Based on the amazing and angsty series of pictures by the very very talented @uglynetwork that you can find right here. I hope you like it ^-^
Warnings: nothing really ^-^ just some crying, some comforting, and a tiny bit of manipulation
‘Why,’ Wilford mumbled, tears starting to trickle down his face as he fell to his knees.
All he had wanted was to find one of his costumes, yet instead he had found this.. box… full of pain and memories long since forgotten in the back of Dark’s closet. His hands trembled as they held the torn and worn picture closer, eyes blurry with tears.
‘Why,’ he whispered, voice so broken and filled with pain as he clutched the picture tightly in his shaking hands and looked at who he once was, who Dark once was.
The tears started to drip down his cheeks even faster, landing on the photo before he noticed and tried desperately to brush them off, not wanting to ruin it.
Then he heard soft footsteps behind him and he turned, looking up at Dark with eyes filled with tears and confusion and pain.
'Why am I crying?’
Dark looked at the picture still held in Wilford’s hands and his skin seemed to turn even grayer as he bit his lip and looked away from him. It hurt to see them from.. from before.. and he tried to breathe as he remembered the pain of those first few weeks and his shell started to crack as he remembered the reason behind it all and he tried to hold himself together as his mind started to scream and everything hurt and hurt and hurt and then.. then he heard Wilford’s pain filled whimpers and he just.. stopped. He couldn’t break here, he wouldn’t, not in front of him.
He took a deep breath and held in his pain and suffering and grief until finally his shell settled and he let out his breath. His hand was shaking as he pulled Wilford into his arms and held him so tight, trying to calm him down.
'It’s okay,’ he whispered, voice so soft and sad. 'Everything’s okay.’
Wilford clung to Dark as he started to sob, wrinkling Dark’s suit in his clenched fists around the fabric but neither of them cared.
'Why does it hurt so much?’ Wilford sobbed, heart clenching in a pain he couldn’t understand over friends he couldn’t remember.
'I don’t know,’ Dark whispered, never once loosening his grip around his friend.
’D-Dam-,’ Wilford whimpered, and he looked up at Dark and for a second remembrance flashed in his eyes and he almost remembered, he was so close, but Dark stopped him, gently pushing Wilford’s hair away from his face before he pressed a kiss to his forehead.
'Remember, dear friend. Your name is Wilford and my name is Dark and we work together and everything is alright,’ Dark murmured, voice so gentle and calm and hypnotizing. As he listened to the familiar mantra, Wilford relaxed in his friend’s arms, tears finally slowing as he held onto Dark.
'My name is Wilford and your name is Dark and we work together and everything is alright,’ Wilford repeated softly, sniffling a little as he slowly wrapped his arms around Dark, burying his face in his friend’s suit, not caring as the memories that had surfaced were buried once again. 'Everything’s alright.’
immemorial (adj): originating in the distant past; very old.
visceral (adj): relating to deep inward feelings rather than to the intellect.
albatross (n): a very large oceanic bird related to the shearwaters, with long narrow wings.
encroach (v): advance gradually beyond usual or acceptable limits.
drift (n): a continuous slow movement from one place to another.
presence (n): the state or fact of existing, occurring, or being present in a place or thing.
vast (adj): of very great extent or quantity; immense.
soliloquy (n): an act of speaking one’s thoughts aloud when by oneself or regardless of any hearers, especially by a character in a play.
lagoon (n): a stretch of salt water separated from the sea by a low sandbank or coral reef.
mirrored (adj): having a surface like a mirror; reflective.
phoenix (n): a unique bird that lived for five or six centuries in the Arabian desert, after this time burning itself on a funeral pyre and rising from the ashes with renewed youth to live through another cycle.
inspiration (n): the process of being mentally stimulated to do or feel something, especially to do something creative.
saturation (n): the state or process that occurs when no more of something can be absorbed, combined with, or added.
luminous (adj): full of or shedding light; bright or shining, especially in the dark.
phosphorescence (n): light emitted after exposure to radiation, or produced by something that doesn’t produce flame or heat.
negligible (adj): so small or unimportant as to be not worth considering; insignificant.
arboreal (adj): relating to trees.
incandescent (adj): emitting light as a result of being heated.
Might I just say @mortemistrata that I was a little unsure about this prompt at first, but I had so much fun writing this!
“Good morning, Keith.”
Keith froze with one eyebrow arched. He slowly studied the brunet in front of him. “No ‘mullet’ this morning?”
“That would be rude,” Lance said, lips curled into a frown.
Keith’s face fell until he was matching the brunet’s expression. “Are you okay?” He zeroed in on small details, like the way Lance’s normally tan skin looked slightly washed out or the dark, bruised circles under Lance’s almost lifeless eyes.
“Of course.” Lance replied, tone even. “We should go before we are late to breakfast.”
Keith absently nodded, brows furrowed deeply, as he followed the brunet into the dining hall.
baz has a thing for simon’s wings, especially when he’s having a bad day
Simon I can tell Baz’s had a bad day the moment he enters the flat, slamming the door behind him and muttering about daft professors and fucking study groups and–for some reason–his father. Baz has bad days and then he has Bad Days, and I can tell today is the latter. His face is pinched, his frown is deep, and I’m not shocked when he doesn’t stop to kiss me on his way in.
Baz doesn’t live with Penny and me, but he’s over here often enough that it feels like it sometimes. He’s even got his own key and drawer. His shampoo is next to mine in the shower. It’s not much different than when we were roommates at Watford, except it feels more domestic now, means something different. There we cohabitated because we had to, now we do it because we want to. It’s scary sometimes how okay I am with that.
Baz claims it’s just because Fiona is gone so much and he can’t be bothered to buy food, but I know better.
I also know better than to push him to admit things.
It took us a while to get to this point, if I’m honest. We still get into it, even now that we’re together. Some things never really change. He’s overdramatic, Baz is. And stubborn. And I suppose I can be a bit stubborn at times too, which isn’t very helpful when you’re having a row and neither side will back down.
But I’m always careful around him when he gets like this and I always know what he needs.
The first time it happened, we’d been on the couch watching Masterchef reruns. I’d been about to get up to get a snack because the show always makes me hungry, when I felt Baz’s fingers brushing my right wing. My first instinct was to pull it back until I noticed his expression. He looked peaceful as he stroked it and I found I didn’t mind the sensation all that much. Or having to give up my snack.
Actually, that’s a lie. I pushed him away about 10 minutes later and got some crisps from the kitchen. He looked ready to throttle me until I handed him his own bag (salt & vinegar) and we resumed our earlier position.
It’s turned into a routine. Most days it’s just idle touches here and there, but on bad days, especially Bad Days, Baz likes to snuggle under them like a child. I don’t mind. I spent so long making him miserable, I’d do most anything to make him happy.
Baz Fucking Snow is waiting by the door when I get home, looking like a kicked puppy when I shove my way past him to the bathroom. I strip down once I’m there and turn on the shower, hotter than it needs to be. I need to wash this day off of my skin, scald myself until it’s completely gone and I can forget about every little thing that went wrong.
I know he won’t try to talk to me about it. It’s one of the (many) things I love about Simon. He understands that sometimes it’s okay to just… not talk.
I can hear him bustling around the flat even through the bathroom door. He’s not exactly quiet, especially when he’s always bumping things with his wings or tripping over that damn tail.
I step under the spray and let the water run down my back. The slight burn feels good. Therapeutic. Grabbing my shampoo from the shelf where I’d left it the last time I was here, I start to wash up.
Occasionally I think I should stop pretending and just move in properly, but we really do need space from each other sometimes. Still, I’ve left so much over here. Like clothes. And shampoo. My shampoo that Simon used once, when his ran out, and I hated it. He smelled… wrong. Which is about a thousand times worse when you’ve got a vampiric supernose.
I finish up in the shower and put on a pair of Simon’s trackies. I briefly consider nicking a t-shirt as well, but the holes on the back always feel weird, like a draft right on your shoulder blades.
When I enter the lounge Simon’s waiting with a cup of tea and his wing open at his side. He’s put in the dvd for the first season of Downton Abbey, a major acquiescence on his part (although he does occasionally get into the storylines).
I sit next to him and lean into his side. He rests his wing on my shoulder, effectively wrapping me up, and I exhale and reach for the cup. He’s made it just the way I like it, the way only he knows: with lots of sugar and light on the milk. The exact opposite of him. His own pale brown cup is sitting half-drunk on the coffee table, probably already cold. Simon has a habit of doing that.
“I like this.” I say and take a sip. It’s perfect.
“I know,” he replies, “you don’t exactly keep it a secret.”
It’s true. I’m a bit obsessed with Simon’s wings. Sue me. I’m always finding excuses to touch them, especially on days like this when nothing seems to be going quite right and all I want to do is curl up on the couch and hide from the world.
Once I’ve finished my tea, we rearrange ourselves on the couch so I’m almost in Simon’s lap and both of his wings are surrounding me. We lay like that until the first episode fades into the second and I realize that Simon’s fallen asleep behind me. I feel his warm breath against the back of my neck as he begins to snore softly. It’s comforting, this routine.
I suppose it’s not quite normal–normal, not Normal–to enjoy being cocooned by a pair of wings belonging to your boyfriend, but then again, nothing about our life is.
can we maybe talk about how Wonder Woman is the best thing in the world and I’m so happy that Gal Gadot- an Israeli Jewish woman- has been casted as her and literally nothing anyone says will change my mind