#technically just a happy canon compliant thought

[lyculuscaelus]

Ok now maybe imagine if it didn’t take too long for Odysseus to finish the oar quest as instructed by Teiresias, say, a year or two (maybe three but tops I swear) from when he sailed from Ithaca to the mainland and went all the way northwards, until he at last finished the ritual and then returned once more back to his homeland.

It wasn’t a woeful journey, this time—just receiving Xenia from different cities, meeting some old faces and new faces (cue Acarnan and Amphoterus sons of Alcmaeon in Acarnania; maybe catching up with his brother-in-law Alyzeus in the city of Alyzia; maybe visiting Amphilochus in Amphilochia cuz why not; maybe helping out a young Thesprotian prince Polypoetes son of Pheidon the deceased king in a war and having to sign an adoption contract), disguising as an old man, lying his way northward—“hey look I’m just a simple Cretan but I can tell you about Odysseus if you want” (turns out all those non-Homeric traditions are stories Odysseus in disguise told to those Epirotes along the way), maybe all the way to Buthrotum where Helenus and Andromache welcomed him unaware of his identity (as he yapped about how he was a Ciconian whose hometown Ismarus was destroyed by cruel Odysseus as he was brought along the way until getting marooned in Thrinacia and something something Phoenicians and stuff) as they traded stories and ended up lamenting the fall of Troy and talking shit on Odysseus—including Odysseus himself (“fun,” says Odysseus as he continues throwing slanders on himself, “now shall I tell you how he died by some guy named Telegonus, someone born to him on Aeaea though I didn’t see anything”), maybe reaching the land of Illyrians where he heard about their history from Cadmus’s arrival to the not-so-recent Epigonoi war (and all Odysseus can think about is his bestie), maybe finding his way past the Riphean Mountains to Hyperborea where he finally performed the ritual (I mean, no ship, no salt…sounds like it).

Then maybe he’s picking a path south-east to visit some old friends (*snaps* what did you say Nauplius has done again *picks up a rock* alr say it again), maybe traversing the rest of Greece from Thessaly (didn’t see you back in war—how are y’all faring, O so many sons of Heracles?) to Mycenae (your dad sends his regards from hell, Orestes) to Argos (wait where the heck is my Diomedes) to Sparta (Menelaus: hehehehe I knew you’d make it old buddy oh btw your son has your thighs) to Pylos where Nestor finally gave him a ship to go home cuz he had no oar left (Nestor: also Peisistratus my boy I know you want to go to Ithaca for some…*coughs* specific reasons so here’s the ship and you’re the captain).

Back to Ithaca! Telemachus celebrated Odysseus’s return with joy (and was surprised by Peisistratus’s arrival). During his father’s absence he had run the kingdom well—a good job continuing to reestablish the class of nobility in Cephalonia as Odysseus willed it. Then Odysseus found Penelope waiting at the olive tree, as she met his gaze and smiled—and the world was again back into shape, for Odysseus, the great craftsman.

And this time, Odysseus finally realized he was this old, this tired, after all the years of traveling. The world of wanderings, in the end, had become too much, too far away, for the man of twists and turns. Not even the world of reality could mend the scars left in his heart, a mind forever haunted by shadows of the past. But for now, a world of home would do—it’d be everything for him, really—just a man with his family, and the peaceful days he had long craved.

So he swore to stay, here by the side of his love ones, never again to be apart. So he stayed, for the rest of his life, till death in the coming days did them part…

He’d inherit his father’s farm after old Laërtes’s death, and teach Telemachus the art of gardening, to take care of all the grape vines, fig trees, pear trees, apple trees, and…olive trees. He’d sing his tales to the new generation of Ithacan children, mentoring them on the virtues of Xenia, of bravery, of love. And he’d go back to his old habit of carving, sculpting figurines out of wood—oh, but he’d make so many wonders—the monsters of legends (that he had seen), the faces of old acquaintances (that he would never forget), the images of gods (that he had stolen)…and he’d show them all to his family, and sometimes, to his people struck by curiosity.

Meanwhile, Telemachus would be so delighted to indulge a father who had long missed the chance to raise his own child, as a son who had never got the chance to make any childhood memory with his father. And so often would they roam around in the forests, catching up days forever lost to them both. Meanwhile, Penelope would be so enamored of her husband’s passion, as the one who knew his mind best (oh, what a blessing of homophrosyne). And so often would they pace around in the farm, chattering at length from the rosy-fingered Dawn till the star-filled night…

Maybe at some point, the memories would prove to be too heavy for the old king. Days and nights his family would find him whispering commands that went unheard, words of comfort that he no longer needed—or that he needed the most. All he saw were illusions of the horror he had once witnessed. All he heard were hallucinations of the Siren song he had once heard. Maybe after all these years, ptsd had finally caught up with him. Maybe it went even worse after Penelope’s passing…

Until one day, a stranger knocked the gate of Odysseus’s palace open.

Prince Telemachus offered him food—he politely refused, asking to meet the old king right away.

Odysseus came out, fixing his gaze on the visitor’s face—it seemed foreign, yet strangely familiar—it was as if he had known him so long ago, in a place he couldn’t quite name. But the stranger only moved forward, meeting Odysseus’s eyes.

“Come,” he said gently. “Time to join the rest of them…time to join her.”

And Odysseus knew.

Turning to his son, Odysseus muttered a few words of comfort. Somehow, Telemachus knew this to be a farewell—he embraced his father one last time, smiling in tears.

The prince of Ithaca watched the two of them walk away, to the sea where the stranger came from, as he suddenly leapt, spreading a pair of wings, carrying Odysseus off quickly. Realization struck him finally.

The stranger was none other than fearful Thanatos.

So this is the Death that comes to him from the sea, in such a gentle way.

[the-godly-beef]

Gyaru Nart because why not ✨️

[slowd1ving]

ACT IV: DECAY ✦ . 　⁺ VIL SCHOENHEIT NSFW

Vil Schoenheit and second place aren't supposed to be a thing. He's supposed to be the very embodiment of perfection, so why the hell is someone else's name usurping his crown on the Potions leader board? In which our starring actor cannot quench the flames of academic rivalry and resentment that consume him, nor can he fathom the enigma that you are. gn! scientist! reader warnings: contains nsfw but only later, angst with a happy ending, spoilers for book five, canon-compliant violence

TWISTED WONDERLAND MASTERLIST

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MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ✧ ･

Scene I: Ink . 　⁺

It all starts again on a very dull morning. Staccato beats of the rain on the rickety windows of Ramshackle provide background music for Vil to drink his smoothie to. Except that’s not the only miserable music. His ears are assaulted by the conversation you’re currently having with Jamil, Rook and Ace. Does Grim count when he’s technically the other pea in your miserable pod?

“All I’m saying is that there’s no reason to make a movie series that long,” you argue. Whose movies are you referring to? Vil wishes he was paying attention earlier. “Like what have you got to say for that many movies?”

“Trickster, some people are just dedicated to the pursuit of their passion,” Rook intercedes, leaning his head on his hands to gaze at you more efficiently.

“The Fast and Furious franchise has no reason to be that long,” you lament, frustration creeping into your tone. Vil’s never heard of that movie series. He doesn’t think he wants to know what it is.

“Rook, there’s like nine sequels, and the last one especially does not make any sense,” Vil takes back his earlier thoughts. This seems to be a conversation between you and Rook, in which Ace and Jamil are unenthusiastic spectators. “There’s nothing less beautiful than plot holes.”

“Anyways,” you continue in the same breath, all hints of sadness gone. Vil’s not sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. “Do you guys feel ready for the SDC tomorrow? Your routine is really impressive.”

“My bones hurt so much,” Ace groans from behind his food. “I’ve never felt so pulverised.”

“We will win,” Jamil promises you, fiddling with his spoon on the table. You give them both a cheerful thumbs up while eating - for once, you’ve got scraps of decorum.

“I will put on my most beautiful performance knowing you’re watching, mon cher,” Rook clasps your hand between his gloved ones. Sure, Rook’s probably just being himself, but Vil can’t help the trickle of unease that he feels.

“I don’t doubt it,” you respond with a grin. “Those RSA twerps won’t know what hit them. Although, I’ve had a really weird set of dream-”

“Spudling,” Vil clears his throat to get your attention. You turn to face him, still wearing your jubilant grin. His heart almost stops. It takes all he can to not fumble while taking the lanyard out of his blazer pocket. “Keep this lanyard safe so you can come backstage as the NRC Tribe Manager.”

“Cool,” you take it one handed, still allowing Rook to clasp your other hand. Why does Vil care so much? He tries desperately to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. “Thanks!”

“We’ll go over the routine and iron out any wrinkles in around twenty minutes,” Vil continues, meeting the eyes of each cast member. He’ll just have to ignore whatever he’s feeling until after the SDC. “Make sure the rest of the potatoes are up and ready to go.”

The tell-tale signs of nervousness creep into Vil’s being after he exits the room. He has to beat Neige. No longer will he be cast aside to play the villain. The world will see what he’s got to offer.

“Mira mira, tell me who, at this moment, is the fairest of them all?” Vil speaks slowly and quietly to his phone as he makes his way to his room to get some items for practice.

“Neige LeBlanche.”

He should’ve expected it, really, but he cannot help but let his teeth grind slightly in anger. Just you wait, Neige. He’ll beat Neige fair and square. Finally, he’ll be able to step out of the villain’s shoes.

His muscles ache after his gruelling training. Nothing he won’t be able to recover from; he can’t help but push himself to his limits at the prospect of beating Neige. The rest of the crew somehow manages to execute a near-flawless performance, with only a few minor hand-placement errors.

“Wow,” you cheer them on by your designated spot next to the speakers, cradling Grim in your lap. “You guys are absolutely gonna shred the competition.”

“That’s right!” Ace grins at you, catching the water bottle you toss at him and taking a few enthusiastic swigs.

“Pass me one too,” Deuce reaches out as you toss another water bottle. It’s a natural cue for a break, and the crew decides to take a breather. Vil feels an absurd surge of pride at the sight; somehow, these ungainly tubers have managed to grow into shapely potatoes who can no doubt beat Neige.

“We’ll regroup in ten,” Vil instructs. He’s not satisfied completely, but the passion that’s been poured into this routine is undeniable. Before he can question his body, his legs are already taking him to you. You’re scratching behind Grim’s ears and look up in abject surprise at his approach.

“I need your opinion,” Vil murmurs, leaning down to you so your faces are in close proximity. You furrow your brows; he knows how unlikely it is that he’s approached you. Still, your analysis skills are seriously impressive. “Can you give me a detailed observation of our performance? Spare no detail.”

“Right,” you pull out your phone nonchalantly, scrolling through your gallery until you find the recording of the practice. Of course you’ve come prepared.

“Right at the beginning it’s a really strong start, but as soon as those first few seconds are up, Deuce always misplaces his hand-” Vil’s not sure when he joins you on the floor, leaning ever so slightly into you as you zoom into the areas of imperfection.

“You’ve noticed that too?” Vil comments. You murmur your assent, pressing play again.

“It’s only a slight error, but yeah,” you continue, pausing the video again where it’s Kalim’s misstep. “I think it’s just overeagerness and the adrenaline of performing. The rest of the errors are really just minor hiccups with the singing - but I won’t be able to point them out as well.”

“I’ll give them some extra individual instruction,” Vil promises, more to remind himself than reassure you. You turn to scrutinise him; it’s not like he’s unfamiliar with the weight of people’s gazes, but it’s just you.

“I’ve made notes on the small, consistent screw-ups that’ve surfaced recently when it comes to dance steps. Rook and Jamil are both fine, and Epel only has one,” your shoulder brushes against him as you turn extra carefully to not disturb the snoozing Grim on your lap. You hand him your class notebook, which has been filled with quick sketches of the mistakes. Vil’s eyes widen considerably at the level of diligence you’ve afforded your role. Sure, he knows your eye for detail in science, but he never thought-

“You can borrow it for a bit,” you turn the page to show him the notes you’ve made. Then suddenly you flip back to the previous page.

“I forgot you won’t be able to read them,” you sigh in exasperation. “All that work for nothing.”

Vil is oddly touched. You’ve made extensive notes just for him? He can feel the gesture warm his cheeks as he stares down at the outreached notebook, waiting for him to take it.

“The thought is appreciated,” he thanks you, carefully placing your notebook within his lap. He’s lucky the diagrams are circled with different colours marking out areas of weakness, or he’s sure he’d get lost trying to read through the scribbled notes right next to them.

“I can always just read them out if you need me too,” you lean back on one palm, balancing your body weight as you scritch under Grim’s chin. As much as the little furball wants to deny it, he’s very clearly got the mannerisms of a cat as a large purr rumbles from him. You stifle a little giggle into your shoulder.

“That- that would be great,” it’s so unlike Vil to get flustered, but he can’t help the smile that stays on his face well into the remainder of the practice.

He can’t seem to hold onto whatever hatred he had for you.

Scene II: Rot . 　⁺

The next time he sees your face is around ten minutes before the dress rehearsal on the SDC stage. Vil can feel his already straight posture adjust itself so it’s completely perfect, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Rook, given the look the hunter shoots him. He’s ignoring that.

“They almost didn’t let me in,” you complain, striding over to Rook and waving the lanyard that’s around your neck. Vil’s not sure how they could’ve missed it, with it being what can only be described as a neon red.

“It’s good to see you regardless, mon chou,” Rook is once again clasping your hands, and once again you’re not pulling away.

“I’m going to ignore that you’ve just called me a cabbage,” you comment, looking around at the stage. The little furball that’s normally with you is nowhere to be found; Vil isn’t sure whether to be relieved that he isn’t wreaking havoc here, or whether to be worried that he’s wreaking havoc elsewhere. “Where do I sit while watching?”

“There’s actually the front seats directly next to the stage,” Vil points to the special row reserved for managers and important personnel. You unhook your hands from Rook’s to turn to where Vil’s pointing, your eyes lighting up as you see the comfortable looking chairs set up.

“Right, thanks,” you flash an extremely brief smile at both of them. It seems that whatever rivalry you had with him has been dissolved on your end. He doesn’t know if he should be insulted or happy about it. “Break both legs for both performances.”

“What?” Vil mutters to himself as you stride away enthusiastically. Maybe it’s just a saying from wherever you’re from. It’s ‘break an arm’ for performances, what are you on about? “What could that possibly mean?”

“Mr. Shoenheit, we’re about to go on air to tape your practice performance,” a cameraman apologetically interrupts Vil’s musings. He snaps to attention, letting his face fall back into the most professional poker face he can manage.

“Of course, I’ll get the NRC Tribe into formation,” Vil responds smoothly, waving the rest of the crew to the front of the stage. It only takes a minute; they’re clearly enthusiastic (if not a bit nervous) to perform in front of people who aren’t you and Grim. Deep breaths. A wave of resounding calm flows through him; it’s a lucid state he’s perfected before each and every performance.

The first notes of the rhythmic song start. His eyes unfocus slightly, allowing his muscle memory to take control for the most part. It’s now just a matter of pouring his emotions into the song and dance to truly capture the hearts of those watching. The flow. The haze. It all becomes a part of him, and he knows the rest of those dancing up on stage with him can feel it. Surely they feel the connection of their passion?

He meets your eyes, your wide, enraptured eyes as you gaze at him. He doesn’t fully realise, but the words he sings are for your ears for now. Let this be dedicated to you, and he can worry later about sharing the passion he feels with the rest of the spectators. Vil’s not emotionally stupid; he can tell his feelings have veered into territory that he simply doesn’t want to acknowledge yet. He just has to let them flow into his performance and worry about the rest later.

His mind is deliciously clear, enjoying the endorphins pumping through his blood at the pleasant stretch of movement. It’s already halfway done? The altered passage of time when he’s in the zone is always a surprise. From your excited grin, he can safely assume this performance is one, if not the, best they’ve given. And it’s all for you to watch, before it’s posted for the world to see.

Raucous applause disrupts his flow as the cameras are cut with a signal from the camera crew. You’re standing and clapping your hands with some serious force as you join them up on stage.

“Almost moved me to tears,” you joke, congratulating them on a flawless performance. “Seriously though, you guys are ready.”

You don’t need to say anymore. You stand back to give them space, but Vil watches in dawning horror as you bump into the one and only Neige LeBlanche. It’s only a mild shoulder bump, but it’s happened. The two of you have made contact.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologise profusely, taking a big step back. “I should’ve been looking where I was going.”

“It’s fine, really,” Neige smiles at you, sickeningly sweet. Beside Vil, the NRC dance crew members look at you with incredulity. Why are you so goddamn oblivious? “I shouldn’t have approached this way.”

“If you’re sure,” you trail off, noting the weird looks directed your way by Ace and Deuce. “What the hell are you guys gawking at?

Before Vil can say anything, you’re already being yanked away by Ace’s insistent tugging. Your brows are still furrowed. Goddamn. Have you really never heard of Neige LeBlanche?

It seems Ace is interrogating you with that very question, judging by the furrowed glances he sends both your way and Neige’s. It seems Neige is quick to mask his surprise, walking towards Vil (which was probably the whole reason he approached the group in the first place).

“Your group was amazing,” Neige gushes - his eyes are lit up with awe. Vil feels… nothing, eerily enough. All that’s coursing through him is malicious calm.

“Thank you,” he maintains the professional image easily and smoothly, not missing the way Kalim and Deuce’s eyes swivel between him and Neige.

“It was truly a sight to behold; I had chills just watching,” Neige continues with starry eyes. “I can’t wait to work with you again!”

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Vil muses calmly, letting the air of conversation fizzle out. Out of his peripherals, he spots you and Ace rejoin the group. Unfortunately, it seems Neige has also spotted you again; he shoots you a smile and turns to you.

“Hi, I didn’t catch your name earlier,” Neige’s innocent question leads you to a quick pause before introducing yourself. You’re not overly friendly, more like care-free as usual.

“I didn’t catch your name either, sorry,” you continue politely. Did Trappola wander off-topic while lecturing you? It clearly seemed like it from your slightly bewildered expression.

“Neige LeBlanche, at your service,” Neige’s eyes carry that stupefied look for only a second before it’s swiftly replaced by a cheery smile. Nothing. Vil suppresses a snort of laughter at your politely unknowing expression. Of course you’d be like this, meeting the arguably most famous person in the land with no respect for their importance.

“Cool, I’ll leave you guys to it,” you respond amiably, sending a thumbs up his way. You’ve just upped and left? Vil turns to the side slightly to stifle his laughter as you wander back to the seats where you’ve left your notebook. Utterly lacking proper conversation etiquette as usual. He supposes it’s a positive seeing the Neige LeBlanche seemingly at a loss for words.

“Was that NRC’s manager?” Neige asks Vil. With dawning horror, Vil realises that most of his crew is also standing at the first row with you, due to their practice slot being finished.

“Yes,” Vil responds succinctly, watching Neige watch your movements as you talk with Rook. You’re currently being rattled like a rag-doll with the way he’s clasping your shoulders and shaking you slightly, no doubt grilling you over how you didn’t know who Neige was. He can hear your raucous laughter from all the way on stage.

“Your manager this year is awesome,” Neige compliments, leaning forward slightly to see the action further. Vil suppresses the shudder of disgust. No way this is happening right now.

“Ah, I’ve got to go round up my own crew,” Neige comments distractedly, looking around him. Vil gladly takes this opportunity to take his leave to join the rest of his group, leaving nothing behind but a goodbye.

That bastard. Vil watches the concluding moves of the RSA crew’s performance with barely concealed disgust from his seat in the stands.

“We’ve been had,” he utters in shock. No way. That bumbling performance they’ve put on-

“What do you mean?” Kalim asks in dismay at Vil’s change in attitude.

“He’s right,” Jamil agrees with a heavy sigh. “Look at how much they’re appealing to all demographics with their sugary sweet performance.”

Deep resentment begins to fester within Vil. A familiar ringing noise fills his ears as he tunes out the chatter of everyone surrounding him. He almost doesn’t feel the way he slips out of his seat and down the stairs leading to the rooms within the colossal arena. He feels the pressure of a heavy glass bottle within the palm of his hand, not even having to look at it to know it’s one of Epel’s apple juice bottles. He’s only dimly aware of subconsciously infusing the drink with the same curse he used during the poison assessment.

May those who drink this fall into an endless slumber, Fairest One.

The comforting bubbling slosh of the drink lets him know it’s been tampered with. A small, rational part of his brain urges him not to do this; the rest of his body is consumed by an abyss of disgust and hatred. Gunpowder and other acrid chemical smells appear in wisps, only registering faintly as familiar with his nose. He ignores it all.

“Hi, Neige,” Vil smiles brightly at the youth in front of one of the backstage doors. “I just wanted to congratulate you on your wonderful performance.”

One heartbeat.

Neige turns at the sound of Vil’s uncharacteristically cheerful voice. He doesn’t suspect anything amiss, but Vil supposes he’s always been that way.

“It makes me really happy hearing that from someone I admire a lot,” Neige beams back. Perfect.

Two heartbeats.

“How about a drink? I’ve become rather partial to this brand of apple juice,” Vil’s smile is rehearsed; it’s absolutely oozing with venom.

“Sure!” Neige agrees enthusiastically. “I saw the brand on your Magicam a few weeks back - I was even going to order before I realised it had all sold out.”

Three heartbeats is all it takes to deceive him.

It’s quite ironic, isn’t it? Vil’s downfall has been secured by Neige over the course of his life, whereas Neige’s downfall will be brought about in only a few seconds. The smooth glass of the apple juice bottle does not reveal the curse roiling within. It’s perfect - scentless, colourless and lethal. He wants to laugh when Neige accepts the cool glass bottle so easily. Has he no sense of danger?

“Roi des Neiges!” Who does that voice belong to? With a start, Vil turns to see Rook’s slightly dishevelled form as he runs up to Neige. “My apologies for interrupting the two of you, but the staff were looking for you, Neige.”

“Roi des Neiges..” Neige’s voice trails away as he stares contemplatively at Rook. “Wait-”

“My, I’m absolutely parched after running around looking for you,” Rook swiftly takes charge of the conversation. Why now? Vil can feel sharp cracking within his very soul. “Might I trouble you to let me have some of that refreshing juice you hold?”

No.

“Of course,” Neige agrees enthusiastically, if not a little perplexed.

“You should hurry back, Neige,” Rook continues, taking the bottle offered kindly. “And do not come back here.”

“Huh? What do you-”

“Go on, off with you! Away!” Neige’s question is sharply cut off by Rook’s insistence. Vil can hear him scurry off, like a little rodent.

“That sweet, tart aroma,” Rook breathes. With a start of horror, Vil notices that the cork of the flask has been removed. “Truly.. Epel’s hometown beverage is magnifique, to say the least.”

“I shall drink it to the very last drop, Roi des Poisons,” his knowing gaze meets Vil’s stricken one as he slowly raises the bottle to his lips.

No.

“Don’t do it, Rook!”

Glass shattering. It’s all Vil can do to keep track of what’s happening. His head feels like it’s underwater.

“He used his signature spell to curse the apple juice!” It’s the same speaker from earlier. Kalim?

“-look on his face was the same as Jamil’s-”

“-lost control-”

“Rook,” Vil’s voice rasps. He’s not sure he made the conscious decision to speak. The hunter turns to him with eyes not holding anger or disappointment, but concern. “Why did you..?”

“I wanted to believe in you,” Rook holds his gaze with no traces of accusation. “If it was cursed, I still wanted to taste it. I wanted to taste the fruit of a poison derived from an obsession with beauty bordering on madness.”

Madness?

Vil tunes them all out. He’s dimly aware of you speaking in concerned, hushed tones to the rest of them. Why are you here as well?

“Vil, do you have any idea how foolish that was?” Kalim’s voice is rimmed with desperate emotions. “After all that work, after saying the other teams would look like spuds compared to us, why stoop to this?”

Why stoop to this? Can’t he see that there is no other way? Rage pummels his veins, ripping through his body, his mind, his soul. Something gathers within him, dark and inky and fatal.

“That’s what I want to know,” Vil’s voice is laced with ice, and pure venom. “I’ve come to a realisation. That I… can never win! I’m going to handle Neige myself.”

“Trickster, Kalim! Do not inhale that mist rising from the floor! It’s the evaporated form of that cursed liquid!” Rook’s urging has hints of desperation within it. He turns to Vil. “I don’t see why one glass would have such a drastic… Oh, Vil, you didn’t-”

“Stop looking at me with those eyes,” Vil pleads. It’s not just Rook, he can see you as well, looking at him with that gaze that makes him want to bury himself away. “I just wanted to be the fairest, so why? Why? Why am I so ugly?”

“Roi des Poisons, you are far from ugly,” Rook calls out to him, reaching out a hand. Vil longs to take it, but he can’t. He’s too far gone.

“You haven’t actually hurt anyone!” Kalim’s pleas fall on uncaring ears.

“Silence!” Vil’s voice snaps. He can almost see himself from a separate plane, mist rising up around him in acrid, poisonous billows. He can see you, swaying on your feet slightly, looking more shaky than your companions. “What do any of you know? What does it matter if any of you forgive me? I can’t forgive myself!”

Let go.

Dark streaks overcome his vision, ebbing and flowing along the edges. It would be nice, to hand over the reins for a while, wouldn’t it? To let go of his fury, his resentment, his jealousy. What a dream.

“If I just melt everyone into hideous messes,” Vil’s barely aware of speaking. It’s a rather distorted voice, isn’t it? He can’t help but laugh. “Then I’ll be the fairest one of all, won’t I?”

The last thing he sees before it all overcomes him is your stricken face. He’s not sure you’ve ever worn such an expression before. He’s unlikely to forget those eyes, your facial muscles contorting into a painting of intermingling horror and worry. Why does he feel that shame rising again?

Didn’t he let go already?

Scene III: Wake . 　⁺

“I was the villain bullying the hero in the last play, too. Why do I keep getting picked to play the bad guy? Do I really look that mean?”

Villains never stay on stage for the whole play. Once their role is finished, all they can do is watch from the shadows as the happy ending plays out. What I want is to stay on stage longer than anyone else.

“Those kids were trying to hold me accountable for a work of fiction. Silly boys, the lot of them.”

I always aim for one role - the hero. But… all I ever get to be is the villain.

“Vil is too special to play the part of a regular teen that viewers can relate to. Without that reliability, I don’t think he’ll ever pull off playing a hero.”

I would do anything to be beautiful. The most rigorous training. The most tedious hair and skin care regimens. I would shy away from none of it. And yet.. Why? Why is it never me? All I want is to stay on stage until the end of a show.

In the end, it’s not the gentle splattering of rain on his face that wakes him up. It’s some foreign warmth on his face that causes his eyes to slowly open. Framed by his eyelashes and the haze of a deep slumber is your face. It’s as if you know, the way you look at him with such tenderness and concern. It’s as if you’ve pulled him from the deep recesses of his memories yourself, with the way your rough hands prop his head up so gently.

“How am I..” Vil rasps out, looking at you with nothing but queries in his eyes. His eyes search over your tired expression, the way the sclera of your eyes is still tinged a slight purple, and the various small cuts across your face. Did he do this? Waves of shame hit him and he can’t bear to meet your gaze.

“Thank goodness you’re awake, Vil,” you murmur down at him. Is this the first time you’ve said his name? It sounds foreign on your lips, and unbearably sweet. Why aren’t you mad at him? Why do you keep looking at him with those unaccusing eyes?

“Oh, Vil.. fair Vil,” Rook sighs in relief, crouching beside you on the rain soaked ruins. Ruins? Vil takes the opportunity to look round the battle site, the upheaved flagstones, the despoiled decorations. Another wave of shame meets him when he notices the haggard faces of his crew (is that Kalim bawling his eyes out? And is that Jamil scolding him?).

“I’m.. sorry you had to see that undignified display,” Vil apologises, making sure each and every one of his words is sincere. He cannot begin to comprehend how much shame he’s feeling at the moment. “Only third-rate people throw temper tantrums and take their problems out on others. My conduct was most unbecoming of all…”

“Y’right about that,” Epel grumbles, but without a trace of actual malicious intent. “Thought ya said people grow out of temper tantrums by the time they’re three?”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right, Epel,” Vil uses your shoulder to haul himself up so he can sit up. You don’t seem to mind, even grabbing on to his wrist to steady him. With another crash of guilt, he realises how your grasp is shaky, no doubt due to your exposure to the curse when you don’t have any sort of natural magic resistance. “I’m no longer fit to be your leader.”

“You haven’t actually hurt anyone, Vil,” Kalim argues. Vil can see him approaching and standing next to where Rook crouches. “You haven’t stepped over that brink.”

“He’s right,” Jamil says, jabbing his thumb in the general direction of outside the coliseum. “Neige is dancing out there happily with the seven dwarfs. It’s a stretch, but we can say we got worked up and had a team brawl in here.”

“Yeah,” Ace interjects. “No way we’re letting you pull out because of a few bruises, after the wringer we’ve been put through.”

“All of you,” Vil feels a horrendous mushy feeling swell up within him. You’re still supporting him with the way you’re steadying his wrist. “You just want to pretend nothing’s happened?”

“I never said that,” Jamil retorts, but his face blooms into his signature smile. “We can just hold off explanations until after the competition.”

“You truly are wicked, Jamil,” Vil replies with a small laugh. It hurts, and he feels his chest contort with pain. Your grip on his wrist tightens and you steady his shoulder with your other hand, clearly not missing the way his face twists into a grimace.

“Here, I’ll help you stand, alright?” you’re surprisingly strong, with the way you unceremoniously (but carefully) haul him up so he stands leaning into your firm touch. Even with your clearly weakened state, you still grip onto him as if he’s the fragile one that isn’t allowed to fall. Vil can’t even bring himself to protest.

“I wasn’t the one who made the shot so strong, Vil was,” Deuce seemingly replies to a conversation Vil’s unconsciously tuned out. “The spell stores all the damage I take, then hits it back all at once. So it was only potent because of Vil’s potent magic.”

Ah. Deuce seems to be describing the final hit Vil can barely remember taking, the one that likely brought him back to the brink of consciousness.

“Don’t make it sound so violent!” Deuce splutters in indignation, and Vil once again realises he’s tuned out. He doesn’t particularly mind, focusing instead on the way you unconsciously seem to tense your muscles against him when shifting, the way you still have that signature chemical smell to you, the way you’re looking directly at him with that expression-

“Signature… You mean that’s my signature spell?” Deuce seems to be coming to a realisation with sparkling eyes. Good on him. Beside him, Ace seems to be coming to an unpleasant realisation with the way he’s incredulously muttering to himself about how he can’t believe Deuce has mastered his signature spell before him.

“Behold, Vil is awestruck and weak-kneed from the splendour of your blow,” Rook proclaims, gesturing to the not-awestruck Vil.

“I’d wager he’s also weak-kneed from something else,” Jamil comments sardonically, looking pointedly at the way you’ve got him in your grasp. Vil only hopes you’ve become suddenly preoccupied with something else.

“No, I’m just beaten head-to-toe,” Vil swiftly retorts. “That last blow did strike soundly, though. Nicely done, Deuce.”

“Thank you, sir!” Deuce smiles at him eagerly. “Although, I don’t know what to do about the wrecked stage.”

“It’s not feasible to fix it all with magic,” Jamil replies pragmatically, looking around him with a calculating expression. “With what power we have left.. Every scenario running through my mind all ends with the same brick wall.”

“Does that mean.. SDC is…” Epel trails off, looking at Jamil with a dawning sense of horror.

“What do we have here?” The new, booming voice is accompanied by green fireflies that send a small shiver down Vil’s spine. What’s he doing here?

“I thought I’d arrive earlier,” Malleus hums with a touch of surprise, surveying the surroundings briefly. “What do I find but a stage laid to waste?”

“Hornton!” you exclaim, and Vil can feel your sternum vibrate through his shoulder. You’re.. acquainted with Malleus Draconia enough to call him nicknames? He can’t even be surprised anymore. “There’s still two hours until the SDC opens!”

“Hornton?” It’s a collective response from the rest of the crew, voicing Vil’s thoughts.

“Do you have a death wish, calling your upperclassman that?” Ace shudders at your audacity.

“Do you even know who that is?” Epel’s shocked voice causes you to blink in surprise at his tone.

“He told me to call him whatever, so I did,” Vil has to stifle a laugh as you shrug. Of course you did.

“However did you get into the coliseum, Roi des Dragons?” Rook sounds positively astonished.

“I was invited by the Child of Man from Ramshackle,” Malleus replies, gesturing to you.

“Yep,” you affirm. Vil feels as though you’re ignoring the other, more pressing question Rook’s asked.

“The entire venue is still enveloped by the poison mist generated by Vil,” Rook’s explanation trails off as Malleus holds up a clawed hand.

“I am impervious to any curse, no matter how powerful,” Malleus takes another look around the wrecked coliseum. “Whatever could’ve happened here?”

Vil watches as you briefly and efficiently describe the events, listening extra hard for the parts where he would’ve been unconscious. It’s curious, the way you don’t let any trace of exhaustion or pain enter your voice. It only takes around two minutes for you to give the gist of the situation to Malleus.

“Children of men, I shall bestow upon you a gift,” Malleus’ words come with an incredible magic pressure that leaves Vil’s eyes wide. He steals a glance at you, and watches your own expression become slack with awe and curiosity.

“That’s Malleus Draconia for you,” Vil murmurs to you. Your brow furrows as you look down at Vil.

“That’s Malleus? Hornton over there was the one everyone was so excited about at the Spelldrive tournament?” you ask incredulously. After all this, you’re still holding on to that nickname? Your eyes dart back to those green fireflies that are somehow lifting all the ruined flagstones and pillars, and rearranging them into pristine condition. Within the space of a few heartbeats, Malleus has managed to restore the conditions of the arena into an exact replica of how they were before.

“He’s ludicrously out of our league,” Ace mumbles in awe. Vil can’t help but agree.

“Thanks a bunch, Hornton!” you beam at Malleus, who stares at you for a brief second before breaking out into chuckles. It’s the first time Vil’s ever heard the fae laugh, but you’re full of surprises as usual.

“Though you know who I am, you still stick to that pet name?” Malleus sounds terribly amused, looking at you as you fumble with an explanation. He interrupts whatever apology is about to leave your lips with another chuckle. “Truly, I do not mind.”

He turns to look at Vil with a resolute expression in his eyes that’s made all the more disconcerting by his piercing green eyes. “I’ve set the stage for you, Schoenheit. I trust you will keep me entertained.”

“I hardly need your urgings to put on my finest performance,” Vil suppresses the wince of pain as he straightens his posture, ignoring the very tangible reality of you still grasping onto him. “Be prepared for a standing ovation.”

“I’ll expect nothing less. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Malleus’ last words fade out with his disappearance. The only traces left behind by him are those green fireflies.

“Lady Luck is truly on our side,” Rook comments after the flashes fade out. “I was hardly expecting Roi des Dragons to appear here.”

Me neither. Though it seems today is a day full of surprises.

Vil leans into your warmth a bit more, and you indulge him. The arm carefully wrapped around him is sure and steady - he wants nothing more than to stay here until the end of time. You don’t ask questions, looking past his shoulder so you can direct the crew to their water. He knows he must let go to perform - it’s highly unusual to see the Vil Schoenheit rely on anyone, even if it’s a little bit. To see him clinging to someone, his rival of all people…

Gingerly, he lets go of you. Your grasp on him is firm to the very end as you let go and make sure he’s not at risk of fainting. The concern you display is almost comedic, but you don’t say anything.

He can feel your eyes burning into his back as he walks away, but he doesn’t look back.

Scene IV: Unopened Missive . 　⁺

Vil supposes it’s comedic as he pours everything he’s got left into the final performance, only to score exactly one point below RSA. It’s always like this; him, exactly one step behind Neige. He can’t fault Neige, anymore, not after he’s come to terms with it. As the thrum of music faded and the flow of performance left him, he was acutely aware of the raucous applause he drew. He did not care. All he was searching for were your eyes.

He’s sure Lady Luck is laughing straight at him as Rook proclaims himself as one of Neige’s biggest fans. What betrayal! Of course this has been added onto the list of surprises. It’s strange; he doesn’t feel the annoyance he’d expect to be simmering through his veins at that moment. It seems he’s let that go.

It’s practically hilarious as he joins Neige on stage to sing an encore. Only scraps of bitterness remain - had Vil not exhausted the whole team earlier, they might have won and took back that one measly vote. He’s accepted that. Still, his frustration is palpable as he leaves his crew to sing with Neige, though not to the audience. His professionalism is the one thing he’s managed to keep up.

“Hey,” your voice breaks him out of the reverie. It’s bizarre, the way you’ve escorted him back to Pomefiore, even though he’s got Rook and Epel to do that. It’s even more bizarre, the way he’s let you gently drag him to his room, where Rook and Epel have already gone back to their own chambers. They already know it’s best to leave him alone when he’s in a bad mood. So why.. why are you still-

The sharp tang of medicinal ointment brings him back to the current situation. You’re poised between his legs as he sits at his vanity, with an assortment of bottles behind you. It’s strangely intimate with the way the soft dusk lighting envelopes you with its mysterious aura. He’s not wearing any makeup, but you don’t seem to care; your gaze caresses his features, laced with only concern.

Please, don’t look at me with those eyes.

“I’m going to begin, alright?” you murmur, searching his eyes for any traces of discomfort. Vil nods wordlessly. The pressure on his chin from one hand of yours is feather light; he finds himself leaning into it slightly. Your other hand lightly brushes over the cuts on his face with the ointment swabbed onto a cotton pad - strangely, it lacks the usual sting which normally elicits a sharp hiss of surprise.

“I made this ointment myself,” you explain after seeing the surprise conveyed in his eyes. Of course you did. In any case, it seems to be working fine, judging by the rapid cooling sensation he’s feeling across his face.

“Why-” Vil begins to ask as you cap the ointment bottle and twist it closed with practised ease. Your hand is still on his face, but he can’t bear to pull away. Not here, in the privacy of his room, where the only eyes upon him are yours. “-why are you still here? Don’t you dislike me?”

You pause in the rummaging you’re doing in your pocket. Vil holds his breath as you turn to him with that contemplative look you wear while figuring out potions.

“I don’t actually dislike you,” you comment matter-of-factly, tilting his face to each side to observe your handiwork. “I’ve got better things to do than spend my energy stewing over you.”

Ouch.

“You still haven’t answered my first question,” Vil’s composure is rapidly slipping down the drain as he remains (quite literally) in the palm of your hand. Your gaze doesn’t falter. “Do you just feel bad for me?”

“No,” you respond idly, still tilting his head this way and that. It’s like watching a cat bat at a toy. “I thought it might be good to have company and rely on someone else for once.”

There’s something else you aren’t saying. It’s unspoken in your eyes and the way your brow makes imperceptible furrows every few minutes. Vil’s breath hitches in his throat slightly.

“Did you-” he’s interrupted by that look, not one of pity, but one of resolute determination.

“Yes, I saw those memories,” you admit. You don’t look at him with an apologetic expression, one that screams pity. It’s a relief. “I didn’t mean to, like at all.”

“It’s fine,” Vil supposes it is fine. You wouldn’t tell anyone, he feels. He watches as your expression shrivels up into one of abject surprise as you feel around in your pocket, drawing out what seems to be a cream-coloured, expensive looking envelope. Vil knows exactly what it is, even as you scan the front quizzically then shrug. Of course. You can’t read the runes.

“It’s the results for the poison assessment,” Vil supplies. Strange. He doesn’t feel any excitement, or fear - it’s bordering on the neutrality of acceptance. It seems you feel the same way, as you just toss the envelope down with disregard onto the vanity and continue your search in your pockets.

“Aha!” your triumphant exclamation leaves him blinking in surprise. Why haven’t you acknowledged the results at all? You brandish another bottle of ointment in front of him excitedly, almost hitting him on the nose due to your very close proximity. “I’ve found the muscle and bone ointment!”

“Aren’t you going to look at the results?” Vil asks incredulously - it slips out before he can even comprehend he’s said it.

“I can’t even read them,” you untwist the ointment with your teeth, leaving tiny dents in the metal cap. “I’ll look at them later.”

The potent tang of nettles permeates the air as you set the open bottle onto the table behind you, letting go of Vil’s face.

“I’m going to need you to undress so I can access your back,” your nonchalant tone makes Vil’s reaction delayed. He can feel the back of his neck heat up at your words. “I heard the nastiest little crunch when Deuce’s spell hit you, so I’m gonna have to check those ribs.”

“Right,” Vil swallows thickly, standing up. Wrong move. You’re much too close now, pressed up against the vanity with him standing right in front of you. His body is brushing up against yours, and he can feel your body heat. Shit. He moves out of the vicinity to the bathroom, with all the composure of a professional actor.

“This ointment’s designed for deeper use than surface level injuries,” you call out behind him. “It’s gonna sting!”

“That’s fine,” Vil responds before shutting his bathroom door. He quickly loosens his shirt, wishing it were your hands doing- His heart pounds in his ribcage as he shuts down the thought. It only takes a minute before his shirt and blazer are both tossed into the laundry basket, all too soon considering the flushed sheen emerging on his face.

One final cursory inspection of his face in the mirror is necessary before he goes out to face you. He’s almost taken aback - not by the lack of makeup which he’s already accustomed to, but the sheer vulnerability within his expression. He looks like such a mess, and you’ve not even commented on it? You’ve just accepted that it doesn’t matter what he looks like; you’re going to treat him the same regardless. It’s a far cry to what he values as his principles.

He pushes open the door hesitantly. His torso is exposed, and he suddenly feels the jarring pangs of shyness. Why now? He’s gone topless for movie scenes before, for Sevens’ sake! Steeling himself, he opens the door completely. You’ve placed the vanity chair by the bed- surely you’re not-

“You can either lie on your stomach here, or sit up on the chair, which might be more uncomfortable,” you explain briefly, rolling up your uniform sleeves as if you’re about to conduct a lab practical. Am I the lab rat? “I’ve picked up a few massage tips here and there, so overall it should be a quite pleasant experience. Of course, if you want to omit the massage-”

“No, it’s fine,” Vil lets out a shaky breath at your nonchalance, gingerly lying on his front on his covers. Jack of all trades, aren’t you? He doesn’t realise just how tense his muscles have been until you press your thumbs into the muscles situated around his scapula. Your hands are coated in some sort of resinous, volatile substance, judging from the brief alcohol fumes flaring up whenever you place your hands down. You were right, there is a sting, but it’s not as sharp as he expected.

Why are you doing this? It’s a question that keeps replaying in his mind’s movie theatre, with the cruel laughing soundtrack interspersed in a tragic loop every few seconds. The two of you aren’t friends, and what you’ve done goes beyond the level of care Vil normally receives from friendship. He can’t complain, not when your warm, rough hands are finally on him, even if it’s to just rub the ointment in.

“Now, I’m no medic,” there’s a faint apology in your tone as you concentrate the ointment into a specific, aching spot. Vil barely registers the sting of pain due to your burning touch. “But I think that your rib’s been bruised at the very least in that spot, and that ointment should’ve healed the worst of it.”

His rapid heart rate distracts him from the loss of body heat from you as you move your hands away from his body. Please don’t stop. He feels a heavy pressure on his right shoulder, and to his surprise it’s the palm of your hand waking him from his reverie.

“I’ll bandage you up just to be sure,” you murmur, shifting your weight from foot to foot and looking around. It’s clear you’re hesitant, maybe due to your lack of experience playing a so-called “doctor”. Still, judging by the way the deep ache within has eased, you’ve done a pretty darn good job, as Epel would no doubt say. “Sit up.”

Vil obeys, gingerly swinging his legs round the bed until he’s sitting, and you’re once again hovering over him as you slip a clean bandage out of its plastic wrapping. He breathes in the comforting warmth of your body heat and repertoire of chemical smells that mask the floral traces on your skin. Don’t you feel the rushed thrum of blood that’s pumping through each vein and each capillary, as you wrap your arms around him to begin winding the bandage?

Is he nothing more than a mere patient to that clinical precision you currently sport?

“What would you have chosen, if you won the poison assessment?” Vil suddenly asks as you clip the bandage into place with a satisfied hum around the middle of his torso.

“Why are you asking as if I lost?” you let out a bemused chuckle, gesturing to the still-very-closed envelope sitting on his vanity. “We don’t know yet.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Vil could melt with the way you’re gazing down at him as he sits with you standing in between his legs. Your sharp eyes contain a warning, one he has no intention of heeding as he presses the subject. “Won’t you tell me?”

“Fine,” your voice rasps slightly as you stoop down to his level. He can’t help but shiver at the sensation of your warm breath rustling past his ear. “Are you really that eager to know?”

“Go on,” Vil almost pleads, and he’s sure you hear the quiet hints of desperation in his voice. Your eyes lock back onto his; he’s slightly regretting asking you as he sees the dangerous glints in your eye. His breath hitches as he realises it’s the same, all-consuming look of seriousness you reserve for your experiments and potions. It’s as if he already knows what your answer will be, with the way his blood excitedly thrums to the surface to respond with an echoing yes.

Please.

The rough pads of your fingers meet his chin again in that gentle grasp as you tilt his head upwards. This is really happening, right? It’s as if he’s in a haze; anticipation of your movements is the only thing breaking him out of it.

“Can I..” you murmur, brushing a thumb over his bottom lip. He holds his breath. Yes. Your mere touch calls forth fireworks to explode in a vibrant cacophony.

“Please,” Vil’s quiet gasp is all the encouragement you clearly need, because the next thing he knows you’ve stepped forward and met his open mouth with yours. The heady taste of woodsmoke and cherry syrup lingering on your tongue is positively intoxicating. He’s not sure, but he can also taste the coppery tang of blood as well. Perhaps it’s from the heat of battle earlier? Regardless, his blood rises in response; he’s sure his face is flushed a deep pink.

You don’t hesitate, leaning his head to the side with your fingers to kiss him deeper and deeper. He groans into your mouth, feeling you smile as you taste his desperation. He positively convulses as he feels your hand trace the bare skin of his side; he’s so vulnerable like this, and he knows you feel it as you press into his body.

Vil gasps for air when you pull back. A string of saliva connects your lips to his; with a start, he realises that your lips are shiny and traced with the purple lipgloss he’s wearing. Your eyes are half-lidded with intensity and some other roiling emotion he can’t place. It makes his breathing even more uneven when he realises he’s made you look like that.

“Like what you see?” even now, traces of rivalry still lace Vil’s tone; he cannot help but provoke you to elicit another reaction. Your gaze slowly travels up and down Vil’s dishevelled appearance, making sure to scour every inch of it. He holds his breath when your lip curls in disdain.

“Please,” your voice rolls deep from your throat with sarcasm. It makes Vil’s blood cells burn with want. The sharp, intense look in your eyes only becomes more turbulent; it’s insanely attractive to be at your mercy.

“Don’t make me laugh-” your fingers curl into his chin more, and Vil can feel the suppressed strength within the grip. Blood is rushing straight down, and he can barely keep track of all the thoughts racing through his head. “-not with the way I’ve seen you almost do flips for my attention, with your one-sided rivalry.”

“Ah-” Vil’s gasp sounds suspiciously like a moan as you move closer, pressing a knee in between his legs inadvertently. You’ve clearly heard it, with the way you furrow your brow and pause your motions.

“Did you-” your eyes fully take in his heavy breathing and the way he’s coming undone from just kissing you. Your question is answered immediately.

“Please, keep going,” Vil pleads, removing one hand from where it’s gripping the sheets to your hip. You swallow thickly, eyes darting between his hand and face.

“You sure you want to continue?” you prompt, eyes settling into that same dangerous glint once again. “I don’t want to aggravate your injuries..”

“Please,” Vil all but begs, seeing the way your eyes glaze over with desire. The hazy, smoky smell of your skin almost acts like an aphrodisiac; he cannot help but be ensnared.

“Alright,” your voice is hushed when you tilt his head upwards to access his jugular, biting into the area slightly with sharp canines. He knows you feel it: the way his pulse jumps erratically beneath your touch. You draw out quiet, hushed gasps with every mark you make on his throat, with every movement of your waist against his bare torso, with every nudge of your knee in between his legs.

More.

He doesn’t even realise he’s slowly rolling his hips against your leg to feel any sort of friction until you press down on his hips with the hand that’s been supporting his shoulder.

“Not so fast,” you breathe against his skin - his back can’t help but arch slightly at the feeling of your breath against his neck. “Allow me to take care of you.”

It’s your words that make him pause in shock; they’re an eerie echo of what you said in his dream. Judging by the lack of change in your expression, you don’t know about it; thank Sevens.

You’re pressing into him, forcing him into the bed on his forearms while you lean in, kissing his mouth feverishly to bring out his gasps and moans. He’s unbearably hard, all the more so because of your knee moving out of reach each time he chases that delicious high. This is better than any dream.

Burning kisses trail their way from below his ear down to his collarbone. He’s suddenly glad for the wonders of concealer as he thinks about the marks you’re leaving. On the other hand, he’s strangely into the idea of people seeing he’s taken by you, so much so that you’re marking him up like this.

“Ah- right there,” Vil can’t suppress the noises he’s making as your lips travel down to his chest. He doesn’t care who hears him; he’s seeing goddamn stars with the way your tongue circles his nipple and your thumb mirrors the action with the other one. The pressure you’re applying deftly is making him intoxicated.

“You look so beautiful like this,” your fingers glide over the neatly wrapped bandages on his chest, trailing down to his waist. He doesn’t think it’s possible for his heart to beat any more erratically without thumping straight out of his chest. Is he really sure that you haven’t magically seen his dreams? After all, you’ve seen his memories. He waits with bated breath for your next move, not realising that you’ve already positioned yourself to hover between his thighs with a small grin on your face.

“Mind if I take these off?” you hook your thumbs around the tailored trousers he’s wearing. It takes considerable self-restraint to not tell you to just rip them off.

“Go ahead,” it’s a wonder that his voice doesn’t crack from the sheer pressure of what he’s feeling at the moment. Your grin is all edges as you efficiently unzip the front and slip the pants off. It seems that he’s surprised you when you look down at his smooth legs with your eyebrows slightly raised, taking in the fact that he’s wearing sheer black stockings to his mid thigh underneath his pants.

“All for me?” you run your fingers down his legs appreciatively, feeling the soft material underneath your fingers with an even sharper grin than before. Vil can’t help but shiver at the feather-light touches you give, contrasted sharply with the jagged vertices of your smile.

All for you.

It’s as if you can read his thoughts. You’re once again hovering between his legs, spreading them with nothing more than a gentle push. The touches you leave on his legs feel almost possessive; he cannot help but adore it. Will he be the only one seeing that expression on your face? He wants to be the only one, the only one to see the tumultuous desire warp and thrash within the glints in your eyes. It’s a far cry from your usual composure.

Sticky residue from his lipgloss is left on his soft inner thighs as you press kiss after kiss to the skin. He can feel desire pulse through you with every bruising mark you leave. It entrances him. The unspoken words you leave him are more than enough to assure him that even like this, with all his bruises and scrapes and tears, he’s beautiful.

Your hands slowly ease his underwear off; the cold air on the sensitive skin makes him hiss slightly, but it quickly turns into a gasp as you leave kisses in the crook of the skin connecting his thigh to his pelvis.

“I’m going to absolutely ruin you,” you promise quietly. The ravenous look in your eyes doesn’t subside as you gaze at him from between his legs. He can’t help but let out a small groan at your words. What would his fans say if they saw him, lying so pliant for his supposed academic rival?

One of Vil’s hands fly up to his face to muffle the moans escaping his lips when your thumb circles his slit, made all too easy by the flow of pre-cum from his dick. The other hand is left desperately clutching at the sheets of his bed as his hips involuntarily buck upwards into your hand.

“Uncover your pretty mouth,” you slowly twist your hand down, all while gazing at his flushed face. He’s already seeing stars at the friction and can barely register his hand leaving his mouth to grip the sheets. “I want to hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He can only hope that his door is soundproofed from the obscene noises leaving him as you pick up the pace. It’s not enough. Your hand moves away each time the haze of pleasure builds up, leaving him chasing after your touch. He’s sure he looks an absolute mess right now with the way tears are leaving his eyes and his brow has the sheen of sweat; you clearly don’t care as you lithely move upwards to kiss him. The cool fabric of your clothes presses into his bare skin, making him feel incredibly exposed to you.

You’re still moving with that teasing pace as you swallow down his moans. It’s unbearable, all the more so because you’re still covered in your uniform. He almost sobs in relief when your hand picks up speed and the pleasure starts steadily building in his stomach. His hips desperately grind into your hand and you let him, let him come undone with your touch and quiet praises. He’s close; the dopamine is flooding through his veins and all he can focus on is the way you touch him, the way you’re currently kissing his jaw and leaving more marks on his neck, the way you’re coaxing such obscene sounds from both his throat and from the skin on skin friction.

It builds and builds and builds, until all he can fathom is saying your name over and over, as if he’s some devout worshipper invoking some otherworldly being. He lets go, feeling the way you slow down to allow him to ride out the climax. Only white-hot pleasure courses through his mind, fading out more slowly than usual. He kisses you feverishly, feeling the warm skin on the nape of your neck as he pulls you in closer and closer. You’re now lying side by side on his bed, with you pressed up against him wearing your despoiled clothes, ones that have been despoiled by him.

“You’re removing your clothes as well, I hope?” his gaze trails down your body, looking at the offending uniform that you’re wearing. It’s a wonder he’s managed to form a coherent statement. Still, it’s only fair that you also remove the fabric with those deft hands like you did to those tailored trousers he was wearing.

“Right,” your gaze softens, moving your hands away from his body. His brows furrow with a question as he watches the hand sticky with cum approach your face- oh my. A scarlet flush blooms on his cheeks as you use your tongue to clean your hand up, before using it to lazily remove your blazer and vest. You don’t give them a second glance as you toss the clothes on the floor. The warmth you’re emitting is all the more palpable as only a thin buttoned shirt separates your skin from his. It’s incredibly attractive, watching your languid movements as you discard the shirt off to the side as well as your trousers.

The feeling of your bare skin on his shouldn’t elicit such a burning reaction from him, but it does; he groans as you lean back to slowly kiss him, feeling the way your body heat envelopes him without any barriers. He’s acutely aware of all the points your skin brushes against him - it’s insanely addicting. You’re kissing him without a care in the world, judging by the way you lazily cradle his face with your hands. He’s so malleable under your touch, so starved of affection that he’s wrapped around your pinky finger. He’s sure you can feel the way his skin flushes with a simmering heat.

The blue hour soaks you both in the gloom as your hands press him closer and closer, until he can barely distinguish where he ends and you begin. Is this what it means to become one, united in flesh?

Does he look beautiful to you like this?

He knows he does. He knows he does when you reverently trail down with your kisses, settling between his thighs again to fill him up with your fingers. He knows he does as you feverishly coax those angelic moans out of him; your eyes are blazing with desire for him. He knows he does as you draw out his climax for as long as you can so wave after wave of pleasure can keep hitting him.

It’s late evening when the two of you fall asleep, tangled together and worn out.

The letter on the vanity lies forgotten; Vil doesn’t particularly care about the results when he already feels your equal.

Scene V: Closing . 　⁺

“Goodness, trickster,” Rook’s exclamation when you emerge in the Pomefiore lounge room in the morning thankfully goes unnoticed by the few students milling about. “Our dorm uniform looks simply ravishing on you.”

“Yeah, mine got quite ruined from yesterday’s events,” your voice sounds raspy as you try to sell your act to Rook, who’s positively cooing over you. What a little prankster. Vil can’t help but glance at you from his favourite armchair. As the culprit responsible for ruining your uniform, he of course had to lend you a uniform. Still, you do look rather good in it.

“Don’t tell me you slept over and didn’t tell me?” Rook plasters a look of mock-hurt on his face, and Vil implores you to shut your mouth for once and put on the best act of your life.

“Something like that,” your expression is innocent, with the exception of your raised eyebrows. You don’t look at Vil at all as you smile at Rook, who’s unfortunately glanced over at Vil, scrutinising him with that disgustingly perceptive look.

“Does that explain the bruises on his neck?” Vil chokes on his smoothie hearing the hunter’s whisper. Of course he forgot something this morning. Of all days.

“Whatever could you mean?” you inquire nonchalantly, straightening the ironed collar of the uniform.

“Oh my,” Rook’s eyes are as wide as saucers as his gaze swivels between you and Vil. It’s rare to see him this gleeful. “You two totally slept-”

“I’m going to need you to shut it, Rook,” you cover the offender’s mouth abruptly before he can say anything more. You’re not denying it though, looking back at Vil with a wicked grin on your face.

Shit.

[nieded]

RR has quickly become my one of my top goto comfort fics (series in this case). I wonder what are yours?

hello! this is a really lovely ask. i'm happy that #rr is a comfort fic for you! i also found a lot of comfort writing it for personal reasons.

i think a highly overlooked fic in fandom that i love is (Slow) Burn, Baby Burn by orchidlocked, E, s1 canon-compliant, 278,780k. i think about this fic a lot, how prior to season 2, it fit so seamlessly into canon, how it made my heart ache, how i related to crowley from the opening chapter just from the way he listened and processed music. there are a lot of challenging things in this story that made me feel uncomfortable but in a good way. in many ways, it made me feel seen.

for other long fics i love dearly, i must also include The False and the Fair by @princip1914, E, AU, 173,064k. it's a captivating story that is brilliantly written. the author is a master at using literary devices and good foreshadowing, so it's technically exquisite as well as just being an incredible story. there's a point in the story (if you know, you know), where i had to put it down, scream, and take myself for a walk.

and

stalwart sun, wily moon by @dustandhalos, M, AU, 369,969k. do you want an incredible art heist story with well-thought-out plot twists, its own accompanying illustrations, and beautiful prose? well, this story is for you! i actually had the pleasure of reading this for the first time as a printed book, which was a special and amazing experience in and of itself.

these two fics above are rec'd a lot (and for good reason!) so here are two more that i rarely ever see.

Curse of the Witchfinder by KitschyKit, M, s1 canon-compliant, 2,244k. i have had many bi people reach out to me about #rr to say they were glad to finally find a fic with good bi representation. well, Curse of the Witchfinder was that for me. and on top of that, i love reading about an older queer because we don't see that in media today. in part, it's because young and sexy sells, but also, we lost a whole generation of gay men to the AIDS epidemic. there's something about this story that undoes me and leaves me completely exposed in so few words.

and

side effects by @darcylindbergh, E, canon-compliant, 7,704k. this is a story about being loved in spite of illness or disregard for illness. it is amazing to me how this is a story about supernatural beings, and yet it feels so human. it's as if someone laid me flat under a microscope.

and so i guess a theme to these recommendations is that i find great comfort in stories that bear the ugliest and most frightened parts of me with love.

[saxandviolins77]

What are your thoughts about what the relationships between the Constructicons are like?

I didn't know if this was G1 specifically or my AU... So why don't we do both?! Better yet! I even finished those relationship charts I talked about with Tumblr user @/the_last_magpie (hi!).

So, first of all. G1. My canon-compliant and headcanon-less take is: they're a group of good friends. Nice and simple. Episodes like "The Core" and "City of Steel" really solidified this for me. They banter, they talk and they work together almost seamlessly. This really endeared me to them because... They're 'Cons and... They're friends! Mind-blowing right?

For G1 is just that, no deep takes for them that don't border on headcanon territory.

Now, if you just wanted a G1 take, you can skip the other part of this post. Now we're entering AU-zone! Of course, the eagle-eyed followers at home know that my Fan Continuity is just: "G1 but sitcom... and the Constructicons are main characters."

LOOOOOONG POOOOOST

I always say they're a polycule, for quick recognition. But if I wanted to be specific, they are really more akin to "fictive-kin", a group unrelated to each other by blood bonds, but which functions much like a family. You can say "found family" too, but that's so diluted nowadays. For extra context, yes, they had lives and were full individuals before they became gestalt. They are all from different backgrounds and socioeconomic realities.

SO RELATIONSHIP CHARTS + MORE EXPLANATIONS GO!

Scrapper is a bottle of joy and supportiveness. The way I write him is some kind of fusion between the idealized figure of fatherhood and the idealized figure of motherhood. He genuinely cares for the team, no ifs or buts.

He is in a romantic relationship with Long Haul. They are a very boring and disgustingly happy couple. They love doing anything together, even if sometimes they have a quarrel they'll always communicate first and try to find common footing. The bad thing is that Long Haul is very silently unhappy with this whole "gestalt" thing and not so silently unhappy about his function in the team. Scrapper feels immensely guilty for that, even if Long Haul just shrugs it off.

Hook and Scrapper are also in a romantic relationship! Their relationship is definitely more "work-based" in a way? Like, Scrapper is in love with Hook's talent and his mind and how he's so logical and cold (and how problematic he is). They make a great working duo because Scrapper knows how to handle Hook perfectly and how to get the best out of him. They're also into more inventive ways of having sex.

Scrapper sees Scavenger as a mentor in a weird way. If Long Haul's common sense and Hook's hard logic aren't doing it for him, he'll go to Scavenger for advice. They're also great friends! Scavenger can control Scrapper when he's getting ahead of himself and Scrapper reassures Scavenger when he's depressed.

Scrapper is in awe of Bonecrusher, not only of his technical abilities but also his fighting skills. He's very worried about his problems to open up and how hard on himself he is because of the whole "gestalt" thing. Tries to reassure him and support him as much as mechanically possible.

Scrapper and Mixmaster are a dangerous duo. Scrapper is really impressed by the other's mind and chemical knowledge that sometimes they simply get in trouble if left alone, with Scrapper saying that everything is fine and nothing will go wrong. Scrapper's general tendency to be unorthodox does NOT go well with Mixmaster's impulsiveness.

Hook is a creature. He has trouble socializing outside of the gestalt and he's emotionally constipated AF.

Hook admires and respects Mixmaster's prowess in chemistry. Very veeeery annoyed by his antics and "jokes". Every interaction of theirs ends with Hook frustrated and angry and with Mixmaster laughing his ass off. Hook still likes Mix' as a friend and will defend him to anyone (awww).

Hook is definitely in love with the enigma that is Scrapper. The thing that made their relationship actually become a thing is the fact that Scrapper respects Hook as a whole, his personhood and skill. Hook rolls his eyes at Scrapper, but will always look out for him... In his own way.

Brooooooo, these guys. They're in a weird non-relationship and they fuck every once in a while, just casual. Hook views Bonecrusher as "the person who is actually worth his time". Maybe even an equal in some way. When Hook needs an opinion, he'll very much go to Bonecrusher first, because he'll say what Hook is already thinking and maybe what Hook wants to think. Just by that, they make each other worse. They also pretend that they can't stand the other, and bicker like hell. (that's how they flirt.)

Hook has a weird, almost romantic kinda platonic relationship with Scavy. I'll just say, they knew each other for a very long time and were each other's comfort in a violent and dangerous environment. Hook has been Scavenger's caretaker for the longest time, and he's very proud of that, in a way. Hook has a very foggy type of possessiveness with Scavy too.

Hook and Long Haul DO NOT see eye to eye. Their whole view of being "gestalt" differs and it makes them fight a lot. They respect each other, but their relationship is estranged.

Mixmaster loves the team and being in a gestalt (where he's finally understood and accepted.) He wouldn't trade them for nothing... Not even a new bigger and improved lab...

Mixmaster really likes Scrapper! He doesn't have that "oh, I gotta respect the boss" mentality or anything, Scrapper is just his friend who takes care of them. Very much likes all of Scrapper's crazy ideas and goes along with them in a heartbeat, also puts his own two cents because he knows he'll be heard.

Hook is like his brother in a way. Loves to bother him and annoy him. Also loves him in general. He'll try to give Hook advice on his problems but sometimes he feels like he doesn't quite get what is going on in Hook's mind.

Long Haul is the person Mixmaster has been trying to understand the most. They are actually very good friends, Mixmaster is a very positive influence on Long Haul's more downer personality... He's also just a real goober. (Thank you Mr.Meanor on Twitter for pointing this dynamic out to me, very endearing!)

Mixmaster and Bonecrusher are best friends, point-and-blank. Bonecrusher will follow Mixmaster on any of his schemes and new projects to take care of him and Mixmaster helps Bonecrusher out when he is in "angst mode".

Mixmaster really likes Scavenger and sees him as his "cool grandpa". He tries to listen to Scavy, but knows that he can be really hard on him sometimes. Cares a lot for his well-being and happiness, even if he drives Scavy insane with his antics...

Scavenger sees the team as his support net but also sees himself as a burden to them. Tries to work 2x as hard to make up for it. (Oh, Scavy... You poor old man.) Might I say that Scavy is also disabled, and suffers from chronic back. Sometimes has difficulty walking, standing, or transforming (does wonders to his self-esteem).

Scavenger is out here gentle parenting Hook ha ha. Ok, seriously Scavy really tries to look out for Hook, he knows he's the only person that can go through him and actually help his problems (they both suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, forgot to mention). Scavy is very much Hook's therapist and friend, and it sure makes him feel useful.

Scavy really tries to take care of Mixmaster and make him stay out of trouble, to... Mixed(lol) results. Scavy genuinely wants Mix' to live his best life and be free from the expectations of outsiders, but he can't help but think: "What will everyone else think?". Really makes an effort to understand Mix' and accommodate for him.

Respects Scrapper more than anything. Tries his best to be helpful and "return the favor", but still, he thinks Scrapper is unreachable. Loves spending time with him, and values the quiet moments between them. Always brings him a cup of energon when he forgets to refuel.

He can't treat Bonecrusher like Hook and that confuses him. He'll try to press and coddle him, but it only works in making Bonecrusher more distant. Respects how Bonecrusher values and cares for the team, but he can see this is very much a responsibility and trauma response and not something that comes naturally to him.

Since Long Haul is more stern than Scrapper, Scavy tends to REALLY put weight on anything he does, says, or thinks. Really respects Long Haul and finds him impressive and a figure of inspiration. When Long Haul is around he pretends he's not in pain, even if he's having a really bad flare-up.

Talk about being emotionally constipated. Bonecrusher really makes this "nonchalant", "aloof" and "detached" persona but the truth is, he values these five guys more than he values his own life.

Thinks of Scavenger as a "little guy I gotta protect". Keeps an eye on him to make sure he's not stressing himself or doing more than he can, and will often take his tasks for himself. Doesn't really know how to talk to him without making him think he's mad at him, really trying to balance the persona and the "making the gestalt happy" thing with this one.

Respects Long Haul. Even when he doesn't agree with him, he'll disagree in silence. However, in comfortable conversation, he'll freely pick on Long Haul and try to wrestle with him. Really thinks Long Haul should use his strength to fight Autobots and is death-set on being his teacher.

Bonecrusher is crazy loyal to Scrapper, like CRAZY LOYAL. He respects Scrapper so much he'll pick fights on his behalf. To him, every word Scrapper says is law and he should be the one to take it upon himself to fulfill his every wish (Scrapper lowkey hates this). Also endeared by how chill and caring Scrapper is.

Values Mixmaster's friendship and company a lot. Makes sure to protect him from himself and from anyone who means him harm. Secretly enjoys his antics and laughs at his stupid jokes. More willing to open up to him due to his carefree nature.

Bruh moment again. Bonecrusher also thinks of Hook as "my equal but not really". Pretends to hate him, but actually values his opinion and most of the time not only gets where he is coming from but will share the same viewpoint. Very angry to get used as his "personal bodyguard"... won't stop getting into fights because Hook crossed someone they both hated. These guys are disgusting and they should die, now.

Long Haul is the odd one out. He likes the guys, sure... But he very much doesn't like the whole gestalt concept. This is just his job.

He's so deep in love with Scrapper, it's ridiculous. Values Scrapper more than anything, will go to hell to make him happy, puts him above himself, and is just generally sappy with him. Sure, he's more reclusive, so the way he shows love is different from Scrapper's. Maybe he'll put a blanket over him, remember his favorite human song, make food for him- ok, I'll stop because I'm getting sick just from thinking about them.

Respects Bonecrusher a lot, even if he thinks he can be a bit over-the-top in... Generally everything. Doesn't like all of his enthusiasm for fighting and teaching him how to do it, but whatever. Doesn't mind talking to him, even if he has "Hook Behaviour" sometimes.

Cares for Scavy, and doesn't know how to show it. Hates it when Scavenger goes out of his way to "prove how useful he is". Thinks Scavy should value his own health more and stop worrying about others. Even if some projects will need to have their deadline extended, it doesn't matter in the long run.

Rocky relationship with Hook, respects his skills but does not respect his mindset. He definitely gets mad pissed when Hook goes over the deadline and budget because he "just needed to get this part perfect". Also doesn't get his distaste for people outside the gestalt and thinks he's crazy for this. Also also, doesn't know what an OCD is.

Even he is surprised with how good friends he and Mixmaster are. He may not find everything he does funny, but he tries to understand what is going on with Mixmaster's mind and talk to him equal to equal. Defends Mixmaster even if he knows he is 100% in the wrong, a little bit ashamed of his lack of professionalism but damn if he isn't endeared by the guy. Will scold him later, probably with Scrapper there to nod and agree.

.

TL;DR: these bitches are dysfunctional but love is love ig ❤️.

[raelis1]

Okay, @midnightestsun, this is for you!From longest to shortest, almost all are R/E, background Ben/Bev, sometimes Bill/Mike, Stan/his canon wife Patty.

Fix-its, Eddie (and sometimes Stan) don't die, post-Derry 2.0 get-together, canon-compliant in everything else, basically variations on 'Eddie divorces Myra, moves in with Richie (or vice versa), they figure their shit out, a sexy happily-ever-after ensues)

Now What I'm Gonna Say May Sound Indelicate by shinycopperpenny (this one is unfinished, although I hear the author's still working on it and doesn't intend to abandon it), but it's 370k of slow-burn goodness, pining and quality writing. It's really great.

Things that Happen After series by shinycopperpenny (1st story is Richie/Eddie, 2nd is Ben/Bev, but with R/E as a background pairing).

Our Perfect Secret-Keeping by cathedraltunes

After Derry by pineapplecrushface

Risk-Seeking Behavior by Dwarfankylosaur - this one is also unfinished and ends on a cliffhanger, BUT LISTEN! It's so fucking funny, and the pining is delicious, and the characterization is so on point, I cannot recommend it enough. It's one of my faves.

when everything feels like the movies by glorious_spoon

little pieces of the nothing by glorious_spoon

we were always here at the right time by fuckener

New Page, Same Old Book by Rend_Herring

it's about time that you just unwind by fuckener

Calling Cards by andloawhatsit

Fix-its, Derry townhouse smut (which involves cheating on Myra, in case that's a deal-breaker)

A Taste of Salt by bottle_of_smoke (which also doubles as post-Derry get-together)

the places you will be from by glorious_spoon

when lightning strikes by anon

out on the bevel by anon

Fix-its where Eddie does die, but is brought back from the dead somehow (sometimes with Stan!)

Angarum by andloawhatsit (lovely time-travel AU, gives a lot of thought to Eddie's life pre-Derry 2.0 and his relationship with Myra's family)

Nothing Dies in Derry by glorious_spoon (ghost!Eddie and Stan)

the sound of your feet upon the ground by glorious_spoon (insp by Orpheus and Eurydice)

Non-shippy fix-it (ships are implied, but not the focus)

the chain by younglegends (Stan-centric gen, time-loop)

hours they seemed like days by PositivelyVexed (Mike-centric gen, time-travel)

Richie and Eddie meet as adults during the 27 years gap between the movies and don't remember each other (but hook up nonetheless! Usually involves cheating on Myra)

Fingers Crossed That I'm Something You'll Keep by thefourthvine

fruit from a forbidden tree by glorious_spoon

Memories of a Stolen Place by glorious_spoon

The Lost Words by bottle_of_smoke

Sooner or Later in Life by pineapplecrushface (technically a no-Pennywise au, which I usually don't read, but can be read as canon divergence au)

Pennywise takes on Eddie's form to torture Richie (my favorite trope that should be WAY more popular 😢)

all that you wish by liesmyth

No Cash Value by fullborn

It wore all their faces by remusjohn

give that twist of grace by glorious_spoon

Richie and Eddie get together as teenagers

Euphemisms by what_alchemy

maybe when the summer ends by charactershoes

ice cold pool by orphan_account

Today is the greatest by pineapplecrushface

don't swallow the cap by scorpiod

No Makeup On, That's My Sugar by shinycopperpenn

Social media/Outsider POV/Humor/Richie's stand-up routine fic

Richie Tozier is famous and loves his boyfriend, OK by kyaticlikestea

The Exoneration of Richie Tozier by Blissymbolics

Outside, Looking In by andloawhatsit

I killed a clown. AMA! by liesmyth

What Beauty Is For by pineapplecrushface

Richie Tozier Is [Fill in the Blank] by pineapplecrushface

Richie Tozier: The Manchild Tour by hellotailor

Tragic non-fix-its (because sometimes some angst makes a happy ending even sweeter!)

soul, I hear you calling by serenityfails (ghost!Eddie and Stan, gives closure and catharsis, but they stay dead. I cried the whole night!)

Waiting for the Click by waketosleep (canon, missing scenes)

Broke Free on a Saturday Morning by PositivelyVexed (this one is post-canon Richie/Mike, but it deals a lot of their grief and guilt over Eddie and Stan's deaths)

Plus One by fuckener (ghost!Eddie again)

walk it off by liesmyth (also ghost!Eddie)

PWPs

Clowntown Kinkmeme Fills by glorious_spoon

reddie kink meme by anon

And the lone soulmate AU! (I don't usually go for them, but this one got me good. I cried and everything)

Hand On My Stupid Heart by what_alchemy

Also, you gotta keep in mind all of the fic I've read heavily draws from book canon, so if you haven't read the book, some things might be confusing.

The most important plot/characterization points from the book that aren't in the movies but are often referenced in fic are

Maturin the Turtle. Basically an omnipotent god-like creature who's Pennywise's natural enemy and a friend to the Losers, but he has some prime directive non-interfering policy, so he can't or doesn't want to off Pennywise himself and relies on the Losers to do it. He's the ultimate deus ex machina, so pretty much every fix-it fic references him in some way.

Pennywise's 'true form' (or more like, as close it can get to how it truly looks before a human goes insane from looking at it) is a giant female spider who lays eggs (which the Losers destroy)

Eddie has a supernatural sense of direction, basically a human navigator

Stan is obsessed with birds, so he's usually associated with a bird in some way. And Eddie really likes cars, trains and running

Richie constantly calls Eddie 'Eds', 'Eddie-Spaghetti' and 'cute' (usually while pinching his cheek), and Eddie pretends to dislike it

In the book, Pennywise assumes the form of a werewolf to scare Richie, and it's frequently brought up in fic. Fic writers like to use the werewolf as representation of Richie's internalized homophobia

The 'leper' Eddie sees in the movie also offers him a blowjob in the book. 'I'll blow you for a dime, I'll blow you for free' is a quote that's often used in fic (and interpreted as Eddie possibly being gay, especially given that his marriage to his wife is basically sexless and, in his own words, 'psychological incest'- also book canon)

It's only used once or twice in the movies, but the phrase 'beep-beep, Richie' is a very frequent occurence in both the book and fic (code for 'shut up', basically)

Adult Beverly has a best female friend Kay who's a passionate feminist

In the movies, Ben has an interest in Derry history, but in the book, it's entirely Mike's thing. Ben's thing is building things (he helps the Losers buld a dam at some point)

[dayseternal-blog]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. spread the self-love ❤

Bunny-senpai!!! 💕

I answered an ask similar to this one last year in March and I don't think my answers have changed...

I rewrote each blurb haha, so it's not an exact copy-paste from before.

1 “It’s No Secret” - Rated M, High School AU, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Hinata returns to Konoha after 5 years studying abroad in the Moon Kingdom. She just wants to enjoy her last year of high school as a normal girl, but blossoming love forces her to confront her future. - My top fave. Back then, I wrote this like I was possessed. This story consumed my mind, and I was posting chapters every 1 or 2 weeks. I'm amazed at myself from back then. No, it's not my technically best writing, but I was having so much fun thinking up all kinds of scenes!!! Oh, to be a fanfic writing newbie all over again. Major love to everyone who's read this flirty teenage shenanigans mess and enjoyed it!!! One day I will write part two 🥺

2 “Nightdreams” - Rated E, Canon-Divergent AU, Multi-chapter, Complete. Naruto and Hinata find comfort in each other after the war. - This fic idea came to me sometime after I read agitosgirl's "A Special Friend," and I wanted Moooooore!!! I wanted more of this hurt/comfort dynamic between NaruHina!!!! So bam, the fic almost wrote itself, it flowed so easily (except for when it didn't). I'm so happy that people reread this fic, and then tell me that they're rereading it :D. Once in awhile I reread it, too, and think, oh, I should fix that sentence, or whatever loll, but I don't. I kind of think it's nice to leave it as it is, imperfect in little ways to bother me. Please read this fic and recognize that I was copying Katarinahime's writing techniques throughout.

3 “Awkward Jocks” - Rated G, 1990s High School AU, Multi-chapter, Complete. She knows that if he were to ever ask her out, she would accept in a heartbeat. After all, he’s the star quarterback and basketball player. Plus, she’s liked him since…forever. But when her home phone rings, and he’s on the other line, she hangs up. - It's interesting to me that even after all the fics I've written over the years, it's a few of my oldest fics that take the top 3. I guess I really have been trying to write for myself since the start. This one is based off of my ex-coworker's love story. Even though I don't work with her anymore, I still think of her as my role model for good leadership. When you read this, I hope you can feel how much I love her!

4 “About You” - Rated G, 1970s High School AU, One-shot. A summer job at the Dole pineapple cannery, graveyard shift 10 PM to 6 AM. A long bus ride into and out of town. Two teens, shy beside each other. - This is my most personal fanfic. Based on stories my parents told me and stories I found online from people of their generation, I tried to dive into their time using NaruHina. Ever since I was inspired to write after reading emmykay's "Torch Song," I had wanted to write a fic with Japanese-Hawaiian pidgin dialogue. This fic is close to my heart, but it's not higher on the list because there are inaccurate details that bother me 😅. I'm thinking of writing a fic about my great grandparents' generation one day, I've done a ton of research for it! Anyway, I'm so happy that others love this fanfic, too.

5 “Matcha” from “Shared Vows” - Rated T, Canon-Compliant, One-shot. Naruto calls Hiashi “father” for the first time. - According to my previous blurb, I picked this one because I loved how I structured it, I thought I wrote it really well. I also loved the notion of Naruto finding his own family. On deeper reflection, I think I also picked this one over "Finally Home" because I have a not-so-secret agenda for reconciliation between Hinata and Hiashi, fed by my own family's dynamic with my dad.

If I were to recommend any one of these for someone to read, I'd say they should start with Nightdreams or Matcha as an intro to some of my work since canon universe fanfic is always easier to digest.

[jin-jamm-desu]

SatoSugu but it T4Tppppa

Fluffy/No Lemon!, GAY, trans Gojo, Trans Geto, technically Canon Compliant, doomed!yaoi because if I can't be happy then neither can you, T4T, fanfiction

Paring- Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto

WARNINGS- [Name/Pronoun] - when a character is called by their dead name or they are misgendered. I won't call them or make up a deadname for them, this is just to show you when its happening.

Red is for [Geto]

Blue is for [Gojo]

-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-

Part 1

- it was so odd coming to Jujutsu High in Tokyo- such a big empty school, away from civilization in a way. it was nestled aways in the mountains. and at some point- you'd have to stop taking a car so you could walk the winding stairs on foot.

- 'this should be fun', was thought by a certain new sorcerer to the school.

- '[he] calls [himself] [Suguru Geto], and [he] has just transferred here from a different school in the city', spoke Yaga, one of the few teachers at the highschool. he said this to two of his pupils, Satoru Gojo and Ieiri Shoko.

- he had known both of them since they came to the school.

- Gojo hailed from the most prestigious jujutsu clan, the Gojo Clan, and was heralded as 'The Strongest' since his birth. he was the only sorcerer on earth who wielded the Six Eyes and Limitless techniques. as of now, noone was able to match him, for he was a greatly apt and skilled fighter. monumentally great and perfect at all things he set out to do. but even if those were the luxuries afforded to him by his title and skill- he was not free of the weight of the chains that shackled him to his duty as a jujutsu sorcerer.

- being the strongest, as one could only describe Satoru Gojo, meant keeping and holding and uplifting extreme expectations in the jujutsu world - at least, that's what Gojo was taught since birth.

- Ieiri Shoko was one of Gojo's closest friends. She was a sorcerer who was gifted with a great grasp of RCT, Reverse Curse Technique, and was on her way to becoming one of the greatest jujutsu technical doctors today. She was more aloof, as one could put it, than Nanami and Yaga combined. even so- she always found a way to put up with Gojo's attitude.

- Gojo didn't seem very interested in the new transfer student, so he didn't hear when Yaga had told him that he'd be the one to show [him] around the school. after Shoko left for something else, and after having repeated himself for a 3rd time when Gojo was listening- Yaga sighed, stood up and walked towards the window where he began to muse-

- 'Gojo', started the teacher, 'make sure you're nice to the new kid. make 'em feel welcome. i heard that [he] was kicked out of his old school for not only the misuse of [his] cursed technique, but also for something that seemed more... personal. hopefully you'll both get along. i'd hate to see someone feel as cast out as you did before.'

- the mention of the first days when Gojo came to jjh made him cringe. he tried to keep himself neutral to all things, but remembering the things he had endured before coming here was something he couldn't stand the think about.

- Gojo stood and bowed silently before leaving the room to find the new student. face stoney and uncharacteristic, he made his way through the almost bare balls of JJH. passing a few students that whispered and gawked at him in envy, intimidation and judgement. unfortunately for him, as much as he'd like to not admit it, almost everyone knew who he was before coming here. yet not a single soul even dared to confront him about it.

@arcielee @katkot333 @humanransome-note @sillyariii @numelfanclub

End of Part 1

If you want to I will create a tag list for you

[chaoticdelinqueerwithglitter]

Time, mystical time (cutting me open, then healing me fine)

(Fluffly fic for Mikey's bday)

(Final tl HaruMai)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MIKEY, TODAY IS YOUR DAY FOR BEING A LIL SPOILED BRAT! (and lucky you, Haru is here to make it happen uwu)

And yes, I know for Haru bday I only gave him angst as a gift but since I can't compete with his worst bday in canon Mikey got fluff instead.

(link to ao3 in case someone wants to read it there)

Summary: Haruchiyo wasn’t the same person Mikey used to love — it was an objective fact that this was for the best.

(or Mikey being deeply in denial about his feelings for Haru)

Warnings: NONE! I swear it! Well, manga spoilers and a breave and not-graphic at all mention on some canon compliant violence from the final battle. Enjoy the fluff?

(English is not my first language, so be nice please 🙈)

“Can I light a small fire at least?” 

It was their first year of middle school and the day was definitely too windy for hiding on the rooftop. Haruchiyo dragged them here, complaining how exhausting it was having to avoid those “annoying airhead girls” who tried to give him chocolate. Mikey found it hilarious, especially because he knew none of those poor girls had a chance with his friend — he was undoubtedly gay. Still in the closet, but well, it was just a matter of time, right? 

Mikey rolled his eyes at this, of course that was Baji’s answer to fight the cold. To be honest, he felt tempted to agree — he had a weak spot for seeing those little fangs peeking out from his friend's grin. 

“Are you stupid? That would let them know we’re here! We’re supposed to be hiding, remember?” 

“And that’s absolutely the only reason why we shouldn’t start a fire on school grounds, clearly.”

That earned him a dismissive shrug from Baji and a sheepish smile from Haruchiyo — untainted and perfect. He burst into laughter, damn it, they were so chaotic. How could he live so many years without them by his side?

“Boohoo, poor you, being chased by pretty girls who want to give you food” 

“Not everyone thinks with their stomach, Keisuke.” Haruchiyo deadpanned as a comeback. “And you know I don’t like them.” 

There was something in the inflection of his voice — and the intense look he gave to Baji — that made Mikey feel like he was missing something. Right on cue, Baji babbled incoherently about forgetting something and quickly disappeared. 

“Weird.” He said nonchalantly. “Any idea of what the fuck was all that about?” 

He turned towards his friend — more than ready to make fun of Baji together — but his smile dropped at the sight.

The sight of Haruchiyo blushing like crazy, staring at the floor and holding out a box of what looked like homemade chocolates. 

“They’re filled with red bean jam!” 

Oh.

Oh.

“Ummm… Thanks?” 

Mikey mumbled uncomfortably, accepting the gift. His friend put who knows how many hours into making them, it would be wrong to dismiss his effort — nothing to do with the fact the filling was his favorite, obviously. 

He realized his mistake too late — when Haruchiyo finally looked up with eyes full of hope. Shit, this wasn’t supposed to happen — not yet! He thought he had a few more years to think of a proper way to reject him, why was this idiot confessing so soon? They were still kids for Christ’s sake! 

To be honest, it was probably his fault. Mikey spent the last four years making sure Haruchiyo knew he was one of his best friends, that he never felt left behind or an outsider. He gave him a safe place to run to when his family situation was too much — because unfortunately there were things that not even time leaping could fix — and talked with Shinichiro about it, hoping his big brother could give Takeomi a deserved slap on his wrist. He even begged Haruchiyo to be one of the Toman founders! 

Okay, so apparently helping his friend to be more confident and have  better self-esteem had some unexpected consequences — like the fact he had no reason to hide his feelings. Well, technically the amount of homophobia in Japan was a pretty good reason, but since when did Haruchiyo give a shit about social conventions? 

“Mikey?”

A soft whisper brought him back from his thoughts. Fuck, he had to say something, he had to think of a way of rejecting him without breaking his heart — at least no more than was inevitable.

“Look, Haru… You know you’re one of my best friends, right? Nothing can change that —”

“You’re rejecting me.” There wasn’t any trace of accusation in his voice, just a sad resignation that squeezed Mikey’s heart. “It’s fine, I know you don’t love me back but it was worth trying it.” 

Ouch, here was that word again.

“You don’t love me, this is just a silly crush. C’mon, don’t be so dramatic.” 

He probably deserved the deadly glare Haruchiyo gave him. He was being an arse, treating his friend’s first love like it meant nothing. But it was just that, his first love, and sooner or later Haruchiyo will get over it — because this time his love wasn’t intertwined with trauma or twisted by grief. 

“You’ll get over it, okay? Before you know, we’ll be laughing about this, you’ll see.”

“You don’t know that.”

Damn it, why did he have to be so stubborn? Why couldn't he understand that he deserved so much better than Mikey? 

“You might be the prettiest boy in school, but you’re too damn pushy!” Mikey groaned with frustration. “I’m trying to save our friendship here, don’t you see it?”

Fuck, he went too far — he was aware of it even before seeing the pain that crossed Haruchiyo’s eyes.

“Haru… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” He tried to reach for him — to offer him one of those hugs that always seemed to bring him comfort — but the other boy moved away, biting his lower lip and avoiding to look at Mikey. He really fucked up bigly this time, didn’t he? He had to fix it somehow. 

“Okay, let’s make a deal.” Good, at least Haruchiyo was looking at him again. “If you still love me when we’re eighteen, ask me again. I promise I’ll take it seriously if you do it.”

“Deal!” The way Haruchiyo’s face lit up almost seemed like magic — completely mesmerizing.

Well, he made a weird face and lowered his voice saying the word ‘love’, but overall Mikey must have done a decent job. Or decent enough to have his friend jumping at him and accepting that wasted hug.

Mikey sighed with relief and didn’t hesitate in wrapping his arms around Haruchiyo’s middle. The warmth of his body felt nice and comfortable — of course it did, they were outside at the end of February. 

“...the prettiest…” 

He didn’t caught Haruchiyo’s whisper, but he forgot about it the moment the other boy started playing with his hair. Sue him for enjoying being pampered, alright? They were friends, friends were affectionate with each other. This was totally fine. 

Mikey groaned when his obnoxious alarm brought him back from dreamland. Why on Earth did he have to dream with this memory precisely today? Okay, probably because it was his eighteenth birthday — no, it was stupid and it didn’t make sense. No way Haruchiyo would still remember it, it was nothing more than a silly promise between kids that didn’t mean anything. 

It wasn’t like Mikey was secretly wishing for him to keep his word — not at all. He had no reason for it, no romantic feelings for Haruchiyo to justify his greedy desire. That was a lie, and he knew it. He loved Haruchiyo — obviously he did — but it was in another timeline, this was only the echo from back then. It had to be. 

Haruchiyo wasn’t the same person Mikey used to love — of course he wasn’t, he was free from all those traumatic memories, of having more than one timeline inside his brain. It was for the best, Mikey knew it.

That thing they had during Kanto Manji wasn’t healthy for anyone involved. Mikey was too selfish, too scared, unable to call it what it was. He had the guts to forbid Haruchiyo to say it too — always taking more and more, never asking why the other stayed just in case that would break the illusion. He should’ve asked — he should’ve cared more — instead of letting him carry all that pain alone. 

And Haruchiyo? He was the opposite. Always giving more and more, erasing parts of himself in order to fit into what he thought Mikey wanted from him — in order to be by his king's side. Sinking into darkness, little by little, twisting his own morals to be able to bear with his crimes. Haruchiyo could be sweet and caring in the morning — always attentive to Mikey’s needs — brushing his hair while whispering soothing words to calm him from the latest nightmare. Only to later bash his little sister's head with a metal pipe, attempt vehicular manslaughter and actually murder someone from the same gang. All for Mikey, always for Mikey. 

It was an objective fact that this was for the best.

He sighed and finally got out of bed, right on time to open the door of his room before his sister knocked on it. Her surprised face was totally worth it, but the way Emma hugged him and ruffled his hair was a thousand times better — another year he had all of his siblings by his side.

“Happy birthday sleepyhead.” She laughed freely, so beautifully alive. “Haruchiyo is already waiting for you.”

“Shit!” 

Mikey pulled away from the hug and rushed towards the kitchen. Damn it, why did he have to be so punctual? Not like he could get really mad, especially when he entered the room and saw Haruchiyo’s face lit up once he spotted him.

“Happy birthday, Mikey!” He was about to grumble for the loud tone, when he got gently pushed into the chair and was greeted by a fresh cup of coffee.

“...morning.” 

He took a long sip of his coffee, silently blessing Haruchiyo’s sixth sense to always know what he needed — that was one of the aspects in which he was the same. Mikey would be lying if he said he wasn’t glad, but at least this time he tried to also pay attention to his friend’s moods. He liked to think that he got to know him better, to read him better — even if he was fully aware part of the merit was due to Haruchiyo being more open in general.

For example, he could tell Haruchiyo was nervous by the way he kept fidgeting with his earrings. The mischievous glint in his eyes let Mikey know it was a good type of nerves — excitement probably. 

“Where is Baji?” He asked absentmindedly, taking a big bite of his pancakes.

“He said something about feeding stray cats or whatever.” 

It was a blatant lie, he could perfectly tell. They had the annual tradition that Haruchuyo and Baji were always the ones in charge of distracting Mikey during the day, while everyone else prepared his not-surprise birthday party. Maybe Baji was doing something related to it? Weird, but he knew his friend wouldn’t miss their day together without a good reason — so no need to overthink it.

In less than ten minutes, Mikey had gobbled down his breakfast — earning a judging face from Emma and an adorable chuckle from his friend. No, not adorable, what the fuck was wrong with him today? Luckily, he didn’t have the time to dwell on this thought before Haruchiyo dragged him towards their bikes. 

“Where?” He was sure Haruchiyo had something planned.

“The cove.”

“Haru, you hate the beach, you’re always complaining how you end up with sand everywhere and how it makes you too sweaty.” 

“That’s why we don’t go there for my birthday.” He deadpanned. “You love that place and I came prepared for the stupid sand, don’t worry.”

Mikey laughed at that — so that was why Haruchiyo brought a backpack. He should have known, his friend always thought ahead about those types of details. Another one of these things where Haruchiyo was the same, though he preferred when it was against the beach than rival gangs. It was still for Mikey, wasn’t it?

“Alright then.” He jumped on his babu and started the engine. “Don’t go too slow!”

The ride felt too short, even if it actually took them almost an hour to get there. It was worth it, the cove was almost empty — that was why Mikey loved this particular spot. Away from people, the sound of the waves lulled his mind while the salty smell of the sea breeze calmed his senses. 

“Thanks, you were right about coming here.” He smiled happily towards Haruchiyo — who was already placing a blanket on the sand and wearing a ridiculously big straw hat to protect his delicate skin from the sunrays. His cheeks shouldn’t look so flushed with that on his head, same way he shouldn’t look so pretty with it either. Shit, what was this feeling? 

“What else did you bring?” He asked, trying to distract himself from his totally platonic thoughts towards one of his best friends.

“Here.” Haruchiyo took out a couple of cans of soda and a tupperware full of…

“Taiyakis?” His eyes widened with surprise, opening the container as soon as he had it in his hands — they looked homemade. “Did you make them?”

“Obviously.” 

No, it wasn’t that obvious — or maybe it was considering who he was talking to. He took a bite almost with reverence, still bewildered by Haruchiyo’s gesture. 

“Damn, this tastes amazing!” He swallowed before talking again. “Are you sure you want to be a youtuber? You’d be a hell of a baker, Haru. Your sweets are always the best, I swear.”

“Nah, I only enjoy cooking when it’s for you.” 

Mikey could feel his cheeks burning at these words — he knew it wasn’t because of the sun. He liked the idea that it was only for him, that this side of Haruchiyo belonged only to him. He liked it too damn much, that was the whole problem. Why did Haruchiyo keep throwing these statements out so casually? Did he really not notice how it became more difficult for Mikey to pretend he wasn’t head over heels for him or what? 

Fuck.

He was about to start panicking when Haruchiyo talked with a smug tone, like he knew something Mikey didn’t. 

“You know… they’re filled with red bean jam!” 

“What did you just say?” 

No, it couldn’t be. It had to be a coincidence — even if it was the exact same words and it felt absurd to specify that about taiyakis. He almost dropped the sweet when Haruchiyo brushed away a lock of Mikey’s hair — no way the gesture was casual when it felt that intimate and tender. 

“Haru?” His voice sounded equally insecure and hopeful. 

“We’re both eighteen now.” Mikey nodded at that, staring at him like an idiot. “Do I really need to say it again or did you finally believe it?”

He blinked in disbelief a few times — barely resisting the urge to pinch his own cheek. No way Haruchiyo actually waited years without any guarantee that his feelings would ever be requited.

“Again.” He whispered. “Please.”

“I love you, Mikey. It’s not a silly crush and it didn’t go away for almost a decade, so can —?”

Mikey didn’t let him finish — there was no need, they both knew. As usual, he had been too scared to admit it even to himself. Also as usual, Haruchiyo had been too stubborn to give up on his feelings. 

So why should he waste another second before kissing those lips that he missed so fucking much? Judging by the way Haruchiyo wrapped his arms around him and brought him closer, the way his lips parted eagerly or that muffled moan he did within the kiss… He definitely agreed with Mikey. 

There was no more room for doubts — it was about damn time. 

[bugwolfsstuff]

@parrotxx You asked earlier and I already had it in my drafts for a bit so heres all ive written for it so far.

I wonder if this still technically counts as canon compliant cus its the same scene and dialogue and doesnt go against anything in the book because we dont get Loki's thoughts.

Anyways im having a fucking blast with Loki's narration.

------

I do love my kids, despite popular belief and some of my actions. Yes, I'm aware that forcing one of my daughters to marry a giant doesn't exactly scream 'Parent of the Year'. But it'll only be for a day at the latest. Then I'll be free and kill everyone—except my children and my wife.

That snake's gonna get it, though.

"Welcome, Magnus Chase!" I grinned at the boy, "I hope you'll excuse me if I don't get up.".

"Gods." The boy muttered, looking at me with...

Was that pity in his eyes? I haven't seen that kind of feeling towards me in years. More pure hate and disdain is what I'm used to.

I chuckled, forgetting for a moment. "Oh no; no gods here! They never visit. They sealed us in and left us. It's just me and my lovely wife, Sigyn. Say hello, Sigyn."

Sigyn stayed silent, as usual. She looked up at the entourage but didn't show any emotion.

"Oh, that's right," I said bitterly. "Sigyn hasn't spoken in a thousand years—ever since the Aesir, in their infinite wisdom, butchered our sons and abandoned us here to suffer for eternity."

It was actually two thousand and sixteen years, ten months, and four days. But hey, who's counting?

"But where are my manners? This is a happy occasion! How are you, Thyrm, son of Thyrm, son of Thyrm, son of Thyrm?"

Happy for me, more like. I can't say the same for anyone else in this cave; most of them will be dead. Sigyn hasn't been truly happy for two thousand and sixteen years, ten months, and four days, and my daughters have already made their feelings well known about this.

The giant groom—nope, nope! I can't even say it, and if I have to ever again, I'm throwing myself on Heimdall's sword—the giant looked uncomfortable.

The discomfort might have been because it was his wedding day, which was understandable. I remember my wedding day with my first wife, Angrboda. Gods, I was so nervous I shapeshifted into a goat at the altar. It was so embarrassing!

Or the discomfort could have been because he was in my presence. Which is also understandable, considering my —mostly true— terrible reputation.

Either way, I was enjoying his discomfort. I'm really not liking the way he is looking at my daughter.

"H-hello, Loki. It—it's actually just three Thryms..."

I do not care, I thought.

"And I am ready to seal our alliance with a marriage".

And I have been ready to be done with it since you walked in. I also thought but decided to, for once, keep my mouth shut voluntarily.

Instead I said, "Yes, of course! You brought the Skofnung sword!"

[destielfanfic]

from the inbox, #10

I love to see new asks about post season 15 destiel fics but my answers are mostly the same, unfortunately. The usual disclaimer applies - our blog transitioned to archive in January 2018, during season 13, and our new fic recs drastically decreased.

Hello, could you recommend any plot-driven fics set post-15x20 that are a bit longer and also explore the relationship between Dean and Castiel? I'm mostly looking for something that is canon compliant (Dean dies and goes to heaven in 15x20)

I’ve answered similar asks on our previous from the inbox posts, so definitely check out those. But for the sake of convenience, here are some links - post 15x20 rec lists Happiness isn’t in the Having and Good things Do Happen . These are mostly short fics, but you can always check out the authors and see if they have longer fics. 

This is random, but do you know any fics where Dean starts dating cas because he feels bad? Something like dean dates castiel as a pity date? I've really been wanting to read something like that :p 

This is very random indeed! Especially if that is meant in a post 15x20 setting. I must admit I’m drawing a blank here. 

hi! not sure if this is the right place to ask this (if it’s not im rly sorry!) but can u rec me some destiel fics where like . dean thought they were dating all along and cas didn’t? sorry if it didn’t make a lot of sense! thanks  

And this is an opposite of the previous ask!

OK, guys, since there is huge interest in post finale destiel fics, I’m opening floor for follower recs/ self recs on this post. Please add in reblogs or notes destiel fics that fit these criteria: 

A - longer, plot driven post 15x20 fics that explore Dean and Cas relationship

B - fics where Dean takes Cas on a pity date after Cas confessed his love in 15x18; canon verse fics are preferred but if you have some AUs, feel free to add

C - fics where Dan thought they were dating while Cas had no idea

＊＊＊＊

We have some fic suggestions from our followers！

A - canon verse fics dealing with 15x20

The Blood Curse by Labgeek2002 [M, 32,700 word count]

Castiel has been rescued from the Empty, but the spell used to retrieve him tears a hole in the dimensional wall that acts as barrier protecting Earth from the pull of everlasting darkness. As the Empty feeds off of Castiel's grace to sustain itself, driving him closer to death with every passing minute, Dean becomes desperate to save him. The only way to repair the damage is for Dean, Sam, and Cas to travel back in time to obtain a witch's stone that's in the possession of John Winchester, circa 2002. A twenty-three year old Dean Winchester will serve as their guide as they navigate the tumultuous father-son relationship that transcends time itself before the Empty draws its final curtain.

Beyond This Illusion by tiaevans87 [NC-17, 161,400 word count]

“Are you serious, Dean? Your djinn-dream started with you dying?” Sam asks incredulously from the passenger seat on the way back to the bunker. “Well, technically it started with us going on a hunt,” Dean points out. He licks his lips, jaw clenching. “I mean, there was Heaven, too, and that was pretty cool.” Sam stares at him. “Unbelievable,” he breathes, scrunching his face up in distaste. When Dean glares at him, he holds his hands up defensively and chuckles weakly. “Sorry, man, but that just sounds pretty lame.” He leans back and folds his arms. “It just…I dunno. Kinda sounds like something Chuck would cook up. Just you and me. No one else. I mean, really?” He scoffs, slumping. *~*~* In which some people come back, Cas learns to be human (the right way, this time), Dean Winchester finally realizes that good things do happen, and they all get their version of the post-credits, apple-pie life they deserved. AKA: Screw Chuck's narrative.

B - Dean takes Cas on a pity date

On Labor by a_good_soldier [NC-17, 24,600 word count]

Cas is back from the Empty, and Dean knows how to be grateful.

because he wears cowboy boots by mmtion [NC-17, 65,300 word count]

When Cas comes back from the Empty, Dean has to rethink everything about their relationship, and Dean’s new, post-Chuck duty. He wants Cas to be happy and get what he wants. So, if he wants Dean, then he has him. Dean’s new responsibility is to be the best boyfriend Cas will ever want or need. If that means moving out of the bunker, and not driving the Impala, and letting Cas fuck him, then that’s what he has to do. It’s an easy deal. It should be an easy life. So how come Dean still can’t quite make sense of it?

[whinlatter]

reading | listening | writing | summer '23

sulking in bed with tonsillitis - never had it before, thought i was built different, crushed to discover i am, in fact, built the same (sickly). so thought was overdue a share of some of the fics i have loved that i've read these past few months (even though my TBR remains colossal), as well as some tune/travel updates, a lil writing check in, and a lil sneak peek of chapter eight of Beasts because the ex boyfriends are back, baby!!!

Reading

Bookbinding by @saintsenara (Myrtle/Tom Riddle, AU, 35k, multi-chapter, completed)

look. this is how it's going to go. i'm going to say myrtle/tom riddle AU, you're going to say 'are you right in the head you're a canon compliant girlie kindly get a grip on yourself'. but then you're going to click the link, and read it, and then you'll be chuckling and filled with boundless delight and want to read this stonkingly well-written properly funny rich magical little fic all over again as soon as you've finished and you'll have me to thank for it. it's a rom-com, people. dare you not to be enchanted. their ship name is literally tyrtle? the tag is 'she said: I can fix him! and she's right'. (and then you're going to read this hinny one, also by @saintsenara as a gift to me as a delectable chaser and lose your mind!)

everything i am is yours by @brightlybound (Hinny, AU, 4k, oneshot)

remember when i was like, AUs, not my bag! and then i read a load of AUs and realised i was talking out of my arse? weird. anyway, here is a lovely little hinny AU that i've gone back to a bunch because it's just really beautifully written and deeply charming and actually does something a lot of muggle AUs don't always do, which is play with harry's characterisation ever so deftly to say, hey, harry is harry, but if nothing bad had happened to him and james and lily lived, he'd be a little bit different, wouldn't he? this harry is our harry, but he's just that bit more confident, that bit more capable of digging an active flirt out of his back pocket. and that makes me happy!

The Last Something That Meant Anything by anonymous (Percy POV, Percy/Audrey and Percy/Oliver, short multichapter, 21k, completed)

i have a lot of percy thoughts these days. fanon percy, steeped in weasley bashing, doesn't do very much for me, so i really loved this belter of a percy character study that considers him both within and apart from his family in a way that attends to his trauma and inner life, but also shows the truth: he's not doing well, he does fuck up with a big moral lapse, and then he has work to do - interesting, deep, personal work - to make it right. please check the tags with this one, as it does contain reference to SA, but really do recommend a read if you feel able.

haunted mansion by @bronzeagepizzeria (Sirius-POV, 1.5k, oneshot)

this brilliant short fic really left me with so many sirius feelings: it just gets the claustrophobia and the grief of sirius' last year alive exactly right, and it just has these fabulous cameos that have detonated a thousand deep sirius thought bombs in my head forever. l o v e d it

perpendicular by akissinacrisis (Hinny, AU, 4.5k, oneshot)

harry/ginny AU, where harry goes to stonewall high and meets ginny at a party. it's so tender and beautiful and stiff and sad and understated, and it's really stayed with me. also it does what all good hinny fics must do (have them chatting. just talking, hanging out, shooting the shit together. they just love to chat, those two lil magnets snapping to each other).

empire builders by she-crow (Prongsfoot, possibly canon-compliant but technically AU I guess, 25k oneshot)

i read this laid out beside a lake and needed at least four more days of lying by a lake to think about it. it's a) one of the most beautiful fics i've ever read b) rip your heart out and staple it heart-wrenching and good and c) some of the best sirius and james characterisations i've read that really serves as a manifesto for playing around with marauders multiships to really different characters in such different lights. the other beauty of it is that it could be canon-compliant? like it could be read as a fabulous doomed tragic love affair between two boys completely infatuated with each other and not sure where to put it. and i think that's kind of gorgeous. so yeah uhh big fan

Notes from the Ravenclaw Bulletin Board by lostrobin (Gen, 11k, completed)

this is a fic told through (very funny) little notes on the ravenclaw bulletin board. been thinking a lot about different house dynamics atm and this a) made me laugh out loud and b) really think, you know who is really sound? those ravenclaw kids. love those bookworms. the crookshanks and fred and george cameos really make this, too. you'll zip through it and you'll giggle. there's nothing more to it!

Listening (while out and about)

i listened to things like this:

pink light by muna (saw em live, lost my mind!) | space invader by the national (anthemic) | mountain by the joy (they're too good) | the greater wings (album) by julie byrne (literally stunning) | gorilla by lil simz (best beanie man sample of all time?)

Writing

other than this birthday microfic for mr potter, a bit of tinkering and dawdling with other misc projects that i pick up and put down over and over again, and my usual meta nonsense, i've just been writing Beasts! put four chapters out since last check-in, and am hard at work on chapter eight, which has some of my favourite scenes in the fic so far. we're gearing up for some chapters away from the castle (writing the winter break chapters in august. what am i like!) and some scenes i've been sat on for ages and some others that i'm having so so so much fun writing. i'm a michael corner stan now? who knew?

She lugs the trunk off the bus at the final stop and traipses around the warren of streets in Soho for a while, looking for the address written on the piece of parchment clutched in her hand. Finally, she finds the building, battered door with the doorbell hanging half off, and stands awkwardly in the street, catching her breath, until the machine crackles and a familiar deep voice says: ‘Hello?’ 'Hi, it’s me.’ She clears her throat. ‘It’s Ginny, I mean.’  ‘Oh, hi. Come on up.’  The hallway has an unmistakably damp, squat-like feel about it. Loud laughter spills out of the flat on the first floor, and a group of uni students, squabbling amicably among themselves, parade past her on the second floor staircase as she rings the doorbell and loiters in the corridor, feeling hopelessly out of place. ‘Your hair’s so nice!’ one girl with thick black boots and a face full of piercings says admiringly as she passes by, just as the door to the flat swings open.  ‘Oh, good, you found it. I wasn’t sure you’d be able to.’ ‘Why wouldn’t I be able to?’ Michael rolls his eyes. ‘You know, Ginny, seen as it's Christmas, maybe we could try not to argue before you’ve even set foot in my flat.'

okay, one more 🕺

THE BOYS OF 12 GRIMMAULD PLACE INVITE YOU TO  THE NEW YEAR’S PARTY OF THE CENTURY Eight til late, BYOB because we’re skint THE THEME: ‘MUGGLE MAGIC’ (BRING OUT THE MUGGLE IN YOU -  BECAUSE MUGGLES ARE MAGIC, TOO!)

[ani-iu]

[𝟐] 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐃 | 𝐀𝐝𝐚𝐦 × 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: annoyances to lovers; forced proximity; mutual pining; developing relationship; religious imagery & symbolism; explicit language; misogyny; Adam being Adam; he falls first and harder; sexual tension; eventual smut; religious guilt; explicit sexual content; clingy Adam; happy ending; light angst; character study; not canon compliant.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5,6k.

// deadly virtues and heavenly sins

𝐘our perception of time has been distorted to the point where your stay appears to be endless while possibly lasting only a few minutes; months could be fluttering by and you would be none the wiser. Time, in itself, is a strange concept — one you are not even sure any of the afterlife domains are exercising, but if they do, then there is no doubt in your mind that Purgatory most definitely defies all established logic just as it does with space.

Currently, the only indicator of any time passage at your disposal is how fast Adam is working. He doesn’t dwindle long on a single page, making the distant, sky-reaching towers of documents steadily decrease.

Although you are now technically classified as a soul, holding onto this human-made, arbitrary construct placates you. Maybe it's human naiveté, but pretending that you have some sort of autonomy brings comfort. All of this is temporary , you keep telling yourself. You just need to hold on for a tiny bit longer.

"…here…" The plangent keening jolts you out of your thoughts, covering the back of your neck in goosebumps. 

Fooling yourself into thinking that you can’t feel their hungry, grabby hands molesting your psyche is futile; the truth is hard to ignore — the shades never left you, and you fear they never will. Not until you are here.

Their voices are distant for the most part, and their touch is easy to pass off as an ever-present breeze. But the moment your brain stops working, the shades invite themselves inside your skull like it's an open house.

Looking down at a piece of paper begrudgingly given to you by the oh-so-gracious first man, you go over your written-down ramblings about time, accompanied by doodles of clocks you scrawled in the margins like some sort of dementia patient, which technically you kind of are. You figured that occupying yourself with brain exercises like writing in a language you just made up on the spot helps to stave off the unnerving presence of the shades and keeps you from going insane.

All this effort, so you wouldn't need to ask him for help. 

You can, thankfully, only imagine the barrage of insults directed towards you and the whole feminine half of the human race before Adam would even entertain the thought of finding a solution to your problem. Telling you, oh, how smart you were to wander off or how a proclamation — "I can still hear the shades, Adam." — would most likely be interpreted as pathetic. Judging by your interactions so far, you believe that your speculations are highly accurate.

At the moment, your communication with Adam consisted of sitting in the same vicinity and playing a friendly game of footsies under the table, which unravelled after you accidentally kicked him in the shin while re-crossing your legs. You were silently grateful that he did at least this much, and the atmosphere engulfing the two of you seemed to become a bit less tense as a result. But not fully. 

Adam's eyes have already grazed through almost half of your life and scrutinised every intimate detail of your person, making you feel vulnerable and causing your cheeks to grow pink every time he tears his eyes away from the material to look at you. It makes you wonder, with every burning, silent eye-to-eye, what his opinion of you is at the moment. It's hard to predict when you don't know who you are and don't fully trust Adam to tell you the truth about yourself if you came to ask for a morsel of it. 

A gust of deathly cold air carrying your name travels directly into your ear, making you jump in your seat as if shocked. Your breathing becomes deeper, and you painfully pinch yourself into the supple meat of your thigh, trying to calm yourself without alerting the man across from you.

"...come with us..."

 You miss the quiet inside of your head. 

"...us.."

You really fucking miss it.

"US! "

You grab the golden quill with a shaky grip and hover the sharp tip over the fresh white sheet, but the whiteness is staring right back at you and then— THOSE FUCKING VOICES AGAIN!

« « «

Adam tells himself that he is just making sure you haven't wandered off — physically and mentally.

Periodically glancing your way is almost like a reflex, and every time Adam does that, he is thankful for his towering height and a cut of your shirt for giving him a first-row seat to gawk at the tops of your breasts that are jutted out forward because of your upright posture. Next time he sneaks a glance away from the page he is skimming through, he focuses more on their complexion, the skin there being so smooth and soft-looking, void of any marks or blemishes. By the third time, Adam's eyes move upward, checking out your pronounced collarbones and a piece of jewellery hanging off of your delicate neck. The dainty chain is going over the clavicle, and the pendant lands dead centre of your chest, bringing his gaze right back towards your juicy pair of tits — and he is again back at square one.

Well, at least he tried.

A hot piece of ass in Heaven, to Adam, is like a drop of water in the ocean — faceless and unidentifiable amidst the virtuous masses. And that’s how he likes his women. One-night stands that make him feel alive but don't make him dwell too much on the feelings and emotions he desperately tries to avoid. But then there’s you — sitting, ultimately doing nothing of importance, yet you are forcing Adam to learn about you by simply having the misfortune of going to Purgatory after death.

You are attractive and not all too bad of a company to be around, all things considered, but Adam can't even enjoy himself because it all feels too personal. He doesn’t want to know you because he doesn’t want to care. However, everything at the moment is working against him.

Reading and actively consuming everything about you doesn’t help his racing mind rid itself of the thoughts of you. Your precious childhood memories, first times, hobbies, the way your lips part a tiny bit when you are preoccupied and how you bring your pointer up towards the bottom lip, running the pad of it along the glossy plump skin as if the appendage is dipped in lip balm and you are absentmindedly applying it, teasingly, might he add, and— fuck, he’s staring again.

While Purgatory is tormenting your soul, you are torturing his.

Even when he’s not looking your way, he can’t help but choke on your heady scent every time he takes a breath, and now that he feels your own gaze focused on him, Adam cannot help but get pissed off.

"I can feel you staring, bitch. You know you can speak, right?" Adam looks up to meet your unfocused, wide-eyed stare, but — blink it and you’ll miss it — it’s as if he imagined it. You look serene as your lips curl into a dopey grin in eagerness for a conversation.

"Can I now?" Instead of tilting your chin up to look at him, you look through your eyelashes without moving your head one bit, using minimal effort to make eye contact with Adam and, in turn, looking irritatingly hot.

"Forgot how annoying you sound. Stay quiet."

"No, but seriously, would it hurt if you gave me a bit of your time? I did stay well-behaved for the most part. You are almost done."

To get out of here, the best for you and him was if Adam ignored you and kept working, but against his better judgement, he put down his gold feather quill and put his chin in his palm, lazily gazing at you. "Very."

He will entertain you for a bit and tell himself that it’s him who could use a break.

"Oh, come on, amuse me for a bit. I might go to Hell soon and you will never have to engage with me again."

"I know you chicks like to babble like your life depends on it, but I’m perfectly content with listening to silence." Silence, or, as some like to refer to it, breathing, is an almost inaudible humming sound that looms in the air across the whole domain. It helps angels concentrate while driving souls mad. Of course, you would start to crave a different, more soothing kind of sound, like a human voice. "And if you are planning to disturb my peace with this incessant whining, I will teleport you there in a moment." He won’t. It’s impossible.

"Maybe I would like that."

"Said no one ever."

You bite your inner cheek to hold back your growing smile. This was going just like you wanted. A naturally flowing conversation.

"Well, then what is Heaven like? Sell me an idea of it."

“Heavenly. It’s called the eternal paradise for a reason.”

You celebrated too soon. "Oh, wow, you really sold me there. A man of many words."

"Only when it matters."

"And that is?"

Adam pauses and feigns thinking over his answer. As if that's necessary when the answer is going to be of no substance anyway. You know that he is doing these theatrics just to annoy you.

"When I’m bored."

"And you are not right now?" You ask, finding it hard to believe.

"You don’t know half of it."

"Then tell me." Getting this man to engage in a conversation, meaningful or not, is like pulling teeth. Confusing, because Adam does give off the kind of energy that suggests he normally is hard to shut up. "What did you use to do out of boredom, for example, when there were only two people in the world? It must have gotten quite boring after a while."

That sleazy smirk that crosses his face tells you what the answer will be even before he speaks a word.

"We fucked."

You kick him in the shins again, this time intentionally. With much more force too.

"OW! What the fuck, bitch?!"

"Normal conversation. That's it. That is literally all I asked for. Is that too much? I treat you like another soul and wish you would do the same, but you, the first man that, might I add, is mentioned in total only 27 times across the whole Bible, are so high and mighty that you can’t fathom the idea of me wanting to engage in a no-strings-attached conversation? Or is it that I am a woman?" You question him as if the blatant misogyny wasn’t, well, blatantly obvious. "It is that, isn't it? You feel way more comfortable insinuating I do sexual favours for your enjoyment and entertainment than letting me know something more than your name. You know everything about me; I am bare in front of you and you want me to shed my clothing as well?! Why can you have your walls up while I have to keep myself unguarded just because I’m so 'insignificant' in the grand scheme of things?"

"Chill, you asked and I answered! You were the one who wanted to talk and we did. No need to dig that deep."

The back and forth was honestly fun while it lasted. Adam was never planning on answering your questions truthfully and honestly, only enjoying the way you huffed in annoyance. The genuine emotion so cutely animated your face that Adam just couldn't help but find a perverse pleasure in pushing your buttons.

"And is that such a deadly sin? I wonder what your wife would have to say about your innuendoes."

"Good thing I don’t have one."

"I see why." 

Adam clicks his tongue at that. But mild annoyance is nothing compared to the anger you evoke in him with your next question. He watches you silently seethe, your teeth gnawing at your lip, as you work that brain of yours until something clicks in your mind.

"Trouble in paradise?" You boldly meet his eyes, pretending not to notice Adam's fuming look. "How was it?"

"How was what?"

"Life in Eden. The eternal paradise. Heaven probably doesn’t compare."

May the curiosity and persistence of womankind be cursed. Amen.

"What was it like to lose it all?" Your words scratch something in Adam as he gets ready to chew you out for even luring him this far into talking. But your inquisitive voice is quicker. "Your home, your security — all gone in one bite."

"Are you done?" Adam’s voice is a period at the end of a sentence personified. It puts a stop to your string of syntaxes immediately. You scooch a little bit backwards with your chair, putting some space in between you and the edge of the table, between you and him. For your own well-being, Adam hopes that means you caught on to your mistake.

"Oh? Don’t mind me, just thinking out loud." He watches you with that beatific smile stretched out on your face as if making fun of him. "You can go back to your work now, civil servant." 

You are.

Adam feels his left eye twitch. Like putting a cherry on top, you stick the tip of your tongue, giving your lips a little teasing lick. It was foolishly brave of you to do so after what happened not that long ago. You are acting as if the minimal gap you put in between the two of you would hold Adam back from tearing out the pink fleshy organ.

But using physical strength against a woman to make a point would be cowardly. Oh no, he will show you how it feels to lose it all — the feeling of regret everyone experiences at some point in their lives, a feeling you are currently spared from thanks to the way Purgatory works.

Adam turns his attention away from you without saying a word. He scans through a pile of memories that he has already evaluated, searching for a particular one. He might be silent, but his head is buzzing.

It’s always the ones who are stubborn and audacious. These kinds of women are always his undoing. He doesn’t learn, doesn't he? At first, it was Lilith, then Eve, and now you, even though one of these bitches is not like the others. Lilith and Eve were Adam’s only choices, if he could even call them that. They were given to him, not chosen by him. With this, he is not saying that there is a bunch of pussy to choose from in this God-forsaken realm of Limbo, but out of all the women he has met since everything ended with his second wife, you somehow got the most reaction out of him. He could try to blame Purgatory for messing with him somehow, if not for one reason — it doesn’t affect angels.

Adam plucks out a memory and passes you a single sheet, willingly letting you read what's printed on it. You look at his outstretched arm with distrust before looking up at him. 

"Read."

You hold his gaze for what feels like hours, but probably only a few prolonged seconds go by. Your fingers brush against his black talon-like ones, sending an electric sensation down your spine as you quickly snatch the paper from his hold. You watch the print for a moment without fully concentrating on any of the words, prolonging the action of being sucked into the memory. It’s not that you don’t want to know. You have a feeling that it’s a trick of some kind; you are sure of it. You just know what kind yet.

All it takes is for you to read the first word and you are teleported to your destination. The setting is a simple church, full of familiar faces that you recognise as your mother's side of the family. But they look lifeless, like mannequin stand-ins for the real people you once knew. Their heads are turned sideways towards your shadowy form as their soulless eyes pierce right through you like you just interrupted an ongoing mass.

You wonder who is observing you with the help of their irisless eyes.

The sound of heels clicking, followed by the disgruntled dragging of someone's feet, brings your attention towards an older woman, whom you recognise as your mother. She has her hand wrapped around your teenage self’s wrist, tugging the past you softly but encouragingly to follow after her.

"Mom, I don’t want to." You hear your younger self whisper, acutely aware of the way sounds travel in the church.

"Your grandmother would want you to." The woman responded and for a moment, your past self seemed to comply, but there is still that defiance in her that is stronger, butting in.

"I have nothing to say in there! It’s always the same: 'I disobeyed my parents' or 'I said a bad word'! And there is no point in telling anything beyond that to a stranger! " You dug your heels into the worn red carpet flooring. "If I wanted to 'talk to God', I would simply pray in the comfort of my room. Alone."

Your mother lets go of her hold on your past self. "Okay, then. Go sit back." The woman was peeved, but she was not about to cause a scene in the middle of a church, of all places.

"No." Your past self responded. It’s more than clear that she doesn’t want to confess her sins. But what would it look like if she just went back? People would talk. It’s a small town.

The pendant of a saint around your neck becomes heavier, akin to a noose, as you raise your eyes towards the front of the church, where behind the main altar and above the altarpiece hangs a painting of the all-seeing eye of God. It looks down on you, just like the empty eyes of the human-looking figures filling up the seats in the church pews. Is God watching you, or is it the Purgatory itself?

When you turn back towards your past self, you see that it's already her turn to confess, so you walk closer to listen in. The teen is already on her knees, head cast downward, facing the latticed opening on the side of the confessional.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." Your past self lets out a shaky breath before continuing with what she could remember. The inevitability of screwing it up was looming in the air like a bad omen. "It has been a year since my last confession. I — I don’t remember how this sequence goes. I’m sorry."

"It’s okay, my child. Just tell me what is on your mind." The voice on the other side is sympathetic, and you can see yourself breathing a sigh of relief.

"I don’t know where to start, actually." She said truthfully. "Today is my grandmother’s one-year death anniversary. And I —" her clammy, shaky hands fidget with the black material of the skirt she's wearing. "I hate myself for not spending more time with her, even though I did. But somehow it feels like it was not enough. My mom always had to remind me to call her, but I dreaded those phone calls. I didn’t know how to speak to her. She was old. She would always circle back our conversation to how sick she felt, how everything hurt and how exhausted she was from living this long. I would stay silent. I didn’t know how I could help her. In truth, I wished she would… die. She was nothing if not a devoted woman, so I knew she would be happier on the other side. But now I feel like her passing is somehow my fault. Like I brought this on her." She whipped her tears and stifled the sob so it wouldn’t echo through the church. "I miss her. I wonder if she knew that I loved her a lot. I regret not telling her that enough—

You are once again back at the Purgatory and as the shock and the vividness of the memory dissolve, all that is left is a bitter aftertaste of regret. It burns the back of your throat like bile and your chest feels heavy while every breath you take doesn't seem like it's enough to sate your lungs. 

Suddenly, you find yourself rethinking if you want to remember your past life. Forgetting all of it was never the punishment; it was mercy. Slowly remembering it all, piece by piece, is the true agony. Then, would ascending to Heaven mean that you only get good, selected, polished memories of your life before, so you can continue living your afterlife in blissful ignorance? Would you forget this memory as well?

"Why so quiet? Did I successfully manage to quench your thirst for knowledge?" Adam’s voice has that signature condescending tone to it, bringing your disorganised thoughts to a halt and back on him. You crossed the line, but he was no saint either. On top of that, he also handpicked the memory with the sole intent of hurting you and now he was rubbing it in your face. "Who knew that one paper held so much power? I would have let you read some a long time ago if only you would stop using the gift of speech God so graciously bestowed on you. Too graciously, in my opinion."

And all you wanted was kindness, patience and humility — heavenly virtues — but this angel showed you time and time again his preference for sin.

"Leave me alone." Your rebuttal is laconic. There is not much you can say at the moment — there is a lot, but you are not in the right headspace to have that conversation. It's not like he would listen anyway.

"Oh, so now you don’t want to talk? Don't you have any more questions for me, hm? Are you, by any chance, familiar with the feeling of regret? Just curious."

His duplicitous veneer of holiness that he hides behind while spewing cutthroat and venomous verbiage towards you seems to belie a deeper-seated issue. You would try to see from his perspective, dole out some human decency if he had tried to give you some when you needed it. Everybody has their limits and you just maxed out yours to the point where the cold touch of a shade sounds like it would be way more pleasant and better company than Adam ever was.

Without further ado, you stand up with the hope that after you leave this time you will go insane. You lift your chin, meeting his superfluously arrogant gaze straight on.

"I will go."

"Let me go, Adam!"

That snapped Adam out of his heartless state like a punch in the gut. 

He could pretend all he wanted — tell himself that he had forgotten her voice and that if he ever heard it again, it wouldn't get a reaction from him. But there it was, loud and clear in his head, overlapping with your soft tone. You are no Lilith, but at this very moment, you sound exactly like his first wife — both of you wanting to be as far away from him as possible. All because he was, at the end of the day, a human, flawed by design with his own principles, feelings and hurts.

Created to protect and provide, that’s all Adam wanted to do. But Lilith, created as an equal to him, was adamant about being able to do everything Adam could on her own. And at the end, she left him for an angel that could do and create things Adam wasn’t created to do; she left him for someone better and someone Adam could never be.

The need to be loved is simply part of the human condition and Adam, at the end of the day, is human. Aeons passing by didn’t strip him away from his hurts and fears. The hurt from being cheated on is still there, even if those who are accountable are not.

He doesn’t want to be left by anyone anymore. He did everything to ensure that after Lilith and Eve left him, this scenario wouldn’t happen again.

“No, you fucking won’t.”

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion. Why is he so set on being tortured by your clearly unwelcome presence? Just so he won't get in trouble for failing his job? He could simply lie and say that you succumbed to the shades. Accidents happen and you doubt that he draws the line at lying.

"Adam, I'm serious. We really need a minute apart." You reason with him, hoping he will ultimately get annoyed and tell you to fuck off out of his sight himself. "Hurting each other will get us nowhere."

But Adam doesn't even listen. "I said no!" He grabs you by the arm and you both look intently into each other, with only a table in between the two of you. "You forgot what happened last time? I’m not letting you leave!"

The concern for your well-being seems hilarious right now, so you push back.

"I won’t go far, I promise, just please, enough for you to not see me."

"You will never see me again."

He maintains a firm grip on your wrist while moving around the table to loom over you, tugging you closer to him. You can see your confused self reflected in his glossy surface of a face as he breathes out, "Never."

"Adam—" You begin, but he interrupts you.

"I won’t let you leave my sight. Ever."

You two stay quiet for a moment. Only your breathing can be heard, deep and fast, after such an intense exchange.

"Okay," you sigh, taking a step back away from him which causes his hold on you to loosen. Your eyes are beautifully framed by the long lashes — even if they are just as alluring as a siren’s song to a lost sailor at sea, they now glare like the sharpest angel steel weapon in his direction. Adam instinctively reaches out for you, but you slap his hand away. "Okay, I won’t leave."

You move backwards to sit back in your chair without breaking eye contact and Adam does the same, but when he sits down and you two are once again face to face, you do a one-eighty and turn around, your back now facing him.

"Hey!"

"I won’t leave if you let me be by myself for a few moments, even if it is from right here." You twist your head enough to see Adam through your peripheral vision. "I really don’t want to talk to you anymore."

He doesn't object — at least you didn't leave. You took Adam's wishes into consideration and decided to find common ground by having one of you face the other way. Because you are so accommodating, Adam can still keep an eye on you, hear you shuffling around as you try to get a little bit more comfortable in your seat and notice when your shoulders begin to tremble. Adam feels an uncomfortable pang behind his ribcage.

He hates that you made him have to deal with all of this now of all times. He hates that you hold that power over him by simply trying to engage in stupid conversation and not trying to pry into the details of your own life. Why would he be more interesting to learn about than you yourself? You know nothing about what makes you, well, you. But even as a soul on the brink of losing your sense of self and with no memories that shape you as a person to fall back on, you managed to peak his interest.

It's that the two of you couldn't be civil with one another. Adam just had to go and ruin a perfectly normal conversation by being difficult, you had to provoke him and instead of being the bigger person, Adam just had to retaliate.

Adam's gaze shifts upward to look at your still body. Your flawless posture makes sense now that he knows what you did in life— 

That's when it all clicks into place for him.

You are facing away from Adam and towards the blinding lightness of the void, so by agreeing to all of this, he might as well have dropped you in the Lethe.

"Okay, enough is enough. Turn around."

But you don’t move. 

"Fuck." Adam is on his feet and in front of you in an instant. He takes hold of your face, gently cupping your cheek. "Hey, you’re with me? Where did you wander off, haha?" He bites back a pet name at the last minute, substituting it with a nervous chuckle. Your warm cheeks lost their colour and you look translucently pale, almost like a shade.

Bringing your face just a tad bit closer to his own, Adam gets a better look at you — your eyelids are now halfway closed and there is barely any activity happening behind those beautiful eyes. The angel raises his index finger and points it directly at your iris, emitting a small amount of holy light directly into the pupil. Your body trembles as you shut your eyes and flinch away from him.

"I’m fine! I'm fine!" You exclaim hurriedly as you put your face in your hands, pressing the heels of your palms into your burning eyeballs to try to alleviate some of the pain. Until you get so startled by something, it makes you jump in your own skin. Grabbing at your hair and carding your fingers through it, you painfully tug at the roots as you close your eyes. "Shut up!"

"Are you—" Adam is speechless for a moment out of sheer confusion, but the guilty look on your face once you look up is enough to hit him in the gut. "You still hear them? And you haven’t told me?!"

"Don’t worry about it."

"You have to tell me these things! How long has this been going on?!"

"Well, you are not someone very inviting to confide in! Look how easily you fly off the handle! And why do I have to tell you everything about myself while you isolate me even more? If you had taken my attempt at getting to know you just a tad bit more seriously, I would have told you. You know everything about me, so forgive me for trying to keep a little bit of what I can to myself." You hug yourself, which does little to bring you comfort. "Look, Adam, I'm really sorry for bringing up your past in such an insensitive manner. I see where you were coming from when you gave me that memory in return, but try to put yourself in my shoes. I think I'm losing my mind. If that happens, what good am I?"

You look to the side at papers full of your nonsensical scribbles. Your approach with an apology is sincere, as you open yourself up in hopes that maybe after everything that transpired, Adam would help you out  without mocking or berating you.

"Yeah, uh, whatever."

"You are not going to say anything else to me?"

"There's more to be said? I think we had enough of talking for now, babe." He laughs, but it sounds forced. Not that it matters.

So, he is not even sorry for his actions? You don't know what you were hoping for, to be honest. "Forget it, I want a new caseworker. It's clear we don't work together. Bring back that other angel."

"What the fuck? No." He has the nerve to look dumbfounded.

"Then say it so we can at least leave all of this behind us and go back to not engaging with one another."

"Say what?"

"Sorry. I want to hear the word."

"I’m—" Adam starts, but chokes on the damn word. Why did you have to be so demanding? Acting like you're his wife with all these caprices, even though the lack of any jewellery on your ring finger shows that it’s not your position to request anything from him. Fuck, what the fuck is he even thinking about?! You really messed his mind up; not even a woman created from the same dust or a literal part of him ever made him feel this way. "I’m done with this."

Adam forcefully turns your body so that when he sits back down, you will be facing him. An exclamation of displeasure leaves your throat, but before you can unload all the profanities towards God’s favourite, he conjures up a new piece of paper and a pack of colourful pencils, smacking them down on the wooden surface under your nose.

"Eyes on the paper, bitch." You scrunch your face at the little nickname, but do what he tells you out of curiosity, knowing that sooner or later it will be the death of you for good.

"A colouring sheet?" You gape at the black and white drawing. He can’t be serious.

"This page better be coloured with the most vibrant colours known to man. I am not going to lose you to those soul suckers." And with that being said, he gets back to work instantly. Adam's fast pace makes your heart beat unbearably faster as you watch your established measure of time fall apart at the seams.

Overwhelmed, you look down at the colouring sheet and colourless little ballerinas on it… with their little uncoloured tutus and… little matching dancing shoes…

Suddenly, your vision maculates. It's like you are about to go into another memory, but there is a small problem with that — you haven’t read anything that might have triggered the action. It was all occurring naturally. And soon you feel yourself leaving Purgatory. Again.

First, you feel a pull, then you hear a rhythmic thumping…

[rose-tinted-vision]

1, 11, 14, 16, 17, 19 for the behind the scenes of fic asks! ((this is hualianisms, i can't send asks from my sideblog🥲))

Hello @hualianisms!! Thank you for the asks (๑>◡<๑)

What was the first fandom and/or pairing that you wrote fic for?

(／。＼)...am I going to embarrass myself on main today because the first fic that I published on ao3 was for the ReoNagi pairing from Blue Lock, but I technically wrote fic for Inazuma Eleven when I was a wee little child. What was yours?

If you could only write angst, fluff, or smut for the rest of your life, which would it be?

Definitely angst, it comes easier to me than fluff or smut 〜(＞＜)〜

If you were stuck on an island with only two characters, who would you pick?

Only two? That's a hard choice >_< Shi Qingxuan (TGCF) and Yu Shisan (A Journey to Love), probably. SQX can just whisk us away~

What is your most underrated fic?

I'll take underrated to mean not doing as well as I thought it would since I really liked this? It's a toss up between one of my Link Click fics (Qiao Ling centric, S2 canon compliant) and one of my earlier Mysterious Lotus Casebook fics (Gen, LXY/LLH centric). I really enjoyed the process of exploring what went on in Season 2 of Link Click through Qiao Ling's eyes, and thought that there weren't enough fics featuring her, which is why it's a fic that's really dear to me. As for the Li Xiangyi centric fic (i must admit that imagining pre-canon stuff is a favourite of mine), I wanted to explore the process of Li Xiangyi becoming Li Lianhua, and how he had changed so much over ten years. It was fun to imagine him traversing the jianghu and picking up various skills along the way! But I do understand that Genfics aren't for everyone, so it's okay. I do have more recent ones that aren't doing that well but I have...complicated feelings regarding those

What fic are you most proud of?

(I also cannot simply choose one, my bad).

I have this ShiGuang fic that was loosely inspired by a manhwa called "The tale of the Yellow dragon", that was nearly complete by the time the S2 finale came out and I figured, why not throw Lu Guang's lines in there? and it fit, so I was really happy with how it turned out :D Another fic that I'm proud of is Tales of Tianji Manor, mainly because I wasn't sure that people would enjoy a fic told from Madam He's pov, but the fandom was so nice about it ^^ and it was fun to explore the OT3 dynamics from her pov!! and (last one, I promise!!) I was really happy with how the ZhanHua fic turned out :D Zhan Yunfei was one of my favourite side characters, and explore his ten years of yearning and devotion was interesting.

Who is the easiest/hardest character for you to write about? Why?

I'd say the hardest is Di Feisheng's (MLC) pov for me, I'm not sure if it's writers block or burnout, but trying to wrangle his character has been a challenge lately. Another would be Ning Yuanzhou (A Journey to Love), because the man thinks so damn much, and he has to be a leader, a lover, a father and a brother all at the same time. Oh and Yi Zhi Hua's (White Cat Legend) tone is quite tricky for me to grasp...

easiest would probably be what I call the "simp characters" (not that I'm calling them one-dimensional, it's just that they have Prioritised that One Special Person): Fang Duobing for one, he has a rather straightforward personality, he places his family and Li Lianhua first, and he's honest about his feelings. Qiu Qingzhi is another. (it's harder to see beneath his layers but) imo his motivations were mainly to protect Li Bing. and I just really like to write Yu Shisan, the man loves so deeply and freely.

[yukipri]

The Bad Batch Ep S2 Ep 11 - Thoughts & Spoilers

Spoilers,

Spoilers,

Spoilers,

So everything's beneath the cut!

I know with the Mando S3 premiere, this episode may have gotten even less attention than the rest of the show. BUT this episode had some incredible things, so here are *some* of my thoughts.

FIRST:

HIM!!!!! and he was NAMED and had LINES!!!!

This is super exciting, because while we glimpsed Scorch in Season 1 while they were rescuing Gregor, I don't think he was mentioned anywhere by name, meaning it could have just been a random other RC with similar paint.

Delta Squad (from Legends) was technically canonized when they cameo'd in the Clone Wars, but it's so nice to see them again! It makes me pray that the other 3 members have escaped and are with Rex, because Scorch is *definitely* still super chipped....

Next, the MAIN thing I was super excited about:

So many things in this episode made me absolutely SCREAM, but the main one was probably FINALLY some movement on the connection between Nala Se and Omega. That's something I've been dying for more elaboration on since S1.

Omega is clearly a kid created for a specific reason, raised under specific circumstances, who has a unique bond with Nala Se, the primary creator of all clones. I was sure this would be part of the central storyline of TBB so I'm SO GLAD we're finally getting to it.

The thing is, Omega clearly has very complex feelings towards Nala Se, and Nala Se also considers Omega "special." SUPER curious to see where they go with this, especially since Nala Se seems to be reluctant to help the Empire. Understandable, given the destruction of Tipoca City, but she also never struck me as the sentimental type. I'm personally very wary of the "care" Nala Se seems to be showing Omega, and based on what we currently know, doubt that she means it sincerely—Omega (or her DNA) is likely valuable in some way.

Not sure how I'll react if they paint Nala Se as a sympathetic character, because I doubt I'll ever forgive her for what she did to Fives. Her treatment of Fives, which is also indicative of her treatment of all other clones. Her being kind(?) to Omega doesn't erase that.

I am absolutely confident that this lab and Nala Se/Omega is part of a plot that will connect to the experiments done to Grogu, which in turn will connect to Snoke + the return of Sidious in the ST. That's the running thread, to provide explanation/justification for that "twist."

While I think TBB is fun, THIS is what I personally was waiting for—Omega's true identity and why she's of value to Nala Se, how she therefore fits into the greater plan Nala Se had, and how that in turn affects not just Fett clones, but all the cloning that runs throughout SW.

I also LOVED that Omega showed her skills here—yes, she DOES know her way around Kaminoan tech!! The only time we've really seen it before is when Cad Bane kidnapped her + the S1 finale. She was Nala Se's personal MEDICAL ASSISTANT. She is older than the Batch! She KNOWS things!!

I was genuinely expecting (hoping) to learn more about Omega throughout the entire show, and we do see her being skilled + confident around various tools, but that's around it. I hope her past that she doesn't want to talk about is dragged out into the open in these last few eps.

I have a LOT of theories about Omega's past and her connection to the Batch and their origins (pst it's all in my fic), some of which will likely no longer be canon compliant, but ah well!

Other things that really made me happy:

-The Batch showing some growth due to the last episode, and growing a spine to stand up against Cid. Both pointing out that she didn't help them like they've helped her, and demanding a higher cut, though she did get the final say in the end. It was still a massive improvement!

-The ZILLO BEAST. First of all, it was definitely one of the coolest creatures in TCW, so it was super exciting to see it brought back! Its physiology is fascinating, and I loved how we got to see it visibly grow due to it feeding on electricity. This is actually the second creature we've encountered in TBB that seems to like electricity as an energy source, the first being in S1. It's neat to see this pattern, perhaps they're distantly related species?

I also LOVED that it tied into more experiments. I need to rewatch the eps, but i think it was implied in TCW that Palps was interested in the Zillo beast's armor, so I loved seeing that actually followed up on!

In general, I'm just a huge fan when world building plot points connect or are followed up on to build continuity and a greater view of the SW universe, and this episode definitely connected a bunch of points, so that was awesome!

Anyway, only 5 eps left of S2, excited to see where it goes!

[littlesoka7567]

Five + One Times Hunter Had a Migraine

Chapter Six: +1 - Everyone

Summary: After everyone is settled and happy on Pabu, Hunter feels better allowing his little family to take care of him during his headaches.

Notes: AHH and that's a wrap! I enjoyed writing this story so much, it was so much fun exploring the different personalities and how they would each react. This is the only chapter which isn't technically canon compliant, but it isn't not-canon compliant since season 3 hasn't aired yet. I really hope you enjoyed this story guys!!

The ao3 is posted and completed, and I'm about to reblog the master post of all the links. Thank you guys so much for reading!

WC: 3020

Omega grins and looks over at Hunter, waving happily. Hunter smiles fondly and waves back. He sighs happily, bringing his right knee up almost lazily, allowing it to lean away from his other leg a tad, while keeping his left leg stretched out in front of him. He leans back against the ship, his arms crossed very loosely over his stomach.  

It took a long time to get here, but gods Hunter couldn’t be happier. It had been a bumpy ride too. Losing Crosshair, then Tech, then Omega. But they’re all back, and Hunter is just so grateful his family is together and safe. And on Pabu, they’re always going to be together and safe and happy. 

His family is down by the pier, having set up a picnic for lunch some hours ago. Now Wrecker is in the water, up to his hips, kicking water away from the pier. 

Phee and Tech are at the end of the pier, feet hanging off the edge and dangling in the water. Tech has one arm leaned back to support himself, and Phee is very happily taking up the abandoned space, leaning into his side.  

Echo is still on the blanket further away, speaking with Crosshair who is sitting to the right of him, his own feet in the water. Echo is watching Omega while Crosshair is staring down at the water, making it move gently with his feet. 

Omega is standing beside Phee, and has turned back to look down at the water with the obvious decision of if she wants to join Wrecker on her mind. Phee turns to face her, waving one hand dramatically and gesturing towards the water. 

Hunter had walked back to the ship after he finished eating, and climbed onto the wing to just watch them. He’s had a growing headache since this morning, and thought that staying further away from the noise would help keep it at bay. So far it’s working; he gets to enjoy watching them have fun, and his head doesn’t hurt as bad. 

Wrecker’s booming laugh is almost soft, he's so far away, and it makes Hunter chuckle breathily as watches him pick Omega up and spin her. He ends up accidentally dunking her in the water a bit due to having grabbed her around the knees, but she only giggles and squirms when Wrecker readjusts his grip and holds her upright again. He’s so infatuated with the two of them that he doesn’t notice anyone else moving at first. 

A soft thud comes from beside him, and a warm body presses up next to his. Hunter hums, not turning to look at the newcomer, but slightly leans into the arm against his own. “Hey,” he greets softly. 

Crosshair hums, wrapping his own arms around his knees and leaning almost lazily against the ship. He doesn’t say anything out loud, content to just sit next to Hunter and enjoy the fact that he has his family back. 

Hunter has been nursing a migraine since this morning, but he doesn’t want to take care of it. He’s far too happy just watching his siblings enjoy themselves. He knows he promised Omega he would always tell her if his head started to hurt again, but he just doesn’t want to disturb such a happy and perfect scene. 

Omega manages to squirm her way out of Wrecker’s arms, landing in the water and falling over almost as soon as she lands. She squeals a peal of laughter, fighting her way to stand up, the water up to her shoulders. 

Tech’s body moves with his laughter, and Phee turns to stare at him with soft eyes and a warm smile. He says something to Omega, which causes the girl to gasp in offense and start splashing water up at Tech.

Echo shakes his head fondly from further up the dock, but Hunter just knows he’s smiling, even with his body turned out to the sea away from the ship. 

“Now hold on,” Phee calls, from where she just got splashed as well due to being so close to Tech. Her protests are met only with giggles, Tech turns his face to her, and the smile is so genuine and soft that it's contagious. 

“I never took you for the hopeless romantic type,” Crosshair sneers, and Hunter turns to see that the sniper is only staring at Hunter, not out at their family. 

Hunter smirks, bringing his right hand up to rest the wrist on the bent knee, and leaving his left to stay resting on his stomach as he lazily cocks his head to the left and looks at Crosshair. “Me either,” he says simply. 

Crosshair’s eyes go soft, and his scowl melts into his familiar resting line. He turns back to the sea, watching with that same expression. “I’m glad he’s happy,” he finally says, after several minutes. 

Hunter hums in agreement, turning his gaze back to the pier. “This is all I’ve ever wanted,” Hunter admits after several more minutes. “Was for you all to be happy. Safe. Even before I knew I was allowed to want that, back when I thought we’d never see the end of the war.”

Crosshair turns to look at him again, and nudges Hunter gently with his shoulder. “You’ve gone soft,” he accuses. 

Hunter chuckles, stretching out both of his legs and moving his arms behind his head. “I can afford to be.”

They sit there like that, in companionable silence, just watching their little family enjoy playing on the piers of Pabu. Crosshair eventually drops his right leg so it’s beside Hunter’s left, arms wrapping around just the left knee now. He playfully knocks their ankles together, aiming for being annoying. Hunter only rolls his eyes, gently kicking Crosshair’s foot in lazy retaliation.

“Maybe Echo won’t be so pale after a day in the sun,” Crosshair says, voice rumbling with amusement. He keeps his face turned towards the pier, but his eyes shift to the right to watch Hunter’s reaction. 

Hunter snorts, looking over at Crosshair and smiling. “Cross,” he chides, scandalized. “You can’t say that.” 

Crosshair smirks, taking a small box out of his pocket and shaking out a toothpick before placing it in one corner of his mouth. “Am I wrong, though?” he asks, pocketing the box again.

Hunter chuckles and shakes his head, allowing Crosshair to press closer into his side with his arms back around his knee. They turn back to the pier, watching as Omega attempts to climb Wrecker’s back. 

Phee shoots Tech a playful look before she pushes off the pier into the water, pulling Tech in after her by the hand. Tech almost falls over with the sudden movement, but Phee is there to catch him, head tilted back in laughter. In retaliation, Tech gently splashes her, which starts a small splashing war between the couple and Wrecker. 

Wrecker’s movements accidentally knock Omega off, and she squeals as she lands on her back, dipping beneath the water for just a few seconds before standing again, hair a wet mess. 

Wrecker looks at her sheepishly, most likely mumbling an apology before helping her up. 

Omega only giggles loudly, attempting to climb Tech’s back now. Phee smirks and decides to help, supporting Omega’s back for balance. 

Echo laughs as well, calling “Careful, don’t hurt him!” 

Hunter sighs in content, and he and Crosshair just watch. 

They watch for so long, in fact, that the sun sinks towards the water and the glare is directly in Hunter’s eyes. 

Hunter squints, trying to ignore the growing tension behind his eyes. Even with the increasing pain, he’s reluctant to let go of the happy view. 

Crosshair shifts, looking over at Hunter with a small frown on his face. He rolls the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other before speaking. “Your head hurts,” Crosshair announces. 

Hunter can’t help but breathe a laugh. “Thanks for letting me know,” he jokes. 

Crosshair huffs in annoyance, but he scoots even closer, hip to hip now. “Are you in a good enough mood to let me take care of you?”

“It isn’t that bad,” Hunter says softly, but it isn’t a no. But as the moments pass, and the brightness only seems to intensify, it starts sounding more and more like a good idea. 

Crosshair is still staring at Hunter, studying his face. He takes the toothpick out, flicking it over the edge of the wing. “You can trust me, you know,” he whispers, almost to himself. 

Hunter turns his gaze to Crosshair, smiling fondly. “I do,” he declares, not even having to think about it. “It was never you, Cross. The chip was controlling you. Now that it’s out, I trust you just as much as I did during the war.” With my life. With our lives. He doesn’t need to say that part, not out loud. Crosshair knows. 

Crosshair swallows thickly, an audible click coming from his throat. He has to look away, back out to where Omega is now trying to balance on Wrecker’s shoulders. 

Phee starts to yell and whoop, encouraging Omega. Tech has his arms around her, his chest to her back, watching them over her head. 

Hunter leans forward, rubbing at his temples as he squints against the sun. “Okay. You can help me.”

Crosshair looks back at him, a bittersweet expression twisting his lips. But he nods once, standing and offering his hand. Hunter takes it, and the slightly taller clone leads them off the wing. Hunter looks over his shoulder once he’s on the ground, looking at his siblings once more before following Crosshair into the ship. 

Crosshair leads him to the bunks, and Hunter lays down on his own without prompting. Crosshair tsks softly, hands on his hips. “What, has no one at all taken care of you since the war?” he asks sarcastically. 

Hunter frowns, slightly confused. “Huh?”

Crosshair rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “You didn’t leave me any room.”

Hunter grins, realization dawning on him. He sits up, allowing Crosshair to move his pillow and sit where his head once was. He rests his neck on Crosshair’s thigh, and lets his brother remove the bandana. 

Crosshair makes a noise of approval, before starting to carefully work his fingers through Hunter’s sun warmed hair. 

Even though it’s been over a year since Crosshair has done this, it feels so familiar and right to Hunter. He feels himself relax almost immediately, humming once in content. He allows himself to just feel the weight of Crosshair’s fingers through his hair, and listen to the soft scratching noises. It feels just like before, like when they were still cadets. 

Hunter doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually the ship fills with laughter and the sound of slightly wet feet clambering onto the ship. “Hunter?” Omega calls loudly, her high-pitched voice sounding a bit tired. It sounds like a mid-afternoon nap is in order.

Crosshair growls softly in annoyance at the yelling, making Hunter chuckle. “In here,” he calls, not bothering to open his eyes. Omega’s lighter footsteps bound towards him, quickly followed by Wrecker’s booming ones, and then the other three’s normal paced footsteps follow, just a beat later. 

Omega’s footfalls end with an abrupt stop, and Wrecker almost knocks into her since he hadn’t known she would stop there. “Oh,” Omega whispers, and Hunter is sure that if he opened his eyes, hers would be wide and her mouth would be slightly ajar with surprise. 

Wrecker shuffles a bit, and lets out a quiet laugh. “Your head hurting?” he asks in his usual whisper-yell he uses when Hunter has a migraine. 

“Obviously,” Crosshair hisses, still annoyed by the earlier yelling, but he hasn’t paused his hand even once. 

Omega hesitates for just a few seconds before she walks over and lays half on top of him and half beside him, her body still damp from the sea and getting the front of his own shirt wet. “I wanna help,” she whispers. 

Hunter can’t help but peek one eye open and look at her with a huge smile on his face. He has one arm move up to hug her close, and the other rests on her arm. “You help just by being here,” he tells her. “You’re magic, remember?”

She giggles softly, hugging him around his chest. Crosshair makes a disgusted noise, which they both choose to ignore. 

Wrecker walks over to his own bunk before he gently puts Lula on Hunter’s chest next to Omega’s head, who grabs her absently and hugs her between the two of them. “Here ya go,” he whisper-yells. He waits for Hunter to smile at him in thanks, before he goes back to his bunk and sits heavily on it. 

“I will make some tea,” Tech announces, his hand intertwined with Phee’s. He looks down at her, and his lips twitch into an almost-smile; and for Tech, he’s practically beaming. Hunter has never seen Tech smile as much as he has now that he and Phee are together. 

“I’ll help,” she says, tearing her eyes away from Hunter’s bunk to smile happily up at Tech. She squeezes his hand, and allows Tech to take the lead. The couple disappears into the back of the ship, towards the makeshift kitchen. Hunter can hear them talking softly to each other, but he’s able to tune them out into background noise.  

Echo grins at them, before heading towards the fresher. “I’ll get the towel,” he calls over his shoulder. 

Crosshair shakes his head, but when Hunter looks up at him, he has a small smile on his face. “Some things never change,” Crosshair murmurs. 

Hunter smiles up at him, his free hand starting to absentmindedly rub soothing circles into Omega’s arm. He opens his mouth to say something, but Crosshair uses his free hand to gently close Hunter’s eyes. 

“Brushing helps too,” Omega whispers, matter-of-factly, some time later. She had moved her head so her chin rests on top of Lula, so she can look up at Crosshair. 

Crosshair hums noncommittally, using his free hand to ruffle her damp and tangled hair fondly. “I never tried that before,” he tells her. 

Omega beams with pride, chin lifting from Lula’s chest. “It was my idea,” she informs Crosshair, pride evident in her voice. 

“Well,” Crosshair says softly, and he doesn’t even try to keep up his pretend annoyance. Omega makes everyone happy, it seems like. “Go get me the brush then.”

Omega squeals happily, sliding off the bunk and carefully leaving Lula on Hunter’s chest. Crosshair opens his mouth, likely to tell her off for being loud, but Hunter shakes his head at him. Instead he huffs in annoyance, but continues brushing his fingers through Hunter’s hair. 

Echo comes back in with the towel, gently resting it over Hunter’s eyes. “There,” he says softly. He moves to sit next to Wrecker, who shifts to make more room. 

“Thanks,” Hunter murmurs, sighing happily. The cool and dark afforded by the wet towel is already having a wonderful effect on Hunter. 

Crosshair continues running his fingers through Hunter’s hair, his other hand adjusting the towel just slightly. “Think you could fall asleep?” he asks softly. 

“Mmm,” Hunter hums, thinking about it. It wasn’t that bad of a headache to begin with, but they’re pulling all the stops already. He definitely thinks he could fall asleep like this. 

Tech and Phee return, placing the tea on the floor next to Hunter’s bunk before moving to Tech’s bunk and cuddling up on it, looking out at the rest of them. 

“Thank you,” Hunter murmurs, and hears Tech softly acknowledge it. 

Omega comes back in, and Crosshair stops petting Hunter to reach for the brush. Omega climbs back on top of Hunter, using Lula’s stomach as a pillow on top of Hunter’s chest. 

Hunter lifts his neck slightly so Crosshair can move his hair over his lap more evenly, and brings one arm up to support Omega and keep her from falling again. 

Crosshair uses his left hand to rest gently on Hunter’s shoulder to keep him still, and the right starts to move the brush through Hunter’s hair carefully. 

Hunter makes an appreciative noise, melting into the bunk and Crosshair’s thigh beneath him. “That feels nice, Cross,” he mumbles his thanks.

Omega starts to hum softly, having to stop every once and while to yawn. But her voice is so beautiful and soft and soothing, it’s working wonders. Hunter wishes he knew the song; he thinks it must be something she picked up from the people of Pabu. 

Wrecker sighs happily, shifting his weight to lean back against the wall behind his bunk. “I love when she sings,” he whispers to Echo. 

Echo makes a noise of agreement, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his chin on his flesh hand. 

At some point, Hunter consciously realizes that Phee is also humming the song, her deeper voice continuing the song whenever Omega yawns. It’s slightly muffled, and Hunter is pretty sure she must have her face turned at least partially into Tech’s body. 

Hunter is fighting back his own yawns, and tightens his grip on Omega just a tad. The girl mimics him, tightening her hold on Lula, but continues to hum. 

Crosshair sighs above Hunter, but doesn’t stop his fingers. “Feeling better yet?” he asks softly. 

Hunter smiles, taking a deep breath through his nose. Crosshair right next to him, acting as his pillow, brushing his hair. Omega half on top of him, falling asleep herself even though she tries to stay awake and hum for Hunter. Tech on his bunk, cuddling Phee. Wrecker leaning back in his bunk as he watches them, Echo right beside them and leaned forward to watch. His family. All of them feeling content in the knowledge that they are together and safe and happy. 

Hunter hums once to voice his agreement, letting out a deep sigh. 

Yeah. Yeah, he feels better. He doesn’t think he could ever feel better than he does right now.