patrick stump/jim adkins | 7.9k | a sequel to "sing it back" | rated E
“I was thinking about stopping in Chicago for a few days.”
Patrick blinks. “Oh.”
“We’ll be gone for a while,” Jim continues, “and with time differences and stuff, it’ll be harder to, you know. Talk. And I just, um.” He gives a small, self-conscious laugh. “Well. I wanted to see you.”
🌱 sprout here again. i've been completely possessed. it's unbelievable to me that this is the longest thing i've written in like a year and a half. but i poured a lot into it, and i quite like it, so here it is for anyone even mildly curious. (shoutout to everyone who supported the last fic and my ensuing jimmy eat world spiral. you're all stars)
billie joe armstrong/patrick stump / 4.4k / rated T / hella mega tour fic
summary:
They haven’t talked since the—well. Patrick wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to talk to Billie again, not without his brain screaming at him, You know what his mouth feels like.
notes: (sprout here) LOOK I DON'T KNOW. i've had a lot of green day feelings for several years now, and it's come to a head after seeing them live a week ago. this was truly one of those things that i was like, if i don't do it, no one will, and i really really want this thing to exist. that is all.
bonus (but minor) peterick yearning is embedded within. pls enjoy if that so interests you ✨
your cytham fics have changed my life. thank you and i love you. also who are your top 5 favorite authors because i need to learn how to write like you zomg
🥺 awww you're so sweet! ty and ily! i had so much fun writing all those fics, and i still love cytham dearly. it makes me so happy to know people enjoy my fun little stories :')
as for my top 5 authors—omg impossible question for me to answer but i will do my best!!! i admittedly do not read as much published fiction as i ought to so these are fic writers i admire oh so much (in no particular order): artenon, spqr, brella, coloredink, and tanyart
these are all very different writers, for very different fandoms and with very different writing styles. i highly recommend anything from any them. i learned a lot just by reading with intentionality. observe, learn, borrow, use, make your own. and be open to constructive criticism from a beta (emphasis on from a beta. you don't have to take it from commenters)
“Tell me you’d like boys like me better,” Patrick sings.
Pete approaches with slow, measured steps. His gaze is dark, immense, like the deep center of a lake. Patrick, against his better judgment, watches the shape of his mouth as he sings, “In the dark, lying on top of you.”
notes: hi. this is sprout! i wrote a fic that i've been mentally referring to as "the 2ourdust fic" because that's really what this is: a little box for me to put my tour feelings. i hope you enjoy it if you give it a read 💗
modern restaurant au / pre-relationship / oneshot / 1.5k
notes: look i binged the bear and i have feelings. i had the idea of alhaitham inheriting the family restaurant after his grandmother passed, and i had to get this out of my system.
maybe the real restaurant was the found family we made along the way!!! bone apple teeth
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Cyno finds Alhaitham out back, crouched in the alleyway with a lit cigarette.
“Dehya didn’t burn the kitchen down,” Cyno announces by way of a greeting.
“Really? That’s too bad.” Smoke billows out of Alhaitham’s mouth as he speaks. “Guess we’re running dinner service after all.”
Cyno huffs and sits beside him. He’s not wearing his apron. His hair is still tied up, a white tail high on the back of his head. They’ve done this a few times before—sat in the alleyway in silence, nothing but the sounds of the city and the clang of pans in the kitchen just behind them. Cyno normally tilts his head back to look at the sky, but today he looks at Alhaitham. His stare has always been discomfitingly piercing. Sharp as a filet knife.
“So lunch was a shitshow,” Cyno says.
The surprise of it makes Alhaitham cough on a laugh.
“It’s been a shitshow since we re-opened last week,” he says, tapping the ashes off his cigarette. “Not sure what you think is different now.”
“Please. Dehya nearly triggered the fire suppression system twice. Kaveh threw a whisk at you when you told him to remake the creme pat. And Collei cried in the walk in.”
“She always does that.”
“No,” Cyno corrects, “she always goes into the walk in to stop herself before she starts crying. This time she actually did.”
“God,” Alhaitham mutters and scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay, so it was a shitshow.”
“Growing pains,” Cyno says wisely. “New staff, new menu. We’ll get it eventually.”
“Not all of them are new,” Alhaitham says. “Some of them came with the territory.”
Dehya grilled him when Alhaitham first walked through the front door—something about his high and mighty attitude, never showing his face here in all the years since he graduated culinary school. She was protective of this place, possibly even more than Alhaitham. It wasn’t easy for her to see it change, especially under the hands of someone she considered a near stranger.
Alhaitham could have fired her. He could have done a lot of things, like sold the damn place and returned to his role as Chef de Cuisine at Azar’s restaurant, Divinity. He could have returned to having all his flaws picked apart: every smudged plate, every lagging ticket, every misplacement of micro basil, lemon zest, agar.
No. Going back was never an option. Neither was selling the restaurant, or firing Dehya. Maybe that stubbornness will be Alhaitham’s downfall, but right now, it’s the only thing keeping the restaurant standing. There’s something here, in the dishes that hold all the flavors of home to him. A solid foundation, something worth elevating.
It’s just taking a little longer than he hoped to get everyone else on board. Like Cyno said: growing pains.
Alhaitham takes another long drag of his cigarette, then says, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Cyno. Why here?”
Cyno blinks. “What?”
“This place isn’t exactly on its best legs.” Alhaitham watches his smoke swirl into arabesques in the air. “It was in the red even before it came to my hands. A résumé like yours, this doesn’t seem like the logical step forward. I was desperate for a sous chef and you were the first one that didn’t cower when I interviewed you, so I didn’t point it out then. But still, I did wonder what you were even doing here. Now I’m asking. What are you even doing here?”
Cyno blinks at Alhaitham, then turns his gaze to the ground, a pensive expression on his face.
“I will tell you,” he says, “only if you promise not to laugh at what a sentimental fool it makes me.”
“Do I strike you as someone who laughs?” Alhaitham says dryly.
“You laughed when Kaveh made that eclair that looked like a di—”
“That’s because Kaveh is an idiot.”
“It was for the table with that rude guest,” Cyno reminds him.
“I remember.” Alhaitham’s mouth twitches. “Yes, they deserved it. But there was no way I was going to serve that.”
“A pity,” Cyno says. “It still tasted good though.”
“Anyway,” Alhaitham says loudly. “You were going to explain why you’re here.”
“Yes.” Cyno clears his throat. “Well. It probably doesn’t surprise you to hear that I knew who you were, even before we met.”
Alhaitham shrugs a shoulder. So his name has been printed in a culinary magazine or two. It’s never really mattered to him, but it does mean his reputation precedes him.
“So, what, you wanted a peek behind the curtain?” he asks.
“Not exactly. I just—” Cyno sucks in a breath. “I used to walk by here a lot when I was young. Foster kid. Moved around the city a lot.”
“Ah.” Alhaitham’s not sure what to say.
Cyno waves a hand. “It was a long time ago. But I had no money. And I would walk home from school and see this place on my way home. I was always told it was rude to watch others eat, but, well. The food looked good. It always did. One day, someone was eating at a window seat and she caught me staring. Instead of scolding me, she invited me inside. She sat me at a table, brought me a plate of the same thing she was eating. It turned out she was the owner.”
“My grandmother,” Alhaitham says quietly.
Cyno nods. “It was such a long time ago, I don’t even remember what the dish was. But at the time, it was the best meal I ever had. Sometimes I still think it is. It made me want to know how to make food taste this good. Made me want to learn so I can share it with others.” He exhales, looking up at the sky. “Then, of course, I was moved to a new house on the other side of the city, and I never came here again. Not until years later, when I was working the restaurant circuit and heard that Memory is under new management. By the renowned CDC of Divinity, no less.”
Alhaitham examines the last embers of his cigarette, not sure he could bear looking at Cyno directly. “And the verdict?”
“Wilder than I remembered.” A wryness dances through Cyno’s voice. “An eclectic staff. Tiny kitchen. The new owner has a terrible attitude, but he’s a genius. Almost annoyingly so.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Alhaitham mutters.
“The food, though…”
Alhaitham looks over at him.
A smile quirks at the corner of Cyno’s mouth.
“It’s damn good,” he says.
Alhaitham swallows. “It’ll be better when we can get through one lunch service without wanting to kill each other.”
“Who, me and you? Not likely.”
“I was talking about the kitchen as a whole, but sure, me and you.” Alhaitham drops his cigarette butt to the floor and grinds it under his heel. He straightens up. Cyno follows his lead. Before they go back inside, Alhaitham says, “I want to revisit that stone fruit salad you suggested. It was good, it just needed… more acid, I think. If you finish your dinner prep early, let’s discuss it.”
“Yes, chef.”
“And one more thing.” The two of them pause in the doorway. Further inside, they can hear Dehya loudly recounting the time she almost burned all her hair off. “Does Collei think I’m evil now?”
“I’m pretty sure she always thought you were evil,” Cyno says.
“Great,” Alhaitham sighs.
“I was joking,” Cyno says. “Collei blames herself before ever blaming anyone else. I wouldn’t worry.”
It’s not exactly reassuring to hear, but Alhaitham keeps it in mind. Later, when everyone on the line is prepping for dinner service and Alhaitham is taking inventory of the pantry, Collei meekly approaches him with a small bowl of the seafood broth she was tasked with preparing.
“Chef?” she asks, holding it out to him. “If you’re ready.”
“Oh. Yes.” Alhaitham accepts it.
Collei is babbling before he even puts the spoon in his mouth.
“It’s probably all wrong, I can start it over again. I just—I felt like I kept adding salt and it wasn’t tasting right but—but I know it’s probably just me not following the recipe correctly. And I’m sorry again about lunch, when my demi-glace kept breaking. I’ll get it right for dinner. I swear I know how to make it I’m just a little off today and—”
“It’s great,” Alhaitham says.
Collei’s mouth shuts, and she stares at him with wide eyes. “Huh?”
“The soup is great, chef. Thank you.” Alhaitham hands the bowl back to her.
“Oh.” Collei takes the bowl.
Alhaitham nods at her and returns his attention to the shelves.
He’s crossing things off his checklist while Collei takes a few steps away, then stops.
“Um!” she says, prompting Alhaitham to look at her. “Thank you, chef.”
A wobbly smile has taken over her face.
He nods at her again. Collei hurries back to her station.
About an hour later, Cyno meets Alhaitham in his office, stone fruit salad in hand.
“I think you made Collei’s whole life,” he says, setting the plate on Alhaitham’s desk. “By the way, try this. More acid, like you said.”
Alhaitham takes a bite.
“Well fuck me,” he blurts.
Cyno grins.
And Alhaitham thinks to himself, maybe this family business thing will work out after all.
notes: i was looking through my writing folder and found this lil thing i started back in [checks date] oh my god may. i dusted it off, went "okay i still like this" and decided to finish it
it's an AU of the video game assassin's creed (particularly AC1), but all you really need to know is that alhaitham and cyno are both part of an order of assassins led by azar. i hope you enjoy it, even if i'm sure it interests like, -5 people. what can i say. i'm just playing with my dolls however i like
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Cyno dives headfirst into the rooftop entrance of the bureau.
Instinct has him tuck into a roll as he hits the ground, but his shoulder still takes the brunt of the fall. He’s entered through the skylight dozens of times before without issue, but never with so much blood in his eyes or such a pounding headache.
He crashes near the water fountain, knocking over a water jug and spilling its contents across the tiles.
The sound of shouts and footsteps approach like an incoming stampede.
“Assassin! He went this way!”
Disorientation keeps Cyno from getting up even as his brain screams hide, hide now, they’re coming, they’re coming—
In his periphery, he sees someone vault over a table in a flash of dark robes. They hurry to the open skylight to grab a rope dangling from it, then yank the entrance closed. The sounds of shouting are muffled but still rapidly drawing closer. The roof is nothing more than criss-crossing slats of wood, letting the sunlight in.
The guards will see him. He has to move—
Two hands grab Cyno beneath the armpits and bodily drag him further into the room, away from the light. Cyno growls at the pain in his shoulder, head swimming, adrenaline still pumping through his veins.
“Quiet,” hisses a familiar voice. “Cyno, you have to be quiet.”
“Alhai—”
A hand claps over his mouth. Cyno breathes harshly against it, barely refraining from biting it.
Then, voices. On the roof.
“I swear he went this way.”
“He probably ran towards the gate.”
Footsteps hit the ceiling hard enough to make dust rain from it, down to where Cyno is tucked into a shadowed corner.
“Keep looking! Don’t let him escape.”
The footsteps and voices move on to other rooftops. Outside, the city bells ring in time with the pounding of Cyno’s pulse.
Finally, the footsteps and voices fade. Stillness remains for another few seconds, just to be cautious. Then the arms holding Cyno release him.
Cyno gasps and slumps to the ground, falling on his back. Lights dance across his vision.
Alhaitham leans over him, face twisted in a scowl. Cyno’s blood stains the front of his robes.
“Did you alert every single city guard to your presence?” he says. “You’re lucky I didn’t keep you locked out.”
Cyno tries to speak but the room won’t stop spinning.
“If we have to move the bureau again, I will be sure to report this to Azar.”
The edges of his vision go dark.
“Cyno? Cyno, look at me—”
The last thing Cyno registers before everything fades away is a hand on his cheek, turning his face to meet Alhaitham’s.
-
When Cyno wakes up, the first thing he thinks is, Ah. I’m not dead.
He’s lying on a bed in a small, humble room. No windows. A table, a chair, a basket of what he assumes are used clothes. The clothes at the top of the pile are bloodstained.
His clothes.
Cyno looks down at himself. Bandages, wrapped around his middle, right where he remembers a guard’s lance found a home in his side. He brings a hand up to his head and feels bandages there too. Another guard nailed him with the butt of their sword. Better that than the other end.
His assassin robes are nowhere to be found, and his bracer is on the nightstand. Cyno sits up, swallowing down the nausea that heaves up his throat when he does, and he takes the bracer, examining the hidden blade.
It flicks out without issue, gleaming and deadly. And clean of his mark’s blood.
Cyno puts it on his forearm, sighing when he does. He never feels quite right without it.
His pants and boots were left on. At least he got to keep a small measure of modesty. He rises to his feet, breath catching when he feels a sharp pain in his side. He pushes his way through the room’s only door.
Alhaitham is on the other side of it, standing at a table as he examines a map. He doesn’t look up when Cyno enters.
“You owe me a new jug,” he says conversationally, tracing over the map with a pencil.
Cyno rasps, “My robes—”
“Are hanging over there.” Alhaitham, still not looking at Cyno, points with his pencil to the other side of the room with the skylight and tiled floors and bubbling water fountain. A line has been strung up from one wall to the other, from which hangs Cyno’s white assassin robes. “That blood was a nightmare to wash out. I’ll never understand why the Order insists on white robes.”
Cyno stares at the robes, not sure what to say.
Alhaitham goes on, “Your other clothes weren’t worth keeping. I figured I’d give you some spares when you woke up.”
He’s looking at Cyno now. His is a difficult gaze to read. Cyno has never understood Alhaitham as well as he wished, but that isn’t unusual—Alhaitham is known by most to be severe and uncooperative, even to those within the Order.
He’s never been particularly warm to Cyno, but Cyno chalks it up to Alhaitham’s pragmatism more than anything else. After all, there must be a reason he’s made it to the rank he now holds: Rafiq of Sumeru City, tasked with providing missions to their assassins as well as managing this bureau, a safe haven for anyone of their Order.
Still, laundry must lie outside of Alhaitham’s usual responsibilities.
“Thank you,” Cyno says finally.
Alhaitham says nothing. A plate of figs and bread sits on the corner of his table, and he nudges it towards Cyno.
Cyno approaches and examines one fig, takes a bite. He’s suddenly ravenous.
“So,” Alhaitham says while Cyno eats, “the deed is done?”
Cyno uses his hand that isn’t holding a fig to reach down into the side of his boot, digging for the feather he knows is there. A white feather, at least it used to be before Cyno dragged it through his mark’s blood. He places it on the table, carefully avoiding the map spread over it.
Alhaitham picks the feather up by the quill, holds it to the light. Then he nods in satisfaction and sweeps away to one of his bookshelves.
“I’ll send word to Azar,” he says, “though I’m sure the ruckus you caused has sent the news to him already.”
Cyno scowls. “I had to improvise.”
“And does improvising have to involve luring the guards to my rooftop?”
“It was not my intention to endanger the bureau,” Cyno snaps. “Call it instinct that I ran here. I nearly died escaping Alcazarzaray. Something wasn’t right. The intel was inaccurate.”
“I assure you it’s not.” Cyno sighs and rests a hand over his bandaged side. Alhaitham’s eyes flicker down to it. “It’s like they knew I was coming. You said there would be fifteen guards total. There were thirty. You said the mark would be asleep in his bedroom on the second floor. He was awake and armed. Someone warned him.”
“That’s impossible,” Alhaitham says again. “The intel came from Azar’s personal informants, he—” Alhaitham stops.
After a few seconds of silence, Cyno says, “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Alhaitham,” Cyno says. The sound of it falls heavily between them. “What is it?”
Quiet. Alhaitham turns away to rummage through his shelves. “Nothing. I will just have to tell Azar to cut ties with those informants. They nearly got you killed.”
“I would not die so easily,” Cyno says.
Alhaitham returns to the table with a blank piece of parchment, and he looks at Cyno with a small, wry smile. “No, you would not,” he says.
Cyno swallows.
“Whether or not you’re easy to kill,” Alhaitham continues, and he begins writing on the parchment with a quill, “you’re not safe here.”
Cyno snorts. “Obviously.” The guards will be on high alert for at least the rest of the month.
“Obviously, he says,” Alhaitham mutters, and finishes writing with a flourish. “Are you listening? You’re not safe here. Not even in this bureau. Not even in the House of Daena.”
That makes Cyno frown. “What? Why?”
“The intel shouldn’t have been wrong.” Alhaitham rolls the parchment up and ties it off with twine. “This was an important mission. Why else would Azar assign it to the best of the Order?”
The best of the Order. Alhaitham’s praise is a precious thing, precisely because it is so non-existent. It’s a shame that Cyno feels far too confused at the moment to appreciate it.
“Alhaitham,” Cyno says slowly. “Tell me what is going on.”
Alhaitham sighs. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to leave this bureau and go straight for the city gate. Do not meet with Azar. I will tell him what you accomplished. You are going to take this—” Alhaitham holds out the rolled up parchment, “—and go to Aaru Village.”
“Aaru Village?” Cyno’s brow rises. “Why?”
“You’re going to give this to someone named Candace,” Alhaitham continues, as if Cyno hadn’t spoken, “and you’re going to wait for me to send word to you. Do not write to me.”
“You’re speaking nonsense,” Cyno says. He steps away from the table.
Alhaitham’s hand shoots out and grabs his wrist.
Cyno turns in his grip and slams Alhaitham’s arm down against the table.
The hidden blade flicks out and poises itself at Alhaitham’s throat.
Alhaitham, bent over the table with his mouth twisted in a grimace, looks up at Cyno.
“You said I’m in danger here,” Cyno says. “So why should I trust you?”
“Easy,” Alhaitham grits out. “Don’t be rash. I’m trying to help.”
“Why should I trust you?” Cyno demands. “I will not ask again.”
Alhaitham sucks in a breath, low and steady, wary of the blade. “If I wanted to kill you, why would I bother saving you first?”
The wound in Cyno’s side throbs beneath the tightly laced bandages. He glances at the figs on the table, half-eaten.
He retracts the blade and lets Alhaitham go.
Alhaitham exhales and slumps over the table. Cyno takes the parchment from where it rolled near the table’s edge.
“It’s just lying low for a while,” Alhaitham says, flexing his arm. Cyno slightly regrets slamming it so hard. Only slightly. “I’m sure you want to recuperate anyway, considering your injuries. I just recommend you do it far away from here.”
“And what about you?” Cyno asks, not looking at him. “You’re not in danger doing all this?”
Alhaitham straightens up, tugging his robes back into order. “I’ve been doing this dance for a long time. I know how to tread lightly.”
Cyno huffs. “You know, you say a lot without saying anything at all.”
“And that,” Alhaitham says, “is the way of the assassin.”
It doesn’t take long for Cyno to gather his things. His assassin’s robes are still damp, but it’d be idiotic to wear them out in the open anyway. He borrows a loose tunic from Alhaitham’s wardrobe, and a cloak to cover his head and the bracer on his wrist.
Alhaitham is waiting by the door when Cyno is finished.
He says, “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, but don’t let anyone see you leave.”
Cyno nearly scoffs. “I never do.”
“Right.” Alhaitham steps away.
There’s an awkward moment where Alhaitham stands there and Cyno doesn’t reach for the door handle. Part of Cyno can’t help but feel like he will step past this threshold and never see Alhaitham again. The thought worries him, for some reason. Cyno opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out.
It’s Alhaitham who breaks the silence.
He says, hardly more than a murmur, “Safety and peace, Cyno.”
The customary greeting and farewell of their Order. Cyno shivers at the cadence of his name falling from Alhaitham’s lips.
“Somehow, right here,” Cyno says quietly, “there is both.”
Alhaitham’s eyes widen.
Before Cyno can think twice of it, he opens the door and steps outside. The street is clear, but only for now. He has to move quickly. There’s no looking back.
As he races for the city gate, ducking into the shadows of buildings and skirting around the main roads, a sweetness lingers in his mouth from the figs. Alhaitham’s scent clings to the shirt Cyno is wearing, as distracting as perfume. Cyno can’t shake these things loose, no matter how fast he runs. But maybe that’s okay—maybe he’ll just have to carry them.
Outside the city, he looks west to the horizon, where the desert waits.
i'm late!!! for flowerfang week happening over on twitter! but i had this little idea for the day 2 sfw prompt "first kiss." just something silly i banged out really quickly. do not think about it 2 hard
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“Miles, stop freaking out,” Miguel says.
“I’m not freaking out, you’re freaking out. Why would I be freaking out? Ain’t no reason to be freaking out, right, I just got poisoned by an alien wizard and I’m gonna die because you knocked the alien wizard out before he could give us a cure after he sprayed purple powder in my face and now my skin is turning purple oh my god Miguel I’m turning purple what do we do—”
“LYLA,” Miguel says, turning away from Miles’s meltdown. “Tell me you got something from the biometric scans.”
“Looks like a strain of pollen from a plant native to Earth-31,” LYLA says. “The effects of consumption include asphyxiation within five minutes.”
“What?” Miles wails. “Oh no no no no—”
“Can we craft an antidote?” Miguel demands.
“Already sent the lab order. But there’s no time, boss—the kid’s freaking out and it’s making the toxin spread faster. At this rate, he’ll asphyxiate before you can get him to HQ.”
Miguel whips around to look at Miles. Miles has his hands buried in his hair, continuing to babble about dying from space pollen and how he’ll fail his calculus class because he’ll be too dead to take the test on Thursday.
“Miles,” Miguel says, grabbing Miles by the shoulders. “You need to calm down.”
“Calm down? How am I supposed to calm down?” Miles fights against Miguel’s hold. His eyes dart around in a panic, his breathing hard and fast.
“You’re hyperventilating. You need to stop.”
“I can’t—” Miles squeezes his eyes shut. “I can’t stop.”
“Yes you can. You have to.”
“I know I have to, that doesn’t mean I can suddenly do it!” Miles’s inhales have turned thinner, shakier. Not good.
“The antidote is synthesizing back at HQ, boss,” LYLA says, “but it doesn’t mean anything if you can’t get him there on time.”
Miles is still breathing too fast, mouth parted, bottom lip trembling.
“Shit,” Miguel curses.
He does the only thing he can think of.
He yanks Miles forward into a kiss.
There’s no grace to it, no pleasure. It’s a life or death kind of kiss, like CPR. This is what Miguel tells himself when he feels Miles’s breathing stutter, feels him tremble beneath his hands. Their mouths are pressed together harshly, awkwardly, but it forces Miles to breathe through his nose and slow the pace of his inhales.
And then, all at once, Miles relaxes. He turns to outright putty in Miguel’s hands, and that— Miguel really shouldn’t think about what that means.
Miles’s mouth moves against his, soft and tentative. It’s instinctive for Miguel to follow him and deepen the kiss. It’s easy. Miles is so pliant, so ready to receive.
Miguel snaps back to reality.
He pulls away.
Miles leans in after him, dazedly following his mouth. Then he stops, realizing what just happened.
Neither of them say anything.
LYLA clears her non-existent throat.
“Antidote’s ready at the lab,” she says, with a smug tone Miguel does not appreciate.
“Great,” Miguel says, voice rough. “And the toxin?”
“Has slowed its spread now that Miles is no longer going into a panic attack. Nice work, Miguel.”
“Don’t mention it,” Miguel mutters, jabbing the coordinates for Nueva York into his watch. “And I really mean that.”
The trip back to HQ is made in dead silence. The portal spits them out in the lab, where Miguel gets a syringe of the prepared antidote and injects Miles in the shoulder, through the suit. Miles doesn’t say a word the whole time. He keeps avoiding Miguel’s eyes.
But the alarming purple color that was crawling over his skin fades away, leaving Miles’s normal skin tone. So that’s… good.
“Looks like you’re clear,” Miguel says. He tosses the syringe into a biohazard bin. “How do you feel? Still freaking out?”
Miles scoffs. “No,” he mumbles. He rolls his shoulders, touches a hand to his throat. “I feel okay, I think.”
“You think?”
“I’m fine,” Miles amends annoyedly, and now he’s starting to sound a little more like himself. “Thanks. And thanks for…” He waves a hand in a vague motion, and his expression turns flustered.
Miguel sighs and drags a hand through his hair. “Look—we don’t have to talk about it. I did it to make you stop hyperventilating, it was a spur of the moment thing. The point is, you didn’t die, and now you’re cured.”
“Right,” Miles says slowly. His lip is bitten between his teeth. He still hasn’t walked away.
Miguel’s next words come out awkwardly, stilted and ill-fitting in his mouth. “I’m… sorry if I made you… uncomfortable. It wasn’t my intention.”
“No, that’s not—!” Miles finally looks up and meets his gaze. His cheeks are dark with a blush. “You didn’t. Not at all. I just, uh.”
A pause. And then Miguel gets it.
“That was your first time kissing someone,” he says numbly.
Miles winces and looks away, his blush worsening.
“Fuck,” Miguel mutters, covering his face with one hand. “I’m sorry, Miles. That’s—”
“Hey, no, don’t do that.”
A hand comes to touch Miguel’s wrist and ease it away from his face.
Miles’s brow is furrowed, his lips pursed in an expression Miguel knows. It’s the one Miles gets when he’s going to argue with Miguel because he knows in his heart what’s right. It’s the one he gets when he’s told something is impossible only for him to do it anyway. It’s the one he gets when he’s about to take a leap of faith—not the absence of fear, but acting in spite of it.
“I don’t want you to be sorry,” Miles says. He’s still blushing. He’s a vision.
Miguel says, “Then what do you want?”
Miles swallows. “Maybe we could… do it again? Without the panic attack this time. Second time’s the charm, or whatever.”
Miguel huffs. But he’s reaching out to curl a hand over the nape of Miles’s neck. “That’s not how the saying goes.”
“It is in my universe.”
Miguel rolls his eyes. Miles is grinning.
“If you’re done,” Miguel says, “I’m going to kiss you now.”
He leans in. Miles moves to meet him.
He’s right, it turns out—second time’s the charm. Or whatever.
Hi! I really enjoyed your post about your writing process (or I guess your answer?) It was really thorough and lovely 🥰 If you're still taking questions, I'm curious to know which authors/books have inspired you. (I think I read one post about Cormac McCarthy, but I'm curious to hear about any others 😊)
gio!!! hello! 🥰 i was so rambly but it makes me happy to know you enjoyed it! i'm always open to questions because i'll take any excuse to talk 😆
i'll confess that i don't read as many books as i ought to... it's true that cormac mccarthy's the orchard keeper inspired my username! ("—as if the very air had gone to wine.") as for authors that more directly influenced my writing, i have to admit richard siken's crush was a very formative influence, of which "scheherazade" is my favorite ❤️ (i think this makes it obvious that i was urged into writing by being on tumblr 10 years ago LOL). i'm also an enjoyer of pablo neruda, mary oliver, and william carlos williams, but i'm not as dedicated a poetry reader as i also ought to be...
honestly? my biggest inspirations are other fic writers. among the biggest is gyzym—who is on ao3 but also here on tumblr, and as a young writer i constantly turned to his work for inspiration. i remember reading this post about arachnophobia and this post about a book falling in love with its reader so, so many times. idk. i'm pretty sure he's like 40% of the reason i started writing.
another writer i admire and have drawn so much inspiration from is brella on ao3. some of their fics are like, my favorite ever. their prose is so... lovingly crafted, i can't find the words to describe it. i also love coloredink on ao3, particularly their final fantasy xii fics. they dig into canon in the most delicious way.
i also have to mention my spouse @qorktrees, aka artenon on ao3. if gyzym is the reason i started writing, artenon is the reason i'm the writer i am now. reading their fics taught me so much about narration, about parsing emotions and thoughts, about how to envision a character's inner world. i needed that. i still think about it, even now.
i think i learn a little bit from every writer i meet (yourself included, you know!!!). i'm lucky enough to be surrounded by so many skilled folks. people still surprise me, after all these years. it's awesome.
i love your fics sm. any tips for ppl learning to write? whats your process like?
ah!!! me??? shucks! thank you so much! i never feel like i am qualified at all to give tips or advice but because you so kindly asked, here are some things that i think guided me to a place i am happy with:
1. write things that you really want to write. not because you think other people want it or because you crave that sweet external validation—which, look. i do. we all do. all the time. it's nothing to be ashamed about. but if you're just starting out writing, try to get excited about it. have fun with it. seriously, the ride will be so much more enjoyable. write that ship, that trope, that AU, that brainworm that won't leave you alone. seize it. write it because goddamn it no one else will
2. read! read some good words and you will absorb good things. pay attention to what you like: phrasing, imagery, etc. borrow them and make them your own.
3. don't underestimate the value of solid grammar and punctuation. i know it's a pain in the ass, i KNOW, but trust me. making your writing look good, at least on a surface level, helps a lot. your writing is a special thing. polish it! it deserves it!
4. if you are comfortable with it, get your fic beta'd. we don't often notice our own mistakes. and showing your raw work to someone else can feel terrifying, believe me, i want to eat my fist every time. but a second pair of eyes is so valuable. ask a trusted friend—another writer, if you know one. someone who can lend you their expertise but also applaud you for your accomplishments.
5. here is a book i love: "Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, 2nd Edition" by Renni Browne and Dave King. i read it a few years ago and still think about the things i learned in it. every point in this book is a point of advice i'd give to anyone else
i hope any of this is useful!! none of this is like, revolutionary advice, but they will give you a good foundation. i also tried to share things that won't dictate you stylistically, because that can differ so much from person to person.
as for my process, OH BOY. do i even have much of a process.... i'll do my best to describe what i do. i'll also have some more points about what drives my own personal writing style, things that i don't necessarily think other people Should do, but serve as the backbone of how i write. under the read more!!! (why is this so long)
it's only in recent years that i've begun writing with any kind of consistency, so i'm kind of figuring out my process Right Now haha. the process varies depending on the length of the fic and the complexity of the idea. but here are the main points:
1. brainstorming: usually i open a google doc and feverishly jot down an idea when i have it. sometimes it's just a few lines. for bigger ideas, i'll outline the whole fic, which is mostly bulletpoints that vary in detail from "they go to this place and talk about their feelings" to full blown detailed written scenes that i can copy/paste wholesale into the fic draft lol. my ideas often spawn from a line of dialogue, an emotion, vague imagery. this is why none of my fics are plot heavy, i am simply incapable
2. drafting the fic: aka The Writing aka the longest and hardest part lol. sometimes it goes so smoothly the words come out of me like a waterfall. other times it's like juicing a rock. i usually write strictly in chronological order, otherwise i never finish. i'm terrible at going back to do the things i skipped because they were hard. in some places i will leave [brackets] to return to certain moments, like if i need to look up a word or figure out the blocking for a fight scene. it's important to maintain the writing flow if i'm in it, so those particular moments i might skip and come back. otherwise i am but a sculptor hacking away at the marble, hoping to find the story underneath
3. editing: tbh i rigorously self-edit as i write which... might be a bad thing but i can't help it. this is editing as in grammar, punctuation, sentence structure. i fuck around with sentence structure so much—flow is really important to me. just, how the words and sentences sound. i know that sounds like, obvious, but i just want the cadence of every paragraph to sound good. varying up sentence lengths, making sure words sound good together, etc. sometimes at this point i will also feel "hmm need more relationship building here" and add more scenes/dialogue
4. send it out for beta: aka the part where i hide under a rock and try not to delete everything i wrote out of fear. it's never as bad as i expect but i'm like this every time. more editing happens, because of course.
5. post the fic: the best part! except then i have to think of a title and summary! fuck!!!!! it's extremely rare that i have these prepared ahead of time. screw me. my titles come from all over the dang place, poetry, songs, etc. i'm trying to write more original titles, and when i do i usually keep them concise, like 1-3 words
so that's like. literally my process which is probably not at all interesting and maybe not what you were hoping to learn about, so some more things that are like, particular to How i write or at least what i think about when i'm writing:
less is more, when it comes to like 99% of things. if i can describe something in 1 word instead of 5 i will do it (unless it is more in-character to be more verbose)
i always write in very close 3rd person POV, so i'm always thinking really hard about how this character is thinking, what they can physically see/hear/feel etc (for example, a character is never thinking about the color of their own eyes. so i wouldn't say like 'cyno blinked his red eyes' if it's in cyno's POV. idk these are the things i think about. it just feels more immersive this way)
make the dialogue feel as natural as possible, while still maintaining control over it as like, a piece of fiction. i often read dialogue again while skipping the narration between lines, just to make sure it still flows naturally. obviously it's not gonna sound 1 to 1 like real life conversation, but at the very least i want readers to feel like they can hear the character's voices
convey emotions through tone, dialogue, and physical cues rather than trying to say it plainly in the narration (i don't do this 100% of the time, but it's a general rule of thumb)
describe the imagery that really matters—what's setting the scene and giving the desired mood? focus on those details instead of cramming the prose with as much description as possible
sometimes you don't need a metaphor. you can just describe the thing itself, and that hits just as hard
what does each character want in a given scene? what's motivating them? does it feel right to give them that thing now, or later?
that is probably too many commas, use a period for god's sake
again, these are just things that motivate my own writing, they're not necessarily things that i think everyone should take to heart. but if it is interesting/helpful for you, then by all means! run away with them! use them, change them, do with them as you see fit. the important thing is the writing. i believe in you! you can do it!!!
this...... is so long what da hell. my bad. i don't even know how this happened. but as you can see i do love talking about writing even though i feel like an imposter all the time. if you have any other questions i am happy to answer them!!! thank you!!!
jealous!miguel seized my mind and wouldn’t let go. i wrote this to get it out of my system (it’s 1.5k) but then i went ‘hmm this could be a 5+1 wouldn’t that be funny hahahha.’ said me, who has negative free time.
anyway.
this is vaguely post-canon somewhere. rated T at most. jealous!miguel. oblivious!miles. posting this here because i don’t know for sure that i’ll write more, and i don’t like leaving a WIP up in the air on ao3. hope you enjoy it <3
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Miles is at a backyard party talking to a girl—an older girl he recognizes from his school’s robotics club, who just won State this year—and she’s laughing at his jokes, touching his arm as he speaks, tilting her head to the side as she listens to Miles fumble through an anecdote from his physics class.
And Miles dares to think… she might be into him? In the back of his mind he hears his uncle saying, I cannot have a nephew of mine on the streets with no game.
He looks at her shoulder, right there within reach. He lifts his hand and readies a, Hey, on his tongue—
The watch on his arm flares to life.
“Whoa,” the girl says, blinking. “Cool watch. What brand is that?”
“Uh—!” Miles claps a hand over the screen, which doesn’t stop the orange light from spilling through his fingers. “It’s, like, some foreign brand, you probably don’t know it.”
“You hit your steps goal or something?” she jokes as the watch continues to buzz.
Miles laughs weakly. “Yeah, something like that.”
Cupping his hand over the screen, he takes a glance to see what the alert is.
ANOMALY DETECTED. LOCATION: EARTH-1610. INCOMING ASSISTANCE: MIGUEL O’HARA.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Miles says.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” Miles tugs his jacket sleeve over the watch. The girl looks at him with a hint of concern, head tilted, earrings shining from the lights strung up all around the backyard. She’s really pretty. “Nothing’s wrong, I just, uh…” He sighs, drags a hand over his face. “I… have to go. I’m really sorry—it’s, like, an emergency, and I wouldn’t go if it wasn’t really important.”
“It’s okay. I get it.” She looks a little disappointed.
“No, I mean it,” Miles says. Mentally, he’s screaming at himself to rein it in because it’s not that serious, but he just hates the idea of her thinking he’s running away because she’s somehow less than. “You’re like, really cool and I like talking to you and if you’re still around when I’m done and want to hang out, I’d be down for that, but if you’re not around or just don’t want to, that’s cool too—”
A pair of lips press against his cheek.
Miles shuts his mouth.
He can feel the waxiness of lipstick imprinting on his skin, and hears the gentle smack when the lips pull away.
“I’d like that,” the girl says, grinning now. “But right now, relax and go deal with your emergency.”
The earth is spinning. Miles can’t tell up from down.
“Okay,” he says dumbly, fingers touching his cheek. “Cool.”
“Cool.” She gives him a little wave.
Miles stumbles on his shoes on the way out, waving back at her like an idiot.
He’s so high on cloud nine that he nearly forgot what the emergency was in the first place.
“Miguel,” he says, tapping on the watch. “I’m here, where you at?”
“Oh so now Spider-Man is open for business?” Miguel grouches, voice tinny over the speakers. His projection flares up from the watch. His mask is on, the red outline of his eyes bunched up in annoyance.
“Not my fault I have a life here!”
Miguel shakes his head. “I’m in Queens. Sending coordinates. Apúrate.”
The call ends.
“Nice to see you too,” Miles mutters and pulls his mask over his face.
He and Miguel have worked together on a handful of occasions, with Miguel sounding greatly put upon each time. It’s not really fair—Miles likes to think he’s gotten pretty good at this Spider-Man stuff by now—but from what he’s heard through the gossip at HQ, Miguel is just kind of like that with everyone. Blunt. Snappish. Open in his preference for working alone.
If Miles had any say in it, he’d leave Miguel well alone. But their paths keep crossing somehow, and truth be told, there are far worse partners to have in a fight than the ninja vampire Miguel O’Hara.
“About time you showed up!” Miguel says when Miles finally makes it to the coordinates he sent.
Miles is about to respond when a blast of electricity snaps through the air, and Miguel leaps out of the way, catching the next building with his clawed hands. Miles swings after him.
“You know New York is big, right?” Miles says, following Miguel as he bounds over walls and rooftops. “And that we don’t have the same technology as, oh I don’t know, Nueva York eight decades in the future.”
“Yeah, well, while you were taking your sweet time, this guy’s been blasting through the neighborhood.”
Said guy possesses the power of electricity, it looks like. Kind of cool, Miles has to admit, until he throws an arc of lightning Miles’s way and Miles has to yelp and duck.
“Okay, I can see why you needed me,” Miles admits.
Miguel scoffs. “Right. Follow my lead, then do your thing.”
His thing. As if Miles hadn’t used it in the not-so-distant past to leech the very suit Miguel is wearing.
“You’re the boss,” Miles sighs.
Miguel doesn’t respond, just heads towards today’s villain with a powerful leap and a blur of red webs.
Miguel draws the fight away from the residential buildings and into a factory yard by the waterfront, arcs of lightning following him all the while. Electro, Miles learns from a handful of villain monologues later, doesn’t go down easily, especially after siphoning energy from the nearby power lines to make himself faster and more agile. But his fatal flaw seems to be his ego—Miles latches onto him mid-rant about some company called Oscorp, and in the ensuing tussle, Miles lays his hands on Electro’s shoulders and starts to drain him.
“What are you doing?” Electro demands, watching in horror as all the energy he gathered flows out of him and into Miles.
“Sorry, man,” Miles says. “Nothing personal.”
The ensuing venom blast is the strongest Miles has ever done. It leaves a smoking crater in the ground, Electro lying unconscious in the center of it.
Miles shakes out his hands, jittery from residual static.
“Finally,” Miguel says, landing on the ground next to him. He drops his mask, and Miles can see the disgruntled look on his face. “Thought he’d never shut up.”
“You’re welcome,” Miles says.
Miguel shoots him a glance before bending down to wrap Electro in webs. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Just saying, you’re lucky he ended up in my dimension.”
Miguel rolls his eyes, but it isn’t with quite as much annoyance as Miles has seen in the past. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
“You want a gold star or something?” Miguel says.
Miles shrugs. “Just a ‘thank you’ would be nice. Or even ‘good work.’” The smell of charred villain is cloying in Miles’s nose, so he tugs his mask off for some fresh air.
Miguel straightens, looking down at his watch to type in coordinates, and he says offhandedly, “Alright, alright.” He turns to Miles. “Good work—”
He stops.
Miles raises an eyebrow when a few seconds pass and Miguel doesn’t say anything. “What?”
Miguel points to his cheek. “Your mom kiss you before you left?”
“What?”
And then Miles remembers.
The lipstick.
“Oh!” he says, face turning so hot. “No, ’course not. That’s just, uh—”
—a girl he was trying to get lucky with. But there’s no way Miles is going to admit that to anyone, let alone Miguel.
“I told you I have a life, man. I do see people outside of Spider-Man stuff.” He brings a hand up to wipe the lipstick away.
A warm hand takes his chin.
Miles’s breath stops in his lungs.
He didn’t notice Miguel had gotten so close. His grip is firm, but not ungentle. He turns Miles’s head to look at him, and his face is… Miles doesn’t even know how to characterize his expression. Miguel has gone very still, his breath coming in and out of him in deep, even exhales. He’s staring fixedly at the kiss. His eyes are dark.
He rubs his thumb along Miles’s cheek in a slow, heavy drag. Wiping the kiss away. Replacing it with the burn of his own touch.
Miles’s stomach jolts, and his skin goes hot all over.
What is happening?
“M-Miguel?” he says hoarsely.
Miguel doesn’t hear him. He’s still looking at Miles’s cheek, and his lip curls slightly in disdain, enough for Miles to see the hint of a pointed canine. The grip on Miles’s chin digs in a little deeper.
“Miguel,” Miles says again, louder.
Miguel blinks. Clarity comes back to his eyes.
He drops Miles as if burned.
“Shit,” he says, stepping away. Miles’s skin feels cold without his touch. “I— Sorry.”
Miles opens his mouth to say it’s okay but the words get stuck in his throat.
“Are you okay?” Miles asks instead. His heart is hammering in his chest, hard and loud enough that surely Miguel can hear it.
“Fine,” Miguel snaps. He has one hand on his head like he’s fighting off a headache. “I just— I gotta go.”
He calls a portal. It bursts open in a familiar cacophony of orange light.
“Okay,” Miles says faintly, watching Miguel grab Electro with a handful of webs.
Miguel spares him one last look. Again, Miles can’t tell what emotion to read from his face. He’s struck by the urge to move closer, to find what Miguel keeps from him.
But then Miguel says quietly, “Good work today,” turns around, and disappears through the portal.
Miles is left alone in the cold night air, the silence heavy all around him.
He brings his fingers to his cheek, where his skin still throbs from the memory of Miguel’s touch. His stomach squirms.
[flowerfang] to you (unfinished, off the top of my head)
spoilers for ATSV / 16k / oneshot / rated E
summary:
Miguel is—well. Now that Miles thinks about it, he’s not sure what kind of label would suit them. Colleagues, he supposes, but that sounds so weirdly professional. Teammates, though they’ve yet to really work together after the whole ordeal with the Spot.
Enemies, once.
But friends? That’s… new.
(Or: Miles texts Miguel. After everything.)
notes: if you follow me on twitter you may have seen a snippet or two of this fic. i’ve been hacking away at it for some time now—with love! so much love. i feel very happy with this one. i hope you enjoy it, if you give it a read! (and please see the tags before you do)
no spoilers for atsv / ~900 words / rated T / oneshot
summary:
Miles stares, thoughts running through his head far louder than his common sense which is currently screaming don’t don’t don’t as he bends down, opens his mouth—
—and bites Miguel on the neck.
notes: ha.... haha... i have an obsession. i hope to ease into writing a longer fic soon but for now, here’s a silly idea i couldn’t leave alone. i realize i’m probably the minority in enjoying softer flowerfang (nothing wrong with the dark stuff ofc!) but i hope you enjoy this, if you give it a read.
i originally posted this anonymously and decided you know what who cares. heed the tags and author’s note, and kindly move on if it’s not your thing.
the highway chase scene changed my brain chemistry. that is all
summary:
Handsome, Miles thinks. His heart gives another thump. He didn’t have the chance to notice it before. It’s not exactly an ideal time to realize this now, either, but that doesn’t stop the thought from rising to his mind and staying there.
[cyno/alhaitham] the night’s not over (i just want to get a little bit closer)
7.9k / oneshot / rated E
summary:
“What I’m saying is—” Kaveh lowers his voice, “—Alhaitham does anything you say. No one else. Just you.”
notes: it’s smut. like, 100%. i’d say it’s pwp but there’s something of a throughline in it if that counts as plot. mostly i just wanted alhaitham to get dommed by cyno OKAY hope u enjoy it if u crave cytham as i do
Maybe Alhaitham had just been imagining things. He took a breath and looked in the mirror again.
No. There they were: two great bird’s wings, protruding from his back.
notes: i have been hacking away at this for so long now and i’m just so happy to release it into the world T_T yes it is wingfic yes alhaitham goes through crises yes it is self-indulgent
hey i just want to say, i hadn't shipped haino until i stumbled upon your fics. your writing single handedly brought me into the fandom, and it's been one of the greatest experiences for me in genshin. you're one of my most favorite writers, not just for haino food but in general as well, your works are inspiring and a delight, thank you for sharing them with everyone❣️
oh!!!! my god!!! this is too kind i am overwhelmed T__T thank you so much anon, i'm truly just happy to have brought you into the haino fold because i love them so very much, and they bring me so much joy, and if they do the same for you then that is so wonderful!!!
thank you for taking the time to write such a sweet message—as someone who is constantly uncertain about what i'm doing, i can't express enough just how much i appreciate it 💞
i was digging in my WIPs folder and found a ficlet i’d forgotten about. i remember the idea striking me on a long car ride a couple months ago, just one of those random things that i Had to start writing while the idea was in my head.
the idea was, simply, ‘what if cyno could tie a cherry stem with his tongue?’
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“Come now, you can’t tell me the General Mahamatra has not a single party trick up his sleeve.”
Alhaitham’s voice had taken a syrupy quality. It could be attributed to the wine he was nursing, though Cyno knew he hadn’t had more than half a glass. Alhaitham so rarely spoke without a point, and time had given Cyno more experience discerning what that point may be, in any given conversation.
In this case, he was trying to get a rise out of him. To what end—well. The what was always easier to figure out than the why.
“I don’t wear sleeves,” Cyno replied.
Alhaitham rolled his eyes. “Oh spare me, Cyno.”
Cyno hid a smile by taking a cherry from a bowl on the table and popping it in his mouth.
Around the cherry pit, he said, “I thought you wanted me to entertain you.”
“I don’t believe I’m the first to tell you your jokes are far from entertaining.”
“Allow me to explain—“
“No, no,” Alhaitham said with a wave of his hand. “Please forget I said anything.”
They went quiet after that, in their secluded corner of Alhaitham’s dining room. The rest of the attendants of that night’s group dinner were gathered in the living room, seated on the couches or on the rug and hotly debating different home rules for a game of mancala. Alhaitham and Cyno had elected to refrain from participating. Kaveh was making a heartfelt, if meandering, case for himself. Dehya was savagely denying him.
Cyno said, “If you’re so bored, you can join them, you know.”
“Not really where my interests lie.” Alhaitham set down his now empty glass. “You are a far more fascinating subject.”
Maybe he was drunk after all, Cyno thought. Alhaitham would not otherwise be so candid.
“You don’t prefer to read one of your books?” Cyno asked.
“No—no more books on dinner nights. I learned my lesson last time when Kaveh spilled wine on my lap. He was lucky it wasn’t one of my more prized books.”
“That was pretty funny, though.” Cyno nearly smiled recalling it. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so angry. Your face turned puce.”
“Puce,” Alhaitham said, wrinkling his nose. “Ugh.”
“Not much can crack the Scribe’s exterior,” Cyno continued. He plucked another cherry from the bowl. “At least, that’s what the rumors say.”
“And you believe them?” Alhaitham asked, tilting his head.
Cyno shrugged a shoulder. “There’s some truth to it. But I don’t think you’re as unflappable as people say.”
“Really? And what data do you have to support this hypothesis?”
Cyno regarded him for a moment, mouth closed but teeth still chewing on the cherry he’d eaten, its tartness flooding his tongue.
He spat the pit out, then twirled the stem between his thumb and forefinger.
“You wanted a party trick, right?” he said.
Alhaitham blinked. Before he could respond, Cyno stuck the stem into his mouth.
He made a point of locking eyes with Alhaitham. Alhaitham looked confused. Already he was proving Cyno’s point. Cyno would have grinned if his mouth weren’t preoccupied.
He hadn’t done this in a while, but the motions came back to him quickly enough. His jaw flexed slightly as he worked his tongue behind his closed mouth. Alhaitham’s gaze melted from confusion to something hazier, his eyes occasionally flitting down to Cyno’s mouth.
Finally, Cyno parted his lips and reached for the tip of the cherry stem, bitten between his teeth. He pulled it out.
The stem was now tied in a small knot.
“Ta-da,” Cyno said flatly. He allowed himself one smirk. “Impressive enough for you?”
Alhaitham grabbed him by the jaw.
It caught Cyno by surprise, prompting a small gasp. It was a sudden movement but not an ungentle one. Alhaitham’s palm was broad and warm, cupping Cyno’s chin easily. His thumb settled against the hinge of Cyno’s jaw and pushed, not hard, just applying enough pressure to encourage Cyno to part his lips. Cyno’s heartbeat pounded in his ears.
“How did you do that?” Alhaitham murmured, eyes fixed to Cyno’s lower lip. Perhaps the cherry had stained it.
“Practice,” Cyno breathed. He snuck a glance at the others in the living room. They were still focused on the game.
“That’s all?”
“I could show you.” Cyno’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Just not here.”
Alhaitham hummed. “What if I’d like to see it here?”
Cyno scoffed. Beneath the table, he moved his foot to brush along the inside of Alhaitham’s calf, then upwards, towards the bend of his knee. Alhaitham inhaled sharply through his nose.
“Trust me,” Cyno said, “I can show you more somewhere else.”
Alhaitham seemed to consider it. “Fine,” he said. “Your place?”
“My place. I’ll leave first. Follow in five minutes.”
Cyno rose from his seat, pulling himself out of Alhaitham’s grip. He swallowed against the sudden loss of warmth. He glanced at the others who continued to pay them no mind, then he looked at Alhaitham, staring up at him expectantly. Cyno supposed he deserved something to tide him over.
He bent down and pressed his mouth to Alhaitham’s in a quick, heated kiss. The taste of cherries mingled between them, sweet and heady, before Cyno pulled away. Alhaitham leaned in to chase his mouth.
“Don’t keep me waiting long,” Cyno murmured.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Alhaitham said. There: a hint of a smile. Too easy.
Cyno popped another cherry into his mouth before walking away, feeling the weight of Alhaitham’s gaze on him the entire time.
