Will Is Typing…

[me-william-is-typing]

Original Song: To Shore

I made something :D!!!

[me-william-is-typing]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

hiii :)

[me-william-is-typing]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

hiii :)

[me-william-is-typing]

Sprint - Walks In The Forest

It’s as he and Alex were making their way to their favorite tree, one day, that Steve realized that Alex reminded him of fall. 

He found it ironic, considering he knew if he were to tell her that, she would smack his arm and ask what was wrong with him. He knew she likened herself much more to hot summer days surviving off of big jugs of ice-water and mango-flavored popsicles while traveling to distant seas to cool off in, and cooler summer nights spent telling improvised, goofy ghost stories around a bonfire, the scent of freshly hunted meat and smoke cloying the breezy air. 

But summer was too constant to capture Alex. The trees and flowers finished up their task of blooming with the shedding off of the colors they’d sported during the spring, and then it was hot and green everywhere until fall hit. It was something he could get tired of. 

Not fall, though. He could never tire of seeing trees shift their hues from green to red and yellow and bright orange, like her hair. He could never tire of fall sunsets, how each evening, the sun’s dying light would capture the leaves of some trees and set them on fire, or make them glow a brilliant, warm gold. Alex had a knack for making the ordinary feel extraordinary like that, make things feel a little more magical than he could ever imagine they were.

And he liked how the weather was cool enough, finally, to justify swaddling himself in the extra, protective layer of a fleece sweater. He felt a little too naked during summers, too raw to be pleasant. Not that Alex couldn’t be unforgivingly blunt at times, and strip him raw and naked the same way that summers did. But the creeping chill of fall was something he could prepare for, protect himself against, and even feel comfortable in. That was Alex. Ever-changing Alex.  He was, maybe, a little bit in love with her. She knew this. He knew that she knew this. It was something they’d decidedly not spoken about (yet), but which, he felt, permeated their every interaction since they both came to that quiet conclusion. Like today, she walked a little farther away from him than she would have before, although some days she didn’t seem to mind taking his hand in hers as they went. It seemed to him that some days she was warmer about his crush than others.

[me-william-is-typing]

Sprint - Wanderlust

It was kind of ironic, if Steve thought about it, that their desires to remain unchained to any one spot was what chained them all together. 

The longest Steve had ever stayed in one place was 17 years, in his childhood home. His parents had nurtured him on bedtime stories full of adventures, some borrowed from the rumors and legends of the great travelers from far and wide, and some retellings of their own escapades, back when they were younger and their feet still hadn’t taken root in any one place yet. He’d clutch his favorite blue bedsheets in his tiny hands and watch his mother with nothing short of pure awe as she described the time she and his father were caught by a storm, surrounded on all sides by the monsters of the night with nothing but the clothes on their backs and their worn weaponry in their hands. His parents would tease him, when he grew a little older, about the fat tears that’d well up in his eyes, and how they had to reassure him that they got out fine, see, mommy and daddy are still here—he’d always deny it, of course, and turn away so they couldn’t see the embarrassed flush on his face.

So they’d been a little surprised when Steve finally elected to leave, not to find his own place in the world, but to wander it. He’d been surprised himself. He knew from the stories growing up that he didn’t seek all the excitement that came with adventuring—that only made his heart beat and his stomach twist in an unpleasant way. But he’d never really grown out of the picture books they read to him the way he grew out of their stories. They only grew more complex as time went on, as his interest matured with him.

Simplistic splatterings of colors meant to represent flower fields bloomed into encyclopedias of detailed drawings and diagrams of every flower known to man. The descriptions of the basic biomes became increasingly richer, detailing every variation of each one and what creatures could be found. Even fables of other dimensions became sharper retellings from the few who managed to travel into them and return with their lives. These were the types of books that accumulated in Steve’s bookshelves, year after year, until he felt, finally, that seeing every wonder that the world had to hold would be better than staying cooped up in his room, trying to smell and hear and taste things through a book. 

And that desire to see, more so than his confidence in his own survival, was what finally pushed him to set off on his own.

[me-william-is-typing]

Sealed Deal Drabble — Sleep

Herobrine awoke to the pleasant sensation of fingers running through his hair, his face still pressed against Steve’s bare chest and his arms still wrapped around his lover’s waist. Moonlight trickled in from the window over the bed, making the white and blue-patterned blanket wrapped around their bodies seem to glow.

This was a surprise to him.

Not waking up in the middle of the night, no. His body and mind were still adjusting to the very idea of it, of lying down and being still and unaware of every little thing going on around him for hours and hours on end. It wasn’t at all unusual for him to wake up part way through the night, still tangled up with the thankfully still-sleeping Steve. He’d lie there and breathe in sync with the gentle rise and fall of Steve’s chest until he drifted off again, or he’d ever-so-carefully dislodge himself from Steve’s limp hold and do what he was more used to doing; wandering. He’d usually wander through the house—their house, their home. Walking around a space he could call his own, one he helped to create—that was something he wasn’t used to, either. Sometimes, he would wander outside. Sometimes, he’d go as far as the village that they lived nearby; quiet, but still trembling with life.

But Steve was awake before him, and in the middle of the night.

“Hey,” Steve murmured. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

When he opened his mouth to speak, to utter a simple no, he felt his throat closing in on itself. So it would be one of those days. He shook his head, traced his fingers across Steve’s ribs.

No. And then, voice gone.

“Ah.”

Why awake?

“I couldn’t really sleep,” Steve said. Herobrine furrowed his eyebrows and separated from him, if only a bit, to look into his eyes. Steve sighed and pecked his lips. “It’s not worth waking you up over a nightmare.”

Yes it is, he traced over Steve’s arm.

“No, it’s not. I go back to sleep pretty soon, anyway,” he retorted. And then, he bit his lip, his eyes trailing away from Herobrine’s. “Watching you sleep makes me feel better. It’s just…it’s a relief, you know?”

Relief?

Steve nodded. “I just think, sometimes, about how little you slept while we were traveling. We did so much. We were working for months. You never slept. And then I think about how you’d never really slept even before we met, and how all you wanted to do was sleep and I.” Steve took a steadying breath, blinking away coming tears, and Herobrine felt his heart swell with sympathy for the other. “Yeah. It’s a relief. I’m so…so happy that you finally get to rest.”

And that had a whole mixture of complicated thoughts and feelings stirring inside him, warring with the part of him that still wanted to run away from all of it. Still, there was one thing that won out. Herobrine lowered his gaze. Sorry.

“For what?”

I keep making you sad.

Steve took Herobrine’s hand in his, clasping them together. A gentle, but firm, shut up. When Steve didn’t speak, Herobrine finally looked up at him. “This isn’t that. You’re not making me sad. I might be sad about what you put yourself through—what you thought you had to put yourself through, but I don’t blame you. You shouldn’t blame yourself, either. You couldn’t have known better, or done differently. Okay?”

Herobrine frowned. But still, slowly, he nodded. Steve sighed. And then, his lips quirked up in a small smile. “Hey. If you want to make it up to me, then try to get back to sleep. Hm?”

Herobrine couldn’t object to that. So, he tucked himself right back where he had been, arms wrapped around Steve’s waist and face nuzzled against his chest. Steve continued threading his fingers through Herobrine’s hair, and Herobrine sighed a content breath, letting his eyes slide shut. He traced one final message over Steve’s heart, just as he was about to drift back to sleep.

“I love you, too.”

[me-william-is-typing]

Q&A Snippet — Hair

This one's going under the cut, as it is explicitly sexual in nature. Proceed if you'd like~

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.

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He hadn’t meant to do it—Steve had kept his hands obediently at his sides up till then for this exact reason—but Herobrine did something with his tongue that had him scrambling for something to really hold onto, and that something was Herobrine hair, pushed back from his face. 

He let go the moment Herobrine hummed around his cock and his eyes fluttered shut. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve panted. “Are you okay?” 

Herobrine hummed again. When he finally opened his eyes, they were glowing a little brighter than before. Steve stared at him for a long moment. 

“You like that? Having your hair pulled,” he murmured. Unconsciously, he threaded his fingers through Herobrine’s hair. Herobrine sighed through his nose, and pulled off of Steve’s cock with a wet pop. 

“Mm. I don’t mind yanking, but I prefer if—here.” With the hand he wasn’t using, Herobrine guided Steve’s hand closer to the base of his neck. He bent his fingers over Steve’s, until Steve held a portion of his hair in a weak grip. “Like that,” he sighed. “Feel the tension?”

What a double-entendre. He swallowed the laugh that wanted to bubble up from his throat. He relaxed his grip on Herobrine’s hair, combed that section out, and tested another area, marveling at the little smile that rose to his face, the way Herobrine’s fingers flexed on his lap, how the heat streaming from his body fluctuated just the tiniest bit. The almost relieved little sighs he breathed out each time Steve held and released, held and released. There was something so…so maddening about it, about such a small, simple little thing getting the half-god going. 

“You can go harder—ah.” 

Steve did. With hesitance thrown away, he fisted at the same patch of hair and pulled until Herobrine’s face was tilted almost to the ceiling. That was another image that’d be seared into his mind for a long while—Herobrine’s neck bared to him, spit-slicked bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes squeezed shut and eyebrows scrunched together in bliss. His face relaxed with a shuddering breath, his eyes half-lidded, bright, and dazed. 

“There you go.”

[me-william-is-typing]

Snippet - Not A Human Being

Alex laughed, one hard beat that brought the chatter in the room to a complete halt. “That’s not possible.”

Brent narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you mean, it’s not possible?”

“I mean, it’s not possible. It can’t be done,” she shrugged.

Brent smiled a false smile, his tone condescending. “I know you have much more important things to think about than our petty little meetings, Alex, but we went over clear and decisive evidence that what happened, happened.”

“Ah. Right,” Alex nodded along, matching his smile. “Yes, I must’ve missed something. Remind me—what is the frequency of these incidences?”

“About five per week, give or take—usually within the same night. Like I said.”

“And what kind of spell do we think is being used?”

“A killing spell. Shatter, to be specific.”

“And at what level?”

“Nonagon. Nine.”

“Right,” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. She turned to Walter, who wilted in his seat. “Walter, can you explain to me what the Nona-level Shatter spell is capable of, exactly? I think I missed that detail at some point too, you see.”

“At-At Nona-level, the Shatter spell can…essentially break or, uh. Explode a human target,” he began, baby blue eyes refusing to pick one spot to look. “The user tends to be rendered incapacitated for at least a-a week…”

Alex was the only one in good company with the new silence that had strode into the room. She turned, again, to Brent, her smile sharpening at the man’s clouded expression.

“So you’re saying that this person—this human, you presume—our suspect is casting five Nona-level Shatter spells per week, give or take, sometimes within the very same night, and then just dusting their hands off to go do it again the next week? Is that what you’re saying, Brent?”

Brent’s jaw tightened.

“What did I say,” she sing-songs. “It’s not…?”

“Not…possible.”

“Hm? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

“It’s not possible,” he gritted out, loud enough for the whole room to hear.

“It’s not possible, what?”

“It isn’t possible, ma’am,” he spat. She beamed at him, crossing her arms over her chest, and he turned away, making as if to go look at something at the other end of the room.

“Okay, fine,” Jessie said, cutting through the new silence. “But then what do you think this is? The bodies are real, and the evidence of magical involvement is clear—what are we looking at here, then?”

“Oh, it’s simple. Either the culprit is a human doing a very fine job of disguising their work as that of a god’s, or the culprit is, themselves, a god. Because, to be clear.” She uncrossed her arms and laid her palms flat on the table in front of her, leaning in as she enunciated her next words. “The only being capable of casting five Nona-level spells in one night without outright killing themselves before they even reach three? Is a god. Not. A human. Being.”

[me-william-is-typing]

Sprint - Barefoot

Once upon a time, when Steve and Alex were younger and still lived with their parents, the two would wander around their backyard barefooted. Alex more so than Steve, because one too many pricks on the bottom of his little feet had him taking precautions much earlier than Alex did.

When their parents realized her fierce aversion to wearing anything on her feet if she absolutely did not need to, and, more importantly, that she couldn’t be convinced to wear shoes in the backyard (“If mommy and daddy can make it all better, then what’s the point,” she’d whine, her rosy cheeks puffed out and a pout on her lips), they’d gone out of their way to gather grass seeds to plant there instead. They’d carefully curated that little plot of land to be as danger free as possible for her. It couldn’t, wouldn’t, completely save her feet—she’d still come inside, every now and then, hopping on one foot and smiling despite the tears in her eyes—but it was something.

She never grew out of that habit. Steve thinks that, in a way, it became worse after their parents died and the two had to move. He never used to watch her, back then, when she wandered around and around and around the house on her own, content with finding a safer method of entertainment. He does now, and he’s found that it’s less wandering, and more a quick and precise pace.

Heel to toe. From the ball of her foot to almost the tips of her toes, one foot in front of the other. Five steps away from the house, as many steps as it took to reach the other side, and then five steps back towards the house. And then after what he thought was an arbitrary amount of steps, she would start to drift further and further away. He couldn’t make sense of it.

So he asks her, one day, when she’s sitting on their couch with her arm draped across one bent knee, and her right foot held in his hands.

“Owie,” she whines, exaggerated, as Steve pulls a thorn from her big toe with a pair of tweezers.

He rolls his eyes. “Sowwy,” he responds in kind. Only he can only make it halfway through the word before they’re both laughing at their own ridiculousness. “Maybe if you’d wear shoes for once.”

She hums. They both know it’s a joke.

“Why do you do that, though?”

She hums again, a bit more thoughtful. “Feels good.”

“To risk stepping on shit all the time?”

“To know where I’m walking,” she says. “Or, that I’ve walked there. Lived there.”