#part of a longer WIP that I pick away at when it lets me

[fictionisthebetterreality]

Shepard wakes up. Earth is in ruins. The Citadel is in pieces. The Alliance Navy is trying to put it all back together.

No one has seen the NORMANDY, or its crew.

-

She searches.

Days turn to weeks. Weeks turn to months. Or, she assumes they must. She stops keeping track.

Catalyst was right, as it turns out. Their tech is reduced to sparking heaps of metalwork; glitching at best, unresponsive at worst. Their surviving engineers get to work with a familiar, frenzied, desperate sense of purpose, and she doesn't mention Catalyst's promise, that everything should be salvageable.

She tries not to think about the Geth.

She won't let herself think about EDI.

The engineers are heralded as heroes when the first starship takes to space again, and she does nothing, says nothing to contradict it. She tells no one that their survival now, is not due to their humanity.

Her humanity.

Fallen Dreadnoughts litter the sky above Earth, their hulking carcasses blotting out the sun like clouds made of steel and death. Deadened Reaper ships float alongside them, tentacles forever frozen in a final death-spasm. Several are already establishing themselves in Earth’s orbit, visible as daytime stars. People start naming them in the style of constellations, complete with myths that are nowhere near as horrifying as the truth.

There are only a few intact ships left. The Alliance fleets are limping and crawling into dock at the Citadel, and every ship that is repaired to barely workable condition is snapped up, sent to search the debris for survivors, for resources, for anything useful. Their scans are breathtaking, thousands of wrecks already breaking down, breaking apart as solar wind and radiation whirl around planets and blast the broken hulls into pieces.

They’d thought Space was quiet once. Peaceful, even.

There are too few working ships to spare even one, certainly not for a personal mission. There are hundreds of thousands of people missing loved ones, family and friends disappeared in the chaos of battle. She prefers it, seeing the endless wallpaper of MISSING that covers every available surface; glitching holographs alongside crude hand-drawings, sometimes just a name carved into rock. Anything to find those missing.

It is so much easier to see that, than to catch sight of a sudden reunion in the street, to hear the surprised shouts and inevitable tears of relief and joy that follow. To hear the familiar litany of "Have you seen...?" and to see a person nod the affirmative, point their hand towards a building or some other destination that is undoubtably reachable.

There are too few working ships to spare even one.

Not even for a soldier gone AWOL.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Roads Untraveled 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, pregnancy, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Single and pregnant, you discover a super soldier in the dumpster but he might not be hero you think he is. 

[This is a rewrite of a series of the same name which I removed a couple years ago]

Characters: Silverfox!Steve Rogers

Note: I finally did this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

‘When he went away  The blues walked in and met me  Oh, yeah if he stays away  Old rocking chair’s gonna get me  All I do is pray...’ 

You sway to the melody as you wipe dry the last plate. You set it in the rack as Etta James’ soulful crooning wafts around the kitchen. Just the simple task of washing the dishes has you out of breath. You can no longer hum along as you’re suddenly light headed with sweat speckled across your brow. Even the breeze drifting in through the open window can’t cool the constant heat brewing within you. 

You brace your lower back as you reach for the dish towel and pop open the cupboard. The music drones to silence as the next some in queue loads. Your rounded stomach presses to the counter as you take a mug and dry it inside and out. Strange, you don’t remember the song starting like that; the strange warbling noise much unlike Marvin Gaye’s rich tones. 

You set the mug on the shelf and back up. Another noise peaks your attention, too tinny to be a snare. You rub your stomach mindlessly as you sling the cloth over your shoulder. You waddle across the tile to the folding table beneath the window. You tap pause on your phone and the bluetooth speaker goes silent. 

Your fingers pick the damp fabric away from your bump. These days you can’t avoid getting soaked. Even as you can’t forget about the burden of your condition, you’re still oblivious to how it gets in the way until it does. You sigh as you listen for another clue. 

A pained deep grunt floats up from below. Distant but decisive, another rustle beneath the unexpected noise. You lean over the table, a hand on the ledge as you push the pane higher. You bend, stomach pressed to the speaker, and peer down. You expect another dumpster diver searching for empties to trade in; rather you meet a most unexpected sight. 

There is a man in the dumpster, alright, but he isn’t moving. From there, you can’t see very clearly. You squint at the figure strewn among the trash but the zigzag of the fire escape obscures your eye line. 

You shouldn’t go and see. Not only is it a lot of effort, but it’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be wandering into alleys to check on strangers in dumpsters. You don’t know any good reason someone might be swimming in garbage. Nor do you think they would want to be bothered.  

Still, the prickling in your neck urges you to do something. There’s just something so peculiar about the angle of the arm you can see clearer than the rest of the body. At least they’re moving, even if they sound agonized. 

You take your phone and untether it from the bluetooth speaker. You unlock it and keep your thumb ready to dial out. You move as quickly as you can, not very, and waddles along the back of the couch into the entry way. You take your keys from the hook near your door and step into your cushy slides. 

You turn back the latch and leave the door unlocked behind you. The slides shift on your swollen feet as you rush down to the elevator. God, your back hurts. You try not to lean too far back as it only adds to the pain. You need a belly belt but they’re so darn expensive. 

You’re out of breath as you step on and turn to watch the numbers count down. You’re still panting as you reach the lobby and push through the front doors, leaning into the heavy grated iron until it creaks loudly. You clamour down the steps to even ground and your hips pang. 

You put your hand under your stomach, trying to lift it and ease the pressure in your hips. You blow out between your lips as you have to slow down. You shuffle across the grass and into the paved lobby. The stink of the trash brings you back to those early days of morning sickness. And afternoon sickness. And night sickness. 

You try not to inhale too deeply as you step between the brick buildings. You bring your phone up, ready to hit those three digits in a heartbeat. You should’ve done so already. Even if you do, it’ll take hours for anyone to come out here. 

You stop and listen a few steps from the dumpster. You don’t hear anything now. You look up at the sky, dimming towards evening in a mixture of pink and blue, the moon peeking palely through the hue. You grip your phone tight, keys jangling with your movement as you continue forward. 

“Hello?” You call out, “is someone in there?” You linger near the corner of the dumpster, the trash reeking in your nostrils, “do you need help?” 

No answer. You stare up, wondering how you might see inside. If you weren’t built like a keg, you might be able to see from the lower level of the fire escape but you can’t even make it one rung. You blink and call out again. 

“Hello? Are you okay?” 

You wait for a response. Silence again. Maybe they found their way out on their own. You huff. So much for all that. All you’ve done is added to the pain in your arches. You turn on your heel and a groan gurgles and plastic crinkles noisily. 

You stop again, wavering, and peer back over your shoulder. A hand appears over the tops of the dumpsters edge and grips it. You face the large metal bin as the knuckles strain within the stained brown leather, fingertips poking out nakedly, blood and dirty tinged across the flesh. A long grunt follows as the figure drags himself to look over the top. 

“Sir, are you--” you begin, voice catching at the sight of the cowl and the man’s square jaw. The white star on his chest stuns you. It’s him. Everyone knows that uniform, that face, even under his helmet. New York’s own Captain America. 

You gape as the super soldier strains and swings himself out of the dumpster with one arm. His other is hanging limply as his feet hit the pavement. His knees crack and buckle. He drops down onto them and hisses. 

“Captain America?” You utter dumbly. 

He puts his fist to the ground and leans on his arm. He hangs his head and heaves. He drags a leg forward, planting his foot, and makes himself stand. He pushes his shoulders back and winces, reaching to cradle his dangling arm. 

“Steve,” he rasps, “goddamn.” 

You don’t expect the obscenity. Not from him. He leans against the dumpster and turns his chin up. He gnashes his teeth as he grips his arm and jerks, moving the heavy bin with his effort. The pop of his shoulder is sickening as he growls tightly. He stomps his foot and as he shakes out the arm he just put back into place. 

He reaches up and peels off his cowl as he puts his head straight. He looks at you as he wipes the streak of blood from lip to chin. His blond locks are streaked silver and his face is lined. He looks much older than the magazine covers and the TV screens. The magic of editing, right? 

He swipes the sweaty hair from his forehead and huffs. 

“Steve,” you rest your phone on your stomach, “are you okay?” 

He pushes himself away from the dumpster and puffs, “I’m fine. Just... a hiccup.” 

You stare at him. He looks tired and worn. You believe him when he says he’s okay. He's a super soldier and the world has seen his many feats. Yet he looks completely hollow. 

“Are you sure? I could call someone or...” you step forward and point to the slash that borders chest and shoulder, “you should clean that out, shouldn’t you?” 

He looks down and grimaces, “had worse. I got comms. HQ doesn’t care about a few scratches.” 

He goes to step forward and stumbles slightly. He snarls and kicks his foot into the gravel. He wiggles his knee and bends to rub the joint. 

“I...” your mouth opens and closes. This isn’t the man you’ve seen in the media. He's not smiling and golden and shining. Still, he’s the Captain. “I live above,” you gesture upward, “I could help... or maybe you can just... sit for a little bit. Get yourself straight?” 

He looks at you. As if for the first time. His forehead smooths as the tension eases from his jaw. His gaze slowly crawls down to his stomach and you see the dimple in his cheek. 

“Your husband okay with that? I’m a bit of a mess,” his tone is lighter as he fixes his grip on his cowl. 

“Oh no, I don’t have--” you chew your lip and look at the brick wall, “it’s just me. But I have first aid kit and learned to stitch in summer camp. I think I can still remember how.” 

He glances around and nods, “got a back door?” 

“Yeah, it’s... past you,” you nod in his direction. 

He pivots stiffly and cranes to see around the dumpster. You near him and your keys jingle again. You follow him to the metal door with the glass window and you shove the key in and twist. You pull it open a few inches. It’s heavier than the front door. He grabs it and wrenches it all the way back. 

“Thanks,” you murmur. “There’s an elevator.” 

“Hm, fewer people see me, the better,” he sniffs as the door clanks behind him. 

“It might take me a while,” you warn, “I’m slow.” 

“What floor. I’ll meet you,” he offers. 

“Sure, it’s three.” 

“Number?” 

“310.” 

“I’ll find it,” he states and marches towards the stair sign. 

You go to catch the elevator, stewing in disbelief on your ascent. You step off and continue on to your apartment. He’s already there. He stands with his hand on the frame, looking over his shoulder as you waddle down the hall towards him. 

“It’s unlocked,” you say. 

He opens it and waits for you. You thank him as you enter and he follows. He locks it and lingers behind you. You put your hand to the wall as you slip off your slides. He gently lays his cowl on the corner table and bends to unlace his boots. You hang the keys on the hook and place your phone on the small table. 

He leaves his dirtied boots on the mat and limps forward. You stand in the open doorway of the living room and peek back at him. He looks around reluctantly. 

“Please, sit down,” you insist and wave through the doorway before you pass through. 

“I...” he begins and you hear his uneven gait down the hallway. “I don’t want to dirty your couch.” 

“I have a steam cleaner,” you assure. “Sit, I’ll get the kit.” 

He stares, his eyes once more scanning the space. Does he think this is a trip? That you’re some covert agent who all too conveniently found him? That’s absurd. Look at you. 

You shrug off that ridiculous idea and cross to the kitchen. You open several drawers before you remember it’s in the bathroom. Of course. Your brain likes to play games these days. You grab the metal tin from under the sink and return to Steve.  

He pulls off his gloves and balls them on the side table next to the couch. You come around the other side of the couch and sit, leaving lots of space between you. You squeeze the kits as you’re once more out of breath. 

“You okay?” He turns the question on you. 

“I’m not the one bleeding. Just pregnant,” you smile. 

You balance the kit on your stomach as you lean back. You sanitize a needle and weave it with surgical thread. You put that aside and fish out an alcoholic swap. You shift the kit aside and push on the back of the couch as you try to sit forward. You shake and he helps you, a humbling assistance. 

“First,” you turn to him, “we’ll see how deep it is,” you tear open the swap, “can I...” 

“One sec,” he dips his fingers into the fabric and tears the sleeve, renting the fabric like tissue. His arm is thick and well-toned despite the years. A centurion like him can’t complain for the shape he’s in, even battered. “I can do it myself.” 

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be easy.” 

You reach as he angles towards you. You gingerly dab around the gash and he tenses. He takes a sharp breath, “you don’t have to be so gentle. I can handle pain.” 

“Right,” you work more diligently. 

He’s quiet as you tend to him, picking out gravel and some metal slivers. You worry that you might miss some. You lean in closer and he steels himself at your proximity. 

“So,” he clears his throat, “just you and...” the kid?” 

“We all make mistakes,” you chuckle. You can only laugh about it, as scared as you are. 

“Mmm,” he flinches as you sweep down the length of the cut. It’s not that deep, mostly superficial. 

“Let me put some steri-strips on, shouldn’t need the stitches, ” you say as you sift through the kit with one hand, “if you’re hungry, I have leftovers. You like chicken?” 

You don’t know why you’re offering. Maybe it’s because you owe him. Like everyone in the city. It’s your chance to give back to the hero who gave so much. Or maybe it’s because you’re so damn lonely talking to your own stomach. 

“I should go,” he insists as you place a strip across the cut. 

“Up to you,” you say, “I don’t mind either way, but I’m not going to chase Captain America out of ym apartment.” 

He doesn’t say anything. You finish dressing his wound and gather up the wrappers and all. You crumple it in one hand and rock yourself to stand. You’re overly aware of him watching you. You touch your stomach and rub it, soothing your nerves. You find him watching the movement of your hand. 

“You must be pretty far along,” he says. 

“Six months. Chicken tortellini, if you want. I was gonna reheat some. I haven’t eaten since work.” 

“Work?” He frowns and stands, moving better than before. “Should you be?” 

“I’m at a desk. It’s nothing. HR got me some ergonomic stuff. Nothing compared to what you do.” 

You put away the kit and toss the garbage. You wash your hands before you search out the container of pasta in the fridges. You sense him behind you, just in the wide archway that peers into the kitchen. You reach into the cupboard you left open and take the single plate that isn’t in the rack. 

“So, you want some?” You ask. 

He’s silent with contemplation, the shift of his weight creaks in the floor, “I appreciate it, yes, please.” 

“I might have something you can change into,” you say. You wonder why you’re doing all this. Maybe it’s that maternal instinct kicking in. “The father, before he took off, left a few things.” You peek over your shoulder, “he was a bit smaller than you.” 

He shrugs then winces at the careless gesture. “Do you mind if I wash up before I eat? I smell like garbage. I don’t wanna overstep--” 

“Go ahead, it’ll take a while to warm this up,” you say. 

Another long lull. He taps his fingers on the wall and inhales deep enough for you to hear, “promise, I’ll get out of your hair after dinner.” 

“Please, take your time,” you say as you put the tortellini in a glass pan to rebake. He backs away and you sense his hesitation, “oh, down the hall, to the left of the bedroom at the end.” 

“Thanks,” he intones, “oh, uh, just realised, you know who I am...” 

Your brows pop up and you stop before you can put the pan in the stove. You look back at him and give your name. He nods. 

“Pretty,” he comments, “also, it’s just Steve, not Captain.” 

[floofyroro]

To Be Held

Pairing: Crosshair/Reader

Words: 682 (fic vignette)

Tags/warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, semi-established relationship

Summary: In a quiet moment together, you inquire about Crosshair's scar.

A/N: Many drabbles sit untouched in my notes app. I'm getting tired of staring at my longer WIPs and I think I just need to share something at this point. Please accept these crumbs and let me know if this resonates with you. 🙏 Part 2 is here.

Your touch is feather-light against his temple. He allows his head to lay limply across your lap and despite how intimate it feels, he can’t find any reason to care. Not when your fingertips trail back and forth from his cheeks to his neck. When they reach his shoulders, you press into him, making quick work of any lingering tension.

“What’s the story behind this scar?” 

He goes rigid and you must notice because you pause your minstrations as a result. 

“I’m sorry.”

A pause. 

“I… we don’t have to talk about—“

“Bracca,” he interrupts you, causing you to quiet. 

“It happened on the planet Bracca while I was still serving the Empire.”

His voice feels hoarse from disuse. When your touch resumes, albeit with more hesitance, so does he.

“I was… targeting my brothers and Omega. But I was facing an ion engine when it ignited. I... couldn’t get away in time.” 

The breeze picks up once more, the curtains billowing in the background. Crosshair welcomes the salt-licked sensation that’s brought in by the wind, finding that it contrasts nicely against the rise of his own internal body temperature. 

His body seems to remember the moment far too well. Crosshair has to tamp down against the rising fear, the rising anxiety that threatens to overtake him. He feels it all creeping over his shoulders but this time…

This time, your touch is already there to combat these ghosts. It takes your lithe fingers, your dexterous thumbs to press into him and he finds that maybe he can move on from these moments, these ghosts. 

If only while by your side.

While you remain silent, he reassesses.  Perhaps with time, you’ll come to find that he isn’t worth the commitment, that his baggage is too daunting to carry. With each layer that he bares before you, he finds that his confidence in being vulnerable is challenged. Will continue to be challenged. He wonders that with time, it’ll ease.

You sigh. 

He waits, anticipating a form of rejection. He wonders if looking up into your eyes would reveal a look of disgust.

You don't give him much time to ponder further.

Your hair trickles against his nose before he registers that you’re leaning down to cradle his head to your chest. Soft hands support him, and the sound of your heartbeat thrums against his cheek, his temple. 

It’s a rather nice sound. 

“You have been through so much.” 

It takes him a moment too long to parse the meaning of your words. These aren’t words that should be directed towards him. No, not with the mountain of sin weighing heavily on his shoulders. 

Instead of accepting them, he focuses on your heartbeat, the sound a balm for these thoughts.

It’s a soft, lulling thing.

But your caress against his temple, his scar, is what brings him back to you. 

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He… 

His chest tightens because yes. He can admit that he has gone through enough. An arm snakes around you in his own attempt to return the embrace, the action surprising yet natural. 

You tighten your hold on him in response. 

“I’m sorry, Crosshair. But I’m so glad you’re here now,” and he opens his eyes to find that his gaze is clouded, his cheeks dampening as he tries to inhale steadily, “here, where you’re safe. Here, with me.”

There’s a crack in your voice and it causes his heart to stutter. He isn’t used to this. This.. feels too good to be true. Is he dreaming? The rational side of him berates such a thought because obviously he’s awake and he’s here, with you, with kind words directed towards him, their meaning a nectar which he feels drawn to, finding that he’s ravenous for more.

Instead of speaking, he uses his palm on your back to pull you closer, the pressure of your chest against him welcome and grounding. Without a second thought, his fingers brush against your spine, your shirt catching against the callouses on his hands.

He’s never been good with words anyway. 

Part 2 is here.

[buckyalpine]

Fic idea - Bucky’s family & time travel

You know how I keep proposing ideas, then adding it to my wips and then I stare at it while it stares at me. Heres another. I'm so sorry. Swear this will end in fluff, you'll just suffer in between. So imagine the most angstiest angst where Bucky gets married and has a child with his sweetheart before he’s sent to war. He's loved her his whole life and now they have a little one together; nothing could be more perfect. He promises he'll be back safe and sound with a kiss to her forehead and plenty of kisses for his baby girl.

Until Hydra captures him and turns him into the Winter Soldier. His first mission is to eliminate any familial ties. He doesn't feel anything when he pulls the trigger. He's successful and carries out hundreds of others kills, each searing itself in some part of his brain but he's constantly wiped before he can piece anything together.

But then he's rescued and he has to pick up the broken fragments of his memories and its too much of a fog for him to understand. At the very least he has his best friend by his side again and he's slowly starting to remember.

His first question is about his sweet y/n and his little girl.

His happiness is short-lived when Steve doesn't say anything. Bucky doesn't understand why he avoids his gaze, why he suddenly looks so distraught. No amount of pleading or begging works, his best friend doesn't breathe a word, asking Bucky to please let things be.

To learn to live with the way things were.

He can't do that though. He needs answers. When the team is away on a mission, he find a way to get into his records that SHIELD kept on him, wondering if they ever had anything on file about his life before he was captured. Every single detail about who he was before the war to after is written with details and camera footage.

He doesn't move from where he's seated, a blank expression on his face while everyone returns. Steve approaches Bucky first, worried about why the soldier looked so pale as if he'd aged 10 years in the past 3 days.

"I killed them?" His broken whisper of a voice breaks Steve's heart when he sees the file Bucky was looking at, a picture of him, his little girl on his shoulders and wife all smiling at the camera. The sheet he's clutching onto has their names along with deceased written write across the sheet.

Bucky is inconsolable.

His dreams are no longer about others he has killed. He's flooded with memories of her; the soft ivory dress she wore on their wedding day, the baby pink lace she had on when he undressed her that same night, the scent of her perfume, the sound of her laugh, the kicks of their baby, the sound of her happy squeals when he blew raspberries onto her chubby cheeks.

Those happy memories are quickly replaced with her pleading for him to remember. To just remember at least once.

Jamie, it's me, please, m'your y/n, Bucky, don't-

D-daddy?

Baby, go to your room-Bucky no-

Mama!

Please, not Bella, James, you love her baby, you love us- please remember me-

I-I love you

The pain of Bucky's cries are too much for anyone to handle. They're a different type of sadness. So much so, even Tony's starting to worry when he doesn't see Bucky for days on end. He begs to be put back in cyro, to have his memories wiped, to have his brain fried, anything to forget. He doesn't care about the pain, he just wants it all to end.

Imagine theres a mission that involves time travel. Steve and Sam stand on the platform, ready to enter the portal, setting their timers for a specific date in the past. When Sam catches Steve adding another date without telling him, he quietly adds it on his suit as well, piecing what the Captain plans on doing.

The mission takes a little longer than anticipated. Steve is surprised when Sam is beside him when he travels back to the 40's, the both of them now with a new mission in mind, alternating the future be damned. If they had a chance to give Bucky the life he deserved again, they would do it. Bucky doesn't ask for much. In fact he never asked for anything. He deserved this.

Imagine the shock everyone gets when the portal opens up at the compound and there are now 4 people on the platform. Steve, Sam, a woman and a little girl no older than 2. She's dressed in a simple dotted dress, still wearing an apron around her waist while her baby stays clinging around her, tucking her face into her mommas neck.

Imagine the way Bucky would collapse with her when he sees his family again, crying endlessly being able to hold his wife and child, something he thought he'd lost forever. Everyone gives the little family some privacy while he hugs and kisses them, cuddling them to his chest, still right on the lab floor. Explanations for everything can wait, right now he can't believe he has his angels back.

Imagine the way they'd fall asleep that night, sleeping in bed for once, now that he's reunited with his y/n and his Bella.

imagine the endless love he'd make to her while Bella spends time with her God Fathers, aka all the Avenger men.

Imagine she's pregnant soon after and they can continue being a family in the present, doing all the things they always dreamed of.

Anyway, just a thought.

[seiya-starsniper]

SNIPPET - Dreamling Bingo (Robin Hood AU Retired Dream)

For @dreamlingbingo Square A3 - replacing Robin Hood AU with the Adoptable Prompt: Retired Dream

Snippet itself is rated General, actual fic will be Explicit

other snippets under the tag #retired dream is a fuckboy wip

--------------------

“Before we go on,” Hob says, trying his best to get some blood back into his brain and out of his cock, “We need to set some rules.” 

Murphy, predictably, frowns in confusion. 

“Are you referring to play rules?” he asks. 

“Not quite,” Hob answers. “I mean rules for how things are going to be, after we have sex.”

This time, Murphy outright grimaces and sighs in frustration. The sour look on his face tells Hob he knows where this conversation is going. 

“Humans have such complex feelings about sex,” he complains. 

“And you didn’t before?” Hob shoots back.  “Mr. ‘I sent a woman to hell because she had regrets about being with me?’”

“That was—” Murphy wrinkles his nose and grimaces. Oh, Hob knew all about Murphy’s past relationships, at least, the ones while he was still Endless, and how poorly those had ended.

“Was—?” Hob asks, letting the question hang between them. Murphy may have been able to get away with not communicating clearly when he was still inhuman, but that sort of thing didn’t work in his new existence.

“I was different then,” Murphy says after a brief silence. “Everything was so much…more intense. My loneliness, my responsibilities, my entire existence.”

“And now?” Hob asks. 

“Now,” Murphy replies, sticking his tongue out playfully and shrugging. “Now I can just focus on my pleasure. My wants. My needs. And the world would not end for it.” Hob snorts and rolls his eyes fondly.

“Sure, sure,” he says with an easy smile. “Far be it from me to disagree with a fun time. But you and I both know that doesn’t mean you’re not breaking hearts along the way while you’re finding yourself.” 

Murphy’s face twists in discomfort, and Hob knows he’s plucked a sensitive string. He wonders just how many hearts Murphy has broken since becoming human. He feels kind of bad for them, really. Murphy was so pretty and so emotional. There’s probably a few songs about him out there in the world if Hob had to guess. 

“I suppose you’re right,” Murphy finally acquiesces with a sigh. “Just because I am no longer directly tangled with the collective unconsciousness does not mean I am not affecting others. It is just…different.” He looks distinctly uncomfortable now, like he’s expecting some sort of judgment from Hob about his behavior. But Hob knows better than to throw stones in glass houses. Part of the reason he’d even wanted to live forever was so that he could bed as many women as he wanted. And men too, once he realized he enjoyed their company as well. 

“You remember what I said when I first set you loose on the world?” Hob asks, more gently this time. Murphy tilts his head, thinking, and isn’t that a sight? His friend has to actually struggle to remember things now. 

“You said,” Murphy replies then pauses. Then his eyes widen. “You said that I should treat others how I would wish to be treated myself.”

Hob smiles. “Golden Rule of living forever,” he replies. 

Murphy snorts. “And how would you wish for me to treat you then?” 

“Not like a one-night stand, for one thing,” Hob replies easily, stepping closer into Murphy’s personal space. “I’m your friend, not some fling you pick up at a club.” He reaches a hand to caress Murphy’s face. “So you communicate with me all your needs, or we don’t do this, okay?” 

Murphy inhales sharply and sways into Hob’s touch. “Yes,” he replies, eyes fluttering.

[shybunnie20]

Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

★My Masterlist

Summary: After some time in the spotlight, Eddie returns to Hawkins and finds that his unfinished confession to his best friend awaits him.

Author's Note: Here's a little something I wrote while I've been chipping away at my other WIPs. It’s way longer than I expected but I'm happy with how it turned out. The angst is very mild and it has a happy ending!

AU with no Upside Down, no use of y/n, established past friendship, Eddie and reader graduated the same year but ages aren't specified, focuses on Eddie's POV, proofread to an extent.

Word Count: 8.3k

Warnings: MDNI, mentions of sex, includes swearing

After posing for the cover of the latest Metal Edge magazine, Eddie was eager to head back home ASAP. While he enjoys his time on the East Coast, he was really looking forward to some much-needed downtime. As he boarded his private jet and set off, everything was going according to plan. However, the weather decided that he was going to make a pit stop. Rather, an emergency landing.

Plans get derailed and unpredictability is a part of the lifestyle. When your private jet is just about plucked from the sky during a lightning storm, finding a place to land is imperative, no matter the location. In this instance, his jet touched down in Indianapolis. Hopes of catching a taxi to Hawkins were dashed. No taxi driver in their right mind would willingly brave the distance from the city to the suburb in that weather. Eddie was left with one person to call upon—the man whom Eddie had been considering visiting for quite some time.

Wayne was surprised to receive the phone call but he agreed to pick Eddie up from the airport without hesitation. They haven’t been staying in touch as of late; Eddie’s life is nothing short of a whirlwind consisting of sold-out arenas and constant travel. Getting a hold of his nephew became a challenging feat. Wayne rarely got past speaking to Eddie’s assistants.

It was his uncle’s rare day off and calls at that time of night were few and far between. So, when Wayne’s canary yellow phone practically leaped off of the hook, he was astonished. After making the drive through the pattering rain, Wayne retrieved a sulking Eddie from Concourse B. As Eddie settled into the passenger seat of the fixer-upper, exhaustion from his turbulent journey was evident.

The next morning, Eddie wakes up with a protesting ache in his lower back, the result of a night spent on the pull-out couch. As he sits up straight, he lets out a low groan, vocalizing how his body yearns for the luxurious embrace of the Egyptian cotton sheets that are fitted around his California king mattress. They lay chilled without him, thousands of miles away in his opulent hillside mansion in Beverly Hills.

As he stretches in an attempt to unknot the tension between his shoulder blades, Eddie takes in his surroundings. He stumbled through the front door so late last night that he had no energy left to get reacquainted with his childhood home. He even wound up sleeping in his designer jeans, the coarse denim a far cry from the plush pajamas he would normally change into before bed.

A gentle grin forms on Eddie’s lips upon feeling comforted by the familiarity of the room. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the simple life that Wayne brought him up in. Eddie gazes around, noticing the subtle changes such as the addition of new mugs and hats to their respective displays. One particular change catches his attention and draws a fond exhale from his stale lungs. The worn-out doormat, which was torn to hell when he was a teenager, was finally replaced.

Despite his internal clock being out of whack, Eddie’s brain knows when it’s time for a cup of jitter juice. He rises from the rickety mattress, his back cracking loudly at the extension. A moan of discomfort slips out as he winces at the pinch at the base of his neck. “Jesus, fuck,” he mutters aloud. Eddie makes a mental note to buy Wayne a new sofa.

His socked feet slide across the linoleum as he steps into the kitchen. He notices that the bedroom door is closed, though it’s doing very little to dampen the loud snoring emitting behind it. Eddie yawns as he grinds his fists into his eyes, causing a splash of tingling colors across the darkness of his lids. He approaches the corner cupboard, knowing that what he’s looking for will be in the same place it always has been. The cabinet door greets him with a squeak and he’s met with a single dented can of Folgers. That shit is practically varnish remover, it simply won’t do.

Eddie sighs as the craving for his favorite Italian coffee intensifies. It’s so rich, flavorful, smooth, and yet, it packs a punch. Just the thought of the hazelnut dark roast takes him back to the first time he ever tried it in Trieste. From that moment on, he needed it imported back home.

Well, the java situation is a bust. For the time being, Eddie has a choice. Either charred slices of Wonderbread or plain cornflakes. AKA, buttered plywood or a bowl of sawdust. Ew and ew. Settling for the arguably more exciting option, Eddie decides on toast. Each bite into the brittle slice causes dark crumbs to scatter into his open palm that he holds beneath his chin. He can’t be bothered to get a plate, even as an adult. The burnt bits accumulate in his hand as he continues to nibble. While Eddie brushes his palms over the sink to rid himself of crumbs, he catches sight of the magazine clipping held to the fridge door by a Tweety Bird magnet. Frozen in time on glossy paper is a photo of him at the American Music Awards last year. “Damn, I looked good.” He smirks as he recalls the tailored suit, the lapels encrusted with dazzling gems, and his pale bare chest blinding the paparazzi from beneath it. The memories of that night come rushing, the flashing cameras and the cheers of his fans.

With his tummy partially pleased but the craving for quality coffee intensifying, Eddie recalls that there’s only one good place around here to get a quality cup of Joe. Eddie takes a brisk shower to wash away the residual stickiness that clings to his skin from a night spent fully clothed in the stuffy trailer. He dresses in the most pedestrian outfit that’s in his suitcase, hoping to blend in as much as possible, and heads out. 

Eddie’s stride carries him through the glass door of Morningside Café, the cheerful bell above it announces his arrival. The café is bustling, as one would expect on a Saturday morning. The patrons have come for their morning pick-me-up, much like Eddie.

Initially, he considers keeping his onyx-lensed sunglasses on, a barrier that would shield him from potential recognition and the commotion that would ensue. But he decides to take them off, knowing that he might stick out if he’s wearing sunglasses indoors. Eddie tucks one of the folded arms of the frame into the collar of his t-shirt. To his surprise, nobody reacts. No one gasps or falls to their knees at his feet. The world around him continues to turn. Part of him yearns for the ego boost that comes with being recognized but, all in all, he’s relieved to experience a semblance of normalcy for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

Taking a moment to soak in his surroundings, Eddie’s gaze sweeps across the interior of the shop. His eyes linger on the display case where flaky pastries drizzled with chocolate and caramel sauces are housed. The cabin-esque aesthetic warms the soul with rich wood tones and a brick fireplace. It stands dormant, flameless, because it’s too warm out for a fire this time of year.

Beside the fireplace sit two figures that catch his attention. Even from a short distance, Eddie recognizes the mane of luscious locks, a signature feature that only belongs to one person. He strolls over with excitement tugging at his chest.

“Excuse me,” Eddie’s voice is hushed as he addresses the two figures engrossed in conversation. “Do you happen to know if the creamer here is fat-free?”

Steve and Robin’s dialogue comes to an abrupt halt, their voices silenced by the unexpected interruption. They exchange a glance, their eyebrows raising in unison. Simultaneously, their heads turn to peer over their shoulders. And there he stands, Eddie, someone they never thought they’d see again.

Steve gets to his feet a beat faster than Robin and he’s all smiles. “Look what the cat dragged in!”

“Must be an expensive cat,” Robin quips while she eyes Eddie, a quick assessment that catches details he overlooked in his haste to blend in. Her comment refers to the flashy jewelry he neglected to take off. “Persian, right? Those are the goblin-looking ones that rich people like? Ugly little fluff balls, if you ask me.”

Eddie’s sigh carries relief, expressing his genuine pleasure in knowing that Robin remains candid and unfiltered, just as he remembers her. As he extends his hand, Steve meets him with a firm handshake.

A friendly slap on the shoulder from Steve follows. “What brings you to this god-forsaken town?” His question is punctuated by true curiosity and a hint of humor, alluding to Eddie’s past that has kept him from ever returning up until now.

 “I was in the area,” Eddie replies with a sense of restraint, deliberately avoiding the true source of his change in plans. “Figured I'd swing by to see what’s what.”

Robin gestures for Eddie to take the seat opposite of them. They all settle into their mahogany-colored chairs. Eddie shifts awkwardly, the denim of his jeans dragging on the leather noisily.

With her elbows digging into her knees, Robin leans forward and supports her chin with her balled fists, positioned to hear the greatest story in her life. “So?” 

Eddie blinks dumbly, bemusement evident on his face. “What?” 

Reclined deeply into his chair, Steve rests his hands on his belly with interlocked fingers. “Enlighten us. Where the hell did ya go?”

“Oh,” Eddie breathes, “Well, uh, I migrated west and lived in my van for a while. Then I found an ad in the paper for a spare bedroom in a janky apartment. I did the roommate thing for a bit and then- I dunno,” He twists the grim reaper-shaped ring around the base of his middle finger. “Things just worked out, I guess.”

Robin blows a raspberry and sits back into a less anticipatory position. “Long story short, huh? The last I saw, you were on the red carpet escorting Heather Locklear.”

Her reference to Eddie’s past event appearance draws a smirk from him, feeling a sense of satisfaction in knowing that his old friends have been keeping up with the big things he’s been doing. While she encourages Eddie to delve into the details of his daily life, Steve looks across the room at you. Your nose is to the grindstone, your hands working deftly to maintain the rhythm that ensures that the orders are being fulfilled in a timely manner.

Opening shifts are the worst, for the customers and the employees alike. Nobody is at their friendliest due to the dark clouds of exhaustion hanging over everyone’s heads. Not to mention, regulars have their quirks. Some are particularly anal—specifying exact temperatures for their flavored fuel. They scrutinize your every move, even going as far as monitoring the thermometer to ensure that their demands are met.

The grind of the morning rush is draining, yet, you soldier on. You wipe away spilled coffee grounds from the countertop and amidst the clatter and constant flow of orders, you catch Steve staring right at you. His expression is peculiar, his arched brows paired with a subtle curve to his lips. You tilt your head inquisitively at him. What?

Steve subtly points across from him and mouths, Eddie Munson.

Your hand freezes mid-motion, the damp rag caught between your palm and the solution-streaked surface. Instinct takes over as you lean onto your tiptoes, straining to catch a glimpse over the top of the coffee machine. And no shit, there’s that head of chocolate curls. Your pulse spikes as apprehension floods your belly. Returning your gaze to Steve, you mouth back to him, oh my god.

Steve’s frantic wave beckons you over, his urgency not leaving room for subtlety. Eddie takes notice of Steve and he looks to see who he’s motioning to. Your eyes meet and for a split second, utter disbelief is mirrored on both of your faces.

You panic and duck out of sight, retreating to the relative cover near the floor. Your thoughts race, your heartbeat pounding twice that. “What the actual fuck is he doing here?” you ask yourself, unable to grapple with the overwhelming emotions.

Eddie’s heavy-footed steps carry him up to the counter, the air around him feeling electrically charged, making his arm hair stand up straight. His chest constricts as he approaches the ledge and looks behind it. There you are, sitting on the floor with your legs pulled close to your chest and your forehead against your knees.

“Sweetheart,” he chuckles airily, though his brows are pulled together as to why you’re down there.

Reluctantly, you lift your head and meet his eyes. A sheepish grin tugs at your lips and you can’t help but scrunch your nose. “Eddie, hi!”

“Whatcha doin’ down there?” he asks playfully, then catching his bottom lip between his teeth in an attempt to suppress the smile that threatens to form. “Almost looks like you’re tryin’ to hide from me.”

You shake your head, only slightly annoyed at his amusement. “I’m just busted, aren’t I?” As you get to your feet, you wipe your palms on your apron before rounding the corner of the counter.

Eddie’s arms are already outstretched before you’re even in full view. You find yourself stepping forward to meet his embrace. The hug is brief, not quite as long as Eddie would’ve liked it to be. His beaming smile accompanies his glittering stare as it follows your features, studying the subtle changes since he saw you last. “Long time no see,” he teases with the lick of his lip.

You’ve already taken a step back, creating a bit of space between the two of you. With a deep breath, you nod. “Tell me about it, it’s been like what, six years?” It’s your turn to trace the contours of his face.

You’ve seen the tabloids on the racks in the supermarket, the pages that showcase his exhilarating career. You’ve seen his music videos on MTV. Regardless of the set design and general concept, there’s a constant—Eddie, partially naked with jeans slung low on his hips, surrounded by bleach-blonde stunners hanging off of him one way or another. He always stood tall, an embodiment of untouchability despite being touched just about everywhere by sets of cherry-painted fingernails. His image has become synonymous with charismatic magnetism and sex appeal.

And now, he’s standing right in front of you. Eddie’s silver nose ring catches the overhead lighting, a rebellious contrast to the well-groomed beard that frames his jaw. He has far more tattoos than he had when you were friends.

The dangling layers of necklaces twinkle like constellations. While you hugged him, you recognized his natural scent which was mostly the same, but with a faint woody undertone. The cologne he wears seems to have become one with his clothes, the scent being inseparable from him no matter how many times the article is washed.

Eddie also looks stronger and his physical presence is more defined. His slim frame matured into something more substantial, and his muscles are built and bound with raw talent.

It’s a curious juxtaposition to see him in such plain clothes. He almost resembles the Eddie that you knew, feeling both familiar and transformed, an evolution you’re struggling to take in all at once.

“Yeah, coming up on six. Feels like it’s been longer than that,” Eddie replies, the joy in his voice unconcealed. He shamelessly looks over your uniform, the baby blue polo shirt beneath the navy apron, with his interest plain for anyone to see. He took in your scent too. Your natural smell blended with coffee, and it struck a chord within him. The combination of the two is better than his beloved Italian coffee beans alone.

“How long are you in town for?” You inquire while playing with the hem of your apron. Meanwhile, you shift your weight on the balls of your feet, attempting to soothe yourself with the rocking motion.

Eddie sucks air through his teeth with resignation. “Just today, actually.”

“Oh,” you mumble, your expression subtly crestfallen at the news of his limited stay. “That’s too bad. You really can’t stay any longer?”

“I wish I could but stopping by wasn’t exactly on my to-do list. I was flying home from New York and then my jet-”

You’re startled as your supervisor’s voice booms from behind you, yanking you back to reality. Her words are stern, reprimanding you for being distracted. She scolds, saying that the line is twice as long as it should be. A quick glance at your coworker makes you feel guilty, seeing as he’s struggling to keep up with taking and filling orders by himself.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, “Coming!” With a final moment of eye contact with Eddie, you offer him a rueful smile. “Sorry, duty calls,” As you turn and make your way back to your station, you call out to Eddie over your shoulder. “It was great to see you.”

The sentiment hangs in the air, one that Eddie wishes you had a chance to elaborate on. But, time is of the essence and you’re already back to filling cups without waiting for his response. For a few seconds, Eddie watches you seamlessly shift back into work mode as if he isn’t there anymore. Returning to Steve and Robin, he’s met with pointed looks that are laden with interest. The weight of the encounter, the unexpected vulnerability he felt looking into your eyes, settles on his shoulders. As Eddie returns to the seat across from them, he slumps down with a pout.

Robin’s brows furrow at his sudden change in demeanor. “Why the long face? Didn’t you ask her out?”

Eddie’s response is a sullen half-note while he stares fixedly at a speck of mud on Steve’s shoe. “No,” he says, “I didn’t, and quite frankly, I don’t think she’d even want to.” In the way that Eddie is carrying himself, it’s obvious that his insecurities have been stirred up. “You should’ve seen the way she looked at me. It was like she hardly recognized me.”

Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I dunno, man. Kinda hard to believe a hot shot like you can’t get whatever girl he sets his sights on.”

That remark sparks something within Eddie, a realization that switches his perspective. Steve’s words hit home—he’s Eddie fucking Munson. A Grammy award-winning recording artist for Christ’s sake. Casanova, heavy hitter, ladies’ man. His confidence resurfaces, becoming acutely aware of the charm he can whip out whenever he needs it; he’s well equipped for this moment.

Summoning the deepest breath he’s ever taken, Eddie rises to his feet once again, feeling sure of himself this time. His hands smooth down his shirt and he clears his throat. When Eddie chances a look behind him, Steve and Robin are giving him two, technically four, thumbs up as a means of encouragement.

With newfound resolve, Eddie approaches the counter once again. You’re a flurry of motion, caught up in the demands of your job. A bead of sweat threatens to drip from your brow as you ensure that the whipped cream on top of the ice-cold beverage is the perfect amount.

“Hey,” Eddie’s voice cuts through the ambient noise, a little louder than necessary to ensure that you’ve heard him.

You peek up at him with a grin in acknowledgment. “Hi,” Though his presence is noted, your focus is unwavering, determined not to let any more interruptions affect your efficiency.

Eddie’s knuckles wrap against the counter, a drumming that underscores his everlasting nerves when it comes to you. “What are you doing tonight?”

Powdered cinnamon dusts the air as you gently tap the kitchen dredger over the tower of whipped cream. The finely ground burnt umber falls where it’s meant to, rather than onto your apron. “I don’t have any plans, why?” You hand the completed drink to the awaiting customer beside Eddie, giving them a polite smile that’s a testament to your professionalism.

The act of biting the inside of his cheek does little to help Eddie relax. “Would you maybe wanna grab a bite to eat?” he hesitates for a beat, the thudding of his heart is on the verge of drowning out his voice. “I’ll bet you’ll have worked up quite the appetite by the time you’re shift is done.”

You sigh softly, mulling over Eddie’s offer. “I don’t know…” You say contemplatively while flipping the switches on the machine, causing it to roar to life.

Eddie holds his breath, every passing second heightening his senses.

“Okay, I suppose I will be pretty hungry,” you concede, your eyes nearly forming tears of stress as you accept the ever-present line of customers. “Early dinner at Benny’s?” You suggest with an inviting tone.

“Just like old times,” Eddie smiles so wide that it feels like the corners of his lips might split and bleed. “Yeah, that sounds perfect.” He offers to pick you up, which he’d truly rather not. That would mean that he’d be taking you out in his uncle’s jalopy. In Eddie’s mind's eye, he would pick you up in a sports car and rev the engine to the point where you’re pressing your thighs together to stave off the vibrations coursing through you. A man can dream.

“No, I’ll meet you there,” you assert, your voice firm with certainty. The authenticity of your smile bridges the previously placed distance between you. “Thank you, though.”

His knuckles leave one last sequence of knocks on the marble surface, a rhythm of pride and assurance. “See you later, then,” Eddie confirms, his tone dancing on the edge of excitement.

You nod. “Later,”

Eddie turns away and finds his friends with expectant gazes plastered on their faces, awaiting the verdict of the exchange. His smile hasn’t fallen in the slightest, his dazzling white teeth and flushed cheeks don’t go unnoticed. Eddie’s enthusiasm is palpable, his words coming out in a hushed rush. “She said yes!” he exclaims, trying to shake the blood back into his fingers as the tingling sensation bites at him. “It’s a date,” He adds in triumph.

Sitting at the mini kitchen table in Wayne’s trailer, the rusty metal chair squeaks under his weight anytime he shifts. He can’t even sit still, despite there being plentiful hours between now and when he’ll see you again. Eddie finds himself flipping through the scrapbook you put so much time into making the summer before your senior year. That particular summer holds such significance to him, a time when the days were endless, and the bond between you felt unshakeable.

Each photograph feels as warm and breezy as the one before it. Sunbathing on the shore of Lover’s Lake, your toes dipping into the water as you prepared to leap off of the dock. The memory is vivid—your skin glistening and energy positively radiant with innocence and naivety. One of the snapshots of Eddie is far less flattering. He’s captured with sharp tan lines, the contrast in tones creating the illusion of him wearing a white shirt, despite being topless.

Eddie bites down on his lip as he studies the photograph of you riding your bike in cutoff shorts, your t-shirt having met an equal fate. The wind tangled through your hair in a way that he wished he could with his fingers.

The picture beside it features the two of you together. Obviously, Wayne had taken on the role of photographer. You’re both posed proudly beside a tower of playing cards that you spent 45 minutes building card by card, on the very table that Eddie is sitting at. Both of you held your breath and didn’t speak a word to avoid knocking it down. Taped across the same page are watermelon and grape-flavored blow pop wrappers, unredeemed arcade tickets, movie stubs, and receipts saved from snack runs made on days that you were craving specific treats.

With the turn of a page, Eddie melts a little as he comes across the photobooth strips. It was necessary for you to sit on his lap in order for both of you to fit within the frame. He was able to wrap his arms around your waist and hold you close as if there was anywhere for you to go inside the cramped box. Your arms encircled his neck and rested on his shoulders while you made silly faces at the camera, and even better, at each other.

Eddie recoils at the picture of him with red-stained popsicle sticks protruding from his mouth, immaturely imitating a walrus, of all things. You laughed so hard that you insisted on taking a photo, and as much as dislikes the image itself, he’s still eating up how delighted you were by his antics.

The moments that weren’t captured on film come flooding back just as vividly as if they’re pasted to the paper before him. Inhaling helium from balloons and laughing hysterically at one another is a night that comes to mind. He knew he’d never get sick of making you laugh. And that time when playfully tossing popcorn into each other's mouths evolved from being a fun game to a skill. Last but not least, Eddie reminisces about sitting in his van together with the windows down, sharing cigarettes and music as the cool evening air enveloped you both. The quieter memories are just as deafening as the amusing ones.

His life had its fair share of upheaval and dysfunction that seemed to pull him in all directions. Amidst the chaos, one constant remained. You. Eddie didn’t need more than that, you already made life worth living.

But, as life often goes, the sweet moments can become bitter in the blink of an eye. 

It was the night of your graduation party, a celebration meant to be an intimate gathering among close friends—you, Eddie, Robin, and Steve. But when Eddie pulled up to your parent’s house, a scene was unfolding before him that he hadn’t anticipated. The yard was dotted with clusters of students while the front door was revolving with people drunkenly coming and going. Inside the belly of the beast was even more lively.

Eddie hesitantly navigated the throngs of teens in the hallway, people he was sure that you weren’t even on a first-name basis with. He knew your house like the back of his hand but it felt foreign due to the sheer number of bodies dancing, running, and tumbling over. 

He was going to finally tell you how he felt, a declaration that had been building within him for some time. Eddie understood that you were out of his league, the unspoken boundaries dictating that best friends aren’t supposed to fall in love, yet he found himself helplessly ensnared by his adoration for you. For so long, Eddie was afraid of pressing his luck, and even more so, was in a state of constant disbelief that he was lucky enough to call you the most important person in his life.

Graduation marks a turning point in a young person’s life, a juncture where change is inevitable. Eddie was ready for change and he wanted his dreams to bleed into reality. He yearned to hold you without any limitations, to kiss you like he needed to in order to survive. It was time for a new chapter and Eddie hoped that when he turned the page, he’d get the girl he wanted more than anything in the world.

You were in the kitchen. Typically, he gets a kick out of the way you act when you’re that buzzed. Your joyful disposition under the influence of celebration and booze led to you being the most laid-back version of yourself. However, he was facing an unanticipated predicament. Eddie was trying to have a serious conversation with you at a rowdy party. His hands were trembling, and luckily, his leather jacket concealed the fact that he’d soaked the pits of his t-shirt.

“There you are,” Eddie hummed and stepped closer to make sure that you could hear him over the music and chatter.

“Here I am!” you giggled, your cheeks flushed and energy unreserved. “Isn’t this wild?” You motioned to the piles of assorted cups and bags of snacks scattered haphazardly.

“Yeah,” Eddie responded, glancing over his shoulder as he was jolted by a stranger bumping into him. “What happened to watching movies and ordering pizza?”

The trace of disappointment in Eddie’s tone might have been discernable to a sober individual, but in your inebriated state, it slipped under your radar. Your smile remained and you swayed. The movement was more so a result of your jelly legs than unenthusiastic dancing. “I know, but my parents went all out and invited our entire class! I guess they figured that throwing a rager was a good way to congratulate me,” You chuckled and took another burning sip from your cup.

Eddie leaned in, his voice carrying a sense of urgency. “Can we go somewhere and talk?” he pleaded. “There’s something I need to tell you.” The weight of his unspoken feelings was on the verge of suffocating him and the heat of the room paled in comparison to the fire in his belly.

You tilted your head slightly, your eyes ever so bright. “What is it?”

Given that you hadn’t budged an inch, that meant that the conversation was gonna happen right where you stood. Eddie tried to breathe steadily, knowing that he’d rehearsed this and he knew what he wanted to say. Unfortunately, the words had startled to scramble in his head. “You, uh- you know that you’re my favorite person in the whole world, right?”

“Of course, you’re mine too,” you agreed as you pawed at his shoulder before leaning back against the counter to make up for your lessening ability to stand up straight.

“I couldn’t ask for a better best friend-” Unfortunately for him, the timing couldn’t have been worse. The song that had been playing ended abruptly. “But I wanna be more than that.”

Eddie’s heart sank as his words hung in the air. The confession that was meant for your ears only was now released into the open, leaving Eddie exposed. A mocking laughter filled the air that the music once inhabited; Jack Carver, the asshole who’s had it out for Eddie since the fifth grade, was locked and loaded.

Eddie’s blood ran cold at the sound as it collided with his ears. His fight-or-flight instincts kicked in, his body tensing as he struggled to prepare himself for what was about to happen. 

Jack Carver’s taunting cut like a sharp blade, drawing a wave of laughter from the surrounding students with it. “Did everybody hear that?” he shouted with derision, “The freak wants himself a little girlfriend.”

Defenseless, Eddie clenched his knuckles as the walls began to close in on him. He knew it wasn’t over yet.

“There’s a reason you’re still a virgin, and you’ll die one, too.” Jack sneered.

Prior to that evening, Eddie had steeled himself for the possibility of rejection from you. He‘d surrender to the emotional blow to keep you as his best friend. But he wasn’t armed for the level of humiliation that Jack’s provocation brought down on him. It was the wounds of his childhood, the physical and emotional scars from years of being picked on, that were torn open. Jack always knew how to hit him where it hurt.

The tears that blurred Eddie’s vision shielded him from your pitying and startled expression. It all felt like a cruel twist of fate, a reminder that he was meant to be the outsider, forever on the fringes without someone to hold him close at night. As the laughter continued to echo around him, Eddie fled before the atmosphere could swallow him whole. Without a second thought, he shoved his way through the crowd and bolted out of your front door.

The night air hit him like a wall, cooling the hot tears that streamed down his scorched cheeks. Eddie stumbled to his van and slammed the door shut behind him. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and let out a shuddering breath, feeling like everything inside of him was coming apart at the seams. Eddie squeezed his eyes shut to clear his vision by forcing the pooled tears to flow and he raised his head back up. He saw you stepping off of your front porch, a concerned look branded on your features while you called out to him, searching.

At that moment, he decided that he was gonna show every single person who thought so little of him that he could be somebody. Eddie was going to outdo all of them and kick the expectation that he was going to end up in prison like his father, that he was going to be dealing drugs for the rest of his life, and that he’d always be trailer trash.

If Eddie could go back in time, things would have gone differently. But after chasing the California sunrise, he’d mastered the world of glamorous parties, adoring fans, and beautiful women. They threw themselves at him. He didn’t have to worry about rejection because he could have his pick, he had whatever flavor he wanted for the night. But no one satiated the craving he continued to have for you. No one laughed the way you did, no one understood him the way you always had.

You’d never have another moment together, he accepted that. And it didn’t matter anymore because he became the man. He didn’t have time to sit around and sulk about a small-town girl who wouldn’t give him the time of day. But despite putting his feelings in the rearview mirror, he daydreamed nonetheless. Eddie wondered what it would be like to show you the new and improved version of himself. He hoped that you’d be impressed. More importantly, did you listen to his music? Or read about his scandalous escapades in the gossip magazines that wove lies into the truth?

Even so, that night set him straight. It wasn’t going to happen for you and him. His only star had fallen, so he put all of his time and energy into making a name for himself. The songs on his albums are about living life in the fast lane and the thrill of the night. They’re about trashing hotel rooms and experiencing things he never dreamed he would because that’s what sells records.

But at home in his lyric notepad lays the songs of unpursued love, melodies about chances taken and lost. There’s one ballad in particular, its verses tell the story of him introducing you to his newfound confidence, something that you never knew him to have. It speaks of how he’s seen the world twice over, and yet, his favorite place to be is tucked away in the memories where things hadn’t changed yet.

Those heartfelt lyrics remain buried, never to be shared with the world. They’re a tribute to you, the unsung song in his life.

Eddie’s experience when it comes to the attention of women should, theoretically, render him immune to being nervous. Yet, he finds himself impossibly so. The source of his unease? You. This isn’t just anyone, you’re not just some chick. The late afternoon swings around and Eddie’s nerves are in full swing. He’s feeling just as anxious as he did the night of that party because second chances are rare for him. Eddie is acutely aware that this is very likely to be his last shot with you. This isn’t just any date—it’s your first date. The significance isn’t lost on him, and he’s determined to make it count.

Standing in front of Wayne’s bathroom mirror, Eddie attempts to wield the cheap razor to trim the edges of his beard. His curls, normally styled to perfection, look deflated and lackluster without his fancy shampoo and hair products to nourish them. The trailer park’s hard water isn’t doing his hair any favors when it comes to frizz either. As Eddie rinses away his beard trimmings from the basin, he exhales dramatically, watching his self-esteem swirling down the drain. He tries to remind himself of his good looks by reciting a silent pep talk. The thought of disappointing you, or not meeting your expectations, is something he can’t bear.

Eddie parks Wayne’s car outside of Benny’s Burgers and takes a moment to double-check his appearance in the visor mirror. He wants to make certain that he looks as decent as he can. This is the chance he’s been waiting for, this is for all the marbles. Unlike his usual casual encounters, where names and personalities go unlearned, this is different. Eddie has to earn your affection back.

He peers down at his fingernails, thankful that they’re still in good shape from his last manicure. Eddie mutters to himself, trying to get a feel for an appropriate greeting. “Hi, you look… pretty,” Lame. Frustrated, he twists the skull ring on his finger, adjusting it from its sideways position to face the right way up. “It’s so nice out tonight, but you look even nicer.” Eddie groans, banging his head back against the headrest. “Jesus Christ, Munson. Get your fucking shit together.”

With a thick swallow, Eddie steps out of the car and makes his way across the parking lot that crunches beneath his sneakers. As he enters the restaurant, he’s happy to see that this place hasn’t changed one bit. Eddie debates waiting by the door for you or to sit down for the time being. Anxiety wins, and he chooses the latter. As he strides across the room, he tries to keep his easily recognizable face relatively hidden. Eddie slides into the booth that the two of you always sat in. You spent innumerable Saturday nights sitting here, laughing and teasing, talking shit and venting about how high school felt so life or death at the time.

A soft chuckle slips out as he traces the initials that he carved into the table all those years ago. He grins, recalling how much you scolded him while he chipped EM into the wood with his pocket knife. Eddie absentmindedly fiddles with the lid on the ketchup bottle from the condiment caddy, lost in his own thoughts, until the restaurant’s door opens. His heart thumps madly as he watches you stroll in and scan the room until your gaze lands on him. Beyond his control, Eddie’s eyes are gleaming, overwhelmed with the privilege of being in the same room as you once more.

He stands from the booth as you approach, his legs acting with a mind of their own. Once you reach him, he’s not exactly sure what to do with his hands. He decides against offering a hug since you don’t initiate one. Eddie returns to his seat as you settle into the one opposite of him.

“Hey,” you greet him warmly, placing your purse beside you on the seat.

“Hi, there,” he replies, the red of his cheeks deepening as his hands go right back to fidgeting. Eddie clears his throat. “How was the rest of your day?”

“It was okay, nothing special,” you reply vaguely, your voice dripping with fatigue.

Eddie takes note of and appreciates the slightest bit of makeup you’ve applied since he saw you this morning, simply because it accentuates your natural beauty. It’s a small detail, but it doesn’t go unnoticed, and it warms his heart to think that you might have put some effort into your appearance to meet up with him. Or maybe he’s getting ahead of himself and you just don’t like wearing makeup at work. Regardless, just as a complement is about to roll off of his tongue, the table is approached by an old woman.

“My goodness, I remember you too!” She beams, clutching her miniature notepad tightly. “You’re all grown up now.”

You nod respectfully, clearly remembering her. Eddie, on the other hand, does not recognize her as quickly. It’s like he’s buffering as he thinks, and then his eyes widen, suddenly remembering that the woman is the waitress who always served the two of you every weekend. Holy shit, he thought she looked old back then but now she looks ancient. “It’s nice to see you,” He performs, trying his best to be a gentleman and show you that he’s good-natured.

“I’ll be right back, I know just what to get you,” She says sing-songy manner and bounces away into the back kitchen. Even after all this time, she still knows your orders by heart.

Despite the breath that you release, the hurt isn’t evident on your face. “Why’d you disappear on me that night?”

Your straightforwardness catches Eddie off guard, and he struggles to find the right words to respond. “Doesn’t matter why,” he begins, trying to deflect from the topic. He’d much rather you ask him if he has any pets or if he’s read any good books lately. “That was ages ago, what matters is that I’m not a pathetic loser anymore.”

“You were never a loser, Eddie.” You say looking into his eyes, reminding every fiber of his being that you always liked him for who he was. But just as quickly, your gaze drops. You always hated when he talked about himself that way because you thought he was a total catch.

Eddie’s gaze lingers on you, studying the shift. Slowly, the realization dawns on him that your hurt runs deep, possibly deeper than his own. Coming to terms with his self-centered perspective makes his chest ache. He was so consumed by his own insecurities that he never spared a thought for how his sudden departure wounded you.

You change gears with an almost perfected ease, smoothly transitioning from the heaviness of the subject. “So, Mr. Super Star, what’s it like being you?”

A chill is sent up his spine, uneasiness caused by how swiftly you just rebuilt your walls before his eyes. He bites anyway, hoping that your interest in his stories is genuine. “From the outside, it looks like fun but it’s nothing short of chaos. When you’ve got a show every other night, and a band wants you on their new album, and then someone’s throwing a massive party...” Eddie trails off, afraid that his rambling is coming off as braggery. “Anyway, enough about all that. How ‘bout you? How’d you end up working at Morningside?”

There’s a flicker of joy on your face that shows your appreciation for his desire to hear you talk about yourself. “I needed something part-time, I’m actually studying to be a-”

EEK! You both startle at the ear-shattering squeals of three middle school-aged school girls. They’re gathered around Eddie, borderline frothing at the mouth to be looking at and breathing the same air as him. They’re all talking a mile a minute over one another, asking for autographs, wanting hugs, and gushing about his music.

Eddie looks at you and he can’t quite gauge your reaction, your expression is practically unreadable. “One second, I’m sorry,” he sincerely apologizes, scooting out of the booth to greet the rabid girls. He figures that if he handles this interaction skillfully, they’ll likely leave both of you alone afterward.

As you watch him engage, you’re beyond disappointed. It seems like he’s more interested in the attention and adoration of his fans than he is in spending time with you. He should’ve just told them to go away. Now you’re certain of where his priorities lie and you should’ve known from the moment you saw his face this morning. He isn’t here to mend things, Eddie has less than pure intentions and you’re not going to wait to find out what they are.

While Eddie is busy giving the girls his full attention with his back turned to you, you seize the moment to slip out of the booth and quietly exit the restaurant. One of the girls is clinging onto him after a hug and he has to pry her off of himself. In doing so, he sees your hurried movement out of the corner of his eye. He half-heartedly thanks his fans and rushes after you, his mouth going dry as reality hits him like a freight train; he’s getting a taste of his own medicine.

“Wait up,” Eddie calls out to you, his chest heaving.

You stop in your tracks and turn to him with a hardened look on your face. “Why did you come here? Was it so you could show off how untouchable you are now?”

Eddie’s mouth falls open. “No,” he steps forward but you inch away. “Of course not.”

“Then what? Because I don’t even know why I agreed to come here. You’ve obviously outgrown Hawkins and everyone in it. I wasn’t good enough for you to stick around for, much less stay in touch with.”

Eddie’s heart breaks in two at the sunset reflecting in the glossy pools that have formed along your lower lash line. “You were always enough for me,” he says weakly.

You roll your eyes and your car keys jingle in your hand as you cross your arms over your chest. “Do you really expect me to believe that when it’s been nothing but radio silence for six years?”

“Yeah, kinda,” he snaps, suddenly feeling defensive. Memories of the night he left come flooding back and he’s transported to that place of feeling unworthy and inadequate. His chest puffs up and his shoulders tense. “At least I made something of myself. Can’t you at least be a little bit happy for me?

He immediately realizes that was a low blow, evident in the way the tears start pouring from your eyes. The hurt on your face cuts a deep pang in Eddie’s chest for his thoughtless comment. You’ve always been there for him, you were always in his corner for as long as you’d known each other.

You shrink into yourself, avoiding his intense stare as you crumble. “I am happy for you. It just sucks that I had to be forgotten about for you to get there. But I understand, I really do. You had to ditch this town to chase after what you wanted for your life, and that included leaving me behind too.” You wipe your nose with the back of your hand and sniffle.

Eddie’s tense posture relaxes and his expression turns sorrowful as he watches you fall apart from his wrongdoings. It hurts to watch you run a hand through your hair and wipe the mascara from below your eyes in an attempt to compose yourself. The sound of your fumbling car keys is like a thundering countdown in his ears, urging him that his time is running out before he’s lost you entirely. Eddie’s mind races as he fights the impulse to do something, anything, to make amends. “Don’t go,” he begs. “I’m sorry.”

You respond with your eyes fixed on inserting your key into the lock of the car door, your trembling hands making it difficult to do so. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Yes I do,” he insists, getting as physically close as possible without crossing any boundaries.

The piercing glare that was previously on his face has found its way onto yours. “I disagree. You got everything you could’ve ever wanted.”

When your eyes meet, he can feel it in his toes. “I didn’t, though.” Eddie notices the inflamed veins in your eyes, hating himself for being the reason you’re crying. It’s an odd feeling, but a small, sad smile tugs at his lips.

The scoff from you hits like a slap to his cheek. “Let’s see,” you hold out your hand and begin counting on your fingers. “Expensive clothes, a massive house, I’m sure you have multiple cars. You probably have a personal chef-” All true. “For fuck’s sake, you have a private jet. What more could you possibly want?”

Eddie is terrified of making a move that might push you further away, yet he musters the courage to try to ground you with his touch. His fingers gently wrap around your wrist and both of you watch as he brushes his thumb over your veins. “I never got to have you,” Eddie’s voice cracks ever so slightly as he lays all of his cards on the table. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

A tear dribbles off of your cheek and splashes onto the pavement as your hands begin to interact with his.

You contemplate pulling your hand away, the heartache inching back into the forefront of your mind. “If you wanted me you would’ve been here all along.”

Eddie holds his breath as your fingers intertwine and your palms press together. “I’m here now, and I want you just as badly as I did back then.” His lips press a soft kiss to the tops of your knuckles and his teary eyes meet yours. “I was just a stupid kid who turned heel and ran when things didn’t go the way I wanted them to.”

“Yeah, you were,” you agree with a bite of your lip. “You didn’t even give me the chance to tell you that I felt the same way.”

Eddie grins, giving your hand a squeeze and another kiss. “Is there any chance that you still feel that way? Because I’m still stupidly in love with you.”

“I do,” you breathe with relief, swallowing the pressure in your throat. “I’m in love with you too.”

“Wanna be stupid together?” Eddie tilts his head at you, continuing to hold your hand to his plush lips.

“Yeah,” you giggle wetly, “I’d really like that.”

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[wolfjackle-creates]

Bring Me Home Arc 2 Part 7

We're a day late for WIP Wednesday, but I was wiped after the work shifts from hell the last two days. But today and tomorrow I'm off so I'm back on track! No work next Wednesday, either, so I should be good to go next week. Because I'm a day late, you get a long one today!

Story Summary: Tim and Danny are both neglected by parents who care more about their work than their families. They deal with this by spending too much time online and find each other playing MMORPGs. They keep up their friendship as Tim becomes Robin and Danny becomes Phantom and don't bother keeping secrets from each other.

First, Previous

Word Count: 1.9k

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Still not entirely comfortable, Tim finally stepped into the lab. On the far wall, behind yellow and black doors was the portal he’d heard so much about.

Danny followed his gaze and put a hand on his arm. “Come on, Tim. The weapons vault is over here.”

Tim nodded once. “What do you have?”

“Everything.” Danny placed his hand over a scanner next to the door and it beeped and opened. “You like staffs, right? Try this out.”

Danny passed him a silver metal staff just a bit longer than his favored weapon. Tim took it and ran through two of his warm up exercises. The balance was excellent and he picked up the pace. If it wasn’t for the color scheme, he’d consider using one as his own backup.

“This is great. It’s effective against ghosts?”

“Yep. The Fenton Rod.” Danny reached out for it and Tim gave it back. “And if you do this—” he twisted and the staff separated into two “—you’ve got two weapons.”

He passed the two halves back to Tim who ran through a few more attacks and blocks with them. He had enough practice with Dick’s escrima sticks to hold his own. “This is perfect, thanks.”

“Now, the rest of you, would you prefer distance weapons or close up?”

Tim backed away from the vault to allow the others to explore their options. He spent the time practicing on connecting and separating the staff—he would not call it the Fenton Rod, even in his own head—and running through a few more complicated patterns with it to make sure he was familiar with it’s weight.

“You’re really good with that,” commented Sam who was watching him.

Tim shrugged fixed a self-conscious smile to his face. “It’s always good to know self defense when you live in Gotham. And Bruce is more particular about it than most.”

“Really? I thought he was a vapid idiot.”

“Oh, he is,” agreed Tim. “But he loves his kids and knows us being linked to him puts us in danger. So he goes to extremes to make sure we can hold our own when trouble arises.”

Before Sam could reply, Danny called out to them, “Hey, Tim! Do you want a long range weapon as well?”

“Sure. What do you have?”

So he joined as Danny showed them several blasters and lasers that they could use. Tim pulled out a small one that could be used single-handed.

“This is good for me.”

Cassie and Conner chose heavier weapons with more range and attack power, though Bart followed Tim’s lead.

“Okay, now that that’s done. Ready to practice ways to get a ghost out of a human?”

The emphatic agreement from every member of Tim’s team seemed to surprise Sam and Tucker but Danny just laughed.

“Sam, Tucker, which of you wants to volunteer?”

The two exchanged a look and Tucker sighed and stood up. “I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Tuck. So, I’m gonna overshadow Tucker and go over the signs of overshadowing. They’re mostly pretty subtle if you don’t know the person. A ghost has no access to the memories or thoughts of the person they’re overshadowing, so behavior will be off. Then, if Tim is okay with it, I’ll overshadow him so he can explain how it feels to the rest of you. And I’d appreciate it if at least one of you metas will let me overshadow you so we can make sure the methods that work on baseline humans also work with you.”

Conner looked at Tim. “You trust him?”

Tim nodded. “Have since I was eleven.”

“I’ll do it, then.”

Danny grinned. “Great! Tucker, you first.” And with that, Danny transformed and flew right into Tucker’s body.

Tim watched closely as Tucker went rigid for a moment before resuming his casual slouch. “Tucker isn’t present at all right now,” said Tucker. Then his eyes flared green. “Any time a ghost uses their powers while overshadowing someone, the eyes’ll change. So look for that. Changes in behavior if you know the person are also a dead giveaway. Most ghosts haven’t been on earth in a long time, so another sign is being unused to Earth customs. Especially modern ones. But really, the eyes are your best bet. Get a ghost emotional and they can’t hold it back. Now, Sam, force me out!”

Sam grinned. “With pleasure.” She held up a thermos. “Best way is to use a thermos. It contains the ghost and prevents them from further attacks. To use, you simply remove the cap, point the opening at the ghost or overshadowed person in question, and press the button.” She did and a beam of blue light hit Tucker. Danny was pulled out and sucked into the thermos. Sam recapped the device and spun it in her hands.

Tucker held his head and groaned. “How long was he in me for?”

“Like thirty seconds, Tuck. Don’t be dramatic,” replied Sam.

“Does it hurt?” asked Cassie.

Tucker shook his head. “Minor headache immediately post overshadowing that fades in less than a minute. You don’t have any memory of the time you were overshadowed, so some disorientation if your location changed or a lot of time has passed is also normal. Maybe some vague impressions, like from a dream you can’t quite remember.”

“Ready for take two?” asked Sam.

Tucker rolled his eyes, but waved a hand around in agreement.

“So, to release a ghost from a thermos, you press the button that says ‘release.’ Super easy.” She did so, letting out another beam of light and when it cleared, Danny was floating before them.

“Does being in the thermos hurt?” asked Conner.

Danny shook his head and grinned. “Nah. Feels like you’re wrapped up in a heavy blanket. So sometimes it’s nice and sometimes it’s claustrophobic and I’m desperate to get out.”

Tim hummed. “How many ghosts can you fit in one thermos?”

Danny shrugged. “Not sure. Quite a few, but I’ve never pushed the limits. I think six or seven is the most we’ve done. Maybe more if it’s just ectopusses and blob ghosts I’m trying to clear out of my parents’ way.”

“Ectopusses?” asked Cassie.

At the same time, Bart asked, “Blob ghosts?”

Danny laughed. “I think there’s something to the hypothesis that octopusses have as much intelligence as a person. So many of them become ghosts. And they’re super curious. I think they like to explore places on land because it’s so different from the oceans they lived in. And blob ghosts are just what they sound like. Shapeless ghosts that are usually less than a foot large and don’t appear to have any cognitive power.”

Tim had a dozen questions he wanted to ask, but the news report going in the background was a constant reminder that they didn’t have time. “How else can you end an overshadowing?”

Danny nodded and flew back into Tucker.

Sam went over the different weapons they had that could be safely used on an overshadowed human. The small blasters were the easiest and caused no injury to the host. Tim’s staff was also effective, though it could leave bruises.

Finally, they’d each managed to get Danny out of Tucker three different ways each. He couldn’t even say a thermos was the weirdest thing he’d ever used as a weapon, though the fact that it had been designed as a weapon was certainly novel.

“So now it’s my turn.” Tim couldn’t help the way his stomach twisted at the thought of what was coming up. He trusted Danny, he really did. And he wanted to know what it felt like to be overshadowed. But he hated losing control of himself. Absolutely despised it. He took a deep breath and met Danny’s eyes. “Do it.”

Danny bit his lip. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“Do it, Danny.”

A brief moment of hesitation longer, then Danny was flying towards him. The next thing Tim was aware of was a sharp pain in his head that he could only describe as being located behind his brain. Conner was facing him with the thermos pointed at him. The pain was already fading as he blinked and took in the lab again.

Nothing had changed.

“What was it like?” asked Cassie.

The question put Tim right back into Bat Report Mode. “As Tucker said, I have no memory of anything since I saw Danny fly at me to overshadow me. When he left, I had a strange pain in my head that faded by the time I had checked our surroundings for any changes that may have occurred while I was unaware.” As he spoke, he did a quick body check to look for any unusual pains or feelings elsewhere in his body. “I appear to be in the exact same physical condition as I was before the experiment. How long was I overshadowed for?”

“Less than two minutes,” said Conner. “I promise no longer than that. Danny had you sing a weird song about exploding weasels and then I sucked him into this.” He shook the thermos.

Cassie laughed. “It was ‘Pop Goes the Weasel.’ We have to teach you about nursery rhymes.”

Bart raised his hand. “Uh, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one, either.”

And finally, Tim was able to relax. “Next weekend we all have off, Cassie and I will teach you all the nursery rhymes. Dick probably knows a ton. I’d imagine growing up in a circus with performers from all sorts of countries exposed him to so many.”

Bart grinned. “It’ll be interesting to see how the list of ones I know compares to the ones you know!”

Conner smiled back. “I’d like that. I should ask Clark for any he knows, too.” As he spoke, he pressed the button to release Danny.

When the light cleared, Danny was floating upside down looking Tim over. “So what’d you think of your first experience being overshadowed?”

“Four out of ten. Would not like to repeat, but I’ve definitely been through worse.”

Danny laughed and, still upside down, turned until he was facing Conner. “Think you’re ready for you turn?”

Conner took a deep breath and handed the thermos to Bart. “As I’ll ever be.”

Danny nodded and flew into him, just as he had Tucker and Tim. And then there was no more Conner. No more Superboy. Just someone who looked like him, but held his head cocked the wrong way. Who slouched a bit too much. Who was so clearly not Conner.

Tim pulled his new staff out and reminded himself it was just Danny. This was friendly right now. And it was reassuring to know he’d be able to tell when any of his friends were overshadowed.

Danny started to sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star in Conner’s voice.

Bart held up the thermos, ready to pull Danny in.

“Let me,” said Tim. “I want to do it.”

“You’ve got it,” replied Bart as he recapped the thermos.

Tim rushed forward and hit Conner on the side with his staff; Danny went flying out of him.

Conner shook his head and looked around. “That was weird. I remember it all, though.”

Danny was rubbing at his side where Tim hit. “Yeah. I’ve never overshadowed a meta before. At least no one I could tell was a meta. I could hear you, too. It was a struggle to keep control of your body.”

Tim sagged in relief. “Do you think that makes them less of a target?”

“Possibly?” The uncertainty in Danny’s voice made Tim uneasy. “From some ghosts, sure. But others like a challenge and may target him—them—specifically.”

Bart grinned. “Sounds like it’ll be an interesting game! So, now that we’ve got the basics down, we’re going out there to help, right?”

-----

Next

Okay, so part of the reason for the length is that I just didn't want to cut it anywhere. Though the fact that it happened when I'm a day late posting certainly helped me not feel like I should find a spot to break it up!

Now, I've decided to move away from the tag system because breaking it up over two posts is getting to be quite difficult. So I've set up a subscription post for this story. Subscribe to that post and you'll get a Tumblr notification when I post. Instructions on how to subscribe can be found there. Anyone who has requested a tag before this post will be tagged today and on the next update, but I won't add anyone new. It's just getting to be a bit too much! (And I'm afraid of getting hit with a shadowban.)

In other news, I've started transferring my works to AO3. Haven't gotten there with this one yet, but the Wrong Number AU (now titled Answer My Call) has been posted. As has the bad reveal fic. Both can be found in my masterpost if you're interested.

Last bit of housekeeping, two posts below this one, I have a poll asking if you'd be interested in me sharing anything I've written for Good Omens. Feel free to check that out. Most of my time will still be spent with DPxDC, but with the new season coming out, I may try to revisit some things I haven't touched in a year (longer?).

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[caspersickfanfics]

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Warnings: Vomiting, amnesia, mentions of other symptoms including headaches/brain fog/passing out, mentions of blood, speculated poisoning, trauma response

A/N: Yeah so... this is none of the WIPs I've been working on for months, actually, but I just Needed to get something done this weekend, so. Here we are. I have Ideas for a part 2 for this and if you read closely you might be able to pick up on some intentional loose ends but also I'd feel irresponsible adding to my WIP list at this point. We'll see. Anyway, this is for @monthofsick day 21: Sleepy Sickie

It’s the dead of night, amidst a humid summer heat, when Cyno shows up at Tighnari’s doorstep, feverish and ill. He’s trembling all over, downtrodden, and exhausted. His hair is sweat damp, his face marred by tear tracks, just barely visible in the lamplight.

Tighnari guides him inside. He has Cyno sit, and then wordlessly checks that his body is in one piece. For the most part, yes, it is, but he makes quick work bandaging a dozen or so surface level wounds. By the time he’s done, the matra has dozed off, slumped back against the chair with his head lolling on his chest. Tighnari wants him to rest, but worries about his fever and gently wakes him to gather more information.

“Hey,” Tighnari says quietly. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Tighnari?”

“Mhm.”

There’s a flash of panic across his face, and Cyno’s muscles tighten. Responding immediately, Tighnari places a firm hand on his chest, and while Cyno stops struggling to stand, the tension doesn’t fade, his eyes searching Tighnari’s face. Tighnari feels his brow furrow when Cyno asks, “Where are we?”

“We’re at home,” he states. His voice is masked with a carefully curated calm. He can feel Cyno’s heart rushing far too quickly under his hand. “We’re safe.”

Cyno looks completely lost, but after checking and double checking his surroundings - as if he doesn’t believe his eyes - slowly relaxes. He still looks off-kilter.

Tighnari’s unease heightens. “You don’t remember why you came here?”

The matra’s face scrunches up, confused and distressed. “I don’t even remember coming here,” he mumbles. He hardly sounds like himself, voice even lower than usual, words slightly slurred. A shiver runs through him.

“It’s alright,” Tighnari reassures. “Let’s not worry about that. If I give you a list of possible symptoms, can you let me know which ones you’re experiencing, or if I'm missing any?”

Cyno agrees with a nod, and proceeds to respond to the rest of Tighnari’s questioning in a similar fashion. Headache, muscle pain, stomach ache, nausea, hot flashes, shivering, weakness, lightheadedness, fatigue, brain fog… Tighnari clocks the silent but affirmative responses to each item on the list with a growing sense of dread.

“You don’t remember if you ate anything suspicious recently, do you?”

“Don’t know.” It’s clear he’s running out of energy. When his head dips forward, Tighnari cups Cyno’s cheek in his hand. “Wanna sleep, Nari.”

Again, Tighnari wants to let him sleep, but Cyno’s needs take priority. “Not yet. Stay awake for me, love - can you do that?” 

Cyno sniffles sadly, but his eyes remain open, if glazed. They’re certainly bloodshot.

Tighnari cleans him up. He hopes to help ground him. Sometimes Cyno needs time to settle in a given location, and things like a warm bath can help.

It doesn’t seem to make much of a difference this time, but at least he’s no longer covered in mud and blood and… well, the sweat reappears quickly enough. Cyno all but falls into the bed, sending his partner a look of utter betrayal when Tighnari guides him to sit rather than lying down right away. He smiles in apology and squeezes Cyno’s hand. “Just a bit longer, hm? You’re doing so well.”

When Tighnari offers him water, though, any color left in Cyno’s face drains in an instant, and the next, he’s pitching forward with a retch.

“Oh–” Tighnari quickly steps back, sets the glass on a table, and helps Cyno over the edge of the bed. Nothing comes up, and it’s just strands of saliva dripping to the ground, but he heaves again and again. There’s a strangled noise, like he’s trying to speak. Tighnari tries to quiet him.

“Shhh, Cyno. Settle. It’s okay.”

“I— hurrrrgh!” His body is relentless, abdomen clenching in a cruel attempt to expel something that simply isn’t there. He groans.

“I can’t,” Cyno grates out. It hurts him to do, and he’s thrown into a violent coughing fit that devolves into more heaving and more pain. He’s shaking horribly.

“It’s okay,” Tighnari repeats. He'd do just about anything to make this stop, and yet, the only thing to do is wait it out. “Oh, Cyno… just breathe.”

When he finally regains control of himself, Cyno is gutted in a way that he can’t put words to. Instead, he takes a deep breath, and releases a single sob. Tears stream down his face - and he doesn’t understand why. Tighnari is alarmed, checking him again for injury, asking about whether he’s hurt himself internally. He shakes his head and pushes Tighnari's hands away, because there's nothing they can do to fix this.

“Need to sleep,” he moans, and it’s desperate. His stomach is going to start revolting again if he stays awake much longer, or maybe he’ll simply pass out. And he craves sleep. So, so badly. After a moment, Tighnari nods.

“That's alright, love. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

–––

Send asks here!

[philosophiums]

hi sam!! 1, 2, 6, 8, 12, 14, 15, 17, 18, 19, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 28, 30, 42, 43, 44, 45, 47, 50, 51, 55, 57, 66 (lmhs), 71, 72, 76, 78, 79 😊 i just love picking another writer's brain hehe

KSJDBVJKDFBV MARIAM IM CRYING HELP 😂 *cracks knuckles* okay let's gooooo 💜 (there's gonna be a read more somewhere)

questions from here!

1. Do you daydream a lot before you write, or go for it as soon as the ideas strike?

Truly depends on the length of the wip! For short stuff that I'm confident will be under 10k, I just go in swinging. For longer stuff, I'm daydreaming constantly, even during the writing process. When I had a desk job, I would spend Work Time thinking and then write stuff out in my notes app, but now that I operate a moving vehicle for 7+ hours a day, I just spend the majority of that time Daydreaming, Thinking, and Planning for LMHS.

2. Where do you get your fic ideas?

It's about a 60/40 split between original thoughts (as much as anyone can claim to truly have original creative thoughts that are 100% not inspired by anything else) and ideas that are based on or inspired by the premises of other fics or by fanart (sometimes not even from the same fandom).

6. What’s the last line you wrote?

From LMHS, last line of chapter 3: "Sun shining on their backs, sweet snacks in their stomachs, and laughter in the air, the three of them take off together, venturing once again deeper into Changyin’s busy streets."

8. Post an out-of-context spoiler from a wip.

Not written out yet so I can't post a snippet, but in LMHS, water is so important to Megumi's character, way beyond just bending.

12. Do you outline your fics?  If yes, how detailed are your outlines?  How far do you stray from them?

Sometimes! I did outline LMHS, though that was mostly an attempt on my part at keeping track of all the thoughts @hinamie and I were throwing at each other. It's not very detailed at all, just a bullet point list of things like "they travel to [location] - remember that [this character] is with them" or stuff like that. It's a guide for the like... movement™ of the fic, but less so the nitty gritty details, which I kind of enjoy discovering as I go (be it while I'm writing or while Hina and I are talking). But the last long fic I wrote (250k) did not have an outline. I just followed my heart and the vision I had of the end of the fic <3 The back half of that fic did have a canon timeline to follow, though, which made it easier.

14. What is your favorite location and position to write in?

SJKDBJKSDB I do about 95% of my writing in a big leather wingback armchair in my living room, usually with one leg hooked over an arm of the chair. The other 5% is bleary-eyed, 2am in bed, notes app, half-finished sentences with just the worst spelling you've ever seen.

15. What’s your favorite time to write?

It used to be between 1am and 3am, back when I was unemployed/working a job I didn't have to properly sleep for. Now, the only time I seem to be able to write is from about 8:30pm to 11pm. It takes me forever to unwind after coming home, so I can really only get myself to focus way at the end of the day. 100% if I went back to a desk job or stumbled into a pile of money that could let me stop working, I'd be right back to typing away well after midnight.

17. Do you have a writing routine?

Sit down > open word doc > reread last paragraph > dissociate > walk away > come back three hours later and write SKJDVBDKJBVJKDFBV

18. Do you enjoy research?  Which fic of yours required the most research?

I don't necessarily enjoy it, mostly because when I'm researching, I tend to get pulled down a rabbit hole of stuff I don't need to know and will never use. However, I do find that I end up doing impromptu "shotgun" research a lot while writing. Literally while writing the first chapter of LMHS, I had to pull up some research on trees just to make absolutely sure I was describing something correctly. It's 100% an inconsequential detail, but at least I know I wasn't pulling it completely out of thin air KSJVDBDKJVB I don't think I could honestly say which fic required the most research. If we include the amount of time I spent on the respective fandom wikis for character/canon details, then Swallow the Stars for sure. But if it's only for Other Stuff™, then I think they're all about equal.

19. Do you enjoy creating OCs or do you prefer to stick solely to canon characters?

I love making OCs in general, but not really for fanfic. I'll make an OC for an inconsequential side character no problem (did this a couple times in Swallow the Stars), but, for the most part, I prefer to stick to canon characters. I've never written a fic from the POV of an OC, and I doubt I ever will. I would much rather explore the dynamics between canon characters than insert a new main character into a story that already has one.

22. Do you title your fics before, during, or after the writing process?  How do you come up with titles?

Depends! I've done all three before SKJDVBDKJVBF Sometimes, a title comes to me right away, and I can sort of circle around it while I'm writing (this is more common for me with short fics). Sometimes, I get a few thousands words in, and have played with the themes long enough to have it just sort of come to me. Other times, I'm fully edited and just staring at the words begging a title to appear so I can post KSJDVBDKJFVBDFV LMHS had a title before I even started writing, because I wanted to have a title when I posted the fic announcement. As far as how I come up with them, I've pulled directly from words in the fic, I've gone on random quote generators and pulled from those, I've sat down and literally just strung words together based on a theme or a single specific word I wanted (LMHS, for instance, came from a desire to use the word "haunt"). It just kinda depends and is different for every fic!

23. Is writing the beginning, middle, or end of the story easiest? Hardest?

The beginning is easiest because it's fun character introductions and scene setting, not a lot of plot yet. The middle is by far the hardest because that's where the plot is beefiest and where a lot of the transition spaces are, and at the same time you're starting to gather up the threads you want to tie off at the end.

24. How do you choose whose POV to write in?

I choose based on whose thoughts I'm imagining most when I'm first thinking of the story! When I'm new to writing for a fandom, I will sometimes have to start a fic 2 or 3 times to find the voice that comes easiest to me, though. I have a tendency to lean towards the quieter characters, but that's not always true! For example, Andrew Minyard's POV is easier for me to write in, but I have more fun writing Neil, so I tend to gravitate towards Neil for AFTG fics.

25. What’s your favorite part of the writing process (worldbuilding, brainstorming/outlining, writing, editing, etc)?

World building my beloved..... I love coming up with Reasons for things that I want to happen, tying things into the setting and the history and making sure it works for the characters as well. The moment when everything connects is so magical.

26. What’s your least favorite part of the writing process?

Writing KJDBKJDFBVJKDBFV Words are just.... so hard 😭

28. What area of writing do you want to improve in?

Detailing! Descriptions! I am constantly fighting with myself over how much detail I actually need to include in my descriptions, because on some level, I want to describe it as much as I possibly can so that it can be envisioned easier, but on the flip side I know for a fact that no matter how much I describe something, no one will ever see it exactly the same way I do. And so then I pull back too far, I think, and keep my descriptions bare minimum, which I think is just as unhelpful. I need to work on finding a balance. Maybe metaphor can be my friend here.....

30. How much do you edit your fics?  Do you edit as you write or wait until you finish the first draft?

I usually go through for edits a minimum of two times and a maximum of 4 times. I always do an initial read-through for details that I missed or clarifications I need to make or continuity problems, stuff like that. Then I'll go through for grammar, punctuation, sentence structure, etc. If I end up rewriting a lot during that second edit, I'll go back through yet again just to double-check everything. And, more often than not, I do a last read-through right before I post. Though, inevitably, there's always something that I don't catch until it's already posted KJSBDVKDJBV

42. What’s your favorite title that you’ve come up with?

I'm really quite keen on Like the Moon Haunts the Sun !! It's longer than what I usually go for with titles, but it's sooooo thematically fitting and just really really pretty imo. But, This Is What Hollows holds a special place in my heart because it's a bit different and yet perfectly fitting for that fic. Plus, it was titled loooong before I came up with a way to include it in the actual writing of the fic, and I felt like an absolute genius when I managed to do that organically.

43. Is there a trope or idea that you’d really like to write but haven’t yet?

I have a world mostly built for a fantasy setting with dragon gods and stuff that I've planned out all the lore for and yet cannot for the life of me actually think up a plot that would be interesting to write SKJVBDJKVB I have characters, I have setting, I have themes, but a plot? Evading me. And it's been haunting me for like 7 years.

44. What is your favorite genre to write?

Urban fantasy 100%!! I love writing magic systems without having to do historical research SKJBDVKJDVB Also just the idea of magic in a place that we live in is so special to me like... there is magic everywhere in the world, but sometimes that magic really does come from a spell book like Yes Please.

45. What genre/trope do you tend to write the most?

Found family trope my beloved,,,,,,,, don't look too closely at it; it doesn't say anything about me as a person I Promise.

47. Is there a trope that you’ve written before but are now sick of?

Not a trope, but when I was younger and Working Through Some Shit, I included a, I guess, circumstance™ that I will not actually say (bc it's like. triggering) in just about every fic I wrote, but I'm past the point now (thank god) of needing to vent through it, so I truly don't think I'll ever include it in anything ever again.

50. How would you describe your writing style?

HHHHHHH I have no idea. I think I am incapable of looking at my writing objectively enough to describe it.

51. Does what you like to write differ from what you like to read?

Very much so! I love reading prose that is rich in metaphor and simile, but for the life of me I can't write like that. I don't have the gift of constantly being able to turn a phrase so beautifully, but god is it gorgeous to read.

55. Have you noticed any patterns in your fics?  Words/expressions that appear a lot, themes, common settings, etc?

I don't even want to think about the words and phrases I overuse because I'm sure there's plenty JSKDBVKJDFVB I do have a recurring theme of like... healing, though. This deep inner struggle of the characters to get to a better place is just... so important to me. I want them to heal, but more than that I want them to want to heal.

57. How conscious are you about including symbolism or foreshadowing in your fics?

I'm certainly conscious of it, but less so on the first draft. I think foreshadowing has a way of sneaking into my writing naturally (especially because I write chronologically), and then I can really hammer it in during the edit. Symbolism is purely being brought in during the first edit unless it's something so important that it was underlined a lot during the drafting/planning stage.

66. What’s a fun fact about LMHS?

It started as me just randomly thinking about ATLA and sending a question to Hina about what she thought the main trio's bending elements would be, and it just tumbled out of control from there SKJDVBDJKVFB

71. Do you spend more time reading or writing?

Writing, which is... saying something because I really don't spend a lot of time writing on a day-to-day basis. But I haven't read a published book in.... 4 years? And I don't read fanfic very often either, despite my bookmarks tab being overflowing with fics that I would like to read at some point. I just feel like I never have the time or energy to sit down and read.

72. What’s your favorite writing compliment you’ve gotten?

I have gotten a similar comment from multiple people that is about my characterization of canon characters within AUs and how it still feels like the canon characters but with realistic changes based on a different setting, and in fic writing I can't think of higher praise. Like... that's exactly what I want. I don't want the characters to be exactly the same as canon because their circumstances have changed, but I still want them to be recognizable. That's always what I'm striving for, and it makes me happy that people notice and think it's executed well enough to comment on.

76. How do you deal with writing pressure, whether internal or external?

Poorly KDEJVBKJDEFVBJKDFVBJF Really though, I struggle managing pressure when I'm writing. And it's always internal, because external pressure on fics just makes me petty since it's Free Labor, and people who complain about a slow upload schedule or whatever just make me Mad. But internal pressure is HHHHHHHHHH I am Going Through It with LMHS. I want it to live up to expectations, but I also want to finish it quickly, but I also want it to be lush and complete, and there's always this voice in my head telling me I'm not writing fast enough or good enough. Mostly I work past it by reminding myself that the time will pass anyway and that it's a miracle that I can even write ~1k words a day with how tired my job makes me. And on the days when that doesn't work, I have loud music KSJDVBDKJVBJDKFV

78. What motivates you during the writing process?

Up to the point where I start posting (for my last long fic, I was >100k in before I uploaded the first chapter), the motivation comes from a simple desire to write that particular story. For me, it can't come from anywhere else. If I don't want to write on a fic anymore and I haven't uploaded yet, I'll just stop. However, once I start posting, comments and general interaction with the fic gives me a huge bump in motivation. Engagement and talking about the story and the characters and the plot just makes me so excited to keep going so that I can drop the next plot twist or cliffhanger and read everyone's reactions. This time, for LMHS, I am very very lucky to have my own personal cheer squad of one (Hina) motivating me daily through memes and character discussion and new pieces of art and other various things <3

79. Do you have any writing advice you want to share?

The best actual constructive writing advice that I can give is: Do Not Edit Something Until You're Done. And yes, I mean the entire story - do not go back and reread/rewrite until you're done with it. Nothing will make your forward momentum disappear faster than going back to edit. If you're too hung up on details and perfection right away, you're never going to get done. You have to just write and accept that things will need to be reworked. Make notes for yourself on things to fix later or whatever, just do not scroll back up and start editing before you're done with something. It will only make you disappointed that where you pick up again isn't going to look as nice as what you just edited.

[ladytauria]

Hi tauria bb 💜 can you choose a 500 word snippet from one of your published fics or wips and give us some director's commentary / insight into what you were thinking when you wrote it?

hello darling <3

instead of doing a 500 word snippet i decided to give um... entire fic commentary. basically? more or less picking out lines/sections and giving my thought process, bc it's fun to do that sometimes <3 thank you for giving me the space to---even if i did have to pick a fic by making a list and rolling a die dfghjk

i ended up picking "trust & feathers," my jaytim wing fic <3

Jason feels the blood feather break.

i had this line written down for ages before starting the prompt. before jaytim week was even announced, actually, lmao. i hadn't known when i wrote it if i was going to keep the entire fic from jason's POV or not, but i liked the line... liked it so much i used it as the summary too lmao.

Tonight, though, he’d rather be on Tim’s good side. Jason uses his codes at one of the side entrances. Tim is already waiting in the main area of the Nest when he comes in. He’s standing in front of the monitors; arms braces against his desk chair. The way his cape drapes over his shoulders, the ends sweeping over the floor, past the ends of dark primaries… It reminds Jason so strongly of Bruce that he has to stop and blink to clear the image away. He waits for the anger to rise. Prepares to swallow it down, stopping himself from lashing out at someone who—currently—doesn’t deserve it. It doesn’t come. Grief hits him instead; swelling in his chest and climbing up into his throat, threatening to choke him. He swallows hard and shakes himself before forcing his feet forward.

this is one of my favorite parts of the fic.

i don't think i've explored it a lot in fic, but. i feel like when he first starts spending time with tim---in my mind, usually post-red robin, when things are still Weird and Unsettled between all of the bats---that tim reminds him a lot of bruce despite tim's best efforts to not be bruce.

and for as much as jason respects tim's abilities, i feel like that makes it hard for them, early on.

the differences start to shine through, even at the start, until it's not so bad, but i feel like jason comparing tim to bruce is something that takes time for him to stop doing? but it was really interesting to do here because like... tim doesn't always remind jason of now bruce. he reminds tim of old bruce. bruce-before-he-died. softer-bruce. kinder-bruce. more-open-bruce. and for jason this particular moment is the first time that really hits as actual grief, rather than grief-masked-by-anger.

i couldn't explore it in the fic bc that wasn't the thesis, per se, but i like adding in little details like that. they're a treat for me. and readers. but mostly for me in the moment xD

It’s almost imperceptible, but Jason has spent longer than he would like to admit studying Tim. He knows, intimately, the lines and curves of Tim’s face; the way his mouth usually sits, the sharp slope of his nose, the droop of his eyes. If he had any talent for art at all, he thinks he could sketch Tim from memory.

if my memory serves, i believe i have a cut version of this paragraph that included a tangent about jason's stalker days. i should save it in my scribbles doc, so i remember to one day write a fic that's like. stalker!tim tropes but reversed.

i think it would be fun ;)

Tim’s surprise leaves Jason uncomfortably aware of what he’s asking. Offering. It’s not the first time he’s come to Tim for help with an injury… but he’s never offered up anything so vulnerable as an injured wing before. For a moment, he’s tempted to take it back. Go to Leslie instead—or take his chances with a bathroom mirror. He’s no Grayson, but he thinks he’s bendy enough to manage… “Let me look at it,” Tim says, surprise gone as quickly as it had come. Determination replaces it— and Jason knows there’s no turning back now.

i did my best to demonstrate tim's thought process from jason's pov haha. but tim goes through like. a few stages here. first it's shock that jason would ask him for this. tim gave jason keycodes to his nest, so clearly there's some level of trust and relationship there, but i feel like tim was never quite sure just how reciprocated it was. this is a Big Thing that jason is offering and tim knows it. it's a little humbling for him, lmfao, and there's definitely a split second of panic where he wonders if he's going to screw it up, before firmly deciding: no. no he's not. he's going to be calm and professional and prove that jason's trust in him is well placed.

Jason settles in it awkwardly; his wings fluttering. It takes more effort than it should to still them.

i tried really hard to incorporate their wings into the body language descriptions, as well as to try and imagine what a world would be like if everyone had wings, lol. the latter didn't come up so much for this fic, but i think i might try to do more with it in the next?

Abruptly, Jason decides he doesn’t care. It’s been too damn long since anyone touched his wings without the intent to break. He’ll decide later if the consequences, whatever they may be, were worth it. Tim opens his mouth, but Jason speaks first, “Sure,” he says, shrugging carelessly. “Why not?”

this part was so important to me.

in a lot of touch-starved fics, the hunger is satisfied sort of... accidentally? someone touches them, the person breaks, and melts into their arms. and look. i love that. i eat that shit up.

BUT.

i've said before but. there is is something just so... *clenches fist* to me about willing vulnerability. the choice to allow someone in. it comes up in my fics a lot and will KEEP coming up in my fics, lmfao

it's just so fucking yummy to me, to have a character ask for what they need and then be given it, no strings attached

Jason stills. He realizes, abruptly, what Tim must see—the disheveled mess of feathers, solid, flat black where they should shine like an oil slick. Grooming has always been a social activity. A way to bond with the flock, smoothing oil over hard to reach places; waterproofing feathers to make them shine. The last person to groom Jason’s feathers was Talia—and that had been long before he returned to Gotham. Since then, he’s been on his own. He’s done the best he can with a shower and some twisting but— It’s not enough.

more fun wing body language!

but also this part was semi-inspired by my absolute fave preening fic of all time: Wingipedia by startingatmidnight. it's a fanfic for the Lucifer (Netflix) show, and it's just--- god i love it so much.

but one of my fave things about it was like. the contrast between lucifer's wings groomed vs ungroomed, and so that influenced me to do that here, too haha

It’s the only sign of his nerves from before. Even the blush has faded, mostly, leaving behind only a faint rosy hue to his cheeks. Makes him look less like he’s seconds away from dying of a vitamin-D deficiency.

this line just makes me giggle

When his eyes have adjusted, he shrugs out of his jacket, folding it before draping it over the low table. Then he skims his fingers over the clasps of his armor. He hesitates. He can hear Tim moving around in the kitchen—a cabinet door shuts before water hisses from the faucet. He’s come this far. He’s not going to back out now. Jason ignores his nerves, forcing himself to undo the clasps one by one, bypassing the securities as he goes. Then he lets the chest piece fall on the table with a thud. It’s joined by his undershirt a few moments later. Finally, he unholsters his weapons, laying them carefully on the table as well. Jason stands, bare chested, in the middle of the room, several pounds lighter than he was before. Maybe he should have left the undershirt on. It would get a little messy, but who cares? The faucet turns off. Jason resists the urge to redress, sitting back down instead.

a few things to comment on here!

when his eyes have adjusted: i like to imagine that their domino lenses filter out the glare of headlights/streetlights? like yeah, fics usually have it where they can flip them up too so maybe he should have done that when walking in but. anyway. but that's what that line is for if anyone was curious fghj

tim cleaning up the first aid kit and washing his hands is, of course, just good hygiene and safety practice. BUT it was also an attempt on his part to give jason the chance to change his mind. if jason had left here, he would have been disappointed, but i think he wouldn't have brought it up again unless jason avoided him for too long after, lol

and then finally: more of that 'choosing to be vulnerable' stuff. jason has a chance to leave, to take it back, and he doesn't. instead he deliberately and literally strips out of his armor <3

Jason’s hands clench tighter, blunt nails digging into the meat of his palms. The pain is grounding. Gives him something else to focus on. Something other than the way nerves light up under his skin; prickling in a way that borders on painful. Tim keeps stroking Jason’s wing, tugging gently on his feathers to make them lay straight. With each pass, his fingers brush against Jason’s preening gland. Each touch winds him up a little tighter; the muscles in his back and shoulders bunching into knots under his skin. He has to bite his tongue not to tell Tim to just get the fuck on with it already. Maybe Tim can tell that Jason is close to bolting. He buries his hand in Jason’s feathers as his thumb presses down on Jason’s oil gland. The noise he makes is low and strangled—he presses his mouth into his arms, breath hot and humid against his skin. He can feel himself shaking. Despite himself, he finds his wing pushing back into Tim’s hand—and Tim accommodates him, pressing firmer still as he massages around and over the gland. Jason can just feel the oil dribbling from it, slightly warmer than body temperature. He thinks he might be crying; silent tears beading on his lashes before rolling down his cheeks. If Tim can tell, he doesn’t say.

the entire preening section gave me so much trouble. i really wanted to sit down and nail the tone just right; to really delve deep into the intimacy. 'cause like... the premise is that jason hasn't let anyone near his wings, right? and sure. i said why, but i wanted to show too. to give it proper emotional weight, and make his choice to be vulnerable, and the anxiety and apprehension around it, feel like it meant something.

emotional payoff, i guess.

Tim chuckles. He has to rise to his feet as he moves further down Jason’s wing. He stops to gather more oil first, smearing it further down the ridge of his wing, where it starts to coat his primaries.

i researched wing anatomy for this fic. i wasn't going to. i was just gonna sit down and write based off of my experience reading wingfic. but i couldn't not do it. and then once i looked up what different feather types were called-- well. i quickly realized that while a couple names are recognizable not all of them are lmfao

i have forgotten what i learned but im pretty sure i remembered take worldbuilding notes

Tim starts over again; combing through the soft, downy feathers near his spine. The first glancing brush of his fingers against Jason’s second preening gland isn’t quite as overwhelming as the first. It’s still a lot. He may have grown used to it on the other wing, but this one is still unused to touch. The nerves under his skin prickle again. Tim takes it slow, just like before. By the time he starts to massage Jason’s gland, the prickling has become a pleasurable tingling. He sinks into it with a sigh. Jason drifts, allowing himself to lose track of time entirely. Drowsiness weighs heavy on his limbs; his thoughts turning syrupy. Tim continues stroking his wing long past when he’s finished grooming it. Jason doesn’t notice at first; not until he realizes Tim has moved back to the middle of his wing. Maybe Jason should say something, but he’s not ready for this moment to be over, either. All things must end, though, and this is no exception. Tim’s hand slips from his wing.

i don't remember which line it was exactly but i remember having trouble with this section and reaching out to one of the servers im in for help. ty again abyss and marz <3

“Do… If you want, I could… return the favor,” Jason offers, wincing internally at how hesitant he sounds. He doesn’t realize how much he wants to until Tim shakes his head, and disappointment blooms in his chest. Makes sense, though. In Tim’s place, he’s not sure he’d want himself grooming his wings either. “Not tonight.” Tim glances at the window. The first light of dawn is starting to creep over the horizon. Jason’s brow furrows. He hadn’t realized they’d been here that long—that he had taken so many hours of Tim’s time. He turns back to Tim, opening his mouth to apologize, but this time, Tim is the one to speak first. “But…” There’s something almost nervous creeping around the edges of his expression. “Maybe another day?”

tim's refusal here isn't just about the dawn coming up lmao. it's also definitely because both of them are overwhelmed, emotionally, from this experience haha

but it's also an excuse to see jason again--to see if they can keep this quiet intimacy / new closeness they've developed.

and also ofc i had to throw in a little self-deprecating jason bc i'm me

Jason gives him a two-fingered salute. “‘Til next time,” he says, and then slips out the window, and into the morning light.

i actually really wanted to write part two with this and have them all be one fic, but i was running out of time for jaytim week at this point and while i could have posted late i really wanted to post on time, bc i never had before.

and also this was written and posted in the middle of a really bad couple of months for me, lol, and i wasn't sure i had it in me to write more at the time

but for now! this is where the fic ends <3 i do have the sequel started; i finished the first section and am about to move to tim showing up at jason's place ;) but who knows how long it'll take to write

thank you again for sending this ask and giving me the opportunity to ramble <3

and ALSO thank you to anyone who read all of this, lmao. i hope you enjoyed!!!

[endlessmusings1801]

WIP Wednesday

I'm working on an unnamed story that is the kinkiest thing I've ever written. I've never been a part of the kink community so I hope I do it justice.

It's heavily inspired by @steddieas-shegoes Call me sunshine, send me to space , @mojowitchcraft and @arimakes Late Bloomers and @cuips-not-cute Blinking Red Light.

Here's a snippet:

A few weeks ago, Eddie hesitantly suggested the two of them try something different, something he read about in magazines and heard about in some of the more colorful clubs in Indianapolis. Eddie had experimented with the dynamic once or twice and he thought it might help Steve get out of his head. They'd try it and if it didn't work for Steve, they never have to do it again. 

Eddie explained that he would take control and Steve would submit to his will completely. Steve didn't have to make any decisions, just let Eddie lead him. It wouldn't be always, only sometimes when they wanted to play.  Almost like their own private role playing game. Eddie thought it would help quiet the thoughts in Steve's mind and help him actually relax. At this point, Steve was game to try anything that might help and he trusted Eddie completely. 

So, they had a little “research” trip to a shop in Indianapolis that Eddie had heard about. Eddie chatted with the owner, Steve hung back slightly embarrassed. But they got some good information, some resources and were able to come up with a plan. They came up with safe words: scoops for Steve and brandywine for Eddie. And agreed the color system seemed reasonable. They discussed their hard no’s. Both agreed with Steve's history of concussions no hitting above the belly button. Steve didn't love the idea of being restrained after his run in with the Russians. Eddie didn't want to be mean, controlling and firm but never mean. They were both excited to see where this would lead them. 

The first time, Eddie just simply told Steve to lay with his head in Eddie's lap and not move while Eddie read a book for 30 minutes. If Steve moved or made a noise, there would be consequences. It was hard, hard not to fidget or let his mind go to the bad places. Steve had to focus on being still, being quiet, on the feel of Eddie under him or his hands on his hair.  Steve immediately loved it, giving up control to the person he trusted most. 

Steve realized how badly he wanted to please the other man and be good for him. The world got smaller and  his only focus was doing what Eddie wanted him to. That first time, he didn’t go completely cloudy but it took the edge off. 

They've been  playing  with that dynamic for a while, Eddie taking control, telling Steve what to do both in bed and in certain things in life. Some days, they repeated the first experiment, going for longer times. Some days, Eddie picked out his clothes. Some days, he came home and Eddie was grinning and whisked him away to the bedroom. 

Eddie came  up with consequences if his demands weren't followed. Honestly, sometimes Steve was purposely bratty and bitchy just to see what the consequences were. He couldn't help himself. Eddie loved bitchy, bossy Steve. Steve found he liked being spanked, edged and manhandled. And,  he liked Eddie being in touch with that side of himself too. The shift in Eddie's tone, his body language, Eddie seemed to be growing into himself. 

And, the after was the next part. After Eddie got him the edge and picked him apart, Eddie put Steve back together. Steve liked the cuddles, the baths and being cared for. 

Eddie admitted the aftercare  was his favorite part, being the person to put Steve back together. 

Tonight was the first full scene they'd planned together and it was amazing. It was the first time Steve got to that weightless floaty space and stayed there. As he sunk into the hot water, he felt gooey, relaxed and loved. 

[aroeddiediaz]

20 questions for fic writers

Tagged by @cal-daisies-and-briars , @jesuiscenseedormir , @diazsdimples

How many works do you have on ao3?

27!

What's your total ao3 word count?

61,537

What fandoms do you write for?

Currently I’m pretty much exclusively a 9-1-1 writer, but in the past I wrote a lot of Flarrowverse (do they still call it that?). I also have published fics for Fantastic Beasts and a few anime (Given, Haikyuu, Saiki K). Given the number of Bnha wips i have locked away in the vault it’s amazing I don’t have anything published for that.

Top 5 fics by kudos:

(I am omitting all the Flarrowverse fics in my top 5 on the basis that they were written in high school and I’ve changed as a person, and they probably only beat out on the numbers due to being up for years longer)

1. Kabe-Do’s and Kabe-Don’ts (Given, 861 kudos)

2. You’re Not Special (Saiki K, 598 kudos)

3. How Eddie Learned To Stop Worrying And Embrace The Kitten Life (9-1-1, 327 kudos)

4. The Boy Formerly Known As Miracle (Haikyuu, 277 kudos)

5. Under The Hood (9-1-1, 275 kudos)

Do you respond to comments?

Yes!! As many as I can!

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

This probably has to be The Crimes of Queenie Goldstein, in which Queenie is put on trial for her actions during the war. Don’t @ me but Queenie turning traitor was bu far the most interesting part of the Crimes of Grindelwald (the only interesting thing, really). There could be such an interesting story between her and Tina if only JKR would let the movies out of her grasp.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Fuck, idk if I have a happiest ending fic, a lot of them tend to not have that much story arc. (A lot of established relationship fluff or smut lmao). I guess if I had to pick one it would probably be How Eddie Learned To Stop Worrying and Embrace The Kitten Life.

Do you get hate on fics?

Not since that one anti-olicity fic that I wrote while deep in the trenches of Flarrowverse discourse, which I totally deserved :/. I have regrets. Also I should probably orphan/delete that one if I haven’t already. In my defense, high school. I have learned.

Do you write smut?

Yea lol. I think my 9-1-1 stuff has been almost exclusively smut. Idk how it happened. (I do know how it happened smut is fun to write)

Craziest crossover?

I haven’t published any of my crossover fics :( none of them have been complete enough. I have many many unfinished RotBTD wips that have never seen the light of day though.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Who would steal my stuff? Lol

Have you ever had a fic translated?

One time someone offered to translate one of my fics into Russian but idk if that ever actually happened.

Have you co-written a fic before?

Nope

All time favorite ship?

Right now definitely Buddie! Percabeth holds a special place in my heart though <3

What's a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

Ok. After the end of the Heroes of Olympus Series, but before Trials of Apollo was announced, I tried my own hand at writing the sequel that was clearly coming based on all the loose threads in the final book. It was going to be a Solangelo quest to save the Oracle of Delphi from Python, while Akhys tries to poison Percy to turn him into an evil god(?). Half the details have been lost and I desperately want to remember them, because I haven’t attempted anything nearly as cool or ambitious since then. The first 5 chapters are posted on my ao3 (Will Solace and the Oracle’s Cry) and I still think high school me had the most interesting characterization of Will out of everyone else on the internet at the time. Even if it is still very 2015.

What are your writing strengths?

I think I’m good at getting into the heads of different characters. Understanding their motives and weaknesses.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Editing.

Lmao I have a lot of weaknesses but I definitely struggle the most with trying to look back on or change things I’ve already written, even when it’s necessary.

Also my tendency to just drop fics if I stop working on them for too long. Rip to my wip graveyard.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

That’s a minefield I’m not willing to play in. Unless it’s Chinese. Very limited amounts of Chinese. Or like, a pet name or phrase that’s already ubiquitous in fandom so I’m not risking anything.

First fandom you wrote in?

Percy Jackson!! That Will Solace quest is the first thing I ever wrote! I definitely had a tendency to jump into the deep end with new hobbies lmao. Like my first ever cosplay that took me 3 years to complete.

Favorite fic you've written?

I think my favorite fic is always going to be the one I’m currently working on writing. But I am very proud of the silly little dramatic ironies in In Hindsight, which I wrote entirely over one long lunch the day after 7x04 broke me. Also I have to shoutout Teacher’s Pet, that one ruler spanking fic nobody ever reads because it’s Eddie/Ana lmao. I enjoyed putting in a bunch of tiny incompatibilities between them. So, uh, I guess my favorite thing in my own writing is dramatic irony?

Tagging: @aspecbuddie @pirrusstuff @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @lemonzestywrites @your-catfish-friend @inkmortal-trash389 @evanbegins s @wildlife4life @eddiebabygirldiaz @epicbuddieficrecs @kitteneddiediaz @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @coatedpanda16 @nicotinewrites @estheticpotaeto @babytrapperdiaz @snowviolettwhite @wikiangela

[aesopsharpmybeloved]

To Leave the Abyss

Professor Sharp hates to recognise himself in your eyes.

&

A thirty something Auror Aesop Sharp is failing to come to terms with his predicament.

This was supposed to be a part of one of my WIP. But then I got into it and thought; oof, that's heavy. So it's a standlone. Gif amateurly made by me.

Note: Sharp, Hecat and Ronen knew each other in school. Ronen was oldest, Hecat was youngest and they were in the "I hate PNB" club before it was cool.

TW: Depression, Self-harm, suicidal thoughts, swearing

Sharp wasn’t usually fond of going to the Astronomy tower - the amount of stairs! Tonight however, he felt a certain pull towards the place, and he was glad that he did. It took him a long time to finally climb that spiral staircase, but once he managed to do so, he immediately noticed that he wasn’t alone there. Standing just ahead was a student, and he didn’t even need to guess which student it was. You were shaking like a leaf, your hand holding the handle of your broom in a vice grip, and you stood with your back to him. “What do you think you’re doing here?!” he asked loudly, making you flinch violently and turn around to face him.

The look on your face terrified him, haunted him, because he knew it all too personally. That wide-eyed panic, tinged with chaos and madness. You reminded him of a wounded, caged animal and he could almost feel you considering whether to just throw your broom away and toss yourself off the tower without it.

He remembered that look so well. 

—

He saw it in his own eyes, shortly after he was released from St Mungo’s. He moved around mostly on a wheelchair, using his cane only when absolutely necessary - to dress himself, get into and out of bed, sit on the sofa, use the bathroom. He drank heavily that evening. Like he did everyday since he got home, actually. He was just washing his hands, trying to balance himself on his good leg, the strong liquor making it even more difficult, when he made the mistake of looking up. He saw himself in the mirror. He saw the look. He saw his scar, red and angry and fucking painful. He saw his face. His face was overgrown, scruffy, and his eyes were red, the circles under them so dark they were nearly purple. His hair was a mess. He was a mess. A cripple. He’ll never be able to do his job again. He’ll never see his partner again. He’ll be forever haunted by the memory of seeing her with her wife and son, together in an embrace. He lost everything. He lost everything.

The pain in his leg seared, raw and agonising, and Aesop screamed. He brought his arms up in unhinged madness and he lunged forward, bringing his fisted hands against the mirror. There was a cathartic sound of glass shattering and he nearly felt relieved when he felt pain somewhere else than his leg and face. Blood. Blood was falling freely from his shaking hands. A few hard hits later, he was covered in it. He was trembling. With a final hit, he let his head join in on breaking the mirror. He saw red. Hot wetness ran down his nose, his cheeks.

Pain. His leg cramped up and with a shout he felt it give up on him, sending him plummeting to the ground. He sat there covered in cuts, in shards, in blood. He screamed. Aesop screamed as loud and long as he could, tears streaming down his face, red from exertion. He screamed even as his throat began to hurt, screamed until he no longer physically could. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, head hung low, shards of glass all around him, some of the smaller cuts having stopped bleeding. The blood was drying up, becoming crusty. Tears still streamed down his face. He was filthy, his clothes were beyond salvation. His leg hurt like shit, so much he barely felt the glass cuts anymore. His hands were a mess. Two of his fingers were broken, protruding in odd directions. He was still shaking. 

One of his hands picked up a larger piece of what used to be his mirror. He observed the sharp edge of it. How long would it take to die if he was to slit his throat? How long would it take to bleed out like the pathetic animal he was, if he was to sever an artery. He unconsciously lifted the glass.

“Aesop Theodore Sharp, you put down that shard RIGHT NOW! ” He startled so much, he gripped it harder, cutting it into his palm. He winced and his hand released. It took a while before it hit the ground, having got stuck under his skin. Fresh blood started running down his arm.

Dinah Hecat stood before him, the look on her face terrifying. Her work injury years ago left her looking like an old woman despite being younger than him by two years. However, Aesop knew very well that she would have been able to take him on when he was in full health and strength. This was not a woman to be trifled with. “What were you thinking?!” she roared. The former unspeakable, current teacher observed him. He must’ve looked positively pitiful. “We’re going to St Mungos. You’ll be staying there until term ends, even if I’m to personally shackle you to the bed. And I won’t let you out of my sight during the summer. Aesop Sharp, heed my words, you are going to hate me before September comes!”

He didn’t argue. There was no point. He was as weak as a kitten right now and whatever Dinah wanted to do, he wouldn’t be able to stop her. 

He could not speak, when a healer in the magical hospital inquired about his injuries, his sore throat only producing strangle gurgling sounds. He drank so many potions, he felt as if his taste buds were permanently burned away. Wiggenweld, Blood-Replenishing potion, Skele-Gro, Calming draught, Draught of peace and of course Dreamless Sleep. A dose larger than he ever had before. 

When he woke up, he realised just what he’d done. He remembered everything. He sat up in the pristine white hospital bed, his whole body sore, his leg positively pulsing with pain. He put his face into his hands. He wept again. A warm hand touched his shoulder. Watery brown eyes looked up into the kind face of his former ministry colleague. Dinah stroked his shoulder, before moving her hand up to his face, to his hair, petting him softly. 

He cried into her shoulder that day, his hands laying limp in his lap. He heard a clock ticking somewhere to his left. He heard Dinah’s soft shushing sounds. He heard movement on the corridors - nurses, healers, patients, visitors. He heard his own heavy breathing, and he heard the beating of his own heart.

“Listen to me, Aesop,” she spoke later. He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but the sun was taking on an orange colour. Her hands were on his shoulder. “I am choosing to believe that yesterday-” her breath caught, but she recovered quickly, “yesterday was a moment of madness. Never again do I want to find you like I did. You have to realise that your life is not your own to take. Once you do, you’re not the one who’ll hurt. Everyone around you, your family, colleagues, your friends, they’ll be the ones to bear that pain. Think of your mother. You would really make her bury her son next to her husband? 

“You would have her suffer all alone until the end of her days? You would have her, and me, and Abraham, and your partner’s wife stand at your funeral? How could you be so selfish?” Her words were harsh, but Aesop felt he needed to hear them. He felt them grounding him. He felt ridiculous and pitiful. He wept on.

“Aesop… you won’t stay in this darkness. I know you won’t, because you won’t be allowed to. You’re one of the strongest people I know and you never knew when to give up. And now, giving up so easily? That’s not you. Get yourself together. I want to see that Aesop I know, that witty, brave, sarcastic, strong man, who’d always find a way to do what he felt was right. Even if it meant breaking a rule or two.” The broken man held his hands together in his lap, rubbing them slowly. Old habits die hard.

“What if-” he started, his voice still hoarse from yesterday. His throat felt numb. “What if I’m not able to… remember that man?” A smaller hand closed around his rugged ones. “Then you’ll have me to remind you. I’ll do everything in my power to help you, and if I’m unable to help, then you can be sure I’ll stand by you, every step of the way.” Aesop could have cried all over again.

“Okay,” he said instead.

–

Dinah did good on her promise, and really checked in on him every day of the summer. She was driving him up the wall, actually. She threw out every bottle of alcohol she found, and regularly made sure he didn’t buy any more. He started eating more, because not doing so resulted in the former unspeakable giving him an earful. He decided fairly quickly that it’s simply less of a hassle to get something into his stomach, than having to endure her wrath every day. He gained back some of the weight he lost, no longer looking so gaunt. 

She forced him to start walking, using his cane for support. It hurt like hell. It made him determined. He was not going to give up. Slytherins don’t just give up. Dinah made him go outside, being so obnoxious he was almost glad to get out of his house. The first breath of fresh morning air made his sore body buzz appreciatively. He didn’t walk far the first day, choosing to just sit in his little garden. The DADA teacher appeared with tea and sat next to him, looking awfully proud of herself. With a flick of his wand, he disposed of the dead plants on his herbology table nearby.

The next day he walked around the little hamlet. He tried not to notice the stares he received from his neighbours. He tried even harder not to notice their pity. He pushed his chin forward, proud and defiant, as he made his way to the merchant nearby. He needed new seeds. 

—

He wasn’t entirely happy to be in the Three Broomsticks, if he was being honest. But, once more Dinah pestered him until he agreed. That is, until he gave her his worst angsty-teenager ‘Fine!’ . He knew people were staring. The curious glances were easier to handle than the winces. A girl appeared at their table, taking their orders. She could have been fifteen, maybe sixteen. She didn’t look at his scar, didn’t look at his cane. She observed him as if he wasn’t a cripple, who’s obviously in pain. She just smiled and took their order. He was grateful for it. “That’s Sirona Ryan, one of my Ravenclaws,” smiled Dinah, “wonderful girl. She really came out of her shell once she embraced who she is.”

—

Having grown tired of spending his compensation money and the little sick leave pay he received every two weeks on buying potions for his pain, he soon started brewing his own. Wiggenweld, for a start, but also various other potions, as well as salves, each of which have had various success in diminishing his pain. He forgot how much he always loved this subject. He started experimenting, too, trying new ingredients, new combinations. The healers in St Mungos may have been convinced there was no cure for his ailment, but Aesop wouldn’t give up. 

When summer ended and Dinah could only visit him during the weekends, he was equally glad and disappointed. He thought he looked forward to being alone again, alone with his thoughts, alone without her constantly pestering him to eat something, to go outside, to shave, to cut his hair, to dress in fresh clothes. He found himself slightly lonely now.  

However, he found a rhythm, a routine. He’d wake up in the morning and go about his day. Aesop would do his morning hygiene. He’d make and eat his breakfast. He’d tend to his plants. He’d have lunch. He’d go for a walk, leaning on his cane. The pain never went away, but it was more bearable now. On most days, that is. He’d be hunched over his potions station long into the evening, brewing and brewing. He’d run his experiments. He’d fall into his bed, but not without taking either Dreamless Sleep or Draught of Peace.

Rinse and repeat. 

He ate, he wore clean clothes, he took care of himself and his home. He visited his mother, who always fretted over him. Then there was Dinah who would also fret over him when she came over. He saw Abraham a few times, the jovial man always full of stories. He let his hair and stubble grow in defiance. He was offered a different job in the Auror office. Auror recruitment programme… the very thought made him shudder. To think he’d be buried under parchment, dealing with children straight out of Hogwarts, who thought they were some heroes who would save the world, only for them to soon realise how horribly they were mistaken… Often brutally. Bloodily.

He didn’t want that. Such a job held no appeal to him whatsoever.

Aesop Sharp retired from the Auror office at 34 years old.

He still received a small amount of monetary support from the ministry every month, and he started selling some of what he brewed. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Aesop. In any case, it was enough until he found something better to do, some new job that could fill him with fulfilment. Dinah came around, sometime during April with a smug smile on her face. She found him the perfect job, she claimed.

Four months later, Aesop stood before Hogwarts.

He found it rather funny. He didn’t want to deal with children straight out of Hogwarts who pursued an Auror career, only to deal with them in the school itself. If anything, he could make sure they were well prepared, that they were humble, that they knew everything they needed. That they wouldn’t end up like him.

He also thought about the vast expanse of Hogwarts library, of the Greenhouses, of the ingredient stores. If he was to find a cure somewhere, it would be here.

With every limping step towards the castle, he grew more and more sure that this was the right decision. That this was fate. 

—

The worst time of his life flashed before Aesop’s eyes. He saw your sorrow, your desperation, your pain. He saw you, entirely, and he saw himself, too. It was raw and painful and he hated it. He hated to see someone so strong, so ridiculously brave, so kind and selfless like you feeling this way. Damn ancient magic, damn the keepers, damn Ranrok and damn Eleazar for leaving you like he did.

“Come here,” he said, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. Not knowing why, you obeyed. Your broom hit the floor. You moved slowly, still shaking violently, tears already appearing in your eyes. It was Aesop who took the final two steps to you, and, without further ado, closed his arms around your smaller form, pressing you to him entirely, imprisoning you in his warmth. You’ve grown during the year, but being as tall as he was, he easily tucked your head under his chin. Sobs soon started leaving you. Gut-wrenching and raw like his screams were before. It seemed like a lifetime ago. 

He made it on time, he made it before you did something stupid. Like he did. He wouldn’t let you be like him. He held you tightly, stroked your hair, let you cry on his shoulder. He made soft shushing noises. In the distance he heard bells, it was midnight. You clung onto him, your hands gripping the fabric of his coat so tightly, your fingers went white. He was a solid, steady warmth against you, and you felt safe, protected, and you weren’t alone. When your sobs began subsiding, you felt utterly exhausted, numb, your throat was sore from crying so hard, and your head was starting to ache.

Two large lean hands grabbed your face, gently, yet insistently. The potions master pulled you back, tilted your head and looked into your eyes deeply. His face was so close, his large nose almost touched your own.

“You listen to me, (F/N)(L/N), and you listen well,” he started, his tone soft, yet very serious, “I know your pain. I know the darkness - you won’t stay in it. You won’t be allowed to. I won’t let you, your friends and teachers won’t let you, and you definitely won’t let yourself.” He remembered what Dinah told him, all those years ago, word for word. He never forgot. He never stopped being grateful to her. She pulled him out of that void and now he had to do the same for this young witch.

“You’re stronger than you know. I simply won’t accept you giving up, not after you single-handedly defeated Ranrok, after you saved this school. That’s not you. I want to see that absolutely brilliant girl, who excels in school by day and rescues beasts by night, who’s untamed and unafraid, and who’s always ready to defy anything and anyone, even me, in order to do what’s right. Whatever you need, I’m here. If you cannot bear to be alone, I’m wholly prepared to give you detention every evening until you graduate. I intend to pull you out of that abyss, even if you hate me for it.”

At some point your hands covered his own on your cheeks, and fresh tears rolled from your eyes. Aesop pulled you close again, grounding you, letting you fall apart in his arms and putting you back together with his quiet comfort. “I could never hate you,” you whimpered and clung on tighter, not wanting him to let you go. He wouldn’t. Just like Aesop was not alone, he wouldn’t let you be alone either. You were not alone. He was not alone.

Hello, I hope you enjoyed reading. You can also find this story on AO3. I appreciate your feedback!

[the-sprog]

The titles of 3 and 4 of your WIP post intrigue me so much, could you tell me a bit more about them?? Thank you Sprog !! 🐻‍❄️🍄😽

Thank you!! Ok so, Number 3: That's not tubular.

This is a Camp Camp fic I started writing but wrote so little of that I didn't even get to the prompt part of it 😅 It's supposed to be about David dagging de-aged by Harrison to when he first joined Camp Campbell! The episode where David tells Max the tale of his and Jasper, telling him about how much of a sourpuss he was, how much he used to be like Max, and Max being like "Yeah you made that up just to make me like camp", is why I wanted to write this. There's some magic bullshit in this show that I think gets overlooked too much.

Harrison made his brother disappear, we should talk about that more.

So I wanted to use this to get Angsty!David and Max to meet. The plan I had for this was to basically give Max a rival. Someone who threatens his place as the one at the top of the food chain. Until they find a way to get him back to Regular!David, that is.

I enjoy writing Max. He's a little kid who's had to grow up too fast and trying his hardest to make everyone hate him, but failing miserably. While David is kinda... refreshing for me. He's unapologetically optimistic to a fault.

It's called "that's not tubular" because uuuuh basically David as a child called people squares, even though it's slang from like the late 40s. And the way people react in the show it's like he swore real bad. So I wanted to use more old slang, and in a situation where tiny!david has to react to something he doesn't like, I feel like tubular would get said.

I'm struggling to choose a snippet for this fic because I haven't touched this idea in... some time... and my punctuation and epithets usage has gotten significantly better in the meantime.

The first one to pick had been Neil, then Space Kid, Erid, Dolph, and so on and so forth, until everyone had a straw in their hands. Max glanced at the other kids’ straws, realizing that David didn’t really understand how drawing straws is supposed to work. All of the straws, but one, have to be the same length. Instead, each camper had in their hand straws of all sizes, making it extremely difficult to figure out who had won. They took some time, comparing each straw, and concluded that Harrison had been the winner of their game.

Numer 4: Ghost for a day (or two)

This one is a sequel to a Danny Phantom fic I published, "Point of Capture". At the end of that fic, Danny is inside a cage and is being dragged to his parents' lab to do some test. In "Ghost for a day (or two)" Danny accepts a truce to let them do non invasive tests to learn more about ghosts and give him a chance at redemption.

He runs away with a power dampener on him.

I got the point of him reaching Sam and Tuck when he escapes. Even though he accepted the truce, he wasn't sure how the dampener would work, so he decides to leave, regroup, and then if it turned out to be truly safe, he'd go back to the Fentons to help them learn more.

This sequel would be about Danny going about his day stuck as Phantom (I know that canonically when he loses his powers he detransforms, but it's less that he loses them and more like he can't access them. So he can't transform) but trying not to make anyone notice while he goes to school and fights ghosts, while also trying to find a way to get his powers back. And also about some headcanons about the philosophy of death in a world where ghosts exist. As well as an exploration of how the Fenton parents think when it comes to ghost morality.

The title is kinda self explainatory, I feel like. Danny gets stuck in ghost mode and it takes longer than he expected to get his powers back.

This wip also suffers from having been written 3 years ago. I haven't touched it since. The punctuation is horrible, especially when it comes to dialogue tags.

His dad reached closer to the cage and freed him. Danny eyed the portal, then his parents who were at that moment preoccupied with setting up their equipment. “I’m sorry” he murmured, then ran to the portal’s button and pressed it. Getting pricked in the finger so many times is starting to get on his nerves. The sound of the opening portal caused his parents to turn around, and his mom to run towards him. Danny didn’t spare any time and jumped inside the green swirl. He said ‘sorry’ again, that time louder than before, after seeing the disappointment and confusion in his father's eyes. It hurt. But he can’t risk it.

I really want to touch up these two fics again. I think there's some real fun to be had, especially with the DP one.

[kiyaar]

26-sentence-wip-saturday

@starvels made me do it, here's a h/c snippet from a part of sins that actually comes with no warnings! look at that. look at me. i posted this longer snippet because i get stressed trying to pick six sentences. if i posted this already, and i might have, someone can loudly complain and i'll post another.

Tony’s forehead feels like a blaze, even to Steve’s hand. Tony wants to be touched, doesn’t want to be touched. Doesn’t speak a word for hours on end, and then answers Steve’s innocuous questions with poison. Fuck you, Tony tells him, when Steve offers him water, and the his face collapses into a blank, void mask and he goes away. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry. I’ll be good, he whispers. Steve allows himself the selfishness of running one hand over Tony’s forehead. Over his clammy fever-sweat glazed cheek. Tony just lets him unbutton his jacket, ragdolls against the tree and trains a half-dead gaze on Steve as he peels back Tony’s filthy undershirt and looks at the burn over his chest, swollen and red and hot, the edges of it blackening and sloughing away. Okay, he says. You’re fine, he lies. He checks the map. Never gonna make it. You’re fine, Tony, he whispers, tired. Do you remember that night when the tower was empty, Tony slurs. And you fucked me in the pool. And then I gave you a blowjob and you left me there and you came back with the blankets from the upstairs common room and we fell asleep like that. And I said it was probably a national security risk. And you told me to go to sleep, Shellhead. An emptiness wells in Steve. Yes, he lies. I remember. That was nice, Tony says. I’m so cold.

no pressure tags for @sineala @oluka @resurrectedhippo @dirigibleplumbing @ghosthan @laexploradoraaa @winnifredburkle and anyone else who sees this and is like. i have a wip. i wish to do this.

[palfriendpatine66]

Making of Monday

Any advice for when an idea flops? Re: my abandoned but not forgotten fic Coruscant 212

There was a time when *all* I could think about was a Brooklyn 99 style police dramadey in which experienced Detective Kenobi becomes the reluctant partner/mentor to brand new Detective Skywalker. I had a *constant* stream of silly head canons floating around my head ex:

Anakin would crash too many cruisers and be demoted to bike cop.

Obi-Wan would be stuck in a revolving door while Maul got away.

For a long time I didn’t write it because while I loved the idea, I didn’t have a plot. Then when I did finally develop a plot it was a way too complicated mob/corruption plot that had way too many parts and I wasn’t actually invested in it. The fic felt doable when I decided that, like a sitcom, it didn’t have to have a larger plot than “often at odds police detectives work together to solve cases and funny moments ensue” and each chapter could be its own stand alone plot line - its own “episode”.

I eventually envisioned the scene that became the first chapter: Anakin’s first day on the job/Qui-Gon hands the reins to Obi-Wan. It took a lot longer than I thought it would to get through, but I thought I would pick up momentum to start the series, occasionally posting new chapters in between other more plotty or angsty fics. It would be nice to turn to some low pressure, silly moments I thought. A palate cleanser of sorts.

And then nothing. (uncomfortably close to one year later: still nothing)

I have a couple of snippets that I really enjoy written before I posted that first chapter that I shared during Wip Wednesdays and got great feedback on. I have a doc with lists of ideas for chapters. Some ex:

There’s a lot there to work with! And yet I’ve done nothing with them. I can’t do anything with them, and I don’t even know why. I still love the idea dearly, but it refuses to come to life.

I’ve let it fall to the back of my mind, I don’t *worry* about it anymore, but I do still occasionally think about it. I’d still like to make it work.

Advice is welcome, I certainly have no answers. If you’ve made it this far through my babbling 1) ⭐️ for you!!! 2) please join me in a moment of silence for all the fics that have been lost but not forgotten 💕