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lost-in-fandoms · 1 month ago

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Winter Warmers Day 31: NYE countdown. Maxiel. About 1.5k words.

"Max, Maxy, Maximum, Maximus Prime!"

Max turns away from his conversation with Alex just in time to catch Daniel around the waist as he stumbles into him, the drink in his cup sloshing over his wrist.

"Hello, Daniel," Max says, unable to stop himself from smiling, readjusting his grip so that he can hold Daniel more comfortably.

From the corner of his eye he catches Alex moving away, probably deciding that their conversation is over now that Daniel has Max's attention. Which is a very fair assumption, given that in all the years they've been friends, Max has always dropped anyone and anything to focus on Daniel.

Some might call it pathetic, to still be in love with his best friend after so long, but Max doesn't really care about what other people think. He just cares about Daniel's warm weight in his arms, and the fact that when all the people at this party will have left their house, Daniel will still be there, probably moving stuff around to pretend he's helping with the clean up.

"Are you having fun, Daniel?" he asks, trying to maneuver them towards the kitchen, both to clean up Daniel's wrist before he complains about the stickiness and to not feel like every single person is staring at them.

Well, every single person other than Charles and Carlos, who seem to be trying to get acquainted with each other's tonsils.

"Yes," Daniel answers, letting himself be dragged away, stumbling unhelpfully on his own feet.

Once they're in the kitchen, occupied only by Logan and Oscar, heads bent over a phone, a half empty bottle of wine next to them, Max hoists Daniel on the counter, right next to the sink, swiping away a few empty paper plates.

"Stay still, please," he tells Daniel, grateful he doesn't have to shout as much over the music anymore. They should probably start lowering that actually, if they don't want the cops called on them again, but it's new year's eve, for sure old Meredith could let it slide this once.

He plucks Daniel's cup from his hand, something of not clear nature inside it, and wets a couple paper towels, gently wiping at his wrist and hand.

"Maxy," Daniel says, dropping his head forward to rest it on Max's shoulder. He's making Max's job harder like this, but Max is not going to complain. He just hums, showing Daniel he's listening.

"I have decided on my resolutions list," Daniel tells him, sounding slightly more sober than he did before.

Max drops the paper towels and grabs an empty cup, filling it with water from the sink and handing it to Daniel, coaxing him to raise his head to drink it.

Daniel had been talking about his resolutions list for more than a week. Max is not sure why he's so set on having new year's resolutions, since in the past eight years he's known him not once Daniel has been the kind of person who follows a plan, but he's been listening anyway every time he brought the topic up.

Max doesn't understand why he's having so much trouble creating the list either. Sure, Daniel does have his moments of perfectionism, but seeing him actually get stressed about this had been puzzling.

"Yeah? Can I know it?" he asks, dropping the now empty cup when Daniel hands it to him before opening his arms, letting Daniel comfortably slump into him again.

Somewhere on his left, Logan and Oscar leave the kitchen, closing the door behind them, cutting off a little more of the noises of the party, making Max feel like he's in his private Daniel bubble for the first time this evening.

He's not ashamed of saying that he's a bit possessive, greedy about having his fair share of Daniel's time, but he's gotten better with the years. The last time Daniel had been in a relationship, Max hadn't even tried to scare them off, but they had gone anyway after a couple of months, leaving a very mopey Daniel behind. Max had keyed their car.

"First thing, I want to learn how to play the banjo," Daniel says, way too loud way too close to Max's ear.

It makes Max smile anyway, knowing this point will be abandoned in a few months at most, just like every other instrument Daniel had tried to learn, getting bored with each one of them.

"Good start," he encourages anyway, because he's nothing but disgustingly soft when it comes to Daniel, even worse when he's tipsy like tonight.

He gets rewarded by Daniel pulling back to beam at him, before going back to Max's shoulder.

Sometimes holding himself back from kissing him takes all of Max's strength.

"Then, I want to improve my handwriting."

Yep, just as Max had thought. Another task that will be abandoned, like all the other times Daniel had tried before.

"I can read your handwriting," Max tells him, because it's true. No matter the kind of drunken chicken scratch he finds on the grocery list, Max has learned to interpret it all. It's not that hard really, when you manage to recognise the subtle differences between the squiggles. Part of the game is actually learning what is supposed to be a word and what is a doodle.

"You can, because you're great," Daniel mumbles against his shirt, as Max tries to pretend he can't feel himself blushing, "but I am so tired of people complaining about it."

"People should just learn how to read," Max tells him, unhappy with someone making Daniel feel like he should change. Which is very stupid, because Daniel is perfect, chicken scratches included.

It makes Daniel laugh, waist moving under Max's hands, his wet bottom lip dragging against the exposed part of Max's shoulder.

"Do you have any more?" he rushes to ask, trying to distract himself from the feeling of it.

In the other room, the music gets lowered, and for a second Max thinks it's the cops again, until he hears someone scream two minutes!

They should probably rejoin their friends, celebrate midnight with them, but Max is quite comfortable where he is, and he doesn't want to see Daniel grab someone to kiss, even if just to laugh about it afterwards.

He had long learned his lesson, after one year he had tried to angle himself in Daniel's line of view, just for him to reach around him and grab Charles instead. Max had gotten way too drunk that night.

"One more," Daniel says, voice even lower now that the music is off and they're so close. He sounds more hesitant suddenly, nervous fingers fidgeting with the hem of Max's shirt.

"Do you want to tell me?" Max asks, just to be sure. Sometimes Daniel needs a little push before he opens up, but it's always a very thin line between getting an answer and being shut out with a joke instead. This time Daniel nods.

"I want to suck your dick."

Max chokes on his spit, trying to push back Daniel to be able to see his face, feeling his eyes go wide.

It wouldn't be the first time they joke about it, but Daniel doesn't sound like he's joking, and if this is a prank Max is going to get very drunk again and probably go cry in the bathroom, but...

But when he manages to push Daniel's head up, he's blushing and he's looking at Max from underneath his lashes, fear and determination mixing on his face.

"You mean it?" Max forces himself to ask, sounding breathless. His heart is beating too fast, so loud he's sure Daniel can hear it too.

Daniel nods, one corner of his mouth turning up in a shadow of his usual smile.

"My last resolution is to stop lying to myself about my feelings for you," he says.

It echoes around his brain, bouncing around and amplifying: feelings for you feelings for you feelings for you feelings for you.

In the other room someone starts the countdown, and Max reaches forward, cupping Daniel's jaw with his hands.

"Are you gonna buy me dinner first?" he asks, just to see Daniel smile properly.

"Can I do it next year?"

Max rolls his eyes, but he still chuckles, weak for Daniel always, even when it's his bad jokes.

Three, two, one...

On the other side of the door sound explodes, their friends cheering and screaming, but Max barely hears it as he presses his lips against Daniel's.

(George screams when he opens the door to come grab the champagne chilling in the fridge and finds them making out against the counter, Max's thigh between Daniel's. The new wave of cheers that follows it is so loud Max starts mentally preparing his apologies for old Meredith and the cops, even as he copies Daniel in flipping them all off.)

#maxiel #my writing #i had an idea for the spicy prompt too but then this took over #winter warmers 2024 #i still want to get some of the older ones done but woweee last day!!!!!#a very special thank you to bean for the prompts #and a very special thank you to all the people who has said nice things about my writing in the past month <3 #if you ever reblogged even just one of these and said something nice we're best friends now

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hitlikehammers · 9 hours ago

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tremolo

…what if instead of learning clarinet or percussion, you could learn to read the music of hearts? 💕

rating: t ♥️ cw: love at first sight, car crash (off-screen), SUCH FLUFF ♥️ tags: ✨magical realism au, musician eddie munson, paramedic steve harrington, kinda soulmates (it makes more sense with the magical realism part), character study, softness

for @steddielovemonth day one: "Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet." —Plato

It was just like learning any instrument, really.

At least what they tried to convince Eddie to believe at the tender age of nine.

But it was all about finding an aptitude, apparently. Developing a talent. Fourth grade rolls around and he fucks up blowing with a reed, manages to give himself a tongue splinter. Nearly passes out on the brass. Ends up with the choir lady looking over horn-rimmed glasses and narrowing her eyes at him less like a teacher and more like a fortune teller or something, scrying what’s to come of him, like she can see through all that he is and will be, before she goes scribbling something on his little slip of paper already marking all the failed kinds of music he’ll never get to make and telling him: go to Room 011.

But no one ever goes to Room 011.

He meets a petite woman with mousy hair and clothes that look like they belong to someone else, somehow. She introduces herself as Miss L. She looks like a Miss L., so he doesn’t think any further on the point.

You will not play much, really, she tells him, and the way she talks is kinda funny, like she learned words but not from people actually saying them out loud. Eddie kinda likes it, though. The playing is only for emergencies, and if you find your True Note.

Eddie doesn’t know what most of that means, except for the fact that the whole point of trying—and failing—at all the instruments was to join the school band with something to play. So if that’s not what he’s going to learn, then what the heck is Eddie meant to be doing down here—is what he wants to ask.

He manages a little politer version of the same, his nan’d be proud. His dad wouldn’t care even if he was around and not behind bars. His uncle might be happy that Eddie’s kept his nose clean just this one time. So he figures he does okay.

But really, he just wants an answer. He was supposed to get to learn music. It was the one thing that was keeping this whole year feeling like he could maybe, maybe survive it.

It also means he doesn’t have to take the art class that’s mostly kindergarten crafts instead of real art, so.

“You will be learning music,” Miss L. answers, more patient than most grownups; “you are here to learn how to read the songs that hearts sing.”

And that is, by far, in all of his whole nine years of living, the most fucking absurd sentence that Eddie has ever heard.

——

He’d kinda thought it was a joke, when he left that first afternoon to get back before Language Arts.

Turned out: nope. It was not.

He’d maybe thrown something slightly less childish than a tantrum, when what he got was a big set of earphones and a box the size of an Easy-Bake Oven, where apparently he’d be playing some kind of recordings to start his lessons.

“Do you not wish to learn?” Miss L. asked so simply, and Eddie…

Eddie reminded himself that no matter how foolish and stupid this was, it couldn’t possibly be worse than making construction paper collages with Elmer’s glue, so.

He put the headphones on and pressed play.

——

His workbooks didn’t look like anyone else’s in band—in fact, Eddie didn’t think he was actually a part of the class band, like, he wasn’t expecting to play at the spring concert with the flutes and the trombones, anymore. When he had sheets of staves to fill out they didn’t have straight lines. He didn’t draw different circles with little flags and bridges connecting them. He…

“When there are no keys, and there is no time signature,” Miss L. had explained, and it took time to make any sense; “you are the rules, and you feel what is a melody,” she’d tapped something that feltbeautiful, like daffodils blooming, though Eddie couldn’t say why; “and what is a warning.”

And then she’d tapped again, and it clenched in Eddie’s chest like a tornado siren, and…yeah.

That was kind of the best explanation he could have asked for.

——

It’s in middle school, when everyone else gets new band directors while Eddie sticks with Miss L., that it starts to…well.

That’s when the fact that Eddie’s alone in his lessons, and no one seems to know quite what he does—and the other kids who get that kind of treatment are usually the ones who can’t add or spell right, who have some kind of problem to work on extra hard—but it’s around then that Eddie starts being called names for it.

It’s not too bad, at first. Eddie’s worked for his two full years of elementary school lessons to get through recognizing the songs, suffers the point where recognizing becomes unbearable, overwhelming—Miss L. never left his side when he held his head in pain for all the noise, all the songs because they were everywhere, in everyone, and how was he supposed to learn what was right and what was good and what was just okay but then what was also everything the opposite when he couldn’t even think—

But she taught him the tools, the ways to sift through the chatter, as she called it. Because not all of it was a warning; not all of it was bad just because it wasn’t beautiful.

Some of the noise just was.

She showed him how to trust his own ear; his own song in his own chest as a guide, because that’s why he was here: he had a gift, an aptitude, built in and in need of development. Liked they’d said in the beginning.

He’s nearly thirteen when she teaches him how to write his own songs, in the not-notes and the no-tempos. In the nameless flow of sound.

It’s when his classmates overhear one of those works-in-progress, the taunting gets worse, starts to hedge toward unbearable.

Until Eddie asks if he can just stop: quit this. It’s not worth it. He doesn’t want to be a freak.

“It is a rite of passage, to ask this,” Miss L. says slowly, no judgement, and weirdly no pity; “but I should tell you first,” and her eyes narrow more than Eddie thinks he’s ever seen them.

“Your skill is already greater than any I have seen, and is only getting sharper, more keen.”

And hell if a teacher’s ever said something niceabout Eddie Munson, let alone something that sounds like flat-out praise.

“They cannot hear the music, this is why they say those things,” she flicks her wrist less like conducting a chorus and more like shooing a gnat, like that’s the appropriate amount of consideration the comments deserve. “Your task has always been to teach them what they do not know, to show them the wonder they are ignoring as they live and breathe.”

And while it really would have been nice to know that before signing up for this…this what, calling? Vocation?

While that would’ve been nice, Eddie…Eddie can at least mostly understand he wouldn’t have understood any of it in the fourth grade.

He barely understands now.

But he can feel it. He understands how to feel the music that fills all those gaps.

“This is common,” Miss L. turns back to him, steeples her fingers while humming something from the radio: not bad, but not beautiful. That’s what she means, he realizes. The radio plays common.

“This,” and she puts a hand over her own chest and keeps time with her fingers on the tabletop as she hums a wholly novel thing out of thin air, and Eddie has never seen someone else recognize the music, has never watched someone compose in the veins where the songs that hearts sing are played, let alone in real time; maybe she never had because he had to lean for himself, first.

But it is kind of exquisite to witness.

“This,” she stops, and raises a brow pointedly in Eddie’s direction; “is human, built in your cells.”

Eddie couldn’t name why, precisely, but he feels…shamed, but also empowered. So different, but they make an almost compelling melody together as they clash.

“They will call you freak before they call you prodigy,” Miss L. says it like a fact, which…kinda sucks to hear, in all honesty.

“They will label you insane, before they recognize you as genius,” and the way she adds that part makes him feel like that was her personal burden to bear, and he aches for her in it.

“They will cry out garbage and nonsense,” and here, these words: these are the ones Eddie knows immediately he’s meant to be hearing, be weaving into notes the strongest, the ones she wants him to keep closest and never lose:

“They will cry out worthless,” she spits out with a venom he’s never heard her use; “before they will sob in the face of your masterworks, and how they will breathe magic in the soul.”

And…Eddie doesn’t know exactly what to do in the face of the conviction she says that last part with. To doubt it, as he instinctively wants to, feels vile; the most egregious disrespect. He can’t bring himself to even try. So, he asks instead, voice rough:

“When will it change?”

Because despite everything: he doesn’t want to be a freak.

“That I cannot say,” she sighs, and she does sound sorry; “and it may never change at all.”

Eddie doesn’t know if he’s built to handle that, the possibility of never.

“But even if you leave, here and now,” Miss L. cuts into his despairing; “even if you stop your learning, the songs will never leave you.”

Oh.

Oh, so did they…did they teach him to hear a endless goddamn curse, and as a fucking kid—

“You would always have come to hear them,” Miss L. must read his mind, or maybe just his face; “just never with any place to funnel the noise,” and he…guesses he should be grateful. He nearly went mad in those early years, before she taught him how to make new melodies, concertos the likes of which even the great masters hadn’t penned, because they played in a different medium. Their notes and structured time were useful, but limited.

And if they never heard otherwise, how would even the most brilliant talents know what they were passing over, leaving behind?

“Do you still wish to leave?”

Eddie turns, almost having forgotten Miss L. was still sitting there, watching him. Almost having forgotten what he’d come to ask, to give up.

There’s no question left, now.

He gets out his notebook, his pen, and starts as he always does.

With the listening.

——

It’s a genuine distraction—the songs get louder with time, but Miss L. tells him that’s a sign of his skill growing, his notice of the equivalents of key signatures and ligature notes in the heartbeats he passes every day—but it costs him passing senior year once, and then again, and almost a third time until by the skin of his teeth, he manages. While every other teacher shames him for it, derides him as incurably stupid, or at the very least unambitious to the point of embarrassment, the extra years mean more time with Miss L., and Eddie…most days, Eddie is nothing but thankful.

More time means Eddie also learns that the songs he hears are as much a public service as they are an art form, as much a defense mechanism as a craft. He knows when bullies are on the prowl, and to make himself scarce for their screeching cacophonies. He knows when he has to be less of a coward and step in when a wild rhythm makes him sick with its fear.

The more he pays attention to the not-quite-beautiful songs—especially when he thinks on them later and stumbles upon nuggets of the exquisite inside every way they weren’t—the more he remembers years ago, out of almost nowhere, but maybe…maybe everywhere, like it’d been written in his heart’s song the day she spoke it:

“My first day,” he enters the same room—not the same-same room but the one in the high school that’s as abandoned as all of them have been, always Room 011—but he enters the room close to the end of the year, the last year, with the question thick on his tongue, and woven the same in his song as he closes the door and feels his heartbeat quicken for no reason and every reason, like he’s long learned these songs always do.

Miss L., for her part, just nods; waits.

“You said,” Eddie rolls his lips together; “emergencies.”

It’s a delay tactic. They both know it.

She’s kind to play along.

“Mmm,” she hums; “the slightest bits, yes, you can shift the rules to change the song, because you made the rules to begin with,” she eyes him carefully, then. “But only by bits, and in only the most dire moments.”

Yeah, yeah, sure. He never thought he could like…write lines to coax a heart to sing itself back from the dead or some shit. He gets the point.

Again, they both know: that’s not the point he’s here for, heart pounding high in his throat.

“But then you also said something else.”

This time, she doesn’t nod at all; just stares. Eddie has to clear his throat twice to make a sound so as to ask:

“What’s a True Note?”

Because Eddie’s had a couple flings here and there. And the idea of anything real with someone else, alongside the weight of this…talent of his, this training that’s defined half his life by now: it’s really nothing more than a stray idea. But Eddie can’t really hide from the fact that, somewhere along the way, he’s suffused that idea with so much promise and potential, but with no legs for it to fucking stand on.

And he’s about to graduate. About to go out into the world and…who the fuck knows what.

He needs to either hold onto this insane, silly notion of some cosmic meant-to-be match waiting for him somewhere, that it’s at least possible, and then hold on to it like burning—or let it go, and get on with the rest of his fucking life.

“Do you know how I said you could sway the rhythm just the littlest bit, in the greatest of need?”

Of course he did. She literally just said it.

“Your True Note will sing like you have never heard before,” she tells him like it’s not something…immense; “and that song will sway your rhythm so much more than the littlest of anything.”

She just fucking says it, like it isn’t already swaying the rhythm his heart sings in. Here and now.

“That heartsong will change your world.”

And all Eddie can even think to ask, to make more plain in it, is just one thing:

“Will I change theirs, too?”

Miss L’s eyes lock to his and hold for enough seconds where it should be uncomfortable, where his chest starts to grow unbearably tight.

“Hmm,” she considers finally; “if it is meant to be that way.”

Eddie wants to scream. It’s not enough.

And still somehow, it will have to be.

——

In the months that follow his freedom, he misses Miss L. Kinda desperately.

But the lack of structure, the openness of knowing he has to find a way to piece together all the snippets of song he’s bombarded with: it is the reason he ever picks up a guitar. It’s the whole learning heartsongs thing that he has to thank for it, a roundabout journey toward the destination he’d wanted from the beginning.

Or else, that he thought he did.

It’s not just guitar, though. He eventually learns the woodwinds without ending up with a splinter in his mouth. Figures out the different harmonies at hand in making sure he tempers the way he breathes for the brass. He loves the piano, and the cello especially, alongside guitar and double bass: he makes a trip back home specifically to see her and ask—Miss L. tells him it’s probably because of their strings, like hearts have, too.

It feels right in a way things haven’t felt in a very long time.

Which is really how he comes to not only understand, but to accept in his bones: no matter if they ever call him prodigy or genius, if he ever plays a concert hall or anywhere but on a street corner with an open case for change, he was made for this; built for this. The woman with the horn-rimmed glasses who sent him to the basement music room saw it in him. Miss L. proved it to him by teaching him to prove it to himself. He doesn’t know if he’d have picked it, but he knows it was never something he could have picked or turned down in the first place at all: it’s who he is.

He is the music. He is the songs that hearts use for singing. And maybe someday he’ll meet someone who sees it in him, and hears his song, and sings ecstatic. Maybe.

He hopes.

But either way: this is his life.

This is his melody.

——

It takes years before they do sob for his masterpieces, for them to be ready for a style and cadence they don’t understand because they will never comprehend the language, that speaks deeper than the logic required for any of those rules. It takes a long fucking time before they start listening with the lens of the first song any of them ever learned. But the time does come, and Eddie is grateful, because he’d genuinely feared the maybe-never he’d been warned about. He’s glad that’s not where he is, now.

But now? Things start to happen almost unbearably fast. Shows here and flights there, guest appearances and interviews, record labels and live recordings, a book deal he can’t even begin to think about. The world tips on its axis and Eddie only really considered that happening to him for one reason: because of a song so beautiful, in a Note so True—this isn’t that.

But everything still feels upside down anyway; totally off-kilter.

He’s crossed ten time-zones this time. He’s exhausted, but he has a performance tonight, just like he did in the tonight of the place he just left. The car he’s in on his way to the next venue is sleek, like they all are now; his team is already there preparing, so it’s just him and some local hires he hasn’t even had a chance to learn the names of yet, which he hates. He hates being privy to their songs and not even knowing their names, let alone their stories.

He jots the notes he gleans from how they sing without their words on the drive across town anyway. Waste not, and all that.

Eddie has the pen in hand, cap between his teeth, when the truck plows straight into them.

What follows would be unsurprising, if Eddie could process it from a bystander’s point of view—as it is, the only thing he knows in the melee is the music.

He is devastated, as he reaches out for the slowing songs around him, knowing in the back of his mind what their slacking tempos mean, and marveling with something like horror at how beautiful each one is as it starts to fade: still unique, still something Eddie could braid into a piece, certainly one to draw tears.

His own song is ebbing, he knows, but it’s less important than the sweet melodies around him, especially—

Oh.

Eddie thinks, with what may be the last thought left to him as pressure and heat and pain tingle at the edges of the music, almost too strong now to be drowned out by the notes that are what Eddie is at his core: but he thinks he may be too far gone already, because what he begins to hear is…

Exultant. It’s…

If Eddie believed in a heaven, this would be what the hosts there sang. When the idea of divinity is bandied about, they can only ever be talking about some cheap imitation of what Eddie hears now. Luminous. Effervescent.

Beautiful in a way that exceeds the word itself so deeply that it barely fits, obliterates the notion on sight.

And what a gift, Eddie muses as everything dims to black, to hear such Notes, such perfect music as the last thing he has to hold onto in the end.

To end on something that’s True.

——

The next tones Eddie hears are mechanical. He winces—not bad but certainly not beautiful—and then winces harder because wincing itself fucking hurts.

He holds himself still, seeks the song he knows in his own veins: yes, and he’d been so sure it was gone, because there’d be an accident, a crash, he’d been thrown, crushed, songs all around him were dying and he’d heard the magnificent symphony of otherworldly perfection so—

“I’m technically not supposed to be here,” a voice interjects, or no: drips in leisurely, like comfort, like honey; “because you’re a patient, and I’m,” and Eddie forces his eyes open to see the voice come out of a man, who is pointing at his chest: a uniform. Medical.

“I’m not dead?”

All signs do point that direction but…Eddie had been kinda fairly sure he was done for.

“God,” the man chokes like he’s pained, like the idea hurts him, and why; “no,” and he says that a little fiercely, protective almost; “though not for lack of an effort.”

He looks tired, as Eddie’s vision starts to clear some more. He looks radiant. Exquisite.

Beautiful.

“You saved me?”

Because Eddie clocks the uniform now: paramedic. The ones who come onto the scenes and try like hell to save who they can. Heroes.

“I helped,” the beautiful man says, like a hero would, of course. But…it still doesn’t make sense. If the man does this for his job, then Eddie isn’t special, so then why is he so vehement, and then what of all the fading songs Eddie remembers, because Eddie had heard—

“What about,” he starts, but there’s a hand over his quickly, soothing.

“Everyone’s here, different wards,” the hero-beauty tells him in lows tones; “we don’t know if they’ll all make it through the night, but,” he nods, like…this is enough.

And it is. Except…

“How?”

And where Eddie is baffled, his hero just quirks a brow.

“Don’t tell me you never covered emergencies?” he asks skeptically. “Most dire moments, greatest of need?”

And it’s with those words that Eddie’s world slows very quickly to a halt. The music swells in a way he’s never known: because it’s always present to hear.

Buts it’s never been so tangible to feel, not like this, and with such…magnificence, no lesser word could touch it. Maybe he truly is closer to death than not, maybe that’s the reason for the fervor in this man he doesn’t know—the choirs of the angels Eddie wasn’t banking on swells and is visceral, and this hero sits before him, speaks the words that have haunted Eddie more days of his life than not, and—

“This was where the music took my life,” the man pulls at his collar, indicative again: the heroism. He…he saves people, because he, he also hears…

“But I couldn’t have done it without you.”

His hand on Eddie’s tightens, like gratitude, and Eddie…gapes like a fucking fish, and then—

“There’s something else.”

“Not just here to check up on the fruits of your medical miracle?” Eddie’s tongue feels heavy, thick in his mouth; he feels sluggish all over, weighted down and like he can barely move because…this man hears the music that hearts make.

Can he hear the ineffable beauty, like Eddie can? He must, that’s how it works, so why is he not in the same amount of awe—

“Not just,” the man smiles small, but real, a little hesitant. A little…shy, maybe, before he straightens, leans a little closer.

“Watch that screen,” and he tracks Eddie’s gaze until Eddie’s fixed upon the ECG, the most disappointing distillation of the songs he’s learned to find so much wonder in.

But then the man is pressing Eddie’s hand to his own chest, which…is forward, given they don’t even know each other.

Eddie is maybe still on, or at least just-recently-off, death’s door, and either way he’s fucking thrilledwith this development, warm beneath his palm.

“Now count.”

It only takes a moment, to put the gestures together into a statement.

The beat under his touch matches the line across the screen. Exactly.

But this man’s not the one attached to the monitor.

“Got it?”

Eddie nods, and the man doesn’t hesitate, lifts Eddie’s hand and presses it back to Eddie’s own chest.

“Again.”

And that’s…that’s not the same rhythm as the one on the screen; the songs don’t match at all.

But Eddie can still hear the one that does—the beauty. The exaltation.

“Can you,” Eddie asks, lifts his finger that’s got a clip on it, and the man’s a professional, he’ll understand—looks less than conflicted about disconnecting Eddie from wires and leads before clipping his own finger and letting the screen shift to a new cadence.

The same one under Eddie’s hand, in Eddie’s own chest.

“Holy fuck.”

“Yeah,” the man barely breathes, and Eddie notices now how intense his eyes are, focused solely on Eddie, and…Eddie remembers the words that came after the ones about emergencies. About how little he could help, but that he could still do something.

But with only one person, it could be—

“You didn’t just sway my rhythm,” Eddie half-gasps; “you made it your own.”

And oh: Eddie never tied the song of hearts to the song of laughter, but from this man, the huff of incredulous joy that slips from him now—they’re made wholly of the same stuff.

Symphonic. Staggering. Weeping to feel this much, in the soul, to be privy to such a…

Masterpiece.

“Worked both ways, it seems.”

“I heard you,” Eddie blurts out, because it makes sense now; “before I, when I thought I was,” dying, when he thought it was all over; “like I’ve never heard anything before.”

And now: of course this man hears the heavenly movement Eddie thought was a mercy before the end but was instead the arrival of everything he’d ever hoped to one day find, literally coming to rescue him in more ways than one; but that song is somehow commonplace to this unfathomable angel on the earth.

And what this man hears stronger, louder, dearer seems somehow to be Eddie, the song he sings from the chest, in how it’s causing those caramel eyes to glimmer, and to barely blink lest they miss something in just…Eddie.

“You never stopped,” the man says with urgency, with feeling; “your song never stopped,” and then he’s closing his eyes and laying both his hands over his own chest, where Eddie’s heartsong is ringing full and maybe changing his world, because the song in Eddie’s chest sure as hell has already changed his, and—

“It’s extraordinary.”

And Eddie, in years of ridicule, in months of celebration, in all the ups and downs and doubts and hopes this life of songs and hearts and rhythms and beats has left him with, in all of it—

Those two words rewrite his whole fucking being.

“True Note,” Eddie mouths more than speaks before he scoffs; “shit, but that seems like a really fucking inadequate thing to call it,” and his eyes lift to take in the man who he knows, he knows is going to be his magnum opus, or more: is going to write the magnum opus they will be and breathe and share from here to all ends:

“To call you.”

And there’s the clearest sense of a trip in a beat, but who it belongs to isn’t clear, and maybe that’s the reality for them both now: every subtlety of the song is now shared, now theirs.

“You could start with Steve.”

Eddie looks up, breath a little heavy, but the smile on the man’s face is broad and kind of overjoyed, kind of looks like Eddie’s chest feels:

“My name’s Steve.”

And that?

Best damn title for a symphony Eddie’s ever fucking heard.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @rebellatlas @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yesdangerpls @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

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lucabyte · 9 months ago

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i am looking at nohats au 👀 please share more

So! NoHats! I'm going to grab you and use this to ramble. A Lot.

The NoHats AU is @samhainian's it's just that I'm the strange little freak who takes the words said unto me and executes on them. But I can still do a little explainer on what our overall thoughts and vibes are. (And, that we are in fact propping up a little box with some cheese under it here. 🪤 Please (PLEASE) feel free to pick up what we're putting down.)

We're far from the only ones exploring a "what if siffrin fucking died" AU, though the main difference with NoHats is the placement of the death in the timeline. Instead of being 'Mal Du Pays Wins' or 'Act 6 encounter goes horribly wrong', the death is… Just after the (literal) falling action.

(This placement is because Sam is a comic book fan who thus has become used to characters being ripped away at the cruelest times by shitty writers. THANK FUCKING GOD adrienne is not that and isat is delightful yippieee, but, back on topic.)

Giving the party the full understanding of What Happened that you get by putting the death after black hole siffrin, but before the A6 encounter leaves an interesting gap to be filled. See, making Siffrin's death very much not Loop's fault means that… this once again reads (when not read as simply a tragedy...) as the universe doing what it sees fit to fulfull Loop's wish… Thus making Siffrin's death Loop's fault again, but only in their eyes. And only in a way they could express if they were honest about who they were…

And this is where having had excuse to waffle about my general Postcanon Loop thoughts the other day comes in handy, because Sam and I have that as our canon-compliant reading to begin with, NoHats plays off of a lot of the same readings of Loop's character. Namely: Uh Oh Somebody's Lying By Fucking Omission Again. (BECAUSE TO BE FAIR THIS TIME… HOW THE FUCK WOULD YOU HANDLE THAT?)

Now, neither Sam nor I are fanfic writers, so this has been a little bit trapped in our heads and DMs (and my unfinished art but,)

But our thoughts on how NoHats like… Goes.

Siffrin's death is peaceful, but that does not mean the aftermath of it is. I can't imagine the party takes it well, especially after understanding the circumstances of the Loops. (And, of note, in A5 where nobody had the discussion on what to do with each other's bodies should something happen…) But I'd imagine it traumabonds them somewhat (understatement of the century) and now knowing how the rest of the party feels, they resolve to travel together for the forseeable future.

The party track down Loop to deliver the terrible news, since they were clearly Siffrin's friend too, and invite Loop along to travel at least long enough to (let them grieve) get the burial over with. Loop, here, can be helpful in knowing what Siffrin would've wanted where the party would be at a loss. Loop, I think, takes a bit of a lead on the funerary aspects of it all, because, um. (Performing rites on your own body, huh?)

Then, as things are after a death, life just… Kind of has to continue on as normal. The party travel, pick up Nille, and get to know Loop as this mysterious new person. Maybe in this situation they might stay in Bambouche for a while to give Bonnie more stability since. They are probably taking it the worst. It would've come out of absolutely nowhere for everyone in the party obviously but god, for a kid? For A Kid?

It should be stated NoHats is not intended to be grimdark, just y'know. An exploration of grief. This is also why it's got a bit of a lopsided focus on Bonnie vs the rest of the party because hhrrhghghhghghhhghhghhh <- incoherent

Now, a crossroads.

How does the party discover Loop to be Siffrin? How long does it take. How much have the party embraced them as part of the family (especially with something as intense to bond over as this)?

There's the Odile option. Have her put it together and have to bring it up somehow. This could also be done by Isabeau, perhaps. He's smart. (which. God. If anything's the real Isabeau Torment Nexus it's this)

Then there's the other option batted around by Sam and I. The: The Universe Dislikes Duplicates option.

The items in the house that fzzt away when inspected. The Universe doesn't like there to be two of something, at least not when they're acknowledged. But one of something is just fine…?

Which is to say. I'm not a personal proponent of 'Loop getting their body back'. EXCEPT …… except this one time.

There's only one Siffrin now, so they don't need to be obfuscated to exist.

Consider, if you will. Loop swallowing their guilt for long enough to be comfortable. Falling back into old habits. Without another Siffrin around to compete for the niche of, they actually begin to act like Siffrin again. Not intentionally, it's just… The party is as welcoming as they've always been. And the party swears they keep catching glimpses of a face under all the light.

Then, one day, while still not fully human again, the resemblence becomes undeniable. Loop having not even noticed until everyone looks at them like they've seen a ghost.

Has it been months? How long have they kept up this lie? Is it even a lie, to them? They're Loop. But they were, once, Siffrin.

Even after explaining it, does that make it better or worse?

Bonnie cuts through the betrayed, struck-nerve reactions with a sobering "I missed you."

… Anyway !

Yeah so that's the vibe for NoHats. As for LoopLoops? That's more nebulous. I think it can go anywhere really in the NoHats timeline. I err personally toward the "Loop continuously replays the last 10 minutes before Siffrin's death almost immediately after they find out and have to parkour their ass up the House in the most distressing situation possible to try and get them to hold on, just please hold on." (Remember! Siffrin can remember the contents of Loop's loop backs in the A6 fight!)

But there is the possibility that this happens months, or worse years down the road. One last Loop back. Throw it all away for the chance to just get that one thing you didn't know you even wanted but now know you NEED.

Misc:

Okay miscellaneous time.

This is where I admit that I have a bunch of unfinished NoHats art that I haven't gotten around to yet because I feel like a right tool being so obviously Loop-Centric with my fancontent (I AM . . I REALISE I AM NOT DOING MUCH TO BEAT THE ALLEGATIONS.) So like if people want to see that please say because euaghghghhfh <- the nervous.

this is like the most fucked up place to do isaloop fr. anyway.

one of Sam's mid-game observations that I'm just going to share for no particular reason is that Bonnie's hair shares a bunch of shapes with Siffrin's. The flick up at the top, the 3 pronged shape of the fringe… just something to think about.

Without 2 Siffrins around to compare each other to it'd likely be a lot harder to notice Loop's similarities. Doesn't mean that those similarities don't sting more in this context though.

If you do NoHats without LoopLoops. The concept of this all fading into memory years down the line while they just have slightly-glowy but otherwise regular Siffrin hanging out is fucked up to think about. Just like real grief. Augh

6. a peek into the original dms as a treat from us

#LONG POST....!#be free our ideas. go forth into the wild. and by that i mean neither of us are fic writers so please HUNT US FOR SPORT #isat spoilers #looploops au #nohats au #isat au #isat loop #isat act 6 spoilers #not giving it more tags than that since feels rude to tag the rest of the party lol #lucabytetalks #but yes! to be extra clear: nohats is a 'please play in the space' invitation. because neither of us are big fanwork people! um!#it feels a little bit neglectful of us to not make more stuff for this AU ourselves but... we aren't practiced at that kind of thing. so.#open invitation! we know we won't make anything MASSIVE with this so.. don't hold your breath. and feel free to take the reigns.#we aren't like. the arbiters of 'sif fuckin dies' aus in general obviously but if you want to play with our specific ideas please do!#think of this post like prompts if you want to. go nuts #and @ a certain someone who said in the tags theyd maybe write something inspired. kisses you so sweetly. thank u for even considering it #also hi kaun i was thinking about your little snippet when typing 'act 6 encounter goes horribly wrong' 👋

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timetravelsong · 7 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐝.

excerpts from a book I’ll never write

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toxintouch · 6 months ago

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how do you think the lis would respond if mc sheepishly asked if they could fondle their tiddies? (even mhin, even though i KNOW they'd shank a bitch.)

Here ya go, Anon!! :3 They pronouns & non-specific language/MC used. Suggestive, but no other warnings.

AIS:

Pretends he doesn’t hear them.

“Hmm?” He holds a hand to his ear, a toothy little smirk on his face, his scarred eyebrow raised. The way he’s making direct eye contact is an unmistakable challenge.

“You wanna what now, Sparrow?”

He knows exactly what MC said and they can tell. He just wants to see if they'll say it again. They didn’t sound so sure about whatever that request was just now…

His smirk grows when– (if?? But c’mon he’s so clearly saying yes, please) –

His smirk grows when they don’t back down. He spreads his arms out in invitation, haori splaying open.

He’s patient for as long as he can stand once they get their hands on him but it isn’t long before he finds himself grabbing them by the wrists, pulling them closer. Pressing his palms against the back of their hands to encourage them to make full, firm contact. Haven’t they been warned? He’s awfully greedy.

(And: if he purposely presses their touch against his heart for a moment, no one needs to know but him.)

VERE:

He gives them a blank look– a look unsettlingly similar to his hungry, flat eyed stare. Though, it’s gone in an instant–so quick they might even be able to convince themself that they imagined it. One blink and his entire expression is different, his tail swishing elegantly and with a flourish that can only be described as pleased.

“Well,” he purrs, “aren’t you just adorable? I did tell you to ask next time you wanted to touch… Very well then. I’ll reward your ability to follow simple instructions.” He relaxes luxuriously into the cushions of the divan that he’s resting on. “Come along, then. Fondle to your heart's content. Don’t leave me waiting.” He beckons to them with a crooked finger, tempting them closer, a haunting echo of their first meeting.

Survival instincts be damned…he did give them permission…

He breathes a chuckle out as they touch him, his mouth hot against their ear as he buries a grin into their neck.

In the space of another breath, he’s flipped the two of them, leaving them pinned against the divan.

“You didn't think you were getting a single thing for free from me anymore, did you? Tut tut. After you treated my generosity so callously before? From now on, I’ll be expecting payment in kind. Quid pro quo, darling.”

KURAS:

He looks at them, eyes crinkled with amusement. “Am I to take it that your interest is academic? Studying anatomy, perhaps? I do have a few select texts I could offer you which you might find quite beneficial.”

The embarrassed look on their face seems to amuse him further, the corners of his lips tugging up as he takes in their expression.

“Of course, the benefits of a more hands-on method of scholarship should not be overlooked.” He takes pity on them, beckoning them over as he takes a seat on the doctor’s stool, right next to the cot where they first met him. He neatly removes his coat, folding it and laying it to rest beside him. Despite their fears, he doesn’t start listing out the anatomical names for things as they lay their hands on him. His eyes slip shut as they rest their hands on his shoulders–he’s still so tall, even sitting on the low stool–sliding their hands down, admiring the sturdy form and shape of him.

His own hands come up, clutching around their waist with surprising strength. His eyes are bright and intense as he looks up at them. They expect him to say something but he merely squeezes them–Possessively?–

Like he might be able to trap them in this moment with him forever, through will alone.

He closes his eyes again; his grip loosens. His self-control back is back in its necessary place, and he finds himself repentant.

“Forgive me. You are quite endearing. I simply find you…difficult to resist.” He admits.

MHIN:

You are so correct anon. Shanked immediately. But MC bonks their head into Mhin’s chest on their way to the ground, so… Achievement Unlocked? Or, for MC’s sake, I’ll assume that they have earned a level of trust/intimacy with Mhin that makes Mhin a lil' less likely to get stabby.

Mhin’s eyebrows furrow as Mhin crosses their arms, physically creating distance between MC and their…

Mhin’s cheeks go a little red as they realize how obvious their body language is, their pale eyes darting to the side as they worry about what other things they’ve accidentally telegraphed to MC. How many of Mhin's true thoughts and feelings are they privy to...? Shaking themself mentally, they quickly snap out of it, pinning MC with a pointed glare.

“If you value your life at all, you’ll never ask me that again.” Mhin marches away. “Staying at the Wet Wick–around Leander–has ruined your brain. You need to get out of that place while you still have some grey matter left.”

. . .

Later, escorting MC back to said Wet Wick, ducking through the lesser known and narrower streets after a long day of following dead ends together, Mhin finds the thought ruining their own brain. It must be the heat of MC pressed against them in the alleyway, the comforting, all-consuming scent of them, the memory of MC’s flushed face while they were asking Mhin’s permission... MC’s much braver than them, Mhin thinks bitterly, so much more willing to let themself have what they want, despite their cursed hands. Mhin sighs, stopping abruptly. Turning. Pinching the bridge of their nose.

“Look–you can–”

Mhin feels themself blushing all the way down to their chest. They open their mouth and close it a couple of times, attempting to articulate what they want. They make a noise of aggravated frustration. Carefully–very carefully, and very slowly, so that MC knows exactly what they are doing, they reach for the bandaged hands at MC’s side. They rest MC’s hands lightly on their chest, shivering as they feel the brush of fingers against their clothed ribs, thumbs pressing into their sternum. They bite down a noise that would surely make them perish where they stand. Stars above, how long since–

“...Does your heart always beat this fast, Mhin?”

“Quiet.” They snap.

Wow Mhin. Right there in the alleyway huh? Well ok then. I see what ur about.

LEANDER:

The two of them are alone in the room at the Wet Wick, just sitting together innocently on the bed when MC asks.

Well–they try to ask.

He hears them start the question and his coat and shirt (and tiddie belt) are coming off before they can even finish. He gives them a quiet chuckle, blushing as his shirt(s) get caught at his shoulders.

Though the perfect way it frames his boobs might convince them he did it on purpose…

“You meant skin to skin, right?” He laughs again, leaning back on his hands and looking entirely too appetizing–is he arching his back a little more than necessary?

“I don’t mind at all! Though, if you could help me with…” His eyes crinkle as he smiles at them, head tilted like a puppy, waiting expectantly.

They get up from the bed to help him discard his remaining topmost layers of clothing, standing above him in order to better assist. His eyes are pinned to theirs the moment the fabric barrier is fully cast aside. “I…can’t say this is a bad view,” he admits, eyes roving along their form, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Then, more sincerely: “I’m glad that you asked me for this. Don’t be afraid to touch, all right? Nothing bad will happen to me, promise. Remember: whatever you want.”

They find themself feeling along the edges of his scar, tracing the line of it across his pectoral… His breath catching when they accidentally scratch him a little with their nails (MC is just a little clumsy–that was completely unintentionally, really) is dangerously addictive.

“Ah... Anywhere else you’d like to touch? It would be a shame to waste this opportunity…”

If they're feeling shy, he could offer a few suggestions. He really, really wants to help in any way he can. :)

BONUS!ELYON: “You can, but I will have to charge.”

#And then the Milkshake song plays #touchstarved game #i am–as always–just a silly little guy #I hope this is to your liking anon!!#i hope it is kinda what u were hoping for?!#leander touchstarved #mhin touchstarved #ais touchstarved #vere touchstarved #kuras touchstarved #touchstarved game fanfic #I was gonna be sillier bc I was tryna match the vibe of the ask but then i looked into my heart and found this instead so i hope...#anyways when Ashnikko said ewwy in the gutter i can’t help I want to be ti**y smothered i felt that #LEANDER WAS THE HARDEST ONE TO WRITE CAN YOU BELIEVE?!?! its bc his was just him going: yesyesyesyes #toxintouch writing #fun fact there's a deleted line where Ais cops a feel of MC's a$$ he is an a$$ man i fear :) but I cut it out bc ThE fLoW ok #i will let him do it later in something else #i hate u tumblr formatting FINE I WON'T MAKE IT LOOK NICE #Divider is from the official TOUCHSTARVED itchio page #post got softblocked bc I said things in the tags so i censored i'm LAUGH #i really typed hakama instead of haori ealier ffffff #toxintouch: {pick} prompt {your poison}

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skyloftian-nutcase · 9 months ago

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Well, how about the word... nutcase?

Sky skipped in, yelled I just went skydiving!! and then promptly skipped back out, leaving Time and Warriors blinking in confusion for a moment before the words registered.

"You did what?!"

"Sky, you're a freaking nutcase!"

#you ask skye answers #lovely anon #some lofty lore for you #when I went skydiving I did not tell my mother - who was freaking out at the mere thought of me doing such a thing - until after I did it #ran into her room straight after doing it and said “I have something to show you :D” and promptly showed her the video of me skydiving #the look on her face still gives me joy LOL #writing prompt #writing #lu in healthcare #lu sky #lu time #lu warriors

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gingermintpepper · 3 months ago

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🌈 or 🌥️ (or both if you're feeling it)

EHEHE thank you very much for the ask! Gonna mix both prompts and give something soft with my favourite dialogue of this piece (and it's not even a wip actually, this is just a completed bit of writing I have on hand that I'm not really planning on doing anything with) which asks the question I'm pretty sure only I have asked: what if Apollo was the one to tell Heracles that he had to head to the Underworld after he'd lost Hylas during the Argo Expedition (also he consoles him a little).

"It'll never get easier, will it? This life."

Phoebus Apollo doesn't answer him. Before, Heracles would've blamed it on ego, the vanity of the gods who think themselves so much better than the mortals they yank about with their power. Now, Heracles thinks he's just a figment of his imagination, another twisted trick brought on by that bitch of the Heavens. The silence stretches on and on, only the sound of his digging and the quiet rustle of fabric fills the space between them. Were Hylas still here, he'd happily fill this stale air, nattering on and on about herbs or the colour of the fish in the lake, or the beauty of the stars between the treetops. Now, the silence is oppressive. Dense. Like the weight of water pushing all the air from his lungs.

Heracles quickly takes the bundle of Hylas' meagre things and throws it into the hole. Best not to dwell on it. Especially not when an Olympian was right beside him. (Maybe it's a good thing that this illusion is so placid. Gives him space to breathe. To think.)

He spits, picks up the flint. "Can't answer that one either? How about an easier question then," the sparks catch on the edge of Hylas' silk belt, quickly eating up the precious gift. Hylas only got to wear it once when they'd celebrated the night before the Argo set sail. He'd wanted to bring it home for his mother. "Was I also cursed to be alone for the rest of my life? It's not enough that she took my family, she's going to take everyone that treats me well too?"

Phoebus Apollo remains silent, fire turning his body warm gold. Heracles clicks his tongue, anger mounting. First Megara then Pholus and now Hylas. Man, woman, beast, it didn't matter at all, did it? All would die if they loved him. Everything would melt away like ash on his tongue and she would keep him alive just to see him squirm.

"Don't just sit there fiddling with your cloth damn it, answer me!"

Phoebus Apollo looks up then. Eyes so gold they seem to burn their own colour, calm brow, stern lips. This wasn't the playful god who refused to let him take his sister's hind without proving his worth, nor was it the distant prophet outlining the sentence for his crimes. This was someone, something else entirely and Heracles can only swallow his tongue in the face of it.

"Come," he beckons with the slightest tilt of his chin, "sit here." Heracles does. "You ask difficult questions. Ones I have no intention of answering." Slender fingers do not falter in their sewing. Heracles watches all the fine bracelets and rings jostle only slightly as the god makes his stitches. "For that, I must apologise."

Heracles snorts, dismissive and looks out into Hylas' fire, "You lot have never cared to inconvenience me before. What is one more disappointment to add to pile?"

A grim smile dances at the edge of his painted lips, "What, indeed."

"If you aren't here to answer my prayers, then you must have another errand for me." And doesn't that just make his blood boil? Even now, when Hylas' pyre has not yet burnt out, the gods still demand more from him, still drive him harder. He digs his nails into the tooth of the rock they share, hopes it is enough to keep him from laying hands on his divine slave-driver's throat and ripping it right out. "Make it quick. Even you must understand the rules of mourning."

Phoebus Apollo's smile widens. He ties off his thread and cuts the excess length with the side of his fingernail. "On the contrary, I've come bearing a gift." Unfurling the length of cloth reveals a gorgeous chamlys, etchings like constellations dotting its dark length and shimmering even in the firelight. "A gift and a word of warning"

Heracles swallows thickly, such rich cloth would surely need to be hidden from his cousins. "If you think a fancy cloak is enough to gloss everything over -"

A laugh, soft and musical. Lighter than Hylas' chuckles, sweeter even than Megara's hidden giggles. How dangerous. How lovely. "Alcides, be calm. I have nothing to hide and there is nothing you could possibly give to me. You already have my gratitude for not harming my offspring, it would please me greatly if you also accepted my boon."

"The cloth is hexed?" It feels no different from a usual chamlys, maybe just a bit softer. Phoebus Apollo laughs again, richer this time so that it resonates in the very base of Heracles' bones and sends little electric sparks shooting all across his body.

"Indeed. It will keep you hidden from the eyes of the Lord and Lady of the Underworld. Do take it with you when next you set foot in their kingdom."

A terrible chill slithers down his back. Hylas' fire pops. "What's the meaning of this?" And Heracles forgets himself, digs his hands into the lush fabric of the god's chiton and wrests him close, "You think it's funny delivering my funeral gown now? When Hylas' body hasn't even cooled?"

Phoebus Apollo hums, brilliant eyes gazing calmly up at him, "I think it should be a great boon if ever your spirit wishes to wander in the great fields of Asphodel should you make the trip."

#cutting myself off there because like I would genuinely just paste the whole damn thing in there #I love pretty much ALL the dialogue in this piece but like I said I have no idea what to do with it #ginger answers asks #ginger writes #There's like zero market for Apollo/Heracles content cause afaik no one really thinks about them together #which like y'know demonstrably crazy to me considering how close the greeks thought they were #yes this is me acknowledging the alt geminis like Apollo and Heracles and Triptolemus and Iasion #but no to me Apollo and Heracles are the true counterparts #like Apollo and Heracles is what people think Apollo and Achilles is I said what I said #this whole idea of Apollo having heart to hearts with Heracles throughout his labours is one that is very self indulgent #and very comforting to me #anyway TEEHEE THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME BLABBER #definitely much longer than a snippet but I'm justifying it by saying that it was two prompts in one 🤧#apollo #heracles #writing #greek myth writing

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onekisstotakewithme · 2 years ago

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Things you said under the stars and in the grass, BJ/Peg!

"It looks different."

Peg looks over, confused, but of course in the light of the shitty camping lantern, BJ's face is in shadow, his voice quiet.

"What do you mean, darling?"

"The sky. It looks different than it did in Korea."

"Well." She rolls onto her side, reaching down to find his hand in the darkness, hearing the crickets chirping in the long grass around them. "It's not that surprising, is it? You'd have been seeing different constellations there because you were there. It doesn't mean anything."

"I just... I wish it could've been the same."

Peg smiles to herself, knowing he can't see her, rolling back onto her back to look up at the sky.

It's a beautiful clear night, without a moon, and the stars are sparkling overhead, BJ's hand in hers.

"You sentimental fool," she says at last. "I mean really, BJ, you're something."

"Something nice, I hope."

The joke almost falls flat, but Peg squeezes his hand anyway, still feeling overwhelmed with affection. "It's okay that it wasn't the same. You know that, don't you?"

"I wanted it to be. I thought... maybe it would mean something."

"I don't think looking for signs and symbols is how you survive a place like that. But then, I was never one for lucky rabbit's feet."

"It all sounds like superstition until you're standing over an operating table while the roof shakes above your head, wondering how you ended up there."

"So what did it end up meaning?"

BJ is silent, and for a moment, Peg worries she's said the wrong thing. It wouldn't be the first time - there's no advice columns on how to be a veteran. Or, for that matter, how to be married to one.

And then BJ makes a noise, almost inaudible, and Peg looks up.

There's a shooting star arcing across the sky, and Peg's breath catches in her throat.

BJ laughs, a joyous unburdened sound, and he squeezes her hand once again.

"Still don't believe in signs there, Peggy Jane?"

#bj x peg #things you said... writing prompts #m*a*s*h

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dellephone · 5 months ago

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things you said after you kissed me + landoscar

“Oh.” Oscars eyes are wide, barely following Lando as he leans back. And yet, he still manages. It’s electrifying, Oscar’s eyes on him like this. It’s a struggle not to lean back in, see how long it takes for Oscar’s hands to catch up. Instead, he pulls away, lets Oscar come to him. All it takes is their last point of contact to separate, the graze of Lando’s hand against Oscar’s jaw, for Oscar’s eyes to sharpen. He grips Lando’s hand, places it back, firmly against his jaw, pulls him back in. Lando doesn’t pull away this time, happy to have achieved what he wanted. He can’t help the curve of his mouth, smug satisfaction forcing a smile. They only stop when a laugh escapes Lando’s lips. Oscar frowns in annoyance, but can hardly hold the expression for long, the laughter far too infectious. He tilts his head forward and does his best to kiss Lando through the giggles.

#landoscar #funny how this whole prompt list is ‘things you said’ and i have almost no dialogue #well ill get there #f1 rpf #drabbles #writing #del dabbles

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tragictempest · 3 months ago

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My Favorite School Spirits Scenes&Dialogue

[Feel free to use any of these as writing prompts]

CW: School Spirits Spoilers, Innapropriate Language, Mentions of Murder

---

(Maddie and Simon walk into the auto shop looking for evidence)

Simon: Talk about a perfect place to dump a body... He ever bring you here?

Maddie: .....

Simon: Oh jeez. This is where you guys hooked up?

Maddie: I'm not answering that.

Simon: Classy guy.. What, was the dumpster behind the Jack In The Box already taken?

Maddie: Oh, grow up. You tried to make a move on Celeste Molina at the bowling shoe return counter.

Simon: That was eighth grade!

Maddie: It was ninth! You just looked like an eighth grader.

---

Xavier: And you know what they say...

Maddie: What do they say?

Xavier: Bros before... strong, independent women with bright futures, it's a very popular phrase.

Maddie: You're stupid... you're lucky you're cute.

Xavier: What the Lord deny in brain, he deliver in beauty.

Maddie: And boy did he deny.

---

Maddie: Look, I can't really chat right now because I've got some holes in my memory to fill.

Wally: Hey, that's why I'm here, I can totally help you fill your holes.

---

Maddie: ...Excuse me?

Wally: Oh, uh, obviously I did not mean for it to come off that way.. it was more of a hypothetical "I can help you figure things out if you need it."

Maddie: Okay... I can handle it myself. And I don't need to take advice from someone who looks like they're headed to aerobics class.

Maddie: You were murdered by your guidance counselor?

Rhonda: Yep. Guided me straight to the light.

---

Rhonda: There's still people in this school that count on you. Dead people.

Maddie: Since when did you stop majoring in who-gives-a-fuck?

Rhonda: We all have to pitch in, pussytoes.

Maddie: I'm sorry, what did she just call me?

Charley: I.. I think it's probably a flower...?

Maddie: 'kay...

---

Simon: You hate scary movies, just own it.

Nicole: That's not true. I liked Scream.

Simon: That's scary satire, doesn't count.

Maddie: And you closed your eyes the second the movie started.

Nicole: No I didn't.

Maddie: You spent half the movie looking for that twizzler you dropped on the ground.

Simon: And you don't even like black licorice, that's Maddie's thing.

Nicole: Yeah, well, Maddie didn't invent black licorice.

---

Charley: The bigger disappointment was me thinking I would get to haunt all the assholes who tortured me while I was here. But uh, instead, I was haunted by all the jokes they made once I was gone.

Maddie: What do you mean?

Charley: I was a gay kid in the 90s who died because he was allergic to nuts.

Maddie: ...

Charley: Okay, that's where you're supposed to laugh.

---

Simon: Nicole, you were supposed to give me a ride this morning. To school? Remember?

Nicole: I had stuff to do. Sorry.

Simon: I figured, you were AWOL all weekend, didn't answer a single text.

Nicole: I had an application deadline, okay? So the video statement was due, my portfolio looks like it was slapped together by a third grader, so..

(A minute later, Simon opens up her binder and looks at her portfolio)

Simon: Hmm. FYI, you're a very impressive third grader. I mean, I'm impressed.

(He turns to a page that's full of half a dozen photographs of Maddie)

Simon: Uhh.. and a little concerned. Damn, she knew you took all these?

Nicole: I took a bunch of you too, you're just.. not photogenic..

Simon: Yeah.. but.. this is intense. I mean, it's cool, it's just a lot of maddiemaddiemaddiemaddiemaddiemaddie —

Nicole: — What are you trying to say?

Simon: ..Nothing. Hey. Breathe, stop doubting yourself, okay? If admission asks why you're obsessed, say you worshipped her. Tell 'em she taught you how to parallel park.

---

Maddie: Seriously? All we do is haunt the halls of the stupid school, and none of you have seen anything suspicious from Anderson?

Wally: Well, one time I saw Mr. Anderson misspell the word "Fundraiser" on a Boosters Club poster, and I – he forgot the D. I feel like that's pretty suspicious coming from an English teacher.

Charley: Wally.. I'm pretty sure that was a pun..? So I'm assuming he probably did that on purpose....

Rhonda: Sorry, sweets, we don't just stand around staring at the living all day.

Maddie: No.. you plan weekend fun. Like movie nights.

Mr. Martin: Well, we do what we can to break up the monotony, Maddie, that's all.

Charley: Well, if I may.. to be fair, watching the same five sports movies over and over again is kind of monotonous, Mr. Martin.

Wally: I thought you loved "Rudy".

Charley: No.

Wally: Wow. Just w– I can't even.

---

Rhonda: How are you not pissed right now!?

Wally: I am pissed, Rhonda, I'm just trying to make sense of this all, this is very new to me, I don't know how I feel —

Rhonda: Try not to lose it in front of your crush.

Wally: OK, YOU DONT HAVE TO BE MAD AT ME RHONDA -- I DIDNT DO ANYTHING, BE MAD AT HIM —

Rhonda: I am mad at him.

Wally: Okay, you said you wouldn't bring that up again —

---

Maddie: Have you seen my teacher Mr. Anderson?

Dawn: You mean like him with a murder weapon? Or your dead body?

Maddie: Yes!

Dawn: Nope! Though I am pretty easily distracted...

Maddie: Is it the.. bad acid?

Dawn: ....?

Maddie: Charley mentioned something about that..

Dawn: Well no, I've never taken drugs! I just meant from all the new ways you kids have had to connect... (starts talking about the internet)

Maddie: Okay.. well I've got to go talk to the bus crash kids.

Dawn: Oh, good luck. Those banjos are all bongo, if you know what I mean... You should let me come with! I speak bongo.

---

Nicole: I'm sorry, when did you become all Scooby Doo?

Claire: ...

Nicole: I mean, two months ago, you were wiping your feet on Maddie's face, now you're... what? Trading in your pom pom for a trench coat?

---

(Charley laying on the indoor pool bleachers with sunglasses over his glasses, smelling sunscreen)

Charley: Ah, I love this smell. Coconut, verbena.. you close your eyes, you could be anywhere. Miami.. Aruba...

Rhonda: Yeah, and then you open them, and there's a band-aid floating in the surf.

Charley: I miss a good sunburn.

Wally: I miss Debbie Gibson.

Rhonda: ...??

Wally: What? I thought we were talking about stuff that we miss.

---

(Emilio walks past Charley and makes him gay panic)

Rhonda: Dial it downnn.. just because you smell like an Almond Joy, doesn't mean he knows you're here.

Wally (to Maddie): That's Mr. Figueroa. Emilio. He was Charley's crush when they were still students here. He sponsors the.. L-G..T —

Rhonda: — B.

Wally: B-T-Q club.. and Charley never misses a meeting.

Charley: I only go for the refreshments.. and uh, you're one to talk. You hit the gym every day to impress some boneheads who only know you as a name on a scoreboard.

---

Charley: Okay, let's try hypnosis.

(Dawn randomly spawns in the back, sitting at the table eating the burrito)

Dawn: Oh, God no... Not that.

Wally: Hello, Dawn.. uhhh, how long — how long you been sitting there, girl?

Dawn: Since I smelled the burrito 😊

---

(The ghosts are gathered in a circle so they can begin the anti-seance as Dawn waves an old, burnt Brussels sprout around as a substitute for sage)

Dawn: Settle, settle, settle, settle. We're under Capricornus.

Rhonda: ...who?

Dawn: The stars. Close your eyes, look inward, right to the back of your skull. What are you seeing, Mads?

Maddie: Uh, not much, it's dark..

Dawn: Dark!

Rhonda: Maybe it's the back of her skull.

---

Xavier: I just -- I feel like I'm walking into a trap.

Maddie: Funny. I don't recall you being scared when you were hooking up in your backseat.

---

Rhonda: If I thought it would help me cross over, I would go out there and tackle someone.

Mr. Martin: Okay, that's the spirit.. I think.

---

Xavier: I wasn't tampering with anything, dad.

Sheriff Baxter: Man, how stupid do you think I am? What are we, runnin' neck and neck in the dumbass derby?

---

Wally: I wanna make sure she's okay!

Rhonda: Let's check the faculty lounge..

Charley: She didn't say she needed a nap.

Rhonda: Maybe she went to speak with Simon. Sorry.

Wally: Why are you sorry?

Rhonda: You wince every time you hear his name.

Wally: This is not me wincing, this is my happy face.

Rhonda: Ah, could have fooled me.

Wally: Look -- I know she's still trying to figure her stuff out, but I can wait. We're not even at halftime.

Rhonda: I don't know what that means.. but if that is your happy face, remind me to hide when you're really happy.

---

(Maddie and her mom arguing before Maddie's death)

Maddie: You wanna take everything that dad gave me? Here. Take this.

(Maddie rips her necklace off and hands it to her mom)

Maddie: You could pawn it, get 40 bucks from it. Buy yourself a fucking welcome mat.

---

Xavier: If I ask her about the phone, she's just gonna bail!

Simon: Stop being a fucking coward!

Xavier: A coward -- FUCK YOU SIMON.

---

Simon: SAYONARA, SHIT RIVER!! Northwestern won't know what hit 'em!!

(proceeds to bump into somebody walking through the hall as he says that)

Maddie: Slow your roll, we're not even in yet.

(Bell rings)

Mr. Anderson: You degenerates are late!

Nicole: I'm not even in your class..

Mr. Anderson: You're still late.. and degenerate.

---

Claire: What did you tell the police?

Mr. Anderson: I told them the truth. That I took that money to pay off my dad. Is that okay with you? Cool. Can I go?

Claire: Did you say anything about me!?

Mr. Anderson: Y'know what? I don't remember! 😛

---

Mr. Martin: It sounds like you're struggling. Write your obituary.

Maddie: Uh, no.

Mr. Martin: Everyone here has written one. It helps us to focus on the highlights of our lives, the sweet victories.

Maddie: I've gotten out of writing papers before because of cramps. I'm pretty sure death counts as a good excuse.

---

Simon: Happy?

Maddie: Yeah, I'm thrilled. My DNA is on a boiler room wall and my piece of shit boyfriend might have something to do with that. Does it get much happier!?

Simon: Oh, so now you come around? How many times did I tell you that dude was sketchy?

Maddie: This isn't about him keeping hand lotion in his glove compartment, Simon.

---

Simon: Bathrooms.. you're not gonna linger and wait there... right?

Maddie: ...

Simon: MADDIE

Maddie: Relax, I left before I saw anything.... But you should really wash your hands more.

Simon: Okay and now I'm hanging up. Byeeeee!

#been writing this for 3 hours straight pls help #also the one with maddies mom is just sad tbh #but maddie finally standing up to her mom was like a breath of fresh air #its sad that those are the last things she ever said to her though #ignore how long this is #idk why I made this so long #i was thinking maybe if people wanted some funny quotes from their fav characters #but yeah just enjoy this or something. i guess most of these would only apply to supernatural whodunit stories like this one #if people ever wanted to actually use these dialogue lines as writing prompts #also no need to credit me for this if you use these for ur stories/fics #idk where i was even going with this #school spirits #maddie nears #madison nears #rhonda school spirits #mr. martin #mr martin #charley school spirits #xavier baxter #simon elroy #mr anderson #dialogue prompt #school spirits rhonda #writing #writing prompts #sheriff baxter #sandra nears #nicole hererra #claire zomer #wally clark

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mischievous-thunder · 2 months ago

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Wade, to Althea: My biggest flex is that I believe that I can remain calm during mild inconveniences when I've repeatedly proven that I, in fact, cannot.

Logan, from the kitchen: Are you sure it's not called a "toxic trait"?

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blackjackkent · 4 months ago

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Ask prompt fill for @astreamofstars for this ask meme: Questioning Sentences, Vol. 33 Jaheira/Khalid (and others) - “Are you getting my wife into trouble?” Two fills for the price of one cos I couldn't decide if I liked this idea or the other one better for this prompt so I did both. XD Set during Siege of Dragonspear, but doesn't include any spoilers.

-----

“All right.” Caden sways blearily on his feet, gesturing with the tankard in his hand. “Are you ready… for the master plan?”

“Minsc is ready,” Minsc agrees eagerly. “For a plan which Caden makes is masterful indeed!’

They make a rather comical tableau, gathered together in the shadows at the edge of the coalition camp. Caden is pacing unsteady circles, occasionally stopping to lean on one of the nearby trees. Nearby, Minsc and Rasaad sit side by side; Minsc has drained his mug completely and his eyes are wide with inebriated enthusiasm, while Rasaad is holding himself to ramrod stillness, the alcohol only evident in the slightly unfocused look in his eyes and the amused smile playing around his lips.

And there’s the cat, of course, which is prowling through the grass around Caden’s feet. Unlike Caden and the others, though, the cat almost melds into invisibility with the shadows. Its fluffy coat is dark gray except for a stripe of white along the tail, leaving the glint of its eyes the only obvious sign of its presence.

“Steady, Caden,” Rasaad says with a low chuckle, watching his friend take another gulp of ale. “If you are not careful, I believe you might pitch over.”

He takes a sip from his own mug and glances over her shoulder back towards the center of the camp. No one seems to have noticed them sneaking off; most of the army has gone to sleep and the fires are burning low. The guards on watch are attentive to threats from the outside, and they have little interest to spare for the erstwhile Hero of Baldur’s Gate and his friends lurking drunkenly outside Torsin de Lancie’s tent.

“Nonsense,” Caden says gravely. “My balance is perfect and my ideas better still. Now--” He points at the cat, who is watching him with a glassy-eyed attentiveness, its tail lashing back and forth. “The key to it all.” He swings his hand in a wide arc and points dramatically into the darkness. “...A hole.”

Minsc turns his head to peer in the direction Caden is pointing and the wall of dark green canvas that sits there. “A tent,” he corrects Caden earnestly.

Caden blinks, then releases a very uncharacteristic giggle and downs another mouthful of his drink. “Nooooo,” he says, over-enunciating. “There’s a hole in the tent.” He points again at the cat. “And you can fit through it.”

The cat mrowls thoughtfully, then flops over onto its side and rolls so it is looking at Caden upside down.

“Exactly,” Caden says, nodding several times vigorously. “And then - havoc. Shred de Lancie’s shirts. Steal his sword. Whatever you can think of.”

“It would certainly serve him right,” Rasaad agrees. He smirks over the rim of his mug as he takes another sip. “We would send Caden himself, but we have all seen his attempts at subtlety.”

“Shuuuush…” Caden whines, laughing, and punches Rasaad gently in the shoulder. This does, in fact, overbalance him and he sits down hard in the grass next to the tent’s front peg. “Oof. Well?” He grins goofily at the cat. “What d’you think?”

The cat climbs slowly and methodically up Caden’s arm until it is balanced on his shoulder, and begins to knead its claws vigorously into his shirt.

“Ow.” He grunts. Reaching up, he picks the cat up and sets it back on the ground, climbing unsteadily back to his feet. “I’ll take that as a yes. C’mon, Rasaad and Minsc and I will keep guard, and you can--”

He stops abruptly as, turning, he bumps into a man standing in his way who seems to have materialized out of the shadows. “Oh. Hello, Khalid,” he says, blinking rapidly like a child caught raiding the pantry.

Out of armor, Khalid looks about an inch shorter and considerably less broad than he usually does; his mop of dark hair is mussed from his helmet and he’s dressed for bed in a loose, dark tunic and a pair of Calishite-style trousers. “G-good evening, Caden,” he says cheerfully; his weariness from the day’s travel is evident in the thickness of his stammer, but he grins good-naturedly. “Are you g-g-getting my wife into trouble?”

Caden cocks his head at the older man innocently, an effect marred a little as he sways back on his heels. “Dunno what you’re talking about,” he says.

“Mmhm.” Khalid peers past him at the cat who has begun to groom itself, its fluffy tail curled up over its back. “S-she is not in b-bed, and that c-c-c-cat looks familiar. Are you quite sure?”

Caden follows his gaze and shakes his head. “It’s just a cat,” he says, very seriously.

Khalid laughs. “There is n-n-no fooling me, C-Caden, I’m afraid,” he says.

At the sound of his voice, the cat’s head suddenly shoots up. Darting past Caden, it hurls itself at Khalid’s legs and begins circling him, rubbing up against his shins and purring ecstatically.

Khalid’s grin softens. “Y-you see?” he murmurs. Crouching down, he runs a hand slowly along the cat’s silky fur from head to tail-tip, and the purring rises in volume like the rumble of a distant thunderstorm. “I would kn-know her in every shape,” he murmurs. “Though… the s-s-s-stripe on her tail is a d-d-dead giveaway.”

The cat nips at his hand, and he chuckles. “Am I g-g-giving away your secrets, my love? I’m s-s-sorry.” He raises an eyebrow at Caden. “N-now - out with it. Are you g-g-getting my wife into trouble?”

There’s a low hissing sound, and the wildshape melts away, leaving Jaheira, curled awkwardly on the ground, pressed against his thigh. She looks up at him with a bleary smile and pokes him in the side. “How dare you?” she says reprovingly; the words, though carefully pronounced, have a distinct tipsy slur. “I do not need the boy’s help to get myself into trouble.”

“Ahhhhh, I s-see.” Khalid’s eyes widen and he juts out his jaw, mock-appalled. “A d-d-drunken band, the l-lot of you.”

“I believe you have mispronounced ‘criminal masterminds,’ Khalid,” Rasaad says with a sage nod.

“Well, t-t-tell me, then,” Khalid says. His lips twitch with amusement. “What c-c-conspiracy can you be m-m-masterminding at this t-time of night?”

Caden downs the rest of his mug. “Messing with Torsin de Lancie’s tent,” he says matter-of-factly.

Khalid tilts his head slowly to one side. His eyes flick over the tent, to the hole in the fabric at its rear, then to Caden, then to Jaheira. Then he starts to laugh. “Ahhhh, I see,” he says, shaking his head ruefully. “Well… why d-d-didn’t you say so in the f-f-first place? C-carry on.”

#ask meme #astreamofstars #caden of candlekeep #jaheira #khalid #rasaad yn bashir #minsc #jaheira x khalid #khalid x jaheira #this is so silly lmao but i had fun writing it #set during siege of dragonspear but no spoilers really #except that torsin de lancie is a dick #which isn't really a spoiler just a fact #to be honest in spite of the seriousness of the situation i think SoD is one of Caden's happier times on the road #imoen isn't there which sucks but the crisis at hand isn't directly related to him in the way that it is in bg1 and bg2 #and he has nice times in camp with his four other closest friends #well five but dynaheir is too smart to get caught up in this nonsense so she's happily asleep right now XD #(i'm actually mad cos i initially wrote this whole thing with imoen in it forgetting that she's not present in Siege)#(and it had a fun joke that i had to remove bc Imoen would have said it but Minsc/Rasaad wouldn't)#ty for the prompt as always friend <3 hope you enjoy!

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