I went snooping around your blog and base on what I found; I hope you like your gift. When I saw your soulmates and recantation AU’s likes this wouldn’t let me alone.
Hello! I'm new to your blog. I fell in love with your WangXian stories!!! Your writing is absolutely beautiful! I have a quick question. Are your stories avaliable on ao3? If not, is there a way I can read all of them in your blog? Thank you for publishing your stories!!💜
Hi @journalsofagoddess!
My AO3 is HERE
My writing tag is “my writing”
and any other links are all handy-dandy on my blog sidebar :)
This is my Wangxian Winter Solstice Gift Exchange piece for @journalsofagoddess. I tried to work with the Found family AU. In the end it morphed into a reincarnation fic that expanded way over the word count I had in mind. Despite that, I hope this is acceptable.
******
Unsullied
Grim Reaper Zhang’s office is a 10 minute walk from a busy subway station. Conveniently away from the annoying bustle of the city, but not so far that he can’t easily catch a ride to his flat after a day’s hard work. Sometimes he idly wonders how random it is that Grim Reapers have to eat and shit and sleep, but don’t have to die. Not really.
Morning sunlight angled towards the far wall starts to brighten little by little. Someone is looking through his wide windows. It’s that damn *Fenghuang again.
The windows are spelled to look like a wall of moss from the outside, so there’s no chance of a mere mortal looking in. Zhang huffs at Yixing for loitering suspiciously, smiling like an idiot. Any other day he’d be throwing a fit, maybe even chase the oversized bird to the end of the street, but his assignment today is finicky, at best. He motions for Yixing to come inside.
“You heard about it too, right?” Yixing says lightly as Zhang pours him some coffee (the instant type, very cheap). “They’re arguing so much upstairs.”
“Yes, I have. I got saddled with one of the to-be immortals,” Zhang replies with some venom. Yixing whistles, impressed.
This is for @journalsofagoddess's likes: wound tending, hurt/comfort, foxxian and dragonji, married since the ice cave (not that wwx knows that lol)
Happy Lunar New Year!!
*****
A Sigh that Carries You Forward
Wei Wuxian stumbles into his favorite cave, wiping the soles of his sneakers on its smooth gray stone. It's where Wei Wuxian crashes after a long night of hunting and foraging. There’s a spring in the back that’s always warm and clean, and the bats that like to roost there never bother him when he shifts fully into fox form and curls up to take a nap. The predictability of the cave is comfortable: no matter what is happening in his life and the world around him, he can take refuge under its dripping stalactites.
When he enters it one evening to find a dragon in the cave, it’s the biggest shock he’s had in a while.
Its coils seem endless to Wei Wuxian, filling the mouth of the cave and its almost-black hollows. He can barely make out the edge of an iridescent tail feather in the back of the cave, its rainbow-colored reflection winking off of the surface of the cave’s still pool. The tip of an exposed fang gleams, buried underneath looping sinew. The dragon’s scales are the crisp blue of a winter sky, the blinding white of bleached bone. Its coloring reminds Wei Wuxian of the Lan clan and their robes, as bright and pale as snow. Wei Wuxian had been dazzled by them when he encountered members of the Lan Clan for the first time. He had never seen anyone as lovely as Lan Zhan, the clan's austere second son.
Happy Winter Solstice @journalsofagoddess!! <3 I hope you like your gift!! this was so much fun to write! I tried to fit as many of the original prompts/"likes" in as possible, so in here you'll find elements of fluff, h/c, horror, humour, modern au, a sprinkling of family!wangxian...
Title is from a fantastic song by No Resolve that is very wangxian, even if it has nothing at all to do with this fic! concept inspired loosely by fleurmatisse's spooky possession fic, minus some of the spookiness? :D
Warnings: light horror, mentions of injuries.
Read on AO3
*****
dancing with your ghost
The snow is just starting to stick to the pavement by the time Wei Ying makes it home.
The sky outside has been heavy and dark with clouds since the morning, but had only broken open as he left the client’s house. He closes the door on their suddenly white-coated and wet front stoop and takes a minute to shake the melted snow out of his hair.
“Hey,” he calls into the empty hall as he scrapes his boots on the mat, “I’m back!”
He bends down to untie his laces and his wrist gives a sharp twinge. In all of the excitement of the afternoon and the unexpected snowfall, he had almost forgotten that he had crushed it beneath him when he fell. He resigns himself to undoing his boots one-handed to not agitate it any further—it’s probably nothing serious, but between regular injuries and the growing threat of carpal tunnel that comes with age, Wei Ying isn’t sure he needs to take the risk.
Ghosts are always bad, as winter sinks into the city. The short days and cold nights make up the perfect breeding grounds for things that lurk in shadows and feed on melancholy.
Wei Ying doesn’t mind the ghosts, of course: as a self-certified freelance ghost hunter extraordinaire, he has been getting more than enough calls to keep busy. His days are longer, brining him home well after dark, but only ever sweetens the coming home. Lan Zhan disagrees, of course—he would rather Wei Ying be home more often, and not take on so much, but as long as they are still splitting bills half and half, this is the best solution.
The thought of his husband is clearly enough to summon him: Lan Zhan appears at the end of the hall. He’s dressed for a comfortable evening at home. Wei Ying waves, and doesn’t quite manage to hide the wince when his wrist stings again. The small smile that had started to grow at the edges of Lan Zhan’s mouth vanishes beneath a larger frown. His gaze is unerringly focused on Wei Ying’s wrist. Wei Ying doesn’t sigh out loud—he’s fine, really, and it was a stupid injury anyway. Nothing to be fussed over.
Lan Zhan does not get his psychic messaging.
“Wei Ying,” he says. Wei Ying kicks off his boots, giving up on the laces entirely. “You’re hurt.” It’s a question, even if it doesn’t sound like one.
“Messy job,” Wei Ying tells him with a bright grin. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff these people were just letting lie around in their attic.” It hadn’t been the worst job he’s ever done—surprisingly few dead mice, and no asbestos--but also not exactly what had been described in the email. Part of the reason Wei Ying is back so late tonight were the—“piles and piles of masks, Lan Zhan,” he complains, unwinding his scarf one-handedly, “and not the nice kind. They all had bleeding eyes or human teeth.”
The actual email had just described an old costume collection and some thumps in the night. They hadn’t been wrong, exactly, but Wei Ying spent an hour clearing all of the clothing debris to the edges of the room before he could actually get a sense for the space. It had been a waste of time, and with the woman and her son standing there and watching him without lifting a finger, it had taken much longer than necessary. “It wasn’t even the masks that were haunted,” he complains. “They were just freaky and maybe a little bit cursed.”
He looks up just in time to recognize the beginnings of actual worry in Lan Zhan’s expression. It’s the face he makes when he wants to volunteer to come with Wei Ying on ghost hunts, despite his students, or ask him never to put himself in harm’s way again. Wei Ying is sure he’d prefer that he were in any other line of work than freelance exorcism, when it so often involves Wei Ying jumping in, at least a little underprepared, and dealing with everything from bathtub water ghouls to cat fierce corpses.
So, Wei Ying shuts himself up, pressing a quick kiss to Lan Zhan’s cheek. “Nothing dangerous,” he promises his husband. “I just tripped, I’m not hurt-hurt.”
“Your wrist,” Lan Zhan says, still frowning, the faintest crease marring his forehead.
Wei Ying pats his husband’s chest with the hand that doesn’t hurt, and tells him, “I’ll let you put ice on it, if it’ll make you feel better.”
Lan Zhan looks at him with an expression that says clearly that it should also make Wei Ying feel better, but he ignores it. Today’s job hadn’t even been awful—just weird, and unsuccessful for the most part. He’ll have to go back another day, at least. Just another paycheck.
“You look cold,” Lan Zhan adds as they move to the living room. He offers Wei Ying a hoodie from his collection—not that Lan Zhan wears hoodies, but he owns enough alumnus merch that Wei Ying coopts them for nefarious husband purposes such as lounging around on their couch. Between that and the fact that Lan Zhan has always had a possessive streak that liked seeing Wei Ying in his clothes… well, there’s certainly no reason not to pull it on.
“Nah,” he says, “it started snowing on my way home, though. We might have to shovel tomorrow.”
“Mm,” Lan Zhan hums, “our shovels are in the shed.”
Wei Ying still feels icky with the cloying resentful energy that had swamped the attic. It happens often when the ghosts are particularly resentful: the energy soaks deeper into him—partly his own fault, since he essentially makes himself a conduit, but hardly a pleasant sensation. On his walk home, he usually spends time cleansing himself of the dredges as much as he can, but then it had started to snow…
Lan Zhan presses a quick kiss to his nose, there and gone again. “Come warm up,” he says. “There is dinner, if you are hungry.”
Wei Ying takes stock—he’d had a hot dog from the place around the corner of his make-shift office at lunch, plus a couple of stale cookies the owners of the house had offered him before he started work. They were awful, of course, but you never deal with any hauntings on an empty stomach—that’s just asking to be possessed. His stomach is still turning, though. Probably just resentful residue, but he’s not going to chance it turning into nausea.
“Maybe later,” he says. “I’m going to shower. Choose something for us to watch?”
Lan Zhan smiles—just barely, but it’s definitely there—and Wei Ying leans up to kiss him, barely more than press of his lips against his husbands’. He’s so warm, a furnace, and Wei Ying wants to wrap himself in him and never let go. The resentment soaking him doesn’t like that thought at all-- he can feel it like something oily against his skin, slithering down his spine in distaste or maybe anger. Wei Ying isn’t about to find out, though, so instead, he smiles into the kiss so Lan Zhan can feel it, and pulls away.
Lan Zhan keeps holding his hand, their fingers intertwined. “Not too long,” he says.
“I would never,” Wei Ying jokes, and kisses him again. It’s always a little intoxicating, being in Lan Zhan’s presence, and his love of long showers won’t keep him away.
The resentment starts to slide off in the shower, pretending it was never there. The hot water pounds down on Wei Ying’s skin turning it rosy and wiping away the last bits of lingering fear and anger along with the last of the chill. He can feel his frozen toes again, wiggles them against the porcelain and watches them turn pink. He should probably buy winter boots, he thinks, if his steel-toed ones aren’t going to be warm enough to last through the rest of the winter hunts.
The last of the energy, the cloying bit that hooked its greedy fingers under his skin, swirls away down the drain. It’s invisible to the naked eye at such low concentrations, but Wei Ying can sense it. He can feel the gluiness of these residues, non-Newtonian and sticky, in ways that even most cultivators couldn’t pick out. He’s spent years, after all, figuring out how to manipulate resentful energy as best he can to help other people, and he’s good at what he does, takes pride in it. He knows Lan Zhan is proud of him, too, no matter how worried he gets.
There is a moment after he has toweled off, when he’s pulling on clean boxers and Lan Zhan’s hoodie that he thinks he sees someone in the mirror. It’s the same feeling as when the lights are turned on in a previously dark room, the moment before all the shadows are banished, when eyes can be tricked into believing that there is someone, a figure, standing there and watching you from the corner—
Wei Ying stares at himself carefully, but it doesn’t happen again. His day has been stressful and longer than it should have been-- all that staring into all of those eyeless masks--he’s probably just haunted by the contorted porcelain faces. Besides getting home late, that’s the only other problem that working in the ghost industry brings: a teensy bit of justified paranoia. He towels off his hair and leaves the towel behind.
Lan Zhan is already sitting on the couch, curled comfortably in his corner, though his eyes find Wei Ying as soon has he enters the room. On the TV, the screen is paused on the opening credits of a C-drama that neither of them watch for the plot but is perfect for the kind of night Wei Ying needs. There’s an open box of crackers and some hummus on the table; their massive first aid kit in Lan Zhan’s lap.
Wei Ying isn’t sure he’ll ever stop being struck by just how well Lan Zhan knows him. His husband, his zhiji, has proven time and time again to be the very best thing that has ever happened to Wei Ying, and he will spend the rest of his life thanking him for it. He slides onto the couch next to Lan Zhan, curling into his side, and rests head on Lan Zhan’s shoulder.
Lan Zhan turns the TV on, volume down low, and the opening theme begins to play. Wei Ying lets himself relax.
“Let me wrap your wrist,” Lan Zhan says quietly, pulling a tensor bandage out of the kit.
“Lan Zhan, it’s really not necessary—” Wei Ying starts, even as Lan Zhan lifts his hand onto his lap. He quells his token protests at the look on Lan Zhan’s face. He still looks worried and tense. Wei Ying wonders if they’ll have to talk about it after all. Lan Zhan begins wrapping his wrist.
“You should be more careful,” his husband says.
Wei Ying could protest, as he has many times, that he’s exactly as careful as he can afford to be—that sometimes, sure, he puts his safety to the side, but it’s always for a good reason. They’ve had the argument before, though, and it’s not—they don’t need to have it again, not tonight. Lan Zhan is efficient, wrapping his wrist firmly but not too tightly. He presses a kiss to the bandage afterwards, his eyes warm. Wei Ying can feel his cheeks heat.
“I feel better already,” he says, mostly joking, and gets a kiss to the lips as reward.
Like this, and in many other ways, they fit perfectly together. Lan Zhan’s hand falls on his thigh, a wide swath of warmth against Wei Ying’s bare skin. He pushes up into the kiss, not urgent, just chasing closeness. He laces their fingers together, pulls back momentarily and Lan Zhan sways toward him. In the low light, Lan Zhan’s eyes are almost golden. Wei Ying traces his features with his eyes, and kisses him again.
“Ah, Lan Zhan,” he breathes, moments later. Lan Zhan has dared to bite his lip, albeit gently. “Don’t tease me now. Your husband is too tired.”
Lan Zhan looks skeptical but hums an agreement all the same, pressing one last kiss to his pouting mouth before settling back into the couch. It’s nearing late—Lan Zhan has gotten more flexible, with his sleep schedule, since they got together and since he left his old home behind, but he still starts flagging much earlier in the evening than Wei Ying does. He will probably be asleep by the time two episodes are over. Keeping that in mind, Wei Ying settles more firmly into Lan Zhan’s side, relishing the warmth.
He doesn’t focus on the screen, not really—instead, he spends his time mapping out the well-known lines of Lan Zhan’s palm with his fingertip. Lan Zhan bears this, as he always does, with patience. There is no small amount of fondness in his gaze when Wei Ying looks up at him. There don’t need to be words between them, right now, but Wei Ying asks anyway, “how was your day?”
Lan Zhan hums, glances down at their intertwined fingers, their matching rings. There is a fond look on his face.
“Good,” he answers after a minute. The love theme of the show is playing on screen, but Wei Ying doesn’t look away from Lan Zhan’s face. “Productive.”
“Good,” Wei Ying repeats. It’s been years since they worked together as cultivators—somewhere along the line, maybe when Lan Zhan discovered a passion for teaching only rivalled by his passion for music, or when Wei Ying’s business finally took off, the places where their work lives intersected disappeared. It’s been a long time since work and obligation were the only things they lived for. That’s why he doesn’t press, now, lets the comfort of the end of day settle between them. He presses a quick kiss to Lan Zhan’s cheek, and then his lips, lingering and sweet. Lan Zhan is warm, so warm.
Wei Ying eats a couple of crackers. The characters on the screen reunite, long lingering gazes exchanged as the orchestral version of the love theme soars. Lan Zhan slumps a little against his shoulder, breaths evening out into the first stages of sleep. Outside, snow is still falling. Wei Ying gets distracted from whatever dramatic goings-on happen next—a sibling reunion, maybe? A lost identity, being rediscovered?--watching the flakes fall in the light of the streetlamp out their window. It looks like it’s gearing up to be a proper snowstorm. He might have to postpone his appointments, tomorrow, if it keeps up.
Lan Zhan’s breath puffs out against his shoulder. Wei Ying can see their reflection in the glass: Lan Zhan’s relaxed figure, his own, curling into him. Like this, no time has passed at all—Lan Zhan in sleep is timeless, the two of them could still be undergrads. He spends time tracing the sleep softened lines of Lan Zhan’s face, which is why it takes him a minute to realize that something is wrong with the picture. It’s only when he finally looks at himself that he realizes—
While he is looking at his own reflection, it is still staring down at Lan Zhan.
Wei Ying stills his thumb where it was rubbing gentle circles into Lan Zhan’s arm. In the reflection on the glass, his hand keeps moving, gently swiping across his husband’s bicep. His reflection—though there’s something wrong with it, now, something distorted, something in the eyes that is looking less and less like himself—cocks its head slightly and looks back at him. There is a smile, though not one that Wei Ying has ever worn, on its face.
Masks, Wei Ying thinks. False faces. The mirror in the bathroom earlier, the sense that had dogged him all the way home of being watched, the oily slick resentment that he brought home with him--
Wei Ying’s work bag is across the room. He doesn’t dare take his eyes off of the reflection to go get it. There is adrenaline, sudden and shocking, spurring itself through his veins.
When all else fails, get it talking.
“Good to finally meet you,” he tells it. He can’t be sure it’s actually in his reflection at all—it could be anywhere in the room, choosing only to manifest like this strange echo.
The person in the reflection smiles, but it doesn’t reach their eyes. They’re as hollow as the masks now, just empty void—completely black, not even the snowstorm outside visible behind them. The face is no longer Wei Ying’s at all, rounder and paler with soulless eyes and a bleeding mouth. In the reflection, the blood drips Lan Zhan’s forehead, marring lines on his smooth skin. Wei Ying doesn’t dare look down to check.
The voice is more like a rasp than anything, like the sound of a body being dragged on a hardwood floor. “Give it back,” it says. “It’s not yours.”
Wei Ying casts his memory back desperately. Had he taken anything from the house? Had he left anything behind? He knows better than to do that, he thinks.
“I really don’t think so,” he says, fighting down a sudden eerie chill as the room’s temperature drops, “sorry.”
The shadows in the room are growing, spilling out from everywhere the ceiling light in the hall can’t reach, playing like smoke across the ground. On the screen, in his peripheral vision, the figures are frozen in a loop, jerking like marionettes pulled back and forth. The figure hisses. Wei Ying’s eyes are burning trying to focus—he blinks, and his reflection is his own again. The dread doesn’t leave and none of the shadows recede. They grow darker.
He shakes Lan Zhan awake, gently.
“Sweetheart,” he says, trying not to let his panic run his words together, “we have a—situation.”
“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan says, a little bit sleep dulled. He blinks his eyes open, slowly focusing. Wei Ying only has a second’s warning when Lan Zhan’s eyes go wide at something behind him before Lan Zhan is pushing him off the couch and onto the floor. “Wei Ying!”
“Sorry!” Wei Ying yelps, scrambling to his feet, “looks like work came home with me!”
There’s no time for regrets, now. He’s not sure what Lan Zhan saw behind him, but he can see and feel the way the shadows in the room are coalescing, turning into something solid, building itself from the ground up. Wei Ying pushes the coffee table away—the crackers go tumbling, but that’s a problem for later, because the two of them need to be standing somewhere without shadows. Whatever this thing is, it’s powerful enough to manifest inside their wards. He thinks bitterly of the lies the woman and her son had told in the emails, how much they minimized the issue, and can only reassure himself that he can charge appropriately. This is more, much more than the measly sounds in the night he went to deal with, and it is growing.
Lan Zhan clearly has the same thought. He is no longer half-asleep, his face stony and serious in a way that makes Wei Ying shiver. He and Wei Ying stand, back to back, in the now clear floor of the living room. Only the hall light and the ghostly jitters of the TV illuminate their positions.
“Give it back,” the faceless shadows hiss. “It’s not yours!”
Wei Ying sees it out of the corner of his eye—a movement on the screen. He drops to the floor just in time for the coalesced fog of dense, dark mist to sweep over him. Its edges are too sharp to truly be vapour, its weight in the air too solid. It disperses like gas, though, sinks back into the shadows around them.
Between one second and the next, the hallway light flickers and turns off with a quiet pop, leaving them with only the flickers from the television. Lan Zhan summons his spiritual guqin—not the one he uses for teaching traditional music, but the one he uses when he night hunts. The chord he strums echoes in the small space and splinters another burst of the coalesced shade before it can attack. Whatever it is building, the shape looks more human now, albeit longer, and still faceless. Probably once an adult male, if Wei Ying had to guess, purely based on the size of all the costumes he had to move out of its room.
Whatever it is—he’s looking forward to the research, once they survive this—its hands are wicked sharp and it has too many elbows. It swipes at them, and it comes from the wrong direction, so Lan Zhan’s next chord goes wide. Wei Ying almost manages to dodge. The sleeve of the sweater is shredded.
Lan Zhan looks grim. He plays a succession of three quick chords which are quickly overtaken as the noise, just a murmur until now, grows into a roar of sound. It sounds like a thousand whispers all layered on top of each other, and it takes Wei Ying a second to figure out what, exactly, it is saying—
“Give it back,” it groans, “give it back, give it back, give it back.”
Wei Ying knows he didn’t take anything from the creepy attic, much less the house. There was nothing there to take, for one—stale cookies and awful tea, moth-eaten robes and rancid makeup, a hundred masks without eyes--but that’s not what this ghost is after. Wei Ying’s heart is pounding. He needs his exorcism stuff—at the very least his flute, or some chalk for an array.
First, liberate, second, suppress, third, eliminate, he thinks and almost wants to laugh. Too late for liberation, since it’s clearly already as free as can be-- he’d make the joke if the situation weren’t so dire. Ideally, this would be the time to offer it what it wants, but since he has no clue, suppression is the best option. He doesn’t even have talisman paper on him, since he’s still wearing Lan Zhan’s sweater.
He’s wearing Lan Zhan’s sweater.
Costumes. All of the masks. Faces beneath faces, bodies under clothes, the makeup chest and the mirrors.
Wei Ying wonders how he didn’t see it before. He should have burned all of his clothes the minute he stepped in the door because if he brought this with him, wearing him like a second skin—
He rips off the sweater, ignoring how it catches on his earring sending it tumbling to the floor—he throws it at the memory of the person, now just a mass of resentment and terror—and the sweater bursts into flames.
It’s a brief fire, but enough to light every corner of the room. As one, the shadows disperse, melting away and sinking into the floor, flying out the window. The figure, at the centre of the bright light, vanishes completely, leaving only an afterimage on Wei Ying’s eyelids. The smoke alarm wails.
Wei Ying’s heart is still beating too fast in his chest, adrenaline still racing through his veins. There is a burn mark on the carpet, to the left of the couch, a large black charred piece, that smells vaguely of burnt plastic. It’s the only sign, besides the burnt-out hall light, that anything strange happened at all. Even the reflections in the windows are normal again.
Wei Ying jumps when the C-drama starts playing behind him.
Lan Zhan doesn’t. He banishes his spiritual weapon with a wave of his hand and moves to the kitchen where he disables the alarm. The apartment is silent, and still.
“What the fuck,” Wei Ying manages. He drags his hands over his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. He’s standing in the middle of their living room, wearing only boxers, because the ghost that followed him home didn’t, what, like him dressing in someone else’s clothes? This has to make top twenty, no, top ten weirdest ghost revenge plots he has ever had to deal with. He looks at Lan Zhan, who is staring back at him across the small expanse of their living-slash-dining room, face blank. “I’m so sorry,” he tells Lan Zhan, “I can’t believe—it followed me home—I should have known—”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan interrupts. Wei Ying stops talking immediately, looks up at his husband. “There is no need for sorry, between us.”
“I mean,” Wei Ying says, staring at the mark in the rug, “usually I’d agree, but I think this kind of warrants an apology.” He digs at the mark with his toe. It’s not even warm anymore, just charred. “I destroyed the rug, Lan Zhan.”
Lan Zhan shakes his head and flips on the electric kettle. “I disagree,” he says calmly, as though Wei Ying hadn’t just accidentally invited in a clothing-obsessed ghost and also destroyed one of Lan Zhan’s hoodies. Sure, he has never worn them, but the point stands.
He gapes at his husband. “You were worried, before,” he blusters, “Why-- how aren’t you more freaked out about the ghost in our house?”
Lan Zhan takes two mugs out of the cupboard, and the marshmallows-in hot chocolate tin, too. There is the edge of a smile playing on his lips when he looks at Wei Ying again, made soft under the light.
He says, “this is an opportune time to rearrange the living room.”
Wei Ying laughs. It’s the last of the adrenaline—he’ll be crashing quickly after this—but suddenly it’s hysterical. He laughs until he can’t breathe, and keeps laughing.
“Lan Zhan,” he manages, still laughing, and stumbles into his husband’s waiting arms. They will definitely be having a conversation about the wards on their house, and possibly about Wei Ying’s safety—but that can happen tomorrow. Wei Ying muffles his giggles in Lan Zhan’s shoulder, waits until they subside. He looks up at his husband, keeping his arms hooked loosely around the back of his neck. Lan Zhan’s warm hands are on his waist.
Hello! I just finished the amazing story, Monotone, one that you have recommended. You mentioned the author has hidden it and only the archieve version exists. I was wondering if you knew how to download it? I've been trying but I haven't gotten any results. Thank you for the recommendation! Finishing it hurt but I'm glad I read a masterpiece like that.
It was an epic, wasn’t it?
Ah, here’s a post with links to a GDocs version of Monotone as well as the Wayback-AO3 link. (And also a link to Desiderium, which I liked as well.)
Hello! I wanted to tell you I just finished Pray for Us, Icarus and I just fell in love with the story! I started going thru your works and noticed you're also writing Instructions Not Included which is a story I can't wait to finish and read! I am a fan now and there are no words to describe how much I love your work. When I finished Pray for Us, it was like saying goodbye. It still feels like that. Thank you so much for everything. For existing. For your words. Have a good day, dear.
Ahh, thank you! Yeah I’m feeling a bit loose-endish now it’s finished. Thank you for reading INI too! I have big plans for that fic and its sequels, and I’ll be turning my attention back to it properly now I’m done with Icarus. :)
