#grant joins so link will forgive him

[kaseyskat]

do you guys think any of the kiddads will join the teens eventually

[tinydefector]

lovers amongst the stars

Megatron × GN human

Small post smut, after-care fic

No real warnings: naked bodies, craving each other.

because I love soft megatron falling even more in love.

1K words

Request and ask open, read pinned post

Megatron Masterlist

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Megatron watches in the dark shadow of the hub suite, optics flickering in the low light that filters in from the flickering stars. A Soft naked form is silhouetted against the starlight and darkness, his optics traces his lovers form in true contentment. His human lover gracefully moving against the piles of silk and satin soft pants falling from their lips.

How Megatron longs to close the distance between them again, to take their fragile flesh into his powerful servos and hold it close, to feel skin pressed against his haul, listen to the soft music that falls from kiss swollen lips.to hear the angelic frequency when they call his name in extasy, he remains watching, gazing his fill of their stunning form,

He feels his spark stutter as his lover turns, optics meeting those delicate eyes sparking with the red glow of his own. now gazing upon him. A soft smile curves his human's lips, and Megatron is undone wishing to have his lover pressed back against him in the most intimate manner possible.

Before he can beg forgiveness for his voyeurism, they moves to him, taking Megatron's battle-scarred servo between both hands. Megatron holds perfectly still, vents catching, as they presses gentle kisses along the seams and lines of his digit joints, tracing each line and curve.

No weapon of war has ever been treated with such tenderness, nor from one so small and delicate. Megatron's chains suddenly feel unbearably tight. This human, this mere organic, sees not a conqueror or tyrant of worlds - only sees Megatron, their lover. Megatron thinks that perhaps, just perhaps, he too can settle for an easy life if it was ever granted to him, but only with his sweetspark, he would damn himself just for them.

"Megs?" Falls from his lovers lips lightly as those eyes stares into megatron's ruby coloured optics. Turning more to come megatron's faceplate with a small hand tracing the lines that had worn into the plating over millennia's of war, soft fingers move against hard metal with the most delicate touch as if afraid they would hurt him.

Megatron's optics shutter briefly at the intimacy of the act and that single word, his nickname. He leans into the gentle touch on his battle-scarred face,his own servos tracing familiar curve of their hip, side and legs. servos itching to pull that fragile form close, to feel them wrapped around him again.But still he remains motionless.

Onlining his optics again, Megatron finds them gazing up at him searchingly, as if tracing far more than mere plating, how megatron wish it could be his spark in this humans hands. hand continues its path undaunted, and Megatron feels his chains loosening one link at a time. This human accepts him - all of him, past and present. And in those arms, Megatron believes he has finally found a home.

Megatron feels his sparks swell at the sound of giggles. He had not meant to let his gaze linger. megatron's thumb presses against his lovers chest, the soft beat of their heart, still races, metal against skin, Both existing in the silence of the hub suite only the two of them and flickering star light. "Didn't realise you enjoyed listening to my heartbeat" they teases. leaning into the giant metal hand as if it were made to fit again the organic form.

In this moment there is only them - two beings from separate worlds joined in the simple meeting of metal and flesh, spark and heart. Truely they were starcross lovers. Megatron lets the steady rhythm wash over him, that despite all odds somehow one so fragile has found the will to keep his spark beating. "I had not realized either, little one," Megatron rumbles softly, optics dimming in contentment, "but its song is sweeter than any chorus of Cybertron. I could listen to it every night and never tire of it, a song that sings for me in such a delicate manner, my sweet spark singer" He bends slowly to touch his helm to theirs, surrounding and surrounded by the life and light and love that has cracked through his armor at long last.

Megatron's optics dim fully as press forehead to helm together in the most intimate of gestures. For a gladiator built only for destruction, the simple contact feels like salvation, crackling through his circuits like the riches high grade energon. They are everything.

Megatron never thought he could have - redemption, compassion, unconditional acceptance of his marred and stained past. In his sweetsparks presence, all of Megatron's eons of hardship and conflict seem to fade, leaving only the glow of their mingled life-forces, one metallic and eternal, the other warm and fleeting. Megatron vows silently to shield this fragile gift with his very spark. As long as it beats, he would love them until the stars took him.

They may come from different worlds, but in each other they have found home, and that is well worth fighting - and living - for. Megatron folds them carefully against his chassis, embracing this divine fragile frame.for the heavens that have seen fit to bring them together if only for a moment in time.

A low, resonant hum rises from Megatron's chassis in response to the sensuality of the moment, vibrating through the plating against thier cheek. One small hand covers the gleaming silver armor guarding Megatron's spark, and he aches to show the glow within, to bare that most vulnerable part of himself without fear of its light extinguishing.

optics shuttered in blissful tranquility as Megatron's armored hand comes up slowly to cradle his lover closer. finds himself humming a nameless tune, some half-remembered melody from his time in the mines. his spark has stilled to a soothing tide. Here is absolution, amnesty, and above all else - love, freely given without demand for anything in return. Megatron marvels at the simple beauty of it, the soft skin of his human lover drapes over him in the most tranquil way possible.

This was one of the things the Ex warlord loved the most about his Conjunx.

[dodorimo]

all the little things

There are days when her pale friend comes to visit her with a sad look in his eyes that makes her wonder if she would ever see him again. He tells her he will leave, that this is the last time. She will be in good hands, he reassures her, all her needs seem to. He always comes back.

Durgestarion AU where Astarion decides to stay with The Dark Urge after she is cursed by her father to be consumed by the urge. Rated E, 1.9k

Tags: extremely dubious consent, vaginal sex, angst, dark themes, named dark urge, this is just depression hours forgive me

AO3 link

Her past is a bottomless pit in a lonely clearing. Eventually, something will spring to the surface.

She remembers a man with dark hair and even darker eyes, wearing metal gloves. An old man with a hole in his chest, sitting on a throne of miasma and bones. And a long-haired woman with a familiar face, wielding a crimson dagger.

Not everything is clear. She remembers a painful betrayal. Fighting her sister in an arena of blood. Father being displeased with her. Then a feeling of emptiness she can’t quite put her finger on. All pointless now.

The rosewood partition filters the candlelight, sending small glowing dots dancing across the ceiling. Eirin counts them all, one by one. At the edge of her vision, a blur of white curls and the occasional pale shoulder.

Her elf friend moves in and out inside her body, his brow furrowed as if in pain. She doesn’t understand why he is in pain. She is at her happiest when they are connected like this, at the hips, with his fist full of her hair and his teeth on her neck. 

Slowly—hesitantly—she reaches out, and brushes his sweat-slicked locks from his temples, traces his wrinkled forehead with her fingertip. This seems to take him by surprise, and he freezes, concerned eyes darting to hers.

He says a few words, murmurs something that sounds a lot like her name, then fastens his lips to hers, moving with renewed fervor.

Eirin lets out a sigh of relief. This language she can understand.

Sharp teeth sinks into her bottom lip, blood sliding down her throat, and she welcomes it, drinking deep. One hand finds her nipple and pinches, the other pulling her to him—up and then up—almost as if he wanted to marry his pelvis to hers.

She tries her best to keep up.

The bed frame slams against the wall in time with his movements. She rakes her nails down his back (he seems to like it when she does this) and he retaliates by pulling on her hair until her back arches for him.

He is whispering again. Pretty, sweet nothings. She only understands half of it.

Taking me so well I miss you love come with me please I—

So close. She’s so close.

Just a little more.

Relief comes in the form of his skilled fingers on her clit and then she’s unraveling.

Spurred by her pleasure, he pulls out of her, drawing a whimper from her lips. A moment to adjust is all she is granted before she feels the splash of his release against her skin, painting her from navel to collarbone. She scoops up his essence, places it into her mouth, then looks back at him to gauge his reaction.

Her pale friend seems content. At peace, even. A satisfied smile tugs at the corner of his lips in a rare departure from his usual aloof self.

Then it is gone as soon as it appears, replaced by a look of anguish.

Eirin doesn’t like when he has that look on his face, as if she had poked under his nails with a needle. She likes him best when he smiles mischievously at her as he moves down her body to lick a long stripe across her cunt. 

She tries not to complain. He brought her nice gifts—a petite woman with horns and a tail, a man with stubs for arms and a smaller, screeching human—for her to sink her claws into. And sink her claws she did, until the voices quieted down to a lulling whisper. If she were specially well-behaved, he would even join her.

He lays down on the mattress, chest moving up and down as he tries to catch his breath. Her heart fills with hope. Would he stay with her this time? She is almost ashamed to admit that she sleeps better when he is around, her dreams less populated by shadows.

She isn’t so lucky.

Most days come and go in a blur.

There are days when her pale friend comes to visit her with a sad look in his eyes that makes her wonder if she would ever see him again. He tells her he will leave, that this is the last time. She will be in good hands, he reassures her, all her needs seem to. He always comes back.

Most of the time, he just watches her.

Watches her as she eats and sleeps and wills away the hours until she can do it all over again. Always with that inquisitive look on his face, as if she is on the verge of doing something unexpected. Even if the prize for his troubles is always more disappointment. Why he bothers, she doesn’t know.

He is there on the days when her hunger is too great and all she can think about is maiming and tearing and cutting and slicing… Those are the worst of days.

The few times she is allowed outside—at night, always at night—he dresses her in pretty clothes, all flowing skirts and elaborate headpieces, like the gallant ladies from the stories. She wears one of them right now, a purple hat with a plume on top. The feeling of the fabric against her skin is unpleasant and she wants nothing more than to tear it apart, but does her best to put up with it. Her worries are forgotten as soon as she sees the sky on the horizon, stepping over her skirts in her rush to get a better view. She leans over the palisade and throws a glance over her shoulder, but her pale friend seems to have his attention elsewhere.

He is beautiful like this, when the light hits his profile just right, ruby red eyes gleaming, his hair swaying in the gentle breeze. To look at him was painful sometimes, like staring at the sun for too long. He is facing the other way, busying himself with an object she doesn’t recognize.

“Do you remember this, darling? You kept it with you at all times,” he says, extending his hand towards her. “A favored gift, so to speak.”

He is using that cautious tone again, the one that usually precedes a long period of absence, so she indulges him.

The trinket in her hands is tiny and connected to a short silver chain. She doesn’t pretend to get the appeal of it. Not full of blood, not made to eat… Shiny and round, like a girl’s earring. At the center, a circle of numbers and a few black dots.

“This is…” she whispers.

There are letters engraved on the bottom. She recognizes a few of them: A E T E R N–

This is… wrong. Wrong.

Something nags at her brain, begging for her to remember. But remember what?

she…

she hurts

one thousand splinters worm their way into her heart. a feeling like nothing she had felt before. she tugs at her clothes, nails digging into her skin, the cloth suddenly too hot, too stifling.

Firm hands bend her arms behind her back and pull her against a wall. She doesn’t make things easy for him, fighting with all her strength, teeth and nails. In a matter of seconds, blood—not her own—begins to soak the front of her dress.

Never did she consider shredding her friend into pretty ribbons, like she did with the others. It was the only rule she abided by, the only line she wouldn’t cross. The idea alone made her gut clench and her eyes wet. But at that moment, that is the furthest thing from her mind. Her heart is about to burst out of her chest. Can’t he see? Why wouldn’t he just help her?

He presses a piece of cloth to her nose. She is too slow to push his hand away. Big inky blots appear at the corner of her vision, anger and confusion quickly morphing into a peaceful numbness.

A day or a week could have passed. There's no way to know for sure. Her dreams are a confusing mush of vivid memories and blood-curdling nightmares. Even awake, she has trouble distinguishing real from imaginary.

Her room is exactly as she remembers it, that much she can tell—with the familiar metal bars that divide her bed from the rest of the room—but her clothes were changed, and her hair was recently washed. A distinct floral scent wafts through the air. There's something else too, a touch of… bergamot? Whatever that is. She tries to lift her arm, but her hands are tied to the bedpost above her head. Strange, but not uncommon.

Her elf friend’s state, however, is a much bigger enigma. He is sitting on the edge of her bed, with his shirt off. At her stirring, he turns to look at her. There are scratches and bite marks all over his arms and chest, some reaching as far as his neck. They are fading now. Angry red giving way to pale pink.

"How are you feeling, darling?" His voice is hoarse, as if he's been screaming all day.

How is she feeling? That’s a curious question. He is the one covered in nicks and bruises. Nothing happened to her, as far as she remembers. She tries to tell him as much.

His eyes lose that wary edge and he moves closer to her, cradling her face with both hands. “I adore you, you know that, right? That will never change.”

She wishes she could respond in kind, but her head is still giving little somersaults. The best she can manage is to nod in agreement.

He sighs and moves his hand to wrap around the column of her neck. She gives him a tentative smile. His eyes harden.

The sudden constriction of her airways doesn’t give her immediate cause for concern. All she does is raise an eyebrow in silent question.

Seconds turn into minutes and she grows impatient, nudging him with the heel of her foot and then again, with more insistence. Speaking is out of the question, nothing comes out of her throat. His hands press harder.

Feeling something is definitely off, she tries to meet his gaze, knowing she is reaching her limit, but he is far, far away. Instinct kicks in. She pulls on the ropes, thrashing against him, using her free legs as leverage. But she is weakened, her body is weakened and she is fading…

He releases her all at once, sending her into a coughing fit.

When her ears stop buzzing, Eirin takes a brief look at him. His face is wet and so is hers. If anything, he looks even worse than her. He pulls her into a hug. She lets him.

Her friend rests his head in the crook where her head meets her shoulder, shaking from head to toe, and she places a comforting hand in the mess of his hair. In between sobs, she hears him ask for her forgiveness, over and over again.

“I don’t like this play,” she confides to him, voice rough like beach sand.

He lets out a sound halfway between a strangled laugh and a sob.

“Neither do I, sweetheart. Neither do I…”

[the-monkey-ruler]

Shaman King (2001) シャーマンキング

Director: Seiji Mizushima / Atsushi Otsuki / Tsuyoshi Nagasawa / Kazuki Tsunoda / Nobuyoshi Habara / Takafumi Hoshikawa / Shigeru Ueda / Kan Nakatsu / Osamu Sato / Hiroshi Kimura / Naoyoshi Kusaka / Toshimasa Suzuki Screenwriter: Hiroyuki Takei / Katsuhiko Koide / Satoru Nishizono / Masaru Aikawa / Katsuhiko Chiba / Akihiko Inari Starring: Yuko Sato / Emi Hayashibara / Inuko Inuyama / Katsuyuki Konishi / Romi Park / Kinpachi Tsuji / Masahiko Tanaka / Kiyomi Takagi / Yuji Ueda / Nana Mizuki / Minami Takayama / Ken'o Horiuchi / Takehito Koyasu / Yoko Sawami / Tomoko Kumai / Yui Horie / Takase Yumitsu / Midorikawa Hikaru / Neya Michiko / Kanna Nobutoshi Genre: Action / Animation / Thriller / Fantasy Country/Region of Production: Japan Language: English/Japanese Date: 2001-07-04 (Japan) Number of episodes: 64 Single episode length: 23 minutes Also known as: 通灵王 IMDb: tt0367409

Summary:

The plot of Shaman King revolves around Yoh Asakura, a shaman, a medium between the worlds of the living and the dead. Yoh seeks to become Shaman King, one able to channel the power of the Great Spirit to reshape the world as they wish, by winning the Shaman Fight, a tournament overseen by the Patch Tribe that occurs once every 500 years. Anna Kyoyama, Yoh's fiancée, soon enters the scene and prescribes a brutal training regimen to prepare him for the tournament. Thus begins the plot that will lead Yoh on a journey that will lead him to befriend Manta Oyamada and encounter other shamans: "Wooden Sword" Ryu, Tao Ren, Horohoro and Faust VIII.

Yoh's group travels to America to pass the final trial for the right to participate in the Shaman Fight, joined by Lyserg Diethel while encountering a group of shamans led by Yoh's estranged twin brother Hao Asakura, the reincarnation of a powerful shaman who wishes to eradicate all humans and create a world for shamans. The group also encounter the X-Laws, a group dedicated with killing Hao, with Lyserg joining them. Yoh's team is joined by Joco McDonnell (known as Chocolove McDonnell), as they engage in a series of three-man matches.

After several matches, only the teams that consist of Yoh's group, the X-Laws, and Hao's team remain. Due to Hao's level of power despite being supported by the Gandhara group in selecting Yoh, Ren, Horohoro, Lyserg, and Joco as the five legendary warriors, the teams forfeit the tournament in a gambit to stop Hao while he undergoes a process to merge with the Great Spirit while Gandhara acquires the Patch Tribe's five elemental spirits. Though Yoh and his friends defeat ten Patch tribesmen who are obligated to protect the new Shaman King, they are powerless against awaken Hao as he brings their souls and everyone they know within the Great Spirit before he commences with his goal of destroying all human life. But Yoh and his friends acquire the elemental spirits and battle Hao while joined by their friends and associates, revealing their goal is actually to ensure that Hao would not abuse his powers. It is revealed that the Great Spirit granted Hao's wish for someone to bring back his mother's spirit. With Anna's help, Hao's mother is brought to the Great Spirit. Convinced by his mother to forgive humanity for her death, Hao decides to postpone his plan to eradicate humans so he can observe how Yoh and his friends will change the world.

Seven years later, Hana Asakura waits at a station for the five legendary warriors and his parents, Yoh and Anna.

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shaman_King

Link: https://kissanime.com.ru/Anime/Shaman-King.47083/

[unhealthyfanobsession]

Would you be willing to do a IC apologizing to Nesta post acosf (especially Amren tbh)?It's always seemed unfair how she worked for their forgiveness when really the IC also hold a lot of responsibility.Especially the whole locking her up thing-it 'worked' because of Gwyn and Emerie-not their training and work regime...anyway I'll stop now ig you get the point.

Though it's okay if you don't want to write something like this.I complete get it!!

So I have written many different versions of Nesta and different IC members having difficult conversations with varying levels of blame and apologizing going on. I think I’ve done it for Rhys and Nesta like 8 times because I am obsessed with (my version of) their dynamic.

In all of that Amren has alluded me. I could never find a way to make it feel natural, but now seems as good a time as any to try.

Link to read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30357864/chapters/116876878

Nesta felt the house shift, air humming with a silent question the way it always did now before allowing anyone through the wards. Even Cassian at times, much to his chagrin.

Plucking a ribbon from the side table to mark her place in the book she held, Nesta nodded her head once.

Permission granted, the wards flickered and Nesta waited for her most ancient friend to climb the stairs and open the library door. That word clanged strangely through Nesta’s mind. Friend.

Was she friends with Amren?

Could anyone be friends with Amren?

The former ball of flaming vengeance turned Fae had once accused Nesta of not knowing the meaning of the word friend. Ironic, considering … 

“Where’s the brute?” Amren glided right past Nesta with barely a passing nod, losing her short body in the stacks and stacks of bookshelves. If it had been Gwyn or Emerie Nesta would have risen from her chair and joined them, would have asked what they were looking for and had the House make a pot of jasmine tea.

Which was why Nesta contemplated if the meaning of friendship as she remained seated, allowing far hearing to do all the work.

“Oh you know,” Nesta waved a hand through the air even though Amren could not see her, “visiting outcast Queens in their cottage in the woods or crushing some Ilyrian’s windpipe under his boot. One of those two things.”

Cassian was in the camps, dealing with a minor uprising, and would be gone until the next daybreak, but Amren didn’t actually care.

“Good for the two of you,” Amren grunted, “not being tethered to each other’s hip.”

Nesta laughed, unsure why the sound came out choked and sardonic. “It would be awfully unfair to make him deal with me 24/7.”

Amren’s head poked out from behind a shelf. “He’s your mate.”

“Is he? I hadn’t noticed.”

Amren scoffed, “Don’t start fishing for compliments like those males.”

Nesta couldn’t help but compare Amren to Gwyn, who so often visited her in this library and always had reassuring words to offer. “I thought you appreciated honesty.”

“That is not honesty,” Amren ticked, “that is trying to make a friend extol your many virtues. Enough people are obsessed with you, Nesta Archeron. You do not need my reassurances as well.”

“Are we friends?” Nesta simply asked. She didn’t like all of this messiness, this strange power dynamic that had cropped up between her and Amren since, well, everything. “You were a mentor to me, once. An excellent secret keeper for a time.”

Amren’s head tilted to the side, her eyes were no longer silver but something flashed as she surveyed Nesta. “I have always been your friend, girl.”

“Have you?” The question was genuine. “I just mean … how can you be friends with anyone when you look down on all of us?”

Amren scoffed, “pot meet kettle.”

“I never looked down on you. As you well know.”

“No,” Amren smirked, “you just hated my guts for telling you the truth.”

“I am not incapable of handling the truth, Amren.”

“Fine,” Amren rolled her eyes, “then here is the truth, girl. The ball of tension in between my neck and shoulder blade is older than the oldest living High Lord in Prythian. I do not look down on all of you because I do not think you are smart or capable. Some of you aren’t, to be clear, but that isn’t why I … assert superiority, at times. Even the cleverest child is still a child. Still in need of supervision.”

“Oh, so now we are giving people grace for being a child?”

“You may recall,” Amren looked up, “that I never condemned you for any of that human nonsense.” Nesta blinked. It was true. She and Azriel were the only ones who hadn’t thrown it in Nesta’s face at one point or another. 

“I was content to let you wallow and suffer so long as I could see that was what you needed.” Amren straightened her spine, coming out from the shelf holding a tome so old the cover had begun to crumble. “I did not change my mind because Feyre sobbed into her eggs or because Rhysand got annoyed. I know you think I did. I know you think I am under their rule, but like you, I am not.” 

“Why did you change your mind, then?”

“There were bigger things at play than your stubbornness.” Nesta scoffed. Amren held up a hand, “You may think me cruel, Nesta Archeron. You may think that I am not a true friend to any of you, but would you rather I lie to you?” Nesta only blinked. “I didn’t think so.” She sighed, shoulders curving in only slightly. Weary, she looked weary. “When Rhysand is being a fool, I call him a fool. When Feyre begins to plot petty revenge I tell her to stop acting like a child. When Cassian is desperately trying to disguise insecurity with machismo, I call him a brute. When you are acting like a spoiled brat, I tell you to get over yourself. It is what I do. It is my role here. Everyone accepts criticism more easily from me because I criticize you all, because I am Amren. I won’t apologize for not giving you the warm and fuzzies. I will not write a letter or cry at the beauty of your progress. I chastise when it is needed and I allow well enough when that is needed. You may not like it, but it is a necessity.” 

Nesta nodded once, “I have always preferred an explanation to an apology. It is far more useful.”

Amren smirked, “And that is why you are my favourite.”

“Respect,” Nesta said quietly, “is the foundation of friendship.”

Amren only nodded, tucked her book under her arm, and flashed out of the library.

Nesta settled back into her chair. Amren and Nesta would never have a sleepover or make friendship bracelets or cry about their shared trauma. They would never break into pieces and grow back together as sisters. 

But not every friend needed to be a sister. 

Some friends just needed to be there for a bottle of wine and a few laughs. Nesta had missed laughing with Amren.

[nysocboy]

Gemstones Season 1 Finale: Judy and Kelvin start to heal, Scotty joins the family

Showrunner Danny McBride has stated that he wants every season of his programs to tell a complete story: no callbacks to previous seasons, and no cliffhangers.  By the finale, every plotline has been resolved and every character development arc has been concluded.  He also hates downbeat endings, so the season finale tells us that "they lived happily ever after"  

The Season 1 primary plot featured Gideon and Scotty betraying the family, first by blackmailing Jesse over the tape of his sex-and-drugs party, then by planning to steal the Easter offerings from the church. Secondary plots involved Eli butting heads with Rev. Seasons over his church expansion, and Kelvin and Judy dealing with obstacles in their relationships.  The finale ties all of the plotlines into a single theme: forgiveness.

Shot 1 :  Church. In his sermon, Eli describes his visit to Aimee-Leigh's childhood home, where he interacted with her spirit.  Cut to a flashback of the siblings collecting the money that Baby Billy and Tiffany stole from Scotty's van.

Shot 2:  Eli continues: "We move through this world, crossing paths with friends, family...and I believe that the goal of all that colliding is to make us appreciate one another, to find empathy." Shots of Martin, Mandy (Chad's wife), and Chad, sitting far away from her. 

Cut to a flashback of Rev. Seasons  (Dermot Mulroney) working in a hardware store (Baptist churches are autonomous, so if one closes you don't automatically get placed elsewhere). Eli offers him a job as pastor of the satellite church that Baby Billy abandoned. Rev. Seasons was a secondary Big Bad, but Eli stole his flock, so we are not sure who needs forgiveness more.

Shot 3: "If you're not rooting for your enemy's salvation, you are not in line with what the Spirit wants."  Shots of Dot Nancy and her parents, BJ, Keefe (working security again), Martin's wife, a couple I don't recognize, and Jesse's crew (Matthew, Gregory, and Levi).  Notice that BJ and Keefe are linked, structurally presented as the partners of Judy and Kelvin.  They won't begin sitting together until Season 3. 

Shot 4: "Aimee-Leigh knew this. That's why she wanted to help, no matter what."  Shot of the spirits of Aimee-Leigh and Scotty sitting together in the congregation, glowing in ethereal light.  

Shot 5: "For when you forgive other people when they sin against you, your Heavenly Father will forgive you."  Cut to Baby Billy and Tiffany selling their new gimmick, pictures of his trip to heaven. I uess they haven't been redeemed yet. 

Shot 6: "How we navigate this life,  and each other, is what defines us, and what leads us on the path to healing."  Cut to Judy and Kelvin in makeup, getting ready to perform, smiling. 

Shot 7: "By accepting each other for our shortcomings, our sins, our selfish behavior, we are granted the ability to make mistakes as well.  That's what He gives us. The ability to begin again.  To be forgiven."  

We move on to Jesse in Haiti.  He offers to help Gideon with the water ministry by digging an irrigation trench.   The end.

Scotty and some dicks after the break

Judy and Kelvin: Before this season, the siblings spend their lives crippled by the traumas of their past. Unable to believe that they were worthy of being loved, they sabotaged every potential relationship, Judy by defining herself soley as a sexual being, and Kelvin by denying that he was a sexual being at all.  In this season they found partners who loved them in spite of their spitefulness, selfishness, and general craziness, in spite of Judy's obsession with the phallus and Kelvin's fear of it.  Forgiven, redeemed, they have started on the road to healing.    

Scotty: Scotty appears next to Aimee-Leigh, Jesse's mother and Gideon's grandmother, the matriarch of the family. He looks more bemused than happy, surprised that he has been forgiven, wondering how he came to be sitting here, after all the pain he caused the Gemstone family.

Remember that both BJ and Keefe had to suffer symbolic deaths before they could unite with their partners.  Did Scotty, in death, become Gideon's partner?  

Maybe, in spite of his machinations, posturing, criticism, and threats, in spite of the hints of abuse, this is what Scotty wanted all along.  After all, the goal of the two schemes was to draw Gideon away from his family so they could spend their lives together. Maybe he couldn't admit it to himself, so it came out in random bursts, like calling Gideon "cute," taking him out on dates, and finally admitting, just before his death, that "you broke my heart."  Aimee Leigh helped him understand what he needed, what he wanted, and she has made him a Gemstone. The end.

Next: Gemstones Episode 2.1 Review: Junior likes dicks, Kelvin likes pecs, and f*k yeah, we got both!

[angrenwen]

"The One who Cooks is the first, in every land. They are always the most ancient and powerful, born of the taming of fire, and even the gods go warily of them. They are the patrons of farming, for farming always begins with food, and of hunting, and also of the home and the hearth, where food is prepared. The One Who Cooks in my land often wanders among humans in the form of an ancient woman, watching them but never noticed. The farmer who shares his crops with her, the innkeeper who gives the old woman a meal, the woman who opens her home and her hearth to a stranger, will be blessed. The ones who get it wrong… will not. The One who Cooks is born of an ancient drive for survival, and she is not forgiving.

The Seamstress is almost always the second. When first my people sewed furs together for warmth, I came into being, with my iron needle and silken thread. I taught my people to spin fibers into thread, bred silkworms for them, and guided them in the creation of our craft. I have taken many forms over time, and will continue to do so. Sometimes I am a woman, or a man, or a shadow, or a whisper in the ear. In a secret village where magical silk is spun for me by human hands, I am a monster and a guardian. We are separate from the Craftsman, for while we are embodied in a craft, we are spun of something deeper. We are the ties that bind, the stitches that link together, the bonds that join one to another. The first ties of kinship are of our tying, and we weave clans out of families, and nations out of single people. We are love, and duty, and loyalty, as well as the clothes and ropes and shrouds our followers craft.

The Craftsman is never born of weapon-craft, though he crafts weapons. He is the child of the One who Cooks, the grandchild of fire. He comes into being with stones in his hands, or a hammer, or a potter’s clay, and he is a crafter of tools. He rarely walks among humans in corporeal form, but they find their way to him when need is great. He is always ready for them when they come, with the magical sword, or the plough that will bring life back to barren fields, or the pot that will hold a whole river’s water. Or, sometimes, only with the skill of his hands for the teaching, and that is enough.

The Historian begins in pictures on cave walls, or scratched into dirt with a stick. Ours came into being with an ink-brush and a scroll in their hands, writing the word ‘Remember’, though for many long measures of time their human children had not yet learned to make ink or words. Artists of all kinds are in their province, as well as those who write words, for every kind of art and recording is at heart the same… it is for memory, and for understanding. The Historian is often seen but never recognised, though their works are everywhere, for that is their nature. They are never known except in memories.

The Physician in my land wears robes and carries sharp needles and pungent herbs. The Physician is usually male, here, though not always, and many a wounded hero has known his gentle touch. The Physician is never the first, for survival comes before compassion, and yet it is never long before he or she emerges. The Physician is the creature of compassion, of caring for one who is not kin, of tending the hurts of others rather than oneself. The Physician is always and never among humans, for he does not assume a corporeal form to walk among them, but grants his gifts and power to an endless series of chosen humans, who create new ways of caring for the sick, or the unhappy, or the unfortunate. He never leaves them, and yet is never seen by them save in the series of human avatars he chooses to bring his power to the world. He is the patron not only of doctors and midwives, but of kings and of governments, for whatever is created to serve and better the lot of humankind is his province. And those who betray their duty to heal all suffer, in the end. The Physician is very patient… but he never forgets.

We are not gods, we Embodied. We are the bridge between what is human and what is divine. We are created by humans, as Gods are not, as a way of reaching back towards the powers of creation. The human drives to eat, to connect, to create, to remember, to heal… they are what we are spun from, and what we embody, and they leap ever upward towards knowledge with our guidance. We speak for them, in the courts of the Gods, and the great human heroes are always aided by us. The Embodied are the ones who craft the magical garments, and tools, and weapons, who tend the terrible wounds and offer words of wisdom at the lowest moments. They usually credit the Gods, but the Gods work through us, for what is truly divine is too much for mortal flesh to endure. They need my silk, woven by mortal hands, the Physician’s simple herbs and needles, the knowledge of humankind as humans understand it from the Historian, the tools and food made from the materials of this world, not the other.

The five of us meet but rarely, though we are always aware of one another. We do our work, and are happy in it.

But this call of destiny was strong, one of the strongest we have ever sensed, and so we gathered around the cradle. The One rocked it gently, when the baby stirred, for the first food always comes from a mother, and so there is much of the Mother in her making. She looked like an old peasant woman, kindly and weary. “Such a great burden for one so small,” she murmured.

“His suffering will be great.” The Physician was only a shadow and a whisper, not being in the habit of incarnating. “I will infuse again – he will need a healer.”

The Craftsman was whittling something, his hands busy as they always were. He wore the form of a middle-aged man, so ordinary as to be forgettable in moments. “I will return in a few years, to teach him. There are swords all around him, but he is a peasant child, and so he must craft his own tools.”

The Historian nodded, an indeterminate figure in a scholar’s robes. “I will send a teacher to him. He will need to know how to read and write, and to understand the history that created him.”

I was wearing a form somewhere between woman and monster, with long clawed fingers and loose long hair and the white skirts and jacket of a spirit. But I dropped a tiny silk packet into the cradle, a little charm that would not frighten his peasant parents but which was stronger than anything they could have bought. “He will have brave allies, and good friends,” I murmured, brushing a knuckle over the silky tuft of hair on the top of his head. “He will love, and be loyal, and inspire love and loyalty in others.”

The One nodded. “The Gods have given you a terrible task, little one,” she murmured. “But do not be afraid. We are on your side, not theirs. All that is strongest in human nature is in us, and we will help you.”

It is always that way, with great heroes, which is another word for those who bring change. The Gods may decree as they like… when it comes to it, the chosen ones are human. And it is the power of their humanity that makes the difference, not the will or blessings of the Gods. We Embodied, the personification of that power, know that very well.

This child will grow up to change his world, and we will be with him, though he will never know it. And if the Gods decree that he must die to make that change… well. They do it sometimes. But they have us to contend with when they do. And we will not give him up easily."

Text: They say Seamstresses begin sewing from birth. While it’s true that we sew from the first moment of consciousness, by definition we cannot be born.  

[wackywriterwhowriteswhenever]

COMING SOON

Hey y’all!

So let me preface this by saying I enjoyed Vol. 1 of Season 4 immensely! I think it was brilliant of them to split the characters into different arcs, and I’m thoroughly enjoying the story so far. Episode 7 truly mindfucked me and I can’t wait to see what happens next! I’m also still full-on shipping Byler of course and I’m excited to see where Mike and Will go next!

July is a little more than a month away, which means Camp NaNoWriMo for July is just about a month away. This month, I will once again be soliciting ideas from readers (look for a separate post later) of one-shots to write.

However, there are four stories in my head (one of which will be published tonight as a birthday gift for a friend) that I have largely planned out that I will write during July as well.

Here’s a look at some Byler fics I have coming soon!

1. Forgive Me (Being published tonight at 11 p.m. Central Time): A story that follows Mike going to the Byers home three weeks after the Battle of Starcourt to apologize to Will for his behavior during S3. The story is inspired by and has lines from the Evanescence song, Forgive Me. I’ll link the song to the story when I post it.

2. Upside Down Comics, Inc. (To be written in July, a long-form story): Artist! Will joins Upside Down Comics as its new artist. Writer! Mike writes the story for the comics, the latest of which will feature the plot of the show, which Will is hired to draw. Mike and Will bond while making the comic alongside the rest of the Party, and Will is later shocked to hear about Mike’s childhood.

3. The Interview (To be written in July, a one-shot): This will probably be my most unique fic in that it will be a written question and answer form of Mike being interviewed. The backstory will be The Party was a band that has recently announced a reunion tour. Back in the band’s heyday, Mike left in the middle of a tour, which became international news, especially when he announced he was not going to pursue a solo career in music. Think Geri leaving the Spice Girls, but more dramatic. Mike grants an interview with an entertainment reporter to talk about why he left the band (to do with his feelings for Will, among other reasons) and why the band is ready for a reunion.

4. Glasses (To be written in July, a one-shot): Inspired by the photos of Noah Schnapp getting glasses a few years ago, Will discovers he needs glasses and is nervous about his first day wearing them at school. He is bullied for his new look, but the rest of The Party, especially Mike, stand up for him. Later at home, Will refuses to wear his glasses, until Mike comes along and is able to help change Will’s mind.

I’m so excited to share these and other stories with you during July! I’m also so excited for Vol. 2 of Stranger Things 4, and I’m also thrilled for the future of the show (sad there is only one more season after this, though)! 

Look for another post later today where I solicit ideas for one-shots from readers!

Tagging some Byler friends: @willthecleric @william-byers @jesper-faheyss @poweredbycreativityandcake @general-kj @byliever

[owl-with-a-pen]

Night Terror anon back at it again.

What if her potential point of no return is when she becomes so detached from her former self and the people she used to care about that she shows up in Brainy’s dream, ready to do to him what she’s been doing to so many other people. Maybe she’s so far gone at this point, lost to madness and sleep deprivation, that she barely knows who he is or what she’s about to do.

It’s the absolute last chance to get her back. If she goes through with it here, Nia Nal is dead and gone. But Brainy never stops fighting for her.

Imagine the two ways this could end. Maybe he finally, finally gets through to her using the very dreams she wants to feed on. He’s dreaming of them, before she turned away from him, and she’s able to remember just for a second what it felt like to have her own happiness. She realizes what she’s about to do to the person who made her happier than anything, and vanishes instantly from his dream without harming him. What she’s been doing hits her for the first time. She breaks down with guilt, with grief for her old self and the many people she’s ruined by stealing their dreams for herself. Maybe there’s a way for her return them and fix things? Or maybe the consequences are permanent and she has to live with that. But either way she cries herself out and for the first time in what could be months or years, she passes out and is able to rest. Maybe Brainy finds her, maybe she seeks him out when she wakes up, or maybe she stays away out of shame.

But alternatively, she does take his dream, and she destroys him in the process just like everyone else. There’s a brief flash of pain as she does so, and she realizes when it’s too late that she should not have done this. Brainy as she knew him is gone. Nia as he knew her is gone. She incorporates the happiness he dreamed of into the fantasy she’s built for herself, but it always feels somewhat empty. Neither of them ever recovers. Night Terror continues to wreak havoc until she either retreats permanently into her fantasy, pretending she’s happy, or one of her old friends finally manages to stop her and she spends the rest of her days in a cell designed to dampen her powers, alone but for her broken mind and the occasion tearful visit from people she no longer recognizes. Maybe she finally gets to sleep with her powers gone, maybe she doesn’t. It doesn’t help either way.

God, anon, your MIND!

I'm blown away by these ideas. I love, love, love the concept that Nia only realises what she's doing when she enters Brainy's dream. It's got something of a poetic nature to it considering Brainy has canonically joined Nia in the dream realm before and I like to think that when they do share dreams, it's when Nia uses her powers to link them so she's allowing Brainy into her dreamscape. It creates this dark parallel that Nia has never actually stepped foot into Brainy's dreams before, it's just not how her powers used to work as Dreamer. For Night Terror, though, it is something she can do as it's an invasive act rather than one granted by consent. It's like the ultimate act of betrayal, and yet Brainy still uses that to his advantage to give Nia the dreams of who she used to be, of the goodness in her heart that might still be there. I could totally see that as her wake up call. It wouldn't heal her or give back everything she's lost, but it puts her in a position where she can finally reach out to the people that love her and will unwaveringly support her so that she can take those first steps towards healing.

On the flip-side though, you know I love me some angst and so that idea of mutual destruction, of Nia breaking down Brainy in a way that she would never forgive herself for, removing his essence in a darkly similar fashion to the inhibitors he was given as a child, oh man... I love your idea that even incorporating what she stole from Brainy just makes the hole inside of her more cavernous. When she's eventually caught and put behind bars, it'd be interesting if she still doesn't sleep at first, because it's more psychological than power-based by that point, but eventually she does fall prey to her own dreams again. Maybe they're as nightmarish as the ones she left with all her victims, or maybe they're just... empty. Like her own heart.

[00fairylights00]

Prologue: It Wept Till There Was Nothing Left

Author's Note: Hi guys! Welcome to the inside of my brain, where I think about Little Nightmares every waking moment of my existence. Love these games and I just want the kiddos to be happy and safe so I thought it'd be fun to write a happy AU. Please note I have never read any other happy AUs for Little Nightmares so if you see similarities, firstly) they are definitely not on purpose, secondly) uuuh drop the link bestie I wanna see it. To make the explanation of the final boss fight a little more emotionally labouring for Mono, instead of there being three different room patterns, I’ve upped it to a number closer to ten, so please don’t come for me like “actually, you only have to hit the music box three times in the battle sequence” I am well aware, I just think it’d have more impact if The Tower kept forcing him to fight monster Six! (Cause obviously angst is neat).

Also, the game (Little Nightmares II) has now taken place over a series of weeks rather than a few hours, for immersion and whatnot. Wanna chat with me about this fic or other Little Nightmares-related topics, you can join The Pantheon discord server my friends and I run!  The link is here!

Mono and Six escape from the collapsing tower by the skin of their teeth, deciding to bed down in the ruined apartment before moving on, Six’s hunger begins.

He’d just wanted to help, that was it. He wanted to save his friend after cowering in pain and fear from the Thin Man and get the hell out of this city, but when he finally got to The Tower, when he finally got to her, The Tower had stripped her of her innocence and turned her into a monster. Her limbs were twisted and broken, and her hair had grown out to cover her face but despite her intimidating size, she offered him sanctuary in that little room.

She offered her music box, a replica of the one she’d had when he found her in The Hunter’s cabin when he’d accidentally set into motion a series of events that would haunt them for the rest of their lives, most importantly, events that had put his friend in danger again, and again, and again. He felt as though he’d never forgive himself and as he sat there, watching the crank of the music box spin endlessly he realised that she had gotten what she wished for.

The Tower had turned Six into a Monster, bigger than any they’d encountered before, she was strong and formidable, nothing would ever hurt her again and that fact settled heavy like a stone in the pit of his stomach, The Tower had granted her wish for safety and strength in a way so twisted it had stolen her humanity, what was that old saying, something about being careful with wishes.

It seemed accurate given the world they’d grown up in, taking Six’s pleas and prayers and turning them into a cosmic joke. No matter how much they did to stay alive, to prove to the world that they belonged there, it would continue to spit in their faces and kick them while they were down. How hilariously cruel.

When he brought The Tower to him, the doors had opened in greeting and had welcomed him home. This building felt alive, the static of the transmission fizzing in the walls, climbing over his skin and wrapping around him like a safety blanket, he had to force himself not to buckle under the weight of feeling at home.

He’d never felt at home anywhere, not even before when he’d stayed with that group in the orphanage, way back when. A fire had started and then been put out, only for some nasty Adult to come along and snatch many of his pack away, to be consumed or passed along. He hid in a TV unit and when the creature looked down on him he wished with all his might to be anywhere else. Not a moment later was he spat out into long grass in the middle of a forest, found his way to Six, and as they became closer she had felt like home too.

Mono knew what he had to do, he couldn’t leave her like this. The Tower gave false promises, her Monster form wasn’t sustainable and eventually, the great monolith would consume her too, he could feel it in the way the transmission prickled on his skin, he could stay but she wasn’t welcome here.

At first he tried to reason with her, calling out to her, tugging on her sleeve but his voice seemed to hurt her, she flinched at his shouts and brushed him away as he hung off her arm. He hit the floor with a thud, sliding a little. As he brushed himself off and got to his feet he noticed the suitcase at the back of the room, a mallet lay on top of the wrinkled clothing. His heart sunk at the implication, he had to hurt her again.

And surely, this time, she wouldn’t forgive him.

He took a deep breath and picked the hammer up, he dragged it to her and he felt her looking down at him, could feel her begging him not to do it but doing nothing to stop him and with a heavy heart swung the mallet over his shoulder with all of his might.

It all happened in a flash, the tune he often found her humming when they bedded down for the night coming to an abrupt stop, the sound of twisting metal cut out to silence and when he opened his eyes all he could see was darkness, when he blinked again he was back in her room. The toys were replaced with Flesh and the building was collapsing, he was quick to move, running for the door.

Six was at his heels, screaming out in gargled distress. He felt his heart breaking for his friend as he once again tore her safety from her, he hoped to all hope that she would forgive him for this. But until she was herself again he had to focus on not getting flattened.

He weaved through the hallways, jumping chasms and trying to keep himself oriented as The Tower’s influence changed the form of the rooms with each doorway he passed through, he suspected The Tower wanted him dead, or at the very least trapped. He almost scoffed at the idea, considering it was The Tower that had left the mallet in her room. How was it his fault that he’d jumped to the most logical conclusion?

Six screamed again, as he flung himself through a hole in the wall, scrambling to take cover under a table, he held his breath, keeping as still as stone as she tore through the room, looking for him. She pushed her way through a closed door, thumping down the corridor and out of sight. He made a run for her but just missed her as the door she entered closed behind her.

But a familiar axe, stuck in the wood of the door that emitted a purple glow, told him everything. The Tower was mocking him and just like when he’d doomed Six in The Hunter’s cabin by carelessly chopping down the door to free her, he would have to doom her here too. This time he swore it would be different, he was never going to let anyone lay a finger on Six ever again.

With steeled determination he jumped for the Axe’s handle and broke through the door, she was in the centre of the room, hands covering her music box protectively. The static in The Tower felt different, stronger. The tune of the box was lilting due to the damage it had sustained, Mono picked up his axe and yelled.

“Hey!”

Six tore forward, smashing her fists as she went while he slipped through the hole in the door and was transported to the other side of the room, he sprinted as fast as he could, swinging down on the music box just as Six turned back around. The impact on the music box, which he now understood was some kind of tether that was causing her monster form, split the concrete floor, changing the shape of the room before he was plunged again into darkness.

He rushed pained, frightened breaths between his teeth as he felt the force of being thrown against concrete settle in his bird-like bones. He called out again, his voice echoing through the empty plain as he wandered aimlessly. Eventually he stumbled across his axe, stuck in the door again. The axe clattered to the ground as he grabbed it and with a powerful grunt he broke through the door once more.

He continued on like this, each time he made headway with the music box the room became harder to traverse, he had to think clearly about his movements or he’d be killed by his angry friend. Every yell hurt and angered her, drawing her away from the music box to move in on the static form he was leaving behind, it became a cycle.

Call out, run for your life, hit the music box, wake up in the void, find the door, do it again.

He’d lost count of the amount of times he’d opened his eyes to complete darkness but by what he guessed was the tenth time he almost couldn’t find it in him to get up, he felt tears welling up from the feeling of hopelessness that was consuming him. His body ached, his head was swimming and he could taste blood in his mouth. The Tower would keep making him fight her, he was sure this was his Divine punishment, for sentencing her to death all those weeks ago in the cabin, forcing her back out onto the street where it was infinitely more unsafe than being kept alive by a Hunter who seemed to be playing family. This was all his fault.

He wiped his eyes, breathing deep. This was it, he was putting an end to this now. If he and The Thin Man were alike enough that he could beat him at his own game, then he could bend The Tower to do his bidding too. He swung the axe, he counted the doors and the warped levels of the floor, looking for the axe and when he found it he screamed.

“HEY!”

Six was up, leaning down to swat at him as he tore through the doorway, he warped to the other side jumping for the axe, when he had a grip on it he moved swiftly as to avoid her next swing. He was through another doorway, yelling again and when he warped through, her back to him, he knew this was it.

He ran for the music box, heaved the axe over his shoulder and with one final, earth-shattering blow, the music box bent. When he pushed himself up from the floor this time, the room was different. The Flesh having closed in around them, it reeked of death, silt and ash. He looked up, Six was on the floor reaching forward in a final attempt to protect her music box.

She covered the bent metal trinket with her hands as Mono pulled the axe from the floor, when he approached he looked up at her again, her eyes pleaded with him, tears welling up in the corners of her bloodshot eyes, he cast her a sad look, there was nothing he could do, nothing he could say. None of it would fix this, it wouldn’t fix his mistake in The Hunter’s cabin or her kidnapping in The School, or setting The Doctor alight in The Hospital and it definitely wouldn’t fix his decision to not reach out to her in that apartment when The Thin Man chased them. The Thin Man that he’d freed due to his own morbid curiosity.

“You just had to know what was behind that door, didn’t you?” He whispered to himself.

He felt sick, but he couldn’t leave her like this. She'd been endlessly generous and kind to him despite it all, helping even though she wasn’t obligated to. At first, maybe she stayed out of necessity, knowing that parts of the city would be too dangerous to be alone in, but he was sure by the time they’d made it to the hospital that she was staying because she chose to, they’d played for hours in that toy room, trading secrets and knowledge, she’d taught him how to play make-believe and he’d taught her how to draw flowers.

And when she’d curled up on his lap to take a short nap, feeling her tension leave her, he promised himself that he’d continue to protect her, but Mono was never very good at keeping promises. He had always been unlucky and just like every other thing he wanted but could never have, Six was torn away from him too.

He called out to her one final time, fury at himself, The City, The Thin Man and The Transmission for ruining everything, poured into his desperate scream, Six flinched and he took his opportunity. The axe head collided with the music box and both he and Six were thrown backwards, he was on his feet quicker this time, and as her cries of agony bounced off the walls, she reached for the music box, its form glitching and tune warping, it’s true form becoming clear, it was a vessel keeping her distorted, Six’s monster form shifted and bowed under the pressure, limbs changing length and ragged pained breaths wheezing from her throat, she was so close, almost touching the metal but Mono swung quicker.

Mono’s final call echoed off the walls endlessly, the room went dark and when the strange purple light filled the room again, the music box was destroyed and his best friend was sitting there, looking at him. He couldn’t see her eyes but he felt the relief through his whole body. They stared at each other for a while, in shock that they were finally reunited and reality came crashing in, literally.

The Flesh that was The Tower’s true form was closing in, Mono yelled for Six frantically and they raced down the hallway. All he knew was run, don’t look back, just keep moving, the mantra he’d yelled in his head whenever something gave chase. Mono couldn’t hear anything over the rushing of blood in his ears as he hurried to keep up with Six, not daring to spare a look behind him at the brick and mortar that had given way to walls of flesh.

They jumped, climbed and weaved as The Flesh closed in and as he could see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel the flesh eyes tripped him up, Six made it across the skinny crumbling walkway, chunks of it falling away under her feet, she jumped a small chasm that had fallen and collapsed to her knees on somewhat solid ground, catching her breath and then turning back to him and reaching out her hand, like she’d down a thousand time before.

Six had seen it before Mono had, he was going to run out of road and he’d need to jump the gap, he would fall short without her help, he reached for her and leaped as he felt the ground give way beneath him. He closed his eyes and hoped that she’d catch him, just one more time he pleaded in his head. He felt her fingers around his wrist gripping for dear life.

He chanced a look up at her, The Flesh had stopped moving in, she was looking down at him with a blank expression as he hung limply, helplessly, vulnerably over the ledge. Was she going to drop him? She wouldn’t, would she? He thought briefly that she’d be right to do it, after everything he put her through. He swung his legs, sweaty hand scrabbling at the concrete of the broken ledge for support, trying to pull himself up, but he couldn’t get a solid hold,

“Six!” He yelled, chancing a look at the abyss below, he wouldn’t survive a fall this high, “please pull me up.”

She didn’t answer, continuing to stare, like she wasn’t really there. He looked down again, panic welling up in his stomach, oh my god, she was going to drop him.

“SIX!” His frantic, panicked desperation seemed to snap her out of whatever trance she was in. She shook her head minutely and breathed his name with a kind of horror he never wanted to hear again.

She heaved him up over the ledge, and he shook violently as he placed his hands and knees on solid ground, Six looked perturbed, unsure of what to do or say, which didn’t last long as Mono rushed forward to crush her into a hug.

���I thought you were going to drop me.” He repeated over and over again in a terrified whisper, Six didn’t say anything but she did return the hug.

“Let’s get out of here,” She whispered as she stood up, pulling him along with her. They hobbled to the TV screen plastered to the wall, arms slung over each other's shoulders to keep them standing upright, the static felt warm on their skin as they pushed against the glass.

They slid through the static, passing through The Flesh tunnel and then hitting the floor. The TV behind them cast white light onto the ground and they both breathed hard, trembling uncontrollably on the cold wood flooring.

Six was the first to stand, her movement catching Mono’s attention, in her casted shadow was a glitching image of… herself?

Was The Tower not destroyed? Surely it couldn’t survive without The Thin Man, the shadow stared Six down, her hands shook in fear as the shadow cast a glance over to a flyer laying on the floor in the corner, she looked back at Six and giggled, the sound making Mono’s blood run cold.

And as fast as the glitching shadow had appeared it was gone, the room bathed in darkness as the TV powered off, it was silent and then Six’s stomach growled painfully, she keened forward, hugging her torso and falling back down to her knees.

Mono was on his feet, grabbing Six by the shoulders, her face was twisted in pain.

“Are you okay?” He asked, Six grabbed one of his wrists and shook her head frantically.

Mono turned his attention to the flyer the shadow had been so preoccupied with, he pat her shoulder before going over to investigate.

The flyer had a picture of something fish-like, with the word “MAW” in big, bold letters across the top.

“Always the same time, never the same place, all-you-can-eat ocean vessel experience,” Mono read out loud with some difficulty, “all-you-can-eat! Six, look at this!”

He rushed over to her, paper in hand. She took hold of the paper, reading it over herself, flipping the page where three words were scrawled in black ink.

East Coast Harbour.

“East… Coast… Harbour?” She read, eyes squinting at the near illegible handwriting. “East coast? That’s not far from here.”

“So that’s where we’ll go!” Mono suggested excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“What?!” Six exclaimed in shock.

“We’ll go to The Maw! There’ll be an endless supply of food, we’ll be far away from the shore and the city, it’s perfect!” He paced back and forth, getting more animated as his plan fell into place. Six wasn’t so sure, waving her hands out frantically to grasp his attention.

“Woah, Woah. Hang on, let’s think this through-”

“What is there to think through?” He argued.

“The fact that The Maw is an Adult experience, if we sneak onto that boat and get found out, we’ll be killed. You’ve heard the stories just as much as I have, no kid who boards The Maw escapes.” Six didn’t have to mention what kind of food was on the menu, they both knew very well what happens to the kids who are found in the bowels of The Maw. The Janitor was blind, not stupid.

“But don’t kids get shipped out there all the time?”

“Yeah, dying kids.”

A silence was drawn between them. They weren’t going to come to an agreement on this so instead, Six offered a compromise. Clearing her throat she wrung her hands together, speaking carefully now.

“Look, we don't even know if what just happened will happen again. We’ll move east anyway, no use staying in the city but let's keep The Maw as a last resort.”

“Fine, but I’m keeping an eye on you, and if I think your pain is getting worse we find a way to board The Maw. Deal?”

“Deal.”

It took them two weeks to get from the lonely little apartment in the city to the coastline and along their travels, she’d managed to find a paper bag to replace the one Mono gave up to fight The Thin Man, she’d been keeping an eye out after he’d told the story to her, how terrified and powerless he’d felt, she took it upon herself to find a replacement as he cycled through the growing hat collection he had stowed away in his coat. Mono was ecstatic when she gave it to him, quickly but carefully tearing out some eye holes and modelling his look.

“How do I look?” He giggled, Six smiled reaching forward to adjust the bag a little bit.

“Perfect, it’s just like the one from before!” Mono gave a silly bow at her acceptance, the pair laughing at his antics, he pulled the bag off, however, folding it up and putting it away. Six’s expression was puzzled.

“You know what I look like, and you don’t think I look strange so I don’t have to wear it around you,” Mono’s genuine grin made Six’s chest warm, happy that her friend felt more confident with her around, “I’ll hang on to it though, it’s a gift from you so it’s even more special!”

And things were good for a while, scavenging for food, finding safe shelter to sleep in, exploring all manner of abandoned buildings, that was until Six’s condition started to worsen.

They dubbed the pain and aggression she’d been exhibiting Hunger Pangs or more simply Hunger. It had started small, almost nonexistent at first, easily satiated by scavenging for food scraps but by the end of the first week Six had started becoming more aggressive than normal, often turning on Mono when he tried to help. He knew not to take it personally, that she wasn’t well, that she was in pain, but that didn’t stop his feelings from getting hurt when she lost her temper or pushed him over.

By the end of the second week, however, Six had developed a fever. She ignored the burning of her skin initially, making it to the harbour, whether they decided to try and board The Maw or not, was the most important thing.

She did not account for how awful it would feel to push her body to its limit to manage that feat, and one evening, as she and Mono were walking through a back alley, she collapsed. Waking up inside a building, with Mono fretting over her, her memory had been spotty as the fever set in, making her delirious. She tried to use what little strength she had to fight Mono as he tried to remove her layers in hopes of cooling her down, the ordeal ending in her sleeping fitfully with her blue cardigan resting under her head and her yellow raincoat draped over her lower body.

Mono chanced a look through the kitchen cabinets in the other room, finding a couple of cans of soup. He wasn’t able to warm them up, the oven unit being too big to use on his own. He was just relieved that the cans had pull tabs.

Despite her hunger, he found it impossible to feed her. She wasn’t really awake enough to eat but they’d gone so long without anything he wasn’t sure what else could be the cause of her sudden illness, it was hours before her fever came down enough for her to be lucid, Mono hadn’t slept a wink, terrified that a stray Viewer might find them.

“Six? Are you awake?” He wondered as he stroked her bangs away from her sweaty forehead, she made a small noise but didn’t say anything else. “You don’t have to worry about anything at all! I’m gonna take really good care of you, before you know it you’ll be back on your feet and we can get onto The Maw and you’ll never have to go hungry again.”

Mono worries his bottom lip at her lack of response, her breath was shallow too and something about that made him worried, but he wasn’t sure why.

“You know I’m really worried about you, when you fell down outside I thought you’d died, and it was so hard to drag you in here. I didn’t realise how heavy sleeping people are.” He paused. “You are just sleeping, right? ‘Cause if you’re just sleeping, it’ll be okay! And I’m your best friend, you can tell me anything you want. So if it’s bad you can tell me.”

Mono curled in close to Six, letting her rest her head on his chest. Continuing to comb his fingers through her damp hair.

“Yeah, you’ll tell me.”

Next Chapter

[iwanttheromance]

@averylegacy 

{In a way, of course I knew Jackson was right. All the blame for this failed marriage wasn’t on me. Neither was Matthew’s death. Grant it, knowing that didn’t bring me any kind of comfort, but regardless, I knew Matthew was at fault in the fact that he wasn’t honest with me. If he couldn’t forgive me for what happened the first time he and I tried to get married when I left him at the alter, then he never should have rekindled a relationship with me years later, and then ultimately married me. Obviously he didn’t just decide on a whim one day that he hadn’t forgiven me for leaving him at the alter all those years ago. He must have known a part of himself was still angry with me over that, so if that was the case, at the very least, he should have told me how he felt, but more important than that, he never should have married me. All of this was basically a moot point now though, given the circumstances. I silently considered, but on the other hand, I couldn’t help but to wonder if I was partly to blame for all of this... The failed marriage part, at least. I mean, first Jackson, and then Matthew. I’m the common link in both of those failed marriages, so I couldn’t help but to wonder if there was something to that} I just wish he hadn’t married me if he was still holding a grudge over what happened all those years ago. {I eventually added as I carefully scooted over slightly in the hospital bed. I was sore, but regardless I managed to eventually scoot myself over to the other side of the hospital room; leaving enough room for Jackson to join me} Jackson, would you lay here with me for awhile? Please? {I knew it was a big ask, on my part, but I didn’t mean it as a romantic thing. That would be inappropriate and ill-timed considering I had just been notified moments ago of Matthew’s death. No... Now, more than ever, I just needed to be in the comforting hold of the person I trusted more than anyone else in the world. Jackson had always been that one constant and true friend in my life... The one person I could always count on}

continued

@iwanttheromance

Jackson always tried to be honest, Even if the truth hurt. He tried to be loyal until you gave a reason to walk. When it came to his marriage with April; he can admit now he had his own role into how we fell apart. It was easy to blame her; to blame April for leaving. For Jordan; for us losing our first baby. But I also didn’t fight for her; for us. I waited until she was ready to come home, I realized now I had disrespected her needs; what she needed for herself. Yeah I wanted to be in her corner. I wanted her to need me, the way I had needed her. Instead of holding her; of telling her we’d be okay I had ripped the rug out from under her. 

I decided it was over; and truth was it was my biggest regret. I felt I walked away too soon, that I had given up on us. That the repairs were too broken. But now in the last few months I saw I’ve been lost since our diovice. Since we signed those papers; I haven’t been the same. I might not believe in her warship of god, but when it counted Jackson had to admit God had his back. Each time he prayed when April was pushed into this situation stuck to a hospital bed fighting for her life; god had helped her; helped us. We might have our differences, but we also had a whole lot of love for each other. 

Matthew; I wasn’t defending him, I was just trying say I understood why he couldn’t get past the first marriage. If I was in his shoes; I’d walk. Being forced to see the guy that stole my almost wife the first time we went down the alter, being forced into a weird relationship with the dad of his step daughter. I had to be realistic. I wanted the redhead to feel better; I wanted her to stop blaming herself. This fallen marriage wasn’t her fault; it was doomed from the start. I wasn’t going to say the words; but I was entailed to think it. Matthew I believed did love April; but it was kinda mirable he was able to forgive. I can only offer a hand; a shoulder for her now. I wasn’t going anywhere. 

Hand locked in hers; I had inched myself closer to the bed as our hands were laced together. Thump had traced small circles around her knuckles as I heard her remark about her track record with marriages. I could brush it off with a cute quip remark but this might be the right opening for a real conversation; about our own history we both held close to our hearts. 

“ You know our marriage, we both played a role in why it didn’t work out. I.. I’m sorry for hurting you when I decided it was over. I just.. I was hurt and I just I didn’t want to feel the pain anymore. But seeing you here like this.. Even before I can’t help but wonder if I jumped the gun..” With us; but I held my tongue shut on that one; not wanting to make it awkward if this was a internal battle with myself; and not a can April wanted to open. 

Green eyes lifted to meet her gaze, teasing; it was a habit. But I was the best looking guy she’d ever dated let’s be honest. A low chuckle emitted through bare lips. “ I think someone still has the hots for me huh..?” A joke; a light hearted joke; it was easy to fall into old habits with each other. We could always count on each other. As for her release date; I had to glance to the doorway; where I did spot Bailey still lingering; probably to drop news if I allowed her to. Arching head forward I thought about the arrangement in my head; but did it make sense for us. 

“ I may be able to talk Bailey into releasing you by the weekend but only if you stay at the penthouse with me and Harriet. I don’t want you to be alone.” A sense of care in his voice; as if it was easy. He’d take care of her; Jackson didn’t trust anyone else to ensure her safety regardless of the female’s answer.

[enbies-and-felonies]

Only Then I am Human / Only Then I am Clean

(AO3 link)

@jatp-rules-my-life, this is your fault (based on this post)

Summary: Alex listens to 'Take Me to Church' by Hozier and maybe it affects him in a way he wasn't prepared for, maybe it just let's him heal a little bit.

warnings for homophobia and religious themes

taglist, just ask to be added or removed (i know it's not my normal work but,, yeah): @barrel-of-cat-mituna @completekeefitztrash @tiergan-andrin-alenefar @lemontarto @hershis-kotlc @genesiscaveat @everything-else-and-mars @juline-dizznee @chaotic-basics @an-absolute-travesty @classyfunnyquotesmuffin7 @smolanxiouscatvoids @itstiger720 @introvertedscarecrow @sunset-telepath @an-idiot-in-a-trenchcoat @cowboypossume @anaccidentwaitingtohappen @sofia-not-sophie @fire-sapphics @dr-alan-grant @real-smooth @juline-dizznee

The first time Alex heard 'Take Me to Church' he was on the verge of dozing off, which was an interesting feeling as a ghost, like he was a boat tethered to a dock and he might drift away if he fell asleep for too long. The evening sun was casting lazy beams through the windows of Julie's garage, and he smiled as the warmth hit his face, causing his eyelids to droop lower. At least as a ghost, he could still enjoy some of the simpler things in life.

An old radio crackled on the little table nearby, playing songs Alex had never heard before. He enjoyed a few of them, but others he rolled his eyes at. Idly, he wondered if Reggie and Luke were having fun with Julie; She had taken them on a trip to see some sights, but Alex had opted to stay home, feeling listless, and decided to catch up on whatever new tunes had came out since he was alive.

He bopped his head slightly to 'Bad Liar' and hummed a bit to 'Counting Stars'. He had missed out on a lot of good songs. Yawning, he stretched and settled deeper into the couch, giving a contented sigh as the next song started playing, a strong piano coming in and setting the tone.

Alex liked the man's voice, and he raised an eyebrow at the lyrics.

"-She's the giggle at a funeral / Knows everybody's disapproval / I should've worshipped her sooner."

He sat up and cocked his head by a margin, feeling a tiny, guilty thrill at the way his lips quirked at the lyrics. There was a forbidden excitement that came from it's gentle blasphemy.

"Every Sunday's gettin' more bleak / A fresh poison each week."

His heart twinged. A choir, a pulpit, fire-and-brimstone preaching, he was just a kid-

"We were born sick / You heard them say it."

He sucked in a breath and his eyes flew open, throat tightening like a noose, trapping his breath like a fluttering bird in his lungs.

~~~

"This Sunday we will be touching upon the topic of a Biblical marriage!" The preacher's voice booms across the congregation, and fourteen year-old Alex's stomach sinks as he tries to slouch further down in the pew, as if he could just slip low enough that the words won't catch in his heart and weigh him down like so many stones. He briefly thinks about the millstone the preacher once mentioned. He tried to remember the context, but the only thing he comes up with is that it was for people who sinned. He gulped.

"Now, 'what exactly is Biblical marriage?' you might be asking yourself! Biblical marriage is a holy union between one man, and one woman-"

Pastor James' voice carries on, and Alex does his best to let the words pass through his ears without hearing them, the rocks weighing him down turning to boulders. His stomach turns.

"-now, the men gotta love their wives!! Just like Christ loves the church, and cares for her. Marriage is a wonderful blessing, the greatest blessing we could ever experience in fact! It is perhaps the second greatest gift God has given to humans, and as such we must respect it.

"There are many ways you can disrespect the holy marriage bed. Divorce of course is one of them. In fact, in Matthew chapter nineteen, verses one through eight-"

Alex tries to tune him out harder, knowing what's eventually coming and yet still hoping to avoid it. He counts the number of stained-glass windows -twelve without turning to either side, thirty-six if he rotates all the way- and taps his fingers on his leg to the cadence of Pastor James' words.

One, two, three, four. One and two, and three, and four-

He makes increasingly faster and more intricate beats, imagining drumsticks in his hands, base-drum pedal beneath his foot.

One and two-o-o, and four and, one and two and three-e, four-

His fingers are pattering rapidly, and he forces himself to swallow, trying to remember not to bounce his leg, trying not to distract his mom and dad, trying not to dwell on the words he can't avoid, trying not to scratch at his wrist, trying-

He can't breathe. He's trying to calm himself down but his fingers aren't a drumset and he can't play away the sin that coats his soul and he's just a kid but he can't breathe, he can't-

"And that leaves us with those who have disrespected the sacred act of marriage by letting themselves be lost in sexual perversion. I am, of course, referring to those disgusting individuals who have chosen to live the transsexual and homosexual lifestyles. People like these were born sick."

Alex's hands quit their anxious movement. He's completely still. He was born sick.

He was born sick.

~~~

"The only heaving I'll be sent to / Is when I'm alone with you."

And he started breathing again.

"I was born sick, but I love it / Command me to be well / A-a-a-amen amen amen"

Air was rushing back into his lungs and maybe it was the way reliving that memory gave him closure, but it felt like the song was purging the preacher's burning words from where they'd branded his heart with wounds he never thought would scar-over.

Alex felt his eyes close again, letting the lyrics and the lilt of the man's voice wash over him in a cleansing baptism. His fingers began pattering against his lap, joining in with the beat, weaving him together with the music, becoming one with it.

"We've a lot of starving faithful."

He thought of himself when he was younger, sitting in church week after week begging God to fix him. He thought about the girl who bowed her head at the foot of the altar the Sunday after a lesbian couple was attacked, he thought of the way her fingers linked together like someone else's hand used to hold them, and he thought of the way she cried: silent, tears streaming down like shooting stars, her lips whispering unspoken prayers.

This song was for him, he realized. It was for him, and every moment he cried himself to sleep under his parents roof, thinking he was dirty, thinking he didn't have God's love, didn't have God's forgiveness.

It was for every time a prayer caught in his throat like a trapped butterfly, the prayers he could never bring himself to say because he was 'unworthy'.

"I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife / Offer me that deathless death / Oh good God, let me give you my life"

The lyrics seeped under his skin, replacing the lies that he had believed over the years. The lies about himself, about his faith, about his gayness-

Washed away like a world-destroying flood.

Because this song? This song was for every cold-shoulder from his parents instead of a warm hug, and it was for every time he had to watch him mom recoil from his touch, every time his father didn't quite meet his eye.

"There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin."

The first tear slipped past his eyelashes, and he heaved a shuddering sigh.

"Only then I am human / Only then I am clean."

He cried, but there was a smile on his face.

~~~

When Julie and the boys got back, the radio was long silent, but Alex still sat on the couch, tear-tracks on his cheeks and a relieved smile on his face.

He had sat there a long time, reliving moments in his life, and then letting them go, letting them be washed away. He was quiet when he was surrounded by the rest of Sunset Curve, letting himself be held by them; Julie comfortingly running her fingers through his hair, Reggie linking their fingers together and side-hugging him, and Luke tugging him halfway onto his lap. They were his family, and they loved him.

"You okay, Lex?"

Alex took a deep, slow breath, letting himself take in each of their faces, and he gave a small smile.

"Yeah, I really am."

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 8,975

Chapter Warnings: swearing, mentioned death, mild sui.cidal ideation

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur has several conversations of emotional import, and then comes face to face with his son.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Sixteen: head down

“Are you sure you’re good?” Tommy asks him.

Around them, the lava of the nether pops and crackles, the heat sticking to him like resin. Techno and Phil walk ahead of them, swords out in readiness for the odd ghast or hoglin, and Ranboo trails along behind them like a lost duckling. He could walk with them, he knows, probably should, but weariness clings to his bones today, and he doesn’t feel much up to the conversations he knows Phil might try to start. So he’s been walking a few paces to the rear, hands shoved in his pockets, but now here is Tommy, dropping back to keep pace with him.

“I’ve said it already, haven’t I?” he asks, and just an ounce of irritation leaks into his tone. “I’m fine, Tommy, I promise. And I’ve already had an earful from Phil this morning, so I don’t need you to repeat it.”

He anticipated it, of course. After his worry subsided, Phil was not particularly happy to learn that he provoked a dangerous god on purpose. He doesn’t blame him for that, but being chided like a child rankled. Still rankles.

(he doesn’t blame him, though, truly, because it is easy for some part of him at least to look at it through Phil’s eyes, and it must have terrified him, finding him slumped against the portal like that, eyes hazy and words slurring, some sliver of the infinite still hanging about him like a shroud)

“I’m not Phil,” Tommy says, seeming offended by the very prospect. “I’m not—you just scared me, Wil. And you’re still acting all out of it.” His eyes drift upward, landing around the vicinity of his forehead, and Wilbur knows he’s staring at his hair again. It makes him want to pull his beanie forward to hide it, but that would draw a different kind of attention, a different kind of concern.

(he looked in the mirror this morning. almost a third of his hair, it seems, has been bleached white, in streaks that stand out starkly against the brown. he wouldn’t mind it so much if people would stop looking at it, would stop looking at him like he’s some sort of zoo animal)

“I don’t know if you noticed, but I had kind of an eventful night last night,” he says. “I’m just tired, is all.”

Tommy’s face darkens, and he glances away. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he mutters.

“Do what?”

“That,” Tommy says, gesturing. “It’s—it’s deflection, is what it is. Puffy told me so. It’s called an avoidance tactic.” He sounds out the syllables one by one, obviously repeating something he heard. “I thought you said you weren’t going to hide shit anymore. You said.”

“I—” He breaks off, sighing. “I know. Tommy, I’m sorry. I just feel like focusing on the current problem is what we need to be doing right now. And then later we deal with all of my shit. Can’t do that if we’ve all been sacrificed to an egg cult. But I really am just tired, Tommy. Nothing more than that.”

“I feel like last time we tried to focus on the current problem and ignore all of yours, it didn’t go so well,” Tommy says, and there’s no real heat to his words, but Wilbur stops in his tracks. He’s not sure why it hits him so hard, in this moment of all moments, but it does. Perhaps his ability to emotionally distance was damaged last night, somewhere between having a god in his head and staring into the void once again. He feels raw, in a way. An exposed wire.

“Oh,” he says.

(dark walls dark walls and dark paths and no railings and he didn’t place the buttons but he may as well have for all that they were projections of him)

Tommy takes several more steps before realizing that he’s not beside him anymore, and he stops, too, turning. “Oh,” he echoes, eyes widening. “Wait, no, that wasn’t—I wasn’t trying to—shit, Wilbur, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to just bring it up like that.”

“You shouldn’t be apologizing,” he manages. “You have every right to bring it up. You’re the one who got hurt.”

(you hurt him even though you didn’t mean to, lashed out because some part of you was crying out for help and this was the only way you knew how to ask for it, so convinced were you that you deserved nothing, nothing at all, deserved to be consigned to the dark, and you didn’t mean to but you hurt him all the same)

“Nothing can hurt me,” Tommy says, probably an automatic response, but Wilbur shoots him a look, and he trails off. This doesn’t seem like the time or place to be having a conversation like this, not with the snap-pop of lava beneath and all around them and the wail of mobs in the distance, but if they’re going to have it, then let them have it. “Alright, yeah. I guess.” His eyes skitter off him for a moment, drifting to one of the closer lava pools, and then back again. “But you were hurt too, Wil.”

“That’s not an excuse,” he says.

“No, but it’s—it’s a reason, y’know? It’s an explanation. And it’s not—it’s not an excuse, I’m not trying to say it’s an excuse, but it’s still important. And I—I’ve forgiven you, really, for all of it. So this isn’t—I just don’t want things to end the same. And I’m a, a little bit freaked out lately, Wilbur, if you couldn’t tell, because this all just seems like history repeating itself. We were supposed to be done with shit like this, and then you came back and I thought to myself, here it is, here’s our second chance. But now we’re fighting Dream again, and the whole server might be taken over by now, and it’s us against the bastards in charge but that didn’t end well last time, Wilbur!”

“It’ll be different,” he offers, and his voice falls flat.

“You can’t know that,” Tommy says. “There’s no way for you to—Prime, Wilbur, I just wanted everything to stay the same.” He buries his face in his hands. “You, me, and Tubbo. Back the way we used to be. None of this shit. But Dream’s out again and Phil and Techno are here, and you know, I never wanted to see them again. Did you know that? I wanted them to stay just, just so fucking far away. But then Techno did that, in the Egg room, and Phil’s wings are all fucked, and—and I didn’t want to think they cared, Wil, I didn’t, but now they do, and it’s all messy and complicated, and I hate it, I hate it so much, and I don’t understand why I can’t ever have anything good—”

It’s nice to hear that Tommy is, perhaps, inching toward forgiving Phil and Techno. Wilbur would rather like to have a family at the end of this, even if they can never be what they once were. But the rest of that speech is what takes up his attention, and he strides forward, reaching out and gripping Tommy’s elbows.

“Hey,” he says, insistently, “no, no, that’s all wrong. You get to have good things. You haven’t had nearly as many good things as you deserve, and that’s at least partially my fault, but once this is all over, you’re going to have so many good things, you won’t know what to do with them all. But you deserve good things and you can have them, I swear, because you’re so good, Tommy, do you hear me? You’re so good. And I will make fucking sure that you get those good things if it’s the last thing I do.”

Tommy lowers his hands. His face is not tear-stained, as Wilbur half-expected, but his eyes have grown irritated, and they glimmer in the red-orange light.

“But you’re one of the good things,” he chokes out, “and you don’t even fucking want to be here. You want to leave again.”

His heart twists in on itself.

“Oh,” he says, much weaker, this time. “Tommy, I—”

What can he say to that? He’s promised himself not to lie anymore. Not to him. But he can’t give him any comfort, not regarding this, because while he feels steadier than he did at the start, more resigned to this new life he’s been

(pulled into by a god at the request of the universe)

granted, more determined to stay if only for Tommy’s sake, but that’s the thing. It is for Tommy’s sake. For the sake of all the other people who somehow seem to want him around. It is not for his own.

(he forgot how to live for his own sake a long, long time ago, and though he can at least recognize as much now, recognition does not lead him to a solution, a solution he’s not even sure he wants)

“I’m sorry,” he finishes, because it’s all he has to give, inadequate though it is, and he takes Tommy’s hands. “I’m not leaving. Not on purpose. I swear that to you. I’m not leaving.”

“You—what are you doing?” Tommy asks, and he blinks. Tommy blinks back, his face scrunching up, and he lifts their joined hands. Both of them are now stained with blue. Which—what?

Oh. Did he—he did, didn’t he? Opened up his inventory, pulled out the blue dye from days ago? Pressed it into Tommy’s hands on instinct, some drive insisting that it would help, that it would be better than nothing at all, that even if it was nothing but dye it would at least show that he cared, that he was trying?

He must have. He did. He remembers doing it now. He didn’t even think about it, moved on some natural impulse.

“I don’t know,” he says.

(calm yourself, have some blue)

(calm yourself, have some blue)

(calm yourself, have some blue)

“This is Ghostbur’s thing,” Tommy says.

“I’m not Ghostbur.”

(for his heart beats in his chest beats out alive alive alive in a way that Ghostbur’s never could, though his blood stained his sweater, and yet he has Ghostbur’s memories and if he is not Ghostbur, shares nothing with the shade, then what was the ghost, in the end, and where did he come from, if he was not)

“But Ghostbur was part of you, wasn’t he?” Tommy says, and he sounds just a bit calmer, now, so maybe the blue has helped. Even though it’s just dye. “Even if he wasn’t you you. So he’s still part of you, isn’t he?”

“I—” His heart is thundering. He doesn’t know why. “I haven’t been thinking about it. Not like that.”

(he has to keep Ghostbur separate from him has to consider him separate because the ghost was not him the ghost in all his smiles and useless platitudes and all-encompassing desire to help was not him his endless love was not him because the ghost was useless to the last but he was good and kind and he has never believed that he is any of those things so the ghost must be separate must have come from him but been separate been something else in the end and there must be nothing but faded memories to connect them)

(but you know better than that, deep down, know better than to truly believe that your kindness exists as a different entity from the rest of you because you are capable of so much if you only allow yourself if you are only given the space to grow and  to be if someone stops you from taking the world on your shoulders and the ghost was the you that broke was a you that rejected the responsibility was a you that crumbled and he was what remained but he was you he was you he was you but less and you are him but more)

(and perhaps one day you will learn to accept yourself better)

“Maybe you should,” Tommy says, and glances away. “Ghostbur tried. And he was my brother too. You’re my brother. No matter what, that hasn’t changed. Even if you’re a prick.”

Tears spring to his eyes, surprising him, and he blinks them back.

“Right,” he says. “Right, I—yeah. Okay. But Tommy, Tommy, listen to me, alright? I swear to you” —He squeezes Tommy’s hands, and watches as the blue dye runs between them. Their fingers will be stained for hours, and he finds that he doesn’t mind at all— “I will do everything in my power to make sure that good things come again. You say it’s all messy and complicated, and that’s true. I know that’s true. But we’re going to have time to figure it all out. We’re going to have time. And I’m including myself in that. I know I’m not—I’m not always the most trustworthy, I know that. But I promise, I mean this. Staying is—it’s worth it if it’s for you, alright?”

Something passes across Tommy’s face, too quick and too complicated to read. But he presses on, bringing Tommy’s hands up to his chest and keeping them there.

“We are not powerless,” he states. “History doesn’t make us, we make history. And if history is repeating itself, we don’t let it. We won’t let it. You deserve good things, Tommyinnit, and you’re going to get them.”

“If you say so, Wil,” Tommy says, and he still seems a bit discomfited, but also a bit steadier, now. A bit more secure.

“I do say so,” he says. “I’ll say it again if you need me to.”

“Please don’t,” Tommy says. “You’ve—see, look at what you’ve done, now my hands are all blue and sticky. You’ve given me sticky fingers, Wil.”

Tommy has chosen to end the moment, it seems. He’s not sure whether they’ve managed to say what needed to be said or not.

“Don’t say that to me,” he says. He squeezes Tommy’s hands one last time, and then lets go. “That makes me sound terrible.”

“Well, maybe you are,” Tommy shoots back, with a smirk that takes away any potential sting. “Live with it, bastard.” A pause, and then: “Did those arseholes even bother to wait for us? Dickheads, the lot of them. C’mon, they’ll start bitching about it if we fall too far behind.”

And then, Tommy grabs his hand himself, of his own volition, and starts to pull Wilbur along the path, cobblestone and meandering and precarious, and Wilbur’s chest feels hot, full of pressure. But it’s not quite a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all, in fact.

(he was always so cold in that ravine, no matter how he gathered his coat around him, shoved his hands in his pockets, and he watched everyone else and felt colder still, froze in the face of their flickering warmth with each other, and he turned away because he knew the warmth was not for him, that soon there would be no warmth at all)

(and the fire gave him heat but no warmth, his desired ending but no absolution)

(something you will keep to yourself: you were warm at the end, as your blood stained your father’s hands, as your vision dimmed and he held you close, so very warm at last, but it would hurt him to know that to hear from your mouth the relief you felt so you must not must not say)

The others have indeed had the decency to wait for them not too far ahead, and he nods in response to Phil’s raised eyebrow. Everything’s fine, he means to say, and Phil nods back and says nothing else about it, which he appreciates, for Tommy’s sake just as much as his. The portal isn’t far from there, and it’s not long before he’s stepping into the purple glow, closing his eyes at the dizzying upheaval of his surroundings.

The rain hits his face immediately. Thunder rolls, and wind buffets his jacket. It is a welcome change from the stifling heat of the nether, but he has to squint against the downpour, everyone else’s figures suddenly becoming shadowy, indistinct. The sky itself is dark and angry, black clouds churning, and it’s almost as if it were still night rather than early morning.

He takes another step out of the portal and almost trips. Looking down, he can’t stop his sudden inhalation. The color is dull, washed out in the lack of sunlight,

(though his mind is eager to fill in the gaps eager to show him)

but he doesn’t need the color to recognize the vine by his foot, nor any of the vines that crawl across the stone.

“Oh, fuck,” Phil says.

“We’ve been gone for a day,” Tommy says, disbelieving. “It wasn’t like this yesterday, was it?”

He cannot believe that leaving was a mistake, not with what it led to, even if the original plan was foolhardy. He does not regret the opportunity to petition a god, to make himself heard, even if it results in nothing in the end. But staring out over the landscape, the Prime Path ahead of them is choked with the things, and though the community house is little more than a vague structure in the rainy haze, it almost appears as if it’s grown hair, or tentacles, or something of that kind, so covered over with the foliage as it is.

“They’re all okay, right?” Ranboo says, his voice nearly a whisper. “They all have to be okay.”

Eret’s castle is visible from here, but just barely. He can’t tell if the vines have taken it over as well, but there’s only one way to find out.

“I think we craft some boats, cross the lake rather than going by the Prime Path,” he says. “Unless you’d like to chop your way through, but—” He glances at the ground. The vines are motionless, but he doesn’t trust that not to change.

“I have to say,” Techno says, “bein’ strangled by Egg tentacles? Not my idea of a good time.” There’s nothing on his face except his typical disgruntlement, or at least, nothing that Wilbur can see. The wind whips his hair in and out of his face, the long pink strands obscuring his expression. But there is an edge to his voice, barely discernible. It wouldn’t be, to anyone who didn’t know him well. “If boats’ll let us avoid the things, my vote’s for boats.”

Ranboo snorts, and then wilts when eyes turn to him. “It rhymed,” he offers weakly, and Tommy groans.

“Can we give Ranboo to the Egg?” he asks, and Wilbur

(doesn’t like that, not at all, even though he knows that Tommy is joking, though he knows that Tommy does not hear the Egg for some unknown, blessed reason and he’s not looking that gift horse in the mouth, but that means that Tommy doesn’t really get that it’s not a thing to make jokes about, giving someone to the Egg, to the creep and crawl of something alien and void scraping out your mind and making it something that is you but not, you but slightly tilted, diagonal, something that fits the Egg’s wants more than your own even if you don’t realize it, and he doesn’t have the energy to berate him for the quip but he really wishes he wouldn’t suggest it, even in jest, even though he knows that Tommy copes through jokes and they’re all just struggling to make it through this, really)

shakes his head. Phil’s moved closer to the stairs, so he goes to join him, picking his way through the vines as best he can, and in his peripheral vision, he sees Techno and Ranboo follow.

“Someone’s had the same idea,” Phil says, inclining his head to the nearest bit of shoreline. There is a figure clearly visible there, though they are too distant and hidden by the gloom to make out features. They’re pulling a boat ashore, and then they turn in their direction and raise a hand, making a come-hither gesture.

Lightning flashes, and thunder follows shortly thereafter. The brief instant of light is enough to illuminate Eret’s features, the curl of his hair and his ever present crown.

“Are they on our side?” Techno asks, and—did anyone remember to fill Techno in? He certainly didn’t, and he doesn’t particularly want to right now. Even just watching the monarch puts a sour taste in his mouth.

(and some of the vitriol he directs at himself, because he is cognizant of his own hypocrisy)

“Presumably,” he mutters, but Tommy’s already making his way down, waving his hands around and shouting like a bloody moron, because of course he is, because of course Tommy’s not concerned with who might hear him.

(and that, at least, has not changed, and it is a good thing that Tommy still has it in him to challenge the world, to make his presence known, because that is part of what makes Tommy himself and he does not deserve to lose that, even when it is unwise, even when it can make everything else so much more difficult)

Which is not great, because not seeing anyone else around doesn’t mean that no one is there, so the only choice from there is to go after him and make sure he doesn’t get ambushed.

“I’m glad to see you all in one piece,” Eret says, as soon as they all come within hearing range. “You as well, Technoblade.”

Techno doesn’t dignify that with a response, but Eret continues, apparently unbothered.

“We saw the activity from the portal,” he says. “I thought I’d come to escort you all. You might have noticed, but the Prime Path is not currently particularly traversable.” He smiles wryly. “You’ll be please to know that the castle grounds, however, are currently free of unwanted flora, and aside from spreading these eyesores all over the place, the Egg and its cohorts have been quiet. If we’re quick about it, I don’t see us having much issue, and to that end” —He flicks his fingers, and two more spruce boats land in the water, summoned from his inventory— “I brought these. If you’d like, we can be on our way. Might be a bit bumpy because of the storm, but it’s perfectly passable.”

“Oh, we would like,” Tommy says, clambering in without hesitation. “We would like very much. C’mon, Ranboob, in.” He tugs on Ranboo’s hand, and Ranboo all but topples into the boat beside him. Phil and Techno claim the next one, and he—

He’s going to have to ride with Eret. Brilliant.

He sighs, stepping in and settling on one of the two seats. Eret barely casts him a glance before he gets to rowing, and then they’re off, gliding across choppy water. Wilbur stares into it, watches the ripples of the raindrops as they impact the surface, studies the patterns they make rather than looking at Eret himself. But even the noise of the wind and the thunder overhead cannot disguise the note of anticipation in the atmosphere.

“I really am glad you’re back, Wilbur,” Eret says. His voice is low, carries just enough to reach him, but the noise of the rain will prevent it from drifting to the other boats. “I’d been hoping for a chance to speak to you again for—quite some time now, actually.”

He shifts, and idly wonders how many conversations like this he’s going to have to have today. He’s already worn out from speaking to Tommy in the way that he did, though at least with Eret, he doesn’t feel the need to guard his tone nearly as much.

“You were involved in trying to resurrect me a while ago,” he says. Neutral, probing. “I remember that much.”

“You—so you do have Ghostbur’s memories,” Eret says.

“Some,” he replies. “Most, I’d say. What he bothered to remember, at least. He was never very good at figuring out people’s motivations, though. Very trusting, he was. Naive. Was it guilt that drove you to help? I can’t picture what you think you would have gotten out of it otherwise.”

It’s difficult to see Eret’s expression; the weather and his glasses unite to mask the minutiae of his face.

“I suppose it was, in the end,” he says, soft and slow. “I carry a lot of regrets with me. I’m sure that’s something you know a lot about. Regrets.” He stiffens, but Eret shakes his head. “I don’t mean that as an attack. Just a statement. I doubt you could find anyone on this server who hasn’t done something they wish they could take back. But for me, betraying L’Manberg, betraying you—that’s my regret. I’ve been aimless since then.” Lightning flashes again; he’s smiling, but Wilbur knows a joyless smile when he sees one. “A throne with no power, a crown that means nothing—none of that was worth betraying my friends. I know that now. So I’ve sought redemption, tried to make amends, and I’ve tried to change. I would like to think that I have. But the one person I needed to make it up to the most wasn’t here anymore. So I suppose you could say that it was guilt, that it was selfish of me. But I wanted to be able to atone to you. That’s all there was to it, really.”

He digests that for a moment. He isn’t sure how to feel about it.

(because on one hand his heart sings traitor, sings you killed us all killed me killed my brothers killed my son, but can he say that the betrayal was worse than his? can he deny Eret his redemption when he is struggling for atonement himself, forgiveness that he is certain he does not and never will deserve?)

(he’s thought through all of this before, gone round in circles again and again, and it might be time to make a decision)

“And what would you do if I didn’t accept your atonement?” he asks. He dips a hand in the water. When he lifts it out again, it is still stained blue.

“I would keep on,” Eret answers. “I think that’s all I could do. If you never forgive me, that’s more than understandable on your end. I hardly have the right to force the issue. But I’m completely sincere when I tell you that I want to be better. I’m trying to be better. And I don’t really know whether I’ve done a good job of that lately or not. I’ve been rather absent, truth be told. But I don’t plan on stopping my efforts.”

He frowns.

“That’s fair,” he says, “though I feel like you should know that I’m hardly the type of man who can go around giving other people absolution.”

“It’s not really absolution that I’m looking for,” Eret says. “More of a chance to try again.”

He has no answer to that. And no time to give one even if he had it, because the boat runs aground, the castle looming over them all, and true to Eret’s word, the walls themselves show no signs of encroachment, though the land surrounding it almost looks like a great red rug for all that the grass itself is barely visible.

“Tubbo managed to ward the castle,” Eret says, addressing all of them. “I’m still not entirely sure how. This isn’t a kind of magic that’s familiar to me. But whatever he did, it worked, and then when Fundy got here he backed him up. He did a really good job, actually.”

“Of course he did,” Tommy says. “He’s Tubbo.”

But Wilbur’s stuck on the other thing. Said so offhandedly.

The thought has crossed his mind, of course, that he has not yet seen his son. Has not yet so much as spoken to him. But it is one thing to know it in the abstract and quite another to be confronted with it suddenly. Fundy is in the castle, is mere feet away, and he is exhausted and entirely unprepared for this.

(and what a selfish thought that is, that he is unprepared to meet with his own child, unprepared to do the bare minimum, to tell him of his return, to apologize for hanging him out to dry, how selfish it is that his child has fallen so low on his list of priorities, how selfish, how selfish, and he does not know whether he has the strength to admit it out loud)

(he is certain that he owes Fundy an apology, just as he owes so many people apologies, and yet he remembers his son burning down the flag, burning down all he held dear, carrying out Schlatt’s every order to its full extent in a way that even Tubbo did not, and Fundy claimed that he was a spy all along, that he never truly turned against him, but by that time the damage had already been done and how was he supposed to believe when he already felt so alone, already felt like the world had turned against him and his legacy was ruined so all there was left to do was send it and himself to hell)

“Can we go in?” he asks. “We’re soaked. Unless there’s a point to hanging around here. And also—have you not set anyone to stand watch?”

There’s no one visible on the walls above them, and gates only do so much to keep out an invading force.

“The enchantments keep them out,” Eret answers, and places a hand against the gates. The wood shimmers slightly, the effect just barely perceptible, and looks almost as if the gate itself is rippling, distorted, like viewing it through a fun house mirror. “Or rather, as near as we can tell, the enchantments prevent the Egg from gaining a foothold in here. Which means if it wants to continue to communicate with its people, its people have to stay out.” With that, he pushes the gates, and they swing open with a horrendous creak.

“That would hardly stop Dream,” he remarks, and Eret inclines his head, conceding the point.

“True,” he says, “but to be fair, I’m not sure that gates would do much good to that end, either, whether we’re watching them or not. Better to be as well rested as we possibly can be.”

He remembers Dream’s appearance last night, his appearance and swift disappearance, and says nothing. Eret is right, of course; the highest walls and toughest gates and sharpest watchers all mean nothing in the face of someone who can go anywhere he pleases with a thought.

“You hear that, Wil?” Phil says, just a little too loudly. “Rest. Rest is important.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” he mutters, and at the same time, Ranboo starts asking about whether these enchantments can be applied to people as well, and he lends half an ear to that conversation, because that would be very useful. Eret tells him that Tubbo’s been experimenting, but even getting the wards up around the castle was a trial, so he’s not sure when they’ll be able to do much else, or whether any other breakthroughs will be in time to be useful, even with Fundy now helping, and—

There it is again.

(he should have done this sooner, should have done this before hesitance turned to outright avoidance, and for all Phil’s faults as a parent at least he has reason for what he’s done, reason and a willingness to face them now, and that is something that he evidently lacks, and his heart is caged by his own cowardice, and he doesn’t know what to expect from this and he hates not knowing what to expect, how to plan for it)

(there is no plan in the world that will help him right now)

Eret leads them into the castle, and it is warm and well lit, but it does nothing to assuage the chill settling in his bones.

“Most everyone’s down the hall there,” Eret says, pointing, “and I think I’ve got towels somewhere if you want to dry off—”

“Forget about towels,” Tommy interrupts, “where’s Tubbo?”

“He’s set himself up on the second floor,” Eret says. “If you want, I can—”

Predictably, Tommy’s already off, his feet slapping against the floor with wet squelches.

“I think the rest of us will take you up on the towels,” Phil says. “Particularly Ranboo, you still good there?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Ranboo says. “Um, my armor protects me pretty well, so I’m good. But um, yeah, towels might still be a good idea.”

“Great. If you’ll follow me, then—”

He can put this off no longer. He grabs Eret’s arm, cutting him off.

“Is Fundy with Tubbo?” he asks.

For a moment, Eret is silent. He doesn’t particularly like the expression he’s making, somewhere between realization and pity. He does not need pity, doesn’t know what to do with it, and he especially doesn’t want it from Eret, of all people. Everyone else is silent, still, and he can feel their gazes on him like spotlights.

“Last I knew, yes,” Eret says.

“Does he know?”

He wonders if he should elaborate, but Eret doesn’t seem to need him to.

“He does. It, ah, wasn’t exactly broken to him in the softest way. Nobody was actually aware that the news needed to be broken at all, so I believe Puffy brought it up somewhere along the way here. I’m—not sure of the details.”

He doesn’t know whether that means Eret actually doesn’t know the details,

(doesn’t know how his son reacted to the return of his father, whether there was any happiness at all or just shock, perhaps betrayal, perhaps anger, perhaps perhaps perhaps he could have avoided this if he’d taken a little more responsibility from the start but now here he is and here they are)

or whether he’s sparing him them. He doesn’t know which he would prefer. If it matters.

“Alright,” he says, even if it’s the furthest thing from it. “I’ll be up there, then. Don’t wait for me.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he’s turning on his heel and following after Tommy, even though it would have been wiser to ask for the specific room. He’s not feeling very wise at the moment. If he ever was wise. He doesn’t think he can say that he’s ever had a claim to wisdom. He thought that he was wise when he was running his own country, and look where that got him. Him, and everyone else.

He climbs up the stairs. Keeps his back straight. His head held high.

(it is habit to draw on the general’s role for strength since that was when he was strongest but is that not what caused so many of the problems in the first place? the general leads, wins, considers people in terms of numbers rather than names, and personal relationships fall to the wayside)

It’s the same room that he found Tommy and Tubbo talking in yesterday. The same room where he lingered outside the door rather than moving on, absorbing words that were not meant for his ears, old hurts that have their roots in him and his actions, that he is not sure he will ever be able to heal, to make up for. For a moment, he allows himself to do the same thing, stands just outside and listens to their voices. They’re easier to hear; the door hangs open rather than closed, likely from Tommy’s entry. Their voices overlap, Tommy talking over Tubbo and then vice versa as they both try to explain what’s happened in their day of separation, and Fundy—

Fundy is there, too, chiming in every now and again. He sounds—Wilbur isn’t sure how he sounds. Pleased to be talking to the other two, perhaps. Beyond that, he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know.

(it’s a question you must ask yourself, whether you know your son at all, because you remember all too clearly cradling him in your arms and holding him close and vowing to protect him to see him safe no matter the cost but he grew older as children do and the cost was too steep too steep to pay for you looked at him and saw a child still for though he grew up too quickly he did grow up and your heart was too weak to accept it so is there any wonder that he came to resent you came to chafe under the watch of a man who could not see him for who he was and who he tried so hard to be)

(is there any wonder that he would go to such lengths to escape your shadow)

He steps forward. That’s all it takes, to be standing in the doorway. And there he stays, arrested by the sight in front of him.

The room is intended to be a guest bedroom, clearly. There is a large, plush bed, several items of furniture: a dresser, a nightstand, a desk and several chairs, bookshelves along one wall. But the desk goes unused; books and papers are scattered across the floor, apparently without order or reason to the arrangement. Tommy has situated himself on the bed, still dripping with rainwater, bouncing up and down and wildly gesticulating as he talks—he’s saying something about the god, now, and how it’s such a shame that he didn’t get to talk to it, because he would’ve gotten them to help in no time at all—and Tubbo is talking at the same time, whenever he can get words in, shoving old papers in Tommy’s face and explaining what they mean, as if Tommy will understand any of it. Fundy brought these materials with him, evidently, brought all the dreamon-hunting things that remained in his possession according to the rapid-fire words out of Tubbo’s mouth, and Fundy is there. He’s there. Sitting on the floor, three books open in front of him, watching Tommy and Tubbo with rapt attention, jumping in whenever Tubbo needs help explaining something, and asking Tommy questions in the same breath.

He stands there. Watching. They all seem so comfortable with each other. It feels wrong to disturb that.

But—

“—and his hair’s gone all weird now,” Tommy is saying, and he winces. “I’ll bet he’s not telling us everything that happened. Hair doesn’t just do that. It looks so fucking weird, but not like, bad weird, you know? I guess that’s what you get for shouting at god, am I right, fellas? Though if I were to shout at god, god simply would not be able to do anything to me, as I am too cool and powerful.”

“That—why does that sound like something he would do? Yelling at a god. Of course he did, that—” Fundy mutters, and Wilbur has no hope of interpreting his tone. “But he’s, like—he’s okay? And he’s here?”

“Yeah, he’s—” And Tommy happens to glance at the door. They lock eyes. “Um. Here. Hi, Wilbur.”

Tubbo turns to look. Fundy does as well, raising his head sharply and visibly flinching in the same motion, and Wilbur thinks that his heart flinches, too. If hearts can flinch. They can certainly stutter. Perhaps that’s close enough.

“Hello,” he says. Inadequate. Completely inadequate.

“Oh, you’re right,” Tubbo says after a second. “It does kind of look weird, but not bad weird. Just sort of interesting. Neat. Hi, Wilbur, did you have a good time yelling at god?”

Tubbo has a unique kind of frankness. It’s refreshing, and he appreciates the effort to alleviate the tension. If that’s even what he’s doing.

“I don’t know if good is the word I’d use,” he says. “It happened. It was a thing. Have you had a good time doing magic? If that’s the term?”

As he speaks, Fundy rises to his feet. Slow, cautious.

“Yeah, that’s the word,” Tubbo says. “It’s been going really well, actually. I wasn’t sure if I’d remember how to do any of this stuff, but Fundy brought all of the books with him when Puffy brought him over, so that’s been really helpful. There’s still nothing in here about killing the thing, but we’ve kept looking. There’s probably plenty of other useful stuff. Actually, that reminds me.” He turns back to Tommy. “I wanted to show you how we protected the whole castle. You probably saw some of the enchantments on your way in, but it’s really cool, come on.” He tugs on Tommy’s hand, and Tommy allows himself to be led, and before Wilbur can react, they’re brushing past him on their way out of the room. “See you in a bit, Wilbur!”

He glances after them, and then back into the room. The room where Fundy now stands, alone.

Tubbo definitely knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Hi, Fundy,” he says.

“Hey, Wil,” Fundy answers.

He looks older than Wilbur remembers, even through Ghostbur’s relatively new perception. But then, Ghostbur would not have noticed the new lines carved into his face, the bags beneath his eyes, his fidgeting, closed-off demeanor. He’s shifted into a more human form for the moment, though fox ears stick out from underneath his hat; that, at least, has not changed. He is capable of appearing fully human, but he scarcely ever does. Wilbur always thought that it was a way of staying connected to a mother that he barely got to know.

But perhaps that’s not it at all. Perhaps he shouldn’t presume anything.

“So,” Fundy says, after a long stretch of silence. “You’re, um. You’re back.”

“I’m back,” he agrees.

(the awkwardness is like a rock settled in his throat and it shouldn’t be this way shouldn’t be this way at all but they’re in too deep and it’s all gone too far and some of the last words he spoke to his son were to disown him and he still doesn’t know whether he truly meant it or not in that moment but that hardly matters when the words were said regardless of the intent)

“Right,” Fundy says. “Right. And you’ve been back for a while. Tubbo said it’d been a couple of weeks.”

Is that right? He thinks back, calculating, and decides it must be.

“I suppose it has been,” he says, and that is his cue to follow up with an apology, but the words get caught in a vice, squeezed and choked to nothingness, and silence falls between them again. Fundy shifts his weight back and forth between his feet, his eyes darting to and fro, never landing on his face for very long.

“Okay,” he says at length. “I guess—I don’t really know what else I expected.”

It’s bitter and sarcastic and resigned all at once. He winces.

“Fundy—”

“I mean, I guess I knew,” Fundy continues. “I knew that I wouldn’t—that you wouldn’t come for me if you ever came back. So it’s—I mean, it’s fine, Wil. I don’t even need you, anyway. I’ve been doing really well on my own. So it doesn’t matter.”

“That’s not—”

“But it is, though, isn’t it? You could’ve—you could’ve come and found me, right? I wasn’t that far.” His voice has lowered in volume, as if he’s talking to himself more than he is to him. “I wasn’t that far, so you could’ve—but you didn’t, and that’s kind of par the course, isn’t it? For you to come back to—back to life, and not even send me a message. But I guess nobody else did, either. It’s fine.”

The vice releases, torn apart by his mounting desperation.

(too little, too late)

“I’m sorry, Fundy,” he says. “I should’ve told you sooner.”

“Okay then, why didn’t you?” Fundy replies, and his tone rises in pitch again, becoming high, almost frantic.

There are so many ways he could reply. He could say that it slipped his mind. That would be damaging, hurtful, would ruin any hope of fixing their relationship, but it would be at least partially the truth; he thought about it, but infrequently, and he always dismissed it as a task to be tackled later. He could say that he wanted to take it slow. That would be slightly more of a lie, though not a complete falsehood; interacting with the other people of the server, especially in the first few days, has come far less easily to him than it once did. It probably says something that he includes his own son in that assessment.

He could say that he’s a coward. That, perhaps, would be the most truthful of all.

(for in many things you are not the coward that you think you are but in this in this it is true is apt because you know you hurt him sorely did the one thing that a parent should never do to a child caused him so much pain and you knew it and you know it and you could not face him could not bring yourself to own up to it and that is cowardice to not face this fault of yours as you have faced the others that is cowardice and cowardice can be overcome and it is not the end is not a death blow but call it what it is for it is cowardice and if you are to make up for it you must face the flaw in yourself without the gilded lies)

“I wanted you to come back,” Fundy says, and he realizes he’s taken far too long to respond, and Fundy’s expression has fallen. “I wanted you back so damn badly, even if I was never really sure why. I guess maybe I hoped that if you came back you’d start to care about me again.”

“I do care about you,” he manages, his voice a weak, pathetic thing. “I do care, Fundy.”

(and he wants to say my little champion my little champion if you believe nothing else then believe this believe that I love you and I always have even in the midst of all my darkness even as I fell I could not despise you no matter what I said I have loved you always even though I failed you I love you please do not doubt)

(he doesn’t say it)

“I want to believe you,” Fundy says. “But see, the thing is, if I do, it’ll turn out that you’re lying to me. Either that, or you’ll change. You—that’s what you do. And I need you—I need you to make up your mind, whether you care about me or not, because I can’t keep doing this. And I’m so—I’m pissed, Wilbur, really, I am. You blew up my home.”

There is no excuse that will provide an escape from this.

“I did.”

(an ending a denouement a grand finale and it was your symphony forever unfinished but you forgot that others made up the orchestra and you forget it still though you are reminded sometimes in the shadows in Tommy’s eyes and the chips in Tubbo’s horns and now in the tremor in your son’s voice as he tells you what you took from him what you stole when you made an ending of it all and it was yours but it was not yours alone)

Fundy jerks back, as if he hadn’t expected him to say it so starkly.

“Just like that, huh?” he says.

“I—”

“You know what?” Fundy says, overriding him. “I don’t really want to hear it right now. I’m so done with this. I’ll see you later. I guess.”

He steps forward, and

(an image: Fundy tottering toward him on chubby, unsteady legs, toddler’s face in a wide open, gap-toothed smile, Fundy running toward him to show him his new redstone invention, child’s face beaming in pride, Fundy sprinting toward him and trailing a flag behind him, grinning and victorious, and they have done it, they have done it, the nation is theirs and all will be well, and his son will be safe, and he wraps Fundy up in his arms and hugs him, holds him safe and close, his child, his beloved child)

he is frozen as Fundy steps past him and out of the doors. And he is frozen as he listens to his footsteps retreat, at a walking pace at first and then quicker and quicker as they fade, as Fundy runs from him. He stares into an empty room, and he is

(cold)

frozen.

“So, I’m guessing that didn’t go so well.”

It’s what he needs. An out, a way to cover over the churning mess of emotions in his chest, a road past all of that and right into exasperation, irritation.

“Shut the fuck up, Schlatt,” he says, pulling together all the shreds of composure that remain to him. “Where have you been?”

“Around,” Schlatt says, and drifts into view. He has the ability to go straight through him, but Wilbur notes that he doesn’t, that he dodges around him in the space left open in the doorway to come in front of him, surveying the papers in the room apathetically. “I keep going to do stuff and forgetting that I fucking can’t. Came here after whatever the fuck that was last night. You wanna give me an explanation there? I’m not pining away so much that I’m hallucinating your face, gorgeous as it is.” He pauses. “Your hair looks fucking stupid, by the way. It’s also wet, in case you didn’t know that.”

He feels some of the tension drain from him. This, at least, is familiar ground. Barbed words and sarcastic compliments, their old song and dance. He can exist in this space for a few minutes. Wrestle his emotions back under control.

“Thanks,” he says dryly. “If you really want to know, I spoke to a god and got shown some of the secrets of the universe, so that’s probably what that was.”

Schlatt pauses. “Is that all,” he says, in a half-laughing, half-incredulous tone that indicates he has no idea what to do with that.

He tilts his head, and wonders what else he should tell him. Because he saw him, there, of that he is sure, saw him while he was caught between the starlight and the void, as the god wound him back up and returned him to his body. He saw Schlatt, and more than that, he saw

(or felt, perhaps, because he was without eyes, and felt is not the right word either but it is closer, closer)

the connection between them, binding them together like a cat’s cradle, the threads of their existence tangled up in each other, and he is certain, now, of why Schlatt is here as well, why Schlatt is here but not solid. Because the god reached and the god grabbed and the god pulled, and the god pulled more than they meant to but less than they ought to have done, and this is the result: one man resurrected and the second tugged along, unintentionally and thus set adrift, tied to the first but with no form of his own.

Schlatt is mixed up in this through no fault of his own,

(for once)

when Wilbur knows that he, like him, would rather have remained in the void. So he sighs, and reaches along the tether, reaches along the rope that connects them soul to soul, and it is easy to find now, easy to touch upon with intention now that he knows what it is, why it is there.

(now that the universe hums in the back of his mind, now that he can hear the stars’ song, just barely beyond his conscious perception)

Schlatt lets out a surprised grunt as his feet hit the floor, and he staggers, almost losing his balance. Right away, Wilbur can feel the drain on his own energy, his lifeforce, perhaps, and now he knows the reason for that, too—Schlatt has none of his own, so to be made present and real, he must share his, must send it down the line, and a few days ago, he would have struggled to figure out how to do that. But now, it feels like the simplest thing in the world. For a time, at least.

“I’m willing to chat about it for a bit,” he says, and Schlatt stares at him, flexing his fingers.

“Holy shit,” he says. “So can you just—do this now?”

He bares his teeth. Schlatt will take it for a challenge.

“Let me tell you about it,” he says, and Schlatt arches a brow. But he stays, standing amongst the papers and the mess.

This is something familiar. This is a half hour of conversation that is charged in an entirely different way. This is someone with whom he shares a bitter past, and likely a bitter future, but he doesn’t have to watch himself, doesn’t have to wonder what wounds he’s caused him, doesn’t have to confront anything within himself.

He’s self-aware enough to realize that he’s running away, a bit, with this. Seeking a distraction. Trying to banish the look on Fundy’s face from his mind. But the others will survive without him for a few more minutes, and even besides, Schlatt offers him something that he wants, that he needs. Schlatt will listen to him, and he will judge him, but he will not pity him.

So Wilbur tells Schlatt about meeting a god.

[decennia]

Ok I just gave up catching up on my dash full stop because Clementine and George and Wildest Dreams got my brain like this:

I feel I desperately need to make an OC for George but he is YOUR precious lol

So instead while I'm here, give me and I mean GIVE all your George and Clementine headcanon

SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG I WAS FINISHING UP SOME GIFS ✨

First things first, that image lives in my mind rent free.

Second things second, please create an OC for George holy shit please yes?! George has already been romantically (or at least sexually, because Sable is a hoe) linked to Ellis Grant from @chlobenet (nothing ever came of it, George developed an infatuation and was perpetually rebuffed by our Lord and Saviour Miss Grant), @perfectlystiles' Laurel Chase, and @randomestfandoms-ocs' Reese Masrani. It is my goal to accumulate enough George Cassidy romantic interests that I can make a Wives of Henry the Eighth edit, so literally go nuts. Everyone, Create An OC To Thirst Over George Cassidy Challenge!

The best thing about George and the other Corpsemen is that the only thing that makes them Jurassic World OCs is that they happen to be hired there. It is by no means their entire story, and although they've been around for literally three days (?!) I keep thinking of more and more things about them and I keep building their backstories to the point where dinosaurs are literally the least craziest thing they've experienced.

If I were to sum up Clem and George's relationship in a gif, though:

(This got hella out of hand so keep reading under the cut if you want to know more about George and Clementine.)

A brief history on George "Sable" Cassidy and Clementine "Calico" Roscoe:

He is known as "George" to his friends, and "Cassidy" to his enemies. "Sable" when he's on the job, and "hers" when they're alone.

But it wasn't always like that. I'm not going to bore you with the details about George's fatherless upbringing, or his reasons for joining the British military, or how he'd always been a bit of a troubled kid. Where his story really begins is when he directly disobeys orders and murders the military hostages who were responsible for the attack on his unit. He is dishonourably discharged, and is sent back to the U.K. to await trial for murder and treason.

He manages an escape and goes dark; during which time, Clementine Roscoe, an agent at Interpol, is assigned his case. Unfortunately, after a year of searching (one close call where he was literally within breathing distance of Roscoe ) and a thousand too many mistaken sightings after that, the case goes cold, and she is assigned another case, one which results in the death of her entire family.

Clementine resigns from her position after she is denied leave to pursue the murderers, and spends the next few years methodically hunting down and executing the list of people she knew to be responsible. It was enough to impress Malcolm Drake, who located and recruited her into the Corpse Corporals (aka Gucci Suicide Squad).

All this time, Cassidy had been residing in Southern Africa, making a hefty living as a poacher under ever-changing pseudonyms (I had to make y'all understand that Sable is a bad man but y'all be forgiving Tom for murder and incest so here we are but honestly did it even work because here I am, being fooled, alongside you 😭). He runs a pretty decent operation, also dabbling in the smuggling of weaponry, and he lives a comfortable life. That is, until he is betrayed by his business partners (a brother-sister duo, FCs Megan Fox and Aidan Turner? Idk, still debating) and pushed out of the business under threat of death.

He is rescued by Malcolm, who has managed to track him down, and in exchange for his life spared, he agrees to work for Malcolm. His reunion with Clem is incredibly tense, with both of them pulling their guns on each other and refusing to work together. Malcolm snaps some sense into them (that, and the sum of the payload which had so many 0's added to the end, you couldn't be sure what the number really was other than "a lot") and they swallow their pride and work together.

They would continue to work together as Calico and Sable for the years to come, and when I say it is a slow burn, I do mean THE SLOWEST OF THE SLOW. But there is definitely a fuck ton of sexual tension thrown in there for angst, and a couple of near brushes with death (hazard of the job, really).

George is a prolific man whore, and he's bisexual and proud. So Clem has gotten used to an endless slew of people of all genders cumming coming and going from his hotel room, especially during the long cons where the Corpsemen go deep undercover for months at a time (Hector doesn't come on those jobs, he's got a family to worry about. He taps out at a month, max, if he doesn't get to leave to see his family).

George Cassidy is not a man who is used to not getting what he wants, but Clementine Roscoe is the only exception to that rule. He has come to view her as "unobtainable," this irreverent forbidden thing that he must not ruin. By the time the heat of their mutual hate had dissipated, it had turned into a friendship, and although there was an undeniable electric tension between them, they have never done anything about it. But it has that "will definitely be the best sex of your life" kinda energy.

They fight quite a lot, and disagree on almost everything. Have they tried to kill each other? Oh, absolutely. But they're also professionals, and although Clementine and George may be going at it, it never bothers Malcolm, because he knows that Calico and Sable will put those differences aside and do the damn job.

Clem only involves herself in George's sex life when it comes to people who she considers friends. She has the warnings already mentally scripted, because the thing about George Cassidy is that he cares about no one but himself, and nothing but his holy trinity: blood, money, and sex. He's an emotionally devoid sociopath at the best of times, and at the worst, he's a well oiled and dangerous killing machine.

He is not a good man, Clementine knows, but sometimes, you don't want a good man.

I have a gifset in store involving the two of them, and I'm busy compiling a list of headcanons as we speak. If you want, I can tag you in it :)

But this is everything about their past and a bit of their present, so if you want to create an OC please do and tag me so I can write up a crossover and make some gifs 💕

(And before anyone comes for me, yes, I am aware of the fact that George "Sable" Cassidy is a very toxic and fucking despicable man, I created him, and I made him that way. I am not condoning his actions, nor would I want to be in a relationship with him in real life, but this is fiction. It is not meant to be taken seriously, if you don't like my hot mercenary boyfriend, then please unfollow me, because he is my current obsession, and I cannot promise that I will not be thirsting for him on my TL at any and all hours).

[hotchley]

masterlist

sumayyahwritesthings : my original writing blog. follow for my opinions, thoughts and non-cm related thing. also, to see my face!

the heartbreaker’s handbook : (my novel on wattpad!) eros academy is a school for nobles. where the children are split into heartbreakers and heartbroken and that title determines the rest of your life. tristan is a boy who wants nothing more than to fulfil his duty. camilla is a girl that wants to destroy everything he stands for. who survives?

fanfics

heavy is the head that wears the crown : (oneshot) six times aaron hotchner held it together and one time he didn’t

i’m not bulletproof : (oneshot) aaron hotchner has a bad day, but luckily, david rossi is there to remind him he is loved

hotchner’s hoodie: (oneshot) the story behind the blue hoodie everyone loves in @themetaphorgirl‘s patronsaint verse

the waiting game: (oneshot) hotch is the one that ends up in the hospital at the end of the fisher king. the team wait for him to wake up, and gideon thinks about the last time this happened.    the alternate ending (in response to a tumblr ask)

aaron: (multichapter, in progress) “some of us grow up to catch them.” aaron hotchner’s backstory, the cases that got to him the most and the episode dealing with all of this that we never got 

and he will come back home : (oneshot) six times out of many that aaron hotchner realised that we start and end with family because they love us, no matter what happens

i swear i lived : (oneshot) hotch thinks of the best memories that he made with the team in order to ground himself because they’re his family and whenever he thinks of them, the world seems a bit brighter    the alternate ending (in response to a tumblr ask)

forgiveness : (oneshot) after haley’s death, hotch finds himself in a church, but he doesn’t think that forgiveness should ever be granted to someone like him

those three stupid words : (oneshot) aaron hotchner has never been good at saying the words i love you, but sometimes his son needs to hear them. but what happens when hotch can’t?

mayhem : (oneshot) an alternate look at the season four premiere, in which kate and aaron’s roles are reversed and she’s the one trying to keep him alive as he bleeds out over the two of them    the alternate ending

do they even know : (oneshot) aaron is finally happy. with himself and in his relationship. but what happens when members of the team start receiving envelopes containing notes and photos exposing his darkest secrets and biggest fears, and all the evidence points to one person?

so why can’t you see (you belong with... each other?) : (multichapter, in progress) five times a member of the bau tried to set up mom and dad- hotch and rossi- and the one time someone succeeded part one, part two

the baby hotchner au

internal monologues : when they first see baby hotchner. featuring, the bau, jack, strauss and everybody’s favourite, grant anderson!

the first christmas : the bau celebrate christmas with baby hotchner. featuring: a tree, some angst and spencer reid being good with children as well as little hotch having an accent and just general fluff

random headcanons : just things that may or may not be turned into drabbles at some point in time

nicknames : just what everyone calls hotch 

emily and aaron : after a day at the park, emily carries hotch and looks like his mom

birthday : some headcanons about what happens on hotch’s 9th birthday, which is the first one he has with the team as a child

scolded : dave is annoyed at other things and accidentally snaps at hotch. tears are shed, fears are quashed and comfort is provided

misc : things that are tagged with the baby hotchner au but don’t necessarily warrant a whole link

drabbles

dad and mom : the bau celebrate father’s day with rossi and then mother’s day with hotch. just cute team fluff with a dash of hotch doubting whether or not the team love him

preparations : hotch was always prepared for jack to grow up without a father and that is what he had planned for. he’d never thought it’d be haley that was missing.

bitter relief : as the love of his life walked away, hotch was hit with a bitter relief that he would never even have the chance to become his father.

acceptance : hotch and haley in highschool. when hotch saves haley from being attacked, her father realises a few things

because no is a complete sentence : hotch teaches kid spencer that he’s always allowed to say no. written because @m0rcia is amazing and helped me get over my writer’s block

the thing about hotch and death : not entirely sure what this is, but the team think about hotch dying. so does jack. so does hotch.

a hotchniss thing : a random piece that may or may not be hotchniss that came from the scene in season three where emily told hotch that she needed to know she could be human

a grudge : years in the future, the child of an unsub aaron put away goes after the only family he has left (written in response to an ask)

seven : hotch and haley in highschool. when she goes to hug him from behind, she realises that she should have known better because she knows what his father is like

the love he deserves : aaron hotchner believes his life is expendable, but the lives of his team are indispensable. the team don’t agree, and they want him to understand that

cold : tomorrow he will act like nothing ever hurts him and he will pretend to be fine, and he will let everyone view him as cold, but tonight he will shed the armour that is hotch and let himself be aaron.

when death finally comes : hotch dies. that’s literally it.

healing 

a short thing about how each member of the bau helped hotch to heal after the events of 100

part one : spencer

the conversations series

basically just conversations that were robbed of on the show that live rent free in my head

the slave of duty- aaron and dave : after the end scene in the graveyard, dave takes aaron back to his apartment and they talk

headcanons

hotch’s tiktok 

teenage hotch/haley things 

how the team found out about hotchniss : scenario number one

random hotch ones

hotch and jack

happy 49th birthday aaron hotchner!

the bau as things i have done in school 

conversations that would happen if i was member of the bau : i’m a british gen z-er, so you know.

things the bau do to hotch (that just make sense)

the bau as taylor swift songs

things that happened when hotch first joined the bau 

some wholesome hotch ones 

hotch and singing

making hotch blush

some kinda terrible angsty hotchniss ones

cute hotch/rossi ones

how the bau find out about mortch

hotchniss love languages

hotch and morgan (platonically if you want) cuddling on the jet home

wholesome hotchniss 

dave and emily at jack’s school

hotch and jack at the archaeological museum

the taylor swift playlists for various cm ships things 

i’m going to be completely honest, i’m not sure this should be going on here, but i want it to so it is

hotchley

morehotchcontent2020 (hosted by @ablogofthecriminalmindsvariety)

day one: dad hotch : a lazy day with jack

day two: whump : held hostage/hurt on the job

day three: tooth rotting fluff : a cooking lesson/”i love you more.” “impossible.”

day four: family drama : an argument with jack

day five: kisses : counting kisses

day six: rocky relationship : missed anniversary/a big fight

day seven: sick fic : “i’m fine.” “you have a fever of 102, that’s not fine.”/tummy rub/fever

[magioftheseas]

Rain, Rain

Summary: Hanako is joined by Tsukasa on one rainy day.

Rating: PG

Warnings: None really aside from off-handed mentions of murder.

Notes: This was part of a pitch for the Twin Stars Zine (which is for sale rn and you should totes buy it) but went with something else. I thought it’d be fun to finish this fic anyway! Please enjoy!

***Alternate Ao3 Link***

Commission? Donate?

It’s quite the shower today, so Yashiro has elected to skip. According to that boy, she’s very apologetic and swears to make up for the lost time. Given that the storm is going to continue until tomorrow and Tsuchigomori says that class will likely be canceled as a result... Well, he can’t say he’s happy, but he also has no real choice but to accept it.

Still, it’s lonely. Even with the mokke huddled in corners, clinging to leaves.

“Rain, rain,” they chant. “Go away!”

“Come again another day,” Hanako mutters tiredly and irritably. In a moment of spite, he opens the windows to welcome the downpour. The mokke squeal and scatter and even if he’s scolded, what’s going to happen? Hanako harrumphed as the thunder crudely boomed back. “Isn’t the earth hard enough?!”

The rain blows in, piercing straight through him and pitter-patter smattering against the floor. There’s no sensation, but he still ends up startling himself.

Ah, right, he thinks as he recoils. Back then, Tsukasa and I—

“Amane!”

He’s lying prone on the ground, only barely managing to not sink straight through. There are little splashes, and then Tsukasa looms over him.

“Amane!” he exclaims, wide-eyed before grinning. “Did you summon me?”

“Not intentionally,” was all Hanako had to mutter. His eyes rolled back with a groan, wishing the bathroom would melt away into his boundary. It’d be easier that way, even with Tsukasa there. Alas. He still lets out a heavy sigh, looking up at his counterpart warily. “So, what are you doing?”

“Standing,” Tsukasa replied cheekily. He nudges Hanako’s cheek playfully with his foot. “Unlike you, lazy Amane. Lazy, lazy.”

The tip of his shoe digs into the seal, and Hanako swipes at him for that. Swinging his arm and knocking into Tsukasa’s knees. Tsukasa retreats, but he still floats overhead with that wide-eyed stare.

“Amane’s in a bad mood.”

“I’m not in the mood to be jerked around,” Hanako hissed. “If you don’t have any business, then leave.”

He doesn’t speak like Amane at all—because he’s not Amane. He’s Hanako. Seventh of the seven wonders. The leader, in fact. He’s not...

“Amane. Amane.” Tsukasa kneels before him, blinking those wide, moon-bright eyes. “What a bad mood. It’s bad. Bad to take your bad mood out on other people.”

That’s something Amane used to say all the time. The fact that Tsukasa remembers is enough to get Hanako pathetically deflating.

“I know...” He hangs his head. “I know. Sorry, Tsukasa.” It’s annoying how easily Tsukasa makes him meek. It’s aggravating how difficult it is to discard Amane when his brother’s around. Hanako sighed, more disappointed with himself than anything. “You’re right. Feeling bad doesn’t excuse acting badly.”

“I forgive you!” Tsukasa chirped cheerfully. “I’ll always forgive you, Amane! After all, you’re not a bad person!”

Somehow, he had a hard time believing that from the kid that Amane murdered.

“Even if you killed me!” Tsukasa exclaimed next as if reading his mind. Well. He likely just read his face. They had the same face so reading it came to Tsukasa so easily.

How annoying.

“It’s so sad that Amane’s so sad,” Tsukasa went on, all wide-eyed innocence and pure curiosity. “Why are you sad, Amane? Oh!” Just like that, a mischievous grin flashed across that innocent face. “It’s because Nene-chan isn’t here! Yeah, she’s definitely not here! I asked Mitsuba and—he said she skipped! Skipped because she didn’t want to be a fish!”

Hanako sighed, louder and harder and more aggrieved than before.

Tsukasa...hasn’t really changed at all. In some respects.

That was really annoying. Hanako would give anything to throw Amane off his back. To tear Amane into shreds until not a single clingy remnant could remain. Tsukasa acted as if he was perfectly fine with himself. Tsukasa didn’t even want to be called Hanako.

...hm.

“Hanako-san, Hanako-san,” he said slowly. “Would you grant me my wish?”

Tsukasa stared at him.

“Stop the rain,” he said. “Hanako-san.”

Tsukasa’s head tilted.

And, then—

“I can’t control the weather, Amane. Quit being silly.” Tsukasa smacked him for being silly. “Also! I’m Tsukasa! Tsukasa!”

Hanako sighed again.

“Yeah, that was silly,” he agreed, supposing he should be grateful nothing came from it. “I just thought to see if it would work with you.”

“You didn’t have to ask,” Tsukasa pointed out. “We’re brothers, right?”

Despite their mirroring selves, Hanako still sometimes wondered about that. But no matter how much he pondered it, in his heart of hearts, he would only ever think of Tsukasa as his younger twin brother.

That he murdered.

Yashiro helps me feel like a person. Tsukasa helps me feel like the person I used to be.

“Amane, Amane. The window.” Tsukasa drifts past him. Their shoulders bump, causing Hanako to flinch but Tsukasa just goes to the window without a care. The rain passes through him, and Hanako is seized with a memory of two brothers watching the stormy skies from under the portico.

Tsukasa used to run out into the rain if he didn’t physically hold him back. Tsukasa would twirl around and laugh even as Amane yelled that he’d get a cold the next day, which he always did. Tsukasa never really learned.

But the Tsukasa of now just shuts the window without missing a beat.

“It’s bad to let the rain in!” Tsukasa exclaimed cheerfully. “It’ll get the wood all moldy! That’s not good for Nene-chan, right?”

“No,” Hanako whispered. “Yashiro would—hate that.”

Aha. Haha. Why...?

“Why do you have that expression, Amane?” Tsukasa asks him, innocent and curious once more.

I was just thinking that he hadn’t changed so...

For some reason, he was upset.

“Ah! Amane’s all shaken up!” Tsukasa drifts towards him. His hand reached out, but before Hanako can recoil, his head is already being patted. “There, there! There, there! Or? Is Amane sick?”

“I can’t get sick like this,” Hanako grumbled. “When it comes to supernaturals...”

“Oh, so Amane is sad!” Tsukasa patted him again. “There, there! There, there!”

It’s rough and clumsy. It’s just like before.

Hanako ended up sniffling. He didn’t feel the heat in his cheeks as he would had he been Amane, but he’s sure his voice is disgustingly bloated all the same as tears brim in his eyes.

“There, there. There, there,” Tsukasa repeats, patting him more and more. Clumsy, dutiful Tsukasa. He had always been so bad at reassuring people, but Amane never held that against him. If anything, he was just grateful that Tsukasa tried anyway.

Tsukasa’s wiping the tears from his face now. Using his fingers and the ends of his sleeves.

“Rain, rain,” Tsukasa says and waves his hands. “Go away!”

“It’s pain, pain, fly away,” Hanako mutters lowly, but he takes Tsukasa’s hands, holds them close to himself, and squeezes tight. “Pain, pain, fly away.”

“Pain, pain, fly away,” Tsukasa repeated. Clumsily. Dutifully. Grinning as Hanako stared him down. Without another word, Hanako tugged at his hands.

The request was silent, and yet. Tsukasa understood.

Tsukasa perked up, bright and radiant as he pressed up against him, happily nuzzling into his shoulder.

“Pain, pain, fly away,” Tsukasa mumbled giddily into Hanako’s neck. “Rain, rain, go away.”

“Come again another day,” Hanako droned.

The rain didn’t let up at all.