#stream of consciousness not!fic

[frownyalfred]

today’s fun writing fact: did you know that most writing coaches estimate that it takes around one hour for the average writer to write 1000 words?

I know what you’re thinking — that’s really slow! I can write that in 20 minutes. Right, but that assumes that when you started typing, you knew exactly what you were going to write — every line of dialogue your characters were about to say, every description perfectly pre-planned, etc.

And then you have to go back and edit it. And tag it. And cut out parts that don’t work and add new bits. So by the time you’ve got that “short” fic all ready to go, you’ve probably spent at least two hours on it, maybe more.

So yeah, as an author, I cringe seeing the “this was so short!!” comments on fics, even when they’re well-intentioned. Because someone just took 2+ hours out of their day for something you could read in less than five minutes and be done with.

The next time you see that author put out a 1-2k chapter, remember to do the math! And leave a comment 💜 that’s how you keep those updates coming.

[marvel-ous-m]

Eddie Munson's Guide for How to Adopt a Jock in Four Easy Steps (1/5)

Part Two

Eddie Munson is many things, but he is not the kind of guy who will kick someone while they’re down.

Call it a hero complex, call it too many hours spent licking his wounds after particularly harsh words from a bully- whatever name you give it, Eddie is vehemently against hurting someone who's clearly already hurting, no matter how much he may hate that individual.

Which is why, in early November of ‘84, Eddie hatches a plan.

It starts in the library, as most of his brilliant ideas do. He’s spending his lunch hour pouring over a borrowed fantasy novel to try and get ideas for NPC’s for his latest campaign with Hellfire, but he gets distracted by a loud thump and a whispered ‘shit’, followed by a sniff. Eddie turns, book still in hand, and proceeds to drop the book onto the carpeted floor of the library in shock.

Because there is Steve Harrington- face beat to hell, hands shakily holding on to a lunch tray, and a salad spewed in all directions at his feet. The librarian- Ms. Boliene (a bitch to everyone other than her outcasts)- began cussing Steve out, demanding he pick up the salad, and Steve got a glossy look in his eye that told Eddie that he was about two seconds from breaking down in tears.

Which- honestly, that was probably the strangest part of this whole ordeal. Steve was King of Hawkins High (and maybe, Eddie theorized, was was the operative word there). Steve had been on a downward slope of popularity since last year when he and Tommy had their falling out. Billy Hargrove (barf) had been getting more and more popular, and, after last weekend, there was a rumor going around that Steve’s girlfriend, Nancy, broke up with him then immediately hooked up with Jonathan Byers.

(Hey, Eddie’s always one to root for the outcasts, he is one, after all- but kinda a dick move, Wheeler. Also, not great of Byers to agree to something like that, especially if he knew about the situation.)

Eddie focused his attention back on the scene in front of him- Steve was now crouching down to pile the wasted salad onto his lunch tray and was blinking rapidly, trying to stave off tears. His head was also doing this thing where it was dipping forward than instantly picking up, like he was trying to even stay awake. Which… huh.

Eddie was sure at this point- this was the lowest he’d ever seen someone get. Even his dad after his mom passed wasn’t like this- at least that bastard could still go out and break shit and get arrested. Steve looked like the only thing he wanted to do at this point was fall apart. Why was he even at school?

Eddie sighed and stood, crossing the room to where Steve was crouching. He gently batted Steve’s hands away and finished cleaning up his lunch, tossing it (and the plastic tray- because fuck this school, honestly) into the large garbage can sitting by the front door of the library. When he turned around Steve was standing, looking a bit shell-shocked. “I… that was my lunch.”

“The floor salad was your lunch? I could believe that before you dropped it, but after? Dude, that’s a low that you cannot reach. I have an extra sandwich in my bag, c’mon.”

Eddie grabbed Steve’s arm, letting go immediately when he felt the whole-body flinch that Harrington gave. Eddie held his hands up, backing up towards the table where he was sitting previously. “I won’t touch you, but you should probably eat, Harrington. I’m extending the metaphorical olive branch in the form of food, I promise that I’m not gonna bite your head off.”

Steve assessed the situation, eyes darting around the library, before he finally nodded and joined Eddie at his table, sitting across from the spot where all of his materials were strewn about. Eddie grabbed his book from the floor and ripped into his backpack, pulling his lunch out and passing it to Steve. (It wasn’t really an extra sandwich, it was his lunch, but it was fine. Jeff always brought snacks to Hellfire and Eddie wasn’t even that hungry today).

Steve stared at the cling-wrapped sandwich in shock, then carefully set to unwrapping it. Eddie noticed a slight tremor in his hands, but decided against commenting on it. “So, uh… what happened?” Fuck, Eddie, abort, abort, that was literally the last goddamn thing you were supposed to ask.

“Um…” Steve finished unwrapping the sandwich, pulling the bread slices apart. “Bologna?”

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it. I know it probably goes against your rich folk sensibilities, but I promise it’s worth a try.”

“Yeah.” Steve took a bite of the sandwich, then washed it down with the bottle of water Eddie slid his way. “S’not my first time having bologna and it won’t be my last. Not bad, though.” Steve set the sandwich down, licking his lips. “Thank you, by the way. Eddie, right? You played at battle of the bands last year?”

Eddie blinked in surprise. The change in conversation topic made him totally forget his previous question. “Um- yeah, that was me. Me and the boys- Corroded Coffin. Not your thing?”

“No! I liked it, actually. Very ‘stick it to the man’. I can get behind that.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow at Steve, to which he received a responding chuckle. “My dad- he’s an asshole.” oh shit, did Steve’s dad do this?

Eddie’s expression must have shifted, because Steve immediately started rambling. “Shit- no, fuck, I know what you’re thinking, he didn’t do this, my parents have been out of town for like, three months. This was Billy- but it’s fine, really! Like, I can see, and I’m not super dizzy, I’m just a little lacking in coordination which- yeah, the lunch tray. You know what? I’m gonna shut up now.” Steve took another bite of the sandwich and another swig of water, and Eddie noted that Steve’s knee began to bounce up and down.

Eddie decided to push everything aside and deal with it later. Apparently this wound was still fresh (both emotionally and physically), and while Eddie could get into a number of things that Steve just spewed out (his parents have been gone for three months? Billy did this? Steve is halfway to falling over but he’s still at school?!) Eddie elected to change the subject.

“So, Steve, do you know anything about D&D?” Steve’s eyes lit up and he launched into a rant about a couple of kids that he hung around. Eddie listened with a small smirk on his face, eyebrow raised.

Steve was… different than expected. Kind, a little awkward, anxious. There’s only one reason that a jock like him has lunch in the library, and it’s because he didn’t have anyone left to sit with in the Cafeteria. He reminded Eddie of an abandoned dog… specifically a golden retriever with Steve’s eyes and his floppy hair.

Curse Eddie’s big heart and savior complex, but he knew what he had to do. Steve was about to become the newest member of Eddie’s little herd of lost sheep, whether he liked it or not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I haven’t decided if I’m going to write a part 2- let me know if you’d be interested in one! I’m so glad to be back to writing after a very long semester of school. I should be writing a lot this summer, so drop some prompts in my ask if you want to see something specific!

[mediumgayitalian]

“Can I come over tomorrow?”

Nico’s hands still on the stubborn pillowcase. “To…my cabin?”

“Yes.”

“Um.” He resumes, sliding slowly away from Will’s wide round eyes, stuffing the puffy square of feathers into its fabric prison. The ghost of geese past are not happy with him. He is their prince. They will submit. “Yeah? You could all those other times, too.”

“Yeah, but I want to come over.”

“Yes,” Nico agrees, wondering if this is perhaps one of those moments Kayla warned him about. Has it reached day five of Will not sleeping? He doesn’t think so. He was napping when Nico came into the infirmary this morning to help with the tidying he promised to do. At least he was drooling enough that Nico hopes he was sleeping. “You mentioned.”

“So I can?”

“Yes, Will.”

Maybe it’s just an American thing. Nico has been noticing some Moments lately. He’s not sure if all teenagers have unanimously decided on some code they’d like to speak in during the few months he was busy defeating his great grandmother, or if maybe he’s finally stuck around long enough to notice, but nobody says what they mean, nowadays.

(He has gathered, thus far, that ‘on fleek’ is a synonym for ‘aflame’, although ‘yeet’ continues to evade him. Perhaps because Cecil and Lou appear to have indulged in the sick delight of replacing their every word with the term with the sole purpose to Confuse. Or perhaps, as Will has so indicated, they have each endured one concussion to many and are beyond any hope.)

“Sick!” That one Nico knows, at least. “I’ll come by after my morning shift? Connor got cursed by the Hypnos, Hecate, and Aphrodite cabins this morning so I have to do brain surgery before he forgets how to feel genuine human connection again, but I’ll be done by noon. Probably. I mean, Connor has a thick skull, genuinely I mean, which is why his lobotomy has been delayed so many times, but so long as I —”

It has been under Nico’s notice lately that Will eyes, genuinely, sparkle. He has read the cliche time and time again and rolled his eyes almost every time: diamonds sparkle. Water sparkles. Snow sparkles. Eyes reflect, and sometimes glow with reflection. They do not sparkle. To claim a set of eyes are sparkling is to profess to the world and all capable of registering your words that you are a brainless idiot who cannot dredge up from the depths of your mind, the most barren and bereft back corners, a single unique or clever comparison; a minutely original way to describe excitement or animation.

And yet.

Will is indeed very animated, and very excited about very many things, and it shows on his face; in the wideness of his grins, the springing mass of his curls, the stilted and flailing gilt of his languid limbs. It also shows, perhaps most obviously, in his genuinely magnificent eyes — Nico has seen the Logan Sapphire. He has touched the precious thing with reverent hands, stared in awe as it thrust out the light shine upon it like the golden ichor of Ouranous swirling with the sweet saltwater to birth Love Incarnate. He knows glittering, he knows gleaming, shimmering and shining and twinkling.

Will’s eyes sparkle, like the very tip of a mountaintop, like the crackling ends of a flame, like dewdrops on spider silk. It is transfixing. It is alluring.

“—ico. Nico! Hello-o?”

It is also a trap.

“Sounds great,” Nico says loudly, voice like cold soda over vanilla ice cream. He clears his throat, twice, to no avail. His vision begins to blur as the heat pouring off of his face warps the air. “Um. See you then?”

Will nods, or at least Nico hopes he does. His curls bounce, anyway. They are hard to miss. They remind Nico tangentially of how laughter sounds, unimpeded by shame; how the shimmering satin of a ribbon would curl and bend under the smooth slide of the scissor’s blade.

(His father’s circuit of jesters often included poets playwrights. They also doubled as Nico’s babysitters. Surely no lasting consequences, that.)

“Yes!” He flashes a smile, then, and it becomes imperative to note that his eyes squint at the force of it, and his slightly-too-big teeth brush his bottom lip, and he has, in fact, on each cheek, a dimple.

Now, Will is often and even frequently called Apollo Junior by just about every living soul in camp, up to and including Immortal Camp Director And Horse, Chiron; and uproariously once even Mr D, God of Wine. Allegedly, as taunted by Kayla, even by Will’s own mother. The golden hair and unfortunate habit of winking and legs for days do most definitely create an image.

Nico, however, contrarian he be, must deny: he has seen Apollo. Apollo is beautiful and golden and charming, but Will is not quite his spitting image. Will, more aptly, is the son of the Sun. He glows; the glare of his smile leaves impressions behind in the cells one’s eyes, the glide of his limbs is almost dragging, languid. To look at him is to commit yourself to blinding. To seek so desperately the solace of the light as to ignore the unsettling sting of the burn.

“I can’t wait!”

As a blissful cloud moving in front of the solar system’s brightest star saves your eyes the eternal fate of darkness, Will’s duty so saves Nico from an eternity of shadow. He returns, humming softly and horribly, to his work, sifting through folders and updating patient files, and Nico exhales the breath setting foundations in his lungs, slumping forward in fervent relief. A melancholic reprieve from the summer rays, if only for a moment.

He waves goodbye, or at least he hopes that he does, rushing out the infirmary doors and tripping down the rickety porch steps.

“Hurrying somewhere, Nicholas Claus?” drawls Mr. D, throwing darts a perilously balanced apple atop the horns of a satyr bleating in morse code.

“That was not even an attempt,” responds Nico, and hurries away before he can be dolphinized. Dolphinified? Made into a bottle-nosed beast. (Why bottle? Of all comparisons to make, who decided bottles were the utmost separate object to which the snout of the slippery beasts should be named? Oh, wait, drunk people. Bottles. Okay. Mystery solved.)

He manages, in his heroic retreat across the common, not to destroy entire swathes of grass and plants, a feat for which the Muses could perhaps write epics about. Truly he is capable of the utmost restraint and self-control. He does raise several full sized wolf skeletons, but they seem primarily preoccupied with hunting down the the Stolls, so a win-win as far as Nico is concerned. Probably not for Connor, who is apparently cursed or concussed, he doesn’t remember exactly, but he has managed thus far with his startling amount of daily braincell loss so by statistic and happenstance he is bound to survive another incident.

“There has to be away to shut myself off,” Nico says, out loud to himself, proceeding the slam of his cabin door and the heavy breathing upon it. He turns to his altar. “You mentioned an off button, Father. I don’t suppose it has been successfully implemented.”

No answer comes forth. He indulges in a brief moment of self pity, wherein the Nico who lives in his brain clears his throat, digs around the messy confines of his mind to find an imaginary black hoodie, slips it on, digs around again for a dagger, and stabs himself, choking and twitching pitifully. Real Nico then walks with great purpose to the exact geological centre of the stone cabin.

“Okay,” he says again. He nods, once, narrowing his eyes in determination. The Nico in his brain opens one curious eyelid. (Does Will do psychiatric assessments?) “Okay, this is. Hm.”

It is not the first time they have been alone together, after all.

In the weeks following Gaea’s defeat and Will Solace’s nonstop, irritating persistence, Nico has been thrust in his proximity an incredible number of times. From his three day stay, during which he was simply so unconscious for so long his father was concerned enough to manifest onto the mortal plane and poke at his soul until he responded, to his unofficial indoctrination (ha) as a nurse, to camp clean-up efforts, to cabin renovation, to general life — they have become friends. Coworkers, at least. Together they make the camp a little more bearable for everyone in it, including Nico. It is rewarding work. It is illuminating work; Will is a good teacher, and he is funny, and he is good company (and he happens to have very long legs that he does not bother to cover up very often and Nico has eyes that do what they please). They have been in Nico’s cabin together several times over the last few weeks.

Never before has Will come over without some kind of stated purpose.

At least, not and absence he has made so obvious. True, the renovations took longer than expected, and the paint on the east wall is smudged from where Nico shoved Will, shrieking, off the stepstool, and they have perhaps, on occasion, used Nico’s illegal Wii when they were meant to be helping Annabeth make plans for Capture the Flag, but —

But.

Intent.

Is important.

It has been made abundantly clear to Nico over the summer that he has friends upon which he can rely. Reyna has made a point to Iris Message him at whatever Roman tryhard time she believes he should be awake, prompting an attempted murderous shadow travel that left him unconcious in Missouri and at the unfortunate end of many people’s shouting. And Will’s friends, who can perhaps at this point be called his friends also, have created a game entitled “How Many Grapes Can We Flick At Nico During Lunch Before He Goes Ballistic And Sends Us To Purgatory For A Little While” (four), which they are inclined and inspired to play every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Piper enjoys dragging him around to do Things. Jason is just around constantly. (Does he sleep? Nico should check on that properly.)

He had a point, somewhere. He’s sure he did.

It was maybe the impending anxiety attack, helpfully informs Brain Nico.

“Ah,” regular Nico replies, then grapples around for his least favourite pillow, slams it into his face, and screams at the top of his lungs for several minutes.

Brain Nico decides once again that commentary is the way.

I think we are an all powerful demigod of something, he muses. Dirt, maybe? Bad vibes? I can’t quite remember.

“The dead?” inquires regular Nico.

Do you think those years isolated in the Labyrinth perhaps situated us firmly on the shores of mentally unwell? responds he, blissfully unhelpful.

“I think that was Tartarus, actually,” says regular Nico, and promptly banishes his brain self to the deepest recesses of his mind, among memories of the taste of liquid fire and Calculus.

With the remaining, functioning (well.) part of his brain, he places both palms on the cool floor and attempts to focus.

Juicy Fruit It gets right to ya Juicy salt Hmmm Juicy Fruit, The taste the taste that’s —

For the love of all holy things, Nico begs his brain. It doesn’t work, but what ever really goes right in his life, so he pushes past the increasingly louder replays of eighties commercial jingles and maps out the ground below the cabin floor, pushes through the layers of underground.

Ah. Perfect.

He pulls up the very aptly placed skeleton of a cat, letting it scratch and sniff about his cabin before cautiously approaching him.

“You will be sure to tell it to me straight,” Nico says solemnly, holding out his hand. The cat bobs its nasal cavities in and out of Nico’s fingers and, apparently deciding him to be worthy of its attention, rams its skull against his knuckles. Nico snorts, running a fingernail along its cranial sutures and grinning as its purring echoes in his mind. “You seem very wise.”

The cat’s caudal vertebrae rattle in indignation, miffed at the mere idea that it could be anything other than wise. Nico is honestly quite impressed by its ability to glare without actual eyeballs, eyelids, or thought power.

“I am going to name you after my sister and pray that’s not weird,” Nico says. “I mean, I don’t think she would mind. You’re pretty cool, actually, and Hazel’s cool, kind of, so. Win win.”

Hazel the Cat seems unbothered by her christening, curling up in Nico’s lap. He runs his hand from cranial base to coccyx, finger dipping and bumping along the ridges of her spines, and settles against the cool floor, attempting to breathe evenly.

“It’s just.” He swallows. It takes a try or two, to work around the massive stone borrowed in his throat, and Hazel the Cat nips playfully at his fingers until his lungs settle again. “Before we had something to do, you know? We’d be cutting bandages, and he’d be all, hey, did you know bandages are mentioned in one of the first ever medical manuscripts and definitely predate it by many hundreds of years, and I would say I did, actually, I talked to the guy who made that clay tablet, and his eyes would get all wide and he’d be like no way, tell me everything, and then I would just talk forever.” Nico huffs. “We had something to talk about, you understand. Something to do.”

Nico tries to imagine what Hazel his Sister would say. Probably something along the lines of you are an impossible person, which is code for I have about as much luck as you do in this century, pal, the best I’ve got is hope for the best and remember adults no longer smack you for standing wrong. Which. Fair.

Hazel the Cat just purrs in his head again. It’s as encouraging as anything, he supposes.

“Am I supposed to have…conversation starters? He likes twizzlers and intentionally bad poetry. Maybe I could do something with that?”

Hazel the Cat shrugs at him.

“It’s not even — okay, it’s not just that, though. What is — how close is close enough in a casual setting? Or too close? How am I meant to greet him? Am I supposed to offer something? Make something? What do I do if there’s a lull in conversation? Or if it’s all lulls? Oh, gods, how much silence is socially appropriate —”

Hazel the Cat twists in his hold, meeting his eyes as if to say well I don’t think you’ll be struggling with that last one.

“Shush,” he tells her, but his mouth is twitching. “I’m just — I don’t want him to finally realize I’m weird. Or boring, gods. He’s such a hyper person, you know? He never stops. And I am supposed to entertain him! I think!”

This time he can actually hear his sister’s voice, in the back of his mind — you’re such a dummy. Ringed with fondness from the many times she’s said it to him, shoulders nudged carefully together, head knocked gently against his. You are weird and boring. Most people are.

“Ugh,” he sighs, tipping his head back until it rests against the mattress. “Friendship is hard work.”

Hazel the Cat swishes her tail, rattling the discs of bone like a rattlesnake. It’s a surprisingly soothing sound, like rain pinging softly against his window, or the flutter of the poplar trees outside of his father’s palace. Unconsciously he matches his breathing to it, slowing until it’s even, gentle, deep. His eyes, without any direction from his brain, drift until they blanket his hazy eyes, heavy as stone..

“S’not that serious,” he murmurs to himself, soothed under the weight of his feline friend. “S’just Will, I guess.” A beat. He smiles, slightly, a small, curling thing, mimicking the coiled heat in his belly. “It’s just Will.”

———

part two

[mintjeru]

first encounter florist alhaitham for @viraseii 🌻 thank you for your donation to @hkvthm-action!!

open for better quality | no reposts | extensive brainrot under the cut (don't say i didn't warn you)

ok so i created an entire backstory for the two of them while i was drawing ;u; enjoy!!

kaveh and alhaitham go to the same university and kaveh, who is a year or so ahead of alhaitham, graduates at the end of this year

even though they have different majors (kaveh studies architecture, alhaitham studies linguistics), the two of them share a humanities elective course this semester

alhaitham sits in the middle or back rows and he usually arrives to lecture early so he can read his books in peace until class starts

he often sits with a notetaker in class but they're just acquaintances; alhaitham mostly keeps to himself

meanwhile, kaveh is a really proactive student so he sits in the front rows. he is often found conversing with the students around him.

as such, alhaitham knows of kaveh (the popular guy that keeps answering the professor's questions) but kaveh doesn't know of alhaitham (he doesn't really have a reason to turn around in his seat)

alhaitham lives in the area and he works part-time at his grandma's flower shop! he looked into flower language in his spare time because he liked the idea of tangible objects holding various symbolic meanings. it was similar to the signified-signifier concepts outlined in the semantics papers he read in his linguistics classes.

one day, kaveh comes strolling into the shop during alhaitham's shift because he needs flowers for a project

alhaitham mentions that they're in the same elective class and the two begin talking about the professor and their homework for that day. time flies as they're both intrigued by each other's ideas on the course concepts. by the time the next customer comes in and alhaitham is called away to help, the two walk away deeming each other an interesting conversation partner.

after that day, they begin to talk in class and spend time chatting in the flower shop

whenever kaveh comes by to buy flowers or a gift, alhaitham gives him a small flower as a bonus

it starts with a yellow tulip ("there is sunshine in your smile," it's the first thing alhaitham notices about him. he later finds that the corners of his lips tend to rise when kaveh is around.)

next is a goldenrod (encouragement, kaveh was struggling with a modeling project but alhaitham knew he was capable enough to make it work)

after that is a yellow calla lily (friendship and shared values, kaveh and alhaitham finished a group project and found out they received the highest grade in the class!)

and then a little sunflower (silent love, kaveh had fallen asleep on the library desk studying for their midterm the other night and while he would never admit it, alhaitham spent a significant amount of time admiring the way the lamplight cast a soft golden glow over his features)

at some point, kaveh asks why alhaitham keeps giving him flowers as that surely cannot be good for business. he also seems to keep picking yellow flowers.

alhaitham simply replies that it's better for the older flowers to go to kaveh, who can appreciate them, rather than for them to sit in the shop wilting. besides, they're the same color as kaveh's hair. not that alhaitham stares at the way his hair catches the sunlight or anything.

after finals are over but before the university's graduation ceremony, kaveh visits the flower shop once more

this time, alhaitham is waiting for him with a single red tulip

"this is a familiar sight. i remember the first one you gave me was yellow. are we moving on to red now?"

alhaitham responds to his question with another question: "did you know that the color of the flower affects its meaning?"

kaveh pauses for a bit. "oh, you mean in flower language? i think i've heard of that before, yeah."

alhaitham glances down at the tulip and then back up to kaveh.

most of the time, he doesn't care what others think of him. he's always been focused on his own interests and learning as much as he can, but it seems that things are different when it comes to kaveh. their relationship is fine as it is now, but why is it that he wants so badly for it to change?

it would be so easy for alhaitham to give him another excuse: the tulip matches the color of kaveh's eyes after all. but kaveh is graduating soon. he'll be moving away and given the distance, there's no telling how easy it'll be for them to keep in touch. if there's any time to bring his feelings to light, it's right now.

"so," kaveh starts. "what does a red tulip mean?"

alhaitham closes his eyes. he inhales, holds his breath for a second, and exhales. he makes his choice. when he opens his eyes again-

"a declaration of love."

kaveh stares at him, and for a second, alhaitham worries that he's made the wrong decision. but then kaveh breaks into a smile.

he reaches into his bag and carefully pulls out a red rose

"before you ask, no, i didn't buy this; it had fallen from one of the rose bushes on campus. i'm loyal to your grandma's shop, ok?" he offers the rose to alhaitham and cracks a bashful grin. "i may not be well-versed in the language of flowers, but i think this flower has a rather obvious meaning, don't you think? looks like you beat me to it."

alhaitham feels the blood rush to his ears as the two exchange flowers.

then, kaveh lifts his free hand and opens his palm. alhaitham places his hand in kaveh's, and their fingers intertwine. kaveh looks down at their hands and brushes his thumb across the top of alhaitham's. he smiles to himself.

"oh no, please don't tell me all the flowers you gave me were picked based on their meanings," kaveh sighs. "i can't believe i never thought to look them up."

alhaitham squeezes kaveh's hand and relishes in the warmth of kaveh's palm against his. "don't worry, i'll tell you starting now."

[littlespidermonkey]

I think in the universe where the Cullens aren't in Forks, Bella Swan takes a while to come out of her shell, but when she does, she's witty and passionate and smart as a whip, even if she's still quiet and reserved. She sits with Jessica Stanley, who demands the best of everyone, and tells her friends about her boyfriend down on the rez, who is sweet and caring and funny and good with his hands, who works for everything he's ever had.

After class, during a sleepover, Bella whispers to tell Angie and Jess about the night after prom, even though her father, loving and careless, worries about her only a normal amount and loves Jacob Black like his own. When she gets into Dartmouth--all by herself, through study sessions in garages and with Jessica and in Angela's house--she chooses to go to Stanford instead. She misses the heat and light on her skin, even after falling in love with the rain. Jessica comes with her; Angela and Eric go to U of Washington in Seattle instead, for education and journalism respectively.

Bella makes sure to call every week and then one day she drives down to Seattle and her boyfriend, warm like the sun she loves and at least twice as reliable, becomes her fiancé. The ring isn't especially big or ornate or pricey, but the way she smiles could trick anyone into thinking that it was. All of her friends, new and old, are waiting at the small party afterwards, and Bella laughs the entire time. The engagement cake--chocolate, her favourite--is sweet and moist against her tongue.

She moves back to Forks once she gets her masters in information sciences and becomes the town's librarian. She gets married a month before the move, barefoot in the surf and her old prom dress, both her parents weeping with joy and Billy Black beaming damn near as bright as his son, Sue Clearwater holding his hand.

She raises her kids --both beautiful children, blessed with Jake's thick, long hair--with Angela and Eric's and takes them down to Los Angeles to visit their auntie Jess and her husband Quil, who lavishes them with gifts from her career as a top surgeon. She jokes about having to support Quil's career as an environmental lawyer and displays each and every one of his wins alongside her diplomas. When William Black II decides he wants to be a doctor too, she writes him a shining letter of recommendation to her alma mater. Sarah, who has always been the spitting image of her father, joins and eventually takes over Jacob's mechanic shop.

On occasion, Bella fights with Jacob, even though he's the love of her life. Despite this, she is never afraid of him, and he never stops her from doing what she wants. Instead, he goes out and works on his cars and comes back in an hour later with slightly greasy hands and a bouquet of flowers from Emily Young's little garden, planted to celebrate her cousin Leah Uley's wedding. Bella makes him muffins, recipe courtesy of Sue and missing bites courtesy of Seth, Colin, Sarah, Will, and Claire, with raspberries, not blueberries, just how Jake likes them. They make up, and they make changes, and they go on.

Eventually, both slower and quicker than she realizes, Bella gets old. She lives in fear of losing herself, of losing her husband and her children, like her grandmother had. But she remembers her grandkids to the very end, even gets to meet her first great-grandchild a week before it happens. Her heart gives out before her brain does, too weak and too slow.

It was too full of love, the letter from Jacob says. Sarah reads it. Her father passed a day after his wife--simply too heartbroken to live without her. Much of the town of Forks and hordes of family attend their funeral, remembering a life well lived.

It is an unremarkable life, in the grand scheme of things. She does not live to be a thousand; she is no great beast, with speed like the wind and strength; she does not discover her powers or lead a great defiance. Bella Black, happy and human and surrounded by love, could never imagine wanting anything else.

[shiplessoceans]

Ways I imagine Buddie cannon could happen before season 8 starts:

#1

Buck and Eddie are doing something basic and domestic, like Buck is baking cookies in Eddie's kitchen using Bobby's tried and true recipe because Christopher is coming home tomorrow and Eddie is spiralling and pacing the kitchen because what if it doesn't go well and what if Christopher asks to move to Texas permanently and maybe he should have gone to Texas to get him instead of having his parents put him on a plane...

And Buck puts down the wooden spoon, wipes his hands off on the tea towel over his shoulder and grabs Eddie's shoulders to halt his pacing. He reassures Eddie it's all gonna be okay. Chris loves his dad. He knows his dad loves him.

Eddie drops his head and lets out a breath and Buck pulls Eddie into a hug while still reassuring him.

"You're family. You both love each other! And the rest? Hey, you'll figure it out."

He pulls back and looks Eddie in the eyes. Eddie blinks a few times, something behind his eyes shifts, like he's seeing something he's never seen before. Buck keeps talking.

"Okay?"

Eddie nods and steps forward, still nodding and kisses Buck.

Buck jumps back, and looks at Eddie, momentarily confused. Eddie's face is sure and set. He's chosen a path and he's sticking with it.

A second passes, a silent understanding built from years of easy friendship.

Eddie says only one word. It has the same inflection as though he asked him if he's down to get pizza tonight.

"Yeah?"

Bucks mouth splits into that lopsided smile that could rival the sun for it's warmth.

"Hell yeah."

And they're off. An embrace, easy slow kisses, holding each other, both mesmerised, moving together easily and learning each other in this new way. They fit together like two pieces of a puzzle and it seems strange that this should be the first time they've done this given how familiar it somehow it feels. As thought they've been doing this for years instead of minutes.

Buck pulls back first, Eddie still leaning forward, trying to maintain the contact. He only just got this and is unwilling to relinquish it.

"Woah, woah. We should..."

Eddie blows out air with his words:

"...slow down, yeah."

Eddie let's his hand drop from where it's cupping Bucks' cheek and Buck nods before rushing to clarify.

"Not that I want to!"

Eddie huffs a laugh. "Me either, Buck." He pulls away entirely and takes a few steps back to the other side of the kitchen so they are no longer touching.

Buck tries not to look forlorn at the loss, reminding himself to think with his upstairs brain. He gestures between them.

"This just feels like something we should talk about before we..."

Eddie puts his hands behind his head, looking distressed and lets out a groan.

"No! You're right, I'm messing this up."

Eddie steels himself. Walking back over to gently take Bucks hands in his own.

"Evan Buckley you are my best friend. I know you love me and I know you love Chris and we both love having you in our lives. But I've been trying to figure some stuff out lately, about myself, and what I've realised is that...

Eddie's face breaks into a smile.

"I don't just love you like a friend or brother or co-worker. Buck... You are the best person I know. And I love you more than I thought possible. "

Buck looks like someone struck him with lightning again.

"Eddie..."

"Please let me finish."

Buck nods after a beat.

"So I guess what I'm saying is: Evan Buckley, would you let me take you on a date?"

Buck laughs then, while blinking back happy tears, Eddie joins him. They laugh and then kiss and hold each other.

Buck sniffs and nods.

"Yes. I would love to."

Eddie kisses him again.

Buck shoves him playfully. "Took you long enough!"

Eddie wipes his eyes discreetly and jokes: "Hey give a guy a break! Years of Catholic repression, a shotgun wedding and being made a widower will mess a guy up for a while."

Buck grins at him.

"I like the mess."

[c0mbatchameleon]

@jegulus-microfic April 25, prompt: headlights, words: 458

He’s been sitting out on the curb down the street from his house for maybe 10 minutes when headlights and the thrum of an engine cut through the still, 3am darkness. Bag in his lap, burning in his throat; as the truck pulls up to a stop in front of him, Regulus is acutely aware of what it means once he steps inside.

It’s an ending, he thinks. It’s thick layers of dust lining the shelves in his bedroom—how quickly a room can become a relic. Can become ruins. Stale and rotting, a place where life only exists in past tense. In other words, a haunting.

To be fair, the haunting long precedes this—this crux, this threshold. To be fair, it was always more rot than anything else. To be fair, he can’t recall the last time the dark green walls enclosed something truly alive and breathing and not soured by the state decay. After all, it’s only been him for years now.

But Regulus thinks he remembers a time, just one time, when the room was much bigger than him, was everything; a time when a woman who, much the same, was much bigger than him floated into the room like an angel or an apparition, and, having heard his cry in the middle of the night, brushed his hair back behind his forehead with her ever-sharp nails and a whispered promise that everything was okay. He thinks he remembers believing it, then. He thinks it might have been a dream. He had never known his mother to be gentle.

And now, to open the door and cross the threshold is to relent, to find finality in the fact that he never will. He’ll never find out if something soft underlay all that ice-hot flame and sharpened teeth and barbed wire. And he’ll never know if it was a dream. And he’ll never know her, or him, or the home and the ghosts that haunt it, in the way he so desperately tried to.

His lifelong fight. And surrender is only a couple steps away.

Before he can take them, the driver’s side door opens with a click that pierces through the oppressive quiet this street has always known. And there he is, backlit by the single dim yellow streetlight like something holy, something divine, circling around the front and stopping at Regulus’ feet with an outstretched hand.

A hand. An offering. An end. A beginning.

When Regulus takes it, lets James pull him to his feet, let’s him take his bag and the weight on his shoulders to store in the backseat, he thinks that some endings might not be so bad. That maybe, some fights are worth giving up.

He thinks he wants to live.

[deathbecomesthem]

Eddie Munson x gn!reader

Things Left Unsaid

---

The things that stay unsaid between you expand and create more space with each conversation. The sun? Yes, it is high in the sky, its rays are heating things up today. Sure, I remembered to lather the cream along my skin to keep those harsh rays from seeping too deeply inside my epidermis. Work? Oh, I made sure the families that came through that glass door (sticky fingerprints, don't forget to Windex before you leave for the day) got exactly the food they ordered, still hot enough to melt the hard butter pads at the side of their dishes. The family? Same as ever - dad in the recliner with his favorite can of piss flavored beer and mom in the kitchen in her cherry red apron kneading, sauteing, wiping, and wiping the never ending flow of sweat from her brow.

But you never say the things that tug at your insides, pulling you apart with every sidelong glance at his face. You feel your eyes sweep across this side of his face and neck, the same side you sit next to every Friday night. He has 8 freckles today, scattered across his cheek with shiny hairs peeking through his pale skin. It's been a while since that morning shave. His dark curls barely brush against his shoulders, shorter than last week. You can imagine him standing over his bathroom sink, the dim yellow light his only guide, as he cuts and trims.

If you had any sense, you'd tell him. You'd ask him to let you stand behind him and drape a towel over those strong shoulders. Pull the hair out from under the towel. Use your fingers to carefully measure the length of each precious strand on that perfect head.

But what if he said no?

If you had any sense, you'd scoot closer to his thin frame and allow the heat of your skin to speak the words that you're too afraid to say. The space between you, more space than you give any of your other friends, is more vast than the Great Lake you visited last weekend. It breathes. It vibrates. You can feel it, like an extra person sitting there while you cling to the edge of this couch and Eddie clings to his.

Instead of bridging that distance, instead of tying that lasso to rope him and pull him closer, you chit chat and glance at his profile. Study it. Tuck away every detail. A version of him lives inside your mind, and you add to it with every laugh - every sneeze - every grunt - every crack of his knees when he stands up from the couch. Tortuous labor, sculpting him into perfection, yet never a real boy will he be trapped inside your skull.

“...a little stale, but it’s better than nothing, ya know?” You’ve been looking at the fingers on his left hand, studying the lines on the knuckles of his pinky finger. You didn’t realize he was talking to you until his voice moved up into a curving question.

“Hmm?” You hold back a small jump of surprise when you see Eddie looking at you in the blue glow of the television screen. If he noticed your staring, he’s doing an excellent job of hiding it. “Sorry, Ed, lost in thought. What did you say?”

“I said, my supply’s been low since Rick got picked up by the Sheriff last week, but I found a stash I forgot about under my bed. It’s probably a little stale, but better than nothing.”

[total-drama-brainrot]

Total Drama Psycho Noah AU, during the TDWT London Episode... What if Noah doesn't call the hidden Alejandro an eel, instead Alejandro and the other hidden Contestants saw Noah briefly showed his true insane colors to defeat the 'Ripper', with a big psychotic grin?... How would Alejandro feel about trying to bring up Noah's insane side, but Noah keeps denying it (and so does Owen, because Noah asked him to)? 😏

Psycho!Noah, under the assumption that he's alone with only Owen and the camera as his witnesses, going Full On Mania Mode on the Ripper? That's a fun thought.

I think, given the fact that he's on a Reality TV Show in the first place, this Noah would be upfront to the audience that he's... a little unhinged. Maybe he cracks a few jokes in the confessional (either during Island or World Tour) about his eccentricities, or maybe he really plays up the 'crazy' to paint himself as a wolf in sheep's clothing for the audience?

The second option there would probably work more in his favour, since him Just Being There would be a source of dramatic irony for the audience- something to keep people watching in anticipation, waiting for Noah's mask of mundanity to slip. He'd be 'good for ratings'.

I've decided that's the characterisation I'll go with. Psycho!Noah hides his true self from the contestants but, knowing that he'll be recorded 24/7, doesn't bother disguising himself for the audience- his nature will inevitably be exposed to them anyway, so why not cut out the middle man? At least this way, he gets the added pleasure of toying with the viewer's expectations.

-

So, given the fact that the only people he thinks are seeing him are people already in the know, what's stopping Noah from letting loose a little?

Nothing. Nothing's stopping him.

He and Owen step onto the double decker bus, the larger teen tiptoeing almost timidly onto the vehicle in his trepidation, whilst Noah follows casually behind him. He's a little disappointed, truly; horror themed challenges would be so much more interesting if they were, y'know, scary.

Luckily for him, things soon get interesting.

The shadowed figure of the Ripper drops from the ceiling with a thud behind Noah, assumedly crouched down on all fours like some sort of beast though it's hard to tell behind the inky, billowing cloak they're wearing. The motion would've been too fast for someone less capable to properly react to. Thankfully, Noah is very capable.

He pivots in place, catching the surprisingly fast arms of the Ripper before their taller frame can grapple him in his own deceptively strong grip, then forcibly bends the figure's arms until a sickening crack resounds through the bus's interior. The Ripper cries out a raspy animalistic shriek of pain, their forearms hanging uselessly limp out in front of them at awkward angles, and the clattering of something hitting the floor draws Noah's attention downwards. A knife, the Ripper's weapon of choice, gleams threateningly on the ground under the weak moonlight, having slipped from their incapacitated hand.

Well. That's certainly interesting.

Easing up his iron grip on the figure's disfigured arms, the cynic gingerly bends down to swipe the knife from the floor, then straightens back up triumphantly as he brandishes his new found weapon.

"Noah?" Owen's meek voice echoes from behind him. The bookworm tilts his head towards the other, who's fear-blown gaze is fixated on the sharp object in his unstable friend's unpredictable clutches.

The Ripper, momentarily subdued, continues to whine and groan in pain beside him.

"What's up, bud?" He responds, voice conversationally light and airy- a stark contrast to the Ripper's agonised gargles.

"Is- is that a knife?" The larger asks in a wavering tone. Noah isn't sure if it's the fear of himself with a sharp object, or the frankly pathetic display from the figure beside him, that's causing his best friend's hesitance. But he knows Owen- the big lug is a hardy sort, he won't stay scared for long.

"Hmm," Noah hums playfully, toying with the weapon in his grip. Feeble beams of moonlight shine and shimmer from it's blade, illuminating their surroundings in spectres of milk light, "Yeah, I think it is. Good eye, big guy."

A moment of tense silence passes between the two (somewhat ruined by the Ripper's incessant snivelling), before Owen's face splits into a shaky smile.

"Do you want to, uh, maybe, put the knife down?" He suggests.

Noah shifts his focus back onto the tool in his grip, theatrically ruminating over his friend's suggestion as he raises his free hand to his chin in a pondering motion, whilst his piercing gaze subtly flickers around the bus to locate the nearest hidden camera. He spins the knife in his hand thoughtlessly as he searches, deftly twirling and weaving the blade between clever fingers, sending spirals of light dancing through the darkness of their enclosure.

Once he's spotted the tell-tale red blinking light of a recording camera, he careens his whole body to face it. His features soften into a serene smile, highlighted by trickles of pale moonlight, as he addresses the camera.

"No. Not really. It's quite pretty. Don't you think?"

Noah waits a heartbeat, keenly listening for a response that'll never come from the recording device, before his smile splits into something wider. Something that splinters around the edges of his face and crumbles through his mask of tranquillity, revealing glimpses of wild delirium through its cracks. Similarly, his amusement-crinkled eyes widen with mania, irises contracting into pinpricks of molasses against the white of his sclera.

"And wouldn't it look a lot prettier... in a different colour?" The pessimist halts the spinning of the knife with a flick of his wrist, letting the question simmer in the stale air of the bus.

The Ripper, having finally regained their bearings, stumbles to flee from the bus.

Well. That's not very interesting, is it?

In the blink of an eye, Noah is suddenly nose-to-mask with them, holding the blade millimetres from the figure's neck almost tauntingly as he traps them against the fogged over glass of the bus driver's window, "Red would look really pretty."

"Noah," Owen whines petulantly, "we're supposed to capture the Ripper, not kill him!" As if to punctuate his point, the blonde tugs at the edges of the burlap sack he's carrying, shooting an imploring look towards his little buddy.

"Oh, I forgot. Silly me!" Noah exclaims jovially, smacking at his sizable forehead with his free hand. The Ripper beneath him whimpers at the motion.

-

In the First Class cabin, the majority of the Total Drama contestants stand gobsmacked at the display they just witnessed. Varying expressions of disturbance and fright are dotted across the crowd, and the more sensitive of the group have turned varying shades of nauseated green or horrified white.

"What the fuck?"

[thissortofsorcery]

Steve thinks he has to be getting sick or something.

Every time he looks at Billy Hargrove, his breath gets caught in his chest. It’s like his lungs blink out of existence for a second, and the air goes into his chest cavity in a hollow sort of feeling. Then he breathes out, and the world starts moving again.

A cloud drifts in front of the sun and the golden light is no longer bouncing off of Billy Hargrove’s curls.

The first time it happened was at a party— one of the many high schoolers only throw because there's nothing else to do around Hawkins. It was after eleven pm on a Saturday, and Steve was kinda drunk, more drunk than he’d been in the year he spent dating Nancy.

Billy Hargrove hadn’t looked at him once since he arrived.

He was all the way across the living room, by the windows, smoking a cigarette and talking to a couple girls Steve couldn't name even sober. Steve suddenly felt the itch for a smoke— something else he hadn’t done since Nancy.

King Steve would just lean on the windowsill beside Billy Hargrove and steal his cigarette like it didn’t matter.

A lot of things didn’t matter back then.

Then Billy Hargrove tilted his head back, exhaled smoke from his nose and his mouth, like it was just seeping out of him. Fog on a lake at night. And Billy’s eyes caught Steve’s, all the way in the kitchen entryway, half-lidded and bright blue, and Steve’s breath was— gone.

Tin-man chest hollowed out and empty.

Steve wonders if he could’ve caught something over winter break, if it could last this long and target him specifically when Billy Hargrove is around.

It’s getting out of hand.

During basketball practice, Billy Hargrove actually looks at him again. March is their heaviest championship month, and coach is running practice longer.

For almost five hours a week Steve has to fight to keep his eyes off Billy Hargrove’s slick, sweaty skin, somehow still gleaming golden up and down the basketball court. Steve used to have a lot more stamina than this, but now he’s gotta catch his breath all the time.

But that’s not the worst part.

The worst part is when Billy’s crowding against him, tight against Steve’s back, and Steve can feel him, feel the warmth of Billy’s breath on his neck, feel the goosebumps raising on his own skin, and he turns his head—

They’re nose to nose. There’s the tiniest, smallest hitch of breath that Steve can hear, and he knows it’s not his own. Steve stopped breathing already, a second ago. This is Billy, whose eyes snap up to meet Steve’s just a second too late, who clenches his jaw and swallows and he sees that Steve noticed, who trips Steve and steals the ball immediately after.

But it’s fine.

Steve thinks Billy might be getting sick or something.

It’s an easy decision to stick around after practice, follow Billy quietly to the parking lot and slink behind him to the Camaro instead of heading to the Beamer. The face Billy makes when Steve slides into the passenger seat is… it makes Steve feel hot, makes his heart speed. Makes him slide a hand across the center console to close around Billy’s.

The hitch in Billy’s breath is addictive.

It doesn’t take long until they’re alone in the parking lot, left behind with the orange light of the setting sun. Billy’s eyes haven’t left Steve’s face for a second, wide and blue and searching. But he hasn’t pulled his hand away, either.

The thumb of Steve’s free hand finds Billy’s bottom lip, presses gently into the skin, feels the stutter in the puffs of air coming from Billy’s nose. He leans in to feel them against his mouth.

[fandombead]

For Those Who Have Mourned Me

Hello!! This is my submission for Anaroceit Shipweek's prompt: Apology.

Summary: Virgil returns home after a quest to retrieve an invaluable gift for his partners takes far longer than he'd anticipated. How will they receive him? How could they forgive him after disappearing for 2 years? (note: Fantasy AU! Heads up for angst, this is hurt/comfort)

WC: ~3k || It’s on AO3! @anaroceitweek ! *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Apology

Virgil had no idea how he was going to explain himself. There wasn’t much he could say that would make this day easier. But he’d been psyching himself up for weeks and he was here now. But would they want him back?

Virgil stopped walking as the quiet forest opened into a grassy clearing. 

He felt faint as he stared up at the little cottage backed to the stream on the other side. He clutched his walking stick hard to stay standing, exhaustion and longing and heartache battling it out in his chest. Guilt rose from his stomach and made him feel sick. His magic sparked at his fingertips from the increasing anxiety and he could only grip his satchel to his chest, protecting thd thing he’d fought so hard to retrieve. That would make a world of difference and change all of their lives for the better. He had to believe it would, or else this was all for nothing. 

They…they’d accept him back, wouldn’t they? Once they knew why he’d been gone so long. He could explain it to them, and he’d do anything for them to apologize, to be pulled into their embrace, and he’d never leave it again if the asked it of him. If they wanted to hold him again. 

Tears pricked at his eyes but he wasn’t allowed to cry over this. He had no right to. It didn’t matter how much he’d missed them or how many times in the months it took to get back to them that he wanted to give up the quest. He should have told them. He didn’t know he’d be gone this long, but he should have. 

The sun was nearly gone behind him, casting long shadows of the trees on the house. 

A light was on in their sitting room by the garden. Attention drawn to prolong the inevitable, it looked like they’d planted the new crops already in his absence. He wondered if Roman had helped Jan in his place this year. And last year. 

He wanted to go in and hold them. He just wanted them to understand: prayed to whoever would listen that they’d understand why. Did he have the right to call this his home anymore after such an absence? Virgil doubted he’d be welcome, but perhaps that was just his own doubt clouding his mind. 

Perhaps.

Virgil forced himself forward, hobbling carefully down the path. He looked as frazzled as he felt, and maybe he should have stopped in town to be presentable first. He’d bathed in the river regularly, but the clothes were old now, damaged from travel. Maybe they could forgive him for it, too, if they could with everything else. He hadn’t wanted to delay another moment once back in the safe lands of the kingdom.

The path hadn’t changed much, even if a little overgrown with grass and wildflowers that hadn’t been cleared in a long while. The porch still creaked on its second step. Roman had said he would fix it soon. The bench swing on their porch was not as white as it used to be, sun-damaged and with a few chips in the paint, but it still had a clean outdoor blanket folded over the back of it and was free of dirt or pollen like it was regularly kept up. They still used it, then.

He tried to imagine the two of them there, sitting and watching the sunset like they used to together on many nights. He wonders if they sat there together watching the path for him to return. He wonders how long they waited, assuming he would come back for months. Hoping he would come back. Guilt tightened in his chest as he stood there far too long, staring and lost in thought. 

He did not realize he wasn’t the only one outside.

 Roman’s sharp gasp followed by the loud clatter of his watering can on the stepping stones leading to the back of the house was the only warning Virgil had. Virgil jumped, nearly tripping over his walking stick in his haste to whip around and just as startled as Roman stared. He had changed so much quite visibly. Ro looked more hallowed, his eyes not as bright as they used to be with small creases underneath. He had longer hair than Virgil had ever seen him with, messily put up in a bun.  

Roman was right there, and Virgil’s heart ached to reach out, to say something and make that shaken expression change. 

“Virgil!” he cried out, and it was almost more of a wail.

He wasn’t able to say a word before Roman was rushing him. “R-Roman– I-I’m so sorry, I really– oof!” 

Virgil’s back bumped the door in a moment of distress, because so much that had run at him in these past years had been hostile and trying to kill him. Roman closed the distance faster than Virgil could sidestep and he flinched, almost expecting anger to greet him, but arms encased him, not trapping or to hurt, but holding him close, as if he were something precious. Roman held him fiercely, and it took Virgil several long seconds to realize he wasn’t the one shaking. Or maybe Roman just was more than him. Virgil let out a small wounded noise as all the words he’d had ready were stuck in his throat, and it was all he could do to hang onto Roman’s arm around him.

The front door swung open and Virgil could not see behind him as he was currently being clutched against Roman’s chest, the tall diefic being refusing to relinquish him as he somehow cradled Virgil to him while they were both standing. Roman was sobbing over his head.

Virgil collapsed forward unwittingly, too startled to stay upright. Roman held fast, sinking carefully down with him and not letting Virgil slip from his strong arms. Virgil was stiff, trembling as he didn’t know what to do with his arms.  Roman tried to speak through his sobs, as Janus both tried to console him and fuss over Virgil, reeling as well, but knowing he was needed by them both. That didn’t stop Virgil from seeing tears on his face as well, Janus pulling Virgil against his chest when Roman let up for a moment to fuss over his state.

Virgil clung onto him like a lifeline, shameful in how weak he was to allow it. They should be furious with him, but they were too kind to turn him away. They wouldn’t, even though he’d properly abandoned them. He’d told himself he wouldn’t cry– wouldn’t force their sympathy from past feelings for him. 

“We’ve got you, love, it’s alright.” Janus said soothingly, and tried to pretend his voice didn’t hitch on the words. He cradled Virgil’s face in his cool palms, pressing their foreheads together as he just seemed to reveal in the sudden relief and change in their reality.

So many dreams of this very moment, a hope they’d shared in all its clear futility for two years now. Janus held on tight to make sure he was real, and refused to open his eyes for fear of waking up again.

“We thought you were gone,” Roman breathed out, pressing his damp face into Virgil’s wayward curls. “The–the pendants– stars, they told us you weren’t even alive– they didn’t glow when we reached out with thoughts of you, nowhere in the world…we t-thought you were–”

“I am so sorry,” Virgil whispered, clinging to Roman’s sleeve and pressing his face into the fabric desperately. He still smelled like canvas and that fruity spritz that Virgil always loved on him. He grimaced, trying to reign his emotions in, he couldn’t get overwhelmed right now. He had to tell them; needed to explain himself before they realized they should be far more upset. Though they had every right to be. “I’m sorry,” he croaked out, louder this time. “I-I– I never intended to be gone this long– but I couldn’t give up and time passed so much faster than I–”

Virgil cut himself off, trying to calm down. He wasn’t trying to make excuses. Janus hated when people couldn’t even be accountable, but what could he even say? 

Virgil clutched the bag to his chest and tried to pull back, however reluctant, to get his arm out. He managed to wiggle it free when Roman realized he was trying to get to it and let up a bit on his hold, not letting him go for even a moment.

“I– I got you this.” 

Janus and Roman’s eyes widened at the curling amber circlet he pulled from his bag, Roman covering his mouth when he saw it held gently in Virgil’s hands in offering. The headpiece had unshaped Ecludite at its front, trapped by a translucent tesseract crystal. The chunk of metallic crimson was no bigger than a coin and nonetheless radiated the immense power it contained just from being exposed. It was invaluable and a thing of legend and entirely non-existent in this mortal realm. Which meant…

“Virgil– this is from Erok!” Janus exclaimed, nearly standing again in his horror. 

Roman gaped, immediately turning to Virgil, who shrunk in on himself. “You went to Erok on your own?! Do you have any idea how dangerous and reckless that was? For two years!” 

Janus was shaking his head, trying to steady himself. “We could have easily lost you even from meeting in the afterlife, do you have any idea what would have happened to your soul had you died there? What’s likely already happened to your Quintessence–”  

“I-I know this doesn’t excuse me leaving!” Virgil said quickly, head bowed. “I know it was so stupid and I should have told you and that it was horrible to not even let you know where I was going the day I left– gods, I left a letter telling you I’d be back in a week…! I–I know this doesn’t make it up to you. For what I did before I left–” “Virgil!” Roman tearfully cut in, horrified and not able to take just listening a moment longer. “Did you do this on your own because of that guilt? Did you truly think we would not care or would want you to ever go to that– realm of chthonian horrors?!”

Virgil wouldn’t look at either of them. “If I thought for a moment at the start of all this that it would take me so long to get back, I swear I would not have gone like that, I never wanted to worry either of you, I wanted to do this for you! You both are so amazing and took care of me at my lowest–  A-And I had to do something–I could do something, I could b-bring you Mindscape’s Gate–”

“You should have taken us with you!” Roman cried, nearly knocking one of the most powerful dimension-crossing pieces out of Virgil’s hands, much to their little mage’s fear. Janus was faster, quickly taking it and the bag Virgil had settled it on away, holding it in his lap. Janus ran a hand through Virgik’s hair, settling it there as he gazed at him hard. “Virgil, you matter so much more to us than a portal back home. We would have found a way together, but to risk your magic being striped, your life– everything you are for this, all alone…”

They fell silent, save for Roman’s quiet soothing murmurs in their home tongue.

Virgil shook his head slowly, unable to hold the gaze. “I–I was selfish. I didn’t want to risk you, but thought…stupidly, that I could travel and make it after some lousy soothsayer told me how to get there. They never mentioned how hard getting back was and I was too desperate to ask. But you were just so terrified and devastated when the Di-Keep stole your connection to Home.”

“V-Vee, stormcloud, please, you’re–”

“Y-You both can go home again! You can see the others, so it was worth it, the risk, everything, it had to be worth it!”

Neither of them said anything for a long moment that time, and Virgil tried to pull away, but neither let him, Roman making a soft noise of protest. 

Janus shook his head as he tilted Virgil’s face gently to meet his soft eyes. “You did…all that for us. It was amazing of you, and…and so brave, even if…short-sided.” he said carefully, sighing as his face fell. “But you must understand, you mean so much more to us. No matter what happened, we do not want you to ever put your life up for us. It is so much more valuable to me than anything we’ve ever come to find in this realm. You are our greatest treasure.”

Virgil felt himself trembling at the implications.

Roman pressed his nose against Virgil’s shoulder, holding him close as Janus pulled them both to him, the circlet miraculously having been shifted safely to the bench swing as if it were just a souvenir he had gotten them.  

“We love you so much, our brave and selfless knight. We missed you deeply. We are so thankful the realm allowed you to return to us. If I’d known that’s where you were this whole time, we would have come for you, no questions asked. You must have been so scared…”

Virgil shuddered as his composure left him entirely, held so close between them and not wanting to let either go. He fisted Roman’s soft cotton shirt in tightly as Janus pressed a kiss to his forehead. “We have you now, my love. And we aren’t letting you go again.”

“I-I-sorry.” 

“We know. All will be alright.” Janus soothed, and Virgil held onto the words meant to comfort him. They did not know if he would be alright again. “I’m sorry– y-you mourned me.”

“You are here now, you are home.” Roman cooed, voice lulling. “You returned to us. Don’t you worry right now about how we will handle it. We are relieved.”

“I’m sorry,” Virgil sobbed, and he didn’t even know what specifically for. For everything that he knew they must have went through. They had to be relieving the pain he’d put them through, showing up out of nowhere like this–

Janus shushed him softly, brushing long damp hair from Virgil’s face as it stuck together on his pale cheeks. Being without sun for two years would have such awful effects on mortals. Janus made a note to have Virgil sit outside with him as he recovered.

“All will be alright, windstorm.“

It had all but set now, the shadows all-encompassing in their little clearing as the stream bubbled in the quiet. Crickets and fireflies started their nightly concert and dance in the tall grass, having a light show that didn’t compare to the constellations starting to come out above them. They sat there, letting Virgil cry out all his feelings of loneliness and longing and fears he would never come home, that they’d never even know what happened to him. He didn’t stop his garbled apologies until he was physically too exhausted to keep it up. Roman and Janus patiently reassured and comforted him the entire time until he finally fell silent, slumped against Roman’s chest as Janus held his free hand, stroking the scarred skin in his cool, smooth ones.

“I-I’m going to lift you up, okay?” Roman warned right before Janus pulled back. It wasn’t even a second later that Roman took his place once more, easily lifting Virgil and standing with him, followed by more quiet fretting over how light Virgil was. Virgil could only curl into Roman, unwilling to pull away drained as he was. If they abandoned him now, he would simply lie there, unmoving until the Wyervins and scavengers found him. He had nothing left. He weakly clutched at Roman’s chest, chasing the dark thoughts away. Such thoughts had long haunted him in dreams of his return. They got to him, warping his memory of them and their love. Janus and Roman were not like that. Ro was bold in his outspoken declarations of adoration and love for them both. Jay was more subtle but no less sentimental and just as intense, showering them in sweet words and close contacts.

“I have you, little hero. You’re with us again.” Roman reassured as Janus got the door for them, sweeping the precious token up with his telekinesis once more to bring it and Virgil’s staff safely inside. He made sure it was slid back into its bag and that it was set in the study, safe in the heart of their home. Many would kill or worse to get their hands on something so impossibly priceless, but they already had something worth more in their arms. They could discuss it in a few days or weeks, after they all had recovered enough and had a proper talk about all of this. 

Jan was not so sure a complete recovery was feasible, no matter how many decades and centuries passed, but they could be okay again. They would get to a place they could function in normalcy, even if it was never gone. Maybe it should never be gone, as life-changing as it was. Neither he nor Roman were done explaining to their beloved just how much he meant to them, and they would get it through the cloud of doubt in his mind. They would dote and tell him constantly of that truth, and reassure his anxieties as much as he needed them to without question. He had been through something no one should have to face and survived it. He was going to need time and help recover from that. They’d be here to listen and help him get any residual soulmarks healed. They’d guide him through the trauma and how to cope with what he’d never be rid of. They’d do anything for Vee, for Virgil, as long as it meant they’d still be there to love and protect him. He was as much their home as Mindscape, and they’d never let him be isolated from them ever again.

“We will take care of you, darling. You can rest now.”

[sparrow-in-the-field]

My maybe meanest idea for a hurt/comfort fic is to have Don have appendicitis and of course Bobby freaks the fuck out. And maybe he hasn't told the guys about his own botched appendectomy so they don't totally get why he's having this hard of a time.

Maybe premed student Chuck, trying to calm him down, says something about how it's a super standard procedure and Bobby just fucking loses it.

If it's in my modern au, maybe Joyce would be the one actually able to comfort and calm him down (now that I'm reading the book I like to think they could have bonded over their health issues, with Joyce's arthritis and maybe even her religious trauma ANYWAY) and maybe she told Joe so then he's the one to fill in the rest of the guys?? Idk, just lots of team bonding while Don's in surgery.

And of course Don's surgery goes fine but he wakes up immediately asking for Bobby and maybe even apologizing/feeling guilty because he knows Bobby would be triggered by the whole thing (obviously Bobby would have told him about it). And Bobby is just like "Don you idiot you can't control what happened to your appendix stop feeling bad" (he's just glad Don's okay).

Hhhhgg add it to the ever growing list of my WIPs

[blindmagdalena]

I have a headcannon that the reader is apart of the 7 (which would make it the 8 instead) and they've just gone through a nasty break up and homelander finds them crying and he just awkwardly pats them on the back and sits next to them while they sob

Homelander being Bad at emotional communication/comfort but making an attempt anyways because he believes it's his duty as the leader of The Seven—primarily to maintain his team as an extension of himself—is so, so good.

he naturally talks like an awkward dad. I can so clearly see him hesitantly meandering in and being like, "Hey, champ. Something up?" and he doesn't really want to know, but he feels obligated to at least ask. Ideally they'll give a brief answer, he can say, "Chin up! You're a hero, after all." y'know, spout the usual party lines.

but the answer is not brief. it's detailed, there's this immense relief from them over the fact he asked at all. suddenly he has his hands full with a heavy emotional burden that he has no idea what to do with other than nod and make the occasional hum.

listening to someone crying is probably a sensory nightmare for Homelander. hearing every wet blink, every snotty sniffle, the mucus in the back of the throat while they speak, the rattle of their breath. pair that with his sheer inexperience and emotional immaturity? he's tapping his fingers on his thighs, enduring more than he is actually comforting.

but then it's over, and they're looking at him with watery eyes and a red nose and a smile. "Thank you, Homelander," they say. he's not sure why he's so offput by their gratitude. he's entitled to it, of course. he just sat here for god knows how long (less than 5 minutes) suffering alongside them. he deserves to be thanked, so why does his skin feel so itchy under his suit?

He's not ready to think about how much easier his life would have been if there had been just one person willing to be there for him when he had suffered. how different things would be if he hadn't been so alone, his mind had to invent someone who would sit in for him.

Because he's not ready, he gives a broad, toothy grin that drips insincerity and stands up. "Teamwork makes the dream work," he says flatly, and pats them a little too sharply on the back, jostling them. they look as confused by the gesture as he feels. he clears his throat.

"Right. Go get yourself cleaned up! No one likes to see a hero in the dumps," he says, and turns on his heel. He doesn't want to listen to one more second of wet, sad breathing.

"Wait!" They say, and he stops. doesn't look back, keeps his look of impatient disgust to himself. "If you ever, you know... need someone. I'm here. I can be your someone."

Tightly, he bares his teeth in that same smile, the one that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and turns back around. Offers them a cynical little thumbs up. "You bet'cha."

Finally, he gets away. He exhales roughly. He feels uncomfortably warm and prickly all over, unable to put his finger on why.

I can be your someone.

Those words rattle around in his brain for the rest of the day.

I can be your someone.

They grow from a whisper in the back of his mind to a loud and ugly distraction.

The fucking nerve of them. He doesn't need anyone. He's fucking Homelander. As if he'd ever be caught dead sobbing his "widdle feewings" out in the conference room.

Pathetic.

And yet...

The next time Homelander feels it, that bubbling rage broiling up from his gut to his throat, burning like bile, those words come back like the flashes of a nightmare resurfacing from his subconscious.

I can be your someone.

Which is precisely how Homelander winds up tracking them down and sitting next to them with a vicious flourish of his cape.

"Oh, Homelander, hey—"

He puts his finger up sharply. "Shut... up. Sit there and be..." Be my someone. "Be quiet."

The silence is tense at first. Seconds tick by like minutes, minutes go on like hours. He listens to the patter of their heart. It shot up when he snapped, but it's beginning to calm now. Their breaths are steady. His own breathing, initially sharp huffs from his nose, gradually evens out. His churning stomach settles, and bit by bit, he feels himself again.

No destruction. No thick coppery tang of blood lingering in his nose. Just slowing breaths, steady heartbeats, and someone who will be there.

Eventually, Homelander clears his throat. "Thanks," he says, voice tight. "Teamwork makes the dream work," they reply. He looks over at them with a quirked brow. They're smiling faintly, a little playful. That catches him off guard. At first he thought they were mocking him, but they just look relieved. Something unspoken has occurred, and neither of them know what to say.

Homelander looks down at his hands. The leather of his gloves squeaks when he flexes them. "Anyways—"

A touch to his back startles the words off of his tongue. He looks at them. No judgement, just quiet sympathy as they rub back. Oh, he thinks, recalling the forceful way he'd patted them. This is what that's supposed to feel like.

He looks away, and they linger like that a moment longer. His cape and suit muffle much of the feeling of their hand, but still, the contact is nice. It bridges the isolating gap that Homelander experiences in his day to day interactions. Somehow, there is more connection here than in some of his intimate experiences.

He leans back into the touch slightly, blinking.

Pathetic, he thinks as his eyes burn wetly.

Homelander stands briskly, clapping his gloved hands to his thighs. "Right. Good. Back to work," he says, unsure of what it was they had been doing in the first place. He just needs to leave.

"Okay," they say, voice full of such gentle understanding. It only makes the burn in his eyes worsen, tinged with resentment. Where was this when he needed it most? "I'll see you later."

He opens his mouth, but stops himself. He bites the inside of his cheek, and then clicks his tongue lightly. "Yeppers," he says simply, at a loss. He leaves that way, heart heavy with a mix of strange, uncomfortable feelings, and yet undeniably lighter than when he had first arrived.

He doesn't know what to think of any of it. All he knows is that it will require further examination, and further interactions with his...

Someone.

[starstruckodysseys]

running circles around everyone you know —

completed, 1.1k words

There’s a lot of things Dang’s not good at, but running? He’s been doing that his entire goddamn life.

(or: what are choices to an action movie hero? what’s an action movie hero to a regular ass guy?)

read here on ao3

[astrobei]

Something’s wrong.

It’s a quiet afternoon in Will’s room. Mike is here, and this simple fact should be taking precedence over all else. It would be, on any other day — a day where it wasn’t off-puttingly quiet outside. On any other day, it would be all he could focus on.

Not that it’s not important. Mike is here, sprawled haphazardly across him, limbs akimbo like he couldn’t even be bothered to right himself before the need to bodily press every square inch of himself up against Will’s torso suddenly overtook him. It’s endearing, is what it is, even though Mike’s feet are dangling off the side of Will’s bed — they’re getting too tall to be able to lie down like this, side by side and taking up all the room they could possibly want. He’s got his cheek pressed up against Will’s sternum, arms wrapped so tight around Will’s stomach and lower back that it’s bordering on uncomfortable.

Endearing. It’s endearing, the need for proximity. The need for closeness, for touch, for reassurance. Mike wasn’t like this before. Not to this degree, at least. Will pretended to be annoyed by it at first, but the façade hadn’t even lasted a day before he cracked. He needs it too, and they both know it — the rhythmic push and pull of Mike’s breathing. Feeling Mike’s heart beat steadily against his own, separated by a meager few inches of blood and muscle and bone. The kinesthetic weight of a body against his own, grounding him on his off days — days where his pulse is perpetually panicked and off-kilter, threatening to fly away entirely, rendered unsuccessful only by the shape of Mike’s shoulder blades under his palm. The cotton of his flannel button-down, worn soft with use.

Grounding things. Real things. Safe things.

It’s a quiet afternoon. Mike’s foot twitches, suddenly and gently against where it’s pressed up against the line of Will’s calf.

It’s a quiet afternoon, and Will feels off, down to his bones.

Mike might be falling asleep.

Will smiles, hides it in the soft curtain of Mike’s hair where it’s brushing over his neck. Cups a hand around the back of his head and wraps his other arm around his shoulder — tighter, tighter, like Mike might just get up and walk away if he doesn’t. For all his pretending, Will is like this too, now: desperate, a little needy, selfish in small, ordinary ways. Too quick to worry when a call goes unanswered. Too quick to fuss over cuts and scrapes and bruises. He hugs too tight and he kisses too hard and he gets unsettled by quiet, calm afternoons.

He wasn’t ever like that before.

Mike twitches again — so delicately that it’s almost like an afterthought — then his arms tighten around Will’s midriff.

That feels intentional. Even if it hadn’t been. Things with Mike feel intentional. Purposeful.

Even if he is — you know. Asleep, a little.

Will’s room is comfortably warm; the late summer sun has been hiding lately, and the sky isn’t blue, exactly but at least it’s not red anymore — dark and rolling and angry. It’s still, and it’s quiet, and it’s peaceful for the first time in a long time — a long time—

—and still, something’s wrong.

“Will?”

Mike shifts, just slightly, just enough to lean his head against Will’s collarbone and look up at him. He catches the edge of Mike’s expression like it’s a secret, a glimpse of wide eyes, a little confused.

Will peers down at him. “Go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t,” Mike says, even as he blinks heavily. He rolls out his ankle, bumps it against Will’s and keeps it there, stretches long and languid, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. “What’s wrong?”

���Nothing’s wrong,” Will says. If Mike stays like this, if he doesn’t look up any farther, maybe he can get away with it.

Mike doesn’t sound convinced. “You sure?” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes with one hand and pushing himself up, just enough to be able to look at Will better. “You seemed…”

He trails off. Will tucks a stray strand of hair back behind Mike’s ear, from where it had been falling loose and down into his eyes. “I’m sure,” he murmurs. “Go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t asleep!”

“You were,” Will laughs. “You were twitching. Like a cat.”

“I don’t twitch,” Mike insists, then pauses. “Do I?”

“Sometimes,” Will admits, then presses a kiss to the top of Mike’s head. “When you’re really tired. I think it’s cute.”

“Stop,” Mike mumbles, but he lowers his head back to Will’s chest. “So mean to me.”

“I called you cute!”

“Mean,” Mike says, sounding like he’s halfway back to sleep already as he snakes an arm back around Will’s chest, hand resting lightly on the side of his throat, just over his jaw. He tangles their legs together, the sheets going wrinkled and bunched up under them. “So mean.”

Will smiles. “Sorry,” he whispers. He glances down at the mess of black hair in front of his face, runs a careful hand through it. Again, and again, and again. Mike makes a small noise, content and pleased, and presses in closer, like he’s trying to vanquish whatever minute semblance of space might have been left between them. “I won’t be mean again.”

It’s a joke, obviously. Still, Will traces apologetic circles into Mike’s back, into the gentle dip between his shoulders. He maps out the planes there, tries to commit them to memory by touch alone, the way he can feel Mike breathe in — slow, hesitant — and then out again — faster, like he’s collapsing back into Will’s body.

The circles give way to shapes, any that Will can think of. Then lines, curved and looping around his shoulder blades, his upper arms. He trails fingers up the back of Mike’s neck, where the cotton of his shirt gives way to a more organic warmth, and scrapes his fingernails lightly against the skin there. Drops another delicate kiss to the sliver of Mike’s forehead where his hair is parted as it falls around his face.

Mike lets out another pleased noise, half-coherent and probably involuntary, and his hand twitches lightly on Will’s jaw. Will bites back a smile, and stares straight up at the ceiling.

Will was never good at this before either — taking the things he wants. Letting himself have things he wants. Something is turning over in his gut, warm and viscous and slow, with each moment of touch he lets himself have, in this newfound, selfish way — through Mike’s hair, down his arms and back up again. Over his back, his shoulders, trailing fingers up his cheeks. He rubs circles into Mike’s temples, watches his brows unfurrow — for once in his life — and his expression go slack with contentment. He wants to touch the corners of Mike’s mouth too, where they’ve turned downwards, vulnerable, half-pressed into Will’s shirt.

He does. He can.

It’s a novel thing, for him, having someone be this close. Having someone be this close just because they want to be, because they trust you.

Will doesn’t know what to make of that. He’s never felt this before, the urge to hold someone so close that all the bad things go away. The urge to touch, the urge to lie here until entropy takes them.

There are no bad things anymore, though. It’s a quiet afternoon, and it’s calm, and it’s peaceful, and—

Will stops.

His hand stills on Mike’s back.

Oh, he thinks, still looking up at the ceiling. Oh.

“Will?” Mike stirs again, and he’d definitely been right on the precipice of sleep this time, judging by the way his voice is dragging on the single syllable. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Will whispers, a little incredulously, as realization dawns upon him. He wants to laugh. He wants to cry too, a little bit. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m great.”

Mike taps a slow finger against Will’s cheek and peers carefully up at him. “What is it?

“I,” Will starts, then stops. He’ll sound ridiculous if he says it. Ridiculous and pathetic and— “Nothing,” he says anyway, despite every molecule of better judgment in his body. “I’m just— I’m happy.”

Mike pauses. “Oh,” he says simply, cheek still pressed to Will’s chest. He sounds a little caught off-guard, in a good way. “I— that’s good. That you’re happy.”

The weird feeling in Will’s gut bubbles up, up, and over. “Yeah,” he says quietly, trying to keep his voice even. “I am. You make me happy.”

At this, Mike looks up. His expression is a bit startled, like a deer in headlights. “What?”

Oh, god. Will swallows. He looks back up. “I just,” he says, “I’ve never— I’m happy. And I don’t know when— I don’t know if I’ve ever. Been this happy before, I mean. Before everything. Before—”

You, he thinks. He doesn’t say it, but it goes implied.

Mike is silent.

The weird feeling starts settling back into Will’s stomach, slow and steady like molasses. Shit. That was, objectively, probably a weird thing to say. It was, right?

Oh, god.

Will blinks, once, twice, thrice in quick succession, and keeps his stare fixed on the ceiling.

“Will,” Mike says at last, from somewhere below him. He lifts his head off of Will’s chest, tufts of black hair swimming into view. “Can you— can you look at me, please?”

Oh, god.

Will looks down. “Yeah?”

Mike looks— wondrous, maybe, which is a bit dramatic, but it’s true. “Really?” he asks, and he doesn’t sound freaked out or anything, which is a good sign, but— “I do?”

“Yeah,” Will whispers. “You do. Like, really happy.”

Happy seems a bit diminutive, if Will’s being honest. Whatever this feeling is runs much deeper than that — past contentment and comfort and satisfaction. Ease, maybe. Safety would be closer.

He doesn’t say any of that.

Mike’s cheeks flush a brilliant pink. He splays his palm across Will’s cheek and asks, in mild disbelief, “Is that what was bothering you?”

“It wasn’t bothering me,” Will says quietly, tugging at Mike’s wrist and sitting up, just slightly, leaning back against one elbow. “I’m fine.”

“You weren’t,” Mike says simply, and lets himself be moved. “I could tell. I just— I thought it was something, you know. Worse.”

“What?” Will laughs, and Mike’s expression softens in relief. “Like what?”

“I don’t know!” Mike exclaims, but he’s smiling too. “I just— I could tell, and I didn’t— I don’t know. Never mind.”

Will pushes a strand of hair behind Mike’s ear again, the same one that had been falling back out the entire time they’d been lying together. “I’m sorry if you worried,” he says quietly. “I just— I didn’t know what it was. I’ve never been this happy before.”

“Will,” Mike starts, expression earnest and searching. He opens his mouth and closes it again.

“Sorry,” Will adds, for good measure. Maybe Mike is, like, totally freaked out. “No pressure, or anything.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mike says immediately, frowning. “Never apologize. I just— I’m happy too. You make me happy. Really happy.”

“Well that’s good,” Will jokes, but it comes out halfhearted. “I should hope I’m not making you sad.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “Will.”

“Sorry,” he says on instinct, then immediately bites down on his lower lip. “I mean. Yes. Yeah.”

Mike gives him a look, exasperated and a little fond. “I mean,” he says, then leans forward, all the way back into Will’s space, “you make me happy too. I don’t know when I’ve been— me too, I mean. Me too.”

“Oh,” Will breathes out, in awe, a little bit, of a lot of things — the deepening flush across Mike’s cheek, the ease with which the admission comes tumbling out of his mouth. The simple reciprocity of it bowls him over, like maybe Mike thinks about this, when Will doesn’t know — just how happy Will makes him. “Okay.”

Mike eyes dart between his own. “That all you have to say?” he teases. “Okay?”

“What else do you want me to say?” Will asks, teasing back, a little, but also asking a little truthfully. He’s not the greatest with words, but he’s also not stupid — he understands the implications, here, of what it means to feel so happy around someone that it feels like you’re admitting to something bigger by just saying it. He knows what he’s implying, and he knows Mike is picking up on it, but he doesn’t know how to put that into words — the way his soul feels like it’s stilled inside of him, somewhere, no longer restless or jittery or perpetually keyed up.

He wonders if Mike feels like that too.

The thought, suddenly, is too much.

“Nothing,” Mike says, after a moment. He pauses, then presses a fleeting kiss to Will’s cheek. “Nothing.”

“Mike,” Will says, suddenly, then grabs a hold of Mike’s wrist again. “I— you know that I—”

He feels overwhelmed, a little frantic. He’s sure it’s coming through in his voice. The rest of the sentence hangs there, suspended in midair between the two of them.

Love you, Will thinks. I love you. I love you.

He needs Mike to know.

Mike can’t ever know.

He looks away again, like maybe Mike will be able to tell exactly what he’s thinking just by looking at him.

“Yeah,” Mike is saying. “It’s okay, Will. I know. Me too. Obviously.”

Will relaxes. Thank god for plausible deniability. “Okay,” he says instead, feeling a smile split wide and exhilarated across his face. He feels like he just ran a marathon, and it isn’t until he lies back down that he feels it. The adrenaline, sweet and thick and palpable in his veins. “Okay. Cool.”

“Cool,” Mike echoes, then settles back down on top of him. “Yeah. Cool.”

Will tucks his chin over the top of Mike’s head, running a soothing hand over Mike’s hair. His heart is beating so fast that he’s sure Mike is able to tell. “Go back to sleep,” he says quietly. Mike lets out a noise that might be a laugh, and tucks his face into Will’s neck.

It’s a quiet afternoon. Everything feels perfectly right.

[wangxianficrecs]

A voice long gone by Vrishchika

🔒 A voice long gone

by Vrishchika (@vrishchikawrites)

M, WIP, 11k, Wangxian

Summary: Wei Wing leaves behind some private letters. Lan Zhan writes a few of his own. Kay's comments: The grief/mourning aspect of this story hits just right. It's so good. Like all of Vrishchika's stories, it's been on hiatus for a while, but that shouldn't deter you from reading it at all. It's such a great epistolary. After Wei Wuxian's death, Lan Wangji finds letters that he has never sent and Lan Wangji writes some in reply. Neither of them ever planned to send the letters, so it's more like a diary for them and it's absolutely heart-breaking in the best possible way. Even after Wei Wuxian returns, they continue and thanks to the letters, there's a new understanding between the two of them. Excerpt: Do you remember that night under the moon? I was such a mischievous child! I saw you and thought - well, look at this stiff and proper boy, let me shake him. Wangji huffs. And you shook, you snapped, you scolded, and you punished. I knocked you off the pedestal, annoyed you into becoming human. Perhaps I wanted to disrupt that impossible beauty, stain it with very human ugliness. But humanity made you more beautiful. I was such a fool, chasing after you at every turn, somehow always finding cause to mention you in conversations. What is it, I wonder, that draws me in? Perhaps it is curiosity? Because I always want to understand you. Perhaps it is friendship? Because I always want to be understood by you. But I digress, which always seems to happen when I think of you. Funny, isn't it? On beauty and ugliness. I fear I've had my fill of both. The ugliness of the world I knew, a world I thought I understood, haunts me. The dreadful beauty of these Burial Mounds consumes me.

pov lan wangji, pov wei wuxian, canon divergence, epistolary, grief/mourning, angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, hurt/comfort, stream of consciousness, golden core reveal, mutual pining, developing relationship, confessions

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)