#i love writing fics that are dumb

[archie-sunshine]

Survey Says-!(Rodimus/EVERYONE)

Chapter 2: Feel The Beat(Rodimus/Blaster)

Rodimus is NOT bitter about the results of the crew satisfaction survey, in fact, he’s fully prepared to change! He’s determined to change his crew’s minds, and what better way to do so than to get to know them- in the carnal sense that is. 

There are no problems with this plan in Rodimus’s mind. There are many in Ultra Magnus’s. Magnus engages in some unfortunate(for Rodimus) damage control as head of Cybertronian Resources. Rodimus is not easily deterred. 

Chapter 1 Here! Read on AO3 here!

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FIC TAGS: Rodimus/Everyone(But y’know, not like. EVERYONE. Just a lot of various background characters and also more specifically with some others), Takes place post dark cybertron, but pre the whole ship disappearing thing and the mutiny, smut, Chastity, denial, Rodimus is a slut, Ongoing humiliation, HR Violations as comedy, Ultra Magnus is clueless, sticky sexual interfacing, comedy, sexual comedy, dubious consent (if you squint and tilt your head), contains illustrations

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Authors notes: I didnt know blaster very well before writing this, i watched some of the old g1 cartoon funnily enough, and it turns out blaster is a cutie pie and i love him actually?? beautiful boombox boy

CHAPTER TAGS: Rodimus/Blaster(implied rodimus/huffer, crosscut, kindle, siren, and rad), oral, blowjobs, sexual frustration, blaster's servos can vibrate, the most painful nut ever, rodimus continues to make bad decisions

Ultra Magnus’s little magnetizer trick had been dirty, underhanded, cruel, unusual, and downright sadistic(from a certain point of view). But it was also stupid, considering that as long as Rodimus still had one hole, by primus he was gonna use it. 

The only thing this horrible device had managed to do was shorten his one on ones. He was still going to give his beloved crew the helm of a lifetime, but without having to worry about chasing his own edge, it meant Rodimus was more inclined to get things done quicker. He had managed to check Siren, Huffer, Crosscut, Kindle, and Rad off his list in the two cycles following the incident, however there were some… adverse effects that these meetings were having on him. 

It was hard not to get at least a little bit excited when giving helm, and that became an issue in and of itself, as Rodimus’s array had started complaining more and more as he continued to deny its release. 

Rodimus stalked down the ship's hallway, faceplate set in a frustrated scowl as he made his way back towards his office. He felt like he was walking with a limp, which would have been fun and sexy if he was limping because he’d been spiked silly, but instead was infuriating… because he was limping from having to walk with a stupid fragging magnetizer attached to his overheated panels. 

The captain absently swiped at his intake, making sure there were no traces of transfluid still there from his ‘meeting’ with Rad. He was a bit shy, considering the captain’s ongoing predicament, but still managed to get a good overload in from the deal. It was getting harder for Rodimus to focus when he was giving out his one on ones, it felt like every encounter added new, angrier popups in his processor screeching for him to overload. His helm was swimming by the time he’d felt Rad finish, and it had taken the bot grabbing him by his finials and dragging him off to bring him back to reality. 

So there he was, pouting his way to his office, manually dismissing every one of the popups in his processor to clear his mind so he could think again. He entered the access code, cursing as he flubbed the code the first time and stormed in, letting the door close behind him. He flopped into his chair with an exhausted groan. He eyed the stack of datapads on his desk that he had been instructed to fill out and sign. They were supply manifests… he thought. He wasn’t entirely paying attention to what Ultra Magnus was saying that morning as he’d been considering the unpleasant flavour the aftertaste of transfluid in his mouth made when mixed with his morning energon. Gross. Rodimus chuckled to himself at the thought. Primus, that was fragging disgusting, he was fragging disgusting. He smirked to himself. 

He reached across the desk and tapped at the first datapad, propping his legs up as he began the daily slog through datawork. He let his optics go into skimming mode as he scrolled halfheartedly through the document. He had gathered it was some list of acquisition requests that the crew members had personally made, so he began signing off his approval.

A new shipment of high quality engex for swerve’s… approved

A bulk order of plating patches for the medibay… approved

A set of high quality wrenches for Brainstorm’s laboratory… approved

Rodimus shifted around a bit in his chair. 

A blank datapad shipment… approved

Replacement parts for the staff room vending machine that Megatron had accidentally broken… approved

It was impossible to get comfortable, he felt overheated without even being particularly aroused.

A palette of hover scooters… denied

Rodimus froze. He set the datapad down and glanced between his thighs. His faceplate flared hot with embarrassment. He was fragging leaking. 

It was a miracle that he hadn’t started doing so before he made it to his office, but all the same, around the edges of his panels he could see prefluid seeping out, making the tiniest little puddle on his chair. Rodimus let out a long, frustrated groan, letting his helm thunk against the back of his chair. This was humiliating. He reached for one of his drawers and plucked out a rag, quickly swiping at his panels and the seat before stuffing it under himself and getting back to work. 

Ping! Another popup at the front of his mind ‘Open Interface Array?’ 

He closed the popup. It wasn’t his fault he was in this mess! He was just trying to show a little gratitude for his crew! Some.. sloppy, sticky gratitude, but gratitude nonetheless. Interface was different now, it was purely a means to making his apologetic feelings known, letting people know he really could change. He’d do anything his crew wanted for their approval. 

He swallowed thickly. Anything they wanted… He recalled the servos gripping at his helm, the weight of a spike in his intake or the smooth mesh of a valve under his glossa. Oral was easy, Rodimus had plenty of time to practice in the washracks and supply closets of various barracks during the war. But this fuzzy, syrupy slowness that accompanied the denial of his own overload was something… new. 

He felt his fans starting to kick on. He willed them up higher, trying to blow off as much of the excess heat as he could. He refocused on the requests on his datapad. 

A new set of parts for one of the busted replicators… approved

A bulk order of glassware for the canteen… approved

… the rag was getting soaked. 

Rodimus slammed down his datapad and stood up. He quickly scanned through his itinerary for the day, confirming he had an hour and a half free before his meeting with the comms officer, before wiping up any visible prefluid around his panels and beginning to speedwalk towards the medibay. 

*

“What do you MEAN you can’t do it!!?” Rodimus shouted. He sat up a bit from the slab, only to get a firm servo on his chassis pushing him back down. “You’re Ratchet!”

“I didn’t say can’t, I said won’t, Rodimus.” Ratchet sighed out in exasperation. 

“B-but it huuuuurts, I’m dying here, I can feel my spark about to go out!!” Rodimus whined, rolling his helm back. 

“I know thats a lie, Rodimus, any discomfort you’re feeling is perfectly normal with a device like this, and I’ve received direct orders not to take it off without dire circumstances or reasons to do so.” Ratchet sounded like he was reciting something, it was likely that he was, considering who was the mastermind behind this whole wicked scheme. 

“Direct orders that I as captain-” Rodimus began.

“Co-Captain.” 

“WHATEVER! I outrank Ultra Magnus, I should be able to make those orders completely moot, right!?” Rodimus stared pleadingly at Ratchet, searching for some ounce of sympathy in his field.

Ratchet bit back a smug grin. “Not in cases surrounding Cybertronian Resourses violations. I’m afraid you’re stuck with that until Magnus decides otherwise.” 

Rodimus let out a pitiful moan, going limp against the slab. “I’m gonna die…” He whimpered.

“You know, as your doctor I would suggest that you find other outlets for mitigating this sexual frustration. Try to focus on your work, get a hobby, something to take your mind off interfacing until you get the clamp off you.” Ratchet began, carefully reaching down to swipe away the excess prefluid that had gathered around Rodimus’s panels during their appointment. Rodimus bit back a desperate moan. “But as someone who knows you, I understand that’s not exactly something you’re going to be able to stop yourself from doing. So I’ll prescribe you some coolant accelerators and hope for the best.” The medic offered an insincere, borderline malicious smile and helped Rodimus off of the slab. 

Rodimus glared daggers at Ratchet, clenching his servos. He let his processor wander, wondering if he could convince First Aid to help him out. 

“And I wouldn’t get any ideas about begging for help from the crew.” Ratchet had turned away, now gazing at a datapad and beginning to flick through it. “Ultra Magnus sent out a memo to the crew’s comms to let them know any interference with your ‘reeducation’ would be considered grounds for a week in the brig.”

Rodimus growled again. “... thanks doc, always a pleasure…” 

*

“So, just to be clear, theres nothing at all?” Rodimus asked, leaning helm on his servo. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say nothin’ at all, but radio signals have gotten sparse now that we’re back on our way, no urgent notices from Cybertron, some minor radio chatter from ships we’ve passed, but nothing terribly concerning.” Blaster explained, turning his datapad to indicate the waves coming in. 

Rodimus nodded inquisitively, shifting again in his seat. “Cool, thats good news, thanks Blaster.” Rodimus said. 

“... Yeah…” Blaster said slowly, looking the captain up and down for a moment. Rodimus squeezed his crossed legs a bit. “Listen, cap, I gotta say, uh… I heard about the whole… Ultra Magnus… CR violations… thing.” He said awkwardly, glancing away. 

“...Yeah. It’s not a big deal, I gotta learn to be professional.” Rodimus gritted out, failing to hide his adverse feelings on the whole matter. He was fighting to keep his field to himself, but it was clear that Blaster was seeing through it. 

“I did also hear about your… one on ones.” Blaster lowered his voice, putting the datapad away in his subspace. 

Rodimus perked up. “Yeah?”

“Well- Yeah, obviously, Roddy, you sent a comm to the whole crew about it.” Blaster chuckled. 

“The whole crew- except for Megatron and Ultra Magnus.” Rodimus corrected. 

“Yeah, listen man… I dunno if I agree with the whole thing Mags cooked up, I dunno if its the best like… plan? On your part, to go around slingin your array at whoever’ll take it…” Blaster glanced around bashfully. 

Rodimus frowned. “Where are you going with this?” 

“I mean you gotta know that actions speak louder than words, you gotta show the crew that you’re on their side, that you do stuff for their benefit, all that stuff- but!” Blaster kicked one of his pedes a bit. “Y’know, I wouldn’t say no to ah… what was it you called it? An ‘apology’?” 

Rodimus perked up again, slowly standing up from his chair. “Oh yeah?” Rodimus remembered the rag he’d stuffed on the seat and quickly snatched it up, covertly tossing it into one of his drawers while Blaster wasn’t looking. “Sure, I’d be happy to- Wait- You gotta promise me this isn’t a test or anything, like- Mags didn’t put you up to this did he?” 

Blaster shook his helm, expression melting into an easy-if slightly relieved- smile. “Nah- I figured you’d still be at this whole thing… heard some intel from some other bots… wanted to see if you’re all you’re cracked up to be.” 

Rodimus quickly denied his fans request to turn on, clearing his vocalizer. “Well, I guess I got time between my meetings… Have a seat.” He said, gesturing to his desk chair. 

Rodimus eagerly rushed to the office door, punching in the locking code as Blaster sat down. A lance of embarrassment struck through him as Blaster made a surprised noise. 

“Primus, Rod, you uh- heh- you a little worked up there?” His Comms officer chuckled. “Your seat’s a bit sticky-”

“ITS NOTHING!” Rodimus bleated out, face flaring as he trotted over and knelt down between Blaster’s thighs. “Just- just coolant, nothing else.” 

“Yeah, sure.” Blaster smirked, rubbing a servo over his own panels. “You’re sure you’re up to this, pal?” 

“‘Course I am, c’mon, we both got places to be.” Rodimus hissed impatiently. 

Blaster shrugged, exhaling a little chuckle before letting his panels open. Rodimus let out a relieved sigh at the sight of it, running a digit gently around the edge of his slowly pressurizing spike. It was that sleek, warm grey colour along the underside, red on the top all the way up to a yellow tip, with little triangular yellow biolights along the underside. Rodimus licked his dermas, letting his optics dim a bit. He almost went for it, before remembering what all these apologies were about. 

“So, Blaster, how do you want me?” Rodimus asked pleasantly, fighting to keep his voice from sounding too desperate. His optics flickered a bit when Blaster’s servo came around to rest gently on the side of his helm. 

“I’d love to get my spike in that mouth and see you work your magic, Cap…” Blaster breathed, letting his digits trace the edge of Rodimus’s lower finials. Rodimus’s fans kicked on without thinking. 

“A-” Rodimus cleared his vocalizer. “Alright, heard and listened to!” Rodimus said, allowing himself a pang of pride at his line usage when Blaster’s vents stuttered. He opened his intake, lolling his glossa out to lave over the tip of Blaster’s spike. Offlining his optics, he wrapped his dermas around the shaft, slowly bobbing his helm downwards towards the base. He laved his glossa slowly over the ridges and edges of Blaster’s biolights, allowing himself a moment to feel at the smooth texture of them. Rodimus hummed quietly as he worked, taking the spike two thirds down before leaning his helm back and drawing it slowly up to the tip.

Blaster let out a low, pleased moan, his thumb rubbing fondly at the side of Rodimus’s helm. “Ahhh, thats it… hah, you must be pretty glad you got sparked with an intake like this, huh?” 

Rodimus hummed lightly in confirmation, peeking up at Blaster coquettishly as he rubbed the tip of his glossa over the comms officer’s spikehead. A shudder wracked through Rodimus’s frame as the other mech moaned, low and deep in his chassis. He felt a lick of Blaster’s charge ground through him and tightened his grip on Blaster’s thighs. He started pumping his helm up and down, darting his glossa out against the underside of his spike and swallowing the growing flow of prefluid where it pooled at the back of his intake. Rodimus brought one of his servos up, wrapping around the base gently as he massaged the soft protoform there. 

Suddenly, Blaster’s grip on his helm shifted, now grasping the back of his helm and dragging him down further. Rodimus felt his optics glitch and reset, his gaze flicking up to the larger bot’s face. There was hunger in Blaster’s optics, deep and carnal, held back by a thin, fraying thread of propriety. 

Rodimus’s processor produced several popups at once, warning him of an obtrusion squeezing down his throat, demanding he open his panels, informing him his fans were working hard to stave off overheat. Rodimus gagged, feeling his optics glitch again, bits of charge fritzing over the bridge of his nose between them. He fought back as much control as he could, beginning to close out the popups. He was swiftly interrupted when Blaster’s spikehead slid readily back into his throat and his nose brushed against his panels. Rodimus let out a muffled whine. 

“Ah.. attabot, frag…” Blaster licked his dermas, a curl of steam escaping his lustful smile. “You take it so well, cap…” 

Rodimus’s processor screamed, overfilling with warnings and demands. That ounce of praise rocked him to his core, drawing a pitiful, staticky whimper from his vocalizer. He dragged his glossa frantically against whatever part of his spike he could reach. A bubble of intake lubricant dribbled down his jaw. He could feel his frame shivering with charge. What was happening to him? Giving helm had never had him this worked up before. 

Rodimus swallowed and began to move his helm again, relishing the slippery, undignified noises that filled the room. He sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks against Blaster’s shaft and earning another punched out groan. He could feel him start to twitch in his intake and moaned in anticipation. Blaster’s other servo reached down, curling around one of his finials as his hips began to stutter. 

“Ah- Primus- frag-! Roddy-” He gasped, his fans roaring. Rodimus strained to pull his helm back, focusing all his attention on Blaster’s tip. With a glitchy, choked out groan, Rodimus felt transfluid hitting the roof of his intake. He greedily swallowed down what he could, gasping in surprise as it escaped his dermas. Rodimus felt as though he was about to overheat watching Blaster stroke his spike, splatters of his transfluid hitting his helm and faceplate. 

Rodimus panted, fighting to close out the dozens of popups clouding his processor. He laid his messy helm against Blaster’s thigh, trying to get his vents under control. He could already feel his panels were overheated and embarrassingly sticky with excess prefluid. He absently pawed at the plating there, drawing his servo back with a pained hiss. 

“... Whoooooh….” Blaster breathed, clearing his vocalizer and sitting up a bit. “That was quite the show, captain, thanks..” He chuckled. “Oh- uh… sorry for- er..” He gestured generally at his face. 

“‘S fine… h..how would you rate uh… your…” Rodimus mumbled blearily. He noted Blaster was rummaging around his desk, but couldn’t bring himself to care. He offlined his optics and relished the feeling of a cool rag swiping the transfluid off his face and finials. 

“It was great, Roddy, thanks for helpin me blow off some steam.” Blaster murmured. Rodimus could feel the warmth in his voice and swelled with unfocused pride. He drank in the relaxation and fondness in Blaster’s field, wrapping around him like a warm blanket.

“Happy to help…” Rodimus wheezed hoarsely. He shakily got up off the ground, wincing as a thick drizzle of prefluid dripped from his panels. When he onlined his optics again, he was greeted with Blaster’s pitying look, optics focused between the captain’s legs. “D-don’t worry about me!” Rodimus said, attempting a confident and chipper tone, but unable to force the strain completely from his voice. “This was all for you, Blaster, see, I’m all about listening to my crew and rewarding their efforts.” 

Blaster chuckled. “Yeah, thanks cap.” He slowly rose from Rodimus’s seat, closing his panels up. “Just hate to leave a bot hanging, is all.” 

Please don’t leave me like this. Rodimus thought. Please don’t let me die of overheating.

“Nah- Not much either of us can do about it anyhow.” Rodimus waved a dismissive servo. 

“On the contrary, actually… at least- I think?” Blaster offered. “I dunno about getting that thing off you, but I bet I could get you an overload at least?”

Rodimus’s intake felt dry. “... huh?”

Blaster smirked, sitting back down in the chair. He patted his lap. “C’mere.”

Rodimus shifted uncomfortably, climbing backwards into Blaster’s lap and leaning against the other bot’s chassis. He shivered at Blaster’s servos on him, one wrapping around his slender waist to hold him in place while the other delicately hovered over his panels. 

“Might be a bit intense, okay? Just hold on and let me know if you want me to stop.” Blaster warned, finally bringing his digits down to hold Rodimus’s overheated panels. 

“J-just do it, please-!” Rodimus gritted out through a whine. 

Rodimus’s optics fritzed and rebooted at the first sensations of vibration on his panels. He let out a loud, surprised moan, half cutting out with static as the oversensitive protoform below his panels seared with pleasure. The vibration was intense, just dancing on the line of painful and pleasurable, heady and bassy and rocking him to his very core. 

“Feel good, cap?” Blaster asked.

“Aa-auhuh!!” Rodimus answered intelligently, bucking his hips against Blaster’s hand. His vocalizer felt raw, his voice breaking and cracking as he moaned out. 

“Keep it down- someone’s gonna hear!” Blaster hissed, upping the vibration as he did and forcing another desperate cry from Rodimus’s vocalizer. Rodimus’s optics glitched and flared as Blaster clamped a servo over his intake, silencing him only partly as he writhed and bucked in his lap.

It was starting to hurt now, his processor more full and garbled than ever as his array pulsed and throbbed in need. His optics flickered. Drool bubbled between Blaster’s digits. He could feel every bit of his plating searing against Blaster’s. 

Rodimus let out a pitiful, needy sob as the other mech’s servo squeezed his panels down tighter against his array. He was practically humping Blaster’s servo at this point, chasing that painful, burning edge as he dumbly whined into his digits. 

(go to my AO3 for the illustrated version)

Blaster kicked the vibrations up one more notch and Rodimus saw white. He was dying, he was crashing, he was overloading- Rodimus’s frame arched back, strung taught as a bowstring as transfluid poured from the seams in his panels messily over the magnetizer and Blaster’s digits. He shuddered and bucked and twitched as Blaster drew his servo back, curling back over on himself and grabbing the edge of his desk. Blaster carefully released his faceplate, a string of drool sloppily escaping his dermas as he let out one final, broken moan. 

Rodimus curled his hips forwards, drawing the desk chair in against the desk so he could rest his helm against it. His array ached, now sloppy and coated with his own transfluid beneath his panels. He could feel himself leaking copiously onto his chair, embarrassment pooling in his tanks as he heard it dribble off the edge of the seat and onto the floor. 

“Th… thanks Blaster…” Rodimus mumbled brokenly. 

Blaster patted his aft gently, carefully lifting the captain up enough to slip out from under him. “No worries, captain.” Rodimus felt a half wet rag hit his panels and hissed in discomfort. He let out a stringy whine as Blaster cleaned him and the seat up, leaving the rag on the arm of his chair. 

Rodimus lifted his helm up, watching Blaster unlock the door. “Keep up the good work!” He called after him, earning a laugh as Blaster walked off down the hallway. 

Rodimus sat back, examining the state of himself. That was truly the most painful overload he had ever had.

…

He didn’t like how good that notion felt in his processor. 

He didn’t like how good the overload had felt either.

“... This had better not awaken anything in me.” Rodimus muttered, before shakily reaching for another datapad to work on.

#transformers #my art #my fic #maccadam #transformers mtmte #rodimus #blaster #ratchet #valveplug #/nsfw #blaster/rodimus #VERY stupid fic #i love writing fics that are dumb #smut

[weaponizedducks]

*when he finally floats out of the fucking lake*

Bystanders: What the fuck Jesus Christ

Arthur, probably: no im king arthur

#he's just so fucking dumb #i love him #based on that one scene #you must be courage #no im king arthur #merthur #merlin #bbc merlin #arthur pendragon #arthur pendragon returns #modern au #someone write a fic pls

[clandestine-poet]

For context, before anything else, I myself am a lesbian.

Alright. So I don't quite know how to explain it, but Hualian really just has lesbian vibes. At least to me.

Being a lesbian is a lot of: "You girls must be such good friends!" "Do your boyfriends know you're here?" "How come I never see you two apart?" "Haha, two girls kissing? They must be best friends."

And look. Listen.

Hualian is constantly having people be like "You two must be such great friends!" from most of the other heavenly officials (until later on).

Xie Lian and San Lang at Puqi Village getting the "where's your wives?" every .5 seconds.

Xie Lian is constantly asked/talked about with "where's YOUR crimson rain sought flower?" or "If you are here, Crimson Rain is not far behind".

THEY KISS SO MUCH AND MOSTLY GET LOUDLY TOLD "there's other ways to exchange spiritual power!"

Also, there's something inherently powerful about a queer couple.

Being queer creates a space outside the norm. That unites us so much.

And it just feels like Hualian are the most lesbian-coded gay man couple I have seen in a long, long time.

#hualian #tian guan ci fu #tgcf #heaven official's blessing #xie lian #hua cheng #hualesbians #lesbianism #lesbian #i am just an adhd lesbian who is in love with stories #to be honest #i just really love hualian and see a lot of things in them that I see in myself as a queer young person just trying to find a balance #i kind of want to write a hualesbian fic #i probably will #i love lesbians #hehehehe #okay thank you #yukiko's dumb thoughts #tw genderbend #genderbend #tw cis swap #gender is a garden blooming before me and I am a surrealist artist

[caeslxys]

the salt and the skin

Hi! I have been deeply beset by a disease that can only be cured by writing about Imogen Temult’s intensely ingrained mental illnesses. Yeah it’s contagious. Honestly this fic should probably be labeled as some type of biohazard.

Also on Ao3!

The first time Imogen told Laudna about the storm it was, appropriately, storming.

Laudna’s eyes had been swallowed by a blackness darker than that of the night surrounding them, catching and reflecting even the most minuscule scatterings of light in a way that made her gaze look full with shooting stars. She had taken her leather-shielded hand to hold in both of hers as she listened. It was the first time she could remember someone taking her hand simply to hold.

She said, here is what she knows of the storm: it is unrelenting, it is violent, it is hers.

After—as they lay for the first time in a shared space, hands locked together in a promise at their sides��Laudna fell asleep before her, eyes wide open. Imogen had spent minutes watching light shows reflect in them, enchanted utterly. She thought, without really considering the weight of it then: beautiful.

When she finally fell back asleep, she did so with the comfort of knowing she was never out of Laudna’s lightspun gaze.

———

In the time that has passed since that night the same things that have changed about the storm have changed for her and Laudna—which is to say, nothing at all.

(Which is to say, absolutely everything.

In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has become familiar with the difference between the chill that follows Laudna’s skin and the chill that follows a corpse with her face. In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has learned the difference between running from and running to. In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has learned the difference between losing and being left.

Here is what she knows of grief: it is unrelenting, it is violent, it is hers.

It does not escape her that the first time she heard her mother’s voice was in a storm.)

———

On the twenty-seventh day of Quen’Pillar, as the falling leaves and spines begin to create a shoreline on the bordering forest in a glaze of varying orange and brown shades, Gelvaan celebrates the Hazel Festival.

This, like all other celebrations in Gelvaan, is celebrated with hastily put-up stands and stages and games, the best and biggest cattle and produce hauled in on freshly cleaned wagons—some sporting their previously won ribbons as intimidating trophies—and various flowery dedications to various different gods.

The Hazel Festival, as her father explained it, is a celebration of love and divine intention—the concept and promise of soul mates. As the superstition goes, if there exists another half of you, then you would find them here. People would arrive with bouquets of freshly picked flowers, hand-written letters or hand-crafted food, wandering the small stream of Gelvaan townsfolk with the belief that they were about to stumble upon the great love of their life.

It always seemed so silly to her, which means it was something many of the people in that town held very close to their hearts.

Her father told her that they met there. He and her mother. Maybe that’s why it seemed so silly.

But here, in the dark and with the taste of honesty staining her lips, she has the passing thought that she’d like to take Laudna one day. Maybe not to the one in Gelvaan; somewhere new, somewhere that feels syrupy sweet and slow and that sticks to your skin like a joyful glaze when it's over. Somewhere that stains. She wants Laudna to have to lick her fingers clean. She wants to bring her a bouquet of flowers.

But, for now, she is in a chasm that might as well be endless telling Laudna things that she deserved to hear in any other way. She should have told her about how she feels about Delilah’s presence in their room, holding her hand, holding her lips to the skin of her throat in a threat and a promise.

She should have told Laudna she loves her at the Hazel Festival.

Instead she says “I love Laudna,” with the same tense hesitance you would feel pulling a trigger and follows it with a “but” that bursts from her chest like a bullet that precedes “I’m disgusted at the idea of Delilah looking at us all the time.” that leaves her smoking mouth like an accusation. She watches her careless aim land true in Laudna’s chest, sees the conflicted hitch and stutter of her breath from even the short distance separating them.

It ricochets; it strikes her, too.

———

During the trial of trust, when Laudna says she loves her, Imogen’s response is: “I think you’re a doppelganger right now?”

Which is silly. They’ll laugh about it later. It also makes her want to die as soon as it leaves her lips.

Because, the thing is, she knows Laudna. She knows Laudna and she would be able to tell if it wasn’t Laudna if she had been blinded or deafened or made senseless altogether. Her tether, her anchor. She would know. She should have known.

In the same way she should have known the moment they landed in Wildemount that Laudna was in Issylra. In the same way she should have known the moment she fled that Laudna was in the Parchwood. In the same way she should have known twenty years ago that Laudna was coming to her.

Not that any of it matters. She didn’t know. She didn’t know that she was in Issylra—the Parchwood—The Hellcatch—in front of her. It feels as close to sacreligious as Imogen has ever truly felt. Heretical. Like she should be punished or brought down altogether. And, really, maybe she should be. The exercise was to trust one another.

What kind of trust was it, to instinctually keep trying to reach into her friend’s minds? To summon a hound to stand between them all as they stood at the very precipice in case? If she’s honest, she doesn’t truthfully feel like any of them deserved to be called victorious.

She wonders, briefly, if the other side is lacking here, too. Ludinus, Otohan. Her mother. Is it trust that binds them? Is it faith?

The brief thought of it, that her mother has found her own version of the Hells—maybe her own version of Laudna—drives into her chest like a fist.

But none of that compares to—Laudna’s face, fumbling into disbelief at the accusation; Laudna’s grasping, empty hands; Laudna’s nervous, darting eyes. Laudna’s screams, cutting through the night off the bow of the Silver Sun. Laudna’s bleeding fingers, dripping black onto shattered, pink stone.

If it was sacrilegious of her to doubt Laudna’s intention, it is damnation she feels take root in her ribs as a hound aparrates at her side. It bursts forth with a growling howl, its decaying hackles raised, its bright green eyes trained on her, sharp and dutiful. For her to doubt Laudna—for her to make Laudna doubt her—

Well. She supposes it’s fair.

She glances at it, her Cerberus. She says, “Hi, baby boy.”

It calms. Across the fountain, face blocked by the angle of her own extended hand, Laudna calms, too. “Yes.” Laudna utters, “Good boy.”

She closes her eyes as she, Orym, and Chetney breach the barrier surrounding the fountain and drop their ivory sticks into its grasp. She reaches for Laudna’s mind one final, unsuccessful time, the plea for her not to lunge dying unheard in the folds of her mind.

(In the moment, as Morri applauds their upward failure of a success, she doesn’t register the way her now red-scarred fingers come up to brush against the now-bare skin of her temple. She should have known.

Next time, she will.)

———

When Fearne finally makes up her mind and readies herself for taking the shard, Imogen’s eyes are on Laudna and how a line of tension shoots up her spine and draws her shoulders together like folding, skeletal wings. How, as Chetney reaches into the bag of holding, she silently steps away.

Imogen hasn’t been wearing her circlet, has lowered herself once again into the rapid waters of her too-open mind for hours now, but she doesn’t need to be in Laudna’s mind to know what is passing through it.

It makes her sick, the thought of that vile woman in Laudna’s mind or soul or presence. It makes her more sick to think of Laudna spending even a moment around her influence alone.

(When Laudna had come back—when they found her, out at the tree line of the Parchwood—she had run. She had taken a moment to meet Imogen’s exhausted-elated-terrified eyes and sprinted in the opposite direction. She ran for fear of what she was capable of doing, of who she was capable of hurting, of both her lack of control and abundance of power.

She thinks of Laudna running from her and from her and from herself and, briefly, envisions a storm in the place where once she stood.)

She doesn’t really register that she has moved until Laudna is already in her arms.

“You can put your head in my shoulder. Til’ it’s over.” She whispers, one hand burying itself in Laudna’s hair and the other wrapping possessively around her waist, “I can tell you what’s happening, if you want?”

Laudna doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then, into her neck: “You’re warm.”

She feels the barely-there press of lips to her carotid and tries valiantly not to let the shiver it sparks pass through her. Instead, she takes the hand in her hair and presses lightly, moves so that every point of their bodies that could be connected are. She says, voice silk-soft, lips brushing a metal-armored cropped ear, “So are you.”

For a moment it feels—well, intimate in a way she’s slightly embarrassed about displaying in front of the others. Slightly.

But then Laudna is murmuring “shut up, shut up, shut up,” into the skin of her shoulder and—she can’t help it—she smiles. She giggles. It is pure pride. Her brain in three parts: loving Laudna, hating Delilah, wanting to tell Laudna it’s okay to bite her shoulder to drown out the voice if it’s too loud.

She does not do that, and instead whispers the incantation she has all but ingrained on her tongue from countless back-and-forth trips on too shaky gondolas and grief insurmountable—she says, in some dead language or a command—calm.

She thinks, as the spell leaves her and Laudna’s tense body melts completely—as Fearne’s body rises into the air, encompassed in flame—as Chetney’s grip on the tools he has taken out to hold for comfort, and then on FCG’s raging body, turns white-knuckled—as Ashton flinches and almost doubles over from another shock of pain that passes through them and then as healing energy into Fearne—as Orym bounces anxiously on his heels like a flea or a warrior looking to strike—as FCG’s eyes flicker red and his tiny healing-hands become something violent—as her mother says her name through the roaring of a storm—I’m not running anymore. I won’t run.

She imagines, as Laudna pulls back when things have settled and her taloned grip releases Imogen, that her skin has formed new scars in the shape of Laudna’s hands. She holds the idea in her mind in place of an oath.

———

That night, she gives in.

It’s inevitable, really, no matter which way you look at it she and the storm and the moon have always been meant to collide. To swallow each other whole. It’s better that she does it on her terms.

Laudna agrees. It’s good that Laudna agrees. The best, actually, because she was hoping that she’d say no. She was hoping that she’d say no because she doesn’t actually want to be swallowed whole by the storm or the moon or the concept of a mother. What she wants is for Laudna to say no, and to take her hand and walk her out of the room—the house—the feywild—this entire situation—and into whatever is next. Because the truth of it is, no matter how many people go into her dreams with her, she still feels alone.

In the end, she tells herself as red bleeds into the nothing behind her eyelids, the future she has been fighting for has never been her own. The hope she holds like water in her hands was never meant for herself. Her last fight. Her last hope. She stows them away like weapons. She thinks, They’ll owe me. She thinks, They’ll free her.

Except, when she gives in—when her friends fall away, as they always do, and she is left alone and cradled and warm with the echo of her desperate mother’s voice ringing in her mind—it’s everything. It’s twenty years of nightmares and ten of minds on minds on minds and months of grief and love and wrath all wrapped up in a bow and labeled “purpose”.

She feels like a child. Or what she imagines most children felt like. Weightless. Like if she’s simply good enough there will be someone who loves her there to wrap her in a hug or a blanket and tell her she did well. Who will carry her tiny half-asleep form to her room and tuck her in and kiss her forehead and say “good night.” Like she could close her eyes and let the darkness swallow her and know someone left a light on.

It’s everything. So when she wakes to her friends hovering, groggy faces she is only guilty for a moment at the spike of disappointment that shoots through her at the sight of them. And only guilty for a second longer when her eyes land on Laudna who is still, also, endlessly, everything.

It’s not—she’s not really there for the next few seconds—minutes—hours. All of their voices come through as if she is submerged in something thick that pulls every time she tries to break for air. Or maybe a lack of air altogether. There are still stars behind her eyelids every time she blinks.

At some point in their conversation two things finally register in about the same amount of time. One: her mother had called for her. Her mother had been there. Her mother had sounded like she was crying. And two: Laudna is holding her hand.

Laudna has been holding her hand, maybe. For a few moments and a few years. It's this, her tether, that finally brings her back to—well—Exandria.

The others are—asleep? No, they’ve—that is, she and Laudna—have moved. To their room. They had a room? Have they spent a night here already? If time is a soup then she has made quite the mess.

Regardless, Laudna is holding her hand. It’s everything.

Then there is shifting, slow and slight.

“Imogen.” She hears her whisper, voice dropping to that low husk that her choked, only lightly decayed vocal cords must reach to achieve a tone so soft. She doesn’t ever mention it, but Imogen knows how sometimes kindness exists like a war in Laudna’s body. In the way her throat rebels against the scratchy dip of her voice, in the way her bones ache when embraced. It hurts her to be so soft. For Imogen, she does it anyway. “Imogen. Would you like to lie down?”

She doesn’t respond—she doesn’t think she responds—just squeezes Laudna’s cool hand in her warm one and laces their fingers together in lukewarm knots.

She feels Laudna’s hands take and cradle her close—holds there, chests rising and falling against each other like lapping waves for an amount of time Imogen doesn't bother to count—and then she twists and shifts and lays her down like a sleepy child on their shared pillows. She tucks her in. She stands.

“I’ll be back.” Laudna husks somewhere above her. “Rest, darling. I won’t be but a few minutes. I’m sure Nana has a pitcher of water somewhere around here that I won’t have to—I don’t know—make a deal for, or something.”

She thinks she feels the tiniest beginnings of a grin pinning her lips up as Laudna's steps slow near the door, hesitate—begin to close—and then open the door long enough to peek in and say: “Pâté is with you, okay, I’ll be right back. I’ll try not to bargain what remains of my soul for water, but—you know—as they say—what must be done and all—okay, bye” punctuated by the croaking sound of their door pinching shut.

Definitely a grin, then. “Pâté,” she says, dream-drunk, “Your mom is the best.”

She feels Pâté land on her chest with a soft, somewhat wet flop. His tiny feet pitter like he’s excited or dancing. He says, “I know. She’s the whole package.” And then, after letting loose a rattling sound that could be considered a yawn, he asks, “Can I get cozy, then? While we wait for mum?”

Imogen, eyes still blissfully closed, let's loose a breathless laugh. Her hand blindly makes its way to the ball of fur and viscera and bone and love on her chest and scritches, “‘Course, Pâté. We’ll wait together.”

He hums. She feels him turn in one, two, three circles on her chest before finally curling up and settling in on her skin. He makes another rattling noise that could be a yawn or maybe a purr and says, “You’re warm.”

She is undeniably smiling when she responds, “So are you, buddy.”

———

When Laudna comes back minutes or hours later, Pâté is fast asleep on her chest.

His little body rattles with what she assumes are snores, softly vibrating against her collar. She holds a finger to her lips as Laudna goes to shut the door behind her. Laudna makes a face like she’s about to burst into tears.

She doesn’t. She instead turns to—softly—shut and lock the door, and then turns soundlessly again in her direction. She takes a breath. She smiles, “I’m not going to lie, I was kind of hoping you’d be asleep when I got back.”

She hums, low in her chest. “Why?”

Laudna looks at her in that somewhat blank way she does when she thinks the answer to something is quite obvious. She says, “Because you need the rest.”

She hums again. Laudna treks the distance between them and sits softly beside her, her sharp hip just barely pressing against the bend of her waist. Her bony hand catches Imogen’s cheek—or, maybe, Imogen’s cheek willingly falls into her hand—regardless, suddenly she finds herself held. A thumb brushes under her eye with the barely there gentleness one uses when full with fear for something breaking in their grasp.

She leans forward and over her, dark hair falling around them like a curtain of ink, blanketing them in shadow, encompassing her entire vision. She asks, breath falling upon her lips like a torrent or a phantom kiss, “Are you alright, darling?”

Imogen lifts up the barely there distance to press their lips together, sighing into her mouth. “Careful with Pâté,” she whispers when she falls back, a hand splaying on Laudna’s chest to keep her from fully settling in atop her, “he needs the rest, too.”

Laudna opens her eyes as if from a good dream—and then rolls them. She lifts a hand to wave in the air as if swatting at something. “He’s dead.” She says, like it’s an obvious thing—which, it is. But. “Besides, if he dies from exhaustion or something else ridiculous then I’ll just bring him back.”

Imogen frowns. “I don’t think he’s dead. Not, like, dead-dead, anyway. ‘Sides, he’s comfy. I’d feel bad if we woke him.”

Laudna hums, then. “Yes, he is. Comfy. And also dead.”

Her turn to roll her eyes. “Where’s his house?”

Laudna sighs like the world is ending—which, well—and leans down for one more soft kiss and then back and up and off of her entirely. Imogen tries—valiantly, she might add—not to openly wince at the loss.

She watches Laudna brace her nonexistent weight against the bed in a way that would cause the mattress to dip if it were anyone else, and instead just presses with the barely there imprint of her palms into the silk. She reaches for Imogen’s chest, cups Pâté’s tiny form in her hands; Imogen brings her hands together overtop them both. When Laudna looks at her, her eyes are full of shooting stars.

“Can I?” she asks, “Please?”

Laudna stares at her for a few slow heartbeats more, a little like she is stunned. Eventually, she leans down over their joined hands and kisses her fingers. Again. Moves her thumb to run over her knuckles like she is wiping away a stain. “Of course.”

Her body still feels a little gone, a little floaty, as she brings her hands to catch Pâté’s tiny body in their joint grasp, lifts herself up against the headboard, and then swings her legs over the side of the mattress. She sways to her feet slowly, slightly wobbly, eyes never leaving from the curled-up ball of fur in her hands and on her chest. Laudna’s hands have moved and are pressing into her biceps from somewhere behind her, steadying.

She lifts her head long enough to find where Laudna had placed Pâté's little home across the room, its golden-brown wood resting silently atop the possibly skin-covered drawer by the archway that opens into a vine-wrapped, flower-lined balcony.

She half-shambles, half-stumbles her way over with Laudna on her bleary-eyed heels. It feels infinitely important—it’s always felt important, but—that she is gentle. That Laudna sees her be gentle. It is more important than she has words to describe that Laudna could leave or fall asleep or be elsewhere and feel and know that Pâté would be put softly, lovingly to bed. That he would be tucked in. That Imogen would leave a little light on for him if he asked. She looks down at Laudna’s most special little gift and drops a tiny, feather-light kiss against his skeletal head. “G’night, buddy.”

He mumbles out a gargled sounding, “G’night, ‘mogen.”

She smiles, pulls apart the tiny curtains that act as a privacy sheet to his home, tucks him in as well as she can, runs one last soft finger down the length of his beak and just like that—she can’t help it—she starts to think of her mother.

She wonders how gently Liliana held her, when she was so small and helpless and vulnerable. She wonders if Liliana ever sang to her, ever held her little hands and kissed her stubby fingers. That memory—the one that Otohan conjured or summoned or triggered—her mother had caught her as her toddler legs had stumbled; she had smiled and wiped her tear-stained cheeks and lifted her into her arms and held.

The phantom memory of a mother and the phantom memory of Ruidus begin to overlap—how long had it been, before Laudna, that she was shown gentleness? Before Laudna, two decades into her life, was it her mother? Before her mother, before she was ever given a name, was it the moon?

How was she meant to—how was it fair to expect her to—is it so evil of her, to wish? She won’t—she won’t—because she knows that it’s wrong no matter how desperately it feels right. But the—the venom she catches pooling in the depths of Orym’s gaze, sometimes, when he talks about the moon and the vanguard and she—she gets it—of course she gets it, of course she understands—but it’s not like she’s ever genuinely entertained the thought of joining the vanguard—of joining Otohan—but the moon, Ruidus, Predathos—she won’t—the silence, the comfort—her body, radiant even among the stars—running, tripping into her mother’s arms—she won’t—

“Imogen?”

A chilled hand on her shoulder, gentle, gentle, gentle.

Breath enters her empty lungs in a shock-sharp inhale. Light enters the world again—natural, silver-white moonlight like a stripe of paint from the open balcony; warm, flickering orange from the candle by the bed—and the temperature goes from freezing to scalding to cool as she collapses back into her body like debris flung from orbit. Laudna’s hand on her skin; she crash-lands back home.

On impact, she whispers, “Laudna.”

A moment of hesitance and then a soft, cool pair of lips against the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her hands circle to wrap around Imogen’s waist. She asks, again, voice feather-fall soft, “Are you alright?”

A moment of hesitance and then her traitorous mouth, her traitorous heart: “I don’t know anymore.”

Laudna presses another, more lingering kiss to the space below her ear, then moves to run her nose along the curve of her jaw. She whispers there, in a way that she feels the words press against her skin, “That’s okay.”

Imogen finds her hands against her belly and twines them together as tightly as she can—tether, anchor, home. Her breath trembles.

They don’t say anything, holding each other in the space and the silence. Laudna presses gentle, gentle kisses to anywhere on Imogen that she can reach—neck, shoulder, ear, jaw—until Imogen turns to meet her there, barely capturing Laudna’s bottom lip between hers and then moving in again, more insistent. She feels Laudna’s lips pull into a smile against hers. Imogen notes that she’s becoming familiar with the feeling. The thought pulls her own smile forth.

But they haven’t kissed like this before, at this angle, in this room. There are so many other perfect kisses they have yet to discover.

It doesn’t make sense that she only kissed her a little over a week ago. She should have kissed her a month ago, the moment she came back on the floor in Whitestone, the moment they arrived in Jrusar, two years ago in Gelvaan. She should have kissed her a hundred more times than she did the day that she first gathered the courage to kiss her in the first place and then kissed her some more. She should’ve bought lipstick so she could leave a stain.

Laudna pulls back first, half-laughing and half-sighing at Imogen’s attempt to give chase. She leans back in to press a quick kiss to her nose—new, perfect—and then dips down, seals their foreheads together, looks up at her. She asks, “Would you like to talk about it?”

No, not really. “I think I’d need another week to even begin to process what’s happened to us in the last three days, to be honest.”

Laudna nods. “Yes, understandable. It’s been a lot.” She pauses, as if to see if Imogen will respond, and then says, “Still, I’d like to listen.”

She’s perfect. That’s it, really.

Imogen finds her hand and brings it up to her lips, kissing each finger once and then each knuckle. She whispers, “I’m not sure I know how to.”

Laudna kisses her cheek. “That’s okay, too.”

When she pulls back she also pulls forward, taking Imogen’s hand in her own and guiding her. She twines their fingers together, and then they are on the balcony.

Catha shines more brightly here than she is used to in the Material Plane. There is no bloody red or pink shine of Ruidus to speak of after their work at the key. It is navy-dark, struck through with silver cuts from Sehanine’s light. There are moving, shifting vines wrapped around the stone-skinwork railing of their little alcove, purple and yellow and orange and bright, vibrant green dancing and swirling and alive around them.

Laudna gasps, her lips forming a perfect, excited “O” when she notices the little movements. “Hello, there,” she says to the vine, “Sorry to disturb you. Would it be impolite to talk to my girlfriend out here, for a minute?” and then, her hands coming up like claws and her voice deepening to the tone she uses for her most important and dramatic of questions, “Is this, like, your domain?”

The vines shake back and forth as if to say knock yourself out or maybe well I can’t stop you.

Laudna grins, “Oh, perfect. Excellent. You're much less ferocious than your feywild-forest-flower friends.” Her brows furrow, a single finger coming up to tap nervously against her lips. “Hm. I hope that wasn’t insulting.”

Before Imogen can stop her she reaches forward and lightly taps the vine with two fingers, sharp teeth exposed in a smile, “You’re perfectly ferocious as well.”

The vines shutter as if to say fuck off and then pull back and vanish, leaving clean stonework behind.

Laudna pouts. Imogen takes and tangles their hands together. “Maybe next time.”

She sighs, all dramatics, “I’m beginning to believe plants hate me as much as people do.”

Imogen knocks their shoulders together. “People don’t hate you.”

“Objectively untrue. Regardless,” she says, waving Imogen’s immediate attempt at a counter aside, “Are you ready? For tomorrow.”

For the key? For Ruidus? For her mother?

She shrugs, “As I’ll ever be. You?”

”Oh, I think so.” She leans her bony hip against the balcony wall. “It’s been a long road. To get here. I never doubted you would.”

Imogen scoffs. She leans against the wall, too. “A long road is certainly one way to describe it. A shitty road, would be another.”

Laudna tilts her head at her, raven-like. A rope of black hair falls into her face. Imogen clenches her fingers around her arms in an effort not to reach across the space and brush it behind her ear. She says, with the upward tilting, insecure cadence of a question, “It hasn’t all been shitty, though?”

Imogen heaves a heavy breath. “No,” she says, fingers still digging into her own skin, “No. Not all of it.”

Laudna hums. There is still hair in front of her eyes. “But quite a bit of it.”

”Quite a bit, yeah.”

Quiet. Some likely incredibly fucked-up feywild bird flutters its incredibly fucked-up feywild wings and takes off into the moonlit night. Imogen turns and balances her weight on her elbows, leaning over the wall. The vines from earlier are just over the edge, as if eavesdropping. She says, “But not all of it, Laudna.”

”I know,” Laudna whispers, “I agree.”

”About not all of it sucking absolute ass or about it sucking absolute ass in general?”

”Yes.”

“Awesome.” Imogen chuckles, “I’m glad we agree that everything sucks.”

”But not everything-everything.”

”But not everything-everything.”

”This is getting pretty circular,” Laudna steps closer, “How do we make it suck less?”

Kiss me, Imogen thinks. “I have no idea.” Imogen says.

“Because, you know,” Laudna continues as if Imogen hadn’t spoken at all, “I think you’re…so capable. Truly. And I really haven’t ever doubted that you’d make it here—“

”—to the moon?—”

”—from the moment it became apparent it was possible, yes—but, really, even then—anyway. I just…I want to protect you. On the moon, but also here,” She lifts one dainty hand and presses her finger against Imogen’s forehead, “I know the dream was a lot.”

Imogen grasps Laudna’s wrist where it is in front of her face, leans forward to press a kiss against the veins there and then again at the tip of that same finger. “It was.”

Laudna shifts closer, still, leaning over her just slightly. “Do you feel any different?”

Imogen finally, finally allows herself the gift of brushing those stray hairs back, lets her fingers linger against Laudna’s gaunt cheek. “Yes and no.” she admits, eyes on the silk-soft hair tangled in her fingers to the side of Laudna’s face, “I’m not sure how to explain it.”

“That’s alright. Maybe I can help you find the words. You just—well, I…don’t want to, you know, but. You’ve just seemed a little—“

”Out of sorts.”

She sees Laudna’s breath stutter and then release. “Yes, I…I didn’t want to pressure you, or anything. It’s been a lot, so much. And you don’t have to—I trust you. I do. But if you…if you need or want help, then I would like to offer it. Is all.”

Imogen swallows. “I meant it, earlier,” bursts from her chest, her heart, “When I—That I love you. That I’m—in love with you. In case that wasn’t, um, clear.”

Laudna, for her part, looks genuinely surprised. Which is itself surprising. Not in the least because she had said she loved her, too; but, also that Imogen realizes that she very simply is not super good at hiding it.

Quietly, softly, Laudna’s lips part. Her eyes go a bit glassy. She shifts forward slightly, leaning into her palm still on her cheek. She says—whispers, really— “I know.”

Imogen inhales. Exhales. “You—well, that's good. That’s great.”

Laudna smiles against her skin. “You’re warm.” she whispers. She presses a kiss there, to the crease of her palm. “I love you, too.”

Imogen inhales. Exhales. “Well. That’s good. That’s great.”

”Mhm.”

”I don’t—“ she licks her dry lips, “I don’t know what to do now.”

Laudna hums. “Yes you do.”

”Right.” she says, “Okay.” and then she’s kissing her again.

”I’m going to ask you—“ a pause, another kiss, “I’m going to ask you about the dream again, when—“

Imogen pulls back. Laudna’s lips are kiss-swollen and shiny. It makes her want to break something. She asks, “When?”

Laudna sighs. Her eyes open to find her slowly, and then stop half-way, hanging over her iris’ heavily. Her eyes are dark. Hungry. She says, “When I’m done.”

Imogen’s eyes fall back to her lips. “Right.” She whispers, “Okay—“ and then the rest of her sentence and the rest of her breath and the rest of her thoughts are stolen from her.

———

“Now, then.” Laudna starts. She wipes the back of her hand across her uptilt lips. “What’s different? Do you have gills? Webbed fingers? Though, I supposed I’d have noticed that much by now—”

”Laudna—“ she heaves a laugh, lungs still desperate, voice a little hoarse, “God, let me catch my breath first.”

Laudna’s tongue runs lightly between her lips. She is above her, still, grey-ish arms bracketing either side of her. There is hair in her face again, sweat-stuck to her skin. Imogen is too mesmerized by the way that it splits her into like running ink and catches the nearby moonglow in a contrasting showcase of light to bother to want to brush it away. Chiaroscuro personified.

She tilts her head, bird-like and uncanny. Her eyes, shooting stars. It makes Imogen want to pull her back in. “Shit, Laudna,” she whisper-giggles, “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

Laudna stutters and then grins, all too-sharp teeth. She says, teasingly, ”It’s nice to not be the breathless one for a change.”

Imogen’s laugh leaves her like a strike to the chest, “Oh, that’s a good one.”

”I thought so.”

Laudna leans down, kisses her again. Imogen sighs into her.

This—the intimacy of it—is still so new and beautiful and exciting and—well—frankly, they've both discovered that they’re ravenous. For each other and for love and for touch. That first night—at Zhudanna’s, her body still thrumming hours later with the electric echo of their first kiss—Imogen had taken Laudna’s hand after they passed the threshold of their little makeshift and borrowed home and led her to their windowless room, their small bed. She had asked: Can I kiss you again?

It was indescribably wonderful, and took approximately two lung-heaving, feather-light minutes in the aftermath to discover that Laudna was starving. Voraciously hungry. Thirty years of nothing and then—suddenly—this. Suddenly them. Imogen could hardly stand the handful of weeks apart.

Which is to say, Laudna has a tendency to lose herself in her, a little bit. It has quickly become one of her greatest prides.

Except—well.

Imogen falls back, separating them. “Sorry,” she whispers, “What were—what were you sayin’?”

Laudna pouts. ”Asking.” She corrects, “Well—maybe theorizing, but mostly asking. You said—earlier—it feels different?”

Imogen nods. She reaches up to brush her fingers over Laudna’s cheek. “Yeah.”

”Is it…good different? Or bad different?”

Imogen nods. “Yeah.”

Laudna nods, too. Imogen watches something like self-consciousness settle on her shoulders. She isn’t sure what to do about it.

Laudna braces to press a kiss to her cheek and then rolls over. When her skin hits the light it makes her look made of marble. Like a statue. A work of art.

She bends across the space and tugs the blanket up and around them both, reaching around Imogen to make sure she is covered completely. Imogen uses the opportunity to press her lips to the skin of her bicep in passing thanks.

She settles back against the sheets. “I love you.” She says. Somehow, it sounds like a plea. “And I’ll support whatever it is you decide you want to do.”

Imogen turns on her side to mirror her. “Even if—if it’s giving in completely?”

Laudna's eyes are dark. Hungry. “Whatever you decide, Imogen.”

Imogen swallows. She feels like she’s choking. Something is rising in her, clawing at her chest and stomach and ripping its way into the world. Laudna’s eyes are so dark. There is a hound in her chest. Imogen swears she hears the echo of its howl, somehow, in her own chest. In the breaths between heartbeats, something is growling.

The howl, her eyes; it rends her completely. With blood in her teeth, she says, “My mom was there.”

It leaves her like a strike of lightning, seeking the quickest way to earth, splitting and bursting apart her ribcage as it rips from her lungs. Or like a hound, pent-up and caged, let loose to hunt and sprinting, snarling to the nearest indicator of meat. Or like sickness, like bile, burning.

That’s the bursting, bleeding, burning truth of it: her mother was there. On Ruidus, at the key, in her dreams for as long as she has had them. Guiding her or warning her. In the end, isn’t that a form of love? Isn’t that what a mother would do? She felt so held, there at the center of Ruidus, in the eye of the storm, in Predathos’ hand or maybe its jaws. Her mother had screamed for her. Her mother had cried for her.

And she can’t remember the feeling of her mother’s warmth, but she can remember the sound of her voice: Run. Imogen.

Does Predathos have a voice? Would it mourn her? Would it leave?

“What did she do?” Laudna—like a thunderclap, or a resonating howl, or a hand on her heaving back—takes and wraps their bodies together like twisting vines. She presses their foreheads together. Her eyes are still dark. “Imogen. What did she say?”

Laudna would. Laudna would mourn her. Laudna would tuck her corpse into bed before leaving her.

”I don’t—she just—called for me. My name. She said no. Laudna.” Laudna’s hands on either side of her clenched jaw, Laudna’s lips centimeters from her own, Laudna’s hand in hers in the middle of the storm. “She sounded like she was crying.”

She feels the well in her eyes overflow, cutting down her cheeks. Laudna makes some gasping sound and leans in, pressing her lips to the skin and the salt. “Imogen. Imogen, I’m sorry. Imogen.” She pulls back. The dark in her eyes is gone. “Darling, what can I do?”

Imogen shakes her head. They’re close enough that each passing arc causes their noses to bump. “I don’t know.” She says, voice tight. “I don’t know. What if I fucked up? What if she left to protect me and I wasted it? I don’t know anymore, Laudna.”

Laudna kisses her, lightly, a barely there press of their lips and then gone. Like she isn’t sure how else to respond. “What happened? When you gave in? What did it feel like?”

Imogen trembles. “I—you all—left. Were pulled away. It brought me in and then—my mama—but it—“ here, she sobs, “it was warm.”

Laudna’s body stiffens around her, arms locking like rigor mortis around her waist. She doesn’t exhale for a long, long time. When she does, it passes over her lips like a torrent.

“My mother taught me to sew.” she starts. “Did I ever tell you that? We didn’t often have enough money to go get new clothes so we made our own. Anyway, the first time it was because I ripped a hole in one of my shirts out in the woods—I was digging for worms—and when I came back I was all in a huff, expecting to be in so much trouble and felt so terrible for ruining clothes I knew she made for me.”

She pauses to press a kiss to Imogen’s hairline, “She took the ruined thing out of my hands and taught me how to fix it.”

She inhales. There’s the tiniest stutter in her chest that makes Imogen want to level another city block. “I used to think about her quite often. Everytime I found myself trying to sleep on the floor of some cold, abandoned cabin, all alone, I remember wishing she were there to teach me how to fix it.”

Their eyes find each other again, snapping together like magnets or puzzle pieces. Laudna’s eyes are full of shooting stars again. “I just—I’m just sorry, Imogen. I’m sorry I don’t know how to fix this. I’m sorry she doesn’t.”

No longer the snapping wolf, no longer the lightning strike or the thunderclap or the bile or the hand; Imogen breaks.

“God, Laudna. It feels like—like I'm mourning her.” She sobs. The words loose from her throat like an arrow held taut for too long, aimless. “But, Laudna, she isn't—she was never gone."

It is an ugly, sharp, irrational thing, her grief; she feels it drive like icicles into Laudna’s already chilled skin and dig rot-guilt up from under the warmth of her own when the weight of it tugs her over and into Laudna further. She wishes, fleetingly, that she could wear her grief as prettily as she thinks Laudna does. Laudna slips into hers like an old coat or an old blanket—scratchy, filled with holes, utterly familiar in a way that settles onto her shoulders in some poor facsimile of comfort.

Imogen’s is always, always this: an implosion. An excavation of the self. Her body nothing more than a dig-site of scars with histories older than she is.

“She’s my mama, Laudna.” It is a pathetic plea, it drops with the weight of a stone into water from her lips, “She was always with me. I never knew her. I love her and I loved her. She was dead. I have to kill her. I have mourned so why am I still mourning?”

The last word rips out of her in two tones, caught in the hiccup-choke of a sob into Laudna’s shoulder.

"Oh, darling." Laudna whispers, her lips against Imogen’s temple petal-soft in a way that makes the guilt dig deeper, sugar and salt. For a moment she only holds her. Presses kisses to the side of her head. And then Imogen feels air fill her chest, hears her lungs expand with the accompanying sound of bones like a creaking ship at sea or a growling hound. She says, with all the wisdom of someone who has lived and died and lived again, "Mourning is just…love in a transitive state.”

She shifts, catching the wet guilt dripping from Imogen’s face and forming lakes of grief at her collar, rivers of it down her chest. It makes Imogen’s breath catch, watches the moonlight catch in the momentary proof of her on Laudna. She continues, more softly, “It is…an adjustment to distance. Not gone—just far."

At this, Imogen glances away from the stain of her to meet Laudna’s eyes. She hesitates, breath a pathetic stutter in her lungs. She asks, “Are we still talking about my mother?”

Laudna watches her. And watches her. And then, voice like a bleeding wound or creaking branches or whining rope: “Death could not take me from you.”

“Don’t—“ she begs, “Do not—Laudna—“

”It can’t, Imogen. She can’t.”

Imogen sobs, reaches up desperately to cradle Laudna’s face in her hands. “I don’t want you to be another voice in my storm, Laudna. I can’t. I won’t.”

Laudna's gentle, cool hands gather her own callous, warm ones together at their collar. She asks, "Can I tell you something you don't want to hear?"

A laugh breaks out of Imogen’s lungs, desperate and sad. “You already are.”

Her grip on Laudna's hands is not gentle, it is clinging. Clawing. She imagines that when Laudna pulls away, her wrists will bear the bruise of her.

She says, in that same creaking branches voice, "You would have been fine without me."

She pulls away—tries to—hears her voice from outside her body saying, "No—No, I—" but then Laudna's fingers are entangled in hers like roots and Imogen is—she's—clinging, too.

"Don't say that." She cries. There is thunder in her voice. A precursor and warning. "I love you. Don’t say that.”

Laudna’s hands release hers to wrap around and claw at the skin of her hip, dragging them close again. Her eyes are swimming. “You’re so strong, so capable, and you are going to live. Your storm won’t take you. You will outgrow it.”

”You are, too.” Imogen demands. Because it is a demand, of herself and of the world. “You’re going to live, too.”

Laudna says nothing. Imogen continues, “I won’t let her have you, Laudna. If I can outgrow my storm, you can outgrow her.”

Laudna’s face is choked up in grief, now, in a way that Imogen has never really seen. “I just mean—“ she starts, chokes, starts again, “I just mean—my mother taught me to sew. And I did. And I think maybe your mother taught you to run. And you did. And I don’t think it’s…it’s understandable, that you wish she had taught you how to sew instead.”

Something in her, some roaring thing—the storm, maybe—cracks her skin at the words. She thinks if she were to look at her hands right now there would be new scars.

Laudna takes her ruined hands into her own; she tries to fix them. “But I can teach you how to sew, Imogen. I can—and then when I'm—gone. You can still sew. Or cook or—or paint or—whatever it is, Imogen. Imogen.”

Imogen rushes in; she kisses her. What else is there to say? What do you say when I love you isn’t big enough anymore? How do you say I don’t want you to teach me how to sew, I want you to teach me how to hunt?

Maybe there aren’t enough words to encompass them. Maybe they’ve created their own expanse of love and devotion here, between them. Maybe they’ve spent two years carving a space for the other in the ether of the world.

Everything they’ve found, all of the information they've picked up on the Gods and what makes or breaks or conjures them in these past months—faith. Both the call and the creator, the word around which divinity molds itself. And her faith, her divine call into the dark—her unanswered pleas on her knees in Gelvaan, on her knees at the altar of the Dawnfather Temple in Whitestone—if they can pick and choose whose faith they deem truthful, then what does it mean to be truly faithful?

The confidence in the callous hands of a blacksmith as he brings the hammer down, striking metal into shape. The gentle hands of a gardener digging into the soil, preparing it for life, removing that which would otherwise ruin and rot. The small hands of a child held in the soft, guiding hands of their mother. Are these not examples of divine faith?

Would the Dawnfather's hands hold her face so gently? Would the Wildmother's lips press so softly to her brow? Would the Changebringer's fingers dig just so into the skin of her shoulders, sweaty and heaving in the aftermath of her storm?

What could the gods offer her that Laudna hasn't? What would they ask in return for what Laudna freely gives? What faith of hers have they earned?

If faith is the ultimate test of love and passion and trust—than whose altar but Laudna's would she kneel to?

If godhood, then, is as simple as a state of faith and belief then maybe she alone can love her to the point of divinity. Immortality. Imogen could make a God of her. Maybe, she thinks with Laudna’s bottom lip caught between her teeth, maybe one more kiss will do the trick. Maybe one more. One more.

Eventually a sob—Imogen’s, of course—breaks them apart. Her head falls into Laudna’s neck. Laudna’s arms cross behind her back and press her close. She runs her taloned fingers over the bare skin at Imogen’s shoulder blades, the base of her neck, down every popping vertebrae. She is breathing at the normal human rate—for her it is heaving. She kisses Imogen’s temple.

“No one can take away the love for the mother you wanted. Not even the mother you have." She says into her hair, and then pulls away and down—kisses her. Keeps kissing her. When she separates to speak it is by centimeters, “And no one can take me away from you. Not Delilah. Not Otohan. Not Predathos or The Matron.”

And then, into her trembling mouth, “If we are apart, then I am within.”

Imogen lets out a wrecked—choking—dying sound, “Yeah—Yes. Laudna, I—“ desperate and clumsy and broken, she brings her shaking hand up to Laudna’s face and presses her finger to Laudna’s forehead, “Here. As long as you’re here.”

Laudna nods, brings her own talons up to Imogen’s face in a mirror-gesture, “Here. As long as you’re here.” And what is left for Imogen to do besides to rush up and in and in and in. Again and again and again.

Here, in Jrusar, in their room at Zhudanna’s, in Zephrah, in the Feywild, in Bassuras, on the moon, in the storm. In the evening, in the morning, in the middle of the day, in the depths of the night. Crying, laughing, bloody, triumphant. Again and again and again and again.

Better halves, Imogen thinks—into Laudna’s head and then, endlessly, into her own, Better wholes. I love you. I love you.

“I love you.” Laudna gasps aloud, ripping away and then rushing back in, “Imogen. Imogen. As long as you’re here. I love you.”

Imogen nods, gasps, and then neither of them say much at all.

———

In the end, Imogen doesn’t say: I lied. When I promised to move on. I lied to you. Nor does she say: I’m sorry. I’m not disgusted by you. I could never be. I love you so deeply that every time I look at you I am remade. She doesn’t say: I sundered her once. I’ll sunder her again. If you’ll let me, I’d plant a new sun tree in your mind. One that makes you think of picnics and not nooses. One that makes you think of the view and not the fall.

She does not say: I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can kill her. Will you do it? Can we trade?

She tucks these confessions away in the divots of her mind right alongside her circlet. She hopes the weight of them, the promise of them, will help to keep her runaway feet firmly rooted.

———

(After, Laudna falls asleep before her, eyes wide open.

Imogen lays next to her, one hand softly running up and down Laudna’s exposed navel, the other curled under her own head as she allows herself to trace the profile of her face.

It is late enough—or, early enough, maybe—that Catha’s light cannot breach the shared darkness of their space. Or maybe it does, and is swallowed entirely by the pitch of Laudna’s eyes.

Laudna’s eyes—the empty, dark swirl of them—Imogen remembers her gaze full with stars—captures her attention. The shadows in the room paint Laudna an even deeper dark, cutting her features into shapes that catch the barely there impression of light that Imogen’s weak, mortal eyes require to capture form.

With no light, with nothing to reflect in her sky-locked, sleep-awake stare; Laudna appears hungry. Like even in sleep, she is hunting. In the dark, she takes the form of a predator.

Watching her, Imogen thinks of Ruidus and of the storm there and of the one in her mind and of the one that takes the shape of her mother—reaching and watching and waiting for her, the entirety of her life—like an animal, like something waiting in the grass for her to make a mistake or lose her footing—waiting on the opportunity to close in on her—to consume her or to change her—

She reaches across the space.

Gently, mournfully, she closes Laudna’s eyes.)

#critical role #imogen temult #laudna #imodna #liliana tumult #writing #I don’t think I love this anymore BUT. at least it is Finished and I can Move On. To Other Equally Distressing WIPs #i have a full blown liliana character study locked in the chamber of my brain. she is in there. #and delilah is right next to her. in a away i am just like the gay girls #also sos. this is the first time i’ve posted fic anywhere but especially on here in YEARS and why the FUCK #did they take away being able to simply add a line break. or am i dumb. i couldn’t get the HTML to work either orz #Also post-posting update. I am now recognizing a collection of formatting errors specifically on this version that I am like. h about. #But Whatever. The Show Must Go On

[klaissance]

ok um i have done it i've created a thing

pls enjoy

#klance #klance fic #my writing #OFFICIALLY OFFICIAL #i have in fact never published anything to ao3 before this is monumental #anyway um this is so fuckin dumb but it made me giggle to write #in which there is a lot of looking and a lot of pining #your honor they're in love #vld fic #um if anybody reads it please tell me what you think i hope it is fun and sparkly for you #@ jackie lance has brown eyes just for you bestie you converted me so hard

[skepsiss]

Tooth and Nail pt2

Part 2 of this mini-series. I guess I'm writing like 4 mini-series right now. This story is about Eddie being the one to question his sexuality after Steve comes out first. Read the first part to get the full details.

This part is pretty darn sad with a lot of introspection. I put up a mini-poll asking people what they wanted to read the most and Eddie being introspective was winning when I started writing this. I'm likely to write all the options on that poll still, so don't fret. I want to say clearly too that I do not agree with Eddie's thoughts. Sharing your emotions is never selfish and I think the fact that he feels like a burden is something he needs to work through. He is unwell. I'll admit I made myself cry writing this so if you're emotionally fragile like I am (lol) read at your own risk.

TW: Internalized homophobia (he's working through it), self-hatred, brief thoughts on death, mention of war (Vietnam and Korea).

PT1 PT2 PT3

---

"I kissed Steve."

"What?" Gareth said, startled as he stared at Eddie. 

Eddie was sitting on a beaten-up old armchair in Jeff’s garage; it was night and they’d opened the garage door to let in the summer air. The whole block was having a party and despite the time of night, the street was still alight with lamps and Christmas lights as people mingled in the street. Eddie had taken refuge in the garage (slightly paranoid that someone was going to touch the band equipment) after the first hour of forcing himself to be social. He had a beer in hand, even though he was underage, but it didn’t seem like any of the adults cared as long as they behaved. Hell, Eddie didn’t even live on this block but he was here enough that the neighbours didn’t seem to mind.

“A week and a half ago,” Eddie answered. He was slouching badly with one leg up on the seat, looking as if he was trying to lounge on a satee instead of a corduroy, La-Z-Boy from the 60s.

“Wait–sorry, what?” Gareth asked again, holding his own beer between his knees as he stared at Eddie. He had come to join him a few moments ago since Eddie had been moping by himself, and then they had proceeded to sit in silence until now.

Eddie flicked his gaze over to the younger boy before taking a long sip of his beer as if to say, yeah, you heard right without the willingness to repeat himself. He was quietly pissed, actually, but was chomping at the bit to talk to someone about it.

“So, are you like…” Gareth started, waving one of his hands as if that would fill in the blank.

“I’m fucking straight,” Eddie muttered, looking away and taking another long drink from his beer.

“Then why–” Gareth wasn’t going to get a word in edgewise and anyone who came to talk to Eddie when he was in a mood like this knew that coming in.

“I don’t fucking know!” Eddie grumbled, crossing his other arm over his chest and slouching all the way down in his seat so only his neck was being supported by the back of the chair.

Gareth frowned at him and looked away, no doubt wondering what he should say to all of that. It gave Eddie a moment to calm down and he eventually sat back up.

“I just…” he muttered, speaking into his drink, “I don’t know; it’d be easy if he was a girl. I just wish he was a girl.”

“Eddie…” Gareth mumbled a bit incredulously as he pinched his brows in. His expression was pitying and Eddie hated that it looked like he felt sorry for him. That was annoying and he scowled before looking away. 

Eddie’s logic was sound, it didn’t make sense why Gareth would be questioning it. Things would be easier if Steve was just a girl, that way if he had kissed him it wouldn’t be a big deal. Just an oops, sorry, that was uncool, well, anyways, and then they’d move on. He wouldn’t have to be dealing with this crisis of conscience and saying that he was just joking around wouldn’t have blown up in his face–maybe, he wasn’t sure. If Steve was a girl saying that he was joking actually might have blown up in his face more now that he was thinking about it… probably wasn’t cool to yank a girl’s chain like that.

“We were high and I don’t know, I wanted to talk to him about it being fine that he’s gay or whatever and I wasn’t thinking at all and I just…” Eddie sighed heavily and chugged the remainder of his beer. He twisted the pull-tab off and flicked it across the room, aiming for the bin and missing.

“You always want to kiss people when you’re high?” Gareth asked an edge of humour to his voice. He was teasing lightly, but Eddie didn’t have the patience for that kind of crap right now. 

“Fuck no,” Eddie grouched, crossing his arms and resuming his earlier position where one of his legs was up and he was slouched into the corner of the seat. “I wouldn’t kiss your ugly mug for money.”

Gareth snorted lightly and took a swig of his beer, letting the moment simmer.

“So…” he continued, glancing at Eddie before looking away sharply, “he get mad or something?”

Eddie groaned as he covered his eyes with the side of his hand, cupping his forehead as he tipped his head back. Why had he brought this up? He didn’t want to talk about this. It had been eating his insides alive, but he didn’t actually want to talk about it. What was Gareth going to do? Tell him the magic words to make Steve like him again?

“I told him I was joking,” Eddie mumbled, “and that I didn’t mean it–I even apologized, and I don’t fucking apologize to anyone.”

“Tell me about it,” Gareth muttered under his breath and Eddie hucked his empty beer can at his head, forcing Gareth to duck.

“Jesus–” he half laughed, the can knocking against him harmlessly and clattering to the ground, “just saying.”

Eddie flicked him off and motioned to get up. He didn’t need to be here for this, he didn’t want to be around people. This sucked. He could tell that Gareth was trying to be helpful–trying to be a friend–but he didn’t have the patience for it and he didn’t want to have another fight with another friend over something stupid.

Eddie stuck his hands in his pockets and shuffled over to Gareth before picking up the empty can and chucking it into the garbage. He wasn’t about to leave trash in Jeff’s garage, his parents let them practice there and store their gear most of the time and Eddie wasn’t going to burn this location. 

“Say bye to Jeff for me,” Eddie muttered, grouching out of the garage, “and thanks for the food.”

“You going home?” Gareth asked, leaning over the side of his chair to watch Eddie.

“No, this is an illusion,” Eddie mocked, turning and waving his hand in front of his face and giving a manic smile, “the Eddie you know died a long time ago.”

Gareth half laughed, but his brows pinched in at the same time. Eddie didn’t stick around to see if that meant he wanted to say something. He just continued to walk away, turning and hunching his shoulders as he walked past energetic little kids chasing one another and people starting to pack up their dishware. He didn’t feel like unpacking what he had told Gareth or why stating that he had died twisted his guts up into knots. He also didn’t like that he could tell that his upset wasn’t due to the fact that he was lying, but rather that it felt too close to the truth. 

Eddie lit a cigarette and started the long walk home. He lost the last of the dusk light halfway through his walk, already two cigarettes down as he got closer to Cherry Street. He wanted to say he ended up there by accident, but that would have been a lie. He walked this way often, actually, and it had been convenient once upon a time. Steve lived on Cherry Street… and Cherry Street backed up onto the forest that connected to the trailer park. A funny coincidence, he had said once to Steve, makes it easier to bother you. That was all too true now though. He was more than a bother.

Eddie stood looming at the end of the street as he stared off towards Steve’s house, the large, stark white structure easy to spot even in the dark. The lawn was lit up by small pot lights and the street lamp across the road shone brightly down onto the sidewalk. Eddie was out of view of any of the windows from his vantage, but he could see the side of the garage and the front of Steve’s house still.

He grumbled miserably and flicked the butt of his cigarette, not bothering to stamp it out before rerouting and taking the long way home. He didn’t want to walk past Steve’s place and risk seeing him, he didn’t know what he’d say if he saw him… he still didn’t really know what had happened. The whole thing felt jumbled in his mind and then crystal clear all at once. He could remember everything so vividly, but it was as if they had been speaking a foreign language to each other: none of it made sense.

Why did he kiss Steve?

Why had that led to Steve getting so angry he nearly got hit?

Why was he such a jackass that seemed to ruin any good thing that happened to him?

It was pitch black by the time Eddie made it home, but he knew the route well enough. The trailer park didn’t have any lights other than the rinky-dink porch lights that some of the homesteads had. It wasn’t that late, but things got dark this far away from town. He came home late like this all the time though, so it wasn’t a surprise when the flyscreen slapped open and Wayne was lounging on the couch. Wayne wasn’t working right now, which was a problem, but they had a small nest egg from the government to live off of for at least a few more weeks. It was amazing how far you could stretch a dollar when you’d been doing it for 20 years. 

“That you, Eddie?” Wayne asked, sparing a glance towards the door as a commercial popped onto the screen.

“Yeah…” Eddie mumbled, standing by the front door with his hands in his pockets still. He was looking at the ground, and Eddie wasn’t sure why he felt paralyzed. He didn’t want to move, but he didn’t want to be standing there either… stuck in some kind of limbo.

“You’re home early,” Wayne commented, his tone sounding cautious as if he wasn’t sure if a conversation was going to come out of this, “everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Eddie answered, again, not really sure what he was expecting.

Silence drew out between them as Eddie shifted from foot to foot, just wanting to… be around someone. He wasn’t sure if that was right, but he wanted to be invited in or something. He selfishly wanted to be comforted even though he was the problem.

“What’re you watching?” He mumbled, still not looking at Wayne.

“Mash,” Wayne answered easily, “reruns.”

Eddie nodded and sniffed, feeling like a stranger in his own home. Though he supposed that wasn’t right, this was Wayne’s home, he was a guest. He was a guest that had worn out his invitation by years and years. The deal had been until he graduated, but he still hadn’t done that and it was starting to feel like an impossibility. He didn’t want to be a burden though and he knew that getting a job was the next best thing… but he hadn’t been able to force himself to do that yet either.

Slowly, Eddie shuffled over to the couch and sat down a cushion width away from his uncle, looking up at the TV. The commercials were ending and Eddie felt his throat tighten as he tried to push himself into small talk.

“Is it a good episode?” He asked, having seen most of MASH living here with Wayne. He liked the show, and Eddie could understand why. All the characters questioned why they were at war and the ethics of it all. Made sense for someone like Wayne to get some kind of catharsis from the show after coming home from ‘Nam all those years ago.

“It’s the one where Hawkeye tries to get ribs sent from Chicago to Korea,” Wayne explained, sipping the drink he had in his hand and looking back at the TV.

Eddie snorted slightly, remembering the episode. He toed his shoes off and tucked up onto the couch so he could rest his chin on his knees, the room falling into silence except for the murmur of the TV and the tell-tale M*A*S*H song in the background. It was easy to watch and Eddie stared at the grainy images on the screen as Wayne and him shared the living room. He always liked that he could be quiet with Wayne, but it felt a bit forced on his part tonight.

A commercial broke up the episode and Eddie sighed, not looking at Wayne as he tipped his head to the side before chewing his lip and finally speaking.

“You ever… had a fight with a friend?” Eddie asked quietly, not liking the sound of his own voice right now. It was quiet for a beat before Wayne responded, his tone calm.

“Sure,” he said easily, obviously waiting for Eddie to continue, “you… have a fight with the band?”

“Steve,” Eddie mumbled, shaking his head no to Wayne’s assumption as he picked off the black polish on his nails.

“What did you do… to fix it?” Eddie asked, still not looking up.

“Apologized… talked, bought them a beer,” Wayne offered loosely, “depends on what the fight was about.”

Eddie nodded solemnly, not liking that there wasn’t some magic answer to his query. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but he didn’t feel like elaborating his problem either. So he just nodded and picked at his nails, waffling for a long time before more words tumbled out of him.

“Do you think… people just… dislike me?” Eddie asked, his lip quivering a bit before he got control of it, swallowing hard to hide his emotions. Wayne didn’t say anything right away which forced a bitter laugh from Eddie’s lungs.

“Like, I’m difficult, I know it, people don’t like difficult but sometimes…” Eddie smiled sadly as he held back his emotions, hiding his face between his knees again, “something even when I’m around people that are… like me, I’m just… different.”

Eddie didn’t like the words that were slipping out of him, why he felt like this was related to what had happened with Steve, or why he was saying it to begin with. He didn’t want to talk about this and he didn’t want to put this on Wayne to think about, that wasn’t fair. Wayne dealt with enough of his bullshit, more than any Uncle should have to, but sometimes Eddie couldn’t help that his uncle felt like the only safe person to talk to.

“It feels like it’s just so easy for me to–” he laughed quietly again, having a harder time holding back the wavering tone of his voice, “--to just–fuck things up with people.”

His body betrayed him and Eddie felt tears slipping down his face and he rushed to push them away so they wouldn’t be seen, still shielded by his knees as he hunched like a gargoyle.

“Eddie–” Wayne started, too much sympathy in his voice.

“Sorry,” Eddie muttered, trying to put levity into his tone, “I know you don’t like it when I drop the f-bomb.”

That was partly true, but Eddie also knew that Wayne didn’t care that much. They swore all the time, he just didn’t like being sworn at.

Wayne went quiet for a moment and Eddie squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get rid of any lingering tears that might be holed up in there.

“What’s going on, boy?” Wayne asked, his voice incredibly gentle.

Eddie felt his bottom lip bunch up, hating that any time Wayne sounded like that Eddie was doomed to start breaking down. It was like a superpower or something–he didn’t know, but Wayne had made him cry dozens of times when he felt on the verge of tears. He always felt selfish seeking out comfort from his uncle when he had already saddled him with so many problems.

“I hate people–” Eddie blubbered, not sure if that was what he really wanted to say but that felt like the strongest phrasing he could find to describe how he felt. He felt so small and so selfish, reverting back to some kind of scared kid who didn’t know how to deal with his own emotions. 

Eddie finally looked up, his face wet and his chest tight, and he crawled across the seat cushioned and collapsed onto his side, pressing his face into Wayne’s thigh. He was so pathetic… he was twenty years old and he was crying into his uncle's lap? Eddie the demon, the freak, the devil, metal head, satanic worshipper – yeah right.

“Sometimes it feels like–people just–I’m just–-I’m made to be hated,” he blubbered, hiding his face and gasping through his words. He felt miserable and like he wasn’t really saying what he meant, but he didn’t know what he wanted to say or even why he was doing this right now. It was like hundreds of emotions were trying to fight their way out of his chest and he couldn’t do anything about it. He hated it.

Wayne touched the top of his head and Eddie felt himself choke.

Wayne’s touch was gentle and Eddie couldn’t help but sob as he started to stroke the back of his head. It was a subdued affection, but one that Eddie knew was genuine. Wayne wasn’t a man of many words, so sometimes a touch was the best he was going to get. There was a reason why Wayne sometimes felt like the only safe person–even if Eddie still felt like he was a burden to his uncle.

“Everything about me just—” Eddie sobbed, gritting his teeth as he just let his thoughts and feelings freefall from him. “Why am–I—I–why do I like everything people can–can just hate–about me? I don’t like anything normal—I’m just–nothing about me is normal.”

Usually, Eddie was the first one to proclaim that he was different and scream it loudly for people to hear. He’d shout and point and own it and draw all the other weirdos towards him. He was the king of all the freaks, but it felt like he was still an island amongst them. He was always somehow different. Like there was this wall he bumped up against far too easily that would crop up out of nowhere. How he’d say or do something and just fuck everything up in one fell swoop. 

Why did he keep giving people new reasons to call him a freak?

“I hate being like this–I hate–I hate that I can’t just–be normal for—for five minutes,” he gasped, feeling that swell of self-hatred rising in his chest, “it’s always my fault–it’s–I’m always… so… difficult. I just—I can’t—...I don’t know why–I don’t—I hate it, I hate it so much.”

He was feeling sorry for himself again and that felt unfair. It didn’t feel like this was something he got to be upset about or something that Wayne or anyone else cared about. It felt unfair to complain to a man who had probably watched dozens of friends die right in front of him during the war; to complain to a man who had taken him in when no one else would and had to bear this kind of responsibility when he hadn’t asked for it. To have a snot-nosed-brat sobbing in his lap because people didn’t like him. But Eddie was nothing if not selfish.

“I’m so tired of being different–I don’t… I don’t want it anymore–why does it matter so much to people? I just–I don’t want it anymore–It’s–like—I know, I know people hate me—everyone in this goddamn town–people–pe—everyone hates me. Wayne–” he was heaving now as he rambled, everything just spilling out of him in these waves of emotions as each ugly sound crashed into the next. “It’s not fair—I don’t—I don’t want to be the freak–I don’t what—I don’t want to be a loser–to be a drop out–I don’t want—I don’t want to like men–”

The last of his confessions slipped out and Eddie felt his body tighten; his throat felt like it was being ripped apart and his lungs couldn’t pull in enough breath to satiate him. It hurt so badly. It hurt and he hated it and he didn’t know why he said it.

Eddie felt Wayne’s pets pause briefly before picking back up again. That more than anything made Eddie feel ashamed. It made his jaw shake and his shoulders tighten. How fear and sorrow rattled around inside of him at the consequences of his words. He didn’t know what saying them would do–he didn’t mean them. He knew he didn’t mean them–he couldn’t have meant them. Those words were a death sentence.

“It’ll be alright,” Wayne mumbled, the words not sounding as hollow as Eddie thought they would, “I like you plenty.”

Eddie tucked in at the compliment, feeling weak and small as his sobs quieted a bit. His tears didn’t stop, but his chest heaves changed into fluttering gasps as he slowly regained his composure.

“Freaks run in the Munson blood,” Wayne continued and Eddie blubbered a small laugh shifting to press into Wayne’s hip. He was such a child, but he couldn’t help but soak in the comfort.

It was quiet again for some time as Eddie’s crying turned into hiccups and then sniffles, the TV quietly rambling in the background. It took a long while for Eddie to calm down, but Wayne never stopped stroking his hair. He felt wrung out and hollow now, his emotions dull and his body aching from how hard he had cried. Still, it did feel better than when he walked in here.

“I kissed him…” Eddie said quietly. He felt Wayne shift to look down at him, a question in his movement.

“Steve,” Eddie explained, mumbling, “I kissed Steve the other week.”

“I see,” Wayne answered back, obvious awkwardness in his delivery. He had never been good at talking about stuff like this–anything really–but it was obvious that he was trying. “And he doesn’t like that you’re a guy?”

Eddie shook his head, and closed his eyes, tucking in closer still as he pressed his forehead against Wayne’s stomach.

“Steve likes guys,” Eddie sighed, breathing heavily as he wrangled his emotions.

“Alright…” Wayne replied slowly, obviously puzzling through everything. Eddie frowned and tucked in again, hiding as he felt shame wash over him.

“I kissed him…” he explained, sniffing, “and then I told him it was a joke, that I didn’t mean it…”

“Ah…” Wayne answered, sighing a knowing breath. “Did you mean it?”

Eddie swallowed thickly, taking a long time to answer as he pressed hard into Wayne as if he could disappear this way.

“I don’t know…” Eddie replied, his voice muffled. Wayne stroked his head again and Eddie breathed deeply through his mouth, feeling bad for crying all over Wayne’s lap.

“Alright,” Wayne answered simply, not pushing the subject at all. He was good at listening and Eddie quietly appreciated that Wayne always seemed to have time to listen to him ramble. Slowly, Eddie sat back up, his back to Wayne as he hugged his knees and rallied.

“Sorry,” Eddie mumbled, feeling like he had to apologize for the way he had acted. 

Wayne just patted his shoulder and Eddie felt a few tears slip down his cheek as if they had been knocked out of him by his uncle’s kindness. He sniffed hard again before getting off the couch and stumbling into the kitchen to splash water into his face and clean off the snot and tears. Eddie lifted the hem of his shirt to dry his face and then leaned against the kitchen counter, going quiet once more.

“Eddie?” Wayne spoke up and Eddie peered over at him through the cabinet shelf, “try telling your friend the truth.”

Eddie frowned at the suggestion, but he didn’t have it in him to be angry. Still, he didn’t think that was a great idea. What was he supposed to say? He wasn’t even sure if he knew what the truth was. How did he feel? Did he like Steve? That felt stupid and the idea made his stomach turn over. What good would a confession do anyway?

“And what’s that?” Eddie asked a bit flippantly, wiping wet strands of hair out of his face. 

“That you’re figuring it out and you want to stay friends,” Wayne offered, looking over at Eddie for a moment before turning to look at the TV again.

Eddie stared at the back of his uncle’s head, not sure what to say to that. Was it that simple? It felt like he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone that he didn’t know how he felt about something. That he was unsure and vulnerable and scared—it didn’t feel like things were allowed to be that simple.

He didn’t answer Wayne as the TV flicked from image to image painting the dark little trailer in different colours each time. It felt comforting and Eddie appreciated that his Uncle wasn’t smothering him. He was more grateful that Wayne had just… accepted him. He had accepted him like he always did. He hadn’t said anything when Eddie started to grow his hair out or when he got a tattoo, when he flunked school, and now when he had said… he liked men. It had been a surprise to hear himself say those words and there was still deep-rooted shame attached to all of that, but that felt like something he had to unpack on his own. Still, Wayne’s reaction had been the same as it was for all of Eddie’s past transgressions. He’d quietly support him or sigh with worry, but it never seemed to change anything between them.

Eddie shifted awkwardly from foot to foot and went to the fridge. He pulled out a can of beer and walked it over to his uncle, touching the cold metal to Wayne’s forearm so he’d look up.

“Thanks,” he muttered gruffly, looking at Eddie briefly before redirecting his attention to the TV.

“Yeah,” Eddie replied quietly, wiping his nose and touching his uncle’s shoulder before stepping away, “thanks.”

PT3

#we stan Wayne Munson in this house #Wayne Munson = best uncle #Eddit is dumb cause he spent all of last fic (the week prior to this) #proclaiming that he loved queer ppl cause they were treated like he is #he thinks queer people are cool but now he's like I CAN'T BE QUEER #that's just cause he's scared of what that means and he has to face so many horrors all the time #doesn't like being hated and sometimes the RSD gets to him #the “being straight” thing is like armor that has just been stripped away and he's been shown he can be hurt here too #he'll learn and grow and eventually love his queer-ness #my_writing #steddie #steve and eddie #eddie munson #steddie fic #my writing #wayne munson #I'm bored so take pt2 early

[groovinrightalong]

Posting dumb little wips as I struggle through the end of the semester

#stranger things #mike wheeler #will byers #lucas sinclair #dustin henderson #byler #byler fic #writing wip #byler wip #the party #the og party #my writing #dustin gives zero fucks #and we love him for it #this is so dumb it might not even make it into the next chapter I just thought it was kinda silly #my brain is scrambled #mike🤝will #not having one of their parents around anymore #this is not really a karen friendly fic unfortunately #love her tho

[wikiangela]

wip wednesday

tagged by @diazsdimples @tizniz @daffi-990 @bidisasterbuckdiaz @fortheloveofbuddie @hoodie-buck 💖💖

i wasn't gonna post today but I'm currently writing another one of Buck and Taylor's arguments and I'm having so much fun lol (there's gonna be only one more conversation between them after this haha) I keep having new ideas for the in-between of what I had planned, and I hope all of this turns out coherent, I'm probably gonna have to do so much editing lol I'm so determined to post it this month and I'm actually inspired!

prev snippet

___

“I don’t know what to tell you.” he sighs, averting his gaze, as he’s trying to think about anything to say, but his mind is blank. 

“How about the truth? I really just want to know what the hell is going on with you. Because this-” she throws her hands out, vaguely gesturing around. “This isn’t a life together, and I don’t know how many more times we can have this exact same conversation.”

“Taylor…” he starts, hoping more words would come. “I’m sor-”

“Is there someone else?” she blurts out, angry tears welling in her eyes. He feels his own eyes widen in surprise, and his cheeks burn.

“What?”

“I mean, are you seeing someone else?” she doubles down, her tone a little shaky, but still determined. Suddenly, he feels his heart in his throat, and he has to make a conscious effort to breathe. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gaydiaz @thebravebitch @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @watchyourbuck @eowon @loserdiaz @evanbegins @ladydorian05 @wildlife4life @diazpatcher @lover-of-mine @monsterrae1 @thewolvesof1998 @puppyboybuckley @weewootruck @loveyouanyway @spagheddiediaz @rainbow-nerdss @epicbuddieficrecs @pirrusstuff @spotsandsocks @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @nmcggg @rogerzsteven @hippolotamus @giddyupbuck @sunshinediaz @honestlydarkprincess @underwater-ninja-13 @exhuastedpigeon @911-on-abc @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @theotherbuckley @buddieswhvre @dangerpronebuddie

#do we think he'll finally confess? 🙃 #buddie cheating fic #wip wednesday #fic: got a girl at home (but I love the way you taste) #he's being so horrible in this omg im sorry but im having the time of my life lmao #(he's not actively sleeping with eddie tho don't worry he's not *that* horrible lol) #hit 17k and this is from chapter 4! #did y'all think he'd take henren's advice *immediately*? lmao he's so dumb <3 #eddie literally all but spelled out how he feels and buck's still not listening hahah (eddie thinks he knows tho smh) #someone take this fic away from me who even am i lmao #fic snippet #buddie #buddie fic #buddie wip #wikiangela writes #my writing #my wips #me: i don't know how to write arguments #also me: writes a fic full of arguments #hope it doesn't suck lol 🤞🤞

[twistedappletree]

Arranged marriage zhuiling AU where instead of being arranged to marry each other, Jiang Cheng keeps trying to set Jin Ling up with random girls from other clans after Jin Ling mentions he’s interested in marrying ‘someone’ because he doesn’t know Jin Ling meant Lan Sizhui, so Jin Ling keeps doing the most ridiculously annoying and unappealing things to scare off every girl who comes to Koi Tower and Jiang Cheng is ripping his hair out because you little brat, you said you wanted to get married???

Eventually, both of them are so exhausted from the miscommunication that Jiang Cheng investigates and finally finds out what’s wrong, then tells Jin Ling he has one more potential spouse for him to meet. Jin Ling is a pouting lackluster mess over it until his entire world stops when the doors to Koi Tower open and Lan Sizhui walks through.

#zhuiling #lingzhui #fic ideas #will probably actually write this soon ngl ahahaHAHAHA #poor JC not know wtf is going on #i feel like it’s more IC of him to actually think he’s helping instead of trying to force JL to marry anyone #bc he does love him and wants him to be happy #but both of them are so shit at communicating and JL is never gonna admit he likes LSZ to his uncle #so JC has to do his own digging to find out 😭 #zhuiling musings #ok but what if JC finds out JL and LSZ love each other through Jingyi #lmfAOOOOO #Jingyi’s just like ‘your stupid moody niece is in love with my best friend you dumb purple slut’ #ffffuuuuuuuuuuUUUUUUCCCCKKKK AHAHAHAHA #apple babble 🍎 #mdzs au #arranged marriage au #married aspec ZhuiLing would be so cute tho I think about it a lotttttt 😭✨🌸

[vshushmshu]

pickup lines

usually the red eared slider’s flirts and compliments were flowery, over the top with heaps of silly, and you would roll your eyes at each and every one. grand sweeping gestures, an arm slung around your neck, or running his thumb over your knuckles with a wiggle of brows that didn’t actually exist. it was entertaining, something you would never actually admit outloud, so you never really shut down his teasing. you only let it happen for the hell of it. yeah.

a wink that looked as if his eye momentarily had an uncontrollable spasm, “i would never play hide and seek with you, because someone like you is impossible to find.”

you grimaced as he walked over to sit beside you on the rooftop, “i honestly wish i could hide from this.”

finger guns, “are you from tennessee?? because you’re the only ten-i-see!”

a huff, looking over the city once more before you stopped patrolling for the night, “new york, buddy.”

“you never humor me…”

“you have no idea.”

an irritatingly wide smile, leo splayed out on your bed, “this might sound cheesy, but i think you’re really grate.”

you turn from your homework to cock a brow at him, “…puns? really? you’re stooping to puns now?”

“hey, a turtle’s gouda do what he’s gouda do.”

“i hate you.”

“awww, i love you too!!!”

you were drawing with mikey when your self-proclaimed bestie barreled in, “i seem to have!! lost my phone number!!!! can i have yours?”

the orange clad turtle seemed to be holding in the fattest cackle, so you ignored him to look at leo with a fairly neutral expression, “i thought you already had my number?”

“yeah, but i kinda… deleted it just to make this work..”

“…you’re stupid. i’m friends with an idiot.”

he pouted, until his phone lit up at an unknown number’s message, “and i’m friends with a meanie pants… oh! thanks!”

you shoved your phone back in your pocket while mikey eyed the two of you, his red striped brother already tapping the number into your contact once more, “sure, mhm.”

nabbing a piece of popcorn from your bowl, eyes scrunched from his simper as he glances at you, then lets his eyes land back on raph and april’s mario kart game once more, “it’s a good thing i have a library card, because i am totally checking you out.”

“…aren’t you illiterate or something? do you even know what a library is?”

“shut the fuck up….”

he looked up from his comic as you flopped onto his bed, just having listened attentively to another one of donnie’s infodumps, “did you just come out an oven?”

you huffed, draping an arm over your eyes, “no, leo.”

said turtle leaned over to poke your cheek with a snicker, “‘cause you’re hot.”

“goddammit, leo.”

“is this hogwarts express, because it feels like you and i are going somewhere magical.“

you stared at him as he gestured to a newly opened portal, “man, i swear, are you getting these from buzzfeed articles?? ain’t no way you pulled a harry potter line out your ass like that.”

“…is your name google? ‘cause you got the answers for everything i’m searching for.”

you swore you saw the face of a slider caught, and your eyes twinkled in amusement, “so, you are.”

“LEAVE ME ALONE.”

“your hand looks lonely. want me to hold it for you?”

you readjust your grip on your weapon, eyeing him in a sort of flabbergasted way, “lee, we are literally in the middle of a FIGHT.”

“right, whatever.”

you both were on your phones, the turtle laying on you scrolling through god-knows what, while you watched a video essay on something you were to inevitably forget about. you snickered at an elaborate joke about something or other, and the slider grinned a little, “roses are red, violets are blue. with a smile like that, looks like i’m doomed.”

“…”

you were tempted to kick him off, something inside you churning, but you just refocused on your video once more. his face seemed a little surprised in your peripheral vision, but at what, you couldn’t be sure.

leo sat beside you in blankets, barely conscious in his goofy pajamas during the latter end of a movie night, everyone else already asleep (except for donnie, who could care less about anyone else as his eyes stayed glued to the screen projected on the wall, hyperfixated on a jupiter jim movie he’s no doubt seen a thousand times over), “are you- did you fell from heaven- cause- fuck. i forgot how that one goes.”

you hid a grin behind a facepalm, equally fatigued as his head dipped to rest lightly on your shoulder, neck giving up on keeping it upright, “of course you did.”

sometimes though, those bits of flattery are uttered so quiet, barely above a whisper, the turtle holding such reverence in his tone. like now, just before he drifts off to sleep to no doubt drool all over you, the slider makes himself comfortable buried in your side. you still when his cheek rubs against your shoulder, a content sigh escaping leo while he wraps his arms around you in your shared blanket nest, “hm mwarm… i wish this would last f’rever..”

you can’t doubt that it’s sincere when it’s said like that. you look away from the movie to stare at him with tired eyes, face warm while you fiddled slightly with your fingers, buried under the blankets wrapped around your own body. leo started snoring in record time, light chirps coming from him every time he shifted in his sleep, and you rest your head on his. maybe you wished that too, maybe your mouth twisted into the smallest of frowns, but you decided not to dwell on it.

letting your eyes drift close, and pulling the red eared slider closer, you knew you were going to wake up to dumb pickup lines that held a bit too much sincerity in them. maybe you were glad.

#guys i had to get this out of my head. #my chest and everything inside it is caving in from how much i love this dumb turt #rottmnt leo x reader #..still in the confines of ryana #the fic i will always talk and think abt #but never write #rottmnt #rottmnt x reader #rottmnt x you #help #rottmnt x y/n #head in hands sobbinf #save rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles

[feelingthedisaster]

im really shitty at usernames (i usually just keyboard smash or write variations of "no username" when i have to creat an account) but right now im writing a story set in social media and i need usernames for extras, any ideas?

#THANK YOU VERY MUCH EVERYONE WHO WILL ANSWER #i'll love you forever #im thinking that the usernames of the hate comments will be the usernames of everyone who hate me for dumb shit #(you cannot make me like your ship through insults) #(you do you i do me we dont insult eachother even if we disagree) #(its a basic fandom rule) #writeblr #writer #writing #writers on tumblr #writing is hard #writers #on writing #writerscommunity #writing advice #fic #fanfic #fanfiction writing

[disasterlia]

Drabble : Insecure + deaf Steve

Was it on twitter first ? Why yes. 

I’m jumping onto the “ Steve after too many concussion loose his hearing” and I’m adding a pinch of angst and insecurities.

_ _

It’s not a secret anymore, after too many encounters with the Upside Down, with various fists and walls, Steve can’t hear anymore. He didn’t even know it was a possibility. Getting concussed enough that you fuck up your hearing like a looser. 

Still, it was fine. He was alive. More importantly, the kids were alive. Vecna was dead. The gates were closed ( hopefully for good this time). Max recovery was a slow process, but she was alive and not alone, never alone. Eddie was out of the hospital, finally. 

What if Steve couldn’t hear anything anymore ? He was learning ASL , was learning how to get by now. And he wasn’t alone in his recovery either. 

He was slowly forgetting the kids voices. It was less fine. But Steve was stupid and confident enough to adapt, to survive. 

He would never hear Eddie’s music. He would never hear the words the other whispered against his skin in the obscurity of their rooms. It was fine. More or less. 

He wasn’t alone. He was adapting. It was fine. 

The thing is, he couldn’t hear himself anymore either. It had been fine too at first. Robin admitted his voice was a little different. She would tap her arm when he was too loud. But she never complained. 

It was fine. Until it wasn’t. 

Steve couldn’t even remember what made him laugh. But he was, so hard that his stomach was cramping, that he was feeling that sweet rush. 

“ What the hell ! Steve ! What do you laugh like that ? Steve ? It’s so weird !! Oh god you’re sound so stupid it’s perfect.” 

Steve was not the best at lip reading, especially with Dustin. ( and Mr Munson, his moustache was his worst nightmare but he would rather DIE than admit any difficulty to Eddie’s uncle.)

 But he understood. He understood enough. 

It was no voluntarily mean. Dustin was like that loud, and too franc, often rude without meaning to. It hurt. And the hurt borrowed deep. It changed him.

And no one seemed to notice. But, they rarely noticed Steve. No truly. 

He began to held back. He took the habit to hide, behind his hands, biting his lips, muffling any sound that would betray him. Ridicule him further. He spoke more with his hands than with his voice. And he never laugh. No out loud. Never again. Self-conscious. Hurt. Ashamed.

No one noticed.

It was fine, Steve was handling it. Until, Eddie. Eddie, always at his side, always touching him, bumping his shoulder, stroking the inside of his wrist to get his attention. Seeking his attention, his approval all the times. Eddie pushed, and pushed, always asking for more of him. His eyes always on him, watching, considering.

Steve felt seen. Naked.

Until, finally, head resting against his palm, Eddie asked. “ …you rarely speak anymore, Stevie, why’s that? I can’t even remember the last time I heard your voice. Hell, Erica’s joke was good, but you didn’t laugh. Why?”

At least, he waited for them to be alone to attack him. Because it felt like an assault, a personal one.

Eddie always craved more and he wanted to hear him laugh.

It was not the first time he asked. And Steve always shrugged, found a way to change the subject, to smile like it was nothing. All denial and escape.

“ I’m fine. It’s fine.”

And those dark eyes on him, always watching him, careful. “ No, no it’s not. But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, sweetheart.”

Eddie was always watching him and recently, he was also making Steve blush way too often.

When it happens, when he relapses, Steve didn’t even notice at first. 

His cheeks were warm, his heart heavy with way too much feelings, way too much Eddie.

And Eddie was silent. Eddie who always teased, who could never let a silence stretch too laugh, wasn’t saying anything. He was only watching Steve, with the weirdest, softest smile. “ There you are, Stevie… There you are.”

And Steve startled under the brush of his hand against his smile, like a lover caress.

“…knew you could laugh. I wish you would laugh  more often, Sweetheart, you're so pretty when you laugh.”

“ What ? No, Eddie. It’s fine. Don’t be…like, that. It’s fine. I know I sound like a damn goat.” Steve could only offer an embarrassed smile, that looked more like a grimace. His cheeks were burning. “ m’ sorry you had to hear it.”

It’s a whiplash the way Eddie’s eyes darken, his mouth turned down. “ The fuck Stevie ? What the- Would told you that ?”

“ It’s fine. Really.” Steve tried to plead with his own eyes, to make Eddie understand, that really, he understood. The other man didn’t have to get all outraged for him. That it was fine.

“ No, no it’s not. That’s why you don’t…Steve. Don’t tell me you feel like you have to hide your own laugh?”

A flinch he didn’t manage to contain. His skin was on fire. If a small gate could open, at this right moment, Steve would jump in head first.  “…It’s fine.”

He watched, as Eddie worried his hair. “ Fuck, Steve…That’s not okay. Steve, listen.” He grimaced. “ Sorry.”

But Steve could never be upset with him. Especially now that his was cradling his hand between his own and watching him with the most troubling expression.

“ Look, Stevie. I love your laugh. It’s beautiful, pretty like you. You don’t have to be ashamed. It’s a little loud but fuck, that…the point ! If I knew who put this stupid idea into your heard, sweetheart, I would make him eat his words. Trust me.”

“…You…you think I’m pretty?”

And Eddie startled expression, his eyes oh so big, staring at him, as it was his turn to blush, made everything a little more okay.

#stranger things #stranger things fic #english is hard #i forgot how to word #help #steve harrington #steve harrington is hard at feeling #eddie munson #eddie is a sweatheart #dustin is a little piece of shit something #not on purpose #we love him #but stop saying steve is dumb #steddie #as my end goal #see the flirting ? #my writing

[tervaneula]

That last reblog though. Ouugghg platonic kisses got me messed up, oh my god, like they're absolutely not a thing in Finnish culture if not between a parent and their small child BUT I WISH IT WAS. Platonic kisses between adults?? Cheek kisses, forehead kisses, heck, even neck kisses. Oh my god. A trust so deep, a love so profound that it permeates every gesture. I'm. I'm not normal about this

#I do love my romance but platonic relationships are just on a whole other level. resplendent and beautiful #platonic intimacy really is an underrated thing and we need more of it. irl and in fiction #it's terv #kinda unrelated but. to me mouth kissing is fun to write in fics but irl I don't really care for it #and it's dumb how much emphasis people put on it in romantic relationships

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 4

Geralt is the captain of a pirate ship, named "Kaer Morhen." Perhaps he's still a witcher, perhaps he's just a regular old human (with white hair and golden eyes? Lol) His brothers (and "cousins" from other witcher schools) are his crew Now I can see this going two different ways, so choose a favorite (or make up your own, I am only the beginning, I hold no affront of being anything more) Jaskier is a nobleman's son, aboard his family's ship, possibly on his way to be forced into a marriage to a woman he doesn't love. And either he falls overboard or he's shoved off as a murder attempt, but he's lost in the ocean. Lambert (or someone else, but I love to imagine how Lambert would attempt to call this out to his captain who he doesn't take seriously 90% of the time, #brothers) calls that he spots a man bobbing in the sea, and they haul him up. The majority of the crew sees sight of his jewels and finery and insists on holding him ransom. But when the prisoner wakes up and isn't afraid of death, Geralt looks into this a little more. Apparently their prisoner won't get a ransom because his entire family despise him and his want to run away and become a bard. Funny. Most pirate ships have entertainers aboard to help the pirates deal with months of nothing but ocean. Perhaps they'll have use of this dumb twink after all. OR, option number two Jaskier is a nobleman's son, chained and starved for the crime of wanting to become a bard and not wanting to marry some prissy noblewoman. He hears a lot of loud noises and screams and then a bunch of burly men in fur cloaks stomp down and start rifling through their supplies. One catches eye of him and immediately yells to the captain. The captain is a very handsome man with silver locks and bright eyes, and the dreaded pirate captain is treating Jaskier with more kindness and gentleness than his family or their workers ever have. The pirate hauls Jaskier up into his arms and carries him to their own ship, laying him down in his own bed, and looking over his injuries and sending one of his crewmembers to make hm a fine meal. Jaskier begins telling the captain of his abusive life beforehand and mentions that all he's ever wanted is to spread music and love, and shockingly enough, this big scary (gorgeous) man doesn't even laugh at him for it.. Oh fuck he's falling in love-

♡!Optional addons!♡ • Geralt gayly teaching his bard how to swordfight!!!

• Perhaps Jaskier's family is crueler and has done more than beat him, perhaps they've stabbed him or something, and the very last thing he sees before he passes out from bloodloss is Geralt (Maybe he even thinks he's an angel! Lmfao)

• Geralt getting lovingly bullied by his brothers for taking care of his songbird so well

• Geralt's crew revenge-robbing or revenge-killing Jaskier's family if we do Option one for the story (attempted-murder route), since it's implied it happens in Option Two while they ransack the ship-

• Perhaps I'll do a sequel for this prompt one day for Mermaid Jaskier, I do LOVE mermaids, take this as a much smaller and much less detailed prompt for if you want that idea, too! Perhaps the Pankratz ship has a captured mer aboard, parched and dehydrated (I just mostly think it'd be funny if Geralt was checking his pulse and if he has any injuries while random other witches dump buckets of sea water on him-)

#fanfiction prompts #geralt x dandelion #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #witcher fanfiction #writing prompts #alternate universe #strangers to lovers #mutual pining #story prompts #writing prompt #pirate au #pirates #pirate geralt #nobleman jaskier #Geralt loves his bard! #Optional smut scene where Geralt shows Jaskier that there is a nice way to be tied up #jaskier thinks geralt swordfighting is hot and that's canon #requited unrequited love #plot bunny #Its so great that people are starting to like and reblog my dumb gay ramblings about my otp #like i am my own target audience but omg the possibility of these one day actually getting written into fics is just so Y E S #pray writers find me and like me guys i want to read good fics with no unlikable-asshole netflix geralt

[elliewiltarwyn]

🧘🏾‍♀️ for a screenshot associated with meditation or calm

"You know... I wasn't wholly serious. You don't actually have to meditate facing the sunset for any of this. We can do this anywhere."

"Shush. Meditating. Like you said I should."

"...gods, you're such a dork. I missed you, Ellie."

"...Missed you too, Lyse."

It didn't work out for them during the war of liberation, and Ellie's perfectly happy with her partners in the present day. But it'd be a lie to say she doesn't still deeply care for Lyse, and she's glad it's reciprocal and their connection remains close. And she still treasures getting to spend time with her as she learns how to throw a punch; there's no better mentor in the discipline for her, she's fair certain.

thanks for the prompt, @vasheden!!

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv screenshots #ffxiv gpose #femroe #ask games #lyse hext #they're both big dumb punch jock lesbians. they get along fantastically. sisters-in-arms. #but their crushes kind of miss each other. it's poor timing more than anything that it doesn't work out. #one day i will write the extremely emotional fic that covers this and the weird love triangle they have with mia. maybe. :')

[stupidstrawberrystars]

hi. so. I NEED MORE OF THAT TIKTOK AU

While I am writing this for me, to try and remind myself why I love writing, I also love that other people loved it too ❤️ I promised myself i wouldn’t answer this until I finished the next bit, so I have :) So thank you 😊

Wolfstar tiktok AU- Part Two (sorry if it’s unrealistic how often they go on “lives”. The next one will likely be them accidentally creating a couples trend).

Previous (Part One). Next (Part Three).

Oh and… this is 3k words. So i’m thinking of putting it on ao3. BUT ITS GOOD. I promise. Please read it (if it’s ur thing). They flirt embarrassingly and then Remus gets Sirius a super cute birthday gift!

Half their fan base are “Wolfstar” fans now. Thank James for sharing the ship name Marlene came up with a couple years ago. Luckily, Sirius is reassured that Remus has none and will not get any social media, due to his constant slander of it. So he’ll never find out about their fans.

But their platform is pretty great, it’s a community already and there’s almost no toxic people. Which is exactly why Sirius feels comfortable with this stream on his birthday. Him and James have been trying on skirts. 

They’re on the final ones now. Pete’s in the background ranking them. James has on a kind of ugly red skirt, it passes his feet and has weird frills all over it. But Sirius likes his skirt. The most actually. It’s a pleated, green mini(ish) skirt, the type that goes perfectly with his leather jacket and boots. 

He doesn’t have a super feminine build (except maybe his long hair- it’s all dumb stereotypes though) and he’s certainly not as thin as skirts are often designed for, so he was worried they wouldn’t suit or fit him. But James offered to do this, and he’s really enjoyed it. 

And now Sirius is tempted to wear it to the mini birthday celebration Marlene’s organised for him tonight. Only there’s a slight problem, it’s a little cold outside and none of his shirts go with the skirt.

“Padfoot, you literally own everything, how do you not have anything that goes?” James cannot even say that right now, he’s wearing a football top over the skirt. Football tops can go with skirts, but definitely not that skirt.  

“They do go. But it’s so cold and Marls planned a mostly outside thing. Usually i’d sacrifice my temperature for my style but it is my birthday. Shouldn’t I just get my perfect outfit?”

Pete warned him. He said that wearing the skirt outside wasn’t the best idea in November. But it hasn’t been too cold recently. Plus, it really looks good with his boots.

“Hey how about one of Moony’s jumpers you stole? They’re thin enough to fit under the jacket, would go with the skirt and would keep you warm. Plus you love them.” Sirius feels his cheeks warm a little. Trust Pete to simultaneously contribute a good idea and embarrass him. But regardless, he goes into his room and comes back out with two jumpers.

“I’ve only got red and orange? Neither go with green. I need like a- a brown one. So never mind.”

And as Sirius contemplates his outfit, the door opens.

“Sorry i’m late I had to pop back to my place to grab your gif-“ Sirius looks over when he hears Remus trail off.

“You alright Moons?” Remus is frozen in place, staring at Sirius like a deer in headlights. From their camera placement, the phone is recording only Sirius and James, with Pete popping up in the background. So Sirius steps out of frame to go towards Remus at the door. “Hey Moony.” James yells from behind him and it seems to snap Remus out of whatever caught his attention.

“Fuck, shit, sorry. Got erm- distracted. Hey, Happy Birthday Pads! I like- hah- the skirts. They suit you both. Well. I’ve got the drinks demanded by Marls and your gifts Padfoot.” It’s not even a compliment towards him and yet Sirius blushes.

“Yeah Remus is right, you’re really pulling of that long fucking red thing there James.” The compliment was probably just Remus trying to be nice. Petes right, James has pulled of many of the skirts so far but this is not the one.

“What the compliment, thanks Wormy.”

Full disclosure, they had to admit the background story of all their nicknames to the internet, lest their fans think they’re bullying Pete.

Sirius steps back into camera, with the whole living room behind him, placing the drinks to the side and grabbing his gifts. There’s two. A small box and a bigger, less obvious-shaped gift. 

“So everyone, I haven’t seen Moony alllll day since he had class and tests without stopping and he had to revise. But, worry not, he did text me Happy Birthday between each class cause he knows I want attention. So, how’d they go Moons?”

Sirius is inspecting the bigger gift, it’s an odd shape, and vaguely squishy, perhaps clothes, and when he looks back up at Remus, he’s got a little blush on his cheeks and his neck, and Sirius (not for the first time) wonders how far down his body it runs.

“Oh we don’t- it doesn’t matter... Oh okay stop glaring at me. All three tests went okay. I was really happy with my essay one though. So yeah, not so bad.”

“Congrats Moony, knew you’d kill it. Since we’re sharing news, I got to cover for the missing chef today, above all the other interns, so...” He’s told James and Sirius already. But there’s something about telling Remus news that matters more (at least to Sirius).

“Holy shit Pete that’s awesome. I knew they loved you. Good job. Hey, let’s see the cake you made. We’re so lucky to have a cook, I swear i’d starve to death without you.” Pete smiles at Remus’ compliment like he doesn’t say the same sort of thing every time Remus eats Pete’s food. And they live together, so that’s very often. Remus is just always so genuine.

Pete lifts the lid of the cake box to show Remus, and they fall into a little conversation in the kitchen, just to the edge of the screen of their live.

“You gonna open his gift now or later Pads?”

But Sirius isn’t even listening. He’s got an idea.

“Hey Moony come over here.” Remus walks towards Sirius with a doubtful look on his face. He clearly knows the tone Sirius takes when he wants something.

Sirius places the gifts on the table beside him, he’s desperate to know what they are but it’ll have to wait. 

“So... i’ve been trying to figure out what top can go with this skirt-“ There’s a joke about Remus topping him in there someone, and that’s obviously what James is thinking, “But nothing I own goes with it. I was going to wear one of your jumpers, but the ones i’ve got here are the wrong colour.”

Remus furrows his eyebrows and tilts his head as if to ask where this is going. It’s a bit far to go to Remus’ flat to steal his jumper. That’s not the plan though.

“And then in you walked, like the answer to my dreams,” Remus attempts to lean on the mini table behind him but it pushes backwards easily and he stumbles forward, sort of recovering. “And I realised the jumper you’re wearing right now matches absolutely perfectly with my skirt and my jacket.” Sirius takes a step towards Remus, and grabs onto the jumper ever so gently with his hand, and then looks a little up at Remus with what he hopes is a cute and not at all guilty smile.

“You-“ Remus chokes on his own words as he tries to speak, “You want the one i’m wearing righ- erm- right now?”

Sirius isn’t stupid, he knows Remus gets flustered sometimes when he’s a little flirty (Remus is gay, and Sirius is fucking hot, anyone with eyes would want to fuck him, so no James, it is not proof Remus loves him back). And he knows Remus never refuses anyone cause he’s so lovely. Especially not on their birthday.

“Come on Moons. It’s my birthday. Please.” Puppy dog eyes never fail. It’s funny actually, cause when anyone else sends Remus cute eyes in order to persuade him, like James, he usually just rolls his eyes and ignores them. But it always works when it’s Sirius.

Maybe he’s just really good at it. Pete always said Sirius was a dog in another life.

“Don’t you think I should wear the skirt? Or do I not actually look good?” For the record (he’ll be accused of this later by fans) he was not guilt tripping Remus. They both know he’s going to agree. Sirius just has to jump through a few hoops so Remus can feel like he has willpower. “Pads you- you look great.” Sirius raises an eyebrow. “You look hot okay. Really hot. But what- erm- what’ll I wear if you take my top?”

That was easy. And yes, he does look hot. Good of Remus to notice (James is shooting him the look, as he always does. It means “It’s reciprocated you idiot”. But Sirius still isn’t sure. That was just a compliment after all).

Sirius wraps one hand around Remus’ arm and keeps the other one buried in his jumper, and then tugs him. Remus trips over a little but follows behind.

“I’ll find you something.”

“Wait Padfoot- I just-“

“Oh come on,” Sirius spins back to meet Remus’ eyes, “You’re the one who said I should wear the skirt. You said I look hot. Hot enough to have earnt it?”

Remus coughs and turns red, again. He blushes so easily. But he tugs Sirius into his bedroom so they can trade.

That’s for sure a win.

And while they’re in there... let’s just say James makes plenty of innuendoes. And Pete laughs his head off.

“You are going to give me the jumper back... right Pads?” Remus walks out the room in his red jumper that Sirius stole a month ago, and Sirius in Remus’ brown jumper. To be fair, it does go with the skirt perfectly.

“Really Moony? It’s my birthday.”

“Yes and usually the rule is I pick you a gift, you don’t just steal one of my belongings. Which I have by the way, two actually. and you haven’t opened either.”

“I’ll give it back eventually Moony. But don’t I just look lovely in this? Or- do you not think I look lovely?”

Sirius reaches to where he left the gifts and picks them up. It’s got a card stuck to the front of the wrapping. He’s ignoring the slight insecurity in his voice. It’s never an easy thing to dress more feminine after being raised the way he was. But he loves fashion and makeup. And he believes it’s for everyone. So he won’t let his past prevent his future. 

“You look-“ Remus grabs Sirius’ arm and turns him so they’re facing each other. It throws off Sirius’ balance a little and now he’s definitely close enough for all the fan edits to take advantage of. Plus he’s in Remus’ jumper. And it smells so much like him. He really must’ve been a dog in another life. “You look absolutely gorgeous Pads”. 

He whispers it, like it’s a secret, and yet also like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Trust Moony to recognise the slight worry in his voice and go to extra effort to reassure him.

“Th-Thanks Moons.” Sirius never used to believe books or tv when they claimed the world fell away when they locked eyes with their soulmate. Frankly he never even believed in soulmates. But if soulmates aren’t real, what the bloody hell is Remus Lupin? 

Because Sirius has never been more sure of anything in the world, than this. Than that he meets Remus in every universe and in every time and in every life and Remus ruins him. In a heartbreaking, life shattering, incredibly brilliant way. 

Because when he meets Remus’ eyes, time becomes a simple construct, a useless concept unnecessary to his thoughts. And other people become 2D, folded flat and barely visible. Sound falls away and all he can hear is Remus’ words and his gentle breathing. 

“Wanna open your gifts now Pads?” Remus’ hands are still ever so slightly on his hips, and his right hand has slipped just low enough that one of his fingers is resting on Sirius’ skin. It’s electric, and yet also calming. He’s buzzing and yet peaceful. And he still can’t look away.

Sirius is convinced he’s never once been the first one of the two to break eye contact. Because how the fuck could he ever look away from Remus’ eyes.

“Okay.” I’ll do anything you say. You don’t even have to ask. 

Sirius stares into his eyes until he looks away, as always, not breaking eye contact first.

Then he carefully takes the card of the paper and opens it with his nail the way his mother trained him to do.

It’s got a tacky 21 on the front but when Sirius opens it, it’s got quite a bit written inside. 

Dear Pads 

Happy Birthday! 

I know we don’t usually write much in these dumb cards, the gift and the day itself are the point right? But I thought maybe this time I should add something extra. 

Your 21st birthday is important Pads. And not because you can now drink legally if you ever go to America.  

Today marks 5 years since you were brave enough to leave home, sorry that’s probably not something you want me reminding you off. And yet here I am. 

You pretend like today doesn’t hurt you. But I know you. So I know it does. And that’s okay. 

You don’t listen to James or Reg when they tell you, so please listen to me, to this. You are brave Sirius. You are brave and you are sweet and you are tough. Tougher than me. And you’re so fucking smart. 

You are the most incredible person i’ve ever had the luxury of knowing. And hey, i’m not saying this out loud okay? God knows your ego’s big enough ;) So just… believe this Sirius. Believe me. Please. I’d go through anything to know you. I’d do all the dumb shit i’ve done again and again as long as I knew i’d get to keep you. 

This world is boring as shit half the time and too painful to live in the other half. And yet with you, it’s a fairytale. 

I guess you’re just magic Pads.  

So I hope you enjoy today. And the rest of your birthdays. And I hope I get the pleasure of being there for them all. 

Love, Moony ❤️

“Jesus Moony-“ Sirius chokes on a slight cry. “Fucking sappy git.” He tugs Remus’ jumper and pulls him into a hug. Remus just chuckles. 

“Open the fucking gifts Pads.” Sirius laughs.

“Damn alright Moony.” Looking back down at them, Sirius still isn’t sure what they’ll be.  

Ripping open the paper to the bigger one (James bullies him if he uses his nail to gently open it like his parents used to make him) Sirius feels its clothing. And it’s black. He takes it out to find… 

That fucking sneak. A few months ago Sirius wanted to order this old leather jacket, from a brand that went bust, but to get it he had to consistently outbid this random guy on ebay. He didn’t have the time. Remus offered to take over for him but Sirius refused, deciding (disappointed) that it wasn’t worth it.

But he must’ve done it anyway. Even when he was feeling sick. Just to win Sirius a fucking jacket he adored. 

“This is the jacket I wanted.”

“Yeah.”

“That I couldn’t get cause I had to outbid someone all day.”

“Yeah.”

“That I told you not to try and get for me cause you were sick.”

“Yeah…”

He’s blushing. Well- they’re both blushing. Sirius is blushing because Remus fucking Lupin worked so hard to get him an amazing gift, and Remus is… well he’s probably blushing out of embarrassment. He hates it when people compliment him, which technically Sirius hasn’t done yet but the intention is there. 

“Thank you.” He tries to sound as sincere as possible. He wants Remus to understand how much he appreciates him.

“Just open the other one.”

Sirius looks at the small box. He has no idea what could be in it (within reason, it’s obviously some sort of jewellery). 

He unwraps it and opens the box.

And it’s his old rings.

The ones he left behind, at his house, when he ran away. 

He’d gotten them at a one-time, random stand in London with Remus when he was 15. They were expensive but fucking good quality. He wished he’d remembered to grab them when he ran. He’d searched forever to find the people who ran the stand. And no rings since had felt the same.

“What the- Moons how the hell did you get these?” There’s silence for a moment before-

“What are they?” If he’s being totally honest, Sirius forget James was even there.

“Look-“ Sirius tips the box towards James, and he gasps, “That’s the rings you lost!” 

Sirius looks back at Remus.

“I just- you bring them up sometimes. You got most things when you left, and Reg brought some things, but your parents bragged about burning them, and I can tell it bothers you that you lost them. Not that it was at all your fault. Anyway, I had a picture, of the inside of one. I’d sent it to Lily after you bought them. And I noticed the photo had an engraving on it, I zoomed in and it was the name of this company. I checked it out, turns out it was a little family company and they still had a little ring shop in Italy. So I had my friend Grant, he’s in Italy for uni, drop by the shop and look. Turns out they did all their work as custom designs but I had some photos of the rings on your hands, so I sent them to Grant and the people there recreated them. That’s why I stole a bunch of your rings 4 months back. To photo them with a coin, for measuring. So they’ll all fit on different fingers.” 

Remus is staring at his feet the whole time as he speaks, as if Sirius is going get mad that he went to so much effort to get him the most thoughtful and lovely gift of all time. Fuck. Remus Lupin. How was Sirius ever supposed to not fall in love with him? 

“I- I don’t know what to- thank you Remus. Thank you so, so much. Fuck, you’re so amazing, and sweet-“ And there’s the blushing from the compliments, “You are so fucking lovely and kind and thoughtful.” Sirius can think of anymore words so he pulls Remus in for yet another hug. 

It lasts longer than it probably should.

“Erm- not to interrupt or anything- but we’re totally gonna be late and this is erm- is sort of still going.” Sirius turns around to James. 

“What’s still going?” James blinks and then Sirius remembers. 

“Oh the live thingy.” They’ve probably been half in shot the whole time. Remus doesn’t seem bothered, but Sirius is kinda pissed off. This is a moment for them, the internet doesn’t need to see it.

“There’s plenty of things they don’t see Pads. It’s okay. We still have our privacy.” Remus whispers in his ear. Fucking mind reader. 

“Right. Well. We’d best turn it off so I can put these rings on and go to Marlene’s. Bye.” 

Sirius shuts it off before James even gets the chance to say anything. 

He turns to the others with a smile, “Text Marlene, tell her we’re about to leave, i’m just gonna put these on.” Sirius holds up the box and runs to his room.

All the rings fit perfectly. 

Thanks for reading ✨❤️ (I hope you can’t tell I know nothing about jobs or chefs or fashion or university tests or clothes or rings) 

#I didn’t mention it yet but remus is totally wearing a hair tie around his wrist for sirius all the time #imma try and include that soon #ugh i’m really rediscovering writing #I shall write what I love again #and what I love is dumb idiots who can’t communicate #dead gay wizards #marauders era #sirius black #remus lupin #james potter #marauders #wolfstar #fanfics #i wrote a fic #i wrote a thing