#read a fanfic that had this idea and i thought it was neat

[happypeachsludgeflower]

SVSSS BRAINWAVE JUST HIT! I HAD A THOUGHT ™

An average modern person transmitigates into SVSSS. Mind you, I specifically mean SVSSS and not PIDW. That’s right, our protagonist awakens to find themselves as a NPC in the world of Scum Villain Self Saving System. And they think to themselves upon waking up, “Oh, I’m an NPC in a xianxia novel with a happy ending! Cool!!” and goes about their life being a background nerd geeking out about plants, and monsters, and cultivation in general, and neat flying swords.

But this is a world of sex pollen and wife plots and unfortunately the cure for a lot of diseases is duel cultivation with a heavenly demon, and we all know who that demon is going to end up marrying, so it’s best to mess around with meta cultivation knowledge and prep for the worst case scenario, and honestly, they may as well solve some of the minor issues in the plot while their at it, so they invent some new cultivation techniques from some of those nifty svsss fanfictions they read while alive (I’m specifically thinking of this fic’s explanation of duel cultivation and cauldrons, but other weird cultivation methods could be used from other fanfics and xianxia books), so they can tidy up some things.

For instance, is it really necessary for Zhuzhi-lang to be stuck as a weird snake creature for nearly twenty years? Is it really needed for Yue Qingyuan to have crippled cultivation due to his sword?? Does Tianlang Jun have to be stuck under a mountain and then escape only to slowly die in a decomposing body??

They know they can’t change everything without the system interfering, but small nudges should help right? After all, they’re just a background NPC and Shen Yuan will show up eventually and everyone will fall in love with him and no one will even notice the NPC’s existence even if they had noticed something was up during their miraculous healing and salvation spree.

So they go about fixing those things. They catch Zhuzhi-lang unawares and feed him a sun and dew mushroom seed while he’s confused and do some funky cultivation shenanigans and pat him on the head cause he’s really such a cute weird snake creature and give him some vague warning about not trusting in laws and then fucks off to somewhere else.

I’m still caught up on Metagaming’s concept of duel cultivation transactions where you give and take—like taking something from someone’s cultivation, not just power, and returning something else—and keep getting stuck in a brainrot loop of the NPC taking some bloodmite powers from Zhuzhi-lang when they gave him a fully humanoid form that’s not reliant on Tianlang Jun. So my main idea for how the NPC plots to hold Yue Qingyuan in place is feeding him lesser bloodmites (not full ones because they only took a minor ability and can only hold someone for a few minutes before the bloodmites die), while they hold Yue Qingyuan still long enough to draw some ritual to heal his soul and separate it from Xuan Su. But honestly, I’m sure other ideas could apply here too. My Metagaming brainrot is just too strong right now to think of any.

And Tianlang Jun? Simple. Zhuzhi-lang’s got a humanoid form and can easily get the sun and dew mountain flowers for himself. They can’t stop the man from being imprisoned entirely. The system says no since Luo Binghe needs a dramatic entrance. So while they can’t stop the tragedy, they can put some pieces into play for an early escape, maybe a new plan to get him a better body once’s he’s back, and be a ferry for Su Xiyan’s body to revive her at some point as well.

It’s nice being an unnoticeable NPC, isn’t it? You can do whatever you want and no one’s going to know!!

Except. Someone does notice (as we all could have seen coming). And Shen Qingqiu is suspicious as fuck of this obnoxious Shidi because he notices everyone due to paranoid, and he’s even MORE suspicious of the mysterious character that healed Yue Qingyuan’s soul (and wasn’t that a doozy of a realization to have when Yue Qingyuan burst into his bamboo house one day freaking out because some disguised, powerful cultivator somehow did the impossible after ambushing him and holding him down as they healed his soul, and Shen Qingqiu is still reeling from learning that Yue Qingyuan’s SOUL was damaged trying to save Xiao Jiu and the stubborn asshole never told him because he apparently assumed Xiao Jiu knew there wasn’t a single universe where Qi ge didn’t try to come for him). And so yea, Shen Qingqiu is suspicious as all hell and starts snooping and plotting to catch the mysterious cultivator by combing through Cang Qiong because whoever it is has to have an in at the sect somewhere to know about Yue Qingyuan’s soul.

And that’s not even mentioning how suspicious Zhuzhi-lang and Tianlang Jun are now. They might not have realized what that strange cultivator did when they did it, or understood the cryptic in law mention, but they certainly have some suspicions now that Tianlang Jun was as imprisoned by in law like people, and Zhuzhi-lang kept his humanoid form just fine without Tianlang Jun, and now the hunt is ON for the mysterious benefactor, so they can repay the kindness and find out what the fuck is going on.

The NPC is, of course, oblivious to all of this going on and goes about their merry way thinking they’re being the Best ™ at being lowkey. They are SO good at being inconspicuous!! They deserve an award really!!

And then. Shen Qingqiu doesn’t qi deviate.

Shen Yuan doesn’t show up.

Oh shit, the NPC thinks to themselves as they begin to panic. They even check Shen Qingqiu out themselves to see if it’s Shen Yuan just being really good at acting. Maybe he was a better actor in the book than he gave himself credit for or something?? But no. That’s Shen Qingqiu all right. Shen Yuan is missing in action, and someone has to fix the plot of Cang Qiong is doomed.

Thus begins the NPC’s journey to try and unobtrusively fix PIDW’s child abuse problems (that they’re unaware are already fixed), save Liu Qingge from his qi deviation in Ling Xi Caves, make sure Luo Binghe doesn’t raze the sect to the ground someday and hopefully find him some sort of husband replacement to keep him under control when he does return, possibly dispose of the Huan Hua Palace Master at some point because he’s vile trash, and did I mention there are multiple man hunts for this poor oblivious dude currently on going??

And the most important question for them to solve? Where the fuck did Shen Yuan go??

Hmm I wonder where that man could have gone.

[possessable]

Hi guys remember that elaborate Captain Underpants And The Insidious Incident of the Infectious Inside Joke fanfic idea i had but never actually wrote ? Here's the Entire summary/rough planning document in case you wanted to know how it actually went (warning it is the entire thing under the readmore so it's Long):

George and Harold take note that the students of Jerome Horwitz Elementary seem a little bit off today. They're all smiling and giggling about something, though about what exactly is indiscernible—not to mention The Glowing Yellow Eyes. Oh well, surely it's nothing Captain Underpants can't deal with!

(It's something Captain Underpants can't deal with.)

(Maybe someone else can?)

Over the weekend, George and Harold are hanging out in the treehouse, staying up late trying to plan out a Captain Underpants Theme Song(TM) (It's the Weird Al one, they're the ones who came up with it in universe for this fanfic I guess)

eventually when it gets to be too late they go home and say they'll keep planning it tomorrow, Sunday.

Alas, Tomorrow Comes and it is /not/ Sunday, It's Monday -- Both of the boys lost track of time and forgot that it was Actually The end of the weekend. Both of them accidentally slept in, and are Late For School. They end up rushing to get there so fast that they don't notice something is Slightly Off about the passerbys of the city streets…passerbyes? how do you pluralize "passerby"-- I mean that A Bunch Of people are weird and have glowing yellow eyes and big smiles and George and Harold don't notice.

("why are they rushing they don't seem like the type to be concerned about being late" it's funny sorry)

Point is, they get to school and everyone there is Slightly Off too, who would've guessed? The students are smiling and a lot of them are formed into weird little huddled groups whispering to each other and laughing And Also They Have Glowing Yellow eyes. George and harold do, in fact, think this is a little bit strange, but probably don't take as much note of it as they should.

George: Why is everyone so happy? Harold: Maybe they read our comic and thought it was really funny. George: We didn't /make/ a new comic, we were busy trying to figure out that theme song. Harold: Oh, yeah. uhhh. They're still laughing at one of our older ones, maybe? George: You might be giving us too much credit Harold: We can never have too much credit. George: Hmm. yeah, that's true.

They eventually gotta go to their separate classes and they're like

Harold: Oh, we were so preoccupied that we didn't even come up with any big pranks to do… George: I've always got some quick backups! [pulls out a whoopee cushion for himself] Might not be the most elaborate, but it's a classic. [he takes out…another prank item, i don't know i haven't figured it out, and tosses it to harold.] Harold: [nodding] Classic.

So they part ways and go to their classes.

Cut to George's class, the other students are weirdly well behaved, sitting still and staring straight forward with the same smile plastered on their faces. George looks around, a little confused at their cheerful dispositions, but the teacher Ms. Ribble still seems to be normal and blah-blah-blah-ing boringly about Whatever Subject.

George decides to put his simple prank plan into action and tosses the whoopee cushion onto her chair as she's sitting down. She sits on it, it makes the Funny Fart Sound, she gets annoyed--but none of the other students laugh or react whatsoever. They continue their blank-smiled stares.

Ms. Ribble simply removes the whoopee cushion from her chair with an irritated look on her face and continues teaching. George is baffled.

(During that whole scene it's intermittently cutting to Harold's class, where The Same Thing Happens with his prank attempt. He is /also/ baffled.)

Anyway, at the end of their classes, the students file out of the door in a neat line (except for george and harold who kind of just walk past everyone else confusedly. as George leaves--in the background, one of the smiling students approaches Ms.Ribble. She looks at them indignantly like "what do you want" but then the student grabs her by the arm and yanks her down so they're face to face, about to Do Something--George doesn't notice at all and leaves before the interaction is completed.)

Point is, George and Harold meet up again in the hallway, and both of them Immediately ask -

George and Harold, simultaneously: What was THAT??? Harold: Nobody even -- George: There wasn't even a /single/ sensible chuckle at the whoopee cushion! How can you not chuckle at a whoopee cushion!? Harold: That's what I was about to say!!!! Nobody reacted at ALL! George: Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Harold: Something weird is going on! george [at the same time]: Something weird is going on…

They walk down the hallway for a bit longer, this time taking more note of the weird huddled groups of whispering students. They grow More Concerned.

Then Melvin walks up to them.

Melvin: Do you two know what's going on with everyone today? It is /very/ annoying. Did you put out another one of your juvenile comics? George: Actually, no. We're with you on this one, we have no idea what's so funny. Melvin: Hm. Whatever… I have calculus notes to study…[walks off to go to his locker] Harold: ?????? Calculus????

Melvin tries to get to his locker, but there's one of those weird huddles of kids (three kids, probably) in front of it. He tries to push past them and utterly fails.

Melvin: Uh. Hello? You're standing in front of my locker. [The children ignore him and continue whispering and laughing to themselves.] Melvin: /What/ are you /giggling/ at? The Children, all in unison: We learned a really funny joke. Melvin: …Right. Can you-- The Children: Do you want to know what it is? Melvin: If the explanation for your joke requires a lead-in /asking me/ if i want to know the joke, then it's probably too long of an explanation! I don't have time for this… [starts walking off] I can--

As Melvin tries to leave, one of the kids grabs him by the arm and pulls him back. He protests, obviously, but another one of the kids leans in and whispers something in his ear, then giggles. Melvin looks confused at first, and then his face shifts and he starts smiling like the other kids are. He laughs , and with a little blinks, acquires The Glowing Yellow eyes.

George and harold have been watching this entire interaction from the sidelines and are now Obviously concerned. Melvin notices them and approaches, like "They were right, the joke IS really funny :-) I think you two would like it, do you want to know what it is?"

George and harold Do Not. They run away.

As they're running in panic, they discuss how something is DEFINITELY wrong -- maybe before it could be denied, but melvin Would Not Say That. Also, some of the kids notice them and start chasing after them. They get to the front of the school and they're about to run out the doors, but Krupp walks up and stops them, crossing his arms.

Krupp: What do you two think you're doing? George: Principle Krupp! There's-- Krupp: You two show up late for school, run around in the halls which is /absolutely/ against the rules-- Harold: [gesturing to the weird kids] Mister Krupp, there's a-- Krupp: Don't interrupt me--and now you're trying to /leave/ entirely? Not on my watch! You two, my office, n-- George: [snaps]

Obviously Captain tries to do that thing where he rips off all of his clothes and yells his Mighty Battle Cry but George and Harold stop him like "No, hold on, you'll draw too much attention to us" and usher him out the door. They run back to the tree house.

In the treehouse, Captain switches back into his usual (lack of) clothes.

Captain: What's the situation, sidekicks? George: There's some sort of weird…happy humorous hivemind… Captain: Humorous happy hivemind, huh? Harold: Some sort of insidious incident of an infectious inside joke… George: Title drop Captain: What? Harold: [nodding] Title drop Captain: Hm! Well, I don't know what that means but all-in-all i appreciate the awesome act of alliteration.

So they explain in more detail what they're talking about, and decide they need to go out and try to find The Source of this weird hivemind plague and put A STOP to it!

Before heading out, they decide to stock up on supplies and Weapons for Self Defense… They look around the treehouse. George finds a slingshot and decides that's good enough. Harold is like "I swear I had something good around here, a nerf gun or something…" but can't find it. Captain helps look around and at first finds the plans for the theme song and he's like "Oh this is great :-D" but now is not the time for that of course . he finds a SuperSoaker instead and picks it up, pointing it directly to his face

captain: Ooh, what's this, a watergun? harold: DON'T POINT THAT AT YOUR-- captain: Kidding, kidding! [hands it to Harold] I learned to stop doing that after the first 15 times. george: 16 captain: Yes!

with that , They head out.

The people on the streets are, in fact, all weird and infeccted as well. Captain is briefly like "Hey what's the problem with this hivemind if it's making people happy that doesn't seem too bad -- [one of the infected tries to grab him violently by the arm] Nevermind that's weird [he punches them away]"

They try to figure out what could've possibly caused Whatever Is Going On, standing in an area with no infected to try and think. While the boys are trying to figure that out, captain goes "Well, atleast we can look at this lovely sunset while we wait."

The boys go "What ??? Captain it's the middle of the day, there's no sunset--" and then look to see what he's talking about and notice that part of the sky is, in fact, being tinted weird shades of orange and yellow by this ominously silhouetted glowing thing on top of a tall building.

It's a meteor. There's a giant glowing meteor that landed on top of a building in the city, particularly a building that boasts the city's Moderately Large Spaghetti Bowl Monument, a large empty metal spaghetti bowl + fork statue. It landed inside of the bowl, obviously, fitting perfectly and causing little structural damage to the rest of the building.

They decide to check it out. Captain flies them all over there, temporarily leaving the boys nearby on the ground below while he heads up to go confront The Meteor.

He flies up to it, inspects it closely, determines it to be Just A Weird Rock that doesn't hold any immediate threat to him, and turns away to give a little speech, "Worry not, citizens of this marvelous metropolis! This strange glowing rock stands no chance against the great warrior of waistbands!"

He turns back to notice that the meteor is glowing even brighter and making a weird charge-up sound, and does not process it in time to dodge when it shoots a giant laser beam at his face.

He falls to the ground, making a giant crater when he impacts the floor. George and harold shout "No!" and run up to check on him. he has little scrapes on his face from having fallen into the ground so hard.

so follows this one comic:

So they run away, of course--and Captain pursues them, of course.

So now they're running through the streets fighting off regular infected with their shoddy weapons [Watergun and Slingshot] while also trying to evade Captain, who is More Dangerous because he Has Superpowers. He starts trying to attack them by doing the underwear slingshot thing at them

Harold: No! I never thought the unlimited underwear ability would be used against us! George: What about the super strength and flight and stuff? Harold: I know, but the unlimited underwear thing is just so much more personal… George: [sighing sadly] Yeah, it is…

After a while of running, they end up cornering themselves in an alleyway, because that always happens in situations like these.

They try to figure out what to do, because they can't imagine their dinky little kids toy weapons would do anything against Captain, but they don't have much time to think because George gets Threateningly Grabbed By The Collar Of His Shirt and Lifted By The Infected Hero.

Harold panics and finally just shoots Captain in the face with the supersoaker.

He drops George, shutting his eyes while he shakes the water out of his face with a "Aughrublblsgjblrbh!" noise--and when he opens them again, the yellow glow is gone. And Also He is Very Angry and Confused looking.

Krupp: WBHUH. WHAT. [looks at Lack Of Clothes] Not this again! George, Harold, WHY am I--!?? [he looks at the boys for 5 seconds to see that they look genuinely afraid and panicked. He quiets down from his yelling, now too preoccupied Being Slightly Concerned to feel angry] Krupp: Why are you… [looks around for a little bit more and then notices the scrapes on his face] Why is my face-- George: Wait, Krupp isn't infected! Harold: [gasp] You're right! Krupp: What? [Harold grabs Krupp by the arm and start running out of the alleyway] Harold: We're going to the treehouse, now! Krupp: [now angry again] WHAT? CAN I AT LEAST FIND MY CLOTHES FIRST!? George: They're at the treehouse. Krupp: THEY'RE AT THE--!?? Of course they're at the treehouse, why wouldn't they be at the treehouse?

Cut to the treehouse.

Krupp angrily puts on his clothes and his toupee.

Krupp: You boys…have a /lot/ of explaining to do. [long uncomfortable silence] George: …I'm gonna try something first Krupp: What do you mean /try somethi/-- [George snaps at Krupp. This brings back the glowing yellow eyes and empty smile on Captain's face, and he immediately lunges at george to try and attack him again. Harold shoots him with the supersoaker.] George: sorry i wanted to see if captain was back to normal yet Krupp: AUAGABLBHRGHBL [shakes head] What /is/ that!? Stop doing that! George: Okay, okay! explaining now!

The boys explain the whole "there's a weird hivemind thing going on (We had nothing to do with it this time we swear), and everyone in the school got infected, and everyone on the streets is infected, and YOU got infected too--but we…splashed you with water…which snapped you out of it, and, uhh, uhhhh"

They neglect to mention Captain.

Krupp stares at them skeptically.

They decide to tack on "Also, you have superpowers…?"

/That/ gets Krupp to react--He goes "WHAT? That is ridiculous! This is another one of your guys' stupid pranks there's--" starts laughing incredulously "I DO NOT Have--" he immediately stops laughing "….what type of superpowers"

george and harold very casually list off some of them like "oh yeah uh, flight. super strength, super resilience, uhh"

krupp stares at the floor like "…i guess that would…explain that one time when…[cut to flashback of him accidentally levitating to get something off of a high shelf and then only noticing 5 seconds later] …and the…. that other time when [cut to flashback of him getting frustrated and slamming his head on his desk only to break the entire thing in half]"

george and harold look at him, saying "i bet he's having a sequence of comedic but also revelatory flashbacks right now"

Anyway, while Krupp is having a small crisis, The Boys huddle and talk to each other.

Harold: How are we gonna get out of this one? George: "This one" as in Krupp knowing about the super powers or "This one" as in the alien meteor plague? Harold: Both! George: Hmm. Look, I hate to say this, but I think with a situation as widespread as this, we may need… Harold: No… George: We need Good, Responsible adults on our team! Harold: UGH George: And with Captain out of commission, we just have "responsible!" [gestures to Krupp] Harold: I guess you're right…but who else even is there? It's not like any of the staff at the school would help us! george: [thinking] george: except for… Harold: Oh, right! Harold: [turns back to Krupp] You stay here, we gotta get someone Krupp: [preoccupied looking at a figurine of captain underpants]

To make a long story short, they go to the school cafeteria to get Edith.

they explain "EDITH! THere's a weird alien hivemind thing and and-and the. WE NEED HELP!!"

and edith really doesn't question it too hard before taking out a cast iron pan from Somewhere like "Okay i'll help you guys"

and then the boys are like "Wh. W. No you can't use a cast iron pan these -- that's like, an actual--that will concuss people"

edith proceeds to go "OH right right sorry so sorry" and takes out a stainless steel pan instead because it's a bit lighter. george and harold obviously object to this as well before edith chooses an actually acceptable kitchen weapon [fire extinguisher maybe? she picks it up and the boys are like "NO THAT WILL ALSO CONCUSS PEOPLE" but then she demonstrates that she's gonna use it by spraying the fire extinguisher and not by using it as a blunt force weapon and they're like "okay yeah that's fine whatever"]

The boys get back to the treehouse and climb inside.

Krupp: Oh, you're back. [putting down the paper with the captain underpants theme song planning on it, which he was holding for some reason] This place is an absolute /pig-sty/ by the way! Why does it smell like grape soda in here? You should-- edith: [climbs inside of the treehouse as well] Krupp: [immediately shuts up] Heyyyy Edithhhh [charasmatically leans against something and rests his head on his palm] edith: Benjamin Krupp [charasmatically Snaps And Does Fingerguns]

captain immediately tries to lunge at george and harold again but they shoot him with the supersoaker [they're not even scared this time they're just unamused] and they look at edith like "DO NOT snap at him." edith is like "Right right sorry I forgot." Krupp is confused.

The boys start explaining and planning like

Harold: Okay. We have to get to the meteor's building--and it /will/ be a dangerous journey. Since Krupp can't fly us there like Captain would've-- krupp: what? harold: --we've planned out an entire route by foot, each step we take will be meticulously calculated to avoid dangerous encounters and [insert overly planned and overly dramatic route drawn on a paper map of the city, insert the boys mentioning] … if we get into trouble edith can take one for the team and lure the infected away for us-- krupp: What!?? edith: [nods agreeably] harold: --because she's definitely smart and could survive on her own Krupp: AND I COULDN'T???

eventually after way too much explanation of their elaborate plan Krupp finally interrupts [almost snaps to get their attention but refrains and waves his hands/claps instead] to say "Guys. hey. Hey listen to me."

and the boys are like "What?"

and Krupp is like "I Have a car"

To make a long story short, they drive to the meteor building and go inside so they can get to the roof. In the building there are More Infected--with each level they go up the infected get More Aggressive due to their proximity to the meteor. Shenanigans ensue, montage of them fighting off the infected with their ridiculous weapons [supersoaker, slingshot, fire extinguisher, krupp doesn't even have a weapon he's just there] and also with each floor they're trying to get Krupp to figure out how to use his powers. He's doing an Okay Job at figuring them out but not A Great Job.

Also, the entire time the boys keep humming/singing the captain underpants theme song and krupp is like "Can you stop doing that it's annoying"

Anyway, eventually on one of the higher floors the windows are broken for some reason-- edith gets into A Scuffle with an infected person and uhh. gets shoved out of one of the windows. Krupp tries to grab her but fails, so she falls out of the building. Naturally, Krupp jumps out after her without the slightest bit of hesitation.

This concerns the boys greatly because to them it looks like the two adults on their team just died.

Obviously they /don't/ die, though. Krupp , falling, reaches out for edith , managing to grab her and finally figure out how to intentionally use his flight powers for the first time . He flies back up to the floor that George and Harold are at, holding edith in a bridal style carry with both of them looking utterly baffled, and Harold is just like

(old art haha)

Anyway. now that he can fly they don't need to scale up the rest of the floors of the building, they just fly up to the roof of the building.

Also, krupp by this point has begun humming/singing the captain underpants theme song to himself as well and george and harold are like "i thought you said it was annoying" and krupp begrudgingly admits "IT'S CATCHY."

Anyway, Meteor time!

I don't feel like typing the rest, it's just those two comics i made

Anyway, Yada yada yada, they have a confrontation and a fight ensues. George is like "Let everyone go from your weird hivemind thing!" and the following comic i made happens:

anyway. The Meteor then shoots another beam at george and actually hits him because Krupp was too distracted waiting for an answer to help him dodge this time (krupp: WAIT NO)

(harold: No! George! D-: Why does this keep happening it's just like the anti-humor beam from the first movie krupp: [from across the room] The first what? harold: Nothing)

anyway george is infected now. he stands up Slowly and Ominously and starts walking towards harold to infect him as well or something [meteor's not just using a beam again for The Drama] and harold is like "George! No! Uhh, uhh--" he panics and tries to think of something to do and just ends up singing the captain underpants theme song that they were coming up with the day before. George actually stops his approach and freezes for a second.

Meteor: [confused] What are you doing? krupp: [alarmed] What are you doing!? harold: I DONT KNOW I JUST THOUGHT IT MIGHT HELP [continues badly singing]

Harold keeps singing and it does seem to stop/confuse george from going any further. edith also joins in. The meteor yells at them to shut up because the song is annoying. Harold is like "i think you mean it's Catchy :-)" and the meteor is like "No I do not."

Note to self. This would be a lot more dramatic in the actuual thing the summary document makes it sound stupid as hell but that's okay

extended period of silence before the meteor starts going "nananana captain underpants yeah yeah yeaaa" to itself and then it's like "GOD DAMN IT"

Anyway, point is, they all sing the themesong at it really loudly [krupp also joins in hesitantly] until the meteor goes "NO WHY IS YOUR MEMETIC COGNITOHAZARD MORE POWERFUL THAN MY MEMETIC COGNITOHAZARD!??" and gets annoyed/intimidated into Literally Growing Legs and walking away.

Conflict resolved! George is back to normal now. All is well. except george doesn''t seem super happy it seems like Seomething is on his mind still [thinking about the ethicality of Captain's existence]

They recoup at the treehouse again.

George starts guiltily explaining the entirety of the "we hypnotized you into being a superhero" thing to Krupp.

Krupp stares the entire time with an unreadable facial expression until George is done talking. There's an uncomfortable silence during which george and harold are expecting krupp to blow up at them.

eventually though krupp is just like "…wow. of course it was you. why wouldn't it been you?" in an oddly calm voice that sounds more relieved than angry

my explanation for why krupp isnt that mad by the end of the fic when he learns that george and harold did the hypno ring thing on him is because it takes place a relatively long time after the first movie [a year maybe? even over a year?] and during the first couple of months afterward he wasextremely mad and confused without an explanation but eventually resigned himself to just Not Having an explanation so now that he does have one he's just like "well. i should be absolutely furious but i already spent all of my furiousness now i'm just relieved to know not in a "im being nice and forgiving you on purpose" way more in a "i feel like i should be angry and i kind of want to be angry but im literally just not"

anyway, Another Awkward Silence Follows before george gingerly asks "uh…can we… see if captain is back to normal now?"

krupp is like "yeah whatever i've had enough of existing for today sure" and snaps at himself. Captain is, in fact, back to normal -- though he is also very confused and startled before george explains that they already saved the day and everything's good now.

uh, idk, Conclusion here?

The end!

EXTRAS:

i think i was gonna do a gag where edith is immune to the hivemind , which is because she is also an alien, but she just explains it to the gang as "oh i already have a distinct eye color of my own so i'm immune to it making my eyes yellow which means i'm also immune to the rest of it." this also means she was going to be shielding harold from the beam attacks by just like, standing in front of him and letting it hit her instead

i maybe was planning on putting a part sometime when they're ascending the building where the meteor talks directly to the gang through captain (possibly some music on the building's intercom/radio has snapping in it, whatevah) and then it monologues all mysterious and intimidating like "ohhh you are scaling my tower to have a direct confrontation with me? okay i won't stop you, but do you think --" and then edith is like "oh wait! i know you. (turns to the gang) i knew this meteor in college it sucked" and the meteor's just like "SHUT UP whatever nevermind i'm done monologuing just shoot the guy with the water again. see you at the top!"

the reason why captain is infected and krupp isn't is because it's a knowledge-based memetic infection. if you Know the joke you are Susceptible to the infection. however, due to The Memory Loss between the two, captain knows it and krupp does not. the beam attack is just the meteor beaming knowledge of the joke directly into someone's head without using a secondary proxy like someone verbally speaking/whispering it

the joke in question is cosmic and unknowable and incomprehensible to human-minds specifically, but for aliens it's the equivalent of a really basic/unfunny "why'd the chicken cross the road" style joke. at some point in the fic i think edith was gonna get grabbed and fakeout infected but after a Moment of Suspense, it's revealed to have absolutely no effect on her, and she just pipes up with "That joke's not even funny!" . this might have been what led up to her getting shoved out of the window because the infected resorted to more violent methods of getting her out of the way if she wasn't infectable

[muiitoloko]

Hello! Just wanted to sneak this ask in. You can do this after your sabbatical lol. I was thinking of an Alan Rickman oneshot where he meets his unknown daughter. Like he had this fling when he was younger and more reckless and the mother never told him. And now the mother passed and the daughter needed a guardian or she'll be shipped off to a foster home. I'm thinking of a teen girl. I'm not quite sure how he'll find out yet. Either the girl goes to him very friendly and profesional and asks for his signature so she can request emancipation in court so she won't go into foster care. She assumed that Alan won't want her and would gladly sign it and was shocked when Alan didn't know. All her life she thought her father abandoned her and her mom.

I'm craving for some platonic angst and fluff hehe. If it's a bad idea u can scrap this lol

Title: Paper Daughters

Summary: She came with a name, a photo, and a fury sharpened by sixteen years of silence. All she wanted was a signature—what she found was the father she never dared believe in.

Pairing: Alan Rickman & Daughter! Reader

Warnings: Angst

Author's Notes: Yes, yes, I cried writing this fanfic 😅 Thank you so much for your request, and here are the songs I listened to while writing it—I'd recommend playing them while you read: "Family Portrait" by P!nk, "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron, "No Choir" by Florence + The Machine, "To Build a Home" by The Cinematic, and "All I Want" by Kodaline. Enjoy! 😊

Also read on Ao3

The year was 1992, and life wasn’t supposed to be hard when you were sixteen. It was supposed to be school and friends and awkward crushes and cheap lipstick and mixtapes. But not for you. Life had always been heavy on your shoulders, like you were born already carrying a debt you didn’t owe. You were poor, and that word meant more than just second-hand shoes and dinners that came from cans—it meant invisible. It meant quiet shame. It meant your mother working too much and smiling too little, raising you alone in a flat with cracked windows and walls that echoed your silences.

You never knew your father. You only asked once—when you were seven, maybe eight—because it was Father’s Day and your classroom was full of children drawing big stick figures with “DAD” written in bright colours, proud and bold.

You didn’t have a dad to draw, so you asked. “Where is he?” you said, simple, soft, not knowing that some questions cut deeper than they should.

Your mother looked at you as if you’d handed her a knife. She didn’t yell; she just cried quietly. She turned her back and pretended to clean the stove while her shoulders shook. You never asked again. You didn’t need to know badly enough to see her cry like that a second time.

Then you turned fourteen, and things that were already bad somehow got worse. Your grandfather died that spring, and two months later your mother got sick—seriously sick, the kind where the neighbours started whispering and casseroles appeared at your door.

You tried to juggle school, work, and keeping her alive, but you weren’t a magician. You were a kid. A tired, stubborn, angry kid with burnt-out dreams and a heart that kept beating only because it didn’t know how to stop. And now—now you were sixteen, and she was gone. One month ago. Thirty days since the last time you heard her voice. And all you had left of her was a letter, a fading photograph, and a name.

Alan Rickman.

It sounded made-up when you first saw it. She’d left the photo in the old biscuit tin where she kept her secret things—birth certificates, ration coupons from her father, a crumpled love letter never sent. You found it when you were going through her things for the last time. She had written the name on the back in neat, nervous handwriting: “Me and Alan. 1975.”

You didn’t recognise him—not really. You didn’t have time for movies. You had laundry to do and night shifts to cover. But you’d read about him once or twice in newspapers left behind on the bus. He was someone. An actor, British, rising through the world like a balloon you could never afford to chase. You didn’t believe it at first. But the letter confirmed it.

He was your father.

It should have mattered more than it did. Should have broken something open inside you. But instead, all you felt was tired. It was just another cruel thing—like the universe had held out this card all these years and now decided to slap it on the table, just a moment too late. Too late for answers. Too late for mother. Too late for care.

And now you were being told you were going into foster care. Sixteen, nearly grown, and they wanted to shove you into a stranger’s house with new rules and new sadness. No. You weren’t going to let that happen. You didn’t care if Alan Rickman was a world-famous actor or a cardboard cut-out. You needed him to sign a paper. That’s all.

So that’s how you found yourself on a bus to London, the photo in your backpack and your mother’s letter folded three times in your coat pocket. The city greeted you with its usual indifference—grey skies, busy people, the smell of wet stone. You had no plan, no address. Just the name of a theatre company and the hope that, if you looked desperate enough, someone might point you in the right direction.

You didn’t want anything from him—not affection, not apologies. You weren’t chasing a fantasy, you just needed to stay out of the system, you needed a signature. Just that.

But deep down, in the smallest part of yourself—the part you still hadn’t drowned—there was a question you hadn’t dared ask.

Would he look at you and know? Would he see your mother in your face? Would he feel anything at all? You didn't know, not yet.

People didn’t take you seriously at the theater company. A possible daughter of Alan Rickman? They laughed.

Not cruelly. Not to your face, anyway. It was the kind of laughter people used to soften disbelief—like you’d just told them you were descended from royalty or aliens or someone who mattered. One woman with a clipboard blinked at you for a long second, then gave you a smile so polished it almost squeaked. “We get all sorts, love,” she said kindly, but with a tone that meant run along now. Another man, older, with round glasses and a frayed scarf, muttered something about “fans” and the things they’d do for “a glimpse.”

You’d left with hot cheeks and your jaw tight, humiliated and furious.

You weren’t his fan, damn it.

You didn’t want an autograph. You didn’t want to breathe the same air or see the ghost of Sheriff of Nottingham or Hans Gruber or whatever role he was playing these days. You didn’t want to fall to your knees in reverent worship like the girls outside the back entrance who clutched flowers and notebooks and phone cameras like they were holy relics.

You didn’t even want to know him.

Why would you want to be a fan of someone who had never been to a single birthday? Someone who had never sent a card, or a letter, or a scrap of money when the electricity was cut off in winter and you and your mother spent a week wrapped in coats and shame? What kind of idiot wanted to admire that?

No. You weren’t a fan. You were a problem that had finally arrived at his doorstep with a name and a photograph and a law that said if you were really his, he owed you something.

And right now, you were sitting on a park bench with the wind stabbing at your cheeks, biting into a sandwich that tasted like wet paper, trying to keep from crying.

You sighed, staring down at the half-eaten thing in your hands. Ham and margarine, maybe. Cheap bread that stuck to the roof of your mouth. You chewed anyway.

You knew Alan Rickman was going to perform at the theatre one day. The posters were everywhere—plastered onto lampposts and the sides of buildings, smoothed across tube walls like they were announcing the second coming. Alan Rickman in rehearsal now… limited run… book early. Some play you’d never heard of, something that sounded elegant and tragic and expensive.

Tickets cost more than you had in your pocket.

Hell, shelter cost more than you had in your pocket.

You’d spent half of what you owned on the bus fare to London, the rest on this sandwich and a bottle of water you were already rationing like it was liquid gold. You’d considered finding a hostel, but that would burn through the last of your coins in a single night, and then you’d have nothing. Nothing but pavement and cold air and that stupid letter folded in your coat like a prayer you weren’t sure you believed in anymore.

So you'd decided.

You’d sleep on the street. Save up what little you could. Skip meals if you had to. Wait outside the theater until the night of the performance, until the lights went down and the curtain dropped and the crowd came pouring out in expensive perfume and soft murmurs.

You’d wait.

And when he walked out—when Alan Rickman, actor, stranger, maybe-father, finally stepped into the London night—you’d be there. You’d walk right up to him. You’d show him the photograph. You’d hand him the letter.

You didn’t care if he laughed.

You didn’t care if he sneered, or denied, or walked away.

All you needed was his signature on a form. A signature that said you were no longer the government’s problem. That you could be your own problem, and no one else’s. Maybe, if you were really feeling reckless, you’d ask him for money for a return ticket. Or a meal. Or a coat.

Would he at least give you that?

Probably not, you thought bitterly, shoving the last bite of sandwich into your mouth. But you’d ask. And if he didn’t—well, fuck it. You’d find a way.

You always found a way. Even if this time, it meant waiting in the rain, invisible and shaking, with nothing but a coat that didn’t zip and a mother’s ghost at your side.

That’s what you did the next night.

You waited. The air was colder than before, the sky darker somehow, pressing in with that thick, heavy London damp that seeped into your socks and your spine. You stood outside the theatre with your coat zipped as far as it would go and your hands stuffed into your sleeves. Around you, a small crowd gathered—mostly women, some men, clutching programmes and pens and hopeful smiles.

They weren’t here to change their lives.

They just wanted a piece of him.

You didn’t expect so many. Not on a weeknight. Not in the cold. But there they were—dozens of them, all eager for a glimpse, a signature, a photo. Eager for a bit of Alan Rickman. They whispered excitedly to each other, some clutching cameras, others reciting favourite lines under their breath like prayers. The kind of devotion you’d never known from anyone, not even your own mother in her final months.

And then the doors opened.

Other actors came out first—cheerful, gracious, easily missed. But then he stepped through.

Alan Rickman.

You froze.

There was no thunder, no dramatic cue, no orchestral swell. But still—it felt like something cracked open. There he was, larger than life and somehow smaller too, wrapped in a long black coat, a scarf looped lazily around his neck, a slight stoop to his tall frame that made him look both exhausted and eternal.

God, he was tall. And his nose—crooked and sharp, exactly like the one you hated seeing in the mirror.

You stared.

And then you stared some more.

You must’ve been frozen too long, because someone pushed past you, and then another. A few elbows caught your ribs, a bag clipped your arm, someone’s perfume filled your throat. People were shouting now—“Alan! Alan, over here!”—shoving programmes and cameras forward like offerings.

You blinked, snapped back to yourself.

Right. This wasn't a dream, this wasn't fate, this wasn't about any of that.

You weren't here to worship; you were here for a name. You pushed through the crowd, the photograph clenched in your hand so tight it crumpled at the corners. “Excuse me—sorry—I need to talk to him—” but no one heard. No one cared. They were all too busy smiling and gasping and crying over the man in the middle.

Alan was patient. Smiling. Signing things with quick flicks of his wrist. Someone handed him a box of chocolates. Someone else gave him a book. Another woman, breathless and beaming, reached out and touched his coat like it was holy fabric. He didn’t flinch. Just kept signing, kept charming, kept nodding with that easy half-smile of his, like all of this meant nothing and everything at once.

And still, you pushed forward.

You tried to speak—“Mr. Rickman, please—”—but your voice was too soft. It was swallowed whole by the chorus of desperate strangers calling his name.

So you did the only thing you could.

You held out the photograph.

The one of him and your mother, dated 1975, her smile so soft, so young. You held it in front of him, pointing, praying he’d look.

He didn’t.

His eyes didn’t flick down. His brows didn’t crease. His voice didn’t falter. He took the photo like it was any other, scrawled his name across the front in that fast, practiced script—“Much love, Alan Rickman”—and handed it back to you before moving on to the next outstretched hand.

You stared at it.

At the impossible thing in your fingers—his signature across the only proof you had that he’d ever known your mother.

He hadn’t even looked.

A laugh caught in your throat, but it wasn’t laughter. It was something uglier. Something hollow. You looked up at him—still smiling, still surrounded, still adored. This man who might be your father. This man who hadn’t seen you.

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or laugh until your ribs cracked.

Instead, you just stood there, invisible in the crowd, clutching the signed photo like it meant something. Like he meant something.

You’d come all this way for a signature. And he’d given you one.

Just not the right kind.

And maybe that was the most perfect thing of all. Because that was your life, wasn’t it? A little too late. A little too wrong. A little too quiet for anyone to notice.

You crumpled the photo in your fist.

You bastard. He would never give you anything. Not time, not attention, not even a goddamn glance. You could’ve been invisible. You were invisible. Just another hand in the crowd, another fan, another face.

No. He didn’t even bother to look. Or maybe—maybe he did. Maybe he looked right at you, right into your mother’s eyes in her face, and still chose to turn away.

Your breath hitched, your vision swimming with tears and fury and cold. You didn’t even know what you were doing until your hands were in his coat, grabbing, shaking, pulling.

“You bastard!” you screamed, your voice hoarse, feral, “You don’t get to pretend—you don’t get to walk out here and smile and sign your fucking name like you’re some goddamn hero!”

Alan Rickman staggered back, eyes wide behind the soft fall of his scarf, hands up in alarm. The crowd gasped—someone shouted for security—but you didn’t care. You couldn’t care. You were breaking in half, and he was standing there, rich and warm and well-fed and safe.

“Do you know how many birthdays I prayed for a father?” you sobbed, still clutching his coat like it could anchor you to something real. “How many nights I watched my mother cry herself to sleep because we didn’t have heat, because we didn’t have hope?”

He looked stunned. Silent. Maybe he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he never did.

“You had everything,” you shouted. “And I had nothing. Nothing but her. And now she’s gone and all I wanted was a signature! Just a fucking name on a piece of paper so I wouldn’t get tossed into some stranger’s house—”

That was when the guard grabbed you.

You twisted in their grip, still shouting, still crying, the photo still crushed in your fist. You fought like your life depended on it, like something inside you had snapped and was spilling out unchecked.

“You could’ve saved us!” you screamed. “You could’ve called! Cared! You knew her—you knew her! And you left!”

“Miss—let go—”

“I HATE YOU!” you shrieked, wrenching an arm free long enough to hurl the photo at his chest. It hit him, bounced off, fluttered to the pavement like something shamed and small. He flinched.

And then they pulled you away—dragging you back through the crowd, people staring and whispering and filming on phones, too stunned or too entertained to help. Another guard stepped in, blocking Alan from view, shielding him like you were dangerous.

Maybe you were.

Maybe grief was.

Alan didn’t move at first.

He just stood there—heart hammering, chest rising and falling, scarf askew, the crowd’s voices buzzing like gnats in the background. He was still staring at the ground where the photo lay, half-trampled, smudged from your hand, the ink of his careless autograph bleeding at the edges.

He stooped, slowly, and picked it up.

And that was when his breath caught.

The smile faded completely. The tension in his shoulders changed—not fear, not confusion. Something deeper. Something older.

Because he recognized her.

The girl in the photo wasn’t a stranger.

She was her.

She was—her.

His hand trembled slightly as he turned it over, saw the writing on the back. Her handwriting. Neat. Nervous.

“Me and Alan. 1975.”

The sound around him blurred. The guards were speaking—“Mr. Rickman, sir, this way, please, car’s ready”—but he barely heard them. His eyes were scanning the crowd, frantic now, sharp, searching.

“Where is she?” he asked, breath low, rough.

“Sir?”

“The girl. The one who threw this.”

“Escorted off, sir. She's being—"

“Stop them.”

“Sir?”

“Stop them. Bring her back.”

The man hesitated—clearly torn between protocol and a very sudden shift in priorities—but Alan Rickman didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to. His baritone dropped into that dangerous register people usually only heard on stage.

And the man ran.

Alan stood there, the photograph clenched in his hand, the world shifting beneath him. Because now he wasn’t just a stranger in a crowd. Now he had a question ringing in his ribs, one louder than anything he’d said in tonight’s performance.

Was that my daughter?

And if it was…

What the hell had he done?

Alan didn’t even realize he was back inside the theatre until the heavy door clicked shut behind him. The noise of the crowd fell away like the end of a dream. He was standing in the wings now, the warm scent of old velvet and stage dust rising around him, the soft shuffle of crew members moving equipment in the background. But he didn’t see them. Didn’t register the quiet voices asking if he was alright. Didn’t notice the coat someone tried to drape around his shoulders.

He just stood there.

Still holding the photo.

Still staring at her face—her face from 1975. That damned summer. Her eyes, her smile, the way she curled slightly into him like she always used to when she was laughing. The girl in the photograph had been everything once. And then—nothing.

He hadn’t meant to leave like that. God, he hadn’t meant to vanish. But ambition was loud and youth was selfish. He’d chased theatre like a drowning man clings to breath. Came to London with a suitcase and twenty pounds and the arrogance of someone who believed love could wait.

It hadn’t waited.

They’d fought—ugly, stupid, loud. He remembered her standing in the rain, soaked to the skin, telling him not to come back if he walked away. And he had. He walked away. Thought he’d write. Thought he’d call.

He didn’t.

He meant to. At first.

But then roles happened. Auditions. Failures. More auditions. Life pulled him under. By the time he’d tried to track her down again, she was gone. No address. No phone. No trace.

Eventually, he stopped looking.

And now…

Now there was a girl. A girl who could be hers. A girl who was hers. Her voice, her fury, her grief—it had been like listening to a ghost yell through her own child’s mouth.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, still staring at the photograph, fingers smudging the ink of his own careless autograph.

Until he heard it.

“I’m sorry for attacking you.”

Alan blinked, looked up. You were there. Flanked by two security guards, your hands shoved in your coat pockets, your shoulders hunched like you were trying to be smaller than you were. One of the guards gave a soft nudge, and you stepped forward, clearing your throat.

“I was hungry,” you added bluntly. “Makes me stupid. And aggressive.”

Something flickered in Alan’s expression. A smile, barely there. “That’s a refreshingly honest diagnosis.”

You looked at him, blinking. His voice was so different in person—richer, deeper, like warm gravel. And his eyes… his eyes were the same colour as yours.

The moment held too long. Too quiet. Too strange.

And then the door creaked shut behind you, and it was just the two of you, the silence thick with something raw and unspoken.

Your body moved before your mind caught up. You reached into your coat and yanked out the crumpled paper—the emancipation form. You strode forward, slammed it down onto the nearby table, smoothed it with shaking fingers.

“There,” you said. “That’s what I want. One signature. That’s it.”

Alan stared at it. Then at you.

You kept going, voice hard, a practiced speech tumbling out. “You sign that, and I’ll be gone. You won’t have to see me again. You won’t have to worry about headlines or stories or some bastard daughter marching through your beautiful career. I don’t care who you are to anyone else. I’m not here to ruin your life.”

You hesitated. Swallowed.

“I just… need to not go into foster care.”

Silence.

Alan didn’t say anything. His eyes were still on your face.

It made you squirm.

“What?” you snapped. “What are you staring at?”

He blinked, his voice quiet. “You have my nose.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah. Thanks. I got the ugliest part of you.”

Alan huffed a laugh—soft, surprised. “It’s not ugly. It’s… distinctive.”

You gave him a look, unimpressed. “It’s a beak.”

He smiled at that, something flickering behind his eyes—amusement, yes, but also something else. Something deeper. Something unsteady.

“You really do look like her,” he said, his voice lowering. “The mouth. The face. You even stand like her—like you’re ready to hit someone if they get too close.”

You folded your arms. “Funny. Maybe I am.”

Alan stepped closer, slowly, as if approaching a wild animal.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

You flinched. “Yeah, right.”

“I didn’t.” His voice was firmer now, but not angry. Just true. “If I had known… God, if I had even suspected—”

“She left you?” you interrupted.

Alan's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “We both did,” he said quietly. “In different ways. But I never… I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

You stared at him, trying to read the truth in his face. It was hard. His voice was so calm. But there was something tight around his mouth. Something haunted in his eyes.

“I would’ve found her,” he said. “I tried to find her.”

“Not hard enough,” you muttered.

“Maybe not,” he admitted.

There was a pause. You looked away, blinking fast, your throat burning. Alan watched you for a moment, then picked up the paper from the table.

“This what you want?”

You nodded. “I don’t want money. Or help. Or hugs. I just want to not belong to the state.”

Alan looked at the form. Then at you.

He stepped to the desk. Took out a pen from his coat. Clicked it.

Then stopped.

“You said you’re sixteen?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. Looked at the paper again. Then slowly, carefully, signed his name.

When he was done, he placed the pen down.

“You have it now,” he said. “Your freedom.”

You didn’t thank him. You didn’t smile. You just took the paper, folded it, and shoved it back into your coat. You turned to leave.

“Wait.”

You stopped. Alan’s voice was softer now. “Do you have somewhere to go tonight?”

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer. “You said you didn’t want money. Fine. But I don’t… I can’t let you go sleep on the street.”

“Why not?” you whispered. “You did it for sixteen years.”

That hit him like a slap. His face twisted with something ugly and helpless. “I didn’t know,” he said again. “And I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.”

You said nothing. And Alan Rickman—tall, revered, elegant—stood in front of you, looking suddenly smaller. Older. Human.

“Let me put you up somewhere,” he said. “Just one night. You don’t owe me anything. I just… I need to know you’re safe.”

You hesitated.

“Please,” he added.

And for the first time, he looked like a man who was afraid. Not of you—but of losing you.

You nodded. Once. Barely.

Alan exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for sixteen years. He offered you his coat. You didn't take it, but you walked beside him when he led you out the side door into the night.

And maybe… just maybe…

It wasn’t too late after all.

Alan drove you to his house in silence. It wasn’t the kind of silence that asked for conversation. It was thick. Tense. The kind of silence that fills up the space between strangers who suddenly have too much history and not enough language to carry it.

You stared out the window most of the way, fingers curled into the sleeves of your coat. The rain had started again—light, persistent, just enough to blur the London streets into watercolour. Alan didn’t speak. But he kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye like he was trying to memorize the shape of your profile. Like he’d missed the first sixteen years and was trying to catch up all at once.

His house was nicer than you expected—not lavish, not cold, but clean and book-heavy. The kind of place where every corner looked like someone had once paused there with tea and a thought. Tall shelves. Dark furniture. Curtains that actually matched. You stood in the hallway awkwardly, soaking slightly, your hands stuffed into your pockets, while Alan hung up his coat and then just… watched you.

He didn’t know what to say.

So he said, “I have food.”

You followed him into the kitchen.

There were leftovers in the fridge—some kind of roasted vegetables, cold chicken, a few potatoes in a pan. You didn’t wait for an invitation. You didn’t ask. You just sat at the table and started eating. Fast. Focused. Not messy—but with the quiet urgency of someone who hadn’t had a warm meal in days and didn’t trust this one wouldn’t be taken away.

Alan stood at the counter, arms crossed, watching you like he couldn’t decide whether he was heartbroken or fascinated. Maybe both.

When your fork scraped the bottom of the plate, you hesitated—then pushed it slightly forward. Not quite asking. Not quite done.

Alan took it. Wordless. Refilled it. Brought it back.

You ate more slowly this time. Still quiet. Still watchful. But you were chewing, not inhaling. That counted as trust.

“You eat like me,” Alan said suddenly, his voice low, wry. “Always have. My mother used to say I attacked food like it owed me money.”

You didn’t look up. Just mumbled, “It kind of does.”

He huffed a laugh at that—quick, dry, surprised by the truth of it. The next few minutes passed with only the sound of your chewing and the occasional clink of fork against plate. Then—

“You’re staring,” you said, not unkindly, eyes still on your food.

Alan blinked. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I suppose not,” he muttered, running a hand over the back of his neck. “But I’ve always been annoyingly well-mannered.”

You glanced up at that. Your lip twitched. He noticed.

He tilted his head slightly. “Was that a smile?”

“Maybe.”

“Good,” he said, quietly. “You have hers.”

You looked back down at your plate.

He cleared his throat. “When… when did she pass?”

You didn’t even pause your chewing. “Month ago.”

Alan’s fingers twitched slightly on the edge of the counter. He nodded once. Slowly. “I see.”

“Leukemia,” you added around a mouthful of potato. “Quick. Ugly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Another pause.

“Did she ever talk about me?”

You swallowed.

“No.”

Alan’s jaw flexed. “I see.”

You wiped your mouth with your sleeve. “I found out on my own. There was a tin. You know. A biscuit tin. Blue. The kind that always lies about being full of actual biscuits.”

“I know the one.”

“There was a picture inside. Of you. With her. And a letter. She never sent it. But she wrote your name.”

Alan didn’t speak for a while. He just leaned against the doorway, hazel eyes far away. When he finally said something, his voice was quieter.

“She said once that I’d break her heart if I left.”

You stabbed a piece of carrot. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe that’s why.”

Another silence. This one less sharp. Less cold. You were both sitting in the middle of a broken thing, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were enemies.

Alan stood in the doorway for a moment, watching you finish the last of your food with that same quiet focus you’d had since arriving. The plate was nearly empty now, your fork resting on its edge. You hadn’t said much—not after the story of the biscuit tin, not after the picture.

But something had changed.

He could feel it. Like a pane of fogged glass between you both was starting to clear. Alan stepped forward slowly, the soft creak of the old floorboards betraying his hesitation. His voice was gentler than you’d ever heard it. Still baritone, still steady—but careful now. Like it had weight, and he was trying not to drop it on you.

“You can stay, if you want.”

You didn’t look at him.

So he kept going, his fingers tightening slightly on the back of a chair.

“I mean… this house. It’s yours if you need it. I can—” He paused, frowning slightly, then exhaled. “I can take care of you. If you’ll let me.”

Your gaze dropped to the table, lashes lowering, jaw tight.

Alan’s voice softened further. “I won’t reject you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Still, you didn’t look up. Not yet. But your fingers curled inward, like you were holding yourself in.

“You don’t have to call me ‘dad’ or anything,” he added quickly, almost stumbling over the word. “Christ, you don’t even have to like me. But… let me do the right thing, now. Please.”

Your breath hitched.

Alan stepped closer, more confident now, his voice warmer, steadier—drawing on that quiet gravity he always carried onstage but rarely used off it.

“You’ve done enough surviving. Let someone else do the heavy lifting for once.”

That's when you finally looked up at him. Your eyes were glassy, rimmed red. You weren't crying. Not yet, but close.

“I used to be jealous,” you said, your voice hoarse, quiet. “Of the other girls at school. The ones who had dads who picked them up, who came to parent night, who… who sent sandwiches instead of coins in an envelope.”

Alan didn’t speak. Just listened.

You swallowed hard. “They used to make us draw our families in primary. For Father’s Day. I never had anyone to draw. So I drew a house. A stupid little house with a chimney, and told the teacher my dad lived far away, but he sent letters. I was seven. I made up letters.”

The silence in the room shifted. Thickened. You weren’t angry anymore—you were breaking.

You kept going. “Some of the kids figured it out. They laughed. Said I was too ugly to have a dad. Said even he didn’t want me.”

Alan inhaled sharply. Not loudly—but it was there. Like something inside him had folded in half.

You sniffed. Your fingers curled tighter. “So I stopped drawing. I stopped asking. I just… got on with it.”

Alan stepped closer, slowly, like approaching something delicate—something precious that might bolt or shatter if he moved too fast.

He reached across the table, resting his hand lightly atop yours.

“Daughter,” he said.

The word broke something.

Your fork clattered onto the plate, and you slapped your hands to your face—hard, as if trying to hold everything in. But the tears came anyway, streaming between your fingers, fast and hot and unrelenting.

Alan didn’t hesitate.

He walked around the table and pulled you to your feet, arms wrapping around you with the kind of certainty that didn’t ask permission. He held you, tight and warm and unshaking, his chin resting gently against your hair as you wept into his chest, your small frame trembling in his arms.

“My daughter,” he whispered again, and it was a prayer this time. “My daughter. My girl.”

You clung to him like you were drowning. Like he was the only solid thing in a world that had always asked too much and given too little.

He didn’t let go.

He didn’t want to let go.

His eyes were wet too, though he’d never admit it aloud. His hand cradled the back of your head, the other wrapped tight around your shoulders, and for the first time in your life, you felt what it meant to be held without expectation. Without condition.

Just held.

Alan Rickman—your father—held you while you cried.

And nothing had ever felt more real.

[callme-naomi]

The Science of Soft Spots

A Megumi Fushiguro x Reader fanfic

Summary: High school was boring for nearly every student - be it delinquent or genius. When the time came to choose the elective subjects, you blindly decided to go after science, and so did another boy, blissfully unaware of how this single decision would bring the both of you in one path. In this life of facts and uncertainties, one thing is certain: you were meant to be together.

Not canon compliant.

Naomi's notes: Hello everyone, I present to you my another long-fic! I just happened to like the idea of Megumi being a science student, and here you go!

Thanks for reading! I'm always open to requests. Do let me know what you think about it. Your likes and comments mean the world to me <3

Word count: 7.9k

Choosing additional sciences as an optional subject in high school was the most beneficial decision Megumi Fushiguro ever made. Apart from choosing to go with Gojo Satoru (only for Tsumiki’s sake), but now he seriously doubted if it will end with him going insane.

He had always liked sciences, and here there wasn’t anyone to disturb him and be an obstacle in his studies. Or rather, nobody had the guts to.

Firstly, everyone was in awe of the kid who never spoke but always scored the highest grades, who also happened to be the adopted son (though he denied any such rumours) of Tokyo’s richest man, Gojo Satoru. Secondly, any those with the guts to do so found themselves at the end of his fist, or his feet.

He happened to be in another section than the other kids, but on the teacher’s insistence, all the classes’ sections would take a merged science class to keep them all on the same progress.

So for the first few days, his classes went smoothly: go in, listen to the teacher ramble, scribble some notes or mark in his book, and leave. The silence of the classroom, with nobody directly disturbing him actually made this the only lesson he looked forward to. And it was this indifference that initially led him to notice nobody – not even you, who also liked to be left to your devices.

It was just another sunny day in science class, when he was doodling something in his copy and you were piling all your books and registers and pens onto your desk. Your way of arranging everything tidily caught his attention, and out of the corner of his eye he watched you decorate.

In the midst of it, one book crashed to the floor. Before you could pick it up, he extended his hand and lifted it up for you. But while he picked it from the cover, a few pages flipped open to show them adorned with sticky notes.

Silently returning your book, he kept thinking about it, and finally when the class rang off, he rapped your desk with his knuckles.

“May I have a look in your book?”

You nodded, passing him the book, and he skimmed a few pages, where you had posted random facts for each chapter.

Our eye can capture 60 images, compared to a fly’s 260.

Every man shares 99% DNA.

Each time we breathe, 1.5 litres of air is still not exchanged.

“I just like to collect these little facts,” you told him, snapping his attention from the book. “It makes learning fun for me.”

He had never thought of learning as fun. Honestly, he only studied for a grade, and that’s what toppers do, right? They don’t have time for fun. But now that you said it…

And then you two were filing out for your next classes.

The next day, while he scribbled in the corners of his book, he was interrupted by your low knuckle rapping.

“Can I have a look in yours?” you whispered. “If you don’t mind. Yours is so neat!”

He passed his book forward, and you gave him your book in exchange.

“I’ve also made these flashcards!” You showed him a stack, diverting his attention from your book. “Want me to test you?”

Seeing the teacher still not here and the class in a tornado of noise, he agreed. You were not surprised to see he knew all of them, but you fairly enjoyed yourself, and when the teacher came in, you went back to your quiet girl mode.

Needless to say, he – kind of – enjoyed it too.

The next day when you again proposed to play it with him, he didn’t need telling twice, however it was a surprising moment for the both of you when he didn’t know the answer to ‘how many chromosomes in a fruit fly?’

While you brushed it off, saying it was just one fact, he took this seriously.

In the next few classes, nothing new happened, however he did begin taking an interest in new facts and learning them. Soon, his library held many books of scientific facts and points, and he drew margins in his pages just to write them in various colours of markers. Anywhere he’d go, he’d copy down new facts to learn them and soon his camera was full of facts and pointers.

He told his sister and father that he just happened to like facts and he needed to know these, but deep inside, something he didn’t even know, was that he felt the need to be prepared for whenever you next quizzed him. He didn’t want to sit blank in front of you again. And he was also blissfully unaware of the fact deep down that he took these pictures to show you so you can collect more.

On a test day, Megumi was walking calmly, his fists clenched to lessen the speed at which his heart raced, while you were on a sprint from the opposite corridor. Both of you entering the class, you two took your positions and sat, ready to fill the blank page with your answers.

Too easy, he thought, blacking the options out, way too easy.

Once the test was over, you approached him. “Hey, just wanted to say, thanks!”

He raised an eyebrow in confusion.

“That day, I quizzed you, right? One of the questions came from that fact, and I remembered you telling the right answer, so I marked that one. Thank you!”

“Don’t mention,” he mumbled, hand tightening the grip on his bag’s straps.

“Can we be friends?” you shyly asked, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t have any.”

In the silence, you expected maybe you ruined whatever frankness you’d developed, until his hand came forward. Smiling brightly, you shook it back.

“See you then, Fushiguro.” You broke the shake and began moving away.

“Megumi.”

“Hm?” you turned to see him.

“You can call me that.”

Nodding, you walked away, not before saying over your shoulder, “you can call me Y/N!”, a light skip in your step, unaware that his sights followed you until you were out of the building.

******

In the last week before the holidays, you had taken a long leave, leaving Megumi to sit alone again, something he was accustomed to, wondering why you hadn’t come.

And you two had not yet exchanged contacts, so he had no way to ask you where you were.

When the holidays began, he began scouting for good libraries nearby, and finally he found one, nearby a coffee shop. He’d pick up a book, go to the coffee shop, get a cup of steaming black coffee and drink it while savouring the joy of reading.

One day, he was in the library, putting a book back in place, among many others who were finding a book from the same shelf as he was. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a person in a hoodie trying on their tiptoes to reach to the book that was too high even for him to reach without a stool, and he chose to move onwards. For some reason, he turned back, indecisive for the first time about whether he should help them out or not.

Finally giving in to the impulse, he strode across. “May I-”

Right on cue, the stranger’s fingertips finally made it to the book, but instead of pulling it out, they lost balance and trying to get a grip, managed to topple a few books.

He lunged just in time to catch those books from crashing onto their head, who had lifted up their arms to protect their head.

“Are you all right?” he quietly asked, to save them the embarrassment of being asked by everyone.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thank y- Megumi?”

Placing the last book, he slowly looked over his shoulder to see you, grinning brightly at him, pulling off your hoodie. “What are you doing here? I mean, of course, you can come here, I was-”

“I come here every day,” he interrupted your rambling. “Where had you gone?”

“I went to my nan’s. Just came home today, remembered I had a book to return.” you wiped your forehead. “Who are you here with?”

“By myself. You?”

“My brother dropped me off. I told him I’d call him when I’m done,” you put your hand in your pocket and drew out your phone, dialling your brother’s number. Smiling absently, you put it to your ear, only to be informed that your balance had run out.

Always at the wrong moments.

“He won’t pick up?” nothing gets past this boy.

You shook your head, and rummaged in your pocket. “I guess I’ll get going then. I know my way back.”

“Where do you live?” he asked, hands in his pockets. His eyes drifted towards the window, from which he could see the busy traffic. “It’s not safe to walk alone at this time.”

You hesitated. “I’ll just wait in here. You don’t need to wait.”

He pulled up a chair anyway. “I’m not in a hurry, so if you’re fine with this, I’ll stay till you find a cab.”

As if waiting for your permission, he met your gaze and you nodded quickly. He sat down and then pulled out his own phone, tilting it towards you with the phonebook open.

“Oh, wait.”

He waited while you typed something furiously and then his phone beeped.

An unknown number. Hey, this is my contact! Sorry I forgot to text you, was busy at Grandma’s.

He furrowed his eyebrows. “You have my contact?”

You avoided his gaze. “My cousin’s friends with Tsumiki-chan, so I took it from her. If that’s okay?”

He didn’t respond, but typed back, of course it is. You’ve met her?

No, I haven’t. I heard she graduated before I came, so I’ve never met her.

You can come around to meet her. I’ll give you the address.

Really? Your parents won’t mind?

Honestly, I think my dad would love having you around.

He sounds nice.

You found it funny that despite being close enough to hold each other’s hand – you were tempted to do that – you still were texting each other.

He does, until you meet him.

You were silent, unsure what he meant, when his next text came.

He’d treat you as a daughter – he loves daughters – but also as a way of bullying me.

Wait, someone can bully you?

First time for everything. Can’t punch him either.

While you waited for an empty cab, you typed, let’s share a fact! I got one. Did you know texts are opened 5x times quicker?

No, I didn’t. Though I pick up calls quicker.

You sent a few laughing emojis, and when the librarian came to tell you two, the last two visitors, to leave because it was closing hours, he sighed and walked to the door, you in tow. He held out the door for you.

“I’ll walk you back home.”

“No, you don’t need to-”

“For a fact,” he dryly said, “I’m very stubborn. Or so Tsumiki says. And another fact, rush-hour traffic increases the risk of accidents which is common in Tokyo.” He looked up to the sky.

“An opinion,” you counter, following his sight, “it might rain.”

“That might soon become a fact, so let’s get you home.”

“If you so insist. Are you aware that 75% of all road-accident fatalities are men and boys?”

“Then there shouldn’t be any need for you to worry,” he continued, while beckoning for you to follow him on the sidewalk. “And did you know that 100% of all accidents can be avoided if we have road sense?”

You rolled your eyes and followed him, walking down the busy roads of Tokyo.

“Thank you,” you mumbled. “You didn’t have to go through this trouble for me.”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing. Your house happened to be in the way back home.”

After that, through then ow quieter roads, you two were silent, except for you sometimes telling shortcuts or directions.

While walking, you felt a drop of water hit your head. Thinking it was just water from nearby hanging washed clothes, you continued walking until another bead hit the nape of your neck. The moment you looked to the sky, now flocked with black clouds, Megumi’s voice came to you.

“You felt that?”

“Yeah,” you did not move your gaze from the quickly falling tears from the sky. “Look, it’s raining!”

“Wow, a new fact?” his bored voice snapped your attention back to him.

“Let’s play for a while, please?” you made your custom doll eyes and he gave in, leaning against a wall as he saw you dance in the rain.

“Come on!” you laughed. “Join me!”

“My boots are slippery.”

“I’ll hold you!”

“That’s debatable. You can’t even hold your book.”

Remembering your first ever encounter with him, you grinned. “Look where that got us! Maybe we might discover something new today.”

“I’m fine with one discovery a lifetime. And it better not be someone.”

“I wanna dance with someone though, so it looks like it might be,” you pouted, searching for someone in the vicinity of the empty streets, save for some kids who came out to play.

“Not under my watch.”

He held your wrists and swaying to your rhythm, he joined, content seeing a smile on your face.

“I wanna do this again!” You whooped. “Every day!”

“It doesn’t rain every day.”

“Then every time it rains. I loved this! You’ll do it with me again, too, right?”

“Got a fact for dancing in the rain? Maybe that might convince me.”

“Oh yes, did you know, running faster in the rain keeps you drier? But not applicable on taller people?”

“So it’s not a fact, but an opinion. It can be challenged.”

“But it can be applied on you. You’re tall enough to adjust the moon if it’s an angle too right.” You snapped your fingers. “I got another one! The reason we love the smell of rain is because of the soil-dwelling bacteria. They release a chemical from the air…”

You watched as he quietly listened to you. When you paused, he slowly said, “go on.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“No, I just remembered another fact. You finish, then I’ll tell.”

“Mine’s boring.”

“Not for me. Go on.”

You never realised when you slipped your hand in his – or rather, when his grip slid from your wrists to your fingers – and began walking back home, drenched in the rainwater. You were too busy telling him the entire fact, and eyeing his reaction.

“That was mine. Now your turn.”

“Did you know a part of your brain, the amygdala, is responsible for processing your emotions? So we can say that only the heart is not involved in emotions.”

“So you mean, if we want to be friends, then my mind is telling me to do so?”

“Perhaps. The brain releases dopamine, which also acts like a sticky note for the brain to remember a particular piece of data. For instance, it might tell your brain to remember your dance in the rain today.”

“Then I think it’s safe to go with something your brain tells you to do?”

“Yes. My brain told me to agree to you to dance, and it was nice.” He ended his sentence in a shy mumble, but you caught it all the same.

Just in the distance, you saw the lights from your house, and the way your face glowed, he recognized the house too. Just before leaving you on the doorstep, his hand lingered for a second too long, and then he released you. Just as you rung the bell, you turned one more time to see him waiting for you to go inside.

“Did you know, emotion-driven responses have a 90% chance of being correct? Especially non-verbal reactions like gut feelings.”

“Should I consider my gut feelings facts then?” he crossed his arms.

“Technically yes. I had a feeling it would rain, right, and it did!”

“Then for a fact, I’ll be coming around your house again.”

“Oh please do!” You clapped your hands. “I’d like to see you again!”

“For a fact, I want to see you again soon too.” He said, averting his gaze from you, and you smiled.

“Two people agreeing don’t make a fact, Megumi.”

“Then let’s make it our fact. Something nobody can prove wrong.”

Just as the door opened, he left, and you entered the cozy house where you got an earful from your mother over not having your balance loaded.

And while she screeched that you could’ve gotten sick, or fallen in the rain (you didn’t dare tell them a boy walked you back home), you smiled to yourself.

They didn’t know you had fallen head over heels for a boy with dazzling green eyes. “2% of the world population has this eye colour,” you whisper to yourself. And one of that small figure was yours.

******

After that, the two of you occasionally met over the summer holidays, and while he had told you that his entire family knew about you and would love to meet you, you still kept him as your secret from your family.

Hidden encounters in the library, ‘accidental’ meetups in supermarkets, ‘oh-how-are-you-here’ looks in the parks, all the while the two of you treated your friendship – if you can still call it that – like a sacred thread, that either of you were afraid to pull too tight.

What if someone dared to challenge your friendship? Or worse, what if one of you two proved it wrong?

During the summer holidays, the school underwent a renovation and the school furniture was replaced. For the sake of having spacious classrooms, the single desks were removed.

So when the two of you entered the science class, filed in lines of boys and girls, the teacher rapped the table with her scale to get the class’ attention.

“Pick a partner and sit with them. Choose wisely, because they will be your partners and you won’t be able to change your seats for the rest of the year.”

The students, some overjoyed at the prospect and some angry that no such rule was made for the other classes, you and Megumi shared a look and there was no other option.

Sitting on either side, you two piled your bags in between, and placed your books out.

Leaning his elbow against the desk, Megumi was reading his book when he heard a strange buzzing noise. Side eyeing you, he found you holding your nose while making weird noises.

“We’re studying humans, not elephants this term.” He sighed, closing his book, and at that moment, you let your nose free and gasped for air, not caring of the weird glances you got from the entire class.

“Elephants cannot hold their noses, genius,” you snorted. “I was testing out a fact. Did you know that you can’t hum while holding your nose?”

“I didn’t five minutes ago.”

“I decided,” you declared with the air of Queen Elizabeth, “that I’m no longer going to believe facts blindly. For instance, the fact that you use 10% of your brain. It’s false, can you believe that?”

“No longer believing things blindly.”

You rolled your eyes. “Anyways, so I began testing them out. I’ll keep on testing them.”

“How will you confirm the diameter of the Earth is accurate?” He pointed towards your school badge.

“I’ll become a scientist then. And then I can try them out.”

“You can’t test them all in one lifetime.”

“Then my ghost will.”

“Which do not exist.”

“A fact yet to be tested!”

He gave up, and just before he could reopen his book, you snapped it shut with your hand. “Hey, wanna try it?”

“Will you be questioning our existence soon enough?”

“An excellent idea, but not yet. Okay, don’t be the test subject, but at least be my witness that I did this if I die trying.”

“Don’t ever say things like that, idiot.”

“Why? Will they come true?”

He nodded.

“It’s a superstition!”

“There’s always some truth to them. Okay, what’s your next one?”

“My tongue can’t reach my elbow.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I’d prefer if the mirrors are witnesses for that.”

“How will you suffer the even grosser realities of science, Mr. Soon-to-be-Scientist Fushiguro?” you patted his shoulder.

“I won’t be one.”

“Oh sure. Who else will help me clean my laboratory and record my observations?”

“That’s an assistant.”

“Can’t let anyone else be the best scientist ever.” You shrugged.

“For the record,” he quietly said, as you two began testing out you new theory, “don’t call me Fushiguro again.”

“You don’t like it, huh?” you suddenly perked up. “Guess I just tested a fact about you!”

“About…me?”

“Yes, we should make facts about each other!” you got all worked up again.

“Two people agreeing don’t make a fact.”

“Then let’s make it ours,” you threw back at him, and as if he remembered, he smiled softly while he held the timer for your next experiment, oblivious to the world.

*********

Soon, you made a journal. With all your verified facts, and each one signed by you and your ‘voluntary assistant’.

“So we can show them,” you coloured in a diagram, “that we were the first to do this.”

Soon, your journal had all types of sections, people facts – If someone’s feet point toward the door or away from you, they might want to leave - food facts – Apple slices float, but grapes sink – body facts - You’re slightly taller in the morning than at night.

And in those testing, you slipped some sort of fun things to try out with him – ‘exclusive for only you’.

For example, when people laugh in a group, they instinctively look at the person they feel closest to. While you were adamant this was a test, he had a feeling it was just your excuse of getting to look at him with a reason.

Did he complain? Of course not.

On the other hand, he also played along.

Saying someone’s name in conversation makes them feel more seen and valued, he used this as a way to repeatedly say your name, and did you have a problem? Every test could say no you did not.

Then a week later after school reopening, the teacher announced your first ever group project.

“We’ll be beginning this term with human systems,” Miss Daniels droned – and you sighed, finally free from plants – “and to make things fun, we’ll work in pairs. You’ll have to study one system of your choice and form a fact file for it.”

You barely suppressed the urge to give him a high five. Facts was how you dealt life.

After class, you two, ever the over-worker, asked Miss Daniels if you could make one for all systems, and initially she said no, but in the end you bargained for two systems. Though she said ‘it won’t help raise your grade any extra’.

Not that it mattered. You were doing this for fun.

You two chose the nervous system and the circulatory system, and the two of you divided such that you got the circulatory system and Megumi got the nervous system to research for over the weekend.

On Monday, plopping into your seat in the classroom, both your files were slammed onto your desks.

“Alright,” you looked at him determinedly. “I’ve got lots of facts, and we’re three days before the deadline, so let’s try them out.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “I had a feeling you’d say this.”

You patted his shoulder solemnly. “Congratulations, you just coined a fact that I verified.”

Before you could open a page, he knocked the desk lightly, gaining your attention, and he pointed towards the teacher now scowling at the noisy classroom, which soon turned into a loud yelling spree.

During your break time, you decided to pull him away to the library.

“We’re done with our assignment,” you told him, “so how about we study some on our own?”

He shrugged, seeing no problem in this. He didn’t have anything else to be doing anyway, so why not sneak off with you.

You pulled up your screenshots of points you collected, and then while he walked, his hands in his pocket and both of you holding a juice each, you ranted off about the nervous and endocrine systems and their functioning.

“And a list of hormonal functions are as follows, somatotropin is the growth hormone, adrenaline, also called epinephrine, secreted by parathyroid glands, the pancreas secretes insulin and glucagon for maintaining the blood balance, and cortisol is referred as the stress hormone, increasing body metabolism to battle against physical and emotional metabolism.”

You paused to take a breath.

“It is one of the primary hormones that can be regulated by touch, the other five being oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin, endorphins and prolactin.”

“How exactly does touch regulate that?”

“In the other five cases, touch increases its concentration while it decreases cortisol levels. It can be done so by hugging or cuddling. Cortisol can be decreased even by eye contact, which is why when you look at someone you love or feel trusted with, your pupils relax. And did you ever notice that hugs make you feel less stressed?”

Silence on his part made you turn your head towards him, thinking he was probably eating and had nodded, but he looked forward impassively.

It’s not that he hadn’t been hugged. Gojo was a very clingy person, grabbing him up in his arms every chance he got. It was maybe because he was too busy, or too old, that Megumi never got the feeling. Or maybe because he thought hugs were too old fashioned.

Deep down, he hated hugs. Every time someone hugged him, they disappeared. His mom died with one last hug to him, Toji gave him one half-hug before he exited his life, and now he feels scared whenever someone hugs him.

So you could say he had never been hugged in a way that would decrease his stress levels.

“You’ve never been hugged?”

“No.” better the lie than the long story.

You spread your arms wide. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

Instinctively, Megumi flinched and you noticed this little reaction. Eyes widening, you dropped your arms. “Sorry, I think I overstepped…”

“Do it.”

You looked to see him stiffening his shoulders. “You sure?”

“I can’t take facts untested, now can I?”

As you came closer, opening your arms, he felt his heart quickening. Keeping his panic inside and letting down his guard, he let you embrace him first.

The moment your arms completed a circle around him, his entire form relaxed. And then he understood.

Maybe the reason he never felt peaceful in a hug was because nobody had been peaceful hugging him. His mom knew she was dying, his dad knew he was leaving his son for good, and Satoru is always worried about him and if he’s doing good and, from what Megumi understood from Tsumiki, his stress with the higher-ups.

You had no fear. You were simply pouring your heart into this hug. For some reason, you found his embrace calming, even when he took his time completing your hug. The moment you felt two arms come up behind you, you got a feeling of safety.

Lingering for far too long, he hesitated, and you broke immediately, trying not to meet his gaze. “Well, is this fact busted?”

“You better write this one down. For future purposes.”

You looked up to see his cheeks very, very slightly tinged with red, and you got an idea.

“Maybe I can put it in another column. Facts to be tested again and again. For facts whose effects we aren’t sure about.”

While he rolled his eyes, you countered, “I don’t hear any objections?”

“You wouldn’t let me have one,” he grumbled, and you laughed.

“OK, enough of mine-”

And just then, the bell rang off. Signalling language classes, which you had for French and he had for Mandarin.

“Alright, see you later!”

Waving silently back at you, he got mingled in the crowd of students, and even then, the two of you looked back for glimpses of each other.

******

With the exception of science and computer classes, you two had differing schedules, so you always chose to sit alone.

However, with the recombination of the double-seated desks, you decided to finally learn to share, and keeping your distance, you allowed other girls to sit, but would never speak a word to them unless required.

One day, the boys in your class created a ruckus, and the teacher decided to break apart their formation.

It just happened to be your luck that their head, Evan, got a seat next to you. All the while, he kept yapping your ear off, but seeing your cold stare only pushed him to infuriate you even more.

And when he took the place next to you the next day, you objected to the teacher, but she explained that this is necessary for the ‘peace and decorum’.

And soon you grew to hate these lessons.

Occasionally, Evan would trail after you, but seeing you beeline for Megumi would make him retrace his steps back to his cronies. Once, he made the decision of following you two, and when you looked over to see him, you raised both your middle fingers at him.

Surprised by your not-usually-vulgar attitude, Megumi turned back to see who it was, while whispering at you the question.

You replied, “he’s some jerk I’m supposed to be seated next to. Creeps me all the time.”

And you smiled triumphantly when he also gave Evan the middle finger.

Ever since he walked you back home in the rain, you had harboured feelings for Megumi Fushiguro, and you always tried to confess, but either you were scared of his rejection, or didn’t have the courage, because always your pencil would fall back in the middle of a note.

A broken pencil is better than a broken heart.

But never, ever, had you hoped that either he’d confess, if he had any feelings for you, or you’d just let it all spill.

For an English project, you hit your favourite place in the world – the library, and while you quietly reminisced the moment Megumi saved your head in the city library, you smiled to yourself. While you turned the page-

“Who’s got you smiling like that, pretty girl?”

Dread welling inside you, you decided to ignore him, when he drew a chair next to you. “You got the guts to ignore me, pretty girl?”

“You got the guts to sit next to me without my permission?” you fired, without meeting Evan’s sight.

“Tsk tsk. Girls would be dying to sit next to me.”

“Then why sitting next to me?”

“Cause I want to talk to you.”

“And I want you to get lost from here.” You finally glared at him, but only found a shameless curiosity in there.

“Who are you to boss me around?”

“Not your pretty girl,” you pushed back your chair and strode out, but he caught up to you and raised his hands in surrender. “I swear, I just need to talk.”

You crossed your arms, arching an eyebrow for him to go on.

“I really like you. And I want to, you know, be your boyfriend and all.” You were surprised to see him stuttering. “So, will you be my girlfriend?”

“No.”

It didn’t even take you five seconds to spew your answer out. “Was that all you had to ask?”

“Why’d you reject me? What’s wrong with me?”

“I have the right to remain silent.”

“OK, you’re not into relationships right now. Can I wait for you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Is it that black haired boy?”

You halted. “And if I said it was?”

“Then what’s in that brat that isn’t in me? Just tell me. I’ll be nicer for you if you say.”

“There’s nothing you can do. I love him.” You pressed every word, looking him in the eye.

Sighing, Evan pressed his temples. “He’s in sciences with you, isn’t he?”

You nodded, and then he walked forward, making you step back.

“What are you doing?” You snarled.

“Attempting to have you reconsider. Can he give you what I can?”

His frame and the desks surrounding you gave you no chance to escape, however you made a dive for the gap between the chairs. By the fraction of a second, he caught you in his arms, and as you flailed, shrieking, he began invading you with his fingers over your neck and back.

“You like it, don’t you, you dirty girl?” His voice dropped to a filthy whisper in your ear.

“No,” you bit his hand, “you bastard.”

“Oh, my pretty girl is a liar too?”

“NOT YOUR PRETTY GIRL!”

“See, I knew you’re a liar.” Bringing his mouth to your arm, he pinned you, and whispered, “let’s see if he leaves you when he sees my mark on you.”

Your entire mind quieted at the terrifying thought – no man of honour would want to take a taken girl – and that filled you with a deranged need to get away from him.

“LET ME GO YOU-”

He clamped your mouth shut. “Careful, or do you want witnesses to my marking?”

While you struggled, he continued, “You like it, don’t you? I read your fact file, pretty girl. And didn’t your fact file say that gentle touch boosts oxytocin? I know a little science, darling.”

“JUST F*** OFF WILL YOU?” you screamed, hoping someone would come now.

“Oh that I will, on you. Now enjoy my gentle touch.”

“My touch can break your face apart if you don’t remove your hand.”

Leaving you almost instantly, you collapsed on the ground, sputtering for breath and looking up to your saviour. There, in rage, stood Megumi Fushiguro. One look at you, and his voice quieted. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you answered, leaning against the wall to catch your breath.

As Evan bolted for it, he was blocked by Megumi’s arm to the door. “It’s time I verify the fact.”

And that day you understood why even the greatest bullies quaked in his name.

No longer recognizable, Megumi jerked Evan out the library with his collar. “Let’s see if anybody takes you after they see my mark on you.”

Bolting down the corridor, you heard Evan vanish, and then Megumi bent down to your level. “You sure you all right?”

For some reason, the fear that he’ll leave you resurfaced, and tears swam in your eyes. Green eyes widening, he guided you up.

“It’s all right, I’m here,” whispering the same words over and over, he passed you his water bottle.

“Wanna talk about it?” he quietly asked, after gulps of water. You shook your head.

“Just know I’m right here if you want to tell me anything, okay?”

Smiling weakly up at him, you nodded, but when the image nearly flashed again, you changed your mind. You were not ready to lose him yet.

“Megumi?”

His footsteps halted.

“Can I talk to you right now?”

“Of course.”

Walking down the halls to your next class, you told him everything, and his jaw clenched tighter at every mention of Evan’s name.

“Should’ve told me earlier.”

“You beat him up enough to prove my point.”

“I was just warming up.”

And when you got to the point of him saying ‘let’s see if he leaves you when he sees my mark on you’, his form went rigid.

“So, will you…” you gingerly asked him. “I swear, I fought him-”

“You thought I’d be mad at you for something he did?”

“Well, yes.”

“Never. Trust me when I say this.”

“That I always will.”

“Good, you can test it all you can but it will never change.” He left you at the class’ doorstep. “Remember that.”

In the class, you quietly sat, thinking over and over if you should tell him how you felt.

And that day, that hour, you made your decision. Texting him in class, you said, hey, I wanna meet Tsumiki-chan today. Can I come over?

You can come with me.

No, gotta tell mom first and look presentable lol.

OK.

Five minutes later, you had his address in hand.

Fast forward to evening, you stood at his house’s pristine door in your flowery white frock and high ponytail, and you rang the bell.

From the intercom, a voice emerged, who is it?

You replied with your full name, and the door swung open to a tall girl.

“Hello!” she warmly greeted you. “I’m Tsumiki. You’re Megumi’s classmate, aren’t you?”

You eagerly nodded your head, and she led you inside. “He’s in the shower right now, go make yourself comfortable.”

While she went to get the water, you settled on a sofa, fingers interlocked in anxious excitement. Just then, you heard Tsumiki talk with someone very loud, and soon the source of the sound followed in the form of a tall man with white hair and blinds on?

“Hi there,” he waved joyously at you, Tsumiki following in, and you stood to bow down in respect. “No need, no need, kid. I’m Satoru. I’m sure you’ve been told all about me?” and he looked to the door that faced your back.

“No need to bore her with you.”

You pressed a grin at that familiar voice, your breath catching at the sight of Megumi in a black T-shirt, walking to take a seat opposite to you.

“Any difficulties in the directions?”

“Nope.”

Satoru was really good at engaging all of you in a cheery, lively conversation, when half an hour later, Tsumiki called you all for dinner.

“Tsumiki-chan, you didn’t have to do all this alone,” you ashamedly said, “I should have helped you out.”

Slightly smacking your head, she pushed you towards the table. “No, you’re like family. I won’t have you work around the house.”

“So am I not family?” Satoru’s eyes went wide.

“This is your house,” she waved her hand. “You’re the man. It’s your job.”

Puffing up like a penguin, he continued with his dinner, until both siblings took their places.

“So,” Satoru side-eyed Megumi while asking you, “you’re the kid he won’t stop talking about.”

“In an appreciative manner or apprehensive manner?” you joked, laughing seeing the boy in question redden.

“I don’t remember telling you about her,” he shot at Satoru, and he shrugged.

“It was just a guess.” He shrugged.

And the table burst into laughs.

Done with dinner, Satoru excused himself to attend to something from his school, you stood with Tsumiki to help her out despite her insistence, and Megumi came to tell you he’d be in his room waiting for you.

While you nodded back okay, a glass slipped from your hands and it shattered near your feet, splattering the floor and your frock in juice. While you yelped back in fright, the two siblings’ attention was diverted towards the mess.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry-” you began profusely, but the siblings were busy otherwise.

“I’ll clear it,” Tsumiki told her brother, who was focused on you.

“Get away from the glass,” he took the plates from you, while levelling a quick assessing gaze down your frame. “Did you get hurt? You all right?” his face went apologetic seeing your ruined dress. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s not your fault, I’m fine, I’m fine.” You reassured him, even giving a thumbs up to his sceptical gaze and ten minutes later, you were still helping Tsumiki out, who was still wary of any more damage, though you were careful not to break anything else. Megumi was long gone in his room.

“A word from one girl to another,” Tsumiki began, snapping your attention. “You like him, don’t you?”

You nodded shyly, and she sniggered. “How’d you know though?”

“So many signs. Firstly, Gojo-san was not lying – he keeps talking about you one way or the other. Secondly, you were looking for his reaction at anything that happened, and thirdly, well, he came for you when the glass broke.”

“He’s nice. I’d do that if someone else was wounded too.”

“Well, except he doesn’t. You’re the first person I’ve seen him be nice to.”

“Well, yes, you’re right.” You raised your hands in surrender. “You got me.”

“Then why don’t you tell him?”

You hesitated.

“I won’t tell him, or anyone else. I promise.” The older sister came to put a hand on your shoulder.

“What if he said no?”

“And what if he said yes?” Tsumiki cocked her head at you.

“Then, why didn’t he…”

“Maybe he’s thinking the same about you. Maybe he’s waiting for you to take the first step.”

You looked at her with hopeful eyes. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Are you and Gojo-san okay with me?”

Tsumiki huffed a small laugh. “We’re not as hard to impress as my brother. You make him happy, and that’s what matters to us. So yes, we both are happy.”

“Thanks.” You beamed up at her, while she gave a gentle shove.

“Now go on. Tell him. I’m rooting for you!”

You tossed her a grin. “That’s what I’m here for.”

As you began climbing up the stairs, you raised your head to see Megumi standing at the top, crossed arms. “I thought you forgot the way up here.”

“How touching, dear guide.” You followed him into his neatly arranged bedroom. Light blue coloured walls were marked with windows, draped with dark blue curtains and in the room on one side was a single bed while on the other, a rack full of books adorned it.

How very him.

“You okay?” his voice snapped you out of your observation and you saw him with his back to you.

“Yeah, I skipped the glass-”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Your mouth snapped shut as he turned to face you. “Yeah, I’m fine too.”

“Told anyone else about that?”

“Would’ve, if I hadn’t been in safer hands.” You looked to the window as if a new subject will fly into your hands. “Let’s talk about something else. I’m not here to be moody now. You got some fact books?”

He gestured towards the library, and you beelined for it, using a books’ pages to shush how hard your heart was thumping. What were you thinking? How was this going to work?

“There’s somethi-”

You began simultaneously, “I need to tal-”

Both of you shut up at the same time.

“You go first.” You pointed towards him.

Taking the chance, he walked over to your position. “I found something that I think you’d like to check. Open page 45, line 30.”

Surprised at his specificity, you opened it up to find a highlighted fact.

Men take 88 days to say I love you.

“That can’t be for all men,” you shook your head in disbelief. “the author apparently went on a whim.”

He pointed towards the study reference.

“Still, I could test this out, but I’ll need to be a bit older for that.” You tapped your chin.

“Why not now?”

“I can’t ask everybody right now, can I?”

“You used to say to start simple, didn’t you? Let’s start right here.”

“And how do you suggest we do-”

“I’ll break it: I love you, Y/N.”

Your entire world froze. “Come again?”

“I just proved this was wrong.”

“Did you mean it? Or was it just for fun?”

“I’m not the joker type,” he wrinkled his nose. “I meant it. And you can test me all you want, but this will never change.”

“When?” you hoarsely managed.

“I don’t exactly remember. Was it the rain? The library? That idiot? Not sure. I just knew I felt so.”

You stayed there, stunned, torn between shock and joy. Finally, he lifted his eyes to face you. “Say something.”

“You read my mind, didn’t you?”

“Did you leave it open?”

You didn’t hear him. “Because you know I was about to say something too? I came here today to tell you that I love you. I love you since the day you returned me my book, and I’d drop that book all over again if it meant I’d get to meet you in every lifetime.”

“So,” a relaxed look appeared on his face, and you suspected you might have caught a smile too. “Will you be mine?”

“If you’ll let me be yours.”

**********

Another thing you discovered later on about him: Megumi Fushiguro was one of the most possessive people you ever knew. While he wouldn't show it with words, his actions were enough to ward people off his girl. One of them being hand-holding.

Any time you two are out, he'll always hold your hand.

And even in sleep, he doesn't let go of your hand. Once, while sleeping, you drew your hand away to turn over, and immediately his hand was roaming over the bed, searching for yours.

One morning, when you woke with your hand still entwined in his, you found him sleeping with his hair tousled and mouth slightly open. You kissed his forehead.

"Wake up, my sleepy otter."

Prying open one green eye, he looked up at you. "I'm awake."

"I can see that."

"What was that you called me earlier?"

"Otter."

With half-open eyes, he still managed to give you an eyebrow raise. "I don't have an otter shikigami."

"I know you don't. You act like one." Seeing him still unconvinced, you grin. "I read somewhere that otters sleep, holding each others' hands. It's to prevent being separated by the water currents."

Then you playfully flicked his nose. "And that's why you're my own otter."

"I do that because I feel cold." he reasoned, and you snorted.

"That's not very convincing, my little otter. But I do think you do it to make sure I don't run away, now do you?"

"At the rate you slip off while awake, I have to ensure you're safe while sleeping."

"See, I knew that!" You smiled brilliantly, earning an eye-roll from him. "But you don't have to worry: no water current can take this otter from you."

"Where'd you read that?" Battling a smile, he asked you.

You told him the name, and his eyes went from sleepy to fully awake. Flipping you such that he was now on top of you, he playfully scolded, his hands creeping up to tickle you, "That's from my library, wasn't it? I've been searching for it and now I find out you sneaked it?"

"The cover was pretty," you protested weakly, under his tickle attacks, "and I found it interesting, so I took it!"

"That's not very convincing, my little magpie."

"Your what?" you managed breathlessly as he stopped his relentless fight.

"If you have read it, then you must have also read about them. Magpies like to take shiny and pretty things. So I guess you're acting like one."

"We both belong in the zoo," you laughed. "Or maybe the wild."

"I don't know about that, but I'm certain of one thing." He said as he lifted himself on one elbow to face you.

"And that is?"

"That we belong together."

DO NOT COPY MY WORK!

[diana-bluewolf]

It’s the fanfic I wrote about in the previous post

—------------------------------

Word count: ~4500

Warnings: passive suicidal ideation (don’t ask me how I ended up here with a funny comic as a base); m/m; not proofread.

English is not my first language - sorry for the mistakes!  

Additional tags: Ominis/M!MC, hurt-comfort, demisexual MC, SFW

Summary: Chris had read that “I’d die for you” thing in some books. It didn’t make any sense to him because it didn’t sound like a big deal. He’d die for himself. But when he thought about Ominis’s words echoing around the Undercroft, he realised that for the moon-eyed boy he was ready to make a much more labour-consuming sacrifice. 

He’d live for him.

—------------------------------

When I feel so alone out here And freedom means I am lost When every day seems a slow-motion suicide You reignite my lust for life Lust for Life Song by Poets of the Fall

"Guess who's back!" 

Sebastian raised his head from the book he was reading on his bed to find Chris at the doorway to their dorm. 

"Oh, you were away?" teased Sebastian, grinning and arching his eyebrow. Ominis, who was resting on a small couch next to the fireplace, rolled his eyes and tilted his head towards Chris, smiling.

It was Friday evening. The lessons had recently ended, and the only thing keeping the students indoors was the spring rain outside. Besides, the N.E.W.T.s were approaching, so there was no time to relax.

“Aww, it’s so nice to be missed,” said Chris theatrically as he threw his shabby case on the floor next to his bed and shot Sebastian a smirk. The green-eyed boy was soaking wet after walking in the rain and took out his wand to dry himself, but instead came over to Sebastian and shook his head like a dog, spraying his friend with water.

Sebastian laughed and tried to kick Chris away, but he dodged, smirking.

“Well, I have to admit,” Sebastian said, watching Chris casting the drying spell on himself, ”it was a bit problematic to maintain the same level of chaos in the castle for the last two weeks. But I did my be –”

“Two weeks and four days,” objected Ominis hastily.  

Chris blinked in surprise and then beamed at the blond, who now was pursing his lips as if he said something wrong. Apart from that, Ominis looked just as collected and neat as usual, but something was off. Apparently, Chris got lost in his thoughts while watching Ominis because he didn't hear Sebastian asking him a question.

"Sorry, what did you say?" Chris returned to reality, realising that Sebastian was staring at him with a strange expression.

Sebastian suddenly clicked his tongue and exclaimed, "Blimey, look at the time! I've got to dash." He shut his book and jumped off the bed, heading towards the door.

"Wha – Why?" Chris furrowed, puzzled by his friend's sudden haste. 

"No time to explain – an urgent matter!" exclaimed Sebastian. As he ran past Chris, he tripped over and crashed into the other boy, shoving him towards the couch where Ominis was sitting. "My bad, guys! See you later!" And with that, he disappeared in the doorway.

Chris lost balance and landed atop shocked Ominis. He only managed to fling out his hand and prop it against the wall behind the couch to prevent himself from smashing into the blind boy at full speed. 

Ominis twitched and breathed out madly, “What the hell are you –“ trying to feel the intruder with his hands to understand what had happened. 

“It’s my knee,” commented Chris quietly when Ominis’s hand grasped the mentioned part of his body. 

“Sorry, I have no idea what gave Sebastian the impression I needed some flying practice,” uttered Chris. He attempted to stand up but froze halfway, looking at Ominis under him, their faces barely an inch apart.

Ominis, who could feel Chris’s breath on his lips, forced himself to speak through clenched teeth, "Oh, I will organise some flying practice for him later."

From the Astronomy tower.

An urgent matter. Of course, Sebastian did it on purpose. He was the only one who knew. 

_________

It had happened the night before.

A thud had pulled Sebastian out of his dream, and he had found Ominis on the floor on all fours, tangled in his blanket and groping around with trembling hands for his wand.

“Hey,” Sebastian kneeled beside his best friend, “I’m here, buddy. What has happened?” He found Ominis’s wand on the floor and pressed it into the blind boy’s palm. “Looking for this?” 

Ominis grasped the wand and sat on the floor, leaning heavily on his bed. 

“What has happened?” repeated the question Sebastian. “Was it a nightmare?”

Ominis, throwing his head backwards, only nodded slightly, his lips pursed.

“I thought they were gone,” said Sebastian, sitting on the floor next to Omins and realising it had been a long time since something like this had happened. 

“I thought so, too,” Ominis finally uttered, “but…it’s just…I guess it’s a…”

Sebastian waited for his usually composed and eloquent friend to find the right words in the silence of their dorm. 

“Him,” Ominis finally managed to say as if his throat was squeezed. 

_________

If someone at the start of his fifth year had told Ominis how much his opinion about Chris Mongrel would change, he would have offered them to visit St Mungo, just in case, to check their mental state. The new student had been just a class clown with a finger in every pie, not to mention that he had seemed to keep pulling Sebastian into dangerous activities.  

The Neophyte. It was what Ominis used to call that new show-off because the Heir of Slytherin was irritated by the new boy’s real name, pronounced by Sebatian too often. The new fifth year was manipulative, could lie with the most sincere expression and was the last person Ominis could think good of.

Nevertheless, of all people, it was Chris who eventually turned into the only source of warmth that could at least slightly dispel the cold of Dark Magic that Ominis found himself surrounded by - the cold of Sebastian’s despair. It was Chris who made great efforts to save Ominis’s friendship with Sebastian despite all the pressure he had on his shoulders due to the goblin rebellion. It was Chris who was there for him when Ominis needed it most, and if not for him, Ominis probably would have done another thing he would regret forever - turning Sebastian in. 

But then…Then Professor Fig died.

Chris became withdrawn and indifferent to anything around him, barely communicating with anyone. Even when he did, he was rude and obnoxious. By the start of their sixth year, Chris pushed away everyone. They didn’t talk for months. The only thing he paid attention to was lessons and schoolwork. Chris became an even more brilliant student than before. The teachers loved him. The students kept away. 

Some tried to bully him, but it looked like Chris just waited for this. His revenge was cruel enough to get him expelled. But the Hero of Hogwarts could make an innocent face when needed, and since he was the teachers’ favourite, he got away with everything.

Meanwhile, Ominis struggled with nightmares more than usual after the events of the fifth year. The scream of the muggle that he tortures with Crucio… this time followed by Avada Kedavra spell cast by him. Anne cries after burying Solomon, but this time, she blames Ominis for helping Sebastian find the relic. Sebastian killed his uncle, but this time, Ominis meets his best friend in Azkaban after turning him in. Chris disappears from the hospital wing in the turmoil after the fight for Hogwarts, but this time is found dead later. 

Ominis often couldn't fall asleep, and since being trapped with his thoughts in the night silence of their dorm was unbearable, he came to the common room after lights out. Chris seemed to deal with the same, so they often encountered each other there.  

The brunet usually would leave to sneak out of the castle without saying a word. As Ominis found out later, at best, Chris would sleep, curling up beside his "little" pet, Misha the Wolf, in the Forbidden Forest, because it was giving him the illusion of not being alone. At worst, he would indulge in that habit. The one that made Ominis feel cold inside. The habit of chasing for the opportunity to die. 

No, Chris didn't actually try to kill himself on purpose. But he never endeavoured to keep his life safe either. The boy simply didn't care. Whenever there was an opportunity to risk his life – Merlin knew how Chris managed to find them, whether it be killing a poorly trained troll or wandering into a cave full of Acromantulas just to find a thing of sentimental value for one of the nearby villagers – he would go for it eagerly. 

It lasted until the middle of their sixth year, when one night, Ominis found Chris bleeding in the Undercroft. The brunet didn’t want to go to the hospital; he had no Wiggenweld potions left and was generally too weak to care for himself. Ominis knew some basic healing spells – he had to learn them because of his idiot of a friend (for both of them, actually). 

Ominic treated the other boy’s wounds, clenching his teeth in silence. When he finished and was about to leave without saying a word, he heard that indifferent voice with a hint of mockery. The first words Chris had told him in the last half year.

"Thank you, Dr Gaunt. I'm looking forward to the next appointment."

Here, the author doubts whether it would be offensive to present Ominis’s answer as it was to the noble ears of the reader. So here is the censored version:

"Your life belongs to you, and I can't make you treat your belongings as I want, so I just ask you – No, I beg you – Keep. It. Safe. You lost someone you hold dear. I understand that. But you know what? You are not the only one here who came through this. And now you're endangering the life of another person I care about - and you don't even give me a chance to help him! You did so much to save my friendship with Sebastian. Why don't you even try to save ours?!" 

As mentioned above, it didn't sound like that exactly. It was pronounced in a mad voice and with a couple or two eloquent curses that were odd to hear from Ominis. Chris also didn't yet know that it was possible to beg someone for something by grabbing that someone by the collar and slamming them into a wall. 

Ominis had no idea how or why, but it seemed to have an effect. The next night, when they came across in the common room, Chris suddenly said “Hi” before leaving. Despite them being alone, Ominis wasn’t even sure it was addressed to him. The other night, they exchanged a couple of awkward words. The next night, they had a little meaningless conversation about a book Ominis was reading to distract himself. The night after, Chris suddenly offered to read aloud to Ominis. 

The next time, Chris suddenly stopped reading and put away the book to apologise for being a jerk all that time. That brought a string of heated discussions when slipping to blaming or resentment alternated with climbing the steep mountain of understanding each other.

Not every night was smooth. Too much had happened. Too much they both closed their hearts. But none of them stopped coming to the common room after lights out. 

Eventually, they rebuilt the wall they set up between each other into a cosy little house, in which both of them felt comfortable and knew where to put their shoes so that they wouldn't irritate the other one or which plaid to choose to cover the housemate when he was cold. It was the house they didn't want to leave, the house they could call home. In fact, it was the only place both of them could call home.

Chris became softer with others, too, and even though he still remained true to himself with most of them, being detached and manipulative, there was another side of him that only Ominis knew. The Chris, who was selfless, caring and reliable. Some might say he was too caring, as annoyingly overprotective as one can be. 

But for Ominis, it was an oasis he could immerse himself in and dissolve his unsettling thoughts. Floating in the void of his blindness and being raised in a family where the threat could come from any direction, Ominis perceived the world as precarious, to say the least. The price for this was his nightmares. 

Ominis used to hate nights, but now he couldn’t wait for when he and Chris would meet alone, following their unspoken tradition. He loved their conversations or just the silence they shared when they were too tired to talk, and he especially found pleasure in hearing the other’s voice, which was reading to him, quite deep and low for the owner’s age – the voice that soothed Ominis and filled him with warmth, the voice that made him feel safe.

First, Ominis began to fall asleep easier. Then, his nightmares started to fade until they dissolved almost completely. And then, in their seventh year, he found himself having new dreams. These were… good. Too good, but also causing concerns – dreams that were inappropriate towards a friend. 

Ominis wasn’t ashamed of them and cherished this new feeling that had bloomed in the soil, soaked with guilt, grief and fear. However, the boy was not going to reveal his secret and risk what he obtained, especially since Chris had never shown interest in a romantic relationship with anyone. 

Little did Ominis know how Chris’s absence would impact him. The longer the other was away, the more often Ominis woke up terrified because the old nightmares were returning. Last night seemed to be the last straw, so when Sebastian asked him what was happening to him, Ominis couldn’t stand it anymore. He needed to get all the emotions boiling in him off his chest. All the time, he wanted to tell Chris the truth, but was afraid. The way he missed the voice he loved so badly. 

He had told Sebastian the truth. 

He had fallen in love with their friend. 

The friend whose presence had made his nightmares disappear.   

_________

Ominis had made Sebastian swear he wouldn't tell Chris anything. But Sebastian wouldn't be Sebastian if he hadn't found a loophole in his promise. Why would he wait for his friends to take the first step towards each other if he could just throw one into another? It was a much more efficient way to shorten distances than steps, wasn't it?

If Ominis' thoughts weren't occupied by his current predicament and the panic growing in him because of Chris's proximity, he would be mad at Sebastian. Or should he thank him? How else could Ominis get a chance to become closer to the one who, although attentive in general, was absolutely oblivious when it came to romantic feelings? And thinking about it – really, how? Like this, by accident? That wasn't right.  

But Chris was so close. His warmth. His weight, pressing Ominis into the couch. His smell – the mixture of ink, pine and …was it Wiggenweld potion? 

Just like before. 

Did Chris need it again recently? Ominis hoped it had stayed in the past. 

Perhaps this concerning thought was the only thing keeping him from pulling Chris closer and reducing the little distance between them to nothing. In fact, Ominis knew that he had to push Chris away but hoped that Chris would be the one to get off the couch (and, well, him) first. For some reason, the brunet didn't hurry to do it.

Meanwhile, Chris used the opportunity to look at Ominis closer. The blond's face was crimson now, but it wasn't that that bothered Chris – just a normal human reaction to a violation of personal space. Chris had difficulties understanding what personal space is. Of course, it's better to keep away from people as much as possible – it's simply easier this way. But if you already interact with them – what's wrong if you stand too close to someone? 

But it mattered to others, and Ominis, Chris did know, valued his personal space even more than people usually did. Chris would have stepped away immediately if not for a detail that caught his attention – the dark circles under Ominis’s eyes. 

Just like before. 

When Chris had left half a month ago, he had thought Omnis would finally have an opportunity to rest from him. Deep down, he was always afraid – what if Ominis was spending so much time with him out of sheer politeness or, worse, pity? 

In his fifth year, Chris had been sure that if people were “kind” to him, it was just because they needed something from him. Why had Sebastian been so friendly with him when he had arrived at Hogwarts? Obviously, because of ancient magic, which could potentially be a key to healing Anne. All this nonsense about “friendship” was just a convention, a game played as long as it was beneficial, a fairytale to fantasise about. 

But then there was Ominis, who didn’t conform to the idea that friendship was a mere cooperation. For some reason, he cared for Sebastian no matter what, despite all the disadvantages. And then Chris began to doubt. What if friendship really existed as it was described in books? At least in rare cases? Inside, he always wanted to believe in it, but his rational side made fun of his naivety. But what if he did find a proof? 

It became important for Chris to save the friendship between the two Slytherins at all costs because if it fell, so would all his childish hopes that he, too, could be someone’s friend one day. 

Who was he to Ominis? Chris didn't lie to himself – of course, he was just a convenient tool to handle Sebastian. Anyway, he idolised Ominis like a magizoologist would worship a unique fantastic beast they had just discovered. 

And then Fig died. 

Sitting there, somewhere under Hogwarts, alone, absolutely alone as usual, next to the body of the only person closest to the notion of family Chris had ever had, the boy got mad at himself. 

Why is he so obsessed with others? Why does he still hope so desperately to obtain the illusion of family? To find a magical creature named ‘friend’ from fairytales? Why does he keep hurting himself with shards of shattered hope when he can just be alone and not care about anyone?

Sink or swim. It was always his motto in the orphanage. He was alone, and he always would be. Why did he suddenly start to hope for something else in Hogwarts? Stupid, he was so stupid. It was time to accept it and grow up. 

He had never valued his life. But after Fig had died, Chris started to hate that he was alive and often sneaked out of the castle in the hope that a particular goblin, troll or poacher would become the last.

Too bad he was good at surviving. 

Until that time in the Undercroft. Chris was finally so close to ending this meaningless turmoil. And then Ominis intervened. Of course, The Saint and Noble one had to heal The Loser to be even more perfect. 

But when Ominis was pressing him against the wall and kept yelling at him, Chris realised that the blond wasn't mad because of Chris's disdainful and arrogant attitude. The words that Ominis was spitting into his face weren't the words Chris had expected to hear. 

Ominis was desperate. For some reason, he was really afraid for Chris and valued his life more than Chris himself ever did – not for something, but in spite of everything, as if Chris were someone like Sebastian to him.

After Ominis had left, his words echoed in Chris's ears for a long time as he slid down the wall onto the dirty floor of the Undercroft. The person Ominis cared about? Their friendship? Could it be that Chris had been Ominis's friend all that time? The thought was totally new and shocking for him.

It was hard to believe in it. 

Impossible. 

But doesn’t rage often work like Veritaserum? And Ominis had been mad. He had been so mad that Chris feared that if he had said a word, Ominis would have killed him on the spot and become even madder.

When Hope, the dying creature with broken wings inside of Chris, tried to draw attention to itself, the boy became irritated that he wanted to listen to it again instead of kicking it away. But this new theory was worth investigating. What was he losing? 

Starting to speak with Ominis again was one of the hardest things he had ever done (and he had defeated Ranrok). What if he understood it all wrong and would just impose himself on the blind boy? What if their last interaction had at last destroyed whatever they had had? What if Ominis would just push him away, laughing? But the experiment should be continued. 

The results exceeded Chris’s wildest expectations. Ominis not only accepted him as if nothing had happened and gave him enough time to gather himself together to apologise. For some miraculous reason, Chris felt that Ominis needed his mere presence – not something from him – even when they just sat together next to the fireplace, listening to the quiet song of fire. 

Following the sink-or-swim motto, Chris wasn't used to caring for someone. But now he was ready to give anything at all, only to see Ominis smiling, to make him happy. And every time Chris succeeded, he couldn't be happier himself. He almost forgot that itching desire to find an excuse to risk his life. 

But when he was away, the old doubts began to haunt him. Why would someone so perfect as Ominis want to be around someone like Chris, whose life was just a mess? The guy without a past, broken present, and a future, whose arrival he was endangering. 

The more time he spent away from Ominis, the louder the voice in his head pushed him to do something stupid until it finally got the better of him. 

The incident with ashwinders only cost him one Wiggenweld potion. 

But it was enough to bring back memories of Ominis beating some sense into him in the Undercroft.

No matter what, Ominis wanted him safe. 

Chris had read that “I’d die for you” thing in some books. It didn’t make any sense to him because it didn’t sound like a big deal. He’d die for himself. But when he thought about Ominis’s words echoing around the Undercroft, he realised that for the moon-eyed boy he was ready to make a much more labour-consuming sacrifice. 

He’d live for him.

So Chris had made sure the last incident had been really the last one. 

Anyway, he had missed Ominis deeply, so seeing him today was a relief. But Merlin - the blond looked so tired. 

“You didn’t sleep well recently”, Chris said quietly, slowly running his right thumb under Ominis’s left eye.

That voice, the voice Ominis loved and missed so much, sounded so gentle, so concerned, and so…close. The touch felt like an electric jolt. Ominis’s head was spinning, the heart pounding in his ears and racing so fast, forcing his breathing to quicken, but it was a trap because he inhaled more of Chris’s smell now, and that was the end of Ominis’s composure. 

He reached out his hand and lowered it on Chris’s back of the head. Someone stop him! He ran his fingers through the short strands. That wasn't right! Clinging to the last echoes of reason, Ominis whispered, pulling Chris closer, “Aren’t you going to stand up? Someone might see us and jump to conclus –” 

The door flung open, revealing one of their housemates, a boy with jet-black hair and chocolate eyes, holding a book.

“Hey Ominis, you – ” he broke off. The short pause was followed by a flow of frantic “Sorry!” and the sound of rapidly fading footsteps.

Chris jumped off the couch and glanced at the retreating intruder. That was an impressive running speed, he had to admit. Perhaps they scared the boy even more than he did them. “Like this?” he asked, amused.

“Precisely like this,” Ominis sounded bitter. The warmth, the smell, the weight – everything disappeared, leaving him with his heart beating wildly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and interlocking his fingers tightly. 

Chris tilted his head, watching the blond. Was Ominis so upset because that boy misinterpreted what he saw? The brunet wouldn’t care about it, but Ominis looked frustrated, which was something to care about. Chris had to fix it. 

”I…I will go and try to find him. Explain that it was a mistake,” he said, trying not to imagine what it would look like. 

Hi buddy! It wasn’t what you think it was. I fell on him. What? No, I normally don’t fall on people like this, so yeah, you’re safe. Chris shook his head. Maybe he would need to come up with a lie that would sound more plausible than the truth. But it was the problem of the future Chris.

“Right,” Ominis simply brought out. Chris was about to leave but suddenly stopped.

“Imissdyu,” he blurted, turning to the couch but averting his minty eyes from the boy on it, even though Ominis couldn't see him.

”I beg your pardon?” Ominis was baffled. If he didn’t know any better, he just heard, “I missed you.” But, of course, he knew better. Phineas Black would sooner smile at students heartily than Chris Mongrel would speak about feelings. 

"I…" It was Chris's turn to grow red even more intensively than Ominis a couple of minutes before. He knew the words were correct – he had read in books about people saying them to each other in similar circumstances, but Chris couldn't bring himself to repeat them. 

"Please, don't make me say it again. You heard it right."

After a short pause, he added, suddenly interested in the stone pattern on the floor, "Can I read to you tonight? I mean, as usual." Then, he would ask why Ominis didn't sleep well.

"I hoped you'd ask this," the blind boy finally smiled. Then, he would ask what made Chris drink the Wiggenweld potion.

“See you later then,” beamed Chris, relieved. He finally looked at the moon-eyed boy and was about to head out when Ominis’s voice stopped him.

“Chris?”

“Mhm?” 

“I missed you, too.” Only Ominis could smile like that – like the warm light of the lamppost sparkling on the snow. “Hear you later.”

“I…khm…yeah…Gotta go.” Chris made a few steps backwards toward the way out, still watching Omins, then turned around and crashed into a doorpost. “They… have to make the doors wider,” he said, leaving.

Ominis chuckled softly, listening to Chris’s fading footsteps. Then, a wave of panic washed over him again as he realised that mere minutes ago he could have ruined everything, succumbing to temptation. He rubbed his face with his palms, exhaling audibly. What was he thinking about? 

But now, everything was right. And tonight he will sleep better. Thank Merlin, the point of no return had not been reached. Or should he say thanks to the student that had broken into their dorm? 

Perhaps that guy will have another visitor today. 

------------------

The song from the epigraph. I wrote Chris's part while listening to it.

[meowuff]

This is my first actual post on Tumblr ever so pls bear with me. Also, English is not my first language so pls excuse any mistakes I make :)

So, this whole thing here started just as a joke bc I was curious if anyone else was feeling constantly tired all day no matter how long I sleep. But it all somehow escalated a bit and I may have started hyperfixating on it so well, now it actually became a little survey.

I also wanted to mention that I only asked the artist in my little Tumblr bubble, which is mostly tmnt content, so my results are mostly referring to tmnt artists.

In total, I asked 143 people if they could remember the last time they woke up and just felt actually rested for more than half of the day.

I probably could have been more specific with my question but again, I did not actually planned to let it become so big. Personally, for me being rested means, having a clear head, no headache or foggy mind without consuming any caffeine.

So out of 143 people, 100 answered me and I tried my best to sort all of the answers after the criteria “good-sleep-schedule” and “bad-sleep-schedule” and also noted when exactly they last felt actually rested into either the last days, weeks, months, years or “???” when they couldn’t remember or didn’t mention anything specific.

And let’s just say… it does not really look good. Out of 100 people, only 18 have an actual good sleep schedule. Out of these 18 people, 13 felt really rested in the last days, 2 in the last weeks, only one person in the last months and 2 in the last years.

Out of the 82 of people who have a bad sleep schedule, 10% lastly felt rested in the last days, 11% in the last weeks, 11% in the last months, 30% in the last years, and 38% couldn’t remember or didn’t specify it.

While reading all your answers I came to realize being sleep deprived is not just bc any of them thought “Oh it would be really neat to stay up till 4 am!” or smth like that.

A lot of the artists who answered me mentioned that they have trouble falling asleep or staying asleep due to stuff like insomnia, chronic pain, other issues, or children (yeah, ok, there was just one who had a child but still).

While analyzing I mostly referred the situations to my own experience with going to sleep or rather not going to sleep...

I usually don’t have problems falling asleep but trouble actually putting my stuff away and going to bed bc I don’t want to end the day or just don’t want to go to sleep (don’t ask why, I have no idea why I am like this). While having these “episodes” I often doodle smth, binge reading some fanfics, or watch whatever I can find on the internet until I’m just falling asleep or can convince myself that it is 3 am and I really should go to bed now.

So, my personal theory about why sleep deprivation is so common among Tumblr artists is not bc they do art all night. My theory is that a lot of people who have trouble falling asleep due to insomnia, pain, or other issues are filling the time until they hopefully fall asleep with their art, doodles, writings, or whatever their creative minds can bring up, to help the time pass.

In total that would mean that not all artists are sleep deprived but more that a lot of people who have trouble falling asleep do a lot of art or creative stuff in general.

Something I could also imagine is, that if they start doing art while waiting for sleep, they start to concentrate a lot on creating more and start procrastinating sleep even if they actually get tired bc they wanna do art and fuck up their non-existing sleep schedule even more but that could also just be me projecting here.

I know that is probably no kind of big revelation but for me it was kind of surprising to see how many people here are as sleep deprived as me and due to what reasons.

I’m not going to preach to any of you to get that problem solved or smth, I have no right to tell you what to do and would be a major hypocrite so instead I really which everyone to get some kind of good sleep schedule one day and the joy of waking up and feeling completely rested at least thrice per week.

I absolutely love all your art and thank you a thousand times for helping me with this spontaneous survey!

I would love to hear your opinions on my theory and conclusion so pls don’t be shy and feel free to point out any mistakes I may have made or tell me your own theories :D

Also, if my question is still sitting in your inbox, feel free to answer! I’m gonna keep ma big ass excel table so I can edit all the results anytime. And maybe, one day, I'm gonna continue this survey and go into more detail but for now I need to leave it like this.

Ok, that's all I got

BYE!

Thanks to all participants

@abbeyofcyn @angelpuns @beannary @bulbabutt @camilieroart @cementgeek @cheesyescapade @cokowiii @easterartist @frosteaart @gemini-forest @happyfoxx-art @heckitall @hellishgayliath @holy-sweetsour-milk @icepopcider @idiot-mushroom @iscreamkitty @kovalitics @laseralligator @lieutenantbiscute @matchstique @mightyanxiety @miiukkaa @mr-doodles @pezhead @probably-not-a-rutabaga @pumpkster @sad-leon @sassatello @sewercrocodileart @sheep-turtles-and-pizza @signanothername @spectra-bear @stephuart @tangledinink @tapakah0 @tasenwiththerobots @tblsomedoodles @thegunnsara @triona-tribblescore @turrondeluxe @valen-timez @vangh17a @wraenata @zinovi768 @debb987 @dianagj-art @goatedgreen @indieyuugure

[jenn2sec]

English vers.

Based On My Dreams Series (MAIN LINE):

❝ Healing Trip ❞

start - thursday20022025

couple - bigbang(you decide who) x fem!reader

chapters summary - after your strong resistance against the abuse from your boyfriend's (now ex) family, you were suspended from school for a year, so what will you do during that forced break? of course, take a direct flight to korea to heal! lets see how lucky you will be with bigbang-boys!

note - chaotic, bad words, side characters, this post won't feature bigbang, but read on and make your choice at the end!, funny, quantum multiverse, alcohol

caption section - after reviewing and organizing more ideas for the plot, i decided to officially develop the Based On My Dreams Series into a long-form fanfic (when i say long, i mean it will have a more structured storyline). y/n is in the late twenties and about to enter their thirties, a third-year student majoring in film scriptwriting.

We’re always open to feedback and ideas to make the story better!

[ Before I could make sense of everything, my feet were already standing on his grave. ]

After reviewing the entire script draft for the short film, you sent it to senior H/n. Just thinking about it made you frustrated—why did you have to do his work for him? This was supposed to be his graduation project! Your head felt as hot as a furnace, yet you still had to sit in the library after your morning classes, rushing to finish his “problem.”

“That jerk…” you mumbled, slamming your laptop shut before quickly stacking up your books into a neat pile and dragging yourself out of the library.

Time flew by, and you were already close to completing your second semester of your third year in university. Just one more semester and another year, and you’d finally have that bachelor’s degree in your hands. Lost in your feverish state, you found yourself daydreaming about internships—completely unaware that the so-called "talented" senior you had just cursed was now striding towards you with an air of arrogance.

“Hey, y/n! Come here for a sec.” He waved a hand at you like an impatient boss calling over an employee just to scold them. Just great. You had only insulted him in your head a moment ago, and now he had appeared like a summoned ghost. With a deep sigh, you bit your lip and walked over.

"I really appreciate your help, but you should really reconsider $#%&—" He kept rambling, his words buzzing in your ears like an annoying fly. What was this? Was he actually complaining about a script that he got for free?

You were too stunned to speak. The only reason you put up with this lunatic was because he was your boyfriend’s older brother and the son of the head professor of your department.

Let’s see… He was the son of the department head but was still drowning in over ten failed courses, barely hanging onto his chance to graduate. And ever since you had visited your boyfriend’s house and discovered that both of you were in the same screenwriting major, more than half of his overdue assignments had magically ended up in your lap. Call you stupid if you guys want—at first, you thought dating someone from the same school would be nice. His mother was a well-respected professor, and surely his older brother must be talented too, right? Wrong. And now, your so-called “future brother-in-law” was acting like he was the professor and you were the clueless student, lecturing you in the middle of campus with no regard for your dignity.

"I am sorry, but I’m really exhausted. Can’t you see the fever patch on my foreh—" You weakly protested, carefully choosing your words to avoid bruising his ego, but H/n immediately cut you off, clicking his tongue and placing his hands on his hips.

"Y/n, if you’re going to do something, do it properly. You can’t use being sick as an excuse to hand in a script full of plot holes!"

You froze. Your face went blank, as if someone had just smacked you over the head with a hammer. You could only stare at this shameless man in disbelief.

"Hey, are y—" Just as you were about to snap back, your younger boyfriend suddenly appeared from afar, grinning as he approached. Without hesitation, he hugged you from behind and kissed your cheek.

"What are you two doing out here?"

Seeing your boyfriend felt like spotting a lifeline in the middle of an ocean. You turned around, ready to whine about your suffering, but before you could even speak, the brat jumped back in horror, shoving you away a few steps.

"Wait, you’re sick?! Hey, hey, don’t get me infected! I have an internship next week!" He hurriedly pulled a mask out of his pocket and put it on, while his brother scolded him for overreacting.

And then, just like that, he kept going. Your dear senior resumed his endless criticism of your script, delivering yet another long-winded lecture about character development and scene construction.

A childish boyfriend. A useless, arrogant brother-in-law. And you—sick to the point of collapse, with a very solid pile of books in your hands.

Yes. With a rage-induced fever clouding your mind like a drunken haze, you didn’t hesitate. You hurled the entire stack of books at that senior’s face, then grabbed the thickest one and jabbed it straight at your stupid boyfriend, who is gaping.

"GET THE HELL OUT OF MY SIGHT, YOU BASTARDS!!! ALL OF YOU, OUT! RIGHT NOW! F* OFF YOU MOTHER F******!!!!!!!!"

"That damn bastards….my gosh how can I know I’d break the library window! It’s all their fault! Huhuhu—" You wailed into your phone, sobbing so hard that your eyes were practically swelling shut.

On the other end of the call, your online best friend sighed. "So… what about your ‘future mother-in-law’?"

The mere mention of that woman made you cry even louder. "That witch! She only acted nice because she saw me as her eldest son’s academic lifeline! But the moment I broke their noses today, she went insane and demanded that the school expel me! Huhuhu—!"

Your friend let out a long, tired sigh. "So let me get this straight… You got suspended for a whole year just for assault and property damage? That’s kind of harsh. I’d say one semester at most." You sniffled. "No, no. Before that, I went to the academic office and reported that entire damn family—especially that bastard H/n—for forcing me to do his coursework."

"WHAT?!" Your friend shrieked in shock before bursting into laughter. Meanwhile, you grinned victoriously.

"Serves those assholes right."

You don't mind graduating a year late, you're a pretty good student after all—it's basically a gap year. But that asshole? His record's been erased. And his mom? Suspended for a whole semester. Ha!

"Why do you keep listening to those gay dudes all the time?"

A slipper flew straight toward the speaker—unfortunately, it missed. You've heard this comment enough times to no longer take it to heart, but you still had to put up some kind of resistance. Your older brother kicked your slipper further away—specifically, out onto the porch—before lazily walking over to the fridge to find something to snack on.

Meanwhile, you sat idly on the sofa, listening to your favorite music: K-pop.

It had been a long time since you last had the chance to relax like this. Ever since you got involved with that damn family, even your holidays were spent helping H/n.

So now, being able to unwind felt a bit unfamiliar. You started feeling like you had rested too much—your hands and feet were itching to do something.

"If you're so free, why don't you go out or get a job? Doesn't staying home bore you?" your brother asked, plopping down on the couch with a bag of snacks. He grabbed the remote and switched the TV to some streamer’s YouTube channel.

"HEY!" You grabbed your other slipper and threw it straight at his face—this time, it hit. After a brief scuffle, both of you lazily slumped back onto the couch.

"Getting a part-time job doesn’t sound too bad—"

Suddenly, your phone rang. It was your online best friend calling.

And with just one phone call, your plan to get a job turned into a healing trip abroad.

The room you rented was in an apartment complex located deep within a neighborhood already slated for redevelopment. Despite this, quite a few people still lived here. Most people—including your online best friend—found the place too cramped and bustling, but you actually liked it. Having lived with your parents and brother your whole life, you never had the chance to "coexist" with strangers like this. So even though you felt a bit uneasy, you valued this experience—it was something worth having!

Your online best friend picked you up from the airport and helped you find a short-term rental. (You had decided to stay for an extended period, given that you had an entire year of free time.) After finishing the move-in process, she immediately switched into tour guide mode and took you on an adventure through Seoul.

This was only the second time you two had met in real life—the first being when she visited your country for a trip. Now, it was your turn to visit hers. Twice was more than enough to erase any awkwardness. The two of you went all out, exploring every corner, from delicious street food to fun entertainment spots.

“Lucky for you, you know enough Korean to communicate, right?” she asked, biting into a strawberry tanghulu—the popular sugar-coated fruit snack often seen in TikTok dance videos. You nodded slightly, using your own candy stick to poke at the hardened sugar stuck on your molars before replying.

“Just a little. I’m definitely not fluent enough to compete with the locals.” You joked, recalling how, during your first meeting, she had been too flustered to even speak English properly.

Both of you had made an effort to learn each other’s native languages, but for the most part, you still communicated in English for convenience, occasionally throwing in phrases from the second language. So naturally, she reacted quickly to your teasing:

"야! 놀리지 마!! (Ya! Don’t tease me!!)”

She laughed awkwardly at her own outburst, making both of you burst into laughter. Your attention was then quickly stolen by a brightly lit bar nearby.

“Hey, I didn’t know Aven Star had a branch in Korea,” you remarked.

“Of course they do! They even invite artists over all the time. Wanna go in? Who knows, maybe you’ll run into one of your ‘husbands,’” she teased, nudging your shoulder.

You were about to agree instantly, but one glance at your outfit made you hesitate. “I can’t. I look like a complete mess right now.”

“Excuse me?! Stop acting like a pick-me girl! You look amazing, so get in there and have fun!”

Well, if that damn family knew you were out here vacationing and enjoying yourself, they’d be fuming. Just the thought of it made you relax a little more and confidently step inside.

The moment you entered, your ears were greeted by remixes of old-but-gold US-UK songs, refreshed with an upbeat twist that made them even catchier. The dim, flickering lights were adjusted just right—not harsh on the eyes—but the place was packed. That was typical for this bar. You never went bar-hopping much during your school days, but if you did, Aven Star was always your go-to. It was surreal that your favorite club had somehow followed you across the world, making your healing trip feel even more complete.

You quickly let yourself soak in the atmosphere while waiting for your best friend, who was busy flirting with the bartender (and ordering more drinks for both of you). The tension in your body gradually melted away, your shoulders feeling lighter by the second. It was hard to believe this trip was already working wonders—on just the first day.

Then, out of nowhere, a cold liquid spilled down the back of your neck, soaking your entire back. A sharp shiver ran up your spine, triggering an instant wave of shock and discomfort that shot straight to your brain, making you yelp. Luckily, the bar was noisy enough to drown out your outburst.

Spinning around, you searched for the culprit—and found yourself facing a guy dressed in a breezy, casual outfit. His face was undeniably Korean, but he wasn’t bad-looking at all. In fact, when combined with his overall aura, he looked…pretty cool!

His expression, however, was hilarious. Though the dim lighting made it hard to see clearly, his wide eyes, hand-over-mouth reaction, and panicked mumbling made it obvious he was apologizing and checking if you were okay.

You were in too good of a mood to get mad. You were about to say something, but then you spotted your best friend scanning the crowd for you. With no time to linger, you flashed the guy a quick grin, leaned in slightly, and said a few words before slipping through the dancing crowd to rejoin your friend.

"________"

| If You Choose to Say Something Playful.

| If You Choose to Say Something Reassuring. [comingsoon]

_____

F i x a r a w S o f t e n

thursday20022025

23:46

︾︾︾︾︾︾︾

to speed things up and because my english isn’t really that good, i decided to use a translation tool to help with the language switch. a bigbangxreader fanfic operating on the quantum multiverse theory, why not?!

every choice you make leads you to a different person, opening up distinct storylines, what do you think?!

hope you all understand and enjoy ♡

[citrus-cactus]

Unfortunately for my followers, I’m not actually done talking about Gargoyles today ^^; I’ve had this post in my drafts for several months, and reading Quest has finally pushed it out into the wild. I cannot stop thinking about a character dynamic that I’d previously never given any thought to, but now I wish had been established sometime during the SLG run. Long story short, I think it has the potential to be fairly interesting: some sort of friendship/camaraderie between Angela and Macbeth.

Such a relationship could also have additional benefits, both from a storytelling and character-development perspective:

Such a relationship could also have additional benefits, both from a storytelling and character-development perspective:

1). It gives Macbeth someone to talk to, a confidante, which would be good for his overall mental state (particularly now that Banquo and Fleance are not in his employ);

2). It lends itself to additional fence-mending between him and the Manhattan Clan, allowing him to continue the transition from one-time enemy to occasional ally. And maybe it leads to some additional closure for Broadway after "Lighthouse?” Being on decent terms with Macbeth probably means access to his library :D

3). If he’s genuinely the clan's ally and not actively suicidal anymore, it presents a path for the Manhattan Clan to use him as a resource in situations where it would be a good idea to keep an eye on Demona—and hey, if there’s a random chance he might show up any time the clan is tangling with her, it’s almost always going to be good for them and bad for her, right?? At the very least he can serve as the canary in a potential coal mine situation—and as a bonus, he might get to annoy her a bit, which is always fun.

Now, this most certainly would not have worked for Demona’s scheme in Quest, but certainly there are other situations where his presence would not only be appropriate, but appreciated (speaking of Quest... I’ll bet he could have helped the Manhattan Clan with magic item research/narrowing down candidates for the Three New Keys, like. A TON. You don’t even have to tell him why you’re doing this research… though I also would have liked to see him try to get a hand on the Spear of Gungnir. Y'know, just to see what he does with it :))) But really, just hire him as extra Demona insurance every once in a while, is what I’m saying.

It would be an interesting (I think!) role for the man to play and give him something to do in the narrative going forward, as well as potentially providing some additional character development for Angela: initially reaching out because she is a very compassionate individual with a desire to connect to others, and who has a fairly different upbringing/perspective compared to the rest of her clan… but maybe she experiences some additional inner turmoil as a result of coming to understand her mother better, and/or acknowledging that she’s using Macbeth in a way that could be seen as a bit manipulative (her mother would be quick to comment on this as soon as she knew, regardless of whether or not it’s true).

I just think it would be neat, is all. The fanfic-writing braincells are churning mightily on this one.

[amalthea-13]

hello this is more fandom + headcanon related than a serious thing

I wanted to ask your opinion on stolas's powers + his role, like he had two roles in life 1.have an heir 2.read the stars/be a prophet (i may be misremembering)

we know he can turn people to stone and can create portals both w/o his grimoire. what other silly spells do you think could occur? also what do you think/would want to happen with the whole stars thing?

personally, i love the idea that stolas memorized the spell how to turn other creatures, specifically imps, in to human disguises because of that episode where blitz jokes abt it

ohh i think it'd be fun to see stolas teach IMP about other spells that they wouldn't have known bc they only focused on traveling to the world + i think seeing flashbacks of stolas teaching octavia would be nice

My Thoughts/Headcanons on Stolas and His Future

Casually pulling myself out of bed from writing a 9 page essay that's due tomorrow because I haven't had a good ask in a hot minute! However, hello all, it is I, Amalthea, the Ultimate Stolas Kin and Stan and let's get into some more chill stuff so I can relax my brain a bit! TYSM!!

Stolas's Powers

When it comes to Stolas's powers, I have been very, very passionate about my desire for him to have his powers back in some way in the future. To other Stolas Stans or Stolitz Fans this may not be a top priority, but I am a writer myself. Between fanfics, my personal novels, poetry, and song writing, if someone cut my hands off and I couldn't write, they may as well kill me.

I have a big issue with Stolas not having his powers since he is often shown expressing himself with them and emotionally relieving himself through them. Outside of Blitz, Stolas's powers were one of the few other safe places he had and to see that robbed of him???

As an artist Mastermind made me physically ill with grief just because I knew what it was like to have your craft stripped from you. As a child, I was often grounded from writing or my personal box FULL of my manuscripts would me taken away from me for days at a a time.

As I said earlier, I would rather die than not be able to write. That's just an impossible reality for me.

However, I have cried over this topic long enough.

Personally, I do think Stolas could have spells and such memorized for the sake of utility. In Truth Seekers that fucker got to Earth as fast as possible and in the very first episode of the series we see Stolas see Blitz in the human world through the bubbles in his tub.

Headcanons

When it comes to head canons I do not have very many for Stolas, but I think he's a lazy fuck sometimes lol. I feel like he enjoys floating things to himself to avoid leaving a place of comfort or his bedroom.

Now for Stolas to read prophecies he has to be either on Earth or use his grimoire to his lil pocket dimension to view the stars up close as we see he does with Octavia. Personally I think if Stolas gets back to Earth he could read the stars with or without his powers due to him having been at this for years now.

I think if anything it'd be oh so cool to have him be the only one aware of an incoming threat and fighting for his life to inform Andrelphus. Blitz and Loona being confused but Stolas literally doing everything in his power to inform the other royals, but like as he is about to, Andrelphus somehow gets to him and they have yet another fight.

I think it'd be neat to see Loona learning from Stolas how to do magic, but I don't think it'd last long. Stolas is to fragile to metaphorically adopt and mentor her. Even if Blitz asked he just would feel guilty for enjoying himself. I don't think Stolas will want to take on a paternal role for Loona until Octavia is back in his life.

I think he'd teach Loona about human disguises then teach her nothing else unless absolutely necessary. I do think there will be a wall between them every time where he ignores her not to be mean but to punish himself.

I do hope this all answers your questions! <3

[breadvidence]

I'm going to table a two-pole concept as a useful tool when evaluating what you're building when you write meta/literary analysis.

So: say there's a distinction between what you can read out of a text and what you can read into a text: or, I'm going to use those prepositions as convenient shorthands for this post as I talk about one of many patterns in literary analysis. Both are the bread and butter equally of the academic industry and fan work, though I'd bet the former would pretend it uses reading into texts less, and I've seen fan work fail more genuinely to see the difference.

When we read out of the text, direct quotes, context, historical facts, etc. come together into a more complex idea or conclusion: one of my favorites in Les Misérables is the murder-suicide implication of Marius bringing Javert's pistols with him to his final (missed) meeting with Cosette at the Rue Plumet. It hinges on the context of Romantic tropes surrounding the death of lovers, his direct association with Ulbach via the Lark's meadow, his insistence that death will follow their separation, the fact of there being two pistols, and answers the otherwise puzzling question put to us when the narrator says "It would be difficult to say what vague thought [Marius] had in his mind when he took [the pistols] with him." (4.9.2). Now, whether Marius would have shot Cosette—or solicited her to commit suicide with him—is beyond what we can read out of the text, in my opinion, but the potential is inarguable.

What we can read out of a text is, I will note, haunted by the question of authorial intent. There's this guy named Barthes, I think it is, who fucked us up on that one.

"Why are you bringing up prepositions to talk about basic literary analysis, Bread?" I hear you ask. But wait! There's more. A preface this with: per my opening, I'm laying out a concept with two poles, and there's a gradient between them, nothing fits perfectly-neatly, and any analysis might be a blend of in and out—and almost all things read into a text must somewhat come out of it. That qualifier being said, I'll still argue for:

When we read into the text, while quotes, context, historical fact, etc. may spark the idea, ultimately the analysis begins with its conclusion, and we are seeking to find material to shore up a structure we've already built. So, so much professional queer literary criticism of works created without explicit queer intent fall into this category, bless 'em, and so does a lot of fan meta. Reading into a text is the entire game of fanfic, and it's a space in which creators can enrich the works of others. Often, what we bring into the text is ourselves—which is neat as fuck, particularly for a queer person like myself whose understanding of the world radically differs from an author like Victor Hugo (though of the ideas that I freely admit to reading into the text, my real darling is fear as Javert's primary emotional motivator [Hugo tells us at length about Javert's emotional motivation: I just think it's neat to ask why do we hate?, and find an answer that is less painful than for its own sake]). Analysis that has been read into the text can be intricate, built upon extensive evidence from the text and history, but ultimately it varies from what can be read out of the text in being indefensible: some portion, however compelling, relies upon an element that cannot be found in the text and its context: if the analysis could not be independently built by every reader possessed of the same basic facts, you got something read in. What we build this kind of analysis with often includes, without value judgment, our emotion, identity, and personal investments (ever-present in analysis of all types, but in these specific cases structurally integral). For a second example: to me, it's incredibly important that the bourgeois marriage at the end of Les Misérables is meant as a failure of the sociopolitical ethical argument made by the book as the whole, but I cannot read that out of the text. Trust me, I have tried to build that analysis, and I always find myself having to lean on feeling and inference and implication in a way that's so much air. To make Les Mis meaningful for myself, I stick to this idea of that failure: but I can't defend it to someone else.

I can still write an analysis of Javert motivated by fear or bourgeois marriage as failure, share that, have people read and (hopefully) enjoy it—that's meaningful fanwork (or academic work, for that matter; that's a thin line in literature). What I won't do is defend those points as definitive readings of the text, and I definitely ain't going to argue back if somebody tells me they have a different reading. Sometimes analysis can tip-toe right along the edge of being out of and into the text, but I can tell you when I'm doing the latter.

There are times when you can read into the text in a way that is fully indulgent in fan work in a way that academia generally avoids (or pretends to avoid): take, for example, building trans Enjolras out of canon material. There is precisely zero way to read out of Les Misérables that Victor Hugo wrote the novel imagining Enjolras had anything other than a dick—I am not altogether married to the question of authorial intent, but me and it are on friendly terms, and I'm dead confident here—but as fandom has made abundantly clear, you can read transness into the novel (which is not to say Hugo doesn't play with androgyny and gender in Enjolras' character—he's just not flying the pink-periwinkle-and-white). This is something that means a lot to a lot of people, and that's valuable. The fact that it's not in the novel does not invalidate the meaning. It simply means it's built on different ground (and, when we talk about the ways in which a text lacks or fucks up or can do more, we find going into it results in a more fertile reading than simply getting out of it).

There's no have to in meta or literary analysis—it's a game we're playing with stories that are themselves games—but I think this framework has a couple benefits as a tool to analyze analysis, particularly in a social environment. (1) If your goal is to make arguments about what can be firmly concluded from a text, recognizing that reading into it is a different style of analysis with a different level of portability to others is useful and (2) recognizing that what you have read into the text is refutable and idiosyncratic strengthens your ability to remain engaged with others who don't share or agree with your analysis. Now, sometimes you think you're reading out of the text, and additional information or a counterpoint prove you wrong: that's fine, inevitable, we all got our days where we didn't know the historical usage of a certain word or something, eh? On the other hand, if you're perfectly aware you're reading into the text, if someone tables a counterpoint or additional information, you can say: Yeah, cool, thank you, my investment in this idea is playful or personal or what-have-you, and its defensibility is irrelevant to its existence.

From personal experience? All beneficial.

[greekmocha]

I was bored so decided to write some minor stuff.

Favorite couples of Greek Mythology! (Canon and Non-Canon)

I’ll be honest some of my reasons or explanations will sound like crack. Some I actually want to make a fanfic of! (Even though I’m still in the process of writing a Non-King one, but writers block there). Keep in mind I am tired so all these are randomly explained without full reason why I like them.

Canon Mythology:

Hera / Zeus: Alright this one is probably the one that gets most trashed on, but it’s honestly great! Yes they have issues, but they do love each other. It’s complicated, but they’re gods- I can’t even explain why it’s great as thousands of thoughts run through my head about them, but yeah.

Ariadne / Dionysus: This one I found rather neat! Theseus was a prick and left her on an island, then Dionysus and his party bus came along and picked her up, then later on turned to husband and wife! I mean they’ve never even fought in any myths that I’m aware of, and just seem so chill.

Aphrodite / Ares: Ngl, this is my all time favorite one. Ares literally fought on her side in the Trojan war, going against his mother! And he’s like a devoted son, and he picked Aphrodite- love. And yes they both have their own lovers, but they just have a thing that feels like it’d be constant.

bonus ones I won’t go much into, enjoy but don’t think of too much:

- Achilles / Patroclus: Had to be obvious, but I haven’t read the Iliad in a few years so can’t explain much.

- Apollo / Hyacinthus: Love the tragedy of it all, like it seemed genuinely sweet, then the discuss came along.

Non-Canon Favorite couples of Greek Mythology!

Hades / Prometheus: Some who actually read my blog could tell this is my all time favorite pairing. Yes there’s like no myths of them together- but the concept! I personally imagine they met during the Titanomachy, and had a quiet companionship. Later on when humanity came along, Hades helped a tiny bit- gave the basic idea for a soul while Prometheus did the rest, and led to Hades making the Underworld comfortable for the deceased, since it was his beloved friends creation. And the possible angst?? Prometheus getting his wife or when he gets chained to the mountain, and Hades mourning in silence.

Demeter / Hecate: They seem neat, what can I say? Hecate helped Demeter search for her daughter, even though she’s typically seen as a resident of the underworld- she helped! I like to just imagine women tired of others bs, and if I was confident in writing I’d likely have made 100 fics revolved around them.

Aphrodite / Persephone: The two considered the most beautiful! When I read the whole myth focusing on Psyche, I immediately thought rivals to lovers for this pairing. The whole box of beauty, sending a death curse back. Just two incredible goddesses. I’d like to imagine the two of them were friends when Persephone was younger! Though of course in my AU (I’m gonna call it Mykos verse or smth) since Persephone and Aphrodite aren’t married, the two of them would have likely hung out a lot.

Additional ones I like but don’t think of often:

- Ares/Heracles: I will not explain my reasoning behind this, as it’s dedicated to a fanfic I have solely in my brain.

- Apollo/Ares: Saw a few posts of them, and thought they were cute!

- Hephaestus/Ares: Thought it’d be funny, great potential for angst, whole enemies thing, etc. it’d be so toxic, it’d be so hurt, like I could see them digging into each other and ripping metaphorically into the others heart. Like many centuries of insults, that whole cheating thing leaves wounds. (I have too many au’s and brain rots for them)

- Hera/Zeus’s former lovers: Now that one was interesting, can’t remember the blog but the whole thing and incorrect quotes was rather sweet.

- Poseidon/Hades: This is Greek mythology, definitely not the worst pairing. I read a fic of it once, and thought it was kinda nice. Besides the whole idea started when I heard of the Hadalpelagic zone in the ocean, and thought it could be a fun meeting spot between the two.

And that’s the end!

[biginkyboyo]

Hello I am here to Wreck it Ralph au brainrot again, teehee

Zamn, I'm back here again.

I really love seeing people's interpretations of a redemption arc for Turbo, those are always fun, he is a silly guy (who committed countless ethical crimes). I have not read every single fanfic (and I do not plan to, oh god there would be too many), but I've read a few and boy do I love seeing creative people do their thing, hell yeah!

Be cringe, be free. Make those aus, create those ocs, make silly fanfics and amazing fanart!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ok, here's my ramblings on a stupid au

What if they both existed?

What if you could have Turbo and King Candy and they both had their own redemption of sorts? That would be kinda neat I think....anyways, I thought too hard about this, so here we go, epic transition-

----------------------------------owo--------

A virus has settled itself in the depths of Sugar Rush's code room. It should be completely obvious where it came from, who caused it.

Somehow, this virus escapes the code room, hellbent on learning all it can before assimilation. Just because it's a virus, doesn't mean it's mindless after all.

Maybe it already knew about Turbo, seeing as it was probably formed because of him. Did he intend that? Probably not, but you can't expect Turbo to think about the consequences of his actions, that is literally the only thing he's incapable of doing.

People who die outside of their game are never gone. Not fully. Have they been destroyed and reduced to 1s and 0s? Yeah. But they aren't gone. They've become part of the fabric of the game, a whisper, barely a memory. But, they could be plucked out of that ocean of data.

A virus is dangerous on its own. A virus who knows how death works (or doesn't work) is even more dangerous. Point being, the virus decides it wants to have a little fun and bring back Cybug King Candy. Not to let him live, not at all. Instead, the virus is doing what it does best, and infects the host, ripping the original out and taking its place. Where does King Candy go? Between this monster's claws, where it tries to tear him apart. All it does, though, is literally tear him apart. There's two of them now, oh god.

Now you have Turbo and King Candy, and they are probably not too happy about being brought back, extracted, split in half, and probably almost assimilated into the virus.

Maybe Vanellope and Ralph were feeling especially nice that day, or maybe they were acting on instinct because there's now a much, much bigger threat, but perhaps they save these two numbskulls.

And now, they have two very, very, very big problems on their hands. There is a rogue virus in the arcade, and Turbo/King Candy are alive.

Here's some extra small ideas I had

- I think this would take place a couple years in the future. Assuming this is a universe where arcades didn't go out of business, everyone is still doing just fine.

- Debatable if Fix it Felix Jr. is still plugged in. Old game, all that. I wouldn't just immediately say it's been unplugged, but that's on my mind a little bit (they all live in Vanellope's castle, someone's got to)

- Turbo and King Candy are still total dickwads. Turbo is a brat, King Candy is also a brat. I think when separated they would clash immensely. Turbo took all the whiny, childish parts with him, as those were likely his to begin with. King Candy kept the happy, cheery, mass manipulator side.

- I will never acknowledge the sequel, Ralph is still the fun uncle/father figure for Vanellope, and Vanellope doesn't want to leave Sugar Rush. Also, Felix and Calhoun ftw

That's literally all I have rn, I haven't thought super hard about this yet, it's not great I know

That's my edgy, angsty au beginning. Will I ever do something with it? I have no clue! Perhaps it will be written on Ao3. That, or it's just gonna exist here and that's cool I think.

Anyways byyyyyye

[sapwine-and-starcharts]

A little late but some Q’s for the OC ask game? 8 (I love their outfit in your banner!) 23, 26, 30 (this miiight be a sneaky ploy to hear more about them and Hornfels) + 49? Mylo is really cool and it’s been neat hearing about them and their world!! It always brightens my day to see your writing and art ::)

!!!! You're not late at all! Mylo questions are always accepted! (that goes for anyone else hesitating to send em!)

And aaaaa tysm!

You have no idea how happy it makes me to see others enjoying my ocs or the art/writing i make!!! Genuinely means so much to me to hear that!! :'} <3

8. Do they wear something other than the canon outfit/space suit?

They do!!!!

So originally Mylo was supposed to be an NPC, just another Traveler you would meet on your travels, so their main design was more reflected on that. ( Fun fact: I was actually gonna make a whole different hatchling for my fics and stuff but then i wrote the first few GSU fics using them and it stuck. That's neither here not there)

Their spacesuit went through a few changes, i was thinking of making it RADICALLY different from the canon suit but decided to keep some of the elements the same. The only big differences are their helmet and poncho/socks really. Their helmet is supposed to resemble the interloper with the antennae being the tail. They've also got an OWV patch and a homemade Interloper patch :3

Their casual clothes however haven't changed since i thought them up. Theres their knit hat which Hornfels had Gossan make for them (another hc i have) once they showed interest in the interloper. Their turtleneck is a hand-me-down from Hornfels that is still a lil big on them. And the pair of high waisted pants they tuck the turtleneck into are just cause i think they're cute!

Here's an old ref of them (I'm in the process of redesigning/ touching up on their design so they're getting a new one soon. Its pretty similar tho!!!)

23. Does your Hatchling have an instrument? If so, what is it?

More OG Mylo rambles ahead.

For the LONGEST time i couldn't figure out what to give them. Their NPC self was going to be a traveler you found on/in the Interloper (don't ask how that would work. lmao) so i wanted their instrument to be very icy in nature.

Like im talkin ice twinkles or something, but i never figured it out. I had thoughts of a kalimba or a handpan but both were fairly common in the fandom so i wanted to try somethng different like chimes but there was nothing small/handheld that spoke to me.

And then i read a fanfic where Hornfels had a fiddle and that became my main Hornfels instrument head canon.

The other night i was thinking about it again and thought 'Hey... What if Hornfels taught Mylo the fiddle...' so i think their instrument is officially the fiddle :'} (they make me feel shrimp emotions your honor)

26. Why did your Hatchling join OWV?

Main reason: The Interloper. They wanted to be the first one to step foot on it and study it up close.

Alternate reasons: Doing research for Hornfels, helping Chert, and making both of them proud...

30. Which Villager did your Hatchling attach to most while they were growing up?

Speaking of Hornfels. I see your sneak ploy and you will get stupid long rambles in return >:3c

So obviously Mylo duckling imprinted on Hornfels and there was little they could do after that.

In my mind it was Hornfels' turn to name a hatchling around the time Mylo was born and so it was them who named them and showed them the stars for the very first time.

For a period of time Mylo wouldn't stop crying. Nobody in the village could figure out what was wrong until Hornfels noticed the way they'd go quiet when held under the stars.

They made them a lil star diorama using a flashlight to display above their crib which worked. It became their main coping strategy since, whenever Mylo is anxious they either make the diorama and sit in the dark of the observatory or they picture the fake stars in their head and count them to calm themself down. (Scary feelings, Starry Ceilings)

Originally, Hornfels wasn't that accepting of Mylo coming to bother them so often.

They were busy and often shooed them away to get some piece. It wasn't until Hornfels realized how much Mylo reminded them of themself when they were younger did they try to make an genuine effort.

That's when they learned about their soft spot for helping and teaching hatchlings. (Child of the Stars)

After that, Mylo hung around a lot more, always asking to use the telescope and for help reading big text books they didn't understand.

They eventually became Hornfels' lil assistant, helping run errands when they were busy, being the rubber ducky to Hornfels' ramblings.

When it came time to work on the translator, Hornfels offered up their desk in a quiet corner of the observatory which Mylo often fell asleep at and sometimes Mylo would wake up with a blanket over their shoulders and their papers organized just how they liked it. (only one person knew their system, because Mylo learned it from them in the first place)

Hornfels was also the first one Mylo said goodbye to when it came to pulling the plug on the ATP (Time to go + Thank you for everything. The first 2 fics i ever wrote for them, the catalyst for my love for them)

49. In a post loop AU would your Hatchling ever tell anyone about the loops? Who?

Mylo wouldn't want to burden anyone. They already hated that Gabbro went through it with them and they also knew nobody would believe them.

I think the only person who they'd tell in the end is Chert, but only because they figured out something was wrong.

I actually have a fic i want to write where Mylo and Chert are on the Ember twin and Mylo keeps having these bad dreams and waking Chert in the middle of the night. Chert knows something is wrong and hates that Mylo won't tell them.

Except Mylo eventually caves and while Chert doesn't understand, they still comfort their partner the best they can.

I'm biting these two and shaking them like a dog.

Okay okay, i've been working on this for over an hour i think and its 150 am now so i gotta hit send before i end up writing until 3 am and have it take up half the dash.

Thank you again for asking i hope you enjoyed my long ass rambles <333333333 :3c

[whimsicalmirage]

I definitely did not draw this so i could make a keychain. Nope idk what you're talking about. (I'm 100% gonna draw the whole cast of planes and maybe cars like that and make them into keychains for myself)

I also definitly did not finish this only to realize i fucked up how the top of the suit should lay on her and had to redraw a huge part of it. Nope (Had to make my own refrences using a random hoodie lol)

Anyway now i'm gonna yap about her design because i wanna share it with you all (also because my friend is so done with me talking about planes and cars T^T)

Based on the height chart in The art of Planes she's taller than Dusty and Blade, same height as Windlifter, but shorter than Cabbie

Gave her a bandana cuz it literally looks like a pair of wings (plus she would have more yellow in her casual design, same with earrings which i now realize i forgot to draw)

My thoughts behind her hairstyle are literally "looks cool" plus her hair is brown to stand out against all the yellow on her. The red ombre parts are there cuz they look nice and i'm a sucker for unnatural hair colors

Her eyelashes are circular blobs because she has a lot of smooth egdes on her

I couldn't find any info where she's from (i checked everywhere i think) so made her be from Alaska since it's the only other place we know she's been to

I think freckles look good on her so why the hell not

Gave her a thermal shirt underneath the PPAA shirt. Now this is based solely on my moms experience with working in the cold for a long time (She works in frezzers for 10 hours a day) and she's now cold for most of the time even if it's hot outside. This could be a her only thing tho. I still think it's a neat idea since Dipper worked in Alaska. Plus i based its color on that weird black thing she has on her nose (i'm not that knowlegdeble on planes to know if it has any function feel free to educate me :3 )

Since she's a huge Dusty fan i thought it would be neat for her to have some merch of him. Like posters in her hangar or a necklace with his racing number (Chug made Dusty themed whistles so why not necklaces too?) I also think Dipper would be the type of person to get those not thought out celebrity tatoos

Her suit is just her plane design transformed to fit onto a human. The red stripes on her sleeves are based on the red underside of her wings

And her boots were inspired by typical combat shoes in the colors of her wheels with the touch of adding that stripey pattern onto them

When not on missions she stuff her gloves into her pocket to always have them on her. (This aplies to others as well) This is based on my parents since they were firefighters for like 15 years so i have a lot of personal headcanons about the whole team based on their experiences (i'm probably gonna write some fanfics based on some of their stories)

Fun fact in Poland we have two different units of firefighters. There's PSP - Państwowa Straż Pożarna - National Firefighters which are most often than not in big city's like Warsaw for example and then there's OSP - Ochotnicza Straż Pożarna - Volunteer Firefighters which are mostly in small towns or villages that consist of (like the name suggest) volunteers. My parents were in OSP because we lived a really small town. PSP still arives to every major accident but because of where they are often stationed OSP are faster in response time in those small towns. Idk why im writting this, i just thought it was neat fact

Anyway thank you for reading this and feel free to share some of your Dipper headcanons. I will be happy to read them all :D

[st-hedge]

I don't remember the name or who wrote it, but i read a totk fanfic once that had link having to eat sundelions to treat chronic pain caused by the gloom in his arm and! it's stuck with me ever since. i thought it was such a cool idea and it would make sense! idk i just thought it was such a cool peice of world building they added and thought you might like that idea

That is a very neat idea! I always think it would be so nice if link’s injuries and disabilities were put more into focus. Like the guy had his arm lopped off and a new one grafted on, no comments on him getting used it or anyone asking if he is Alright? And the response I usually see ‘but it’s a kids game’ but I—- *over exaggerated shrug* little details make all the difference, like the sundelions to help with chronic pain

[ninetyminutes]

Thoughts on Lorne and Paul Simon??? I just read an article that said they’d sit in on each others meetings/recording sessions and had like conjoined apartments… idk I think they’re neat

I absolutely love Lorne and Paul together!! When Lorne and Paul met, Paul was going through a tough time mentally and Lorne really helped him through it just by being his friend. And I just really think that’s sweet because having a friend like that is so important. The two were super close and they obviously still are even to this day, I mean I’m pretty sure they still own neighboring apartments in the tri-state area if I read the article correctly.

I especially love how whenever they go on long walks together, which is frequently by the way. they tend to run into the weirdest things. For example, in the summer of 1975 before SNL started, they ran into a washed up shark on the beach. And Lorne thought it was a good idea to get in the shark's face and tell it a joke to see if it was alive or dead. Another time, Lorne was very nearly hit in the head by a bowling ball flying out of a truck. Like I just want to hear all of their stories about things that happen on their walks because there are some crazy ones.

I adored the fact that they had adjoined apartments, like I'm picturing them rarely ever locking their doors because they're just such close friends. I actually am considering putting a scene in my fanfic about their conjoined apartments. I love the idea of them just walking into each other's apartments without knocking and stuff. Like maybe Paul needs to borrow some sugar or Lorne's coffee machine is broken so he uses Paul's. I feel like they’re almost too comfortable around each other and almost know each other too well despite not knowing each other very long if that makes sense.

I want to add that in the movie, Dick mentions wanting to punt the show to the next week and open with Simon and Garfunkel. It was true that the network tried to get Lorne to have them be the first episode, because as such they thought the show would garner more attention and it would be a bigger deal. Even Paul Simon told Lorne that they should kick of the premiere season of Saturday Night with his and Garfunkel's reunion, but Lorne was adamant about them not being first. “‘No, let me just work out the kinks on the first show,’” Lorne told him. Lorne was fully anticipating the first show to be an absolute mess and for their to be logistical issues, and Lorne didn't want his friend to have to deal with any of the issues that might come up in the first live show.

This article by Paul Simon about Lorne Michaels is so insightful and honestly SUCH a fun, quick read. It’s got a lot of information about Lorne you won’t hear anywhere else. Literally.

And this other article details their history really well as it spans many decades.