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Oh We're in Love Aren't We?

 Lin-Manuel Miranda x Reader

Requested by anon:  “Is that my shirt” for either Lin or Daveed where you guys are best friends and it gets awkward and cute. Please and thank you

Summary: Lin and the reader were best friends all through their teenage years and college days. Like so, life pulls them in separate directions for a few years, only to have them reunite for a special occasion.


Warnings: none, except fluff

A/N PLEASE READ SO THE STORY MAKES SENSE: The story goes back and forth between the present & past. The present is in italics. LET ME KNOW IF IT GETS CONFUSING. Roughly based off of Ed’s ‘Hearts Don’t Break Around Here’..enjoy :)

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In April 1970 Celan went from the bridge into the Seine River and though a strong swimmer, died unobserved. His last letter, to that childhood “orphaned” friend in Israel, had quoted Kafka about finding happiness “only if I can raise the world into the Pure, the True, the Immutable.” Celan was still making kindred spirits speak for him. A biography of Hölderlin was found on his desk, open to an underlined passage about the great poet’s last demented years: “Sometimes this genius goes dark and sinks down into the bitter well of his heart.” Yet Celan had not, I noticed…underlined the rest of that sentence in the Hölderlin biography. Though Celan did not underline it, I will close now by underlining it for him: “but mostly his apocalyptic star glitters wondrously.
—  John Felstiner from Translating as Transference: Paul Celan’s Versions of Shakespeare, Dickinson, Mandelshtam, Apollinaire
Winter Song - ch 16 - by proantagonist
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

106,190 words. Victor/Yuuri. Explicit. Canon compliant. Slow build. Switching. Fills in the gaps between episodes 7-12. (And beyond.)

With the final Grand Prix performance of the season now behind him, Yuuri soon found himself faced with a new kind of horror.

If there was anything he was dreading more about this trip than the competition itself, it was without a doubt the annual ISU banquet. Yet here he was. In a stuffy room filled with stuffy people with nothing to do but gossip, drink, and make Yuuri feel self-conscious. No wonder he’d sought refuge in a bottle of champagne last year.

The gathering was held in one of the banquet halls on the first floor of their hotel, and the décor was quite different than last year. Warmer and more inviting, with wood paneled walls and a softly lit chandelier overhead that glittered with hundreds of crystals. Though the room was reasonably comfortable in size, it was an intimate space to share with so many guests.

Yuuri’s memories of the banquet in Sochi were still fuzzy, but he was certain he had embarrassed himself thoroughly enough that he didn’t want to see any of these people ever again. He’d begged Victor not to make him go, only to be answered with a tearful response of: “But the banquet is where our love story began.”

Victor could be unbearably dramatic at times.

Read the full story on AO3

the water was shimmering, catching every single hint of light from the city and from where magnus sat on the bench, riverside, it looked something like a thousand glittering jewels or liquid midnight. all of that light reflected in his eyes and somewhere off in the distance, a tugboat wailed, the sound echoing off of the water and out through the city, mingling with the sound of the traffic that was spilling through it.

reclining against the back of the bench, magnus was the epitome of calm and control. leaned back with his arm slung over the back, there was a powerful grace that settled in him. that same kind of grace that hinted at just how deadly he could be. the wind ruffled his hair and he tipped is chin up, goatee catching just a hint of the light as the cool air from the water slipped underneath his coat. but he didn’t shift, he didn’t move, just sat waiting and listening.

and soon enough he could hear it. footsteps. two pairs, one concealed and one glaringly obvious. the heavy thump paired with the quiet scuttle and was that… yes he could hear the fingers curling around the grip of a gun. his lips twitched and he dropped his chin. clearing his throat as he waited until the heavy footsteps got closer.

“i would have expected a little more imagination.” every single word was lazy and yet his voice, the deepness of it, echoed out over the water and back, the hard coldness of it cutting the chill. immediately the footsteps stopped. he shifted, rings glinting in the light from the city, his other hand pressed in his lap twitching. he wanted to reach for his gun but he didn’t, not just yet.

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jace/simon, post 2x11 scene (light spoilers)

Jace goes back to the roof. 

He doesn’t know how, but his feet carry him back up there, to another part of the wall that looks out towards where he’s pretty sure the Hudson is supposed to be. New York feels crowded in that moment, lit up large and glittering in front of him, sprawling lights crowding his vision. 

He stares down, unseeing; his fingers are gripping the wall tightly, white-knuckled and ugly, stained with bruises and what he imagines is blood. If he could read his life in the lines across his palm, it would be jagged and chaotic, death written into every crevice. 

It’s like Clary’s words have unlocked some sort of well deep inside him, he thinks as he furiously presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and tries to keep the thick emotion from spilling out of his throat and down his cheeks. It hurts, worse than he thought it would, in a visceral way that makes him understand why his father thought that this was the worst punishment possible - the fallibility, the inevitability of emotions. 

“Jace?” A voice calls, and he turns to see Simon making his way across the roof, his face wary and his eyes drawn tight, bathed in the lights of the city, and he’s forcefully reminded of the fact that even Valentine loved someone. It feels like a punch to the gut, leaving him with no air in his lungs, to see Simon like this. 

Fundamentally, nothing is different from the last time they spoke, but Jace feels like everything’s shifted under him, tilting him into unfamiliar territory. It’s stupid, but he can’t shake the feeling that Simon is one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. 

“Yeah?” Jace asks, and his voice comes out rough and low as he turns away to survey the view over the wall again. Simon comes up next to him silently, his footsteps softer than they were two weeks ago. 

“Raphael stopped by.” Simon mutters, and he sounds tired, defeated. “He knows I’m a Daylighter, and I don’t know - I didn’t tell him anything, but he was there that day. I think he might figure it out soon. Just thought you’d want a heads up.” 

“Thanks.” Jace replies, and it barely matters anymore, anyway. If he could bleed himself dry to make things right, he would, but he’s smart enough to know it would never change anything, never end any war. If life were as simple as Valentine raised him to think it was, sacrifice would be more beautiful and less raw, less painful, less imbued with the knowledge that the best intentions can mean nothing to the world. 

“Jace.” Simon starts, and then he falls silent for a second. Jace still doesn’t look at him, idly flexing his fingers. “I - I can smell saltwater.” 

“What?” Jace asks, confused enough at that to look up and at Simon, who’s now determinedly not looking at Jace and focusing on the cars far below. 

“My senses, they - they’re a lot stronger than I usually let on. And saltwater is just - something that’s so easily identified.” 

“Saltwater?” Jace repeats again, baffled. “The ocean? I mean, it’s New York - “

“Tears.” Simon says. “Tears, Jace.” 

Jace looks back at the skyline so quickly he imagines he can hear something crack in his neck; something cracks in his heart as well, fracturing him into smaller and smaller pieces, a kaleidoscope falling apart. He doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything, can’t breathe

Fear feels like bruising hands wrapped around his throat, pressing down on  his windpipe and caging him in his own faults, his own guilt. 

“Jace.” Simon says again, and his voice is loud, too loud for the sudden ringing in Jace’s ears. Jace keeps his eyes fixed on the skyline, feels his glamour rune blazing with angelic power as his body tries to escape, to hide. Simon can still see him, of course. Simon always sees him. 

“Enough.” Jace says harshly, but nothing stops Simon, an unstoppable force, and for all he likes to pretend Jace has never been an immovable object. 

“When my dad died,” Simon says carefully instead, his voice low and careful in the sudden stillness between them, “I cried for weeks. I curled up at night and just sobbed into my blankets. It was - it was horrific. I don’t ever want to go through it again.” 

He pauses, and Jace can hear Simon shifting next to him, fidgeting, and it makes him want to reach out and say no, stop, don’t be another person I cause misery for

“But, um, Becky - my sister - she just. Came into my room one day and hugged me. She did that a lot, when Dad died, but that day, it was - she’d been crying, I think. Something awful, her face was all red and puffy, and she - she smelled like saltwater.” He takes a deep breath, and the sound of his unnecessary inhale makes something in Jace relax, makes his fingers loosen on the railing. 

“It’s sad.” Simon continues, and his voice breaks. “Yeah. I can’t think of a better way to say it. Sadness is - pretty awful. And you can’t ever really get over it. And the smell of saltwater, the taste of it on your tongue - you don’t forget that, either.”

There’s silence after that again, long and pronounced. Jace’s pounding heart slows; the lump in his throat lessens, softens into something more bearable. He breathes the air, smells smoke and asphalt and Simon

“Do you miss your dad?” Jace asks, and it’s a selfish, selfish, question. He needs to know. 

“Yeah.” Simon says. “Yeah, I do. Every day. If he were here…I don’t know. I miss him so much.” 

Jace looks over and finally looks at Simon, really looks at him. Simon looks back steadily, and his eyes are unnaturally bright, shining with an emotion that is finally, finally familiar. Clary was right, Jace thinks, and it shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. 

“I’m sorry.” is what Jace says finally, a corner of his mouth twisting into a frown, and Simon half-smiles at that, sweet and genuine. It’s something pretty in a moment of darkness, and Jace lingers on it. 

“So am I.” Simon says, and then he’s stepping forward and sliding his arms around Jace, and it feels like Alec it feels like Izzy it feels like Max and Maryse and Clary - 

and it feels like stepping into home, so this time - this time he wraps his arms around Simon, closes his eyes, and holds on.