#music room fic

[pa-pa-plasma]

[kettlefire]

Time forgets most (DPxDC)

I've been getting too many brain worms that I need to clear out the cramp space that is my idea vault. In doing so, I'm just posting off-handed, random things I've typed up at work. (Partly so my drafts don't just end up like my vault). Without further ado, a much too too long post

°•°•°•°

The movement of time is a much too complex thing for many to understand. The knowledge that time was not perfectly linear. The past did not simply stay in the past. The future is not simply something to look forward to. The present is not simply a fleeting moment.

Time is a complex web. Every point in time, connected to another point in time. A never-ending mess of webs and connections. Things that are to be. Things that can be. Things that are being. Things that will never see the light of day in this universe.

Despite what some may want to believe, Time has no master. Time does not yield to any singular being. That did not mean that Time didn't need a helping hand. A guiding hand to help keep the chaos of time to something just a little more... fluid.

The being came to exist well before the universe had. The being was festered, taught, and nurtured in a small pocket dimension. A small space just like an incubator.

Until the world blossomed around it. Life started to grow. Time kept moving. Living organisms found untimely deaths. Evolved, learned, and grew into the new space around it.

When the first little creature crawled out of the water, Time's keeper was let free. A bumbling little thing, breaming with life and curiosity.

Just like everything else in the world, this keeper wasn't safe from time. It still moved. Brought forth problems and adventures.

As time continued to tick. Moving in every direction, the keeper continued to age. Unlike the rest of the universe, the keeper didn't age the same as others.

Some days, he was nothing but a small boy, frolicking in a field of flowers and bees. Other days, he was a strong middle-aged man. Pulling the strings in just the right way, pushing for a timeline that felt right.

On days that have been happening much more often. He was but a crippled old man, hunched over his staff, and dropping much needed wisdom on the young lives around him.

Being the keeper of time wasn't an easy feat. Being completely out of time, experiencing things in broken order. There was only a clear start, and a jumble of things that followed.

The keeper was content with his life. Watching over the world as it grew and blossomed. He was content with his special kind of solitude.

That was until he saw the boy. In the webs of moments, the keeper's gaze had found him. A boy much too young, suddenly with powers much too great thrusted upon him.

The keeper watched the scenes play out. The tears, laughter, humiliation, triumph, and pain. He watched as the boy's family was ripped from him. Watched the twisted attempt at fixing his life, only for it to go horribly wrong.

He watched the bloodshed and chaos that erupted. The lives ripped apart and destroyed. Not a single sign of life left behind.

Then he watched as the boy, no, not a boy anymore. The keeper watched as the monster tore through the fabric of time. Ripped its way through the thin veils that divided the universes.

Universes that had never known the boy's existence were torn to shreds to. A flight driven with pain and anger.

Despite the keeper having seen the boy turn into such a monster. He could see it in the beast's eyes. The deep-seated need for a family, a life. To be loved.

Something about the boy's life, his story, spoke to the keeper. He found himself reaching out into the web of lives and moments. Finding the moment when things went the most wrong for the boy.

Just like that, the keeper had inserted himself into a life. He pulled the boy out of the cruel stream of time. Filled the boy with the knowledge he needed. Let the boy see just what could happen if he let it.

The keeper of time was soon a simple mentor. A simple deity looking out for the world. Taking on the mantel of Clockwork and finding a new purpose for his life.

A young boy's life has been flipped upside down two times now. And there were certainly more to come. This time, the boy wasn't alone. He had a guiding hand, and a communtiy behind him.

The keeper, no, Clockwork watched with a strange pride and happiness he hadn't felt in a long time. The boy was quickly surrounded by a family that helped him navigate his new powers.

Clockwork, alongside many of the other ghostly beings, watched on with pride as the young boy grew into a strong young man. Mastering powers, taking a stand, and making their home safe.

Despite the best efforts, time always beings problems.

It was one thing for Clockwork. He was the keeper of time. His life has reason to exist as long as time exists. Which will always be. His purpose was infinite.

But this boy... Danny wasn't like Clockwork. He was still partially human and terrified of losing his humanity. Danny's story had to come to an end, it's how time works.

Except, Danny wasn't in the timeline anymore. Clockwork had ensured that, pulled Danny into a separate timeline. An unaccounted for timeline.

He couldn't live here forever, not the way that Clockwork could. Danny needs a life, a family, a place, a purpose. He was still human.

It took more effort than Clockwork would have liked. He had to cash in favors from other deities that he hadn't spoken to in centuries.

It took a combined effort of everyone who cared for the little halfa. The strange boy that teeter on the line between life and death. The boy who had freed the Zone from a tyrant. Who wanted nothing more than for everyone to live a happy and filled life/afterlife.

Getting the magic and spells right was the hard part. But finding the location was easy. A beautiful planet just on the edge of the Milky Way. Unlikely to be disturbed or hurt.

The planet was undiscovered, primative even. Far enough from humans that Clockwork was certain Danny wouldn't be bothered. Only one species lived on that planet. Along the jungle like fauna, and in the water.

Cute little guys, barely bigger than two feet long and one foot tall. There was no name, no knowledge about them. Aside from Clockwork analyzing their way of life.

A simple cycle. They were born, they aged, they played, fed, mated, and then died. A simple but content life.

The aliens weren't unsettling. At least not to anyone who has seen more creatures than what Earth has to offer. It is a strange combination between frog, fish, and squid.

Scurrying around on two legs and four tentacles. A small frog-like face with eyes that seemed to take up half that space. Colors vary from blues to greens to the same sandy brown found at the bottom of the lakes.

Before long, the planet had its own protector. A young boy who once was lost and alone seemed to meld perfectly with these aliens.

Clockwork was always sure of himself. He never let anyone see otherwise. Except, Clockwork hadn't been sure. Not when he had performed the ritual.

As he molded and changed Danny's DNA until the man was a new being entirely. To anyone who didn't know the full story, the boy could easily look related to the aliens.

Gills now painted the sides of his neck, not necessary, but Clockwork felt like it had been. Webbed hands and feet to make transversing the underwater caves even easier. An ethereal, almost siren-like touch to Danny.

It worked out perfectly. Danny settled in easily. Building a routine and bound with the aliens. It hadn't been hard for the little creature to take a liking to him.

Before long, it was routine. Danny would spend most of his time on the planet, watching over his new wards. On some days, he'd portal back to the zone. Spend time with the ghosts and deities that saved his life. To check in on the new govermental system that had been put in place.

It was perfect. Simple and nice. Everyone got complacent. The longer time went on without a hiccup or a problem. The longer Danny was able to rest in his odd solitude. The more people got comfortable.

The more they forgot that time was as cruel as it was forgiving.

It had been just another day cycle. Danny was playing with the most recent litter birth. The first time he had seen the birth, he was more disgusted than anything else.

After the third time, Danny had started getting excited. He looked forward to it. Loved seeing the aliens flourish and grow. Watching them thrive and find more fun in the things Danny creates. Every new fun game or obstacle was always made with the things natural to the planet. Or debris that was caught in its gravitational pull.

Danny was playing with Plop. The little guy got his name, and he always plopped out of the water. Unlike the other aliens, this one didn't crawl out. No, he'd pull himself out of the water with his tentacles, only to plop down on the ground.

Of course, Plop had also been the first alien to approach Danny when he arrived. It's how they formed such a strong bond.

Everything had seemed perfectly fine. The day was rolling along just like it always did. That was until a small group of the more elder aliens suddenly came scurrying into their main cave.

They hadn't waited a second before diving into the water. Danny watched, confused and concerned, as each one of them grabbed one of the young. Before shooting straight into the underwater cave system.

The once bustling and living cave was suddenly eerily quiet and void of any aliens. Leaving behind only the confused Danny in the pool.

At least that's what a certain Green Lantern saw when he followed the trail of retreating aliens.

This planet had been categorized to have no signs of intelligent life. It seemed to have the option to nurture life, but there had been no signs.

When Hal Jordan got word of a seeming spike of activity from the supposedly empty planet, he had added it to his rooster.

A quick peek, just a look into what kind of life might be starting to grow there. The little aliens he had seen were adorable, sure. But they didn't seem all that evolved. Still in their evolutionary journey.

That was until Hal saw him.

Now, Hal was no stranger to running into ethereal beauty. It's what happens when someone interacts with aliens on a basic daily. That was something he was used to.

Except, all his breath seemed to be knocked out of him completely. The cave alone was stunning, a stark contrast from the almost barren surface he had first seen.

A deep, shimmering blue pool that vanished into the rocky space around it. Trees, bushes, and flowers decorate the area. It looked almost too good to be true. Like an oasis in the middle of a desert.

Then there was the being that caught all of Hal's attention. Bright blue eyes that looked like gems, pale blue-tinged skin. Long black and white hair seemed to look almost like the night sky. A deep abyss littered with stars.

The closest thing that Hal's brain supplied was a siren. A beautiful, ethereal creature that lured men to their deaths. As beautiful as it seemed, Hal knew there could easily be danger.

Except, the creature didn't attack or threaten him.

Instead, he seemed almost shy. Mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, sharp deadly teeth flashing in the light with each motion.

Hal had just opened his mouth, taken a hesitant step forward. He wanted to know, and he needed to know how this happened. There wasn't supposed to be an intelligent, sophisticated life on this planet.

The moment Hal's lips parted, the creature let out a trill. A sound that seemed more scared than aggressive. Before suddenly, the beautiful creature vanished into the pool.

Hal moved before he could think, rushing to the edge of the pool. He peered into the crystal clear water, just in time to take the webbed feet of the creature vanish into a tunnel.

Now that left Hal with two options. He could either report this and wait for backup...

Or...

Or...

He could jump inside. The ring would protect him, and his lungs would be fine. Perks of being a Green Lantern.

That option seemed much more tempting to Hal. Nothing about this scream an outright threat. He felt more like a strange imposing on someone's home. A home that was meant for safety and protection of the young.

Yet, the shimmering water seemed to be calling to Hal. Something in him was trying to push him to get inside. To find the beautiful creature and learn more. Learn how this happened.

Without realizing it, Hal Jordan sealed his fate the moment he dipped a finger into the cool pool. Rippling the steady surface just slightly.

Just enough to get him wrapped up in the strange web created by time and its keeper.

[rosiesramblings]

I Can't Help But Wonder

Fandom: EPIC: The Muscial

WC: 1.7k

Characters: Athena, Odysseus, Telemachus

A/N: Season's Greasons @amazingmsme ! I am your Squealing Santa this year! I've never written for EPIC before so please forgive any mistakes. That said, I am OBSESSED with the music so this was a very welcome challenge. I picked Athena, Ody, and Telemachus for your fifth prompt (A&B get into a tickle fight, C makes a teasing comment and then A&B team up to get C). I also ended up trying to see how many of the EPIC song titles I could fit in this fic. I counted ten total that I squeezed in - can you find them all? This was so fun to write - I hope you enjoy it!

Thank you so much to @cantsaythetword for organizing this year's @squealing-santa extravaganza! You did a great job, and I really appreciate you keeping the tradition alive! Now, on to the fic!

Even though it would have been nice, the world didn’t stop spinning just because Odysseus was finally home. There was still court to hold and merchant disputes to resolve, not to mention the job of explaining to the citizens of Ithaca what happened to all 108 of the Palace Suitors. With Odysseus recovering from his 20 year journey under the careful supervision of the palace physicians, Penelope hardly left his side, and that meant much of the work of actually running the country fell to Telemachus. It was a burden that he shouldered gladly - an opportunity to both prove himself as a wise and noble ruler, and to give his parents the time to fall in love with each other once again.

And how they fell. Often. In most of the rooms of the palace. Telemachus had taken to loudly clearing his throat before he entered a room after one unfortunate occasion that scarred him for life. He was tempted to flee to the ocean and beg Poseidon to follow through on the threat to gauge his eyes. 

Athena was unsympathetic to this particular plight of his - when he told her, she did this hideous snort-scream-laugh that made both his father and his mom come running, thinking there was an animal loose in the palace.

However busy Telemachus was during the day, both with his royal duties and the equally important task of not barging in on what seemed to be his parents’ best efforts to revoke his status as an only child, Telemachus always made the time to eat dinner with them. It wasn’t always easy - Telemachus often found himself red-faced and tongue-tied when his father attempted to make conversation, the right words always evading him. Some nights, Telemachus just spent the whole meal drinking in the sight of Odysseus’ face at the table. Having spent so long dreaming of his father’s homecoming, at first Telemachus found it difficult to believe that he was really there. But with each sunrise and sunset, Telemachus slowly convinced himself that his father was really, truly back. To stay.

*****

Telemachus followed the sounds of sparring through the palace halls until he found his father and his goddess. He wasn’t worried, okay, just like - appropriately concerned? It really hadn’t been long since his father had returned, and he still had a long way to go before the palace physicians granted him a clean bill of health. Sparring with a goddess definitely wasn’t on his list of approved physical activities.

Telemachus stopped in the doorway, shrouded in shadows by one of his mother’s tapestries hanging on the wall next to him. He took a breath. No one was bleeding. Both Athena and his father had wooden practice swords rather than real weapons. 

Even though it was clearly just practice, neither Athena nor Odysseus were pulling their punches. Odysseus was doggedly attacking Athena’s blind side, and Athena was swinging hard and fast, knowing that Odysseus’ endurance was shot to Hades.

Eventually, Athena swept Odysseus’ legs out from under him, and he went down hard. She smirked, panting with exertion, before offering her old friend a hand up. But Odysseus clearly wasn’t done yet, and he wasn’t above fighting dirty, either, because he laughed and flung a handful of sand at Athena’s face.

“You cheat!” She shouted, stumbling to her knees next to Odysseus on the ground. She reached for him blindly and he rolled out of the way.

“You’re the one who taught me that trick,” Odysseus laughed, springing toward Athena to grapple while she was still down.

“As a last resort against an enemy,” She said, finally blinking the sand from her eyes as she struggled for the upper hand. “Not against your goddess who is already half-blind!”

Just when it seemed that Odysseus had her in a pin, Athena reached around and drew a finger up his spine. Telemachus looked on in interest as his father let out a yell and dropped the pin immediately, trying to roll away. 

“That’s cheating!” He protested as Athena caught his ankle and dragged him back toward her.

Athena grinned, all teeth. “You’re the one who taught me that trick.”

“Bullshit!” Odysseus laughed as he tried to free his ankle and dodge Athena’s now-wiggling fingers at the same time. “If anything, you learned that from Polites. Wait!”

“I’ve done enough waiting,” Athena said, letting go of Odysseus’ ankle in favor of reaching up to squeeze his thigh, just above his knee.

His reaction was instantaneous. He let out a shriek before collapsing back to the floor, kicking out with his free leg and cackling.

“This is not fahahahAIR!” He cried as Athena pinched up and down his thigh.

“Oh gods, is that a hickey?” Athena asked, bemused. Still behind his tapestry, Telemachus made a face.

“Shuhuhuhut the fuhuhck up! I hahaven’t seen Penehehehelope in twehehenty yehehears!” Odysseus gathered his wits and latched a hand onto Athena’s upper ribs.

“Yohohou’re incohohorrigible!” Athena yelped, twisting away from Odysseus’ grip.

“Gotta mahahake up for lohohost tihihime with my looove,” Odysseus snickered.

Telemachus forgot himself. “Oh, gross,” he whined.

Athena and Odysseus both whirled toward him, and Telemachus got to witness what might best be described as the facial equivalent to a sunrise as his father recognized him, only to turn worryingly playful when the complaint registered. Athena’s face was stern, but the tips of her ears turned red and her eyes glittered with mischief.

“Telemachus of Ithaca. Is that any way to speak about your father?” Athena asked.

Telemachus turned red, both from the attention and the playful reprimand. He started edging toward the doorway to attempt an escape. “I just call it like I see it. And Father? You and mom. Are gross.”

“Odysseus, are you going to let your son speak to you that way?” Athena, the instigator, prodded.

Father cracked his knuckles and grinned. “Clearly my absence has made my son bold. The sass on this boy, ‘Thena!”

“Can’t imagine where it came from,” Athena muttered, shooting a devastating side-eye at Odysseus even as she crept toward Telemachus.

“Hmmmm. No clue,” Odysseus said as he lunged for his son.

Telemachus threw himself toward the door, but felt his father’s hand close around his wrist before he could make it through. He was yanked into his father’s chest with a yelp, and between the literal goddess of battle strategy and the veteran of 20 years, Telemachus found himself outmaneuvered. Before long, Athena held both of his hands above his head in one of her own, and Odysseus had thrown a leg over his son’s. Telemachus was well and truly pinned.

Humiliatingly, as soon as Telemachus realized his predicament, giggles started to pour out of his mouth. He yanked at his hands, not to escape, but in hopes of covering his rapidly reddening face.

“What’s this? We haven’t even started yet,” Odysseus laughed, incredulous.

“This does not bode well for you, young warrior,” Athena smiled, spidering her fingers in the air above Telemachus’ armpit.

Telemachus whined at the teasing, but couldn’t stop the flood of giggles. “Ihihihi cahahan’t hehehelp it!”

“Hm. I can’t help but wonder, if he takes after you in sensitivity,” Athena grinned at his father.

Odysseus smiled, taking the teasing gracefully. “Well, there’s an easy way to find out,” he said, and brought his wiggling fingers down on Telemachus’ tummy.

Telemachus let out a screech of desperate laughter before falling back into frantic giggles. Athena let her fingers descend into his underarm, scratching at the hollow in the most ticklish way. Telemachus shook his head back and forth frantically. He’d never been tickled by two people at once, and he was in ticklish agony.

“You know something? I sailed across the world for twenty years, and I haven’t found a single sound anywhere that is better than my son’s laughter,” his father smiled, tapping Telemachus’ nose and making him go cross-eyed.

“Ohohoho my gohohods, Dahahad, stohohohohop,” Telemachus whined, squirming now from embarrassment as well as ticklishness.

“Never,” Odysseus grinned, lighting up at the less formal slip. He gave his son’s thighs a few squeezes, relishing in the belly laughs that Telemachus gave in response. Athena switched to fluttering her fingers around Telemachus’ neck and ears, and Odysseus used one hand to bunch his son’s shirt up around his ribs.

“Tell you what. If you can tell me which monster I am, I’ll forgive your insolence,” Odysseus teased.

“Whihihihich mohohonster?”

Instead of answering, Odysseus took a comically deep breath before blowing the world’s longest raspberry right over Telemachus’ bare belly button.

Telemachus shrieked before cackling so loudly that Odysseus was shocked Penelope hadn’t come running.

“Come on, son, which monster?”

“AhahahahAHAHA - CHAHAHARYBDIS?” Telemachus could hardly breathe, let alone recall his father’s stories.

“Ooo, good guess but not quite,” Odysseus laughed. He bent down for another raspberry. “I’m a different beast.”

“AHAHAHAHAHA - SAHAHA -SCYLLAAHAHAHA?”

“Zero for two,” Athena shook her head mockingly. “Can you even call yourself a warrior of the mind?”

Tears squeezed out of the corners of Telemachus’ eyes as he gave it one final guess. “CAHAHAHALYPSO!”

“Wrong again, I’m afraid,” Odysseus smirked at his son, scribbling up and down his ribs. “The answer I was looking for was ‘The Tickle Monster.’”

If it was possible, Telemachus turned even redder. “NAHAHAHAHAHAT FAAHAHAHAHAIR!” he wailed.

“I know, I’m so mean,” Odysseus hummed, finally letting up and rubbing a soothing hand on his boy’s tummy to chase away the ghost tickles. “Lucky for you, I’m in a forgiving mood. No more monsters - I’m just a man. That can be the end of your tickly suffering for today.”

Athena let go of Telemachus’ hands and he brought them down to wrap around himself, still giggling. She got up from the floor and brushed herself off. “Don’t worry kid. Your father’s still worse than you on his back and thighs.” She grinned at Odysseus’ spluttering response and ruffled Telemachus’ hair. “Consider this as my goodbye. For today at least. Perhaps we can form an alliance and exact revenge tomorrow.”

Telemachus curled up so that his head was in his father’s lap. Odysseus’ hand began to run through his son’s hair as if he had done so a million times before. Before long, Telemachus’ eyes slipped closed. Odysseus pressed a kiss to his crown and said, “Sleep, Little Wolf. Dad loves you.”

Telemachus smiled.

[sillyturtleenjoyer]

nems from anemoia!tale by @bloobluee!! such a silly lad, bro radiates pure chill. not sure i quite got that here but he does look very dapper (and mildly scraped)

[stormwifewrites]

📚 A Learned Man ❤️‍🔥

A Learned Man (3193 words) by stormwife on AO3

Rating: Explicit Relationships: Female Rook/Emmrich Volkarin

Summary:

Emmrich hums as Rook's fingers find firmer purchase. “I take it you’re not requesting a mere coda to our literary discussion, my dear Rook?” She leans in to whisper in his ear, “I want you to talk dirty to me.” Emmrich draws back, curiosity brightening his guileless face. “Whatever do you mean?” Professor Volkarin holds forth at book club. Rook requests a private lecture, and Emmrich delivers.

Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Age Difference, Banter, Shameless Smut, Penis In Vagina Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, but soft romantic dirty talk, Emmrich is bad at dirty talk but also good?, book club is foreplay for magic professors, Emmrich is a gentleman and a scholar and a simp, Emmrich’s desk was too easy we had to desecrate the piano instead, no beta we die like Rook jumping off a half-built bridge

Series: Part 3 of The Bell Tolls the Tempest (all are standalones and can be read independently)

---

Emmrich tries, fails, and then succeeds at dirty talk. that's it. that's the tweet.

ngl I love this one 🤷🏻‍♀️

[cillyscribbles]

10 000 WORDS IN GRIZABELLA IS FINALLY DEAD. HOLY SHIT. ABOUT TIME LADY. TOOK ME A HOT SECOND. GOD DAMN. THIS WOMAN DID *NOT* WANT TO CROAK. GOD HELP US ALL.

[enjoythesilentworld]

Wille's Month - Music (Room)

day 29 ! @youngroyals-events

Ex-Prince Wilhelm, hoping to escape the turmoil following the end of the monarchy, enrolls in university in New York City. He meets fourth-year music student Simon Eriksson in a music room on campus. AU.

read below the cut or on ao3. (T, 2k)

It’s a random Monday afternoon in September when he first meets him. Well, first sees him. 

Wille has been taking advantage of the rentable music rooms on Columbia’s campus, despite not technically being a music student. One day, enjoying the general listlessness of his new life in New York, no path, no expectations, he’s playing a tune on the piano that he still somehow remembers from his childhood. He must have gotten carried away, distracted by the music, because he jumps out of his skin when someone bursts through the thick, sound-proofed door. 

“Listen, I just made it to the practice rooms so,” a voice is saying in– Is that Swedish? Wille turns around in surprise as the intruder halts, quickly ending his phone call and dropping his hand to hang loosely by his side. He switches to halting English to say, “Oh, sorry, I thought I had—”

Ever used to it, Wille notices the exact moment the recognition flooded the other’s face. He braces himself, feeling a bit sick because he hasn’t been recognized yet in New York, which has been a welcome change of pace, and also because this man is the most beautiful person Wille has ever seen. 

This time, the stranger doesn’t bother switching to English to say, “Aren’t you—?”

He stands up abruptly, saying “I– Just, just Wilhelm,” then gives a curt nod and starts frantically collecting his things. Hesitating for a moment, he cools his expression, trying not to stare too hard at the man’s smooth skin and silky curls. “Forgive me, I must have lost track of time. I didn’t realize anyone had booked this after me. I’ll get out of your way.” 

In a matter of seconds, he’s slipping out of the room, ignoring the warmth when his arm lightly brushes the stranger’s as he passes, and fleeing down the hallway.

Feeling guilty, he thinks about it the rest of the week, hoping he’ll run into the pretty man with the brown eyes and brown curls again so he can apologize. He’s back in the music room on Wednesday at the same time and he stays a few minutes after, but no one else arrives.

On Friday, he does the same, pacing the room as the last few minutes of his reserved time tick over. Just like Monday, the same man bursts through the door, looking slightly ruffled. 

“Oh.” The man stands in the doorway again, awkwardly staring. 

Wille comes to a stop next to the piano. 

“Hej.” 

“Uh,” the stranger glances over his shoulder, like he expects to find someone else standing there.  “Hej.”

“I’m sorry, I was rude last time. I didn’t expect to—” He shakes his head and steps forward, extending a hand. “I’m Wilhelm.”

The man stares down at his hand for a moment, looking shocked, before slowly extending his hand.

“Simon,” he says, brown eyes boring into Wille’s. Wille tries not to think about how well Simon’s hand fits in his. Thankfully, he’s distracted by the other man saying, “You were kind of a dick.”

“Simon,” Wilhelm repeats, feeling both a slight grimace and an embarrassed flush rise on his face. “I am really sorry.”

Simon shrugs and his perfect mouth curls into a smirk. Wille’s shoulders sag a bit at the realization that Simon might be fucking with him just a little bit. That, he can deal with. 

“I was hoping to run into you again,” he says earnestly, hoping to make up for his lack of manners earlier that week. “It’s nice to meet you. You… You speak Swedish?”

“I am Swedish,” Simon deadpans. Wilhelm’s cheeks blush pink again. “Half, at least. I was born there. We moved away when I was, like, 13.”

Wilhelm nods understandingly. At that moment, they both seem to realize that they’re still shaking hands. They drop each other's hands quickly, chuckling awkwardly. Wille feels the blush on his cheeks darken further, but he sees a slight pinkness appear on Simon’s cheeks, too, and feels a bit better. 

“I have to admit, you caught me off guard.” Wille folds his hands behind his back and rocks a bit on his feet. “Most people here either don’t know who I am or don’t care.” 

“Oh, I don’t care,” Simon says nonchalantly. Wille lets out a surprised laugh. “I just mean— I never really cared about the monarchy, you know. I thought it was a stupid waste of taxpayers’ money and upheld harmful traditions of the elitist class. I mean, I lived in a small town with a fancy rich-kid school. They all assumed the absolute worst of me and just solidified my theory that the upper class sees those below them as ‘less than’. The monarchy really only encouraged that mindset, I think. Rich people helping other rich people get more rich, perpetuating the gap. I wasn’t living in Sweden when the vote happened, but I would’ve voted for the end of it. Thankfully they didn’t need my vote, anyway, but—” 

Trying to school his expression into something that hopefully doesn’t say I want to kiss you so badly right now – one, because that’s inappropriate and two, because they’ve quite literally just met – Wille pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and bites on it, hard. 

The other man looks sheepish by the time he cuts off his own rant, then blushes and looks down at his feet. “Sorry, I just…” He trails off and Wille grins. 

“It’s okay. You’re right. It was a harmful system. The vote passed for a reason.” 

Simon tilts his head to the side, considering Wilhelm, which, is fair. Most don’t expect him to be staunchly against the institution that he was a part of for most of his life. 

“What are you doing here?” Simon asks. 

“Uh,” Wille glances behind him at the piano. “Practicing?”

The pretty man waves his hands, “No, here, in New York. But, yes, I suppose also why are you in the Columbia practice rooms?” 

“Oh. I’m a student here. I wanted to escape Sweden for a bit after… everything. My, um,” Wille pauses, twisting his fingers together, “My brother and I always talked about taking a trip here when I turned 18, too. So… Here I am.” 

A silence fills the room and Wille is grateful when Simon diverts the topic. 

“Are you focusing on music then? What are you working on?” Simon rounds the room to look at the papers propped up on the piano. Wille feels suddenly embarrassed by the music sheets that are just messy scratches of black ink. 

“It’s not really—“ Wilhelm rushes forward, collecting the sheets and shuffling them together. “I’m registered for sociology, but I haven’t really decided on a focus yet. This – the piano – is more of a… hobby. It was a hobby. I’m not really sure how I feel about it.” There’s another long pause and Wille blushes more, holding the papers to his chest. He looks down at his feet. “I wasn’t really allowed a lot of hobbies growing up, but music classes were required so I figured…” 

“Right, that makes sense,” Simon says gently. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“No!” Wille bursts out, nearly dropping the sheets in the process, eager to reassure the other. “No, no. It’s okay. I’m just not very good so I…” He releases the music from his tight grip and shuffles them in front of himself, frowning slightly at the scribbles. 

“I could,” Simon begins slowly, “take a look, if you want? This is kind of my whole degree. No pressure.”

Wille looks between the black ink and Simon’s face, chewing on his bottom lip again. Reluctantly, he slowly returns the paper to the music shelf. “I mean, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to steal your reserved time.” 

Waving him off again, Simon slides onto the bench and begins to sort through the notes. “It’s fine. No one has this room booked after me so I can stay later. Like I said, it’s literally why I’m here.” 

Simon looks up at Wille hovering over him and Wille looks down, thinking, oh fuck this is going to be a big problem isn’t it? 

Before he can doubt himself any further, Simon says, “Show me how it goes so far?”

That entire weekend, this time not out of guilt but out of fascination, he thinks about Simon. He can’t help it. The beautiful man with his beautiful laugh, his snarky remarks and complete disregard for Wille’s past is the perfect storm for Wille immediately falling head over heels.

On Monday, he lingers awkwardly in the music room, praying Simon will show up. He does, much to Wille’s delight, and brushes past any lingering unease, offering to show Wille the production program he’s been learning about in class. Simon is very smart and a very good teacher, easily moving through the parts of the program and kindly explaining them to Wille without complication.

Apparently the program is rather large, because after only about ten minutes, Simon’s laptop slips into buffering mode. He frustratedly smacks the side.

“God, this dumb laptop,” Simon groans, tossing his head back. Wille does not look at the long, lean line of his neck.

Wille smiles at the dramatics, and says, politely, “I don't think hitting it will encourage it to work, Simon.”

Simon groans again and sends a scowl at him. “You don’t know what my computer likes.”

“I can’t imagine it likes being jostled around like that.”

Simon rolls his eyes and Wille laughs.

“Why don’t you leave it alone for a bit and let it work itself out?” he suggests, wanting to reach out to comfortingly pat Simon’s shoulder but not knowing if they’re to that point, yet. “We can do something else?”

Shrugging, Simon puts the laptop down on the piano and folds his arms, glaring at it like he’s willing it to work.

Motivated by the rapport they’ve established, and itching to learn more about Simon, Wille asks, “Do you like it here?” He’s embarrased by how shy and timid his own voice sounds.

Simon turns to him and studies his face.

“Do you like it here?”

Wille holds eye contact for as long as he can, before looking away to stare at his shoes. There’s something about Simon’s stare that pierces his soul and completely disarms him.  

“Yeah.” It sounds a bit like a question, which it kind of is, because he’s unsure if he’s telling the truth but also doesn’t know if he’s lying. He steels himself enough to look back up to meet Simon’s eyes.

New York has been fine, a nice change of pace at the very least, but he’s still lonely. A different type of lonely, but no matter how far he flees, his brother is still dead and the monarchy is still gone and he still has no idea what his future was going to look like. (Now, though, for the first time in a long time, thanks to brown eyes and a blinding smile, he has some idea of what he might want it to look like.)

“What did you want to be?” Simon blurts, startling Wille out of his musings. “Before this. When you were a kid. Before you were… a prince. Before you weren’t anymore.”

Wille smiles slightly. “An astronaut.”

“Really?” Simon sounds surprised.

“Yes,” Wille frowns. “What’s wrong with astronaut?”

Simon shrugs. “Cliche.”

“Oh, alright,” Wilhelm quips sassily, and enjoys the amused look that arrives on Simon’s face. “What did you want to be, then, if my answer is no good?”

“A fish.”

Wille’s mouth drops open. He closes it, then opens it again but can’t seem to make any sound come out.

“Yes, exactly like that!” Simon grins widely, pointing at Wille. This makes Wille splutter, which makes Simon burst into laughter.

“That’s not– You can’t be a fish, Simon,” he gasps incredulously.

Simon continues to giggle. “Why not?”

“It’s not possible!”

“Oh and you becoming an astronaut is possible?”

“Hey, if I wanted to I could. You are a human person. You cannot be a fish.”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to be. You asked.”

Thirty minutes later, their booked time in the music room is up and Wille realizes Simon’s laptop has stopped buffering. He’s not sure how long it’s been done, he’d been too busy laughing and joking with Simon. He’s also not sure how long it’s been since he laughed like this. It feels really, really nice. Comfortable. He books the same time slot for Wednesday as they bid their goodbyes.

[todayisafridaynight]

sometimes i think about daigo interacting with the mundane and thinking about mine and i throw up a little bit ngl

[haley-harrison]

[sprnklersplashes]

fic comissioned by @willofadeadgirl thank you for your generous donation to esims for gaza! to find out about commissioning a fic from me, the info is here

based on this idea I had a year (?) ago:

JD spiralling shortly after he and Veronica get engaged because he's scared to hurt her the way his dad hurt his mum. Claire is there to remind him that he's okay.

getting to delve back into nbr universe again and this relationship specifically was so rewarding and I also got to sprinkle in a bit of claire's backstory which is neat.

The party is amazing.

Claire has outdone herself. While JD was out with Veronica she single-handedly rearranged all of the tables and threw white rugs over the bare wooden floors. Then she either robbed a florist or had one owe her something, because they came back to the most amazing centrepiece on the dining room table, along with garlands of lilies and white roses hung around the doors and stairway. And of course, no function thrown by Claire Munroe is complete without food, and holy hell, did she deliver. When the party is for him and Veronica’s engagement, but all anyone can talk about is her espresso martini cheesecake, that’s how you know it’s a winner.

It’s wonderful. Although the event is small, a strict family and friends affair, the house feels alive, the two stories teeming with pure, unfiltered happiness. He couldn’t ask for anything better.

He hates himself. He really fucking hates himself.

With a bitter sigh, JD tosses the empty bottle he’d been fidgeting with. It crashes somewhere in the garden, followed shortly by a frantic rustling in the hedge. He might have just frightened the shit out of some poor raccoon.

And that thought should not scare him the way it does; shouldn’t cause the pit in his stomach to plunge deeper. He closes his eyes, locks every limb, pulls himself inward like he can ward off the thoughts invading his mind.

It was like someone had flipped a switch. One minute he was standing in the kitchen, his arm securely around Veronica’s waist, listening to her laughing and feeling like the night would never end. Then he went to the kitchen to get another drink and just like that, everything stopped. Once he wasn’t surrounded by bodies and the laughing and chatting was muted, the protective barrier dropped. Suddenly, all he could think about was the blood in his veins and where it came from, and then he was 8 again watching his mother wave at him through a window and then he was 9, 10, 11, 12 smashing plates to get his dad’s attention and he was 3, 4, 5 and 6 and 7 listening by the stairs because his dad was yelling again, again, and his mom wasn’t saying anything-.

And then he was running, and he was on his knees in the grass. 

He lets out a steady exhale, white smoke stark against the night sky. Shadows blanket the garden; the greens of the grass and the rainbow hues of Claire’s flower bushes are smothered in greys. Behind him, the house is still glowing from within, gentle oranges making its own sunset in there. He doesn’t want it. He never wants to see it again.

With a cold pang, he hopes Claire never leaves the house to him. Some of the best memories of his life are in that house. It’s lovelier than he would ever deserve, and he would just ruin it like he will ruin Veronica and like his dad ruined him. Claire said she moved into that house alone and renovated it with her own bare hands. Giving it to him would feel wrong, backwards. What will he do other than destroy it? That’s what his hands were made for.

Breathe Jason a voice in his head says. He tries, opens his mouth but nothing comes in, because there’s barbed wire around his throat and his lungs and it hurts when he tries. He tries, and he chokes, and hot tears are racing down his cheeks and he bites his hand before he can start screaming. Breathe Jason.

I can’t! I can’t! The darkness presses in around him and it’s hot-since when was darkness hot? His dad’s voice-his voice-is roaring in his ears, it sounds like his dad but it scrapes his throat like its him and it’s burning. He needs to get out and-

“Hiding out here?”

Crap. 

Trembling, JD turns around, squinting against the brightness. At first, all he can see is the small frame, the chunky knit sweater hanging off it. His eyes follow her as she comes over, but he looks away as she settles herself on the grass beside him.

“We miss you in there.” He nods, slowly. If he was still seventeen, he would shoot a sarcastic remark at her in the hopes that she would leave. But he knows better now. Or more accurately, the idea of her leaving pulls at a very specific part of his heart. So, while his instincts still protest, he lets her stay.

“Well I hope it wasn’t my lasagne that made you leave.” That gets a half-smile from him, even if it feels foreign on his face. Behind his back, he can feel her eyes bore into him. He used to think he could hide anything from anyone, and then he met her. “Jason? Everything okay?”

How does he answer? He takes a deep breath in, slowly. Pulls at the grass and lets it fall between his fingers. Listens to the pounding staccato rhythm of his heart. 

“I just freaked out,” he mutters. Claire nods behind him and, carefully, as if he’s made of glass, places her hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she tells him. “I’m here.” He squeezes the grass in his hand. “Anything in particular freak you out?”

He doesn’t want to say it. He wants to keep it inside and find something to numb it. If it stays inside, he can freeze it, escape from it. 

He can’t though. Because he’s come too far and owes Claire and Veronica too much. There’s only one good way out.

“My dad,” he whispers. Claire inhales sharply and her hand tenses against his back. 

“Did he-did he try to-”

“No.” He cuts her off with a shake of his head. “No, he hasn’t contacted me.” Ever. He hasn’t heard from his father since 1984. He laughs, short and bitter. “I just can’t stop thinking about him. And my mom. And everything.”

“Oh kid,” Claire sighs. Her arm comes around his shoulders, her small frame presses into his side. “I’m so sorry.”

“And suddenly it was…. Everywhere.” He hears the tremble in his voice and he hates it. In that moment, he wonders why he ever stopped numbing himself. It made everything so much easier. He looks down at his hands. The ring Veronica gave him glimmers on his finger, silver winking in the half-light. He gives a self-deprecating scoff. “I don’t know how to be married. I don’t-I can’t be that to her.”

“You’ve been a pretty spectacular boyfriend so far,” Claire tells him matter-of-factly. “And from what I can tell, being married is just a longer version of that. That it’s you and her forever.” She squeezes his shoulder. “You’ve been with her three years and you haven’t messed up yet.”

“You don’t know that I won’t!” he tells her, voice rising sharply, and then everything spills out, a putrid ugly mess in front of them. “He’s my dad, Claire. I’m 50% him. My whole childhood I just sat and watched as he wore her down and she was hurting and I didn’t do anything about it! I just let him keep going and keep going until one day-” He closes his eyes. The library explodes behind his eyelids. When he opens them, he can still see the smoke. “What if it’s just a matter of time before I do it to her?” He looks back at the house. He can’t find her; she’s lost in a maze of other people.

“I might do something worse,” he says. The admission is broken and cracked on his tongue, terrified to step into the light. But it’s here.

“Oh, Jason,” Claire breathes. Her touch is gentle, loving, against his skin and part of him wants to shove it away and put as much distance between her and him as possible. He hates that he still feels that way, even as he leans into her touch. 

“I know you were dealt such a bad hand with your dad,” she tells him. “But you are not him, Jason.”

“I’m his son.”

“And I’m my parents’ child,” Claire says firmly. “Do you think I’m anything like they are?”

That gets him. Like a lighthouse beacon, it cuts through the fog in his mind and catches him.

He’s never met Claire’s parents-his grandparents, he supposes. They know about him, but the contact never goes past the ‘To Claire and Jason’ on the annual Christmas guard. Claire won’t delve into the specifics, just that her parents wanted her to have a life she never intended to java. Years before he came into the picture, it came to a head over some argument and when she declared her intention to move out, they didn’t stop her. 

They communicate via Christmas cards. When Claire’s dad was in hospital, she didn’t find out until weeks later.

So, his response is a small shake of his head. Claire is nothing like her parents and never will be. She is warm and loving and generous, she understands him without him having to say anything. How her parents created a person like her he will never understand.

“You’re not like your parents.”

“And you are not like your dad, Jason.”

“I am,” he mumbles. “I get angry. I think about… I think about running away.” He presses his thumb into his palm. “I pull away from her.”

“And then you go back,” Claire says. Slowly, her hand comes over his. Her skin is warm, her palm calloused and rough. “That’s what makes you different from your dad, JD. Your dad never cared about the damage he was causing. You do. You get knocked down and you get back up.” Her fingers curl around his. Startled, he squeezes her fingers. “Look how far you’ve come in the past few years. That’s something he never ever did.”

JD doesn’t know when the tears started but they’re here, running like rivers down his face. 

“And to be honest, I’ve never seen a person love someone else the way you love Veronica. You love her like she’s the last person on Earth. You love her like you’d never love anyone else.”

Well, he wouldn’t. It’s just a plain fact to him. No matter what happens, Veronica exists and he’s in love with her. Simple as that really. After everything she has done for him, it feels like the least he can do.

“And,” Claire continues, reading his mind again. “Don’t you owe it to her to keep trying?” Before he can even respond, she scoots closer, rests her chin on his shoulder. “Maybe you owe it to yourself too.”

There. That’s when she does it, that magical thing where she looks inside him and pulls out something he never thought existed. 

If he walks away now, he leaves Veronica at her own engagement party. He leaves her in the dust after promising to stand by her forever. And doing that to her… it hurts him more than anything else could.

He turns. Claire is still beside him, pressed against his side. 

“Maybe I owe it to you too.” She smiles then, laugh lines creasing her face.

“You’ve never owed me anything, kid.”

(It isn’t true. He owes her more than he’ll ever be able to pay back. But that’s okay, she’s not expecting him to).

Looking out at their garden, he lowers his head onto her shoulder. It’s a little awkward because at some point he got taller than her, but neither of them mind. She rubs her hand up and down his arm and they sit there, listening to the muffled sounds of the party behind them.

“I love you,” he tells her. He doesn’t need to look up to see the way her face softens at that. 

“I love you too, kid,” she whispers. She tugs on his arm. “Come on. If we hurry there may still be profiteroles left.”

JD laughs; the feeling is solid and warm in his chest. He offers Claire his arm and together, they walk back into their house. 

Before he goes in, he gives it one last try. He breathes in. The air is cold and crisp and it fills his lungs. He breathes out, slow and steady, and the white smoke disappears into the orange porchlight. Claire squeezes his hand, firm and rough and more real than anything that came before.

He’ll be okay, he thinks. They’ll be okay. 

[spirk-trek]

heard we were doing Spirk songs: https://youtu.be/D0Un2GTRhHM?si=9QpKUYgCn76dRJzP

this one is slightly cliche and has screamed Spock to me from day one

whoooooaaa??? i love this one sm... it's so dreamy and really sweet. i like the idea of spock being privately fascinated by humanity too, not just grumpy about it

to continue with tradition i particularly enjoy the ending!!

"At night we'd watch the moon. That's what humans do. We would sing a little tune. And you'd hold me and I'd hold you."

aaaand to provide my own similarly-themed recommendation because i can: Earth Angel by the Penguins (1954)

[thlayli-ra]

Punk fancied himself the Phantom as he walked the darkened back rooms… unaware that he was in fact the haunted primma donna!

[queer-omens-in-the-archives]

perhaps one day i will get over the sung notes in the well from the wheel of time show ost. i don't think thats gonna be today lads

[chloecherrysip]

Just Beyond My Reach, There's Someone Reaching Back For Me (speculative mario movie fic, mario & luigi centric, around 3600 words.)

[OK SO i literally could not stop thinking about this post in the mario movie tag from last week, which turned into me trying to write out my thoughts about how the scenario could unfold, which then turned into me writing a full-fledged fanfic that's over 3,000 words long??? I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED. I've truly lost my common sense, but I just felt like I HAD to get this out before the movie arrives and their reunion is nothing like this in any way whatsoever.

This is a speculative fic of just one possible scenario out of millions, no actual spoilers; i'm working off info we've seen in the trailers/TV spots/promotions/etc, and all the characterization is based off those too, so it might ultimately be off-base. Please don't @ me after the movie comes out and get on my case about details being wrong! I AM IN THE PAST (and jealous of you in the future for having already seen it).

I present to you: A Version Of Mario & Luigi's Reunion in the Mario Movie That Would Cause Me Irreparable Psychic Damage.]

----

Mario hears him first. He would know that panicked yelp anywhere. 

By that point, he’s lost count of how many of Bowser’s minions he’s tried to interrogate as he fights his way through the airship. There’s so much shouting and clanging all around him, and his voice hurts from yelling loud enough to be heard over it, but he can’t stop. “Where do you keep prisoners? Have you seen someone who looks like me — but tall, skinny, and green? If you take me to him, I’ll go easy on ya, I swear—” 

it’s hard to tell if they’re just refusing to answer him, genuinely don’t know any useful information, or can’t actually communicate in a way he understands — probably some in each column. But he’s about to grab another angry Koopa by the shell and try again when there’s a commotion far off in the distance. The yell that echoes out to him is faint, but it tugs hard at Mario like a rope tied around his middle. Something from his memories, the nightmares he’s been having this whole adventure that he hasn’t told Peach and Toad about. Something instantly, certainly familiar to him in a way that few things are. 

His heart is suddenly lodged in his throat. He barrels his way past the troops and the Kongs fighting them, moving fast towards it.

The area of the airship he’s in starts to slope down further ahead, surrounding a huge open space that, judging by the flickering embers in the air and heavy heat that’s got him sweating through his shirt already, has a whole bunch of lava simmering at the bottom. On the other side of the chasm, there are a whole group of what look like angry blue penguins beating down some feisty stacks of Goombas with their bare flippers. There’s also what impossibly looks like a star, with a face and everything, beaming bright and doing twirling cartwheels in the air, giggling at the carnage underneath. And behind all that, he can see—

Mario reacts without having to think. He jolts forward against the railing, reaches a hand out, and yells as loud as he can. “LUIGI!” 

He can only see glimpses of his overalls and green hat at first amidst all the other chaos, but then pieces of the ongoing fight tumble further to either side, giving a clear view. Mario watches wide-eyed as his brother frantically swats away Goombas, shrieking and flailing his arm furiously when one snags some teeth through his sleeve until it comes loose. He looks terrified and a little queasy, but also very determined, even jumping in to help when one of the penguins gets pinned down. They seem to be working together. 

Luigi is here. He’s really here, alive and fighting and still in one piece. Mario isn’t too late. It feels like a 20 pound weight’s suddenly gone from his back that he hadn't even realized he was carrying around.

His yell is half-drowned out by the chaos, but Luigi’s head still snaps up, eyes wide and stricken and bright with recognition. “Mario?” He cries out, his voice cracking badly. He kicks another Goomba away and then starts spinning, searching the surrounding area with increasing desperation. “Mario!?” 

“Over here!” Mario wishes he had another raccoon powerup so he could just fly across the gap and reach him right then and there. He has to settle for taking off his cap and waving it in the air like a flag. “Luigi! Over here!” 

Finally, their eyes meet across the gorge. It’s not necessary at that point, but Luigi still tears off his own hat and starts flailing it around too overhead, as if just to make absolutely sure his brother knows where he is. “MARIO!” He shouts, his tired face instantly transforming into a relieved, overjoyed smile. 

“Are you okay!?” 

“Y-Yeah! I mean, define “okay,” but I, I'm not hurt or anything like — wait, how did you get here!? We’re way up in the air!”

Mario’s face already hurts from how wide he’s grinning. “Not anymore! And whaddya mean? What do ya think I’ve been doing all this time? Looking for you! You don’t think I could find you wherever you are, even if it’s a million miles in the air? Give your big bro some credit, eh?” 

A laugh bursts out of Luigi, surprised and shaky. Mario has missed that sound so much. “Right, right. I did think…I mean, I hoped, or…” His brother shakes his head, his voice failing him. He lets out a deep breath, so deep that it’s almost like he’s been holding it in ever since they were separated, still smiling like the sun. “I knew you would. Mario, you — look out!” 

Mario turns just as a hammer goes whizzing past his ear, tumbling down into the lava pit. He dodges the next one more capably and then catches the third one that comes his way. In one smooth, lightning-quick motion, he throws it back at the attacking Hammer Bro, nailing him in the face and knocking him out cold.

“Whoa!” He turns back to see Luigi staring with his mouth agape. “When did you learn how to do that?”

“It's kinda a long story!” There will be plenty of time to get into all the details about his adventure when he’s gotten Luigi safely out of an active warzone.  “What about you? I thought you were a prisoner here!” 

“I am! Or I was, I guess! We — me, and the penguins, and Lumalee,” he gestures wearily up overhead, where the blue star-thing is idly playing with a pinwheel that it somehow conjured out of thin air, “and the others — we broke out! We, ah, we’ve been trying to find a way outta here ever since, but this place is a maze and we need some kind of hot air balloon or one of those floating clown-car thingies to even get away in the first place, and—”

“Spinies at four o’clock!” One of the penguins shouts, at the same time that Mario yells “Luigi, on your left!”

Luigi jolts at the sight of the three spiky, spinning shells approaching fast. He jumps high enough to leapfrog right over them all, causing them to ricochet off the wall unexpectedly and careen off the side straight into the deep pit. 

“Nice, Weegie!” Mario cheers. “You always were the better jumper.” 

“Keep your head in the fight, soldier!” One specific penguin calls out to Luigi. He’s wearing a very fancy gold crown — probably their king? “We’re not done here yet!” 

“I know, I know, but look!” Luigi gestures excitedly across the chasm. “My brother’s here! He made it!”

“Good show! If he’s as brave as you said, he can help us beat back these dastardly troops once and for all! We’ll all see the light of day again soon!”

The rest of the penguins cheer, thrusting their flippers victoriously into the air, and then let out a wave of new, guttural battle cries. The Penguin King smiles over at Mario and salutes him before rejoining the fray. There are more of Bowser’s minions crowding the walkways on both sides, Mario realizes with a newfound wave of worry. He needs to get to Luigi now. 

“Stay right there!” He calls, starting to run alongside the railing. “Don’t move! I’m coming!”

“Are you kidding!? Wait!” Luigi starts running too, mirroring Mario. “I can meet you faster this way!” 

Mario laughs. “If you can keep up with me!” 

“You’re on!”

The road ahead of him is pure chaos, filled with attacking enemies and whooping Kongs and weapons flying every which way, but Mario runs. He runs until his heart burns, dodging and weaving, almost tripping here and there because he can’t stop looking over the gap to make sure Luigi’s still there on the other side, stumbling his way through his own gauntlet. The two areas are winding closer together, slowly but surely. They must meet somewhere. He’ll find it. He has to.

“Hey, Luigi!” He yells, breathless and happy. “Remember when we were fixing Mrs. McGrady’s sink a couple weeks ago and talking about the future? Did you imagine it’d be anything like this?” 

“Whaddya think!?” Luigi shouts back jokingly. “I-I mean, I imagined people being mad at us, but those were customers. There was definitely a lot less lava, and magic, and crazy green pipes that send you to places from your literal nightmares!” He laughs, which swiftly turns into a yelp when he has to dodge away from a red Koopa. The next words come out thicker, almost strained. “Mario, you, you’re really here, you — I missed you, I…”

Even with the distance and the distracting noise and the heavy breathing, Mario can hear the familiar tearing in his brother’s voice, and it pushes him to run faster. Luigi is so much braver than many people in their life have given him credit for, but he has a breaking point, and Mario can recognize it like the back of his own hand. Heck, he could use a good cry right about now too. They're so close. Just a little further.

He’s never been the biggest hugger — that title belongs squarely to Luigi, who always holds on a little too long, especially when Mario protests, swinging him up into the air until Mario has to grab him in a headlock and wrestle him down, both of them laughing by then — but he genuinely doesn’t know how he’s ever going to let go of his brother again once he’s within arm’s reach. 

“I missed you too! Every day!” He calls out, and if his voice cracks, well, that’s okay. “Hold on! It’s gotta be just up ahead!” There’s a solid wall coming up where they won’t be able to see each other across the way any longer, but the sharp curve of it looks extremely promising. “I’ll meet you on the other side!” 

“Okay!” 

The wall comes between them. Mario's finally in the clear, having left all the attackers in the dust. His legs and chest hurt, but it doesn’t matter. He's about to get his brother back. He feels invincible, unstoppable.

“I told you, bro!” He can’t hear Luigi at all any longer, but he shouts anyway, hoping the words reach him.  “Even if it didn’t turn out like we thought, it’s all gonna be okay! This is crazy stuff, but as long as we're—” 

Mario turns the corner and skids to a sharp stop. The words die in his throat, turning to ash.

Bowser is in front of him. 

The King of the Koopas nearly fills the entire space wall-to-wall, hulking and monstrous, even bigger than what Mario imagined. He breathes out an angry, deep growl that prickles at Mario’s skin, star-bright embers scattering in the air, the smell of burning getting stronger and stronger. But none of that is what Mario is focusing on. He’s frozen in place at the sight of Luigi, wriggling in one of Bowser’s gripped hands. A thick, scaly finger is coiled tight over his brother’s mouth too, keeping him from making any noise besides a variety of muffled, panicked sounds. 

“Thought you didn’t know him, Greenie,” Bowser says in a low voice to Luigi. “Wasn’t that what you said? Boy, you wouldn’t like what I usually do to liars. It involves fire — a lot of it.” His rows of sharp teeth part, just enough for a big exhale, tinged with molten heat. Luigi cringes, turning his head away as far as he can manage. He’s trembling. “But lucky for you, turns out you’re not entirely useless.”

It takes a moment for Mario to come back into his body, remember how to move and think. But slowly, his hands ball into fists. A voice erupts out of him that barely sounds like his own, grave and angry, angrier than he’s ever been in his life. 

“I’m only gonna say this once, ya overgrown turtle,” he says, shifting his footing into a fighting stance. “Let my brother go now.” 

Bowser looks down at him with a derisive sort of amusement for a long moment before laughing outright. "Give me a break, shortie! You’re even punier in person — 50 of you couldn't stop me. But that hasn’t stopped you from trying, has it? You and your little friends  — your pathetic excuse for an “army,” if that’s what you want to call it. But that all ends now.” 

As if on cue, Mario hears DK and a few other Kongs turn the corner, whooping and hollering, only to pause too at the sight of Bowser. “Let’s get ‘em! He can't take us all at once!” Someone says, and there’s a rush of new movement behind Mario. Bowser turns Luigi in his hand, holding him out a little closer to Mario with a shake of the wrist — a taunt. One of his claws pulls up just a little from the rest, the sharp tip arched and pressed lightly to his brother’s neck. The implication is clear. 

“Stop!” Mario shouts, half-strangled. He must sound serious enough that DK yells “hang on, hang on!” to his brethren, grabbing them with both arms and holding them back from attacking. On Bowser's other side, Mario can see the penguins watching what’s unfolding too with wide eyes. Even all the minions in the area have gone still, weapons lowered, waiting to see what Bowser does before making their next move. The space is suddenly quiet. 

The claw finally relaxes again. Luigi’s eyes are very wide, and there are tears on his face as he stares at Mario. He tries to say something, the sound of it hopelessly muffled against Bowser’s hand — an apology, or a plea, or simply Mario’s name. 

Mario is shaking. He grits his teeth hard, desperately tries to hold himself steady again. He hopes Bowser can’t see it — but there’s a gleam in the King’s eyes, and it couldn’t be any clearer that he does. 

“Do you know how long I worked on this plan?” Bowser says, his tone softer, more thoughtful all of a sudden.  “Orchestrating these invasions, gathering forces far and wide to serve me, taking the almighty power star for myself. I’ve wanted this for years!” His wide mouth curves up, plainly wicked and self-satisfied. “And now here I am, about to rule the world like I deserve, and a couple of useless, pipsqueak plumbers from who-knows-where think they’re just gonna waltz right in and ruin it for me.” Bowser chuckles to himself. It’s a dangerous, sharp-edged sound, echoing on and on. “Ain’t that a laugh, Mario?” 

Mario doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even know if he’s breathing any longer. All he can do is glare.

Bowser shrugs. The large fingers on his occupied hand flex ever so slightly, a slow, malicious ripple of movement, all the scales glinting in a wave. “You’re less fun than I thought you’d be,” he says gruffly. "What does the princess even see in you? A tiny little killjoy who loves ruining things for others. Guess it’s only fair I ruin something of yours to make us even."

There’s no further warning or fanfare. In one brutal motion, Bowser crushes his grip tighter around Luigi. His brother’s mouth is still covered, but the way he cries out is starkly, unmistakably pained. 

Mario’s vision floods with red. Something inside of him, the patient, careful part that was still desperately clinging to one last scrap of self-control, snaps cleanly in two. He runs at Bowser full-speed, fist cocked back, teeth bared. 

“I said LET HIM GO!” 

He doesn’t make it there. Bowser, grinning outright, moves so much faster than Mario would have ever guessed he could. He spins, and his tail comes out of nowhere. The impact is like an oncoming train, catapulting Mario into the nearby wall with a sickening crack.

There’s a horrible ringing sound in his ears. His head hurts. He hears Bowser laugh, followed by a roar and a burst of fire breath, awful-smelling and close enough to singe. There’s a lot of shouting, and panic, and thunderous footsteps, moving in a hurry. He can’t think any longer. Why can’t he think? All that comes to mind is—

(They’re fifteen, hiding in their bedroom with some smuggled bandages and antibiotics from the medicine cabinet because if their mom finds out Mario punched out a kid behind the school, she will LITERALLY murder him. Luigi wraps each bruised knuckle carefully as Mario winces and complains about the stinging ointment. His brother looks angrier than he’s ever seen him before, though, and that makes him quiet again in a hurry.)

“You want him so bad?” Bowser is much further away, his voice a distant rumble over the flickering flames. Get up, Mario tells himself. He’s gasping, struggling to push himself back up with useless, trembling hands. His legs feel numb. Get up! “Then come and get ‘em already!”

(“You never stop and THINK first, y’know?” Luigi shakes his head, badly trying to hide the tears budding under his eyes. “And now you’re hurt, and it’s all my fault, and — and I don’t need you to do stuff like that for me! I can handle it, e-even if you think I can’t!”) 

“Mario!” That’s Luigi, terrified and wheezing, finally able to talk again. An intentional decision by Bowser, no doubt, just to be cruel. Mario can barely hear his brother at all, and the sound of his voice keeps growing fainter. “No! Let go! MARIO!” 

(“What are you even saying? That’s not why I did it at all!” Mario insists, using his uninjured hand to flick Luigi’s nose with a few fingers. His affronted expression at that makes Mario laugh, and the motion quickly turns into them trying to be the first one to swat each other in the face without getting blocked. At least the tears are forgotten, which is what he wanted from the start. “Don’t ya get it? I know you can take care of yourself. But if anyone wants to hurt you, they’re gonna have to go through me first. I’M the big bro, and that’s just how it is forever.”) 

Luigi! 

He’s standing again, even as his body protests every pull and push of the way, even as he’s still struggling to open his eyes. Someone strong and furry offers some extra support on his right side. 

“You okay, man?” Donkey Kong asks. “Geez, that looked like it hurt. Hey, anyone have an extra mushroom?” 

Stars are flashing across his vision, but finally they fade away. There’s a line of fire in front of them like a makeshift barrier, slowly but steadily dying out. Sure enough, Bowser and Luigi are gone. Mario’s heart lurches hard against his ribs.

“Setting a devious trap for sure,” The Penguin King grouses from further away. “Using one’s own flesh and blood! Does that dastardly Koopa’s depravity know no limits?” 

“I’m fine. Never better,” Mario groans. He points past the fire. “He went that way, right?” 

DK blinks, looking a little uneasy. “Uh, yeah, but we should probably regroup first and — hey! Wait a second, you idiot!”

Mario’s already charged full-speed ahead, jumping over the flames. Others yell after him too, saying it's too dangerous, but he’s running anyway, chasing the smell of molten heat, the faint, far-off echoes of yelling that feel like pinpricks in his lungs. 

He knows it’s a trap. He knows. He just doesn’t care.

He already let Luigi literally slip through his hands once before. Heck, he isn’t sure if he’ll ever be able to forgive himself for that alone. No matter where he has to go, who he has to fight, how much abuse he has to take, he's getting Luigi back right now, and he's gonna pound that overgrown bully's face until he regrets every life decision that led to him daring to hurt Mario's little brother.

It can't be too late. He can't have screwed this up again. He'll do anything. Even if...

The feeling of something on his cap startles him out of the thought — the softest boop-boop-boop, like someone very small is bouncing on it. He assumes he’s just imagining things until the blue star-thing (Lumalee?) floats down further, easily keeping up with his top speed, humming what sounds like a lullaby. Mario gawks in its direction. 

“The biggest sacrifices are often the ones that burn the brightest, out in space,” it says, bright and sing-song. “Did you know that?”

“What are you even talking about!?” Mario yells. “Sorry, but I’m a little busy here!” 

It’s unbothered by that, twirling close enough to give his mustache a little, playful poke. “Not existing any longer is natural, inevitable. We all go into the light someday.” The way it’s staring at Mario is unnerving, as though this little, creepy star knows exactly what he was just thinking about. “You look scared of that. Are you?” 

Mario swallows thickly. 

“No,” he says. “If that’s the only way, then…” His eyes are burning at the edges, just a little. “If the people I love are safe, then it doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

Lumalee smiles a dreamy, thoughtful smile.

“Oh,” it sighs, little more than a breath. “This is going to be so much fun.” 

And then it floats away. 

Mario doesn’t have time to stop and wonder what that was all about. He throws himself deeper and deeper into the airship, even when a heavy metal gate slams down behind him to separate him from the others, even when the slabs of rock under his feet sink down into the lava from the weight and don’t resurface, erasing any way out. Mario thinks of his training, of Princess Peach and Toad cheering him on, of the exhilaration and hope he felt looking out over the Rainbow Road, of Luigi smiling in the warp zone right before they were ripped apart. He steels himself for what’s coming next.

Further ahead, he hears his brother call out for him.

Mario runs.

[coffbeanie]

This is most definitely just the Wicked brainrot combining with the fact that Marble Hornets is on my mind 24/7 but Tim and Brian are very much, even if just the teeniest tiniest bit, somewhat Elphaba and Galinda coded that has just been lingering in my MINDDDDD

[strang3lov3]

seeing depeche mode refs in your joel fics is keeping me kicking my feet

It’s like crack to me. I Just Can’t Get Enough, wink wink nudge nudge. A little violator here, a little songs of faith and devotion there. Look! It’s a bird, it’s a plane! It’s music for the masses!