#squawks from the void

[laserbread]

I wonder what those two years when IDW Megatron was stuck as a gun were like for the decepticons

[whirlybirbs]

BEYOND THE VOID — !

1. THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

( MASTERPOST   |   AO3  |    SPOTIFY ) summary: torn from time yet again, it's thursday. six months pass. while you grapple with a newfound uncanny ability to premeditate, loki grapples with the fact he's slipping back into his old self without you. enter brad wolfe. now playing:  a whole lots gonna change by weyes blood word count: 3.3k pairing: loki / f!reader, established in from the void, with love tags: enemies to friends to lovers, soulmates, we-are-in-love-in-the-future but how did that even happen, angst & comfort, redemption arc, lots of time travel, loki season 2 (2020) spoilers a/n: finally, they return in "beyond the void". i can't thank everyone enough for the unending enthusiasm for this little project of mine. it's fitting to have the first chapter release with an eclipse. this is for all of you :) the beautiful gif for this chapter is from this set by @tomshiddles.

"Okay."

"Okay."

There's a long stretch of silence between Darcy Lewis and Jane Foster. 

In the liminal stretch of the apartment building's hall, there's little sound except the loud drone of some horribly, desperately sad song beyond the door of Unit 1131. The two women share a long look with one another, and then Darcy gestures urgently to the door.

"Go ahead," she nudges her colleague. 

"What?" Jane asks in a harsh whisper, "No, you knock." 

"You were the one that said we needed to do an intervention—" Darcy argues back in an equally low tone.

"Oh, so now this is on me?" Jane fires back, "She's our friend—"

"Our friend who has been babbling nonsense about things that have not happened and has been seriously obsessing with that Low-key dude—" Darcy rushes out, bringing her face closer to Jane's, "I don't even know what we're walking into here!"

Jane inhales. She pinches her brow. With a long rub of her face, she exhales. Then, she knocks.

She gives Darcy a 'happy?' look before stepping back and crossing her arms.

Almost immediately, the music stops. There's the sound of a shuffle. A meow. And then, the door opens only wide enough that one exhausted eye can peak through the chained gap.

"Heeeeeeeeeey, girl!" Darcy chides, waggling her hands in the air, "Surprise!"

On the other side of the door, your heart clenches. 

It feels a little bit like a cruel joke, y'know?

All that wishing, begging, clawing to go home and — well... you are. You're home. You've been home. For six months, you've been home in New York City. You're back in that little studio apartment, with Sigurd, with your research, with your doctorate. 

ALL I WANT  TO DO IS  GO HOME.

You try your best to give both Darcy and Jane a smile, but it comes out mangled and exhausted and not quite right. You've been crying. Sort of par for the course these days.

"Oh, uh... Hi guys."

Sigurd meows.

"You got a sec?" Jane asks, raising a folder in her hands, "We, uh... Erik gave us some new anomaly data to look over and we figured... you're the one for the job! Y'know? It's... kinda... your thing... have you been crying?"

Your eyes dart between them both. You wet your lips.

"No. Nooo, no. It's..." your mouth hangs open as you search for a reason, "...Allergies."

There's a beat of embarrassing silence, and then Darcy moves fast as lightning. She wriggles her arm through the gap and unlocks the chain — almost as if this is definitely something she's mastered before — before pushing her way through the doorway of your apartment. Jane follows close behind, and Sigard squawks as he scurries away from underfoot. 

The infiltration is almost immediately regretted because... woah. 

Like, big woah.

Darcy has seen crazy. Like, she has an Uncle on her Dad's side who is totally in on the whole "they're coming for our thoughts" thing and does not leave the house without at least six layers of Great Value tinfoil stuffed under his baseball cap. She knows crazy. She works for Erik Selvig. 

But this?

This is, like, soooooo above her pay grade. 

Jane's jaw is slack. The folder is immediately forgotten on the kitchen island in favor of the wall-to-wall documentation of... whatever the hell this was. 

LOKI MISSING? in the center of it all, with string and equations and runes and news articles and tabloid pages. There's an alarming amount of photos of the God in question pinned up beside ramblings on... Time? And... Quantum mechanics...? 

There's another loooooong stretch of silence. And then, Darcy and Jane both turn slowly to look at you pressed against the door.

You swallow.

Your face is set in horror.

"It's not what it looks like—"

"Uh, dude, it totally is what it looks like—" Darcy starts, stepping closer to the board and pointing a black, manicured finger at a paparazzi photo of Loki being carted off from the now-Avengers Tower, "What's with all the Loki paraphernalia?! Need I post a lil' throwback Thursday to when he tried to kill us all?"

IT'S THURSDAY AGAIN.

You wince. "You wouldn't understand—"

Then, it happens.

The same thing you've experienced dozens upon dozens of times these last six months happens again: A rush of chatter in your mind, a cacophony of whispers that claw at your thoughts and flood them with has-beens and will-be's. A million things all at once, a little bit of everything from all of time, and then— one thread. One thread that stands out against them all. 

"Jane, don't."

Across the room, Jane's fingers pause on the contact number for that pretty S.H.I.E.L.D. agent they've met once or twice now — the one who is managing the Asgardian anomaly cases. With Loki missing, S.H.I.E.L.D. has been desperate to track him down. If this is a lead... If you know where he is...

Jane's face freezes.

Her brows knit.

Your face is split in panic. "I know you think calling Agent Hill is the right thing to do, but—"

"...How did you know I was...?" Jane's voice falls off, her eyes searching your face.

Your voice splinters as you step forward. "If you call Agent Hill, she is going to section our entire division within the week. Thor will be exiled from Earth on conspiracy four days later. We will sit in a cell for five years until they decide we have nothing to do with Loki's disappearance from Asgard."

Darcy's eyes bounce between you and Jane.

"Why are you saying all that like you know it's going to happen?" Jane asks slowly, putting her phone down and closing the gap between you. "Doc, what's going on?"

Your eyes flicker with fear. 

And then exhaustion. The walls you've built to keep this away from the others crumble with one worried look from Darcy, and you crumple against the kitchen counter. 

Your voice is far away.

"It all started that Thursday."

You thought it would be better now that someone knows. 

Truth be told it might be more trouble than it's worth if not to soothe the burden of secrecy — because Darcy keeps treating you like a Magic 8 Ball that, when shaken, is going to spit out readings on the future. 

It isn't that easy. I mean, if it was, you would have definitely done everything in your power to avoid the commute traffic this morning. 

You don't know why it happens. Or how. You have a theory it has something to do with Alioth, but... without any sort of control, there's no way of knowing. All you know is that in those moments, you're presented with a weave of potential sequences. And in those moments, you can choose to act. Or not. 

So far, acting seems to be the best course of action. 

But, yea, no. No fortune-cookie-level stuff. No crystal ball, no tarot cards. Just... weird time-whispers. And a migraine that seems to never go away. And dreams. Really vivid dreams. Dreams that happen? And dreams that don't.

If it was a horoscope sort of thing, maybe you wouldn't have missed your morning bus after waiting in line at that coffee shop three blocks down. They always make your coffee a little too bitter, but the girl behind the counter is an NYU grad student you recognized from a mechanical engineering lecture you sat in on three months ago. You've got a soft spot for her. She's always nice to that guy in the baseball cap who seems unhoused. 

You hope it all works out for her in the end. 

But, Christ this coffee is bitter. 

You buzz into Stark Labs at 9:37 am, and you're setting your stuff down at R&D by 9:43 am. 

Bruce Banner looks up briefly from his work to slide you a welcoming smile. You return it gently as you settle down on your stool and reacclimate yourself to last week's work. 

Mondays, man.

Tony is, as always, later than anyone else. His entrance is followed by the usual boisterous chatter meant as a morale booster. More often than not it's a genius-level comedy routine built on absolutely torturing Dr. Banner. You opt, more often than not, to refuse to enable the bad behavior. 

Any laughter is buried deep into these readings from the Tesseract. 

And so this has been home for the last four months. 

Avengers Tower. R&D. Erik Selvig's Research Team. Theoretical Physics and Quantum Mechanics. Day in, day out.

No TVA, no TemPads, no Sylvie, no Mobius, no Capybaras. 

...No Loki.

But, plenty of whispers. 

It rocks you out of your focus, iced latte halfway to your lips as you're rooted in this little pocket of voices and threads and whisps of time. There's a thousand, then a hundred, then one. 

Your voice is soft.

"Bruce, try the equation again."

From across the room, Tony's voice dies down and Bruce's eyes rise to meet yours. He points to himself, with a questioning raise of the brows.

You nod, then continue to take a sip of your coffee.

And so Bruce does. Wordlessly. And, after a minute, he looks up with a grin.

"So it was right."

"Woulda never known if Iron Dick over here didn't shut up for one second."

Tony's grin is bigger than Bruce's as he meanders over to your lab table and throws an arm around your shoulder. He squeezes you gently. You avoid his eye contact — and in doing so, you miss the momentary grace of concern. 

(Tony has known you for a few months now. He knows you adequately enough to gauge that your triple-shot espresso should have been a sextuple. The bags beneath your eyes are dark. There's an edge there. Something jumpy. You're exhausted.)

"Now, that was mean."

"You're torturing him," you fire back lightly, non-the-wiser to his scrutiny. 

"It's called exposure therapy—" Tony croons, leaning back and thumbing through some of the notes on your desk. You allow it. 

Good. Still sharp. Still better than anyone else at what you do. 

"Exposure to workplace terrorism?" You rib back with one cocked brow, "No offense, Bruce, but I like you better not green. Okay, Tony?"

"None taken!" Dr. Banner calls lightly from across the room. He's working on the second part of that equation now. 

"Sure, sure, alright, Doc," Tony heads your words, raising both hands and stepping back, "I guess someone hates fun."

"Absolutely," you say blankly, chewing your straw; you point at him, "No laughter."

"None," Tony waggles a finger.

"Not a peep," you remark causally as you spin in your stool and snag your pen from the drawer behind you. 

"Any news on the other green guy we hate?" Bruce asks slowly, eyes bouncing between you and Stark. 

Your blood goes a little cold. Just like always. It's hard not to react — especially when that other green guy is all you think about day and night.

WHEN YOU LOSE HIM YOU WILL DO ANYTHING TO GET HIM BACK. 

You wordlessly shake your head. You shrug. Bruce turns to Stark. Tony is hunched over his bench. His words are a bit muffled by the soldering project he's turned his attention to. 

"None. According to Thor he just up and poofed. He was in the middle of atoning before the Buckingham of Asgard and... just warped on out."

So you've heard.

"Hill has been working every lead she can but... the Asgardians are a little touchy-feely on the whole 'earthlings in the domain of the Gods' thing."

"Understandable," you mutter absently.

Tony sits up. "Only time will tell."

...Indeed.

Home.

Unit 1131. 

Lonely.

It wasn't before all this... It was full to the brim with contentment. It was comfort, it was bliss. It was indulgent mornings slept beneath the covers and bright music in the kitchen. Cheap wine from the liquor shop on the corner and homemade meals. It was "I finally made it". 

Now, it's none of that.

Because he's out there — and you know that you don't belong here anymore.

You drop your bag by the door. 

Your boots follow in a trail. 

Sigurd mews expectantly, and you scoop him wordlessly into your arms as you weave through the chaos of papers and books. Your carpet is hidden beneath a layer of obsession masquerading as research.

But, there's one thing that pulls you back in each time.

It's that photo. 

The one Darcy had pointed at earlier.

Loki is being carted off from the now-Avengers Tower. He's looking back at something, and his expression is broken.

It's you.

You know he's pleading with Thor at that moment through a muzzle, desperate to call your name. He's looking at you, being whisked away by S.H.I.E.L.D. as they clear the area, and your voice is silenced by grief. 

You wish you had called out to him then — told him you'd find him again. 

Regret is a hell of a thing.

Grief, too. 

How do you mourn something you never really had? Not here, not in this timeline. 

So you stand there, in the dim lights of your apartment, staring at the photo. And you cry. Just like every night, for the last six months.

In your desk, that magical little daisy made of grass waits.

If they find Sylvie, they find you.

That's the mission.

Mobius M. Mobius thinks it's funny — back then, man if only he would have known that lil' hunch of his was right. Maybe a part of him did. And... Now? Things are different. I mean, everything is different. The TVA is different. 

Loki is different.

They say to be loved is to be changed an' all that. 

The first thing out of Loki's mouth was your name when Mobius finally saw him again — and then a word vomit of panic, induced by the death of He Who Remains and... time-slippage as OB called it. Lotsa moving parts. Lots to keep track of. But, ultimately, they're in a better spot than they were yesterday. 

1.) Loki is no longer falling through the metaphorical cracks in time. 

2.) Mobius did not get toasted alive when standing before The Loom.

3.) He never, ever, ever has to do that again.

And now!

They're in London. 

1977, huh. Zaniac. 

If they find Sylvie, they find you.

...Unless you find him first.

Loki isn't exactly thrilled. 

No, Loki knows better than to get his hopes up. Sylvie isn't here. He already told Mobius that. It's too safe. It's a damned movie premiere. There are no radiation burns, no falling stars, and no rampant gunfire. It's too quiet. 

It's a movie premiere and you're out there, somewhere, alone. You're... you're lost. He can't protect you here. He can't protect anything. You... You're all he has and you're gone. 

And he's here, wasting his damn time. 

Brad Wolfe is about to waste more of his time. 

Loki's gaze is sharp. His strides are long, and as they approach the fray, the God stands amongst the tallest of guests. He cuts a mean profile. It's times like these that Mobius remembers he is a God.

(It's times like these that Mobius can also see the ever-increasing edge in his partner-in-time. It's a little... worrisome. But understandable. I mean, rip a God's soulmate from his hands and see what happens, right?)

"So, he's an actor now?" Loki comments off-handedly, his irritation grating his heartstrings in a way that reminds him of who he was before all this. He hates it. But, he's angry. He will get you back. Without you...

Without you, he doesn't know what he'll do.

"Or he's undercover."

As they weave, Loki's brows knot in distrust. "Looks pretty real to me."

It smells like cigarettes and perfume, and the flashbulbs bite sharply into Loki's peripherals. The raven-haired trickster winces, tucking his hands into his slacks. 

On the red carpet, X-5 moves from interview to interview. Occasionally his laughter rises above the clamor. Each time, Loki's nostrils flare and he rolls his eyes. 

It's when he reaches the end of the line that Mobius moves in. 

"Will there be a Zaniac Two?" 

The look on Brad's face says enough for Mobius to know there's more going on here than just an undercover bit. Brad's laugh, as equally pained as his smile, just cements the fact. 

"Mobius! Woah!" A clap on the shoulder, a big hug. "I used to work with this guy!"

Still a show. Still a weasel trying to survive on his little slice of time. 

"We're going to need to catch up," he begins, backing up slowly, "You know, why don't we chat after the show?"

"How about now, maybe?" Mobius counters just as Brad turns on his heel and comes face to face with Loki. 

The God sneers.

"Woah. Okay, ha, whole gangs here!" he chirps, "Isn't that... great? Wow. I mean, you look — you look great, Loki."

"Why thank you, Brad."

Brad's eyes are manic, and he's searching the crowd quickly — no doubt looking for an exit. Then, they catch something. When Brad claps his hands together and pats them on both Loki and Mobius' shoulders, the two TVA agents pause.

"Everything alright?" Loki asks, head tilting in faux concern.

"Everything is great, actually, because when I was here," he begins, words quick and anxious as he tries to weave some sort of story, "I met a mutual friend!"

"Sylvie?" Mobius asks tightly.

"No, no, uh, better—"

Loki's jaw tightens. Enough of this. "We have some mutual friends back at the TVA who would like a word, as well—"

"Doc!" calls Brad after finally finding her in the sea of people, turning on his heel and calling out over his shoulder, "I got people I need you to meet!"

And just like that, it's like Loki's whole world splits wide open again.

In the fray of photographers and journalists, in the fray of drinks and the haze of smoke, there's you. You're smiling at Brad, positively beaming. You're bright as a star and Gods, there's no one in the room when you step forward with a laugh.

Your dress is green. Your hair is different.

There's a beauty mark on your left cheek. His version of you has a scar that lies there. A mistimed gift from Sylvie before their period on Lamentis. 

"Doc, these are some of my friends from work," Brad points, his hand falling along your waist in a way that makes Loki's blood boil; the ex-TVA Hunter leans close to your cheek, "They're the real deal."

You laugh into your drink, then extend your hand to Mobius. He's trying his best to hide his growing dread. "It's a pleasure."

Mobius takes it and shakes it gently. "And how do you have the pleasure of knowing our starlet, Brad?"

Damn it. He's losing Loki in real time here.

"Doc here did all the practical effects on set for Zaniac," Brad's eyes connect with Loki's — but the God is focused on only you... Her. Until Wolfe digs in with a low murmur meant to do just what it does, "She's a real wiz with her hands."

The God's face snaps. He will kill Brad, he decides. But, then this other-you moves to offer her hand and he can't help but melt. 

His fingers are trembling when he touches her skin. 

"Have we met before?" comes the soft lilt of her voice — this Variant's eyes are brown. They search Loki's face for a shred of recognition but all that's there between the two of them is raw attraction. A law of time and space unhindered by meddling hands. No matter where, no matter when, you will find one another.

Loki's mouth is dry. Your lipstick shade is a dark rogue. He thinks about that kiss back in the Void. He's stuck there, with your hand in his, when Brad bolts.

Her face contorts in confusion. She pulls away. But, Loki lingers. 

He has to... He...

He needs you back. 

Now. 

[conflictofthemind]

Montauk, The Project Rainbow, and Experiments in Time

It’s fairly common knowledge that Stranger Things is based on Montauk. The unfortunate part is that Montauk has been attributed to another ‘vaguely MK-ULTRA mind control related side project’ and not the big narrative that it is, with details incredibly close to plot points in Stranger Things that resulted in an attempted lawsuit years back. Montauk does not just set the general ‘spooky scientific experiments on kids’ tone for ST - it is the backbone of the whole lore. 

‘The Montauk Project’ Book / Conspiracy explained simply is that the US government unofficially experimented on humans with ‘great psychic ability’ to allow their psychic brain waves to interact with the normal electromagnetic waves of our world. The end goal being manifesting thoughts into reality, and opening up wormholes in time. This would give the military great advantage and potentially control over the outcomes of war. It then turns out the whole narrative of Montauk occurs within a time loop from 1943-1983, when the disappearance of a ship called the USS Eldridge opened up a wormhole which was connected with by a research subject in 1983. The time loop is self-causing - the entire reason the Montauk experiments take place are to further study the events that occurred on this ship, but part of the reason the ship disappears is because of the Montauk Project. Due to all of the other time travel references within the series - trust, we will get into those - this leads me to believe it’s very unlikely there isn’t time travel / a time loop involved. Here I hope to posit the basic information about Montauk/The Philadelphia Project, how the powers work within ST, Will’s clear involvement in all of it, and the time travel element. 

Ahahaha why does that look like a bowl-cut…

Let’s put this out of the way first: the idea that Montauk/Philadelphia is the direct inspiration for the show is not based on flimsy grounds. The original series the Duffers planned to make was going to be an actual retelling of Duncan Cameron’s (think El and Henry - main research subject of Montauk) story. This was later changed to become the story we know today with the characters we know today, although with different names and the title remaining Montauk. Some of the characters had names from Montauk too… like Mr. Clarke being Mr. Nichols. I’ll save that for a later post. The entire design of HNL is based off of the ‘Camp Hero’ / Montauk lab with the iconic banana-shaped radar disk. El’s Void ability comes from the ‘Seeing Eye’ power Duncan has in Montauk, where focusing on a personal item belonging to a person lets him see into their mind. The research subjects’ power is amplified by white noise and a sensory deprivation chamber - again, seen with El. 

The Rainbow Ship and the Electromagnetic Connection:

The Electromagnetic Spectrum is usually mentioned at least a little in every season. Joyce’s magnets falling off, El needing the radio, etc. Lights are another focus, with the kids in the Rainbow Room being tested on how they can manipulate lightbulbs, and the emphasis on lights flickering whenever powerful forces are being used or the Upside Down is interfering with Hawkins. I expect them to really start pushing it in Season 5, and we can already see evidence of this (below: the WSQK Squawk Van). They’re at a radio station, the Middle School kids are learning about light from Scott Clarke most likely, and you can see the abundance of rainbows everywhere. It’s my opinion that rainbows and light are the mechanism in which these gates open, and also when at high enough power, how time can become warped. ‘Project Rainbow’ is another title basically interchangeable with the USS Eldridge and Philadelphia Project. This was because “the mechanism involved was the generation of an incredibly intense magnetic field around the ship, which would cause refraction or bending of light or radar waves around the ship”. However as we remember, this had the unintended effect of teleporting the ship across space-time. In the ST Universe, this results in the Eldridge being teleported to Dimension X temporarily (without a gate being opened).

The eagle shoots out beams of a rainbow which are meant to represent the radio waves being broadcast. 

It’s a commonly asked question as to how Will ‘blinked’ out of that shed without a gate, considering only El was able to open them at that time. The close-up on the lightbulb is the last shot we see before he just vanishes. It’s not just powers interfering with the surrounding electricity; this bending of light is what took him to the UD. But when this happens, it doesn’t result in a gate. I also believe this will end up being the mechanism for the eventual time-travel plot we’ll be seeing. Again in Montauk, there is a ‘time-tunnel’ made between the Eldridge and 1983 Montauk that was caused by the disappearance. My original post investigating this was me hypothesizing that being able to bend light to travel faster than it could result in temporary anomalies that allow one to time travel. 

Anyway, back to the rainbows. Rainbows are one of the most common recurring symbols in Stranger Things. The Rainbow Room exists of course, and there’s a deliberate costuming choice, especially in later seasons with the brighter atmosphere, to have characters wearing rainbow patterned items. Holly’s room is full of rainbows, and there are multiple rainbow props scattered around other locations (Mike’s basement, Erica’s room, etc). Scott Clarke (seriously what is up with him) is introduced in Season 1 doing a lesson on ROYGBIV. The BTS pictures of S5 Hawkins Middle School have him teaching yet another lesson on the visible light spectrum. And space for some reason. This brings us back to the Rainbow Ship.  Now we know the USS Eldridge is a marine ship, not a spaceship. But for the characters who seem to have some connection to it, it is represented as one regardless.

Will drew something representing the USS Eldridge (which it is mentioned was not from a movie i.e. he came up with it using his own memory and mind). The main fixture of Henry’s playground, where a ‘significant’ memory took place also features this representation of the Eldridge. I suspect there might also be a larger reason it took the form of a spaceship, but for now, consider that the ST Universe’s version of aliens are the Demogorgons. And outer space is Dimension X. The ship ‘flew’ to ‘outer space’ (D-X) and encountered ‘aliens’. In Montauk, that is kind of what happens. It’s more metaphorical in Stranger Things. The comic book Henry is obsessed with in TFS is seemingly changed from the real life Captain Midnight who was an airplane pilot, to be an astronaut. I think there is some kind of “alien abduction” theme with both Henry and Will being suddenly transported to another dimension that is alien in itself. Even when the lab scientists enter the UD in the first few seasons, they use hazmat suits that are deliberately similar looking to spacesuits. Stranger Things is a story about UFOs and aliens that also isn’t exactly about UFOs and aliens. 

And then, I’ll mention the weirdest part of this all - Will knows about the Eldridge somehow. And he knew about it before he was ever kidnapped and attached to the hive-mind. 

This is either possible because 1) he was in fact involved in research projects at HNL, and maybe the Project Indigo before the age of 8 like the original “rainbowshipgate” suggests. Or 2), there is an element messing with time in this situation, just like in the original Montauk book series. Montauk is literally named ‘Experiments in Time’. They’ve nabbed Linda Hamilton from Terminator (a movie about time travel) for this final season. They’re referencing a Wrinkle in Time with the Episode 6 title and Holly plot. Then we have everything else involving Henry’s clock theming that hasn’t exactly explained itself yet. Thinking time travel is a far-fetched idea at this point is a bit ridiculous. 

It really depends on how crazy they go with the whole concept. One of the other main characters from Montauk I haven’t mentioned yet is Al Bielek. Al Bielek was the original “whistleblower” who came forward with his story after supposedly recovering his repressed memories of the events. He claims to have been on the crew of the USS Eldridge in a previous life as Edward Cameron, Duncan Cameron’s brother. When he was sent forward in time he ended up staying in 1983 whereas Duncan Cameron was effectively sent back to where he came. Very confusing. But the story is, the man’s a time traveler. 

I do wonder if Al Bielek is loosely the inspiration for Will’s part in the story. Will who has seemingly repressed memories of many points in his life and has been suggested to be a time traveler many times. His name appears on the grandfather clock. He wears Marty McFly’s outfit in the first season. He has knowledge of an event that happened in 1943. He has lines about “seeing into the future” and Mike calls him a time-traveler in the VR Game where the writing staff had access to scripts and a writer from the show. The Upside Down is stuck on “the day of Will’s disappearance” (in the Duffers’ words), though that one probably has a slightly simpler explanation. 

The exact mechanics of how that would work are unclear. Right now, as young as an eight year old Will needs to have the knowledge of the Eldridge - so this isn’t something he will only end up connecting with this season. My theory is that there is a time loop involved, and Will’s actions in the future of Season 5 have him interfere in some way with the 1943 Philadelphia Project / Project Rainbow. The time loop is cyclical and self-causing. Our Will Byers already has a past iteration in yet another timeline where he already went back and tried to interfere with the past (and likely died trying in 1943). Then he is reborn again in 1971, and awakes a very small portion of his past memories of the previous loops. If that doesn’t make sense, I created this handy-but-ugly flowchart to help you out: 

Basically there is no beginning, since the future causes the past and vice versa (a bootstrap paradox). Every Will would then have memories of a past self(selves). The time loop also gets more complicated than this. Did Henry create the mindflayer? It’s presented like that within the show, but let me remind you that shows with heavy mystery elements can and will purposely deceive you. In the First Shadow, Mr. Newby is attacked by the Mindflayer and produces a drawing of the entity - it’s purposely not shown to the audience, but considering the Mindflayer was supposedly just a black mass then why is that? And regardless, in order to have Henry become possessed by it, the Mindflayer was definitely not created by him in 1979. A few have written up theories about this already, I’ll link to my friend's two posts on this element of the time loop.  

I don't have anything else super definitive yet. But I believe wholeheartedly that this is the right direction to search in and I hope we can put more attention on the subject. All of this makes sense, from the military connections they keep pushing in the show, the time travel hints we have been getting, the origin story of Brenner (whose dad died aboard the ship) and the Rainbow Room, everything ties back to the Eldridge events being incredibly incredibly important going forward.

Here's a link where you can read through Montauk Experiments in Time for free.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Sky having asthma, or some kind of breathing issues? For the prompt event?

Link had always known his lungs were… sensitive.

For the longest time, it had been a minimal issue. Sure, he didn’t sprint as well as others—he typically struggled with stamina anyway. But he could hold his breath longer than many, he could exercise well enough, and he still fought better than any of his classmates. Just because he had a propensity to getting respiratory illnesses didn’t mean he couldn’t handle things. It was nothing a little air potion and stamina fruit couldn’t fix.

That was the case. Before he’d gone to the Surface.

Nowadays it seemed like anything and everything could make him sick, could take out his ability to breathe. During his journey he’d compensated with air potion after air potion until his fever had climbed so high he’d passed out. Thankfully, he’d been in Faron Woods, and the kikwis, while not the most experienced on the matter, had at least thought to bring him water and nuts and let him rest in the shade until he could drag himself to the Sealed Temple.

He hated it. He felt like anything could knock him down. He kept trying to reassure himself that he’d still managed to keep up, to save Zelda, to end the war before it could restart. But he’d nearly died afterward because he’d ignored it for so long, pushed himself too hard, and everyone treated him like he was practically made of glass nowadays as a result.

Link wasn’t a particularly rebellious teenager. He was fairly lazy by his instructors’ standards, and he preferred to rest. He could cause problems when he wanted, though. He didn’t go out of his way to cause problems, of course, but… nothing was going to stop him from doing so, either.

So when he got a little too antsy to linger on Skyloft being watched by everyone, he flew his loftwing farther into the sky than he had in a long time.

The Great Sky was vast, beautiful and terrifying in its infiniteness. While the Surface’s enormous scale was overwhelming because it was all inhabitable, the Sky was more akin to a void to get lost in, a fabled sea where its depths could never be fully explored. Islands speckled the air in varying pockets, but there were enormous swathes of open air with nothing as far as the eye could see. It was said some knights died trying to explore, their loftwings tiring out and plummeting through the cloud barrier to their doom.

Link wanted to test his limits, though. Not because he felt particularly ambitious, but simply because he felt like he was going insane. He used to be content daydreaming on Skyloft, but nowadays if he stayed too still in one place he felt like he was missing something. As much as he loved to lay about, and as little energy as he had that sometimes forced him to lay about, he couldn’t sit still for long unless he was caught in a spiraling slump.

So here he was, pushing Crimson to tear into the sky farther than ever before. He recalled seeing a small pocket of islands in the far distance a little over a year ago when he’d last tried exploring like this before the knights had reeled him in. Now that he’d earned his knighthood due to his adventure, he wouldn’t be stopped.

The nagging pain in his chest was nothing to worry about. That was just nerves. He just needed to move.

The cold wind snapped around him, flushing his cheeks and biting at his nose. He clutched the leather around Crimson’s chest more tightly, glaring into the sky, and his loftwing squawked, reflecting his defiance with a loud seeming battle cry. His companion was filled with as much energy as he was, and had been scraping at the edges of Skyloft the entire day before Link had finally plummeted off its edges.

The pocket of islands grew larger. One in the center was entirely square shaped, seeming endless in its crevices and walls that inhabited its center.

A maze?

Link smiled. A puzzle. Perhaps he’d find something useful in its center. He wondered what Hylia might have left for him here. Perhaps he’d missed a goddess cube? It wasn’t like it made much of a difference now, but his curiosity was piqued nonetheless.

He flew directly overhead before jumping off his loftwing. As he crashed through the air, the pressure in his chest continued to build, but the thrill of skydiving overruled it. Link maneuvered his body left, right, rolled, flipped, and laughed. He loved this.

Eventually, just before he could hit the stone floor in the labyrinth, he deployed his sailcloth, letting himself gently land before looking around eagerly.

This was going to be fun.

XXX

It was getting dark.

Zelda looked out at the sky worriedly. Link had gone flying around noon. She’d let him be, as she was busy figuring out plans for the Surface, but she was growing worried now. Where could he be? She’d investigated all the usual local islands, and when the best lead she’d gotten was that someone had seen him fly beyond all of them, she started to wonder if he’d gone to the next community over.

Skyloft was their largest settlement, but not their only one. Still, if Link had visited Nestout, Loftwing Roost, or the Dragon Spire, he should’ve been back by now.

Well. Loftwing Roost might distract him more. But… maybe that was all it was.

When Zelda asked Groose to help her investigate to cover more air, though, it quickly became apparent that he wasn’t anywhere they knew.

“You think he went to the Surface?” Groose asked as they looked out at the vast expanse from the Dragon Spire. It was the farthest out island in the usual communities, and it boasted the most dangerous territory.

That would be the most likely explanation, Zelda supposed. But Link didn’t usually go down there alone. “I guess…”

“Don’t worry, Zelda,” Groose assured her with an easy wave of his hand. “Airhead probably lost track of time or something. I can check Faron and the Sealed Temple, you go back to Skyloft.”

Telling Zelda not to worry about Link was the most pointless venture imaginable, but she didn’t bother correcting Groose. Instead, she nodded, watching him take off on his loftwing before looking back out at the sky.

He wouldn’t… why would he go to the Surface alone?

Zelda squinted at nothing, wondering, listening. She tried to focus, tried to remember how to use magic to track others. She’d been able to do it before, back when…

Closing her eyes, she inhaled and exhaled steadily. The world around her changed, pulsing and colorful and tasting of sensations she couldn’t even describe. Everything felt so alive. Her loftwing chirped a little, fluffing and rubbing her beak against Zelda’s face.

“You can sense it too,” she whispered, eyes still closed, feeling the connection to her partner.

Her loftwing chirped a little, feathers flattening in anticipation. Then she took off, and Zelda dove after her, and they were as one as they tore into the farther expanses of the Great Sky.

With the cloud barrier gone, daylight lasted a little longer, allowing Zelda more time to fly. But she knew she wouldn’t make it back to Skyloft before dark. She would either have to make camp somewhere or risk flying in an environment she was still not entirely trained to navigate.

Instinct drove both her and her loftwing forward, tracing Link’s presence. When they neared a squared shaped island, her loftwing circled it, indicating that this had to be their destination.

What in the world was Link doing here?

Furrowing her brow in determination and trying to ignore the gnawing worry in her gut, Zelda leapt off her bird and descended into the stony structure below. She maneuvered her body as her eyes scanned different passages from above, honing in on a feeling that chewed at her fraying nerves.

A speck. Small, still, green.

Her eyes widened. Link.

Zelda tipped herself forward, making her body more stream lined so she could move faster. She didn’t pull out her sailcloth until she was seconds away from touching down. The harsh winds helped her steady herself, and she felt breathless as she ran to her beloved friend, who was laying motionless on the floor.

“Link!” She called, falling to her knees, voice carrying on the winds. She shook him, surprised at the heat radiating off his body.

Sick. He was sick, he was sick, they were out here in the middle of nowhere and he was sick.

Despite the gales howling, she could hear distinctive whistle and rattle, ominous and horrible and far too familiar. It sounded off rhythmically with every heave of Link’s chest, and she could see how his belly moved paradoxically to his chest, trying to assist his exhausted body in every way possible to move air.

This was bad.

What was she going to do? What could she do? Link got breathing illnesses so easily, but usually an air potion, warm food, lots of rest and even more coughing would help fix it. He’d only gotten truly, desperately sick for the first time after their adventure, and that had been from infected wounds rather than anything in his lungs. Her friend was no stranger to pneumonia, but they’d never been this far from help when it had struck.

Surely with all this wind, she could figure something out. Zelda moved to sit him up, knowing that laying as he was would do him no good. She tried not think about how there was barely any light left in the sky, how they could potentially be trapped here the entire night with few supplies.

There was no way she could fly him in this state.

Gritting her teeth, Zelda braced her feet on the ground, pulling him to sit up by his tunic and dragging him to lean against the wall so he could remain that way. Link’s head lolled with the movement, and she noticed with alarm that he looked beyond exhausted. How long had he been struggling to breathe? How much longer could he last? She’d heard nightmarish scenarios in the past, when he’d gotten particularly ill, warnings of how he had to rest, how working too hard to breathe could make one’s body give up altogether, and then nothing but forced air could save them.

Zelda dug through her pouch and then Link’s, desperate for anything that she could use. She herself was carrying a stamina fruit, and Link seemed have half of one in his pack—clear evidence that he’d been nibbling on one throughout the day in an effort to keep going.

She felt frustrated and terrified at the same time. Why would he run himself down like this? Why did he always run himself down like this?!

Her gut churned uncomfortably, guilt nibbling at the edges of her mind. You know why.

She shook her head. Then she pushed against Link, tapping his cheek. “Link. Dove, wake up. Please.”

She had no air potion to spare, but if she could just get him to wake up, she could at least feed him the last of the stamina fruit he’d been carrying. Hopefully it would help. Then perhaps she could investigate this place to find somewhere more suitable for him to rest. The sky glowed crimson, and she knew it was too late to leave this place.

Link groaned, bringing her some relief, though his breathing still sounded wretched. Sluggishly, his eyes fluttered open. There was hardly any recognition in them - he was exhausted.

Zelda held the stamina fruit out in front of him, having peeled it into smaller pieces. “Eat.”

He took each piece one by one from her, chewing slowly. A flush returned to his pale face, and he stared at her for what felt like half a minute before seeming to come to himself. “Z-Zel…?”

He could hardly get her nickname out for all the rattling in his lungs. Zelda could hardly breathe just listening to it. “We need to get you out of here, Link. Get you somewhere warmer.”

Was there even anywhere warmer on this island? Was there an indoor area at all? The place looked strangely familiar, but she couldn’t place why - she’d definitely never been here before.

Oh. That meant… she knew why.

Looking around, she tried to recall something, anything of whatever memories Hylia had to show her. But try as she might, she couldn’t recall this place.

Perhaps exploring wasn’t the option right now. Perhaps they just needed to hunker down and deal with it where they were. But the more she thought about it, the more she was certain that she could find a centralized location, which would be far better shelter for Link in his state.

“You think you can glide with me?” She asked, raising her voice to be heard over the wind.

Link tried to reply and instead fell into a coughing fit. It was a wretched sound, heavy with phlegm but not able to move anywhere. He clutched his chest, grimacing a little, and nodded.

That was not reassuring. “Link. I can’t carry you, don’t lie to me if you can’t do it!”

Link swallowed, sitting up a little straighter, more energized after the stamina fruit. “I… I think I can. J-just… not for long.”

That meant she had to figure out the route first.

Zelda went to work quickly, hugging Link and whispering in his ear that she would be back. He slumped against her, letting himself rest in her arms, and it made her heart ache. She wanted to just stay and hold him, to protect him and let him find some relief in her, but she had to figure this out quickly, while there was just enough light left.

With another promise of coming back quickly, she pulled away, leaping into the air. The wind smacked against her, and she quickly pulled out her sailcloth to let it guide her around the walls of the labyrinth. She tried to go by instinct, remembering each turn, at one point rising above all of it to get an overhead view. Eventually, she found the central area, which promised some relief from the harsh winds. It wasn’t hard to retrace her path, and she quickly found Link once more.

Her beloved was asleep again, shoulders rising and falling with his breaths in an attempt to help air move as best it could. It was an ominous sign, and Zelda felt nauseous at the sight of it. She nudged him awake, gave him half of the stamina fruit she herself was carrying, and helped him stand.

Link was unnervingly shaky on his feet, but he again insisted he could handle it. She had him hold her hands to ensure his grip was tight enough to hold the sailcloth and maneuver. Although he clamped down on her hands with enough strength to prove his point, she still worried.

There wasn’t much else she could do, though. She just kept assuring herself that if he slipped, she’d dive down below the maze with him and call her loftwing. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d caught him in midair (she tried not to guiltily think of the last time that happened).

Together, the pair stood at the edge of the platform and then Zelda counted down quickly so Link wouldn’t lose what little strength the stamina fruit had given him. Her heart nearly stopped when they jumped together, eyes never leaving Link, but he managed to hold on as his sailcloth rode the winds around them. Zelda had to lead at that point, but her head felt like it was constantly swiveling to keep track of her friend while they moved through the air.

The journey back to the center felt infinitely longer this time around, but they made it nonetheless. Link’s knees completely buckled when he landed, and though he tried to wrap himself in the sailcloth Zelda had gifted him so he wouldn’t lose it in the wind, but it slipped through his slack fingers as he felt. Zelda caught it as nearly an afterthought as she rushed to help him to the ground.

She pulled Link to her, letting him sit up against her chest so he could breathe better. “Link, what were you thinking coming out here when you were sick?”

Link’s breath rattled in reply as he grew limp with exhaustion. Zelda just buried her face in his shoulder, feeling his head loll against hers.

This was going to be a long night.

Zelda prayed to Farore for help as she counted Link’s breaths. Time crawled by, agonizing in its length as Link’s entire body heaved. As the sky grew black, and the stars twinkled in their excellent fervor, her beloved’s breathing eased a little, having recovered from flying. However, he coughed often, in harsh, horrible fits that hardly moved what it should, and those left him completely depleted. Zelda would rock back and forth, taking him with her, strengthening her back so he could sit against her as tall as possible, watching his ribs become more prominent as the night progressed.

Just when it felt like this nightmare could never end, the stars started to hide behind a shroud of pale pink, and Zelda thanked all three of the ancient goddesses that they’d survived the night.

The instant she determined it was light enough, she leapt over the nearest edge and called her loftwing. When she flew over the maze, she saw Link’s crimson companion circling the area, trilling worriedly. She wondered if he’d been there the entire night - she hadn’t heard him. She probably should have looked, but she was too terrified to think straight. In either case, she whistled sharply at him.

Link’s loftwing eyed her. Zelda whistled again. No loftwing was obligated to listen to someone who wasn’t it’s bonded partner, but Zelda and Link were close enough now that their birds would occasionally tolerate commands from each other, and Link’s intelligent friend could tell he needed help. Crimson followed Zelda and Indigo as they dove towards the center. It hardly had enough space for a loftwing, but Crimson spotted Link and maneuvered easily into place, swooping in and grabbing him with frightening precision.

Zelda hoped the position wouldn’t make Link’s breathing intolerable. But they didn’t have any other option.

The pair flew back to Skyloft at breakneck speed - the other settlements didn’t have the same medical care that Skyloft did. Zelda rushed to Link when his loftwing gently placed him on the ground.

Her friend was awake, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, and he clutched his chest. Zelda slid to her knees beside him. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve had… better flights…” he huffed with a tired smirk.

Zelda wanted to punch him. “This isn’t the time for joking! What were you thinking yesterday?!”

“I… didn’t think… it was…” Link tried to argue only to have to pause to catch his breath, bracing his hands against his legs and leaning forward a little.

Zelda’s worries overrode her frustration, and she waved down the first person she saw, as many had noticed their arrival. Pipit and Groose both came running, as well as Professor Owlan. Thankfully Pipit had an air potion, and the relief on Link’s face was immediately apparent.

Zelda let the men take Link back to his room in the academy, giving them a moment before she checked on him. She found him sitting up against multiple donated pillows, two air potions at his bedside table, bundled up and in comfortable clothes. She smiled in relief, feeling her own chest steadily unclench at the sight.

She offered a quick thanks to Farore before kneeling on the floor and resting her arms and head on the bed. She was exhausted.

She felt Link’s fingers run through her hair before he settled his hand over the back of her head. “Zel…?”

Zelda reached blindly, fingers finding Link’s tunic before she jabbed his chest with her finger. “Don’t. Do that. Again.”

Link let out a sheepish huff. “Sorry, love.”

“This isn’t—your journey is over, and—Link, why—” Zelda shot yo, suddenly agitated, tears stinging in her eyes.

Link looked adequately schooled and apologetic, clearly upset that he’d worried her. “Zelda, I… I’m sorry. I just… I’m used to… to pushing through it. I don’t notice sometimes.”

Used to pushing through it. Zelda felt guilt crush her. She knew why he was used to it.

“Please rest,” Link requested softly. “I’ll be right here. I promise.”

Zelda sighed, reaching over to stroke his cheek. “Only if you rest too.”

Link nodded, offering a tired smile. Zelda wasn’t inclined to kiss him since he was sick, but she gently hugged him instead.

She still worried this would happen again, though.

[humanityinahandbag]

Steddie Modern AU: TikTok

Steve would absolutely be that guy who would not understand TikTok. He and Eddie are older by the time it comes out, and most of the content there is of young kids going completely buck wild. Steve of course disapproves, hands on his hips, huffing about no supervision these days even though he was absolutely a terror in high school.

Eddie, rock star that he is, gets it to an extent. "They're expressing themselves!" he'd say.

Steve would only shake his phone around and point aggressively to a video playing on loop of a young man dancing along to some new trendy song, trying his hardest to seem cool and popular. "This isn't expression," he'd say, mother hen voice at top volume. "This is them trying to peacock to the world!"

"You did that once, too, Stevie."

"Yeah, and I was a little shit!"

And so Steve, in an effort to curb the young teenage population and keep them from making his mistakes (mostly due to parental neglect and hopeless, crushing self deprivation), would start his own TikTok channel.

"Hey there," he says into the camera, because for all the pride around his good looks, he has zero clue how to record a video of himself. "My names Steve, and I've been noticing a bunch of you on here who are out of control! Listen to me, alright? You need to dial it back. All that shit in high school is completely null and void when you're an adult. Trust me. From a former popular asshole, there's better shit you could be doing. Now let me show you how to scramble an egg."

His videos mostly consist of simple lessons. Giving out little pieces of advice. Teaching them basic life skills he had to learn on his own. How to cook. How to clean. How to iron a polo shirt. How to style your hair. How to do laundry. How to do basic first aid.

He often becomes transparent, telling them about his own childhood.

Sometimes he brings Eddie into his videos.

"This is my husband's favorite," he says, by way of explanation as he shows TikTok how to make pasta sauce from scratch. "He used to eat spaghetti out of a can. A fucking can!"

Despite his posturing on stage, Eddie becomes shy whenever a camera is in his face, and ducks his head away, smiling quietly towards the camera. "It's not that bad," he says.

"Not that- The sodium in that could kill an elephant!" Steve laughs.

"Yeah, well... I don't want you doing too much for me."

"I like doing things for you."

Eddie flushes and ducks his head, hiding his face away behind a curtain of curls.

Steve leans over a kisses his temple, pushing him gently out of frame where he'll be more comfortable, before turning back to the camera. "Anyway, this recipe is great if you're on your own for long periods of time. Especially because you can freeze some for later. Now the trick here is garlic. Let me show you how to peel it without making a huge mess!"

It's a month later where Dustin shows up at their door and shoves his phone into Steve's face. "Why the fuck," he'd snap, "are you trending?"

It turns out, the tiny community that Steve had been lecturing to wasn't as small as he originally thought.

There are so many kids out there desperate for parental affection, and they look to Steve, feeding off his pride, his kindness, his stories, his advice. Not only that but the fact that they get to see a former bully, a former popular kid, a man who grew up from neglect, become someone happy and married?

That's just... so wonderful.

"I've been on TikTok from the beginning and I only have, like, two thousand followers."

"So what? I don't have that many."

"You've got three million, Steve," said Dustin. Steve was not expecting that, squinting at the phone screen in his face. "Three fucking million! People are stitching your videos saying you guys are their new dads," Dustin squawked. "How did you not know you were this popular!?"

"I didn't know how to check my follower count!" Steve said, sincerely. It wasn't like he actually checked the thing! He just enjoyed making videos.

"You're so old."

"Hey," said Eddie from the kitchen, "don't talk about your mother that way."

"Yeah!" agreed Steve. "Don't talk to me that way! Now get into my next video so I can introduce you to your three million siblings."

And that is why I firmly believe that, if given the chance, Steve (and subsequently, Eddie) would absolutely become the internet's favorite parental figure(s).

[hopepetal]

Boagem,,,,

Hi Bee applestruda I totally agree

––

Autumn came, and with it came a pleasant chill in the air and large, fluffy clouds carried by a lazy breeze. Leaves turning to fiery colours fell from the trees to the ground, adding a delightful crunch to the ambient sounds of travel. Five pairs of feet walked over the leafy path, one in particular stopping by a stand-out patch of purple-blue. Scarred hands gently plucked one of the late blooming lilacs, a grin lighting up dark green eyes as they examined the flower.

“Scar!” Impulse's voice, cheerful and hearty, called out. “You comin', man?”

Scar straightened up, eyes blowing wide open at how far away the others had gotten while he was picking flowers. “Hey! Guys, wait up!” He jogged up to the group before settling back into a casual pace. “I can't believe you were just gonna leave me like that!” he jokingly complained.

“We still can!” Grian chirped, “it's not too late!”

Scar stuck his tongue out at Grian, who made a face back. Scar huffed playfully at that, crossing his arms. “Well, if you're gonna be like that, I'm not gonna give you these flowers!” he teased, watching Grian's eyes widen.

“Give me those!” Grian squawked, trying to grab them from Scar's hand. Unfortunately for him, he was short and Scar was not, so the taller man simply held them above his head.

“Say pleeeease~!” Scar sang out, letting out his little breathy chuckle, a bouncy sound just as signature as his crooked smile.

Grian crossed his arms, glaring playfully up at Scar. “May I please have the flowers, Scar?” he asked, and Scar gracefully nodded.

“Here you are, my good man!” Scar exclaimed, handing the flowers to Grian with a flourish. Grian snatched the flowers and took a moment to admire them before tucking them behind his ear, nestling them carefully against the feathers of his ear wings.

Mumbo laughed, looking Grian up and down. “Looking great, G. Really adds some colour to your outfit,” he teased, and Grian smacked him with a wing.

Pearl turned around, already laughing. “Alright ladies, break it up. If we want to get these apples before fall is over, we gotta pick up the pace and stop it with the infighting.”

“I'm not going to listen to you!” Grian quipped, and Pearl picked an apple off the tree and threw it at his head. He dodged, of course, but she made her point well enough. “Okay, Pearl, void! No need to be so violent! Absolutely crazy, that woman,” he muttered playfully to Mumbo and Scar.

They made their way through the rows of apple trees before deciding on one. Pearl handed Impulse her bag before carefully climbing up into the tree, going higher and higher until she had practically disappeared into the leaves. “The best ones are at the top!” she called, upon hearing Impulse's confusion. “Right, Impy– catch!”

Impulse yelped as Pearl threw an apple down to him, just barely managing to catch it before placing it in the bag. “I don't know how I feel about being the catcher!” he called up to Pearl, “I feel like this is just an excuse to try and hit me in the face with apples!”

Pearl cackled, giving him no real answer as she threw another apple down for him to catch.

Meanwhile, Grian had decided to try and hop up onto Scar's shoulders in order to get the apples that were higher up. Of course, in his classic Grian style, he hadn't informed Scar of that decision beforehand, leading to the two almost falling over. Mumbo laughed at them as he picked his own apples by hand.

Impulse did, in fact, get hit in the face with an apple. Only once, though. Grian and Scar ended up eating more apples than they put in their bags. Mumbo's head sprout accidentally grew an apple that Scar dared Grian to take a bite out of, much to Mumbo's horror.

They ran into Tango and Jimmy on the tail end of their apple picking adventure, and of course Grian tried stealing an apple from Jimmy.

“Don't you dare!” Jimmy snapped, smacking Grian's hand away. “Tango worked so hard to get these for us!”

Tango squeaked, his tail flicking back and forth. “Hey man, I was just– I was just doin' my job, y'know? Climbing trees is fun, too. I don't do it often.”

Pearl gestured at Tango, looking at Impulse. “See? He gets me!”

Impulse rubbed the sore spot on his forehead where he had been beaned with an apple. “Yeah, well, Tango isn't dropping apples on Jimmy's face!”

Pearl snickered, her wings fluttering slightly. “That was an accident, Impulse!” she exclaimed, though the tone of her voice made it very clear that it had been on purpose. “And! And, I apologized!”

Impulse grinned. “Well, you're not forgiven.”

Tango sucked in a dramatic breath through his teeth. “Ooooh, that's rough. Impulse over here holds a grudge like no one else, y'know. He never forgets.”

“I'm still mad from the time you set my pants on fire,” Impulse grumbled.

“That was ten years ago–!”

Jimmy grabbed Tango's arm. “You did what?!”

“Ten years ago!” Tango yelped, and the whole group devolved into cackling laughter.

They said their goodbyes and went to go pay for their apples, and by popular demand, bought some fresh cider donuts as well. The group sat at one of the tables outside, happily munching away at their donuts and chatting about their most recent adventures.

It was a wonderful fall day. The first of many yet to come.

[tickly-giggles]

Watch Your Back (My Hero Academia)

A/N: This is a sequel to Feather Ticklish, so I highly recommend reading that before this :D Also, this does get kinda angsty at the end, but I promise it's a fun read and there's no warnings aside from the mention of cigarettes :>

Warning: Tickle fic ahead!

Characters: Dabi, Hawks

Shipping: Technically DabiHawks but they're still not together yet

Lee: Hawks

Ler: Dabi

Word Count: 3,093

Summary: It's been a few weeks since Dabi warned Hawks to watch his back, but nothing has come of it. Hawks decides to go about his work without worrying about it too much (spoiler: he worries a lot) and, during a private outing to the hideout late at night, he runs into Dabi.

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

Weeks had gone by like normal with no signs of hostility from Dabi aside from his usual snarky attitude. He didn’t want to admit it, but Hawks was on edge, and only grew more so as time dragged on. 

“Watch your back, birdie.”

He shivered at the unpleasant memory. Hawks may have only tickled him, but Dabi was a villain. Did he really expect him to solve this amicably? 

"I'd be lucky if all he did was burn me," 

he muttered to himself as he sifted through a cardboard box he had found behind the bar counter of the hideout.

He had joined the League to gather intel, so that was what he was going to do. Or, at least, it's what he tried to do. He couldn't get what Dabi said out of his mind, and the fact that he never made any move or gave any indication of revenge only worried him further.

With a frustrated grunt, he shook the thoughts out of his head and continued to search through the box. There wasn't much worth noting. It was mostly filled with junk, aside from some polaroids. Hawks couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. 

The League of Villains looked like anything but. One photo depicted Toga and Twice holding hands and dancing together. Another had what looked to be Shigaraki shoving at the camera. Judging by each villain's personalities so far, Hawks figured Toga was the one to take the picture. 

The last polaroid showed all of them. The camera must have been set on a timer, because they were all positioned together in a group.

Toga and Twice looked happy as can be, Toga sticking her tongue out and winking with Twice ruffling her hair and giving the camera a thumbs up.

Mr. Compress did his best to look formal with a bow and a tip of his hat, but it was easy to tell he definitely didn't mind the camera. 

Spinner was the opposite. He tried to look like he wasn't interested by turning away from the camera, but his overall demeanor was that of childlike excitement.

Shigaraki did not prefer to be on camera, and it was obvious in his reluctant pose. He had one hand stuffed in his hoodie pocket, and the other scratching at his cheek absentmindedly while he stared off to the side.

Then there was Dabi, apathetic as usual. He stared into the camera, thumbs stuffed in his pants pockets, and his face void of emotion. Hawks furrowed his brow, as if trying to decipher what Dabi was thinking at the time of the photo.

"The hell are you doing?" 

Hawks squawked and fumbled the polaroids, haphazardly shoving them back into the box. He whipped around to see Dabi standing there, eying him curiously. He leaned to the left to peer at what Hawks was looking at.

"Where'd you find that?" he asked, his tone indiscernible.

"I- uh- I- it.."

Hawks swallowed and collected his thoughts,

"It was behind the bar. I was just curious."

A moment of awkward tension passed before he handed the box to Dabi,

"Sorry, I didn't mean to snoop."

"Yes you did,"

Dabi smirked as he took the box from him,

"You wouldn't have gone through it otherwise."

“Ah,”

Hawks rubbed the back of his head with a nervous chuckle,

“Ya got me. Um, what’re you doin’ up so late, anyway?”

“I could ask you the same question, birdie.”

Dabi set the box on the counter and stared intensely into the hero’s eyes. Hawks stared back, not daring to blink.

“Couldn’t sleep, I guess,” he breathed.

“So, naturally, your first thought was to come here,”

The hot headed villain took a step toward Hawks, 

"Why dont'cha tell me why you're really here?"

The number two hero didn’t back down. If there was anything he learned from being a pro for so long, it was to never show fear. He swallowed the lump in his throat and slowed his heart rate as he tried to think of an answer. 

When he couldn’t think of any substantial excuse, he simply shrugged and laughed airily, 

“I was curious about everyone’s lives. We hang out a lot, but it’s mostly for meetings and all. I wanna get to know everyone a little better.”

“And what better way to do that than snooping through our stuff~?”

Hawks’ relaxed smile faltered at Dabi’s tone. He watched him as he got ever closer, practically pinning him up against the bar. The air in the room felt quite warm all of a sudden, and there was a tightness in Hawks’ chest that he couldn’t relieve. He wanted to avert his gaze, but he knew doing that would practically be admitting defeat. Instead, he continued to stare into Dabi’s harsh, ice blue eyes.

“Well?” Dabi breathed,

“Are you gonna be honest with me, or am I gonna have to- GAHAH!”

The pro hero watched Dabi clutch his midriff and stumble backward. He didn’t really mean to squeeze his side, it was just the first thing that came to mind! He was trapped, he had no other choice. It was a survival instinct.

Suddenly, Dabi's intense glare pierced through Hawks, and he quickly realized that he was probably better off dead.

Hawks’ fight or flight response kicked in. Being as quick as he was, he was relying on his skills to get out of the hideout faster than Dabi could blink. Sadly, that didn’t end up being the case. Dabi tackled him as soon as he made to run, and the hero grunted as he fell face first into the floor. The villain grinned and sat on Hawks’ lower back. After a small struggle, he was able to pin his wings underneath his feet, effectively rendering him immobile.

“Guh! L-Lemme up!” Hawks growled, squirming fruitlessly.

“I warned you, feather brain. I can’t believe you had the balls to do that again,”

Dabi chuckled coldly,

“I’d be impressed if I wasn’t so pissed off.”

Hawks desperately tried to flap his wings, but to no avail. He foolishly tried turning his head around to at least see Dabi, but was met with nothing but pain in his neck.

“So what’re you gonna do?”

He snapped at the villain,

“Kill me?”

“I told you to watch your back, didn’t I? Not doing such a good job at that right now,”

Dabi’s tone was pondering as he scanned the hero beneath him,

“I wonder…”

Silence filled the room, and the tightness in Hawks’ chest returned. What was Dabi going to do to him? Fully expecting the worst, he clenched his fists and readied his body for whatever amount of pain he was about to endure.

And then…

“GAAHAHAHAHAHA WHATTHEFUHUHUCK!”

Dabi cackled at the reaction. He skittered and scribbled his fingers along Hawks’ back, greedily drinking in the desperation of his victim’s thrashing.

“What’sa matter, birdie? Your back a little sensitive~?”

“WHAHAHAHAT ARE YOU DOHOHOHOING?!”

“What’s it look like, you moron?"

Hawks wriggled and squirmed helplessly, the tickles feeling even more intense because he couldn’t arch or turn his back away from them. He was completely trapped, entirely at the mercy of a member of the League of Villains. Even his wings were unable to flap properly due to Dabi putting most of his weight on them, not to mention the odd angle he was at. Being so vulnerable only increased Hawks’ sensitivity, and his face erupted in red.

“OKAHAHA- HAHAHAHA!! OKAY YOHOHOU GOT YOUR REHEHEHEVENGE! Y-YOHOHOU CAN STOP NOHOHOHOW! GAHAHAHA!!”

Dabi smirked at the mess of a hero beneath him. His thumbs and forefingers nipped at his shoulder blades with intense accuracy while the rest of his fingers scribbled along the sides of them,

“I’m just gettin’ started. You tortured me, so I’m gonna get you back twice as bad. You shouldn’t have messed with me, Hawks.”

“STAHAHAHAHAP! I-IHIHIHIT TIHIHIHICKLES!”

Dabi jolted and he grumbled as he dug into the hero’s back with even more force, relishing the delightful shriek he ripped out of him,

“Just shut up and take it, bird brain.”

Hawks slammed his fist against the floor in ticklish frustration. He couldn’t even remember the last time he was tickled. He didn’t get much attention, if any, when he was a kid. The pro heroes dedicated their lives to work and keeping the public safe; there was rarely time to kick back and relax with each other. 

He remembered poking at Endeavor once or twice, but he never showed any desire to get him back. Jeanist tended to lean on the serious side, but he had a playful bone in his body. If Hawks tried to mess with him, there was a chance he would fight back. Mirko was probably the only pro he could mess with and expect revenge from, but he never had the chance to try.

It tickled so bad. The way Dabi’s fingers vibrated against every inch of Hawks’ back, especially around his shoulder blades where he elicited the most extreme reactions, was torture. His touch was so precise, it was like he knew just what to do to drive him crazy. There was no chance to get used to any one feeling either, considering the villain would switch up his tactics every few seconds. Whether it be the amount of pressure he used, the way he moved his fingers, or the spot he tickled, every new moment provided a fresh combination to drive Hawks completely insane.

And yet, despite the fact that the number two hero had tears of mirth streaming down his bright red face, and his throat felt slightly sore from his screaming laughter, he would be lying if he said this wasn’t the least bit fun. To completely give up mercy and laugh like there was nothing to worry about was an experience Hawks never realized he needed.

“I can’t believe your back is this sensitive,”

Dabi chuckled after a while,

“Kinda makes me wonder about these pretty little wings of yours~.”

“N-NAHAHAHAHA!! C’MOHOHOHOHON, DAHAHAHAHABI! ENOHOHOHOHOUGH, PLEHEHEHEHEASE!”

“Begging already? Pathetic, especially for someone who once called himself a hero.”

The tickling ceased and Hawks gasped for air, falling limp on the floor. The villain smirked down at him. The way his disheveled hair fell over his gorgeous face, the tear streaks that marked his flushed cheeks, the residual giggles that bubbled past his bright smile. Dabi’s chest tightened, and he swallowed a lump in his throat. 

“A-Ahahare you… dohone?” Hawks asked past breathless giggles.

Dabi’s smirk returned and he chuckled evilly,

“I told you I was just getting started,”

He ran his fingers through the feathery fluff on Hawks’ wings,

“I really am curious about these~.”

Hawks jolted and his wings twitched violently, practically bucking Dabi off of him. The villain laughed in amazement and quickly regained his balance.

“Hohoholy shit! I think I found the jackpot~.”

“D-Dahahabi,” the hero laughed nervously, his wings already tingling,

“Ihihi’ve had enough, plehehease.”

“Can’t take what you dish out, huh? Too bad, I’m not done with you yet. I’ll stop when I’m ready to,”

Dabi positioned his hands on his victim’s wings, causing them to twitch again,

“Until then, you’ll lay there and take it like a good little bird.”

The shriek that escaped from Hawks was ear-piercing. He bucked and thrashed violently as Dabi dug his fingers into his wings. The villain took note of how much more of a reaction he got closer to the hero’s back. Hawks’ hysterical laughter suddenly went silent. He slammed his fists and kicked his feet against the floor, his face was engulfed in cherry red, and he couldn’t tell his tears from his sweat at this point. Words couldn’t describe just how bad it tickled. The way Dabi mercilessly dug into his feathers drove him ballistic. It was torturous, his nerves were electrified, every single movement of the villain’s fingers sent a violent jolt of ticklish agony through Hawks’ entire body.

Why did he love this feeling so much?

Hawks wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed before Dabi finally decided to have mercy. His wings were burning with residual tingles, his feathers were all ruffled from the constant tickling, and he felt like he was going to pass out at any moment. The villain chuckled and stood off of the hero, giving him a moment to recover.

“God, you’re so sensitive. If only I had known this little secret sooner. But, now that I do, I’m never letting you live it down.”

After a few moments of residual giggles, heavy breathing, and slight coughing, Hawks shakily stood up. He used the bar counter as leverage, but stumbled and almost fell back onto the floor. He grunted when he made contact with Dabi, who had moved forward to catch him. With a hum, he absentmindedly nuzzled against the villain’s chest, then finally stood on his own. Dabi decided to ignore the heat that rose to his cheeks from the gesture.

The number two hero chuckled fondly and leaned up against the counter, 

“Thahat was uhh… something. You are awful.”

“Not my fault you’re so sensitive~.”

“Can you not say it?”

Dabi frowned,

“Say what?”

“Tickle.”

The villain jolted and looked away bashfully, eyes narrowed in embarrassment,

“I don’t like saying it.”

“Why? Does it fluster you~?”

“No!” Dabi shot a glare at the hero,

“It’s just a stupid word. I hate using it, so I don’t.”

Hawks simply shrugged in response, then caught the box out of the corner of his eye. It was seated on the counter, right where Dabi had left it. He turned around and plucked one of the polaroids out of it, examining it once again. It was the group photo of the League. Dabi approached him and ripped the polaroid from his hands.

“Hey! I was lookin’ at that,” he pouted at the hot head.

“Ya shouldn’t look through other people’s stuff, bird brain,” 

Dabi punctuated his sentence with a flick to Hawks’ forehead,

“Besides, what’s in here that’s so important to you?”

The winged hero grumbled and rubbed the area, then gave Dabi a small smile,

“These photos. They’re really cute,”

He chuckled and poked Dabi’s cheek,

“Would it kill ya to smile once in a while, though?”

“Yes,” Dabi replied bluntly, smacking Hawks’ hand away.

Hawks grinned and sighed fondly. 

Silence fell over them for a few moments. Dabi reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He took one in between his teeth, and his index finger suddenly burst into a small, blue flame. He carefully lit the cigarette, then offered the pack to Hawks. 

He chuckled and shook his head,

“No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

Dabi shrugged and stuffed the pack back into his pocket, extinguished the flame on his finger, then took the cigarette out of his mouth and wistfully breathed the smoke out.

The aura in the room was peaceful, almost like the two of them were genuine friends. A pang of guilt tugged at Hawks' heart, but he ignored it and turned to Dabi, who was staring at the polaroid. His expression was calm. 

The hero smiled, feeling melancholy, and decided to break the silence,

“So, why are you up so late?”

Dabi remained so still that Hawks almost thought he didn’t hear him. He opened his mouth to ask again, but was interrupted by the villain letting out a low, mirthless chuckle.

“I guess I couldn’t sleep, either.”

Silence reigned once more, and he took another puff of his cigarette before he continued,

“Ya ever hear of ‘the butterfly effect’, Hawks?”

The question was so sudden, Hawks gave the villain a puzzled look. After a second, he responded,

“Ah, a butterfly flaps its wings in Rio and causes a tornado in Chicago, right?”

“Correct. Though, I guess in your case, you flap your wings in Japan and cause a ripple in some other part of the world.”

“Where’s this coming from?” the hero asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

Dabi huffed sharply, and his grip on the polaroid tightened,

“Ya ever wonder where you’d be had you made one choice a bit differently?”

“I… dont–”

“Heh, never mind. That was a dumb question.”

Hawks frowned, but otherwise didn’t respond to Dabi’s sudden drop of the subject. What did he mean by that? Surely he didn’t regret becoming a villain. Granted, the winged hero had no idea what Dabi’s motivation was aside from the main goal of the League. Hero society was corrupt, he knew that was an idea they were passionate about, but…

"I'm not one for sentimental talks,"

Dabi chuckled suddenly, putting the cigarette up to his lips,

"So don't take much of what I say to heart,”

he inhaled deeply, then crushed the finished cigarette against the counter while exhaling the smoke through his nose. He flicked it across the room, then turned to look at Hawks, who had a look of befuddlement on his face.

“Do you… regret the choices you’ve made?” Hawks asked carefully.

Dabi stared at him for a moment, emotionless, before he grinned wickedly and blew the remainder of the smoke in his face,

“Do you?”

Hawks scrunched his nose and coughed, whisking away the smoke with a disgusted grunt. He then watched Dabi as he made his way out of the room, but was surprised when he turned to address the hero a final time,

“We’re even now, got that? Don’t even think of trying that shit with me again.”

With that, he disappeared deeper into the hideout. Hawks couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped his lips. He shook his head and casually left the building, taking into the air with a swift flap of his wings. He cringed when the air hit his feathers, they still felt a bit sensitive.

As he flew back to his own home, he thought about the conversation he and Dabi just had. He didn’t know what to make of most of it. How did they go from tickling to a serious discussion about fate and paths in their own lives?

…Did he regret his own choices?

Hawks sighed and shook the thoughts out of his head. He was a hero, Dabi was a villain, and there was no way to change that. Even if there were moments where Dabi felt like a genuine human being, even if he felt like he was actually bonding with him, he couldn’t allow that to cloud his judgment. He was on a mission, and he would see it through to the end. 

His chest felt tight again.

[shortfeather]

Gempearl Mcc 27? the prompt 19?

(send me a ship and a number and i'll write a kiss) (yes it's still on i know it's been like five months sorry i had an AO3 author moment)

I don't watch MCC so I couldn't make this specific to then, but I took a bit of inspiration from Pearl's recent video talking about the twitchcon(?) MCC and the few clips I've seen of MCCs past!

The island was absolutely crawling with people and cameras, but somehow, the two of them had found a corner where privacy as a concept hadn't been totally eradicated. No, their only audience was the blue void stretching out beneath their dangling feet, and each other.

"You excited for Ace Race?" Gem piped up, swinging her legs idly over the empty sky. "Your ping's been really good today, not that you need to be un-nerfed."

"Gem!" Pearl squawked, turning to face her with betrayal writ large across her eyes. "You can't just say that, now it's gonna be worse than ever!"

"Maybe I just want a chance against you, tryhard."

"Tryha—I—excuse you? I am not a tryhard, miss GeminiSlay." A blush slowly took over Pearl's face as she stammered, and Gem grinned, ignoring the reminder of her silly nickname. Pearl beat her in combat all the time, so really, it was a reminder of how insanely cracked her girlfriend was. And even if it wasn't, this was worth it. Flustering Pearl was just so much fun!

"I'll have you know I try a—a normal amount! At every—at most things!" Pearl continued, waving a hand around wildly. "I can admit I went a little hard on Decked Out 2, but—"

"Pearl, you memorized the map of every level down to the block. And you were the only person to beat the game."

"Yeah, but Etho won."

"Not in Tango's eyes! Etho didn't even go into the maze for most of the game, you literally ran it blind."

"Well." Pearl kicked her legs alongside Gem's, smiling a little goofily. "Like I said. I can admit I went hard on that. But not other ways! I'm not a tryhard!"

Gem raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Wordle."

"That was just me learning—"

"Final four in every life series you've been a part of, not to mention the one you won." Gem slapped a hand over Pearl's mouth as she went to protest again. "Queen of Decked Out 2, which you built a part of, might I remind you! Helped dethrone a king and intimidated Scar into not having a chest monster, even if it was temporary. Easily the best master of organics on Hermitcraft. Intimidated Doc—Doc!—into giving up something he'd taken as revenge." She paused. "Actually, I retract that last one, Doc's a scaredy-creeper. But there's tons more, miss tryhard. Just how many times have you won MCC now? Care to remind—ew!"

Gem yanked her hand away from Pearl's mouth, grimacing as she wiped off the spit from where Pearl had licked her. Pearl, for her part, just laughed.

"You licked me!" the redhead yelled, rather redundantly.

"I had to get your attention somehow." Pearl scooted closer, until she was almost nose-to-nose with Gem. "You kept ignoring the real proof of my accomplishments."

When Gem just frowned, she let her smile go sappy and said, "Girlfriend of the one and only GeminiTay? Ring a bell?"

"Oh my god," Gem drawled. Still, she was giggling as she playfully shoved Pearl's face away with a hand on her cheek. "You're the worst. And still a tryhard!"

Pearl pouted, going into full puppy-dog-eyes mode. "The worst? Can I get a kiss then, to cope with the pain of worstness?"

"No."

"For luck, then?"

"Wh—you don't need luck! I just gave you a million reasons you don't need luck!"

"But Geeeeeemmmmm," Pearl whined, pushing her face into Gem's hand. "You mentioned my ping, and now it's gonna suck."

"Oh my god," Gem muttered to herself. But her hand was cupping the back of Pearl's neck now, and drawing her closer, leaving Pearl's heart a delighted flutter. No matter how many times she kissed Gem, it seemed it would always feel like the first.

"Good luck," Gem said softly when they parted. "Again, not that you need it."

The bell rang around them before Pearl could reply, signaling the end of break. Gem sighed as their comms started buzzing rapidly, the whole server going wild at the prospect of starting this half with Ace Race. They only had a few minutes to meet up and strategize, so she stood up and brushed the dirt off her pants while Pearl stretched.

"You know," she said, stepping back towards the void they'd been sitting over. Pearl looked up with a raised eyebrow, curious. "I still don't think you need luck. But if you do—well, you know where to find me."

And she grinned, full of mischief. "On the course, that is."

Pearl sat there, stunned, as her girlfriend stepped into void and flew back to her team. Then she jumped to her feet, more determined than she'd perhaps ever been before.

Luck and ping both be damned. She'd try harder than anyone could ever dream of trying if it meant she got to kiss Gem some more.

[fireflies-are-kewl]

Children of Evolution

So... this has been written, rewritten, and spiraled into something different, but here it is! I had been listening to Harpy Hare a lot with this fic, along with watching this amazing animatic by Solarock! Enjoy!

Words: 1,952

Somebody had been whitelisted recently.

Grian knew that, but he knew a good many of things.

For one, he knew who was whitelisted long before he logged in. For two, it had been him who had asked Xisuma to whitelist him.

Xisuma knew a few things too. Not many, not that he minded. All he had said was that he hoped Grian was alright. Grian had smiled and winked, saying that there was nothing to worry about.

InTheLittleWood joined the game. Grian: heyy! Martyn good to see ya InTheLittleWood: It's good to be here! InTheLittleWood: Where you at?

After a brief visit and showing him where he lived, Grian settled in for a talk he knew had been coming for a while. Universal messages took time to reach servers and other universe hubs, so when Grian saw the message sent by Martyn... he knew he had only a few days to prepare. Hence his whitelist request.

"So. Have you told Pearl?" Martyn started, leaning against the wall of the half-done house Grian had been pretending to work on. Despite how relaxed his lean was, Martyn's arms were crossed over his chest and his head was lowered. Never a good sign.

A flick of Grian's wing, and he turned to work on something on his crafting bench.

"No, l ‘aven't. I don't want to tell her either, I told you that at the Secret Keeper." Grian said, and he heard Martyn scoff. Grian didn't turn around as he continued. "If she hasn't remembered, then she should be left to that. I don't want her to be mixed up in all this again."

"This is getting too big for us to handle our own. There’s been, what, six of 'em now, for Void's sake, Grian!" Martyn exclaimed, gesturing with a hand. Grian moved to a chest, digging in it for something. Martyn shook his head, pinching his nose with his fingers. "They're not blumin' children. They should know."

"And what, exactly, do you plan on telling them?" Grian snapped, slamming the chest's lid down. Martyn watched him, and Grian waited for an answer. When he didn't get one, he finally turned to face his old friend. "'Sorry to remind you, but those monsters from Evo? Yeah, they've been trapping us in death games for the past three years and erasing your memories! Surprise!'”

"...Don't take the piss, mate, you're being awful."

A scoff, and Grian rolled his eyes with a frustrated smile. "I'm being awful because that's the only way I can get this through to you: telling them about this, any of them, is a bad idea. It puts so many more people in danger."

"So, what? Are we supposed to just keep taking it from Them? I've been running for who knows how long, and that hasn't worked at all." Martyn moved off the wall, stepping towards Grian with a serious look on his face. Grian's tense smile fell with his approach. Here we go. "I refuse to just lay down and take it any longer."

"It’s not like we even have an idea to stop Them. I've tried to before! You have too! Look what good that's done for either one of us!" Grian yelled and gestured between the two of them. A sharp silence, a Watcher and a Listener glaring at each other. History repeats itself, no matter who’s involved.

From above, someone cleared their throat intentionally, and the two snapped their heads up to see who had been listening in.

Pearl was up in the rafters, her ladybug wings twitching behind her as she pushed off from her hiding place. She was smiling a little, playful and knowing, as she fluttered down from the beams with little fanfare. Martyn and Grian backed off from each other as she stepped up.

"I knew it was serious when he popped up online. Are we finally going to talk about the games?" Pearl asked while looking down at Grian. Grian nearly squawked at the blunt question, and Martyn, shocked as well, bit his lip at the look on his friend's face. He snickered, and Grian shook out of it.

"You knew?! For how long?"

"Since I won the soulmate one. I woke up at my base and just... had to think and write everything down." Pearl, though looking vaguely uncomfortable, shrugged a shoulder. She tucked a loose strand of hair back under her postmaster's hat.

"That's been... gosh, Pearl, why didn't you tell me?" Grian asked, and Pearl snickered. She gently punched him in the shoulder with an arched brow.

"The same reason you didn't tell me, dummy. I didn't know if you knew. I remember what those things could do, so... I was waiting to see if you'd come to me." Grian rubbed his arm and muttered something about that being stupid but fair. Martyn rolled his eyes with his own smirk on his face.

"This is why we talk. Emphasis on the 'we' there, Martyn." Pearl fixed Martyn with a Look, daring him to say something in defense. Martyn, with his hands up, didn't dare.

"You could've just as much told me or Jimmy about all this too, you weirdo. Unless... they’ve been keeping you away?" Pearl's voice softened at the end, remembering. Martyn and Jimmy had been taken by the Listeners, unlike how the others had been scattered across the universe hubs. Jimmy must've slipped through the cracks, ended up back in the Overworlds, but not Martyn. She had hardly seen him since Evo’s collapse.

"Not for long. Wasn't keen on being a bird in a cage, so I skipped out. Been runnin' through a few worlds for a few years now... until the games started." Martyn rubbed the back of his neck. He didn't meet Pearl's eyes despite the smile on his face. Always good at dancing around the truth, he was.

"Once they started, I noticed... something? Like I was waking up in worlds I didn't go to sleep in. Then these memories of conversations with Them... I didn't remember much until I won the time game. I knew I couldn't really hide anymore, but... I didn't know what to do." Grian hummed his sympathy, sitting against his crafting bench as they talked.

"You could've come here. The Hermits would've taken you in." Pearl said with that same steady softness, crossing her arms. On one of her wrists, she wore red and teal bracelets, something beaded and homemade. On each of them, three charms spelled out, ‘P.E.T.’.

Martyn waved her off. "Nah, I can't hide myself as well as G has. Tried a few times and they found me like that,” He said while snapping his fingers, "Besides, I'm better suited for world hopping. It's fun."

"As much as l'd love to keep catching up, we should probably keep talking about the whole games thing," Grian interjected with a nod of his head. Martyn shrugged and leaned against a wall of books. Pearl simply stood straighter before speaking up.

"I think we should tell Jimmy and Bigby," She started, making Grian predictably stutter a denial. "They were just as much a part of Evo as we were. Just because we're winners of those games, doesn't mean we should be the only ones that know."

"I get what you mean, but I, I really don't think it's smart. What if it draws Their attention to them?" Grian hesitated, feeling the eyes all over him itch at the prolonged talk of the Watchers. Martyn arched a brow and rolled his eyes, but spoke with more gingerness than he cared to admit to.

"I get why you're worried, mate, but look. They already know where we all are. They take us and put us back all willy-nilly without us really noticing. We have, actually, more than a surplus of Their attention."

"I get that," Grian bit out, fingers curling at his sides. "I'm meaning more of Their attention on our home servers. The ones we’re apart of are the least touched by Them that l've ever seen. I don't want to risk another Evo happening to more people."

"Evo happened because a lot of us were out of the loop, G." Pearl reminded him, making him glance over to her. Shame flashed in his expression, through his body, but he didn’t deny it. "Hels, I barely knew Listeners were a thing until you told me about what happened to Martyn and Jimmy."

"Don't you think I was keeping this all a secret for a reason?" Grian stepped towards her then, wings tense and hands out in front of him. "I brought all of you into Evo, I made a gods-awful deal with them, and then practically shattered the server with everyone still inside. That could have deleted your very code, Pearl." A glance back. "Yours too, Martyn."

Martyn's brows furrowed then, reaching out. "G, this isn’t—,”

"Why should I risk that with you guys again? With even more people now?" Grian continued as he ran a clawed hand through his hair. Slowly, purple lines along his face started to appear on his face, his brown-gray eyes fading steadily into a similar hue. “This, what, ‘playing along’? Void, it's the only damn way I can see that keeps the servers and everyone safe. I-I, ah, I can't give Them any reason to devour my friends again!!"

Grian shouted, and the purple lines along his face opened up, looking like drawn-on eyes that actually moved. Pearl gasped softly as Martyn stared in surprise. Neither had seen Grian in his other form since he first escaped the Watchers, and to see it bleed into his human form…

The avian looked between his old friends before putting a hand to his face. A sound, barely a breath, and he forced the eyes to close. Martyn looked away, then. He didn't need to be reminded of those eyes, so painfully similar, or what laid beneath his own player disguise.

Pearl's expression was hard to read, yet regardless, she stepped closer to Grian and pulled him into a hug. It was a strong one, arms wrapped around Grian's shoulders and tugging him close. "It's not just your call, Grian. Frankly, if it was, you'd be doing a miserable job at it."

"Hey—,"

"And... it's not just your responsibility, because it wasn't your fault." Pearl finished, pulling back enough to look Grian in his eyes. Wholly purple, uncanny and inhuman, yet somehow still him. "You know They will do what They please. Let us help you, buddy."

A shaking sigh. Martyn spoke up as Grian rubbed his face to hide all the purple under something more human. "To be honest, I'll still find a way to deal with the Watchers even if you say no, so," He hissed a bit, sarcastic, "Might just want to let all of us in on it, G."

Grian chuckled, rolling his normal eyes. The audacity. "Yeah, yeah, alright. You've wrung it out of me." He hummed, a tad dramatic. "Can't ever let me do anything on my own."

"Excuse you?!"

"Mate, you literally ask me and the other Hermits to help you a lot, like what?!"

Grian cackled as the conversation, finally, rolled into their usual banter. He could only do so much seriousness at a time, and he had honestly been reaching his limit. Now it was time for some calm.

Calm that would, hopefully, last until the inevitable storm.

===

Jimmy's wings twinged at his back. He was being watched.

...no, Watched.

He turned his head, hand on a build he was messing with and stared in horror. This was his private server, how did—?!

Hello.

SolidarityGaming has fallen out of the world. SolidarityGaming has left the game.

[laserbread]

The 4am urge to write a story about IDW Soundwave falling for a multi level marketing scam

[monstercampus]

Plague Doctor - First Meeting

(cws: animal-centric body horror)

word count: 1.5k

Unlike the usual hustle and bustle of the morning in the general studies building, the creak of the door echoes down the empty corridor as you step out into the hall. Not a peep can be heard from anywhere in the vicinity, save for the occasional muffled voices of professors and T.As in their classes as you pass by, and the whirring of a copier chugging away in the office down the very end of the hall.

Midterm week means the tension has risen to a peak, and even if your fellow students did have time to chatter amongst themselves, they all vanish from the main buildings during this time out of fear of being reprimanded by the terrifying revenant who patrols the corridors. Or the Horseman, whom you've only caught a glimpse of at one of the football games earlier this season, but have heard all manner of scary stories about–especially what he does to naughty ne'er-do-wells who wander the campus after curfew.

Fortunately for you, one of the perks of being so different from your fellow students is that you got the option to do your tests early, and do them you did–after all, how could you pass up the chance to have a week off while your classmates all feverishly study, when all the facilities will be empty and quiet for you to use? It seemed like a great idea and the perfect way to spend a little time to relax.

Unfortunately for you, however, this is the week your body decided to betray you. You started feeling sniffly over the weekend and by today you're caught in a full-blown cold, one made worse by the fact that you wanted to enjoy your time off and now have to tend to your vile illness. It certainly doesn't feel fair.

But that's the only reason you're here. The medical office is right near the entrance you just slipped through, and holding in your cough until you get into the door, you're quick to slide it closed and hobble up towards the front counter. It's a much nicer space than you're used to at human schools; not only does it actually have a reception counter, but the uncomfortable chairs have been taken over by lounge sofas and a waiting area that plays soft, gentle instrumental music from a speaker on the side table. The white walls still make it feel sterile, but they're contrasted by the coattails of the figure approaching you from around the corner, having heard your entrance and probably expecting you since your roommate called in an appointment for you earlier this morning.

You have to make an effort not to cringe when his full form comes into view. The doctor is exactly that: a doctor, licensed and practicing for many years with a slew of impressive accomplishments that line the walls of the corridor behind him. But he doesn't wear a white coat, he doesn't own a stethoscope, and he doesn't smile when he sees you to soothe the worries of your ill self. You wouldn't be able to see it if he did, because his face is completely obscured by an authentic plague mask–'authentic' meaning it's so worn and scratched up from age that you can't quite tell if it's keeping diseases out, or just keeping whatever he hides beneath it in. A brimmed hat covers his hair, a cloak and puffy, loose clothing hides his features, and tall boots that have the look of thousands of miles on them all bring together a void-like black of night that makes him appear as though he's a walking shadow.

"Human! Next up! Chopping block!"

While you're still assessing the figure before you, your attention flits up to his black-clad shoulder where a scruffy-looking raven perches, the squeaky voice clearly coming from the bird and not from the doctor. His gloved fingers hold out a bit of fruit that's produced from his pocket, and with a gleeful squawk, the raven chomps on it and swallows it down before his master nods at you and turns back to lead you down the hallway. It takes you a moment to get yourself up off the sofa, but once you get around the corner you're relieved to see the doctor waiting for you before he continues instead of leaving you behind.

Curiously, your attention is directed more towards the thump of his cane rather than the mask or the bird that is his assistant. It looks to be made of ebony rather than solid wood, and although it isn't incredibly dazzling with colour or adornments, you definitely notice the deep engravings of patterns carved into the length of it that seem to shift as he leans on it for support. You still haven't analyzed all the different designs by the time you reach the office, though many more assaults on your senses command your attention when you sit yourself in the plum-coloured chair in the corner, the stench of lavender and musty herbs hitting you full force when he takes his seat barely a foot away from you. The office is darker than the waiting room for sure, plastered with lavender wallpaper that's already peeling and a black rug that's been rolled over thousands of times with the wheels of the chair he's sitting on–and you can see the source of the smell hanging in bundles from the ceiling, crumbling herbs tied together in various arrays that compliment the dead flowers at the desk he's sitting next to.

"Symptoms!" The crow shrieks and startles you, to which the doctor makes some motion with his hands that the corvid nods thoughtfully at. "Symptoms! Symptoms!" He caws, this time at a much gentler volume.

"Er…u-uh, well, I'm really congested, and I have a fever…and my body aches a lot." You stop for a moment to blow your nose with a tissue from the box he offers, clearly noticing the severity of your sinus problem off of how nasally you sound. "...And I've got a headache. A bad one."

The doctor nods, noting down his thoughts with one hand while the other still grips his cane. It wasn't completely silent before, but somehow even with him accompanying you it feels even quieter in here. It's almost like time stopped as soon as you stepped in, and has yet to continue until you step out.

"Swelling? Got swelling?" The crow pipes up again and you shake your head, but with a cawing that almost sounds like laughter, the bird reiterates. "Doctor's got swelling, he does! Don't look down!"

Obviously your eyes move before your brain really processes it, but before you can tear your momentary gaze away from the doctor's crotch area, you hear a squawk and the distinct crack of something snapping and glance up to see the crow being flung across the room to hit the wall opposite to you. Your sharp gasp comes out soundless, shocked and horrified at what you just saw the doctor do, but within a second the bird has hopped up from where it fell and is cawing uproariously as it hops around on its unbroken foot. You see now that the bird must be a monster of its own as its broken bones quickly set back into place, and it flies up on healthy wings to land back in its spot on the doctor's shoulder–who, as well as looking somewhat embarrassed for his instinctual reaction, has his head hung and fist clenched in frustration as he quickly crosses his legs over the other. Now you're both at a loss for words, and he frantically scribbles out the rest of your orders before tearing the page off the pad and handing it to you.

"Doc says 'get better soon'!" The crow chitters in a self-congratulating tone as the monster in question makes more gestures with his hands, which you now realize must be a particular form of sign that you aren't as familiar with. But based on his lack of reaction at his companion's translation, you have a sense that he at least passed on the message as intended–that doesn't make your departure any slower though, you're more than eager to get out of this office and follow the directions he advised you to take. Water, some medicine to pick up at the pharmacy, all general steps you find on the page and fortunately not as outlandish as you worried they might be, considering how different monster medicine can sometimes be from its human counterpart. At the very least you won't have to come back for another appointment unless you get worse, and you won't hear that squawking laughter down the hall like you do now as the two oddballs converse.

Oh, but you will get worse. You'll do everything you were told, and you'll still get worse–by no fault of yours or your doctor, but simply the side effects of a human taking monster-made drugs that few professionals have ever encountered before. You'll get so bad you'll have no choice but to return, and though he may be distracted by a kind of beauty he hasn't seen in centuries, the plague doctor is going to do everything he can to ease your pain….and document such fascinating results that no one ever thought to test.

[tiny-minecraft-rabbit]

a new kind of warmth

Grian lept off of Monopoly Mountain, unsure what or where his next life would be, but knowing he couldn't stay here any longer. Not when the sand was red with blood. He ended up somewhere in the artic.

Part of the @extremetimedchallengeexchange which I had so much fun with!

Words: 1703

AO3 here

Grian is cold.

He hasn’t been cold in weeks. He’s used to the heat of the sun, the burn of the sand, the sweat dripping from his brows and the constant red tint to his skin. 

Now he’s cold. Now there’s a bone deep chill. Now he’s freezing and his muscles are stiff and sore from it. There’s wind ruffling his feathers and the sharp pain of ice against his cheek. He flexes his hand and grimaces as his fingers dig into snow, the burn familiar and yet so very different from sand. 

He lifts his head, attempting to open his eyes and meeting only the blinding reflection of snow for miles. He shut them again as he forced himself to his knees, shaking the frost from his wings. 

This must be death then. Some purgatory– or Hell. He’d think Hell would be the fire and brimstone, but that would have been too familiar. A wasteland of snow and ice and constant wind felt like Hell enough, would be a fitting punishment for the life he had lived. 

When he finally opened his eyes again, blinked away the brightness and let himself focus, he became a little less sure it was Hell. Not definite, but the landscape was less barren than at first glance. Most of it was ice– but behind him, when he finally stood to properly look around, was a spruce forest. Through the trees, if he squinted, he could see the warm light of torches and lamps. 

He started walking. 

Soon a cabin appeared in his view, with a large fenced yard that had wolves galloping about, foxes nicking the wolves’ toys out from under them, horses watching it all from a small stable, a big slumbering polar bear sitting at the steps of the door, and over a dozen crows sitting on the roof of the cabin. It was surrounded by a mountain range and he could just barely spot another home a couple meters away built into the stone. 

If this was life after death (and what else could be when his very last action was falling from the top of Monopoly Mountain, too grief stricken to open his wings with the blood staining his hands), then perhaps this was the home of Death itself– or an angel or a demon or someone that could explain to him what afterlife he had wound up in. At the very least it would be warmer than out here (if this afterlife was even a little kind and had insulated walls).

He stumbled past into the yard, closing the gate behind him. He flinched when the first wolf came galloping up, but it merely licked at his frozen fingers. A few of the wolves barked and howled and then several crows joined in with squawks and calls of their own, probably alerting whatever being inside the home that he was out here. The polar bear poked his head up, blinking sleepily at him. He had a golden name tag hanging from his neck and he didn’t move from his nap spot as Grian approached. 

There was movement in the window and then the door swung open– “What the fuck has gotten you so riled, chat?” The man standing at the door looked… surprisingly normal. For just a moment Grian thought he was a human, his blonde hair was pulled back by his hat and he was wearing dark green and black robes. The wings, he didn't see until they shifted and spread slightly behind him, big black things that stole all the light and almost looked like voids in space. He didn't have any other feathers on his face, or clawed hands, or taloned feet– Not like Grian. 

He was an Angel then, like Skizz was, or something like it. Skizz's wings were white; the inky black of this stranger was much more intimidating. Was this like– his Guardian Angel? He didn't think his Guardian Angel would have a potty mouth. Also he was a terrible guardian given the whole– everything he just went through. 

“Oh, hello there!” He called from the steps, waving at Grian, “Wasn’t expecting visitors. Would have cleaned up for you.” 

Grian numbly waved back, stopping in the middle of the yard as he watched the Angel come down the steps, easily sidestepping the polar bear and effortlessly ignoring the dogs that followed in his heels. A few crows swooped on him and he laughed and shouted at them. 

“Hiya, mate. You doing alright there?” He asked, stopping just sort of grabbing Grian's arm. His hand was outstretched as he looked Grian up and down, “I don't think we’ve met before. I haven't seen you around the server pretty sure. I’m Philza.” 

“Grian,” he replied, staring at Philza’s wings– one of them was messed up, the skin and tissue had so much scarring that feathers, his flight feathers, no longer grew. It was something a respawn or a few potions should have fixed, not something you let heal on its own. “Are you, like, my Guardian Angel?”

Philza laughed, “The fuck? No, mate, I’m not anyone's Guardian Angel. Especially not yours. I’ve never seen you in my life.”

“That's good, cause my Guardian Angel must suck at their job,” Grian grumbled. 

“I feel that, bud,” Philza agreed readily, stepping to the side, “Want to come inside, where it’s warm?” 

“Yes, please,” he whined, taking the biggest steps he could manage with his numb legs towards the house. 

Philza was quick to show him around. The place was small and quaint, even smaller than their sandcastle. It was crowded with sentimental items and cozy furniture. Grian was quick to sink into a plush chair and bundle his wings around himself. Philza bustled about, making tea and talking about his housemate, Techno, who was out at the moment, and his neighbor, Ranboo, who was also gone. It was just the two of them, and that was fine with Grian for now. He still wasn't sure what type of afterlife he’d wound up in and having more people in his afterlife sounded like too much right now. 

A hot mug was placed in his hand. He glared at it for a moment, the steam and heat not quite welcome despite him still warming up from the cold outside. It almost made him want to drop the mug as his fingers started to burn. 

He watched as Philza sat down across from him, a few birds perching on the back of the chair. They squawked a few times, Philza’s nose wrinkling in disgust.

“So, I don’t suppose you’re used to the cold yet, huh?” Philza remarked, lightly batting away a bird that nudged his cheek.

Grian hesitated at that, especially when the birds stopped moving to stare at him. It was unnerving with how they all looked at him, watching with an unblinking stare. “I– no not really. I’m used to warmer climates.”

“Oh, warmer climates… like deserts?”

Grian tensed at that, his wings folding up closer to his body. He glanced up at the birds, who’d started to disperse, moving to perch on other objects in the room, observing him from all angles. “I-yeah, like deserts I guess. How did you–”

“The sand,” Philza gestured to the grains that were slightly dusting the ground now, “It’s all in your wings mate. That can’t be comfortable.” 

“I’m used to it,” He replied slowly, ducking his head.

“I fucking bet,” Philza rolled his eyes. He slipped out of the chair and onto the carpet, patting the space in front of him, “Come on, up! Let’s get those fixed.” 

Grian blinked down at him, “What?” 

“You’re getting sand in my chair, mate. It’s a bitch to clean up when it gets into furniture. So, come sit, I can clean them for you.”

He stared at Philza for a long moment, not sure he was actually hearing him right. It had to be a misunderstanding on his part. Preening was intimate. At least, it was supposed to be. Sure he’s had a few hermits he was less than close to brush a feather back into place or pull a pinhead, but Mumbo was the only person he’d let sit down and run his fingers through them in ages. Him and, of course, Scar these last few weeks. The only other person he evenly remotely trusted in the games once the blood started spilling (and spilling and spilling until all that was left was Scar’s blood to spill). 

“It’s just getting the sand out, come on,” Phil waved him over again.

Slowly– ever so slowly– Grian slipped onto the floor with Philza. He had to set his mug down a second to stop it from spilling on the carpet as he turned his back to the other.

A part of him expected to feel the punch of a sword between his shoulder blades. He was tense as a bowstring, waiting for the impact. 

When the fingers slipped between primaries he flinched. 

Immediately the hands were gone. Neither of them said a thing for a second, then Philza went back to it. Grian was still tense, but he tried to stay still, hoping to make the process a bit quicker. 

Philza worked deftly and diligently. “My son was an avian too,” he muttered softly after a moment, “He had his mother’s eyes.” 

Grian hummed in response, not sure how to answer that and not sure if he was supposed to. Instead the quiet lingered, but the tension was loosening. He ruffled a few feathers, shaking out a bit of sand himself. Philza chuckled behind him before grabbing the crest of a wing to still it and returning to his work. 

After that, Philza would make idle chatter, commenting on his adventures and his sons. Grian slowly relaxed under it all. The hands in his wings, the comforting warmth of the cabin and the hot tea in a pretty red terracotta mug. 

It would be morning by the time Grian woke up again, a red wool blanket thrown over him. He’d have a million things to figure out and people to find, but until then he would fall asleep to the gentle help of a new friend. 

[ireallyliketalldarksultrymen]

Zombiedogwood :3

ofc!! (original poll ended, so vote copper husbands at @scottsmajorshipbracket)

—

Cleo enjoys relaxing evenings.

Typically ones where she laid on the couch. Whether they were against a sofa arm, eyes closed as they took deep breaths, or lost in sleep, napping with a blanket draped over their body. Either way, they found comfort in relaxation.

Gusts of wind swept by her window, rustling the tree leaves beyond the pane. Inches away from the settee was a fireplace, flames crackling and churring as dark puffs wandered up into the chimney.

She didn’t know when it happened, but somehow, as Cleo settled down and scrolled through television stations, her boyfriends slyly slipped on the couch next to her.

Martyn’s head rested in their lap, face smug and hair splayed across their thighs. 

On the other hand, Ren’s face was nestled in her neck, frizzy dark curls tickling the skin there. One loose loc came to poke at Cleo’s nose, causing her to scrunch her face a bit.

To say it was squished was an understatement. 

Martyn’s lower half was practically dangling from the arm, leaving only his upper back to be salvaged. His legs swung back-and-forth causing his socks to graze to wall.

Ren, like the other, had one of his legs hanging from an arm, accompanied by an arm that was unable to tuck into his side. He stifled his giggles, chest visibly shaking.

And though she felt a bit uncomfortable, when Martyn sat up after catching sight of her  scrunched face, Cleo grumbled, tugging him back down and gently running her fingers through his hair. He cheered, smirked practically looking like a cat who got the cream.

She cupped Ren’s cheek, pulling him in for a soft brush of their mouths together. Cleo could almost hear his eyes crinkle, dopey grin against her lips.

It was the squawk below her that caused the two to pull away, chuckles erupting from Ren’s chest and Cleo rolling her eyes as she saw Martyn, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. Void, even his bottom lip was pulled down into a pout. 

They leaned over to his face, where they gave Martyn a brief peck of the lips. When he made a sound of protest, Cleo sighed, though a fond upturn of her lips betrayed to action. She dove back down, thumb stroking his cheek as Ren cooed from above.

As soon as they separated, Martyn grabbed Ren by the collar and pressed their faces together, and Cleo couldn’t help but let her body shake with laughter.

With a godawful soap opera playing on the television, and the warmth of a fire before them, Cleo decided they could deem the evening pretty relaxing.

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.xliii // the_attic_181120XX

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Knuckles connect right under his eye, nearing the slope from his cheek to the bridge of his nose, and while the force behind it isn’t particularly damaging, it’s still enough to make his face snap sideways. The gasp he lets out stems mostly from surprise. In the moment where he takes a step backwards, gloved hand reaching to touch the site of impact, another punch lands on the side of his head, clipping his ear. That stings.

Renee sees red.

He pushes forward through flailing arms, slamming into the guy hard enough to knock them both over. Conrad lands partially on the mattress of his bed, and Renee follows closely behind, barely bracing himself before he shouts and brings his fist down, twice. A glimpse of red flying from the third one, low squawks of distress, barely noticeable under the ringing in Renee’s ears. But somehow, through the blows, Conrad manages to curl one leg up and plant a foot in his abdomen. He doesn’t have enough room to kick the wind out of him, but he accomplishes a solid push instead, one that throws Renee’s weight off, and he topples onto the bed, clawing at the covers as Conrad slips away, clearly headed for the door.

He doesn’t make it far. As soon as Renee has righted himself, he lurches forward, manages a slim grasp in the fabric of Conrad’s shirt. A hoarse cry is choked back when the collar draws tight over his throat, as is the one he tries to let out when he accidentally supports his weight on the bad leg in an attempt to keep his balance; his knee buckles completely, like the whole leg just gives out. The shirt slips from Renee’s fingers as Conrad sinks to the floor with a cry.

It’s almost eerie, how quickly Renee’s rage slides from frantic into something different. The sight of downed prey flips another switch. Your core is still burning, but your eyes latch on to him, much, much colder.

You get to your feet, close in his sorry excuse for a slipstream, boots treading over the drops of blood he leaves behind. You plant a foot on his lower back, and he crumples beneath you. He lets out this pathetic groan which only solidifies your desire to smear his guts on the wall. It’s just you and him, and nothing else. Nothing around you. Nothing in between.

You straddle his back, one gloved hand pushing his head to the floor, just keeping it steady. He can’t turn far enough to look you in the eye, but you can look into his clearly enough. There’s panic there, fear, but beneath it – what else? – disgust. He tries to hit your leg, weakly pushes at your knee, neck straining to raise his head. Wriggling, like a miserable little worm.

You’re sort of hoping something in his face breaks on the first punch. That’s the brand of effort you put into it, anyway; you want something to cave in. But once your fist has landed, and you hear that hoarse grunt of pain, feel his body twitch underneath you, you can’t bring yourself to pause and check. You just hit him again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again, until you lose track of anything else. Fucking cursed rhythm. The pain in your elbow rears its head, the bone that never really got a chance to heal. You can’t hear him anymore. You can’t hear yourself. You only hear the impact, the bludgeoning, aimless. The yawn of a void that aches to be filled, and what a goddamn bore it is. You’re predictable. This song is getting old, it’s nauseating, but you can’t stop.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And—

Davin’s voice is nearly inaudible. Intonation is hard to distinguish, as is volume. “Renee,” he says.

Conrad gasps beneath him, head still pressed down. Blurry splatters of vermilion on the floor. Renee stops, somehow. His fist hovers beside his shoulder, shaking. Teeth locked, panting through his nose. His vision is so clouded, he can barely see.

“Save it,” Davin tells him.

One of Conrad’s hands pushes against the floorboards in another attempt to get up. Blood bubbles from his nose, gets caught in the creases of a wince. Voice rattling, but there’s a trace of bitter laughter in it, too. “He’s, he’s using you.”

Renee doesn’t move. Doesn’t punch, but doesn’t let up, either. His thumb digs into Conrad’s cheek. His own breathing rings hollow in his chest, makes his whole body vibrate. It feels good to grind someone’s face into the floor. It feels fucking good.

But he’s calming down. He’s in control.

“Renee,” Davin repeats. Sounds impatient.

Renee lets out a hiss through his teeth, sneering as he grabs Conrad arm and twists it onto his back. Grunts of effort rise from Conrad’s chest, straining to pry himself loose. Thin little noodle arms, what the fuck does he expect? It’s not even a contest. Dumb motherfucker. Dumb fuck. Dumb fuck. Renee pins both wrists with one hand. He avoids looking at the guy’s face directly, even when a gasp sends pink spittle flying. The red in his periphery is enough to grasp the idea.

As Renee is patting down his pockets for the handcuffs, still breathless, he hears the chain rattle from a few feet to his right. Shuts his eyes, baring his teeth. If he has to take another smug look from the mop, he’s pretty sure he will actually, physically explode. He just holds a hand out in Davin’s direction, and waits, until the nonchalant footsteps have drawn near, and something bumps the palm of his hand.

Once the cuffs are on, he lets Conrad go entirely. Pushes himself to his feet, turning his back on them both as he digs his fingers into the joint of his elbow, searching for reprise from the pulsing waves of pain. He clicks open the button on his wrist to pull one glove off. When he touches his upper lip, his fingers, still shaking, come away red. He thought he could taste it; he spits on the floor. Wipes the bottom half of his face in his shirt. What the fuck am I doing? But he’s in control. He’s in control.

After a deep breath, Renee finally turns to Davin. Blank expression. Psycho. All the man does is hold the eye contact for a bit, and then wordlessly shift to look at Conrad on the floor. Renee steels himself, follows his gaze.

Lying on his side, half curled around himself. There’s a gash running parallel through the one eyebrow, another splitting the skin of his cheekbone. Blood from the nose too, and the mouth. Red marks of rapidly forming bruises, scattered all over that one side of his face. It’s already starting to swell. He's staring dead-eyed at something the floor directly in front of his face.

A molar. Looks like two at first, but no. It’s just cracked in half.

Renee inhales deep. Sets his jaw as he walks back to Conrad’s side, not that he really stands a chance of playing it off like nothing happened. He coughs to mitigate the uneven feeling of his own voice. “Get up.”

Shaky breathing interrupted briefly when Conrad swallows with some effort. That rattling sound again, like there’s something in his throat. “You s-, see it, don’t you? He’s using you.”

“Get up, Conrad.”

A grimace. “Go to hell.”

Renee feels his body tense up again, comes within a hair’s breadth of unleashing that energy in a hard kick. Instead he bows down to grab an upper arm. Conrad draws in a sharp inhale as Renee pulls him up. Strongly favoring the good leg, he staggers to keep his balance as Renee maneuvers him out the door, with Davin following closely behind.

It takes Renee a few too many moments of frustrated hauling along to realize Conrad isn’t just being difficult for the sake of it. He does try to keep up, but even the limping is off kilter, visibly dizzy. They’re halfway down the hall when he lets out a whine and sinks again, and Renee finds himself catching Conrad’s whole weight by the arm before he can fall on his face.

So be it. Renee picks him up. Hears the muffled croak as Conrad’s diaphragm is poised on one shoulder, the noises of discomfort for each step Renee takes. He’s skinny, but a hundred-and-some pounds still isn’t a light task to carry up a winding flight of stairs – by the time they reach the platform, Renee is winded once again, feels the sweat building under his clothes.

He drops Conrad rather unceremoniously in the open space in the middle of the room, and steps out of the spotlights’ rays to gather his bearings. Wipes his nose again – still bleeding, but it’s subsiding – as Davin takes up his usual seat behind the monitor, shaking the mouse to stir it from slumber. Their eyes meet. Renee is ready to snap back at another mention of the time, but it doesn’t come. Davin just turns to the computer. Types out a short command, then poises one elbow on the table, a closed fist covering his mouth.

Another deep breath, and more than one silent refrain of, It’s just a job. Get it over with. Renee turns. In passing, he hears the near-silent whisper from the body hunched on the floor.

“Don’t make me stand up.”

Gritting his teeth, Renee fishes both ends of the chain from the hook in the wall. It clinks from the exposed rafters above, sways with his movements as Renee returns to Conrad. He secures one end to the handcuffs by the heavy carabiner, fumbling briefly with the locking mechanism, getting more and more frustrated with how much his hands are shaking. Once it’s fastened, he pulls Conrad up by the arm again, eliciting a groan, and only lets go when Conrad’s trembling uncertainty has dimmed enough that he can at least keep himself vertical. And then Renee steps back, pulling the other end of the chain with alternating hands, until it draws taught, lifting Conrad’s bound hands up toward his shoulder blades. The wince, the way his torso curls forward, and his shoulders hunch to accommodate. He’s staring at the floor, teeth bared in a grimace. The streaks of blood on his face are drying rapidly under the heat of the lights, even if the wounds are still bleeding.

Renee can be cruel if he wants to. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before. Really, what’s another stream on his conscience? He can slip into the role of that giddy, vindictive host, and put on a show for the depraved. He can earn his fucking money, whatever that takes, and then fuck off to Vegas to see how long it’ll last. He pulls the balaclava out of his pocket, drags it over his head. These things are always mildly itchy, for some reason, and his stubble gets caught in the fabric when he moves his head.

It’s a reluctantly shared glance that settles it. A simple nod, and the press of a button. They’re live.

It takes him an extraordinary amount of time to speak. For the first minute of the stream, he slowly walks across the room to pick up a folding chair leaned against the wall. Its legs drag loudly across the floor as he hauls it back towards what he knows is center frame. “Ladies,” he mutters, and he lets that linger for a while. Flips open the chair, placing it no more than a foot from Conrad’s side. As he sits down, crossing one ankle over his knee, he lets out a sigh that gets caught in the fabric over his face. Scratches at his chin through the balaclava. “Gentlemen... Attic... Welcome. So on and so forth.

“It’s been a week, hasn’t it? But he’s not dead, so you can stop speculating. He’s even relatively intact still.” Renee hesitates. Nods his head towards Conrad’s face, but doesn’t take his eyes off the camera. “Don’t mind all that, we had a mutual disagreement.” He chuckles dryly, but it fades into another sigh, gaze wandering to the side. “Sure has been seven days on the calendar,” he mutters, trailing off for a moment, before he catches the eye of the lens again. “I wish I could show you all a gimp – sorry, glimpse of what’s been going on behind the scenes, but honesty, it’s been pretty uneventful. Just your average administrative bullshit. Paperwork, filing cabinets, office meetings… Boring shit. Lame, some might call it. Eh?”

He elbows Conrad lightly in the thigh, and although it elicits a hiss, Conrad doesn’t turn his head. Just keeps it bowed facing the opposite direction, hands curled into fists behind him.

“He agrees,” Renee concludes. Laughs again, and while it’s a far cry from genuine, he thinks it might at least be fake in a way that he can stomach. He makes a big show of stretching his arms out, only to fold his hands on the back of his head, leaning backwards. “Yeah, so, with all the usual coworker drama, I’ve been racking this galaxy brain of mine for ways we could have some fun for a change. Loosen up a little bit, y’know? Forget the stressors of our nine-to-fives in exchange for… something more lively. And the best way to do that, as far as I’m concerned—”

“I love my dad.”

Renee pauses. “Huh?”

Shoulders tense, eyes still fixed to the wall, blood dripping from his chin. Conrad blinks rapidly for a few seconds, swallowing. “I love my dad,” he says again, louder this time. Deep breath. “I love Howard.”

Renee nods a little, brows raised. “Heartwarming, C-boy.”

Swaying ever so slightly where he stands, Conrad continues. “I love Paisley, and Jude, and the, and the twins. I love Ma and Bill.”

Renee coughs. “I kinda had this whole bit planned out, you know.”

“I love, I love everybody.”

Renee snorts. “What, are you fuckin’ Jesus now? You know I’m included in that last one, right?”

Conrad lets out a terse breath though his nose. Still doesn’t look at him.

Renee casts a few raised-brow glances between Conrad and the camera. “Anythin’ else you’d like to share with the class?”

A minute shake of his head.

It’s that look Conrad has afterwards, resigned, something almost content in his posture, that finally makes it click for Renee. He freezes, feeling his shoulders sink. Suddenly struggles to process the implications of what just happened.

Was that goodbye?

For a few seconds, he forgets they’re live. Just sits there, hands still locked at the back of his head, staring into nothing. It takes a while before he’s able to gradually pull himself out of it. He clears his throat and gets to his feet, moves the chair off to the side. Wants to say something, to keep the show going, but he doesn’t know how.

Why today? Why did these big shows of defiance, this fucking declaration of martyrdom, have to come today, of all days, when Renee’s nerves are already in tatters, when the whole thing is already making him sick to his stomach?

He ends up by the table in the back, running his gloved fingers past the various objects. Eyes latch on to the syringe, waiting. The liquid encased in glass, measured out beforehand, is a clear brownish yellow. The needle is so slim, it’s barely even visible against the grain of the tabletop.

His voice sounds distant. Casual, but distant. “Hallucinogens are kind of funny,” he says. “There’s a plant called datura – it’s everywhere, it’s a weed, really. You smoke the leaves. Sometimes, it makes you trip for a few days. Other times, it triggers lifelong schizophrenia. Other times still, it just straight up kills you. Wild shit.”

He picks up the syringe, holds it carefully between two fingers as he circles back to Conrad’s side. Posture rounded as the guy pulls for comfort along the chain’s reach. His eyes are still fixed to the floor, but the muscles of his jaw are taught.

“This isn’t datura,” Renee says. “It’s not gonna drive you crazy, at least not permanently. I think,” he adds, laughing uncertainly. He can brush it off as a play on ignorance about the drug’s potency, but it’s a bait and switch. In reality, DMT isn’t all that - Renee just doesn’t know what to do.

How long is he supposed to wait for that feeling to reappear? The focus is lost, and in its place is this razor sharp amalgamation of everything and nothing at all. He can’t think.

They’ve gotta see through the act, whoever’s watching. Isn’t it fucking obvious?

Back at the fixture in the wall, he briefly pockets the syringe to haul the chain down further. The unmistakable whine from Conrad as his hands are forced upwards, arms stretching out behind him. Gasps of pain, an effort to writhe free that dissipates as he curls further forward to ease the strain on his shoulders. Soon enough, he has to stand on his toes, arms raised to the extent it looks unnatural, and Renee knows that if he keeps going, Conrad’s shoulders will both dislocate. He secures the chain then, and spends a few moments just circling, watching. Pretending.

Conrad is shaking again. The occasional jerk doesn’t seem intentional, it’s always followed by a small groan. The swelling of his face is starting to creep towards one eye, threatening to force it shut. Dried flakes of blood crack at every grimace, and the parts of his skin that aren’t dark red instead have a sheen, as beads of sweat spring from his forehead, his upper lip.

“Already out of breath, huh…?”

With all his energy spent keeping his weight off aching shoulders, it seems none can be spared for a flinch when Renee digs the syringe into Conrad’s shoulder.

Renee pushes the plunger in, slowly.

Halfway down, he hesitates. Eyes flickering.

Fuck it.

He pulls the needle out, quickly. As he trails backwards toward the camera, hands obscured from view, he drives the needle through the palm of his leather glove and bottoms out the plunger. Doesn’t feel it pinch, but he’s not sure he even would, it’s all muddled. He spins around again, grinning, and makes a show of brandishing the empty syringe to the camera before he tosses it away.

It's not penance, it doesn’t right his wrongs, and he’s not trying to dilute that fact; but maybe half and half is only fair.

Fair. Even as he picks the bat up, drags it along the floor, sees the distressed glances from the victim he circles. Fucking fair. Even as he raises it, and places the end in the middle of Conrad’s back, and pushes down.

A hoarse cry, but it’s wordless, so Renee increases the pressure. It finally draws out a “Stop – don’t.”

Renee snorts. He stops, only to come around and, drawing the bat in a wide arch behind him, he swings. The dull thud as it contacts Conrad’s abdomen, driving the wind out of him, doesn’t seem to hurt as much as the resulting full-body jerk. He trips in place, hands behind him open claws, body seizing, before he finally manages to heave in a breath. One proper cough, and a series of others that are suppressed to keep as still as possible.

The onset following an intramuscular injection is two minutes. Renee spots it in Conrad before he feels it in himself. As he circles, Conrad finally forgets the stoic act and strains to look him in the eye. Something there is dawning. A fear that feels more raw than it usually does, less inhibited. Dilated pupils which keep drifting, from Renee’s face to the bat, and eventually – to the wall behind Renee. His breath hitches in his throat, and he blinks hard, struggling to keep his gaze levelled in the same spot.

Renee brings the bat down again, overhand hit. He aims for the lower spine this time, and he doesn’t pull his weight. Conrad lets out a cry, and evidently fights the urge to not right his posture too much, as if he’s split between the pain in his back and the one in his shoulders. His voice creaks. “Please s-stop, please stop, it hurts, okay, please—”

Renee watches Conrad’s wide eyes drift again, and it’s strange. The guy keeps mumbling in that fragile, pleading way, and while it’s still presumably directed at Renee, his focus seems to be on the wall entirely.

“It hurts, okay, it hurts, it hurts—I didn’t—don’t hit me, don’t—”

He would’ve laughed. Perhaps in a past life, perhaps if he hadn’t felt it. He feels drunk, but not drunk. It’s the same lack of orientation, but missing the vital buzz. He raises the bat. He brings it down. He hears the cry of pain, the begging. Nothing.

“Stop, just stop, oh my god, please just stop—”

Whenever Renee moves, or breathes, or blinks, it feels detached, like he’s standing on one end of a tunnel, viewing reality through the pinhole at the other end. He brings the bat down, it draws out a scream, and this sequence is repeated ad nauseum, but nothing happens.

He brings the bat down, it does nothing, nobody’s there, he’s not even doing anything, he’s been dead for a while, his corpse is baking in the sun, the light is blinding, he can’t see, he doesn’t feel it, he can’t feel a thing, the sun isn’t even there, there is no sun, there is no tunnel, there is no corpse, there is no bat, but he brings it down, he doesn’t pull his weight, it’s what they want, he can be cruel, he brings it down –

It’s not until he hears the scream that Renee realizes the hollow thud of the bat against flesh was accompanied by another sound just then – a low pop of sorts, but wet-sounding, almost soggy. Gritting his teeth, he stumbles a few steps backwards, but the noise follows him, and Conrad is writhing. Something about his arm, gleaned from cries that all mesh together, the inarticulateness of his agony. The sound loops around the room like a vortex, deafeningly loud, amplified by itself like an endless feedback loop. Something about his arm.

The room is so hot. Nagging, pulsing.

Renee isn’t seeing things, but it feels like he might as well be. Feels like he’s frantically scrambling to scoop up all the fragments of something that shattered. Disorienting, nonsensical, churning. The bat slides from his palm, hitting the floor with a thunk before it rolls off to the side. He locks his hands over the nape of his neck, pacing, struggling to not fold forward, stomach lurching. He shakes his head in the hopes it’ll dislodge whatever fucking clot is causing it. He feels like a lump of butter sliding around a frying pan, slowly melting – of all the images he could’ve come up with, that’s the one that pops into his head. The ground underneath him is slippery, and whatever part of him hasn’t dissolved yet, under this kind of heat, it will.

In his periphery, Conrad’s bare feet shift. His bad leg is only supported by the toes, while the knee of the good leg bearing the brunt of his weight is visibly shaking from exertion. The strain of his body, the sweat collecting on his shirt, the blood coagulating on the floor. One shoulder is dislocated. One has to assume, given the strange way it dips in at the edge of his collarbone. Grotesque, gross-looking.

Renee lets his arms drop to his sides, shuts his eyes. Stands there for a few moments, panting, head bowed, just treading water. The fan of the server whirs dispassionately.  The spotlights are hot on his back. A drop of sweat trickles down his right side, over the soft protrusion of the bottom of his ribcage. It feels like an ant snuck under all the black layers and is now crawling over his skin. Strange how the sensation stands out so much when others fight harder for dominance. The pain in his elbow, the nausea, the overwhelming bewildered sense of urgency. The ant, crawling.

Gasps for air, the creaking of exhausted pain, interspersed with the clicking of the chain at every attempt to reposition a trembling body in a way that might bring relief. Renee hears the pause, the effort to swallow, followed by a high groan, too drained to even sound afraid anymore. Groan after groan after groan.

Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck. Fuck.

Renee opens his eyes. He moves quickly; he has to.

His hands shake too badly to hit the camera’s button on the first go, so he sets his jaw and yanks out its power supply instead. He doesn’t spare a glance in Davin’s direction. Nor Conrad’s, as he resolutely crosses the floor. He has to pull the chain down a bit to free the link from the fixture in the wall, prompting a scream from Conrad, which turns into a yelp when the chain is freed, and Renee lets it go entirely. Conrad crumples to the floor like a ragdoll, with no chance of bracing himself for the landing. Doesn’t make a sound when he hits; maybe he blacked out.

Renee doesn’t stop to check the aftermath. He rips the balaclava off his head as he storms out of the room. Allows himself, finally, to heave for the air he’s been lacking. It’s all static in his head as he stumbles down the stairs, a tumultuous mess of half-finished thoughts, impulses, images flashing on repeat, blood and noise and flesh and screaming, hammering against the inside of his skull. His shoulder slams into the wall when the stairs pivot along their axis, and he staggers down the last flight, tripping at the bottom, landing on his hands and knees. Crawling forward, pausing when his lurching stomach finally wins, and he retches – dry. He lets out a grunt. Manages to push himself halfway to his feet again, but then he hits the wall, slides down, presses his back against the plaster, heaving. Stars dance across his vision, feels like a visualization of the pins and needles that wash through his whole body.

His hands shake so bad, it takes him five or six tries to finally get the button of the glove undone, and when he forcefully yanks the leather off, he hears a seam somewhere rip. Brownish liquid stains his hand, mixed with sweat, thick like honey, and just as sticky. His palm is otherwise spotless. No blood, no injection site.

The needle never breached his skin.

Previous / Masterlist / Next

[witherhusbandsislife]

Emptober Day 8: Star

Prompt: Star

Characters: Sausage, Jimmy, Gem

Ships: Sausage x Jimmy

Season: 1

Time: After Xornoth was banished, the time of peace before the Rapture

Wordcount: 529

~~~

The sky was clear, stars twinkling brightly in the expanse of black above him. It contrasted to the cool, dewy grass underneath him. The warmth of his former enemy wrapped around him as he snuggled closer to the Codfather, poking his nose into the small hollow at the base of Jimmy’s throat and giggling at Jimmy’s startled yelp as the sudden chill of his nose hit the cod hybrid’s warm skin. 

“Quit that, you’re cold,” Jimmy complained, making no move to push Sausage away. He snickered, looking up at Jimmy with his best pouty face. “But I’m so cooolddd, can’t you warm me up?” 

He rolled his eyes. “We’re already cuddling, what more do you want?” 

“A kiss?” Jimmy squawked, blushing bright red at Sausage’s suggestion, the brunette looking up at him brightly with his trademark grin that always convinced people to do what he wanted. 

It only took a little more eyelash-batting and flirty looks from him to get Jimmy to relent, pulling Sausage closer and into his lap as the smaller man reached up and met his lips with Jimmy’s. He kept the kiss short and chaste, really just teasing Jimmy. He was so much fun to play with, even more than he had been when they were enemies. 

The sky flashed above them, and Jimmy pointed up with a gasp as the first star began to fall, a bright point of light streaking across the sky and fading away as more and more stars began to fall and fly across the nighttime sky. 

“It’s so beautiful,” Sausage whispered, shenanigans temporarily forgotten as his eyes were glued to the sky and the glorious nature show above them. 

“Yeah,” Jimmy agreed quietly, his webbed fingers entwined with Sausage’s human ones. 

The stars continued to twirl and dance across the sky, and the two lovers shared another kiss under the stars, settling in to watch the rest of the show, however long it lasted. 

A couple of hours later, the shower of stars dwindled, the sky fading back to its natural pitch void speckled with starry freckles. The two rulers, fast asleep in each other’s arms, unaware of the world around them as a cloaked figure approached the partners.

Gem raised an eyebrow at the two sleeping beauties, smiling to herself. Looks like Sausage took her advice on the meteor shower date. 

Unwrapping the blanket she had with her, Gem draped it over them, Jimmy muttering and shoving his face in Sausage’s hair but not fully waking up at the mild disturbance. Sausage slept on soundly, impossible to wake even with a marching band playing on top of his head. 

Her job done, Gem spread magical amethyst wings and took off quietly, soaring back home towards the Crystal Cliffs. She did her part and gave them a blanket; if Sausage woke up with frostbite or got sick from sleeping outside in winter, that was his problem and she was going to taunt the ever-loving hell out of her idiot friend. 

The stars twinkled above, watching everything in their usual shimmering way. 

[rubyiiiusions]

crawls out of the void,,, here u go bowuigi enjoyers

tongues and teeth // bowser x luigi

word count 2244 // ao3 link

summary: “Ah, rigatoni… I’m sorry–” “It’s fine.” “...Oh. Eh… has no one ever called your singing beautiful before?” “...Not in so many words.” (or, luigi is afraid of a lot of things, but fire has never been one of them, much to his dismay.) [rated T: mario movie spoilers, hurt/comfort, torture, rough kissing but they dont kiss its just really gay ass dialogue]

He’d banged his head against the bars, jolting as the chains above him whirred away. …Great, just as I thought I could stop having a panic attack, Luigi thought wryly, hissing in pain and scrambling to his feet as he was lifted, his cage pulled up into the gaping maw of the ceiling. Below him, a few of the penguins(and of course that absolutely enlightening blue star, but Luigi had been trying to filter out its voice) squawked out protests or questions, and he bit his lip. Like I chose to be here! He wanted to yell. I never wanted to go in the sewers, I never wanted to get sucked in here, I never wanted to leave my brother! I just wanted to start a business, wanted to prove to my dad that I’m more than just a good student…

I just want to go home. 

“Here he is, your highness!” The wizard chirped, far too cheerfully, and Luigi let out a small, nervous laugh, giving his captor a small wave and trying not to instinctively rub the sore spot where a few of his mustache hairs had once been. 

Luigi could see the smoke curling in the air as it left Bowser’s nostrils. It was almost mesmerizing, the way he could see the barely-held-back fire, trapped in his maw, glowing and flickering in the dim light of the throne room. If he wasn’t terrified, he’d be curious. 

“Shoo, Kamek,” the King dismissed, and the wizard instantly scurried away, muttering a quick yes sir. And, suddenly, they were alone. 

Luigi’s heart was pounding in his chest. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Bowser, letting out a quiet heh and pulling at the collar of his shirt nervously. For a moment, all his captor was doing was studying him, tracing his figure, as if imagining what it would be like to tear him apart, how his skeleton would look bare, skin burnt to a crisp. 

“Is… there a reason you brought me here, L-Lord Bowser?” He ventured tentatively, sweat beading from his forehead and dripping down his neck. 

The Koopa let out a huff that could have passed for amused. “Never had one of my prisoners call me ‘lord’ before,” he mused, and extended a hand. A glowing, shimmering star materialized in his palm, spinning at his will. It pulsed and thrummed, like a heartbeat loud enough to rival Luigi’s own, power radiating from it in waves. Bored, Bowser flicked it with a finger, sending it spinning across the room, before calling it back to his grasp. 

“Eh… what would you prefer?” Luigi asked, trying and failing to tear his gaze away and instead opting to awkwardly readjust his hat. “King? Majesty? Sovereign? Sir? Master?”

Bowser seemed to choke on something before clearing his throat. He closed his fist and the star flickered back to its place behind his throne. “Lord and King are fine, thank you,” he snarled, more embarrassed than hostile. Luigi took a sheepish step back. 

“You… bald ape people fascinate me,” he muttered, more for himself than Luigi. The human furrowed his eyebrows. “So small, so… smooth. Warm-blooded. It’s odd.” 

“We’re… uh, we’re called humans, sir,” Luigi attempted, voice small, but Bowser didn’t acknowledge him. “Majestic, even…” the Koopa was muttering, lost in his own thoughts. “Is there…”

He snapped back to attention and took a booming step forward. “You! Uhh…”

“Luigi,” He tried to state calmly, but it came out as more of a squeak. 

“Luigi. Yes.” Bowser clasped his hands together. Luigi tilted his head curiously. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought that the Koopa King was nervous. “I have a very important question for you.”

“Me?” Luigi almost whimpered, and his heart was racing. …Mamma mia, what have I gotten myself into?

“Well, duh. You’re the only one here,” Bowser muttered, still quiet, and Luigi stifled a yelp of fear at the reminder, taking another step back. He cleared his throat and, surprisingly, seemed to retreat into his shell a bit, eyes darting from his talons to the volcanic brick floor to Luigi and back again. “Let me… present a hypothetical situation. You look like her. If… if you were a powerful, strong, heart-stoppingly beautiful princess who led her subjects to great prosperity, would you fall in love with me?”

Luigi blinked. “What.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Princess Peach!” Bowser snapped, casting his gaze skyward, as if a spotlight was trained on him as he went into a powerful, heartbreaking monologue, Romeo and Juliet style. “The most beautiful princess in all the land? Blue eyes, blond hair? Ruler of the Mushroom Kingdom, which I’m about to raze to the ground as I ask for her hand in marriage?” There were stars in his eyes, somehow glimmering brighter than the one shining behind his throne. “She’s… she’s perfect. I’m going to rule the world by her side. We’ll destroy everything… together.” 

Luigi let out a small, nervous laugh. “I… eh, I don’t know if I can answer for the princess… I’ve never met her, and–”

“Let me rephrase,” Bowser snarled, and suddenly he was towering over Luigi’s cage, smoke curling from his open mouth, rumbling in a growl. He yelped and scrambled backward. “If you were Peach, would you fall in love with me?”

“Y–Yes!” Luigi blurted, terrified, and Bowser’s eyes widened. A genuine smile spread across his face. What the hell is wrong with this guy? 

“As I assumed!” The King clapped his hands, turning to hide his excitement. Luigi found he couldn’t tear his eyes away. “Thanks for your help–not that I needed it, or that you had a choice,” He quickly tacked on, shooting him a glare that somehow seemed forced. “I wasn’t nervous, by the way.”

Bowser waved a hand and the chains holding Luigi’s cage in place began to whir, sinking slowly back into the ground. Luigi kept his eyes trained on that shell, shining in the flickering firelight, and that tail that whisked back and forth happily until the throne room turned into a sliver of light and disappeared. He let out a sigh of relief, far too shaken to unpack any of the truth in his words. 

-

“If… ah, if you don’t mind me asking… what’s so special about this ‘Peach’?” Luigi ventured. He would have been terrified–hell, he still was, but he could breathe and his heart wasn’t threatening to beat out of his chest, so he counted that as a partial victory–if these… visits hadn’t become a regular occurrence. It was like clockwork; every night(or what he could only assume was night–the time his internal clock was begging him to sleep, but that wasn’t quite a reliable source) chains would start whirring and he’d be pulled back up to the throne room, face to face with King Bowser himself. If he wasn’t so put off, he’d be bored, but there was something about him that seemed to spark a flame in Luigi’s chest, as if preparing him to burn to a crisp. 

Bowser had a faraway look in his eyes that, for once, was marred with conflict. “She’s… she’s beautiful,” he murmured, and Luigi studied the sudden softness in his expression. “She has heart-shaped bangs, the voice of an angel, the strength of a thousand men, the…” He trailed off, cleared his throat. “What an absurd question. Now, tell me. If you were Peach, would you be entranced by this song?”

(He couldn’t answer for the princess, but Luigi was so drawn in by his bellowing, trembling voice, shaking with emotion, that he couldn’t do anything but nod, couldn’t tear his eyes away from those fangs, curved and sharpened to a knife’s point, couldn’t turn away no matter how much of a bad idea this was. He was a prisoner, after all, but he’d been beginning to wonder if it was to the Koopa King or his own, traitorous, fearful(aflame) heart.)

-

“Your voice is beautiful,” Luigi couldn’t help but murmur in the deafening silence that followed. Bowser let out a small huff, a tiny smile flickering on his face for a moment. 

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me and meant it.”

Luigi turned, eyes wide with shock. He was sitting at the foot of the piano, and he could have ran. Should have ran. But there was nowhere to go, and what harm could one more song do? 

“...Really?”

Bowser shrugged, seemingly resigned, soft around the edges. “I mean, the only other person I’ve ever sung for this way is Kamek, and… well, you know. Brainwashed and everything.”

“Huh.” Luigi studied the king’s eyes and, for the first time, saw something that might have been sadness in them. 

(His irises were auburn, a gnarled tree caught aflame.)

“So you think Peach will like it?” He asked, soft voice betraying the hidden longing in his expression. 

“Mamma mia… I’d be surprised if she didn’t,” Luigi answered honestly, and something trembled in his chest.

-

Luigi yelped as a claw curled around his mustache, pulling playfully at the hairs. “Wha–yeowch–what are you doing?”

“Physical torture,” Bowser responded bluntly, before breaking off into a bellowing laugh. Fear and awe, in equal parts, boomed in his chest.

“Eh… I thought…”

“Wrong!” Bowser hummed, gleeful, and the malicious grin on his face widened as his claw moved from tugging at mustache hairs to tracing Luigi’s jawline past his ear to flick his hat. “You’re my prisoner. I’ll do as I please. What, did you forget? You’re entirely at my mercy.”

He should have been afraid. Was afraid. But…

That fire, glowing from behind Bowser’s barely parted grin. The way his eyes flashed, fiery amber. He was afraid of a lot of things, but flames… flames had never been one of them. No matter how much it hurt as they singed his fingers.

-

“Ah, rigatoni… I’m sorry–”

“It’s fine.”

“...Oh. Eh… has no one ever called your playing beautiful before?”

“...Not in so many words.”

-

He knew it was the beginning of the end when as his eyes were drooping, the chains didn’t clank and whir anymore, didn’t pull him up to what had somehow become his escape. He heard a faint whooping of joy above, the newly-captured Kongs and Toads sitting sullenly in their cages, some rattling their bars and others yelling at the floating, ever-cheerful turquoise star, and bit his lip.

What the hell had he been thinking? How had he let that fear, the only thing keeping him alive right now(and maybe not his brother, but–no, he couldn’t, wouldn’t think about that right now) morph into something entirely different, something he was afraid to put a name to? Why hadn’t he noticed? Why–

Oh, no… why did he miss his voice?

-

The wave of relief that surged through him as Mario swiped him out of midair with a cry, pulling him close into a tight hug, swearing to never let go, was almost enough to extinguish the fire.

Almost. 

But as Luigi’s eyes caught Bowser’s, as the ice shattered, as the volcano roared and the princess he’d heard so much about cried out, reaching out in vain as the bullet bill surged towards her castle, seemingly infinitesimal in the shadow of Bowser’s Castle, he felt a spark lick its way from his stomach up his spine, through his veins, and settle into a flickering flame in his chest.

It had been nothing compared to this; the searing metal trash can lid, the burns on his palms, stinging, and the metal was bending. The star thrummed behind him and Bowser’s panicked roar echoed in his ears, humming humming humming with the fire that licked just beside him, curling around his mustache in a way that had him seeing stars.

He wondered–was this what it was like to feel alive? To burn?

And then–

A white glow, searing behind his eyelids, but it was cold. Fast moving, like an icy, brittle moon orbiting its sun, and his skin was shimmering, tingling with a numbness that made him uneasy. Nonetheless, power flooded through his veins, beating with his heart, and he narrowed his eyes. 

Fear was a good look on Bowser. So was defeated, lying facedown in the dust. Luigi had a strange urge to reach down and smooth the tangles in his hair. Almost a shame, how pathetic he looked, rendered to nothingness and trapped in that jar.

-

(He dreamt of his voice, of full, booming piano tones and bursts of flame, of amber eyes.)

-

Luigi was jostled awake to the realization that he couldn’t breathe or move. His eyes widened and he stifled a yelp. His wrists were bound, behind his back and tied to a chair, and sweat beaded at his neck. The walls were flickering, and fear bloomed in his stomach. 

A rumbling laugh, far too familiar, echoed throughout… wherever he was, and he whimpered. Something stirred in his chest, and he gasped when he realized it was a spark. It was too late–the flame was already fueled. 

“You’re an amusing one,” Bowser growled, low and cocky as he lumbered forward. Oh, how Luigi wished that voice didn’t send a shiver down his spine, equal parts relief, yearning, and fear. A claw hooked under his neck, thumb playfully teasing his mustache before poking at his lower lip, mouth agape. Bowser licked his lips. “I think I’ll keep you.”