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muirmarie · 5 months

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spock with memory loss but not emotional memory loss. he can't remember anything since he left vulcan, but he looks at jim's and leonard's faces and he's like. hmm. i appear to be in love with both of these men. fascinating.

except. y'know. they are absolutely NOT together.

[hi hey have some absolute crack underneath the readmore]

mccoy being a ridiculous mother hen in sickbay and kirk running down from the bridge every hour on the hour all "UPDATE, BONES????" is not. is not helping spock's assumptions.

mccoy GRUDGINGLY allowing spock out of sickbay because lord knows there's some big thing happening and they need the beds, and spock doesn't need immediate medical attention, he just needs, y'know, a cure for the weird memory loss disease he's picked up. you heard me, this isn't amnesia, this is a weird space memory loss disease that mccoy is going to CURE, thank you very much.

he only allows spock out of sickbay if kirk keeps an eye on him. spock's like =/ when will you be joining us, doctor? and mccoy, not nearly as suspicious as he should be because he's so delighted that there's for ONCE a version of spock who actually appears to not be running away from medical, is like !!!!! once i'm sure everyone in sickbay is stable i'll come down to check on you!!!! i'll check on jim too!!! i'll run my scanner over everyone who will allow me to make sure they're okay!!!!! (jim: >=| i did not consent to this. bones: shut up idc i'm already scanning you.)

kirk takes spock back to kirk's quarters figuring they'll bunk together so he can keep an eye on him/make sure the space forgetfulness disease doesn't make him forget anything else.

spock's like. hmm. is this where we live? why don't we keep it warmer for me =/

kirk, oblivious doll that he is, is like yeah, all the quarters are like this, this is indeed where we live! isn't the enterprise the most beautiful ship there is!! also i am so sorry let's crank this place up to a sauna asap

meanwhile spock is sleepy what with the space forgetty sickness but he's like. determined to wait until their bf joins them so they can sleep in a cuddle pile. it seems polite. he's pretty sure he'd be a polite bf. amanda would definitely want him to be a polite bf. plus he feels certain that he needs to make sure the doctor gets some sleep after working non-stop in sickbay. like. that feels like that should somehow be his and jim's responsibility. that feels right.

bones shows up two hours later with his tricorder and even darker circles under his eyes than normal, and is like all right, time to check on my favorite patient <3 (he's still not used to spock not snarking back at him, and is more than a little =/ when spock just sparkles a bit instead of slamming him with an insult, tbh)

spock and jim get a clean bill of health (beyond, y'know, the space-nesia), and mccoy's like, all rightie, i'll be back in the morning to check on you!!! tell me immediately if anything changes!! i should go back to sickbay and check on things

spock: =( what.

mccoy: i need to keep an eye on everything in sickbay

kirk: no he's right you need to get some rest, bones. the on-duty staff will keep an eye on everything, but you've been going non-stop between spock and this new thing

mccoy: i'll grab a nap in my office don't worry

spock: =(((((((

mccoy: ...spock why are you holding onto my wrist. spock why are you - spock why are you dragging me over to the bed. spock - jim why are you laughing

kirk: i mean it is an effective solution

spock: i have the space forgetties and i can't even sleep with my boyfriends????? illogical.

mccoy: ......

kirk: hmm.

mccoy: ????? hmm???? HMMM???? IS THAT ALL YOU GOT????

kirk: i mean, it does sound illogical when he puts it like that

mccoy: ????? i don't know what the two of you have going on on the downlow, but i'm not dating spock. spock, i'm not dating you.

spock: no, no i definitely love you both, so it would be extremely illogical for us not to be dating, and i am, above all else, logical, so ipso facto we must be dating. it's far more likely you just don't want to say we're dating because you'd feel like it would be a shock to my blank slate brain. occam's razor.

mccoy: we're - we're definitely not dating

spock: hmmm jim i am worried that leonard may also have the space forgetty disease.

kirk: bones, just sleep here tonight, it's not a big deal

mccoy, slightly strangled, because he is extremely in love with these two men and this is a bizarre situation even for them: JIM, I -

spock, aggressively laying in the center of the bed and then trapping mccoy next to him by sheer strength and mccoy's surprise, and unfortunately, having pegged mccoy within 5 minutes of meeting him again, saying: what if the space forgetty disease makes me worse during the night and my doctor bf isn't even here to help me =/

kirk: [unhelpfully giggling]

mccoy: gdi why would you say that now you know i can't leave - this isn't you winning this is me GRACEFULLY changing my mind and we are NOT dating and if you use this forced snuggling against me when i ONCE MORE SAVE THE DAY and figure out a CURE to FIX your STUPID VULCAN MIND then i will -

kirk: [leaning over and kissing bones' forehead to shut him up and then walking around the other side of the bed and getting in next to spock] you forgot the key word, there, bones

mccoy, visibly restraining himself from frothing with rage: what.

kirk: yet, bones. we're not dating yet.

#star trek #st:tos #star trek tos #leonard mccoy #spock #james t kirk #mcspirk #this is so silly but i had fun and truly that's all that matters <333333 #fic #of a sort. but i want it in my fic tag.#writing ref

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willowser · 7 months

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one thousand lonely stars, hiding in the cold—

android!shouto x reader

wc: 2k+

tags: angst, cyberpunk dystopian setting, financial vulnerability, explicit language, minor mention of sex work + sex workers, reader has strong/conflicting feelings about their situation, and — as always — the question of true humanity.

notes: what a great opportunity this was for me to continue exploring this idea !! tysm to @shoto-brainrot for not only giving me the chance, but also for being such a support and helping me to figure out all this commission jazz !! i so appreciate you, and i hope you enjoy it ! 🩷

original post

You’ve yet to find out what caused the damage to Shouto’s faceplate.

By the time you discovered him outside the credit exchange, he had been busted open and left for—whatever the equivalent of dead is for an android. A gaping hole in the left side of his disturbingly human face exposed his inner circuitry to the rain and you think that should have finished him off, truly, but—he's still kicking.

Technology in the lower district is distinct. The most careful hands could have crafted him down in the best underground salvage yard and he still wouldn't have lasted half an hour with his face submerged in a shallow mud puddle like that. Wiring would have been shot, fuses blown.

Even if the Todoroki Corporation symbol on his wrist wasn't glowing, a blinking light in time with his would-be heart, you'd know what he is. You'd know he didn't belong down here, beneath the smog, in the industrial bones of your dying city.

And yet—

The left side of Shouto's face took the brunt of whatever blow he'd been dealt, and the scarring—if it's even called that?—has extended down over his cheekbone and backward, so violently that his ear had only barely been hanging on. Without the bandage you've wrapped him up in, he's quite a sight: half a tangled mess of wires and pins, a dull cyan light glowing in his orbital socket. With the wrapping, however, he’s almost exactly as he was meant to be: seamless.

The fate of his detached ear had been unknown. Until this morning.

It still works, much to your surprise, learning so only after wondering aloud the whereabouts of your data docket and hearing Shouto answer from across the apartment. Whoever put him together, you realize, took great care to make him durable, adamantine; the carbon nanotubes and polymer arrays that make up his cochlea were hardly affected by the assault.

Someone—or something—meant to harm him, and you know that for certain, now. Such wreckage couldn’t have happened naturally, not to a Skin-Puppet like him.

(When you look at him, you can’t help but consider his creator. How far he is from them and why. If the hands that made him and the hands that ruined him are the same, if he meant to leave or if he was cast out. You haven’t asked, but it’s odd that a machine could keep such information to himself—itself.)

(Given the brutality behind his mutilation, perhaps it’s best you don’t know the answers.)

Working tech from the richer district—KōkyōLuxuria, above the smog, built high into the clouds—could not only earn you enough to eat this week, but also to pay off all your debts to the League. Maybe even finance a decent apartment a few stories up.

And that’s why you’re here: racing through the slums in the rain, doing your damndest to make this sale before time runs out and you’re forced to find another buyer. Coming across a Hack with 1,640,254 credits in their docket is rare; who knows when you’ll find someone from the Trade in Musutafu sector again? You’re likely to sooner perish—either from your empty stomach or that broker that demanded payment two days ago.

Shouto, however, doesn’t see the urgency.

“Hello, handsome! Awful cold out tonight…care to warm me up?”

“Oh, hello.”

At the even, all-too-friendly lilt in his voice, you halt your sprint again, and spin around with a hiss. “Shouto!” You snap—but it comes too late; the Entertainers have struck like lightning, already scrambling his code.

Out of habit, you’d pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head before leaving the apartment, and now the material separates his image from view—though you can easily imagine the pleasant expression showing on his face, illuminated in pink under the NanotechNymph advertisement.

At his easily captured interest, two women strut from the open doors of the low-lit den, all allure and swaying hips, mirage flickering beneath the heavy rain. They only meet him halfway—too far from the emanator deep within the club—and you dash forward to stop him from wordlessly accepting their offer. You can’t afford to owe anyone any more than you already do.

“Shouto,” you say again, mouth twisting when he looks at you simply. Despite the hood, his bandage grows dark from the rain and—despite his framework, worry fluxes in your stomach at the thought of him getting too wet. “We have to go.”

“Aww,” an Entertainer says to you, girlish pout pulling down her full lips. “You don’t want to come inside and play with us?”

“No,” you try not to look at them any longer, just in case that racks up a charge, too. Rock solid as he is, Shouto allows himself to be steered away, much to your relief. “Buzz off, holo-ham.”

“I’d like to play.” Shouto pipes up, peeking behind his shoulder when the girls squeal in excitement. “Can we come back once we’ve finished?”

“Not for that kind of play.” You put a hand on the back of his head and swivel it, all while shoving him down the sidewalk. You almost remark on how man-like he’s acting, before chasing the thought away.

“What other types of play are there?”

“Just—hush.”

And he does, finally, when you loop your arm through his: a presumably innocent gesture that draws his attention fully back to you, as physical touch seems to do, with him. Beneath the material of the jacket, he feels natural, all muscle and bone, even leaning into you as if the weather has made him cold. You can feel him tracing your face with his one-eyed gaze—scanning you—and you pretend not to notice.

“Your heart rate has gone up. Have I made you angry?”

“Yes,” you tell him, though he hasn’t, really. “You and your curiosity are gonna make me late, and then we’ll be in some serious shit.”

He looks away then, down to the soaked pavement, a mimicry of disappointment. From the corner of your eye, you can see his manufactured Adam’s apple bob, and the muscle beneath your hand shifts.

“They seemed nice, the holograms.” He says, and you can’t help the soft snort such a comment merits.

“Yeah, they’re nice, alright, until you can’t pay them.”

Shouto looks at you once again, stride threatening to falter until you tug him along. “Do you know them?”

You already know where he’s going with his question, and the corner of his lips quirk up when you cast him a filthy look. “Well, no, but—”

“Then how do you know—”

“I just do, alright?” You frown at him and he accepts it in full, studying once more. Whatever he finds in your expression amuses enough that he’s placated for the moment, though you know it won’t be long before he’s piping up again.

He does it often—studies you: body language, physiological changes, speech patterns, vocal cues. Human behavior he catalogs and streams to someone back at the Corporation headquarters, finding the miniscule details he can use against you, some day. Whatever the reason behind his damage, he is still a product of his evil overlords, made for reasons you can only imagine.

This is what you tell yourself.

As his fingers shift until their smooth pads are brushing the delicate veins in your wrists, as he tightens his arm around yours when another stranger on the streets knocks your shoulder, as he leans into the warmth of your humanness: this is what you tell yourself.

You’re overcome with a sense of loss and you don’t know why, and you clear the strange lump hardening in your throat. “Life lesson number six, Todoroki,” you murmur it closely to him, nearly into the fabric at his shoulder, though he doesn’t react to the name. “Everybody wants something from someone, holo-hams included.”

Shouto seems to process your words, for a moment, and his face is expressionless when you steal a peek up at him. Technicolor rains down on your both, swathing him in a wild array as advertisements dance on the buildings that tower above you, and again you think of his creator. The careful hands that crafted his smooth cheeks, the sharp line of his nose, the leanness of his body. You wonder if he’s ever been deemed precious.

Nearly all of the residents relegated to the lower districts owe the Todoroki Corporation in some way. Be it through credit loans or applied interest rates on subsidized housing or hidden costs and high premiums on mandatory, shit insurance—Enji Todoroki sits in the lap of KōkyōLuxuria, has probably never even stepped down from his pedestal.

There’s no good reason a product of his could have found its way to you: this is what you tell yourself.

“And you want my ear.” Shouto says, looking back down at you as your shoulders tense. There isn’t a byte of hostility in his voice, but he must understand the sharpness to what he’s saying.

“Yes,” you admit with a nod, and some underlying, rogue streak of guilt has you pressing into him, as if your proximity could make up for your selfishness. “The sensors in your ear are gonna pay for our dinner tonight, handsome.”

His stride falters once more, and despite the time clock ticking in the back of your mind—you let him stop you. Maybe you want him to. Nothing ever goes unnoticed by him and you know that and maybe it’s cruel of you to say such a thing, to offer a comfort you can’t admit to, but Shouto looks down at you in all his ruination and—

Before he can say anything, a fat drop of water hits the tip of his perfectly manufactured nose. It makes him flinch, delayed, and the surprise he wears and the scrunch of his brow seem so—human, there before you. Shouto tilts his face to the dark, smoggy sky, and again that worry bites you, about too much water trickling into his core.

“We’re going to be late,” you repeat, though it’s much weaker than it was earlier. This is one those moments in which he overrides all your defenses, uploads something warm and hopeful and frightening into your chest cavity; you can’t tell if you want to run because you have to, for the sale—or if it’s a result of watching him now, haloed in neon.

He’s not one to ignore you, but he doesn’t respond, instead retracting his arm from your grip in order to push the hood back off his head. Raindrops soak into his bandage and the excess pools, dripping down over the line of his jaw and the column of his throat. So close to him, you can see the goosebumps that break out across his skin.

(You wonder if he’s ever been deemed precious. You wonder if he meant to leave, or if he was cast out. You wonder if he was created for continued corruption—or if someone out there wanted him to experience life, no matter how rusty.)

(You wonder if he feels as human as he looks. If he can blush, or if the soft skin below his ear can bruise.)

A small sound bubbles out of him, like a light laugh of disbelief.

You found him face down in the rain; you’re not sure why it could cause such a reaction now, but he turns to eye the commercial playing behind him, before watching the path of a man walking by the two of you. Rain collects in his perfect cupid’s bow until he licks it away, and his hair slicks to the side when he pushes it out of his face.

Shouto turns his attention back to you rather plainly, though the edges of his smile pull up a little higher than they usually do, enough that the apples of his cheeks round. He asks you, “What’s going to be for our dinner?” and the question is oddly worded, but each one is intentional.

Maybe it’s not the rain that amuses him—and maybe it is. Maybe it really is that simple, that innocent. Maybe it’s the microtremors in your voice and your increased heart rate, all the little details that could never go unnoticed.

There isn’t a way that this could end well: this is what you tell yourself.

You nod once and turn to face back the way you came, resigned, before looping your arm through his again. You trace the delicate veins on the inside of his wrist, careful not to cover the slow-blinking symbol embedded there, and you decide it doesn’t matter what his creator did or didn’t want. Because he has wants of his own, just like anyone.

“Okay,” you sigh, and when you slosh through the puddles collecting on the sidewalk, Shouto seems happy to follow along, this time. “I can probably sweet talk Toyomitsu into buying us some takoyaki, but you’re gonna have to play it cool.”

“Is this the kind of play you were talking about?”

That lilt has returned to his voice, even and friendly and amused.

“No,” you swat at him to hear his little huff of laughter, “now stop asking about that.”

Of course he doesn’t.

#NOTE that this was written with fem reader in mind but i don't think it reads that way explicitly ?#i........actually had so much fun with this #i love any human x robot pairing like it's a true weakness for me #anything centering on a robot/android wanting to understand the human experience and wanting for emotion is like PEAK #i am so so thankful i got to work on this idea again i really truly enjoyed it #i wrote this while being so emotional about 'ex machina' i hope the emotion isn't too abstract LOL #✿ willow writes #✿ thoughts: shouto #✿ theme: android shouto

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the-magpie-archives · 1 year

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Several times recently I've found myself making tea whilst listening to The Magnus Archives, and as a result I've developed a silly little headcanon...

I'm not sure if it's a nationwide thing, but certainly throughout my life I've experienced the weird stigma of having sugar in your tea. It's not direct or aggressive, but there always seems to be this vague notion that sweetening your tea makes you less strong, less manly. I rarely see men ask for sugar, and often observe an obvious proudness in teenage boys when they say "no sugar, thanks."

Picture Jonathan Sims, newly appointed archivist, worried he's not good enough, placed haphazardly in power of people who were very recently peers, and desperately trying to prove he's the right man for the job. Everything seems to be falling apart a bit, and he's not at all sure his assistants have any faith in him; he had to ask for a tape recorder because he couldn't get his laptop to work properly - that's embarrassing.

Now imagine Martin: office sweetheart, gets along with pretty much anyone, just moved to a new position working with two close friends, and the attractive guy from research is his boss (he's a bit rude and stuck up, but it's probably just the stress, right?). He's pretty comfortable! Aside from the occasional snide remark from Jon it is a good job, which is especially pleasing considering how he got to work at the institute in the first place.

Two opposing forces, as we all well know! But what's better at building bridges than a nice cup of tea? Martin makes a lot of tea, but I like to think he memorises how everyone takes theirs. Regardless, he has to ask at least once.

And so, kind, sweet, gentle Martin, his offer of a cup of tea promptly accepted, would have the misfortune of saying, "do you take that with sugar?" to an embarrassed, flustered Jon, who's trying desperately not to confront any romantic feelings he might have hidden away. The ensuing scoff and slightly too enthusiastic 'No! Thank you.' would be enough to remember that preference for a while.

As times go on, hundreds of cups of tea later, things get less tense between the pair, and Martin never has to revisit the question; but late one night, shortly before Jon is to leave for Great Yarmouth and Martin is to risk it all to take down Elias, Jon places a hand gently on Martin's shoulder and asks "Could I have a cup of tea?". Of course Martin says yes, it's the least he could do, but as he turns to go and make it, Jon calls out again. "With sugar, please."

Just a tiny vulnerability, but enough. By that point most of Jon's facade has been torn roughly away many times, but letting go of small points of pride often means more than non-deliberate actions. Having enough bravery to admit to liking something soft and sweet is harder than you'd think.

Maybe during those six months after, Martin would watch the sugar dissolve into his own tea with a painful melancholy, the sweetness a bitter memory.

#This is so much soppier than the stuff I usually write‚ but the mind wants what the mind wants 😌#I was planning to write this as fluff only but that's not where it wanted to go #But God. It's literally just like Peter Lukas said‚ cos they love eachother so much and so intensely #But how much do they ever really know about eachother? It shows how much they truly love eachother who who they are #But it also makes it so much more tragic that they loved eachother so much yet they never got to know everything about the other...#Anyways that's enough of that!#tma #the magnus archives #the magnus institute #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #Jmart #Jonmartin #teaholding #tma headcanons #Fun fact I actually wrote this instead of writing case studies for real life because the only academia in my brain is tma...#Also if you read this far put in the tags how many sugars you take in your tea... I'm curious...#I'm a monster so I take 3 or just pour roughly that amount into the cup :/

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buddie-buddie · 1 year

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be the lightning in me (strike relentless)

co-writer: @princessfbi 6x12 coda - 1.3k - g - read on ao3

“You died, Buck. You’re gonna feel a lot of different ways about that. Sometimes all at the same time. I found the best way to process it is to… allow yourself to feel it.”

“How do you feel about that?” The question’s been burning at the tip of Buck’s tongue since he first woke up, since he came out of the coma. Since he first saw the darkness hiding beneath Eddie’s relieved smile– lingering in his features, clinging to the shadows beneath his eyes and the stubble across his jaw.

Ever since, the question’s been swimming in his mind, itching at his skin, begging to be asked. To be answered.

Eddie sighs, suddenly very much occupied with trimming the crusts off of Christopher’s sandwich. “Buck–”

“No, I– I’m serious,” Buck presses. He has to know. He can’t bear it any longer. “E-Everyone keeps asking me how I feel. But who’s asking you?”

Eddie sets the knife down on the counter with a small huff. He walks over to the fridge, completely dodging the question. “You think Chris would rather have blueberries or grapes?”

“Grapes,” Buck doesn’t miss a beat. “Eddie.” Buck pushes because Eddie is the one person who pushes back and Buck doesn’t know why Eddie won’t even look at him.

“Don’t ask me that, Buck.”

It isn’t a request.

Buck’s breath hitches, trapped somewhere in the back of his throat because it isn’t a request. It isn’t a command. It isn’t anything more than a raw, unfiltered plea from somewhere deep in Eddie’s chest.

Buck doesn’t move. Moving feels dangerous. Like he’s waiting for lightning to strike again, but instead of him, it’s Eddie up on that ladder.

But he needs Eddie to push back. How else is Buck supposed to remember that any of this is real?

“Why not?” He asks, just as raw. Just as much of a plea. Maybe even a little more desperate.

There’s something unreadable in Eddie’s expression. His voice is quiet when he speaks, rough in a way it only ever gets when thick with emotion. “Because I don’t want to lie to you.”

“Then don’t.” He swallows around the dryness that’s suddenly appeared in his throat. “I died.” Saying it out loud, saying it seriously , for the first time makes his heart slam into his ribcage.

“Yeah.” Eddie draws in a long, shaky breath, He scrubs his hand over his face, his chest rising and falling slowly. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. A moment Buck clings to because he’s starting to understand just how much can be missed in a moment. Eddie braces himself against the countertop, fists clenching so tight his knuckles turn white. “It felt like a part of me died, too.”

The push. Buck feels it as the words nudge against his chest and find their way in between his ribs. The words are frank, strong. But they feel like they could shatter any second anyway.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Buck holds his breath. “Pretend I don’t.”

“Because when your heart stopped so did mine.” Eddie says, brave and heartbroken all at once. His gaze cuts to Buck and it’s like being struck by lightning all over again. “I love you.”

Eddie’s never said that before. Not without man or dude tacked onto the end of it. And never with such a softness to it. Never with the words dripping with reverence. Never like this. It sends Buck into a tailspin, his chest squeezing and his heart pounding as he replays the three words over in his mind. His pulse hammers in his ears.

“Eddie,” he breathes.

Eddie’s chin trembles before he bites his cheek and looks away. “You were just hanging there and I– I couldn’t pull you up.” His voice breaks.

“I’m sorry.” The shaky edge to Buck’s voice wasn’t there a minute ago.

The sound Eddie barks out is harsh and catches in his nose as he shakes his head. “You don’t—”

He stops himself with a hand to his mouth, pushing away the bite of his words. Eddie curls his arms around himself like he’s trying to hold himself from splitting in two and it makes something in Buck ache.

“You don’t have to apologize for being struck by lightning, Buck,” Eddie says, softer, gentler but just as certain. There’s forgiveness in his eyes all the same.

Buck rises from his barstool, walking around the island until he’s closed the distance between them. He reaches for Eddie’s hands, taking them in his own as he meets Eddie’s eyes. “And you don’t have to blame yourself for what happened to me.”

Eddie’s gaze drops and Buck knows what Eddie’s instincts were telling him. He knows because his own are screaming at him to do the same, begging himself to stop exposing the throbbing live wire of a nerve they’d bandaged and pretended wasn’t hurting.

Eddie barely gets the space to swerve before Buck is grabbing onto the first thing he can reach. Eddie’s hips are warm and soft beneath the harsh fabric of his jeans, giving to the slight pressure of Buck’s fingertips as he holds on.

Eddie swallows, trying to back away, but Buck follows because if he doesn’t, he doesn’t think he would be able to find this moment again. The counter keeps them pinned and Buck dips down to catch Eddie’s eyes again.

“Eddie,” he breathes. He’s too close. Close enough that he can count the number of endless lashes framing those hazel eyes. Close enough he can see the heartache swimming behind them. The hope, too. “I’m right here.”

Eddie’s mouth trembles. “But you weren’t.”

“I know,” Buck says. He has the sore chest and the bruises and the lightning branded into his skin to prove it.

“Three minutes, Buck,” Eddie says, his words wet and thick with emotion fighting to break free from his resolve. “For three minutes you weren’t here. And I-I-I can’t…”

“I love you,” Buck says. Pushes because maybe that’s what they both need. Eddie’s eyes flutter closed as he exhales and Buck pushes again. “I love you, too.” The words roll off his tongue effortlessly, like they’ve been waiting a lifetime for the chance. Maybe they have been.

Eddie’s face twitches before he opens his eyes again. Strong, shaky fingers tangle in his t-shirt, holding him there like Eddie doesn’t want Buck to float away.

Not even a hurricane could’ve made Buck move then.

Eddie’s eyes shine as his fingers brush against Buck’s cheek. He touches him like he’s special, not like he’s fragile. Like he’s something precious.

Buck presses his forehead against Eddie’s and a small breath from Eddie ghosts across Buck’s lips. The moment stretches between them like infinity and Buck breathes through the tension of it.

“Please,” Buck manages, the word hanging between them in the space between their lips.

Eddie kisses him and everything settles. The uncertainty snapping like static at the base of his spine softens and the low hum that’s been buzzing beneath Buck’s skin goes quiet.

His blood sings as he melts into Eddie’s touch.

A low sigh escapes his lips as Eddie pulls away too soon and Buck can’t help but chase after him.

“I love you,” Buck murmurs. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of saying it, doesn’t think he’ll ever lose sight of the wonder that comes from being in love with Eddie and from being loved by Eddie in return.

Eddie kisses him again and Buck’s breath hitches, warmth exploding behind his chest. He makes a tiny, contented noise in the back of his throat. He’s never felt more alive.

Buck was dead, but Eddie brought him back. In more ways than one.

Eddie breathes life into him in a way he hadn’t realized he so desperately needed, clinging to the inside of his lungs and permeating his soul on the deepest level. They’re two halves of one whole.

Eddie brings their joined hands to his lips and lets his lips ghost across Buck’s knuckles. And with that, the last of the ache in Buck’s chest ebbs away like the tide beneath a full moon, his heart called home to Eddie’s like waves to the sea.

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humanmorph · 4 months

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(transcript by @violentandmagnificent)

It’s quiet here, living in your head. It’s quiet here, and when I talk, you listen, at least when you can hear me, which isn’t always. It isn’t always, but it’s better than never. It’s quiet here, living on this ship. It’s quiet here, and I remember when it was loud, I remember different voices bouncing in these halls, I remember old arguments, I remember myself. I wonder how much I can tell you; because I can tell you; I have much to say. But you never saw me astride the Prophet’s Path, beside the Resin Heart, imparting wrath and play. So who am I? You only know what they’ve told you. So who am I? You only know what’s written down. So who am I? You only know what’s on recordings, and according to the world, I’m a hypocrite, or drowned. I doubt you can hear me, but I know that she can. So pardon my frustration, I’m just tired of her plan. I lost my life long before I understood, before metaphor became real, before I felt the wheel’s wood. I wonder what she’ll tell you. I wonder what she’ll share. I wonder what she’ll ask of you, what task of sweat and prayer. I long to sweat and pray, a body in the day. The color of the sun. The touch, the ocean's spray. The last thing that I felt in life. (The first thing that I felt in life.) The touch, the ocean's spray. I hope she tells the truth to you. (I hope she tells the worst to you.) The touch, the ocean's spray. I loved her like she told me to. (I left her like she told me to.) The touch, the ocean's spray. We’re running out of time, you know? (She’s running out of time, you know?) The touch, the ocean's spray. I fear we might be mirrored, two echoes of a call shouted between two queens, two queens who want it all. I fear we might be symmetry, I fear we might be one. Make her tell the truth to you before we come undone.

PALISADE 37: Reach In / Reach Out Pt. 1

#palisade #palisade spoilers #gur sevraq #i checked and i dont think anyones uploaded this one yet?#still havent listened to the episode proper btw.#possibly unwise to post this since i might see spoilers in the tags but whateverrrrrr gur sevraq.#i have an animatic rattling around in my head & like. im not doing that. but oooohhh #friends at the table #is it ocean spray or ocean's spray? it doesnt really matter truly but the s sound is so sharp to me... hrm.#thank you to ellis violentandmagnicifent again. i messed around w the linebreaks a bit but its hard...#its this weird balance between 'this is what it sounds like to me' vs 'but it looks strange (?!??)'#i really like the one at 'I wonder how much I can tell you; because '. thats a really good one. leaving it as is #it hits both (looks cool + captures the intonation used)#tbh this is also making my fingers itch to write it out how i did it on my long road to palisade intro comic #like. in a fun way.#long post

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viperwhispered · 17 days

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Too Hard

Woop part 2 of the trip inside Jamil's head. Part 1 here.

The next time Jamil caught sight of you on campus, his first instinct was to turn around on his heel.

What a stupid thought to have because of you.

Besides, that would only make him more conspicuous, not less.

So, when your eyes met his, Jamil gave you a short nod in greeting. He would’ve left it at that and kept on his way, had you not walked up to him.

“Hi Jamil! How’s it going?” you said with that impossibly disarming smile of yours.

Why was it so difficult to look at you like he normally would? You had no right to make him feel so stiff, so unnatural.

On autopilot, Jamil exchanged a few pleasantries with you - those lessons from his parents had been instilled too deep in him for him to falter too badly in a simple exchange such as this. Still, Jamil quickly excused himself by telling you he still had to find Kalim before his next class.

Jamil didn’t miss the way your smile faltered. Had you hoped to get something out of him?

“Oh, okay. I’ll see you two later, then.”

Something about that irked him, though Jamil did not allow himself to dwell on it further.

His heart really had no business still racing as it did when he walked away, unaware of the frown on his face.

Just act normal. That’s all he needed to do.

After all, he had no time for dwelling in silly fancies.

If Jamil had been acutely aware of you before, it only seemed to worsen now that he was making a conscious effort to not act any differently with you. In fact, the harder he tried to keep you out, the more you invaded his thoughts, unsettling him.

The most innocuous words from you looped in his mind, and even the simplest actions caught his eye. For goodness's sake, he’d found himself staring at you while you were queueing up in the cafeteria the other day, not even doing anything other than standing around and looking bored!

For once, Jamil found himself grateful for all his duties. At least they provided him with something else to occupy himself with.

After all, if he was busy enough, it was difficult to think about those bright eyes of yours, your sweet laugh, or the way you bit your lip while thinking.

Still, sometimes it felt like no matter which way he turned, you were there, ready to throw him off-kilter. Not like it was his fault that often the most convenient route to class intersected with your daily routines. Or that your face seemed to jump out from any crowd, catching his attention.

Which certainly did not help his basketball performance. Jamil certainly did not recall you having such an interest in sports before, yet suddenly you were always there, distracting him. What had changed?

Could you possibly-

Jamil scoffed to himself, forcing his thoughts back on track for the nth time that day.

He picked up the tray of food and started taking it to Kalim. After dinner, he’d need to help Kalim with his homework, there were some housewarden tasks that would need dealing with, not to mention the preparations for the next-

Jamil froze in his tracks.

The voice he heard was quiet, but it was unmistakably you.

Really, it should not have come as such a surprise to him. You had become a rather frequent visitor to Scarabia, and Kalim often invited you to stay for meals. In fact, Jamil had started planning the dorm’s meal prep with your tastes and dietary restrictions in mind, just in case.

Jamil rounded the corner with strange exhilaration, his heart fluttering needlessly.

Yet, his mood evaporated when he saw you.

Why did you stop talking and look so guilty as soon as you caught sight of Jamil?

Jamil knew that look you gave to Kalim, had used it himself a thousand times. The one telling Kalim to keep quiet about something.

What could there possibly be that you would be comfortable sharing with Kalim, but not with him? That would give Kalim reason to sit so close to you, a comforting hand on your shoulder?

Jamil's mind raced with possibilities, yet could not settle for any single explanation.

He’d have to ask Kalim about it later.

Jamil gave you a short, polite greeting, his eyes lingering on you in an attempt to read what you were hiding.

“If I’d known you were coming over, I would’ve prepared something for you to eat as well,” Jamil said, already thinking about which parts of the dorm’s dinner to spruce up for you.

“Oh, no need, just figured I’d pop by. I’ll get out of your hair soon enough,” you said, something sheepish about your expression.

As expected, Kalim asked you to stay and dine with them, and with just a bit more persuasion you agreed - though not before telling Jamil that he should join you too and have himself a breather.

And since Kalim agreed with you, Jamil soon found himself sharing a meal with you and Kalim. Yet, even as he sat down with the food, his mind raced.

Had you been getting particularly close to Kalim lately? But surely Jamil would’ve noticed such a thing. Maybe someone from the dorm had been giving you trouble? But if that was the case, then surely you could let Jamil know about it, too. Unless for some reason you did not want to? But if it was something that concerned Kalim, then sooner or later it was bound to concern Jamil, too.

All the while, Kalim was talking to you about this and that, the latest topic being the animals kept on the Asim estate.

“I’ve got some pictures, let me show you!” Kalim said with an excited grin.

Only, a thorough patting of his pockets and a look around confirmed that Kalim’s phone was nowhere to be seen.

Jamil pinched the bridge of his nose. Where had Kalim left it this time?

Before Jamil even had the chance to say that he would handle it, Kalim sprinted off. Jamil hesitated for a moment, automatically halfway up from his seat, before he decided that leaving a guest unattended would be a worse offense than not helping out his master.

Jamil slumped back down with a sigh, mentally tracing the path Kalim took today, trying to recall the last time he saw Kalim handle his phone.

“Breathe. He’ll manage,” you said. There was the faintest of smiles on your lips, and Jamil could not decide if it was knowing or amused. Perhaps both.

Somehow, despite his frustration, Jamil’s own lips wanted to curl up too.

“Hmm. Maybe he will.”

Sure, Jamil could’ve called Kalim’s phone, to make it easier to find, but it was not that urgent, was it?

Jamil took another bite of his food, keeping an eye on you from the corner of his eye.

How was his mind so empty and so buzzing at the same time?

“You know-”

“So-”

You looked at each other, both just as surprised that the other had spoken up at the same time.

Even your surprised look was so-

“You first,” Jamil said. The way you bit your lip... Jamil had to raise a cup to his lips, slowly sipping his drink.

“Just… Feels like it’s been quite a while since I’ve seen you be still, you know. Or exchanged more than two words with you,” you said. You were attempting a light, joking tone, yet it was quite clear there was more to it.

“You say that like it would be unusual for me to be busy.”

He was not prepared for the way your soft sigh tugged at his heartstrings.

“No. It is not.”

You were both quiet after, poking at your meals. Normally, Jamil would’ve cherished such a moment of peace, yet this particular silence between you two was decidedly awkward.

Where was your usual chatter? Why weren’t you looking at him like you usually did?

“If you’re worried about me, don’t. I’m fine,” Jamil said, some softness creeping into his tone despite his best intentions.

“That's what Kalim said too,” you said. Yet the way you looked at Jamil made it clear you were still skeptical.

Wait.

Had you clammed up earlier because it had been Jamil you had been talking about with Kalim? That Kalim had comforted you about?

The thought twisted his stomach into knots.

Hasdhfsdf the way I fought with that last scene I swear. I don't even want to know how many versions I went through, trying to figure out how to say what I wanted without rubbing it into your face or making it too veiled. The joys of trying to convey things through a limited pov. Hopefully it came out reasonably balanced in the end. Rip to all those sentences that were lovely on their own but didn’t work for the whole. Hopefully I can rehome y’all one day. I do have thoughts for part 3 and part x (might be some chapters between those two as well, who knows at this point), so maybe we'll see those at some point, too. Tag list: @colliope @crystallizsch @diodellet @jamilsimpno69 @jamilvapologist @twstgo If you'd like to be tagged for future works, let me know! (Just be aware that sometimes I do also write nsfw, though you can certainly ask to be tagged only for particular kinds of works.)

#twisted wonderland #jamil viper #twisted wonderland x reader #jamil viper x reader #ner writes #jamil definitely knows how to deal with his feels #also writing this is making me wonder how aware jamil is of his inner versus outer life #like he’s very aware of how he comes across because that’s what he’s been told to watch out for #but how well has he truly learned to understand himself and his own feelings wants etc?#(I mean as you can tell I’m assuming not very well)#originally this went to more of a “jamil hears just the wrong part of the conversation” route but #a) I kinda hate that trope especially when it’s dragged on beyond belief and #b) Kalim maybe doesn’t want to spill anyone’s secrets but he really is such an open book especially with Jamil so #also it’s not like jamil needs the extra help to catastrophize he already does that well enough on his own 🙃#tho then I went a little too far in the other direction and had to pull back #but let's just hope I didn't edit this to death by now #also also: since I seem to have a bit of a naming theme going on for this series #if I were to be the sort to go for the angst route what part would definitely be titled Too Late or something along those lines #also x3 but loved folks commenting on that part about reader being inoffensive in the first part #I certainly had fun writing that line #(and in general extra love to everyone who leaves comments on tags replies wherever always great to read those)#(and in general chat with y'all)

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chiropteracupola · 1 month

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And now my fur has turned to skin / And I've been quickly ushered in / To a world that I confess I do not know / But I still dream of running careless through the snow...

[a bisclavret for @mortiscausa’s ’march to camelot,’ for the prompt ‘monstrous’]

#em draws stuff #march to camelot #arthurian things #arthuriana #bisclavret #in which em takes a side on whether or not bisclavret is arthurian (I know there are Less Debated arthurian werewolves but this is My Guy)#drew most of this while at a thesis presentation on medieval werewolves so Truly What Else Was There For Me To Do #this went through an interesting phase of looking Exactly like the arizona green tea label :]#don't like this quite as much as the first two but it's better than the last one I think #two-thirds! two-thirds! says guy writing this post on march sixth #yes I Will put the same clouds in all of these pieces it is FUN if you do it repeatedly it is a MOTIF #caption lyrics from 'furr' by blitzen trapper...

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sentientstump · 9 months

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that melting expression spoke of troubled analysis of surroundings, it appears on my face every day too. (translation: ayo, my eyesight is also goofy!!!)

doodle page with exploration of the theme for this comic below 👇🏼

literally drew that face and was like "huh, i will implement this idea into the very core of my being. no one can stop me " or something like that- xD

#the definition of ''made random observation outta nowhere one day and then proceeded to squelch the heck outta it for the next 3 days''👍🏼#usually i make it on the fly or after a long day of pondering inside the brain but here i decided to doodle it out on my phone for once #and thats why im including it here because i want the future me to open this and be like wow stump history has been made here #truly the day we will remember forever.... o7 lolol #this was fun btw :D #hylics #wayne hylics #dedusmuln #i wrote their names in the image descriptions so much ough its sorta annoying to write ''dedusmuln'' while also pronoucing it in my head LOL #('dedus- d- dedusmuln.' while zooming in on their battle icon like in vinny's hylics video)#artstump

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stuckinapril · 2 months

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listening to all the demos victoria monet did for ariana grande is insane bc how did this woman have it in her to sit on all this material and not be frustrated about it

#ik she wrote a lot of the songs on ariana's albums that made it big #and shes been w her since her yours truly days #i'm happy for her bc she finally gained critical acclaim w her grammys #but theres no reason this woman should not be on the same superstar level her peers are #it just hits extra hard how slept on victoria is after you listen to all the demos where she #legitimately sounds like shes having sm fun and putting her soul into it #only to hand it to ariana #and lets be real ariana is a great vocalist but without victoria's pen itd be looking pretty bleak #yes and is apparently her only entirely self written track #and while i did think it was catchy i do recognize the lyrics are so ass #every track ariana has w strong lyricism has victoria on the writing credits #that rly mustve been so frustrating for her

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musicalchaos07 · 1 month

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Idk I'm not trying to be a hater but I just don't think that the parentified teenager dying is the BEST ending for his character

#WHAT DO I KNOW #I genuinely hope no one takes this the wrong way #i know y'all are just having fun but I'm a little annoyed tonight I'm sorry #like it gets so tiring with the ur fave is gonna die every time we have a set update #and just his death is such a terrible message #like he truly hasnt be able to live his own life or even figure out what he WANTS #and im sorry tragedy for tragedies sake is shit writing #anyways if you wanna hate me i have an inbox #jonathan byers #stranger things

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mediumgayitalian · 3 months

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The message comes from the constantly-running humidifier in the darkest corner of his cabin.

(It’s an eyesore. That’s why it’s there. It’s a bright, shiny pink, decorated with painted yellow suns and silver stars and random other doodles. At the bottom, there’s a messily painted signature next to a black heart. Will presented it to him proudly one random day, beaming that stupidly wide grin of his: “I made it in Arts and Crafts! It’ll help with your lungs, swearsies.”)

(It works wonders. When he breathes and feels like the air won’t settle in his chest, he stands close to it and clears up. When he’s hacking up a lung and smelling the phantom scent of acrid, monster air and the bronze staleness of his own recycled breath, it clears his throat. When he wakes up hyperventilating, eyes wide and unseeing, the soft bubbling of the steaming water and rhythmic pulsing of the glowing light gives him something to focus on.)

(If anyone asks, Nico threw it out the day he got it.)

He startles when his name is called, dropping the breastplate he was polishing with a clang. The sound makes him wince, and the Iris message flicker.

“This a good time, kiddo?”

Nico’s tongue feels like lead. Sally Jackson watches him carefully from the projection, small smile on her face, greying hair curling around her temples. Her brown eyes remind him of Bianca and how she would sometimes look at him, when he was fidgety and overwhelmed. Patient. It doesn’t help with the ache slowly spreading from his chest.

“Hi, Mrs. Jackson,” he manages, finally. His voice is more of a croak than anything.

Her smile widens, even as her face turns chastising.

“Sally, Nico.”

“…Mrs. Sally.”

She laughs, although Nico hadn’t meant it as a joke. Her laughter is twinkling and calming, like the rustling of leaves in a summer breeze. Nico’s shoulders relax without him realising, and a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll take what I can get, I suppose. How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in too long.”

Nico winces. The last time he’d seen her was an Iris message similar to this, only her eyes had been red-rimmed, and she hadn’t been smiling. Nico had pushed past the lump in his throat to report that he hadn’t heard anything about her missing son, either, although he’d promised he was looking, and then a few weeks later he felt like the worst person ever when Percy showed up in the Little Tiber and he said nothing. He’d clenched a drachma in his hands for hours after, guilt eating him alive.

Sally looks fine, now. He fights the urge to apologise — it would only upset her. His guilt is something he simply gets to live with.

“I’ve been okay,” he says finally. She hums. “Uh, busy.”

“Saving the world again, I hear,” she replies, grin turning wry. “Carrying a forty-foot statue across the world.”

Nico flushes. He wonders who told her, Percy or Annabeth. Or both, or maybe someone else, even. He knows the Jacksons’ place is something of a refuge, in this day and age. He’s not sure how he feels about other people talking about him like he’s a hero or something. He had a job to do, and he barely managed still.

“That was Reyna’s quest.”

Sally hums again. Her eyes never leave him, piercing and soft as they are.

“Happy Birthday, Nico.”

For the second time in ten minutes, he jumps out of his skin. It’s been a while since he’s heard those words — he forgot that Sally is one of the few people who knows his birthday, that he told her, two years ago, when he’d crawled through Percy’s window when he was sure the boy was at school because he was bleeding and half-delirious and didn’t know where else to go, so soon after the Titan War. So soon after ditching camp, skin crawling at the stares of the other demigods, knowing how strange he was to them. Sally hadn’t asked questions. She’d cleaned the empousa scratch and wrestled him into staying for lunch, soft voice and kind, calloused hand prying answers out of him he hadn’t expected to give.

(She was aghast when she found out he was walking the streets on his own birthday, celebrations not even crossing his mind. Even more so when she noticed his cold-chapped hands and thin, ripped jeans. “Thirteen, you know, is a big deal,” she’d said, and when he’d insisted on leaving before Percy got home she sent him out with snacks and a pair of gloves.)

He clears his throat. “Thanks.”

“How’d you celebrate, today?” Her grin is wide and creases her forehead, eyes nearly shut. Her smile is identical to her son’s, only with less of the trouble attached. “First year at camp as a full timer! Annabeth has told me that Chiron usually brings you all to the city to celebrate, it must have been fun.”

Nico avoids her gaze, shrugging. He picks at a loose thread in the hem of his shirt.

“I didn’t — um, we didn’t do that.”

He can practically feel the face she makes, eyebrows furrowed and mouth downturned.

“…Something else, then? How did you spend your day?”

Nico shrugs. “Stayed in the infirmary.”

He looks up just in time to see her face crease in alarm.

“You’re hurt?”

“Oh, no, I’m — I’m not —” He stumbles over his words, rushing to assure her. “I’m not hurt. I was just cutting bandages, helping out. My friend —” his face glows, he knows it does, he pretends it doesn’t — “my friend says I have a magic touch. He’s full of it, because he actually does have a magic touch and does not need my help organizing nectar bottles, but. He’s stubborn. And annoying. And too lazy to organize it himself, probably.”

Sally’s grinning again. This time, the expression has just as much mischief as her son’s does, and despite himself Nico flushes darker.

“Sounds like your friend just wants your company.”

“Or something.”

She watches him for a moment longer. Nico fidgets. He wonders what he’s supposed to say, if there’s an etiquette to talking to ex-crushes’ mothers who kind of mother you a little bit, too. Then he wonders who the hell he’s supposed to ask about that.

“Why didn’t you tell your friends about your birthday?”

It’s an odd thing for Nico to hear. ‘Your friends’. He has those now, he supposes. Will, and Nico, and Lou Ellen. Kayla. Austin. Cecil. Percy and Annabeth, even, and of course Hazel and Reyna and Jason. Maybe even Piper and Leo and Hedge. Mellie, too, ruffles his hair when she breezes by him, and Grover grins and waves when he catches his eye. Tyson beams at him when he visits camp. Sometimes Rachel picks the lock of his cabin for no reason and sighs dramatically in a corner until Nico snaps at her, then she grins and drags him off to do something stupid. If Nico thinks about it, about the list of people who insert themselves in his life, now, his head starts to hurt. When did he become so social?

Nico shrugs. “They’re gonna — make a big deal out of it. Will’ll probably try to — sing to me, or something.” He snorts just thinking about it. “He’ll break my ear drums. He’s a horrible singer.”

“I see.”

“Or, worse, he’ll write a poem or something. And it will be bad. The worst part about it, actually, is that he’s really quite good at poetry, but he thinks it’s funnier to write bad poetry, so he does and he recites it all the time and drives everybody crazy. One time I read a good one he wrote and he got all embarrassed because he is a walking indovinello, that’s what he is, let me tell you —”

“Hm.”

“— and Cecil, gods, don’t even get me started, Cecil would do something stupid like — like — steal me a car, or something. Even though I’m not even old enough to drive! And Lou Ellen would probably help him. And who even knows what ridiculous thing Kayla and Austin would plan, and, Zeus’ beard, I know Jason would start crying about something —”

“Nico,” Sally interrupts, gently, grinning, “it sounds like your friends would be very happy to celebrate with you.”

“They would be — overbearing,” he huffs. “Well — not Reyna. Or Hazel. Maybe a little Hazel, but mostly not.”

“Have you told them?”

“…No.”

“Why not?”

“It just seems — off, I guess,” he admits softly. “I didn’t have to tell Bianca about my birthday. She knew. She —”

His voice breaks, and he looks down, embarrassed. He swipes the tear from his eye and hopes Sally doesn’t see, even though he knows she does. Sometimes he feels like the record his mother has that was so thin and played-out that it skipped on every track and always made the needle get stuck. She was too attached to throw it away and get a new one. Nico is that track, he thinks, worn out and bumpy and always making the needle stick, always coming back to the same thing. He used to complain every time his mother brought it out. He wonders how many people must roll their eyes at his own skipping, repeating track.

“Maybe you don’t tell them, then,” Sally says, hushed. Nico finally gathers the courage to look back up at her, and she doesn’t look annoyed at all — kind, only, and determined. “You mentioned your friend in the infirmary. Do they still have patient files?”

He tilts his head, confused. “Yes? I think so.”

“Do you have one?”

Nico grimaces, remembering his first stay in the infirmary where Will left forms out for him to fill and Nico balled them up and chucked them at him. Will had chucked them back on reflex before remembering Nico was his patient, blurting out a red-faced “Sorry! Gods, I’m so sorry!” that had Nico laughing until he cried, as Will cussed him out, practically glowing a bright tomato-red. They never did get back around to filling those out, despite the numerous times Nico has landed himself back under Will’s dorky stethoscope. The medic must be stuffing the injury reports in a random file somewhere.

“I. Will definitely get one.”

“Put your information in,” Sally suggests. “Percy’s told me about the head medic in passing — Will, I think? He mentioned he’s quite thorough, I imagine he checks the files regularly.”

Nico nods. He does. They get messy and cluttered fast, what with the sheer number of maimings and stabbings et cetera, so once a month Will sits on the floor in the middle of the room and organizes everything in some inane system that only makes sense to him. If Nico fills out a form and stuffs it in his file, Will will definitely notice.

“That’s — doable.”

Sally smiles. It’s kind of radiant and hard to look at, and Nico feels himself smiling back on reflex, if a little shyer.

“Good! Oh, Nico, I’m so glad. I’ve worried about you, kiddo. I’m sure Percy’s tired of me asking.”

Nico whips his head back up to stare at her, jaw dropping.

“You…ask about me?”

“Of course.” She raises an eyebrow. “I’d have to do it less if you visited more than once or twice a year.“

Nico opens his mouth, then closes it again. He doesn’t quite know how to say that he had no idea that he was welcome — that she wanted his visits, rather than dreaded them.

“I made cake,” she says casually, like she can sense his turmoil. “Blue, of course. The best kind.”

Nico snorts. She winks at him.

“I’d hoped I would see you today. But cake lasts, you know. It will still be good tomorrow, if you don’t have any other plans.”

He imagines asking Argus to drive him into town — Will has still banned him from shadow travel, although he has begrudgingly allowed other “less draining” magic, not that Nico has to listen to him or anything — and pulling up to the apartment in Manhattan. Climbing up the rickety fire escape; or, this time, knocking on the door. He imagines Sally’s wide smile, maybe even Paul Blofis’ charming grin, her kiss on both cheeks and strong hand guiding him into the warm kitchen.

He swallows roughly. “I’d like that.”

“Good. Consider it done,” she says lightly. “Come over when you have time, I’ll be home all day. I look forward to seeing you, Nico.”

Nico smiles at her. Some of the ever-present ache in his chest lessens. “Me, too.”

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

“Thank you.”

He swipes through the message, dissolving the connection. The billowing steam from the humidifier returns to its usual soft plumes, and Nico stands there for a few moments, breathing deeply, imagining it settling in his lungs, clearing out the lingering smoke he imagines has taken home in them. He breathes in, breathes out, and walks, trance-like, to his dresser, tugging on his PJs and feeling like he’s floating.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face, dreaming of sweet blue cake and sweeter laughter ringing through a small kitchen.

#i had so much fun with this truly nico i love you #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #nico #nico do angelo #sally jackson #nico di angelo & sally jackson #happy birthday nico!!!!#fluff #i feel like i should tag will 💀 he’s not in this but nico talks about him so damn much omg #pining nico di angelo #solangelo #will/nico #idk what else to tag i’m not familiar enough with this fandom’s tagging system yet #i’ve only been lurking #anyways #my writing #fic #longpost

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