Robin!Jason who has to grapple with being replaced to make room for the next Robin would I think, in anger, turn to Red Hood. And Tim would push him away at first, his plans don't have room for a scorned teenager who's trying to get back at Bruce and Nightwing!Damian like this- but I think Jason would wear him down. Prove to Tim that Jason can think on his wavelength.

Slightly related, what interests me about Red Hood!Tim is how it'd implicate his closeness to Ra's. Jason is taken into the League by Talia in Lost Days and Ra's doesn't necessarily approve of Jason's presence, especially not of Talia dunking him in the Pit, but Ra's has always canonically been A Little Weird about Tim. I think in a world Tim dies as the second Robin, it would be Ra's who dunks Tim to preserve his mind that Ra's thinks shouldn't be wasted, and you have the potential for 'apprentice of Ra's' Tim wrapped up in it all, even without him experience the Red Robin arc. So when it's Jason as Red Robin, instead of him going to Ra's when he's scorned by the Batfamily, he goes to Tim. The person he once idolized, because I think Tim would've been Jason's Robin. Smart, competent, a strong legacy to live up to. And now he's back, and he's pro-killing, an edge that Jason has always teetered on and would feel even closer to when he's replaced by a young Dick. I think Tim wouldn't ever be able to get rid of Jason.

Then on Tim's side, I think his reaction to being replaced after his death would be a complicated one. Objectively, being the Robin who believes Batman needs a Robin, he'd respect the logic and know Bruce was always going to replace him eventually. But still, there's always going to be that instinctual emotional reaction of betrayal and replacement. I think he'd view Jason at first with anger and distance, but then, seeing Jason as this street kid with begrudging potential, I could see Red Hood!Tim testing Jason. Constantly throwing things at Jason, seeing how he reacts, if he lives up to being Robin. Tim has a need for analyzing people, understanding their strengths and weaknesses. And he seems the Robin mantle very uniquely, he'd need to have it proven to him that Jason can handle it.

So you would have this dynamic of Jason hero worshipping Tim, slowly believing in Tim's methodology. While Tim is at first dismissive of him, but then starts to test him, see what makes this kid tick. And I think the TimJay potential of Jason trying to prove himself to Tim could be Neat.

[coquelicoq]

what i like especially about the pronouns in the goblin emperor is that this language doesn't just have the T-V distinction (aka informal vs. formal second-person pronouns, in this case 'thou' vs. 'you'), it also has informal and formal first-person pronouns. having BOTH of these distinctions in the same language lets you fine-tune your tone by mixing and matching. with only one axis of formality, when you use informal pronouns, are you being familiar in an intimate way, or in an insolent or dismissive way? when you use formal pronouns, are you being polite or standoffish? you can't tell just from the pronouns; there's ambiguity. but a language where you can use a formal first-person pronoun in the same sentence as an informal second-person pronoun allows you to distance yourself (via the formal first) while also being familiar (via the informal second), thereby achieving the conversational tenor known to linguists as Fuck Thee Specifically.

[metalhoops]

The place was Chicago. The year was 1990. 

It was early enough into the year that the term ‘1990′ still sounded space aged. It’d been the 80s for as long as Eddie cared to remember. It was late enough in the year that everyone kept telling him winter was over. Nevertheless, he wore the leather jacket he’d ‘borrowed’ from his ex-boyfriend. Spring in Chicago was worse than a million L.A. winters. 

Eddie hated California on principle, but his record label was in Burbank. Despite the band being one of the biggest rising stars in the metal scene, he didn’t have room to get cocky. He’d spent the break between tours last year with his aforementioned ex-boyfriend in his New York apartment. 

The place had been small enough that smoking with the windows open felt like a hotbox session. There was one window in the apartment. It was in the bathroom and only opened an inch if you could get it to open at all. It wasn’t the rockstar life he’d fantasised about back in high school, but he was getting by. 

So how the hell did he end up in Chicago? He was getting there. 

As the filmmaker he’d slept with in Toronto had told him, opening in media res was the best way to hold an audience's attention. Was that what Eddie was doing? Trying to retell the shitshow of his life back to himself? Trying to make sense of it all, make it climax to something meaningful? Maybe. 

Eddie had gotten into the habit of keeping a journal, mostly for lyrics. The band was meant to be recording their third full-length studio album in a matter of months and Eddie only had three songs that were worth anything. To make matters worse, the other two had been concept albums. 

Corroded Coffin’s first and sophomore albums had been different enough that the band hadn’t been boxed into anything. Yes, they were a metal band, but they got their fair share of punks, goths and even a handful of yuppies that’d shown up to their gigs in the past. Hell, their opening act had been a grunge band. It sounded pretentious as fuck, but Eddie wasn’t afraid to transcend genres. The metal scene was changing. They had to learn to change with it.

The nail in his goddamn Corroded Coffin was that the band were known for their concept albums. Their first album Knightmare was a D&D-inspired thrash, metal album. Think Ritchie Blackmore's Rainbow, with a few more homoerotic undertones. Their next album, Dream Dimension was more sci-fi leaning. It told the story of an unnamed group of kids who’d stumbled into another dimension. It was a little more glam metal. Some of the B-sides like ‘My Year’ and ‘Lakeside Interlude’ had been downright shoegaze. One magazine had likened the story to Dream Warriors, which Eddie thought was fitting. 

It wasn’t like Eddie didn’t have ideas for the next album. That was the problem. Eddie did have an idea. He just couldn’t write the damn thing. It was meant to be his magnum opus, the third album that’d stand on its own but also interconnect with the other two. 

He’d call it Daydream. It followed the story of a white-collar guy living the perfect nuclear family life, complete with a white picket fence and a Malibu Barbie, dream house. The thing was, the dude was miserable. He’d spend all his free time daydreaming about adventure and forgotten realms. 

The kicker was halfway through the album the listener would realise the guy was the titular knight from Knightmare. His perfect suburban life was turned upside down when his kid disappeared à la portal to another dimension. It’d be perfect. All Eddie had to do is write it, and that was the damn thing. He couldn’t.  

All his albums were about something. There was always a meaning beneath the meaning. Knightmare? Easy, that was about escapism. Dream Dimension? It was about growing up too fast. Daydream? That was more complicated. 

Daydream was why Eddie needed to write in his journal. It was why he needed to remember that the year was 1990 and that he was in Chicago. 

The thing was, Eddie didn’t remember writing Dream Dimension. There was a 1988 sized hole in his memory between their first and second US tours. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew exactly what caused it. In their early days, they were practically paid in 8 Balls and party favours. Eddie always had an addictive personality and getting into anything stronger than weed had been a bad idea.

It wasn’t until his bandmates had an intervention that he’d been able to see the forest through the trees. Realising there was a whole chunk of his life he’d missed out on was petrifying. So, Eddie kept a journal. 

He’d been sober for almost a year. He was practically fucking straight-edge without all the pretentiousness that came with it, but he knew one slip-up was enough to send him spiralling. That was how he ended up in Chicago.

It was the last show of their Dream Dimension tour, and they were in Chicago. Eddie was always lively on stage. Gareth had abandoned one of his drumsticks during a solo only for Eddie to run across the stage, slip and bite the dust with his ankle going one way and the rest of him going another. 

He’d woken up in a hospital with a lump on his ankle the size of a baseball and the uncomfortably familiar feeling of being high off his face on painkillers. 

To answer the question, Daydream was about getting older. It was about being okay with getting older. It was about doing it your own way. Back in the thick of it all, it’d looked like Eddie wasn’t going to make it to thirty. He was trying to be okay with the idea that he might. 

Last year, Jeff got married to a nice girl who’d been their costume designer for their first music video. It’d shaken him in a way he didn’t know how to explain. He was in his mid-twenties, yet suddenly he felt old. Wayne had retired and with Eddie’s help brought a Winnebago. He was probably fishing in Nebraska right now. 

See, the thing about the titular character in Daydream, was that he’d conformed to what life was supposed to be. By the end of the album, he’d have left that life behind for another, one of action and adventure, because Eddie could never understand why Dorothy wanted to leave Oz for fucking Kansas. Fuck Kansas, on principal.

Something about the album wasn’t clicking. Knightmare was leaving his boring life but ultimately, he was alone. Was that what getting older was all about? Being okay with being alone? When you were gay in 1990, it might be. 

After the tour ended he hadn’t wanted to go back to his apartment in Burbank. He hated it there. He’d entertained the idea of heading back to New York but it was depressing. It reminded him of Jack, and how so many of their friends weren’t around anymore. 

When all was said and done, he and Gareth decided to stay in Chicago. He never said it out loud, but Eddie was sure his friend had stuck around to keep an eye on him. 

Sometimes, Eddie just wanted someone to come home to. Maybe that was why he’d had a string of shit boyfriends. If you weren’t picky, people would walk all over you. 

Jack had been the one that’d made Eddie swear off dating. It wasn’t worth the trouble. He’d rather die alone. His name wasn’t even Jack, it was Corey, but everyone called him Jack. Short for Jacket. Eddie wished he was joking. That should’ve been the first red flag. 

The thing about Corey was he always wore the same goddamn custom-made, leather jacket, all year round. He’d liked having sex in front of his full-length mirror with Eddie always on his knees, which should’ve been at least a yellow flag. He never liked anything gentle. Corey liked the idea of having a rockstar boyfriend more than he actually liked Eddie or monogamy. That was why when Eddie left, he took his jacket. 

He didn’t know why he was still wearing it, but he was. He pulled it on as he hobbled in his moon boot across the street from his and Gareth’s rented apartment to the record store. He hadn’t gone outside in a week, and he was about to start climbing up the goddamn walls. He just needed to go somewhere, and Eddie loved record stores, especially little indie ones. 

Once inside, Eddie noticed the place was practically empty save for the guy behind the counter. They had an eclectic mix of records and zines lining the shelves. Eddie was glad the place was quiet. He didn’t have to worry about being spotted. It wasn’t like they were The Beatles. They could go places but in a big enough crowd, he was sure to turn a few heads. Some days, Eddie just wanted to disappear. 

They had Corroded Coffin records on the display shelf and a couple of magazines with his band's name on the cover, which made pride swell in Eddie’s chest, but he wasn’t here for stroking his ego. He wanted to know what other people were doing and get back in touch with the scene. 

He was busy sifting through the bargain bin when he felt someone slide in beside him. He cringed, almost expecting it to be some over-enthused metal head with a pen and a Corroded Coffin tee shirt, but it was just the dude behind the counter.  

“Sorry, can I squeeze past?” the guy mumbled, a crate of records awkwardly tucked beneath his shoulder.

Eddie did his best to make himself small, his dumbass ankle making a simple task seem like an effort. He didn’t miss the way the man’s free hand brushed over his side as he passed, as though trying to assure Eddie stayed stable. 

“Place sure is quiet,” Eddie observed glancing over at the man.

His jeans were fitted, tight in all the right places. He’d rolled up the cuffs of his shirt to reveal more of his bicep than Eddie deemed necessary and god his hair. There was something about his hair. Something about him seemed familiar. Eddie really hoped they hadn’t hooked up once. That’d be awkward as hell. 

“Yeah, we usually close around five,” The man replied putting an album on the shelf. 

It was almost six. Shit. 

Eddie hated when people did that. They treated him differently because his name was in the papers. Everyone wanted something from him, and they thought doing favours was a good way to win him over. It wasn’t. The guy could clearly see something shift in Eddie. 

“It’s no big deal. I have to stay an hour late to replace the stock, plus my roommate has a girl over, so I’d rather be here,” The boy laughed, shooting a look at Eddie over his shoulder, a stray strand of his perfect goddamn hair falling in his face. 

The boy paused, teeth worrying away at his lower lip, his hand falling to his hip as his eyes searched Eddie's face. 

“Do I know you from somewhere?” He asked. 

And there it was. Sometimes people did that. They played dumb about who he was before making a big goddamn deal out of it. Eddie suddenly wanted to crawl back to his apartment and spend another month in isolation. 

The boy snapped his fingers in triumph.

“Munson,” He practically shouted and holy fucking shit, that wasn’t what Eddie expected. 

No one knew his last name, not his real one. Everyone changed their names when they got famous. He’d gone for something simple, Eddie Emerson, it had some alliteration, just like Corroded Coffin. It wasn’t too far from his real name but not even the die-hards knew him as Munson. 

Then Eddie remembered. 

This guy was Steve goddamn Harrington. He didn’t remember many people from high school, but he remembered Steve. 

“Harrington,” Eddie breathed in disbelief. To his surprise, Steve screwed up his nose. 

“Unfortunately,” He admitted and stuck out a hand expectantly. Eddie leaned down and clasped Steve’s hand. From what he remembered of Steve, the guy had never been this friendly. 

“Nice to re-meet you I guess. I’d like to think I’ve changed a little in over five years.” He had, Eddie didn’t know how to explain how he knew, he just did. It was something about the way the boy held himself. 

“What brings you to Chicago?” He asked, seemingly oblivious to the fact that one of Eddie’s records was sitting on the shelf beside him. Honestly, it was a breath of fresh air to find someone who didn’t know who he was. He could keep the charade up a little bit longer. 

“Oh you know, work stuff,” Eddie answered vaguely, toying with his hair. 

That was something he did when he was flirting and holy shit, he needed to squash that right goddamn now. He wasn’t looking to date anybody, and he remembered Steve being very straight in high school. He needed to save himself from another heartbreak. 

“You live in Chicago now?” Eddie asked. The‘ because you didn’t seem like the type to ever leave’ was implied. 

“Yeah. Rob, my roommate, she practically dragged me here. We’ve been attached at the hip since I graduated. It wasn’t like there was anywhere else I wanted to be,” Steve answered. 

A little detail about the statement screamed for Eddie’s attention. 

“The same roommate that has a girl over?” He pressed and watch Steve fold his arms over his chest, all huffy indignation locked and loaded, begging for Eddie to choose his next words wisely. 

“The same,” he confirmed. Now that Eddie knew, he noticed they were selling a couple of queer zines. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. Steve might just be progressive. 

“I thought you were meant to be the lady's man, Steve,” Eddie tried hoping that was enough to make Steve’s defences fall. To his surprise, Steve snorted and shook his head. 

“Like I said, lots changed since high school. My luck in the dating department couldn’t be worse,” he admitted as he returned to stacking the shelves. 

Eddie watched the planes of his back move beneath his shirt, wanting to push himself against him, to feel what it was like for Steve to move beneath him.

He really needed to get a hold of himself. 

“Couldn’t be worse than my luck,” Eddie rebutted offhandedly. 

Steve shook his head and shot Eddie another glance over his shoulder. He inhaled deeply as though preparing to tell a long story. Eddie leaned against the shelf to show Steve he was all ears. 

“Last month, I went on a date with a girl and she asked me if she could call me by her ex-boyfriend’s name,” Steve began. 

Eddie screwed up his nose in response. 

“Worse still, I was so shocked she’d asked, I just agreed to it.” It was Eddie’s turn to snort. 

“Stevie, you didn’t.” 

Stevie. Goddamn Stevie. Don’t do this to yourself, Munson. Pet names are one step away from a full-blown crush. 

“I did. Do I look like a ‘Juan’ to you?” Steve asked honestly. The question had Eddie doubled over in stitches. 

“Alright, alright. That’s pretty bad, but that’s one bad date,” Eddie reasoned. 

“Dude, I wasn’t finished. The girl before that realised she was a lesbian, while on a date with me. Which is like... the third time that’s happened,” Steve admitted.

Eddie’s hand had betrayed him and returned to toy with a strand of his hair. He hid behind it as he tried to mask a laugh. This guy did have shit luck. 

“You’re a lesbian magnet,” Eddie reasoned watching as Steve hid behind his hands. 

“And the time before that, I thought I was getting somewhere with a guy. We’d been on three dates before he told me he had a wife.” 

Steve made the next confession a little quieter than the others, a little more reserved. Eddie felt the hairs on his arm stand on end. Steve had changed since high school.

“Once I hooked up with a guy who’d only give me head if I sang to him while he did it,” Eddie admitted, feeling the need to get Steve off the defensive and add to the pity party. He watched the boy’s features shift.

“Oh wow, that’s bad. You should’ve pretended to be tone-deaf,” Steve reasoned, once more proving he had no idea what Eddie did for a living. 

“See I was torn between that and singing La Cucaracha at the top of my lungs.” Steve snorted, honest to god snorted.  

The two lapsed into silence but it was a comfortable one. Steve smoothed down his hair five times within the space of a minute before taking a deep breath. 

Eddie knew what was coming. He wasn’t dumb, but a part of him would always be trapped back in high school. It kept screaming there was no way a popular kid like Steve would talk to a loser like him. He thought he’d buried that part of himself, yet here it was, rising from the dead. 

“Do you want to get a drink?” 

And there it was. Eddie didn’t mean to cringe, but Steve caught it, his hands stuffed themselves into the too-tight back pockets of his jeans. 

“Or not,” He muttered averting his gaze. 

“No. It’s not that. I... I don’t drink.” 

There you go Gareth. He was responsible enough to look after himself. 

“I could do dinner though,” Eddie tried to throw Steve a bone. 

Eddie waited for Steve to throw up one of the red flags he’d gotten used to seeing with all the men he’d dated or hooked up with. Eddie would say he didn’t drink, and they’d give him a funny look or mutter something about him being a killjoy. 

“There’s a place that does a wicked deep-dish pizza not far from here. You said you weren’t from Chicago, right? You’ve gotta have the pizza, it’s a rite of passage,” Steve ploughed on.

“Sure,” He muttered trying not to look as surprised as he felt. 

He watched Steve buzz around the record store, shutting up shop and then extending a hand shyly to Eddie. Right, his stupid goddamn leg. At least it gave him an excuse to get up close and personal with Steve in the street and not draw too much attention. 

The two made the short walk to the pizzeria at a plodding pace, talking about nothing in particular. 

“What happened to your leg?” Steve asked as they slid into the booth. 

“Slid on a drumstick and took a nosedive off a stage,” Eddie admitted. He wasn’t going to outright lie to Steve. 

“Ouch,” Steve mumbled, passing the menu over to Eddie. 

“So, you still do band stuff? I remember that high school talent show,” Steve noted, and Eddie cringed, letting his head drop to the table. 

“I really wish you didn’t,” He chuckled before confirming,

“Yeah, I still do band stuff,” as he raised his head and chanced a glance at Steve. 

“Cool,” was all he said before they shifted the subject. 

They were swapping stories about best friends, roommates, shared high-school trauma and generally flirting when a figure approached their booth. It was a kid, who couldn’t be older than fifteen with a shaved head and a battle jacket. He reminded Eddie of himself at that age. He knew what was coming.

���You’re Eddie Emerson, right? From Corroded Coffin,” the kid asked, his hands shaking. He watched as a furrow appeared on Steve’s brow before his jaw dropped. So Steve wasn’t totally clueless. 

“One and only. You want me to sign something for you?” Eddie asked, having gone through this song and dance a million times before. He tried to be nice, after all, it was a kid, but sometimes he got tired of always having to be on. 

To make matters worse it happened in front of Steve. Something about people coming up to him always sat wrong with other guys he’d been with. He wasn’t sure if it was jealousy or ego that did it, but he knew if he ran into a fan on a date, the rest of the night typically went sideways. 

He signed the back of a napkin as he listened to the kid rattle off praise for their music. He talked about his favourite songs and lyrics. Eddie wished he knew what to say, wished he knew how to take a compliment but he didn’t. To his surprise, he heard Steve speak. 

“Hey, did you make this?” Steve asked indicating the kid's battle jacket, forcing him to come up for air.

“Yeah, all on my own.”

The kid blinked and ran his hand over a couple of the hand-sewn patches. Steve obviously knew nothing about the scene because if you didn’t make your own jacket people would call you a poser. It was a nice shout though because he watched the kid light up. 

“Even the safety pins?” Steve asked curiously.

Eddie watched as the kid launched into a story of every little pin and stitch in the jacket, turning his attention away from Eddie, and giving him space to catch his breath. It was nice. He felt like Steve had seen him.

After another few minutes, the kid’s dad came to collect him and Eddie felt his body sag against the diner booth. 

“You get that all the time?” Steve asked, his foot nudging Eddie’s under the table. 

“You wouldn’t believe it,” He grumbled scrubbing his face. Steve nudged his foot again, giving him a goofy grin. 

“At least he liked your stuff,” He proposed. 

“I’m guessing it’s not your thing,” Eddie reasoned. He wasn’t one for stereotypes, but he really didn’t look like the typical Corroded Coffin fan. 

“I’m not too picky when it comes to music. I just listen to top forty stuff.” Eddie shot him a disbelieving look.  

“Dude you work in a record store,” he laughed and Steve shrugged.

“Among other things. I just got the job to hang out with Robin. She works there too. She only took the job to try and peddle her girlfriend Nancy’s zines. Sometimes I write the sports section because Nancy, Robin and Jonathan don’t know anything about sports.” Eddie rested his head in the palm of his hand, listening attentively. 

“Wait, is that the same Nancy that you dated back in high school?” He asked, trying to sound scandalised, glad to have a break from the rock star bullshit. 

“Like you said, lesbian magnet,” Steve grumbled, mirroring Eddie’s gesture, resting his head in his hand. 

“What are you actually doing in town?” Steve asked, more curious than nosy. 

“Trying to run away from writing our third album,” Eddie spoke. 

It’d been the first time he admitted it out loud. He didn’t talk about his music until he thought it was worth something, but Steve was a good listener. To Eddie’s surprise, he found himself spilling his guts to Steve. He told him all about the third album, about the goddamn symbolism, and the way things just weren’t clicking. 

“Why don’t you give him a reason to stay?” Steve asked when Eddie finished his monologue, as though it was the simplest solution in the world. 

“I mean, Dorothy doesn’t go back to Kansas because she doesn’t like Oz, she misses home. She misses her family. You want your knight guy to stay in fantasy land? Give him someone to stay for,” Steve proposed, and it was like the final puzzle piece sliding into place. It was brilliant.

“Stevie, I could kiss you,” Eddie spoke.

“Is that a promise?” Steve asked with a cheeky grin.

“Let’s get out of here and find out.”

[eggy-the-boy]

*poking my blorbos with a stick* 

[brynn-lear]

"Hmm? Oh, I'm just the milkman. Nothin' more. Won't you let me in, my doorman?"

[capnhanbers]

for all the tension this was a pretty tender chapter so uhhh this is unlike the story it was written to be / i was riding its back when it used to ride me

(scenes from chapter 140)

[inkskinned]

crows use tools and like to slide down snowy hills. today we saw a goose with a hurt foot who was kept safe by his flock - before taking off, they waited for him to catch up. there are colors only butterflies see. reindeer are matriarchical. cows have best friends and 4 stomachs and like jazz music. i watched a video recently of an octopus making himself a door out of a coconut shell.

i am a little soft, okay. but sometimes i can't talk either. the world is like fractal light to me, and passes through my skin in tendrils. i feel certain small things like a catapult; i skirt around the big things and somehow arrive in crisis without ever realizing i'm in pain.

in 5th grade we read The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Night-time, which is about a young autistic boy. it is how they introduced us to empathy about neurotypes, which was well-timed: around 10 years old was when i started having my life fully ruined by symptoms. people started noticing.

i wonder if birds can tell if another bird is odd. like the phrase odd duck. i have to believe that all odd ducks are still very much loved by the other normal ducks. i have to believe that, or i will cry.

i remember my 5th grade teacher holding the curious incident up, dazzled by the language written by someone who is neurotypical. my teacher said: "sometimes i want to cut open their mind to know exactly how autistics are thinking. it's just so different! they must see the world so strangely!" later, at 22, in my education classes, we were taught to say a person with autism or a person on the spectrum or neurodivergent. i actually personally kind of like person-first language - it implies the other person is trying to protect me from myself. i know they had to teach themselves that pattern of speech, is all, and it shows they're at least trying. and i was a person first, even if i wasn't good at it.

plants learn information. they must encode data somehow, but where would they store it? when you cut open a sapling, you cannot find the how they think - if they "think" at all. they learn, but do not think. i want to paint that process - i think it would be mostly purple and blue.

the book was not about me, it was about a young boy. his life was patterned into a different set of categories. he did not cry about the tag on his shirt. i remember reading it and saying to myself: i am wrong, and broken, but it isn't in this way. something else is wrong with me instead. later, in that same person-first education class, my teacher would bring up the curious incident and mention that it is now widely panned as being inaccurate and stereotypical. she frowned and said we might not know how a person with autism thinks, but it is unlikely to be expressed in that way. this book was written with the best intentions by a special-ed teacher, but there's some debate as to if somebody who was on the spectrum would be even able to write something like this.

we might not understand it, but crows and ravens have developed their own language. this is also true of whales, dolphins, and many other species. i do not know how a crow thinks, but we do know they can problem solve. (is "thinking" equal to "problem solving"? or is "thinking" data processing? data management?) i do not know how my dog thinks, either, but we "talk" all the same - i know what he is asking for, even if he only asks once.

i am not a dolphin or reindeer or a dog in the nighttime, but i am an odd duck. in the ugly duckling, she grows up and comes home and is beautiful and finds her soulmate. all that ugliness she experienced lives in downy feathers inside of her, staining everything a muted grey. she is beautiful eventually, though, so she is loved. they do not want to cut her open to see how she thinks.

a while ago i got into an argument with a classmate about that weird sia music video about autism. my classmate said she thought it was good to raise awareness. i told her they should have just hired someone else to do it. she said it's not fair to an autistic person to expect them to be able to handle that kind of a thing.

today i saw a goose, and he was limping. i want to be loved like a flock loves a wounded creature: the phrase taken under a wing. which is to say i have always known i am not normal. desperate, mewling - i want to be loved beyond words.

loved beyond thinking.

[diabolicalworldwriter]

there's something sadly funny about the way that Kaladin goes into literally every situation thinking "Too bad I'm not cool anymore 😔"

I mean. I get it. Depression fucks your brain up and you feel detached from yourself and any skills you have or had. The PTSD and chronic fatigue are keeping him from doing things he once managed with far less effort. And it's rather impossible to feel like you can just... do things like you used to when you're struggling at a basic level to simply be.

Still, literally everyone who knows him is like "Kaladin you're so storming cool" and he goes "They're referring to the person I was, who is dead. I'll never be cool again. I'm sorry."

The most hilarious thing? He walks into these moments, thinking 'too bad', and then he does the most objectively amazing thing possible while everyone else just watches in awe.

Kaladin, three seconds after absolutely changing everyone's outlook on life: Aw, it's too bad the person I just was died again. Guess I have to find something else to be cuz I sure can't pull that off anymore.

[lost-in-fandoms]

This has been something that's been living in my mind for a very long time. Sometimes, when things are hard, I write this in my head and it helps, so I thought I'd share. There's a bit of hurt before it goes to the comfort, but the comfort is there, I promise. This got long so you can read it on ao3 too

cw: non-sexual bathing, depression and a whole bunch of self-hatred

Daniel doesn't hear the door opening, but one minute he's alone, curled up under the blankets, and the next Max is sitting on the edge of the bed, running clothes still on. To be fair, Max might have been there for longer than one minute. Daniel hasn't been great at keeping up with time lately, keeps losing hours to naps and blank stares at walls. He's not been great at noticing Max either, sometimes feeling like he's living alone, even when Max is right beside him.

"Daniel."

Daniel opens his eyes again, hadn't even noticed he had closed them in the first place. Max sounds tired, careful, as he often does lately. It makes Daniel want to curl up tighter, shut him out harder, embarrassed and ashamed of being like this.

"Daniel, hey."

Did he close his eyes again? Max has one hand hovering near Daniel's cheek now, but he isn't touching. The last time Max had touched him without asking first when Daniel had been like this, just a hand on his shoulder, Daniel had flinched so hard he had kicked him off the bed.

Max has been sleeping in the guest room since, and the bed feels big and cold every night. Daniel is still glad Max is not touching him.

"Daniel."

Max's voice is firmer now, a frown on his face. It used to make Daniel feel worse, knowing he was upsetting him, but it's been a reality for so long he has learned to accept he's just made to make Max feel worse.

"Your therapist appointment is in two hours, Daniel, you should get up."

This time, Daniel makes the conscious decision to close his eyes. It doesn't matter how many hours he's been spending in this bed lately, he is always exhausted, and getting up sounds like way too much work. He doesn't want to get out of his blankets, doesn't want to have to sit up, to have to speak, to have to sit in their office to talk about his fucked up brain to a lady through a screen.

For a long moment, nobody says anything. Daniel is expecting Max to argue with him, to tell him he's being childish, pathetic, but Max doesn't.

It's worse when he simply sighs and gets up, leaving the room. It makes the chasm in Daniel's chest grow new teeth, gnawing at his lungs, breath stuttering in his throat. He didn't know he could feel more lonely.

He doesn't know what to do with this, with all the slick tar coating his insides, suddenly threatening to spill out, so he does what he's been doing lately and turns around, back to the bedroom door, and wills himself to sleep.

"Daniel."

Max's voice drags him out of the fog. He doesn't know how long it's been, but when he forces himself to open his eyes again, Max is crouching next to the bed, this other side now, still in his running clothes. Not long, then.

"I ran us a bath, will you come with me?" he asks. He doesn't look mad at Daniel for not speaking, doesn't look upset. He looks worried, and pleading. There are black shadows under his eyes. It's worse than him being angry.

It takes a long moment for Daniel to actually process the words, to filter them through the fog, but Max waits patiently. He always waits for Daniel, even when Daniel doesn't deserve it.

He doesn't want to get up, doesn't want to drag his limbs to motion, but he knows he stinks, knows his hair are a greasy mess, flattened on top of his head. He should. He doesn't want to.

"Please."

It's only a whisper, but it's impossible to miss in the quiet room. It pierces through Daniel's heart, his next breath coming out harsh and choked, his eyes closing on instinct. Even when he's deep in his own pain he can't forget how this is hurting Max too, but it's worse to see it so plainly, to hear the desperation in his voice. He doesn't know why Max hasn't left yet.

"You won't have to do anything," Max continues his pleading, more urgent now, "I will carry you, I will wash you, you just have to give me permission to touch you."

There was a time, before everything got this bad, when they were all over each other all the time, constantly touching, kissing, fucking. Now, Daniel can't remember the last time he even had wanted to come and his boyfriend is asking for permission to take care of him. He feels sick.

He hates the idea of Max seeing him like this, dirty and too skinny, but Max has never been good at letting things go and he doesn't have the energy to argue with him, nor the heart to hear his pleading, so he nods.

Relief shows so plainly on Max's face it's almost a physical blow.

He's still hesitant as he grabs Daniel's shoulder, helping him sit up, holding him still until the dizziness wanes, gently easing the t-shirt he's been sleeping in off. Daniel is gearing himself up to stand up when Max leans in closer, guiding Daniel's arms around his shoulder and his legs around his waist. It's not until his hands are under Daniel's thigh and he's heaving himself up that Daniel processes what is happening. A surprised gasp leaves his mouth, but Max only shushes him softly, walking towards the bathroom.

"I won't let you fall," he reassures, as if Daniel could ever be scared of that. As if Daniel had ever not been safe when in his hands.

In the bathroom, Max puts him down on the closed toilet seat. The lights are off and the curtains are drawn, but it's still much lighter than the bedroom, making Daniel squint his eyes almost all the way closed. The bath is full, the sweet smell of his favorite body wash already filling the room. There is an unlit candle on the edge of the tub, and it tugs on Daniel's heart, how deeply Max knows him, how he was aware that Daniel likes to have candles when he's in the bath, but doesn't like smells mixing when he's already so overwhelmed. How he left Daniel the unspoken option without pressuring him to take a decision with a direct question.

"Daniel." Max waits until Daniel is looking back at him before touching his shoulder, fingers warm on Daniel's clammy skin. "Is it okay if I come in with you?"

Daniel had thought it was implied, when Max had said he had ran them a bath, wonders if Max has changed his mind, now that Daniel is almost fully naked in front of him.

Some of his thoughts, who knows how much, he hasn't had control of his face in so long, must show, because Max frowns, other hand coming up to cradle Daniel's cheek.

"Daniel, I want to, but I don't want you to be uncomfortable. Can you please tell me? What is best?"

What is best? The best would be to go back four years and tell his old self to make different decisions. Go back two years and tell Max to make different decisions. Go back ten minutes and tell himself to fall back to sleep for a long long time.

He doesn't know how to answer an open question, one that requires more than a yes or no. He nods anyway.

"Yes, I can?" Max clarifies. Daniel doesn't understand why he looks so happy about it, but he nods again, and Max smiles, the lovely crinkly one that makes his cheek bunch up. It's a stab in his chest, realising how much he had been missing it, how long it had been since he had last seen it.

Max is efficient with his own clothes, stripping off and throwing them on the floor, but he's careful with Daniel, pulling him up and gently easing his underwear off, one leg at a time. Daniel finds himself looking at the wall over Max's back, refusing to look down at his own body, refusing to think about another time, when Max on his knees in front of him would have meant something completely different.

He lets Max help him into the bath too, water deliciously hot, scooting forward to let Max sit behind him.

For a second, the inch of space between them feels like a wall. Then Max sneaks a arm around his waist, pulling him against his chest, legs bracketing him.

Daniel lets himself go boneless, knowing Max will keep him upright.

He doesn't know how long they just stay like that, lost in the warmth of the water and the steady movement of Max's chest, but after a while he feels him shift behind him, reaching for something.

"I will wash your hair now, okay?"

Daniel nods, following Max's guidance to reposition himself slightly so that he has easier access to his hair, but keeps his eyes closed, brain for once blissfully quiet.

He doesn't know what he was expecting, but for sure not the smell of his favorite shampoo to fill his nostrils, aware that he had ran out weeks prior and hadn't bothered to buy more, using Max's 2in1 instead, uncaring of how frizzy it made his curls. He doesn't know when Max went to buy more, but it's yet another squeeze to his heart.

Max is slow with it, massaging Daniel's head, his firm and gentle fingers moving down towards his neck and shoulders too, working his tension away.

He holds a hand over Daniel's forehead when rinsing him, like Michelle does with the kids, and maybe once Daniel would have argued against the babying, but not now, not when he feels so deeply cared for.

He's not expecting to hear the click of another bottle opening, wasn't aware Max even knew of the existence of conditioner. He must make a sound, because he feels Max's chest move under him, as if Max is leaning forward to check his face.

"Okay?" he asks, fingers pausing in his hair.

Daniel hums, more sound than he's produced in hours, and it feels like a reward when Max presses a kiss on his wet shoulder.

"I called Vic, before," Max starts talking, hesitant and almost embarrassed, fingers twisting in Daniel's hair. Daniel doesn't know where this is going, but it's nice, to listen to Max's voice, his chest vibrating with it against his back, feeling closer than they had in weeks.

"I wanted to know, I..." Max huffs out half a laugh, self deprecating in a way he usually isn't. "I sent her pictures, of your hair things. I don't know why you have so many, but of course she knew, and..."

Daniel twists around, Max's fingers slipping from his hair, suddenly overcome with too much emotion to be able to deal with it like this. He bangs his knee against the side of the tub, his tense shoulders twinging with pain at the uncomfortable position, and he barely gets a glimpse of Max's spooked expression before he's burying his face in his shoulder, kissing the warm skin there.

He feels Max move, giving him more space to turn around, hands rubbing his back.

"I'm sorry," Max throws out in a rush, voice tense, and Daniel doesn't know what he's apologizing for, not when he's been so wonderful all this time. "I don't know, I..."

Max's voice breaks in sync with Daniel's heart.

"What have I done wrong?" Max begs, both keeping Daniel against him and pulling back, trying to look at him. "Daniel, please, if I..."

Daniel shakes his head grabbing at him to keep him close.

"No, it's good, you..." his voice is raspy from disuse and he can feel Max flinch in surprise when he hears it, but he pushes through, for once, unable to stand Max thinking he's done something wrong. "Thank you."

Tension bleeds out of Max's body as he cradles him close again, lips finding Daniel's hair, uncaring of the conditioner still there.

"I want," Max pauses, breathing out heavily, almost a sigh. "If I can do something to make you feel better, always I want to do it."

It splits Daniel's heart wide open, the candid way Max is able to say things like this, the steadiness with which he's never stopped caring for him, not even back when they weren't together, when they weren't even talking. He hopes Max can't feel the tear he can't stop on his already damp skin.

They breathe together for a long minute, while Daniel tries once again to process the impossibility of Max's love and Max holds him close, but it still feels too soon when his back starts screaming in protest, forcing him to turn back around.

They settle back in the previous position, but it feels like something dislodged in Daniel's chest. He feels lighter and more anchored at the same time, feels like Max's hands on his body are more real, like the fog in his brain has dispersed a little.

After rinsing the conditioner, careful hand still shielding Daniel's eyes, Max moves onto an hair mask.

"Vic said, of course she does not have your hair, but Vic said this was last," he explains, coiling Daniel's curls around his fingers, one by one, focused on the task as he would be on following the perfect racing line. "She said to do this, to make them right."

Daniel tries to imagine it, Max in the living room, or maybe on his run, or in the supermarket, calling his sister for advice on hair care. He knows he talks to his family most days, but it's different, to know he talks about him, about doing something to make Daniel feel good. A spike of shame curses through him, knowing that it means at least Victoria is aware of how much of a shitty boyfriend he's been lately, but for once it doesn't stay, quickly replaced by overwhelming affection. For Max, for asking, and for Victoria, for giving such careful and detailed instructions, clearly invested in making sure Max could do his best.

The water is cooling down by the time Max rinses off the hair mask and presses another kiss on Daniel's shoulder, arms wrapping around his waist once again.

"We can get out, or I can add hot water," he offers, lips brushing against Daniel's skin. Daniel almost asks him to stay, wanting to prolong the time spent in this little bubble of comfort, but their fingers are wrinkly and he knows his therapist appointment will be soon. He had thought about skipping it, earlier, just hide in bed and refuse to talk, but now that his brain is clearer he knows it would just make things harder.

When he moves, Max moves with him, keeping him steady as they both stand up, holding his hip as he rinses him with the shower head, knowing that Daniel doesn't like to just get out of the bath, even without him having to ask, taking his hand as they step out of the tub, offering him a towel.

Daniel doesn't fight when Max starts drying him, or when he squeezes the water out of his hair with another towel, or when he goes to the bedroom and comes back with clean clothes. He lets himself be taken care of, for once enjoying again being the center of Max's full attention.

It's only when Max steps back that Daniel notices how the hoodie Max is wearing is one of Daniel's, and it reminds him all over again how he's not the only one suffering from all the shit his brain is putting him through.

It makes his heart hurt, but at the same time he can't help but feel yet another wave of love for his boyfriend, who hasn't complained, hasn't left, has never made him feel guilty for any of this. His boyfriend, who so obviously misses him, enough to wear clothes that are too warm for him.

"Come here."

Max's head snaps up, surprise clear on his face, but when Daniel opens his arms he goes willingly, folding into himself a little to be able to fit against Daniel's chest.

"I love you," Max whispers it like a secret, hiding it in the folds of Daniel's sweater, and it makes Daniel wish he could fix his brain quickly, once and for all, just to not have to hear him so small ever again.

"I love you too."

He presses one kiss on Max's hair, then another.

He knows that when they'll break the hug, Max will probably try to convince him to have some food, then will sit in the living room pretending he isn't waiting for Daniel to be done with his session. He will try to make Daniel talk about it, go outside, eat dinner, brush his teeth, take his meds. He will be there, and stay there, even when Daniel kicks him to the guest room because he can't stand the touch of another human being, even when Daniel won't speak to him for hours and hours, too lost in his own head.

Daniel wants to say thank you, but it feels like there's so much he has to be thankful for, two little words wouldn't be enough. He hopes Max gets it anyway.

[doverstar]

actually I love Tentoo and he is the Doctor and it was the only ending for Rose that worked and it is a huge gift to be able to have the man she loves grow old with her, they were always heading for that, y'all be quiet. I 100% understand the angst but it's okay, they're okay, good ending-

[unclewaynemunson]

Some pre-relationship steddie cuddle time

There were a lot of nights when Steve had trouble sleeping, and this one was no exception. But the steady rhythm of Eddie’s breathing right beside him had a calming effect on him nonetheless. It still amazed Steve sometimes, that they were both here alive and well, that they had all made it out of that lion’s den more or less in one piece. They had the wounds to prove it - both physical and mental ones - but they were here.

Eddie turned around to his side, shuffling closer to Steve, and Steve simply couldn’t help himself: he reached out a hand, gently resting it on the exposed skin of Eddie’s upper arm above the blanket, to feel the warmth his body was emitting and to remind himself that Eddie was indeed still alive, even though his eyes were closed.

Eddie stirred at the touch and murmured something unintelligible; for a moment, Steve worried he woke him, but Eddie didn’t open his eyes while he repositioned himself, his limbs heavy with sleep. Steve’s breath caught when Eddie rolled even closer towards him and nuzzled his head against Steve’s chest, lifting an arm to drape it over Steve’s stomach like Steve’s whole upper body was his own personal pillow.

He couldn’t help but smile at the sight: Eddie’s face was still relaxed, clearly somewhere far away in a peaceful dream, and he was drooling a little bit from the corner of his mouth. There was an almost childlike vulnerability to it, a softness that tugged at Steve’s heartstrings and made him feel strangely soothed. It was comforting to see Eddie like this, with his guard down in this peaceful cocoon they had somehow created together.

Steve let his own hand, that was still resting on Eddie’s upper arm, slide further down Eddie’s back until he was properly holding him. In response to his touch, Eddie shuffled just the tiniest bit closer, until his curls were brushing against Steve’s cheek and nose. It tickled, but Steve didn’t mind: the scent of cigarettes that never completely washed away from Eddie’s hair managed to wrap him even further into this sleepy sense of connection between them. Almost unconsciously, a contented sigh escaped his lips, which caused Eddie to produce another incomprehensible little sound, as if the two of them were sharing an only half-awake wordless conversation that no one but them would understand.

Steve didn’t avert his gaze from Eddie’s face, his eyes completely adjusted to the near-darkness of the room after the hours he had spent staring at the ceiling. He watched Eddie’s mouth fall open a little bit further, all the muscles in his face completely relaxed, until a stray curl fell over his face and against his lips, causing him to huff and shake his head in a quick, agitated motion.

Careful not to startle Eddie awake, Steve moved to catch the unruly curl between his fingers and cautiously brushed it aside, making Eddie smile in his sleep and bury his face further into Steve’s chest.

Prompted by the calmness emitted by Eddie, Steve finally let his tired eyes fall shut. He started to align his breathing with Eddie’s, letting his stomach rise and fall in the same deep, steady rhythm. Eventually, it helped him to drift off, cradled in the reassuring warmth of Eddie’s body pressed against his own.

XXX

He woke up when the grounding weight of Eddie’s head got lifted off his chest. His eyes fluttered open to be met with the image of a smiling Eddie looking at him. It was a different smile than his usual bold, challenging grin - there was almost something sheepish about it.

‘How did this happen?’ Eddie asked while rubbing a finger over his eyelid, clearly meaning the way the two of them were still all tangled up in each other. He wasn’t making any effort to move himself away from Steve just yet, however. His voice sounded husky and the look in his eyes was still drowsy.

‘No idea,’ Steve lied smoothly, trying to blink the sleep away from his own eyes. He could barely believe that it was already light outside, that he had apparently slept for hours on end for a change.

‘Sorry, man,’ Eddie murmured. He finally looked fully awake, causing him to start disentangling his warm body from Steve’s - but Steve still hadn’t yet shaken the sleep off of himself enough to feel self-conscious about wanting Eddie close to him, so he tightened the arm that was still wrapped around Eddie’s torso.

‘Stay,’ he mumbled. ‘’S cozy.’

Eddie uttered a soft chuckle, relaxed his muscles again, and dropped his head back on Steve’s chest. ‘Yeah, it is cozy,’ he agreed in a quiet voice. ‘I like the sound of your heartbeat.’

And while Eddie kept absentmindedly tracing abstract patterns over the hem of Steve’s shirt and across the fading scar around his neck with his index finger, it was surprisingly easy for Steve to let himself doze off again, clinging to that blissful space between sleeping and waking, until the sun had been up for hours.