#grieving everything they lost and the fact that it was all for nothing. fearing for your life and wanting so badly so SELFISHLY to live

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hello! Thank you for your work!🔥

How would Bi Han react in the event of his beloved's fatal illness? 💔

Thank you for reading them! (Even if I like to think half of them are shit.) and thank you for the request! 🦦

Bi-Han would be broken, shattered, lost and so full of anguish and all that was locked away behind a stoic facade upon hearing the news of potentially loosing his beloved forever.

He would try to find a way to combat against it to save his beloved, even despite being told by the best medics possible that there was only so much they could do before it inevitably became out of their power.

You; the reason that he dared to smile, the reason he dared to laugh despite attempting to hide it in his scoffs and grunts. You were even the reason he dared to love in the first place, gifting him the safe space to be open and vulnerable. And yet he was meant to reconcile and to accept the fact that he now had to bear the burden of living a long life without his beloved.

Bi-Han would blame the cause for your unfortunate circumstance on everyone else.

He wanted to point his finger at someone so badly as to not sit in his feelings, for he knew that he would only be crushed beneath the weight of his repressed emotions. Bi-Han didn’t want to feel anything during the hardest moment in his life, especially as he tried so hard to act indifferent towards the whole thing on the outside, whilst on the inside he was breaking.

Everything within him was breaking but the Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei wasn’t allowed to express his grief other then behind closed doors. Bi-Han would sit by your side for long periods of time, refusing to depart from you for a single second for fear that any moment he wasn’t present would be your last. Bi-Han didn’t want to fathom you being alone in your final moments, it was disrespectful in his eyes for you deserved to pass away know that you were extremely loved.

He would eventually grow irritated and temperamental, snapping at everyone at every minor inconvenience made and is more ruthless then before, so much so that Kuai Liang would have to pull his brother aside and make him see reason in that you wouldn’t condone this sort of attitude. Kuai Liang understood that Bi-Han was in a bad state but wasn’t going to stand aside and allow him to treat others poorly.

Bonus: Kuai Liang was also grieving the fact that he was destined to loose a close friend but he wouldn’t resort to taking his frustrations out on others. It wasn’t fair on those who weren’t aware of the current situation. Tomas was also grieving the fact but did so within the privacy of his own room.

Needless to say that Bi-Han would come out of this a much more colder, unfeeling, vengeful, ruthless and dangerous man then ever before. His beloved was going to be unceremoniously taken from him and he was helpless to stop it and so when you do pass on, he would truly have nothing left to lose -outside of the Lin Kuei of course- and that would only make for Bi-Han to become even more of a threat.

His heart would freeze over into a literal block of ice because his heart would only belong to the one person who managed to melt it in the first place.

Never again would he ever entrust his heart to someone else no matter how hard they tried. To Bi-Han, no one could ever take your place and would even kill those who even dared try.

Bi-Han would even try to forget about you but that was proven to be a difficult task as he found himself unwilling to part from the last remaining things he has of you. So he would lay there at night remembering how he failed you, whilst reaching over to your side of the bed that had long since gone cold, a tear silently sliding down his cheek before his face naturally contorted into anger; the only emotion he felt nowadays.

[ellsfloriographyy]

past, present, and future.

chapter 1 <3

summary:

After the night of the Orpheum, Julie Molina found herself in a dizzying realization that she barely knew about the lives the phantoms had before they died. Of course, she heard stories occasionally, and the '90s impact never left their sides, despite the fact some of their references didn't stick with her. Yet they pushed through to let go of the past and focused on the future. Instead of Sunset Curve, their future was Julie and the Phantoms, and they couldn't be happier. Yet Julie wasn't. There's a particular grief she's experiencing, and she feels selfish for feeling it in the first place. But she grieves the lives they could have lived if they were alive today.

She understands that a massive weight remains on their shoulders. She wishes to help them alleviate some of that trauma as she did for Luke when speaking to Emily… But there's only so much she can do.

Past. Present. Future.

What could she do to make this second chance perfect? And would it be enough? Enough to make everything last?

She can't lose to the test of time. She won't allow it this time.

Chapter 1: entering the past <3

Frustrated.

It was the only word that came to mind for Julie Molina when describing her current mood. Frustration was the only thing she could pinpoint in the rollercoaster of emotions she was experiencing. At six in the morning to make matters worse, she couldn’t get more sleep even if she tried, so she opted to stay in bed for a while. Plus, her mind had already bolted her awake, and now she was in a bad mood. At least the sunrise was pretty.

It had been roughly over a week since the band’s performance at the Orpheum and well over a week since she almost lost the boys, yet despite all her fears, they were still there. She should be overjoyed; don’t get her wrong, she is! It’s a miracle that they remained, but it leaves another mystery for her to overthink. They may have broken Caleb’s curse, but he could still be lingering... Regardless, she could never have imagined being able to embrace them as she did that very night. The warmth, the presence, and the comfort they provided through touch were simply a daydream of hers. To have it come true made her heart skip a few beats, albeit Luke held her as if she meant everything to him. And a part of her believed it.

“No music is worth making, Julie, if we’re not making it with you.”

His words echoed in her head as she buried herself under the covers, her face heating up as she groaned into her hands. Luke and their “interesting little relationship” were another concern in her mind. Something had changed between them, but with all the chaos surrounding them, she hadn’t had a moment to talk to him, or rather, she had no clue how to bring it up to him… her almost alive but not crush. This past week, they were left with longing glances, shy smiles, and tension that even Reggie could notice. But it wasn’t the only thing killing her.

After the night of the Orpheum, Julie found herself in a dizzying realization that she barely knew about the lives the guys had before they died. Of course, she heard stories occasionally, and the ’90s impact never left their sides, despite the fact some of their references didn’t stick with her. Ultimately, they were still the same 17-year-olds as 25 years ago; all those years felt like nothing to them. Yet they pushed through to let go of the past and focused on the future. Instead of Sunset Curve, their future was Julie and the Phantoms, and they couldn’t be happier.

Yet Julie wasn’t. It didn’t stick right with her that they were practically caught up with her current life. The guys had begun catching up on music, trends, and even movies, even if they were still behind. They knew the latest gossip at school, the new vocabulary, and heck, with the new abilities they carried… It was even possible for other people to see them, too. Although Willie had advised them to play it safe and stay in the garage as things calmed down, they hadn’t tested that theory out yet. Regardless, she felt like a total asshole for not being more involved with their lives, or rather with the lives they had. They had put in so much effort to be in hers, and she adored it more than anything. They were her home, after all. (It was close second place with Flynn, but Carlos, Rose, and Ray always came first.) But she couldn’t help but wonder what they did in their free time, how hard it was at home, and how school was for them. Alex was most likely a fantastic student, Reggie was the class clown, and Luke could have made Sunset Curve the greatest accomplishment of their school. But she couldn’t have known, and she’ll never be able to experience it firsthand. That’s the part that kills her.

There’s a particular grief she’s experiencing, and she feels selfish for feeling it in the first place. But she grieves the lives they could have lived if they were alive today. She understands this new second chance is everything to them, but it’s unfair that their first chance was even ruined in the first place. She understands there’s a massive weight on their shoulders that remains. She wishes she could help them and alleviate some of that trauma. Like how she did for Luke when speaking to Emily… But there’s only so much she can do. That’s where her frustration comes in; she wishes she was more help, and she feels like an idiot for not doing much for them. They made her feel alive again; she could never repay that blessing.

She shuffles around in her bed as her mind wanders to Luke. She shakes the thought away as she sits up and looks out her window at the sunrise.

Past. Present. Future.

What could she do to make this second chance perfect? Was she doing the best she could? Were they happy? What if she loses them again? What if, after everything, she’d be back at square one, grieving and mourning? What could have been? She only snaps out of her spiral when a familiar blonde ghost knocks through her door.

“Julie?” She can almost laugh at how hesitant Alex sounds. He’s the only one so far who’s understood the word “boundaries,” and she appreciates how respectful he is when entering her space. The garage is left for the boys, but when it’s her room, it’s her space alone to breathe. He gets that.

“You can come in,” she coughs to clear her morning voice. She bets they’re the only ones awake right now. “Don’t judge too hard; I don’t look my best! I just woke up.”

He eventually walks in with a small smile, sporting his iconic pink hoodie, but he seems more reserved than usual. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Are you okay?” Julie automatically feels concerned as she looks at Alex. They share lingering eye contact before he looks away at the wall.

“No, yeah, uh, sorry. I just couldn’t sleep anymore. I was looking for some company. Would it be okay if I stayed here with you? Luke and Reggie are fast asleep, and I didn’t want to wake them up. You were the best option. I was just hoping you were awake–”

Before he continues explaining, she pats her bed, asking him to lie beside her. Alex eagerly follows, and his head rests on her lap. Julie can’t help but smile a little. After all the new contact, Alex seems to seek her affection the most. He’s still adjusting to the warm skin, eating again, sleeping again schedule. You know, the basics of life, and she’s happy she’s some comfort to him. But he’s still missing something, and she can only assume it’s the presence of a particular ghost. She hadn’t heard much about Willie, but it was so clear Alex was head over heels for him.

“You’re always welcome to stay here, Alex. You know that, right? And don’t worry; I’ve been up a bit and can’t sleep much either.”

“Yeah. Thank you, Julie.”

Julie smiles at their shared acknowledgment. A few minutes pass, and now she’s running her hands through his hair, humming a familiar tune, but he can’t pinpoint what it is. The silence is comfortable, but he breaks it with a question that leaves a bittersweet taste in her mouth.

“We’re in the same boat, aren’t we?”

She’s not stupid and knows what he’s implying, but it’s hard to admit they’re both stuck in a loop of longing and confusion. She plays with her curls as she sighs in response and nods.

“You gotta talk to him, Julie. I know he’s probably as hesitant as you. But Luke means everything he says, you know? He’s just... He has a hard time putting words into words other than lyrics. He can’t say it, but I promise you he cares.”

That’s her problem. Luke cares too much, and so does she.

What an interesting relationship they have.

Past, Present, Future.

Notes:

hii! my name is ell, i'm a new fanfic writer out here!! anyway, i hope you enjoyed the first chapter of past, present, and future <3 i apologize if its no good, but i hope to only improve as i continue to write! so i hope you stick around :D i wish it was a longer chapter but this is my test run HAHAHA, i hope u understand!

i truly do love this fandom, these couples, and this show so so much. :,) couldn't help myself, so i had to start writing too! i know we've def calmed down as a fandom, but i hope you guys are still here like me :)

i try to be as active as possible, and ill also try to update the moment i cannn! feel free to message me so we fangirl or fanboy together <3

thanks for entering my garden of love & admiration for this media !! ^^

[vrisrezis]

Rocket and reader comforting one another during the blip?

You’re uncharacteristically quiet. Something rocket wasn’t used to, in fact it was unsettling to him. From the moment he had met you, you’d been nothing short of an annoyingly loud, talkative, easily excitable and overly outgoing individual. You were the heart of the group, and always brought everyone together. When everyone was arguing amongst themselves, bickering with one another over stupid bullshit, you were the one calming everyone down, encouraging everyone to work together. If they ever had a fight, you always encouraged apologies, talking things out. You had tried to keep up that front, around rocket and around nebula. In a way, you brought the two together as well. Gave them time to bond with one another and become friends and to find solace within eachother.

It was late at night now, and there was a somber silence that fell between you and rocket. He had come in to check up on you, something he had started making a habit of doing when he started to notice you stayed up pretty late, something you never did prior to the blip. You claimed that you just had a lot of energy, or that you just weren’t tired, or that you were learning more about terrans and their strange customs that you suddenly seemed interested in at 3 am. He wasn’t stupid, and he knew you were just trying to grieve in a way that you hoped nobody would notice. He knows what it’s like to hide his true feelings, in fear of vulnerability and judgement, but this was something far too huge for him to simply keep to himself. So he didn’t keep it to himself, he cried to you often about how he’d lost the only family he ever had, the only people that accepted him as is despite how much of an asshole he can be. But he never heard you cry. He had asked you so many times how you were doing, and you always said you were doing just fine. He never believed you.

It kinda hurt him, knowing you were keeping so much to yourself. He trusted you, enough to vent out his frustrations. And that takes a lot for rocket to do. Why didn’t you trust him? But honestly, he knew why. He’s the most emotionally constipated person you’ve ever met, along with nebula, and they were the only people you had left. No wonder you haven’t told them jack shit. But even before that, he realized, you were always helping everyone else, you never let anyone else help you. You always kept it together, you always kept a level head and always put on a smile and a brave face. You are the most selfless person he knows. So when do you get a chance to be selfish?

“So…” he finally says, and although in the moment he’s unsure what to say next he doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t try to think of what he’ll say first, like usual, he doesn’t think before he speaks. “you gonna actually talk to me or are you gonna dodge my question as per usual?” you says, and you feign confusion, raising a brow. He can’t help but roll his eyes, “you can fool everyone else, but you ain’t foolin me. I know you’re not out here just to look at the stars in the sky. You’ve seen it a million times and last time I checked, you didn’t give a shit about astrology.”

You finally sigh, patting the spot next to you, gesturing for him to sit. He does. He looks at you, and you’re far too tired to try and read the emotion on his face. If you had to guess, it was concern. Granted, you should’ve expected that. Normally you tell rocket almost everything, and you haven’t opened up at all to him since arriving on this planet, about everything that’s happened. Despite knowing him for years, you never ever opened up to him about how you felt about things. Even things that simply annoyed you.

You guys have been on this planet for a good 4 months now. 4 months since everything that happened, 4 months since you lost your family. Lost everything. You scratch the back of your head, “I don’t even know what to say.” you start, unsure of where you’re even gonna go with this. “I just… don’t know anymore..” you say, looking out to the sky in front of you. “Just tell me how you’re feeling.” your boyfriend says, grabbing onto your hand, rubbing a thumb over your knuckles. “You haven’t told me how you feel about any of this. How you really feel. It’s just us. No need to be strong in front of me.” he says, and you lay your head on top of his and finally let yourself cry for the first time in what felt like years. You vent your frustrations out to him, how you feel like you’ve failed everyone. How you lost your family, the first family that loved and cared for you, just like that. Like it was nothing.

You scream and cry to him, and he listens quietly. Just like you did for him, so many times.

[pearlsinmyhair]

𓇢 a gasp, then silence.𓇢𓆸

synopsis: how mo’at discovers that neteyam is gone.

warnings: angst. cannon character death, non-cannon interaction and reaction. brief mention of death during childbirth and the battle of home tree.

word count: 600 (it’s itty bitty)

an: i’m so sorry. i had to do it.

𓇢𓆸

mo’at learned quickly that the way of eywa was not fair, nor was it kind.

she had watched innocents suffer. saw children crushed by the home tree when it fell. saw mothers in labor lose their strength.

but after all her suffering, she had prayed to the great mother to at least spare her grandchildren. she knew eywa could make no promises, just as much as she knew that many others had prayed for the same for their own loved ones.

who was she to demand mercy? to take it away from another? to dare question the great balance?

from the moment she had held neteyam, a part of her whispered doom. he was so light, so precious, so very fragile in this dangerous world.

he grew, of course, a strong shell growing around his kind heart. she hated to see him hide it away, but she knew it was there. she had watched him rise to the occasion of war with concealed fear.

she had lost her husband and a son-in-law to the sky people. she couldn’t bare to lose her grandson.

so when they flew to the distant islands of the metkayina, she thought they were safe. surely no one would find them amongst thousands of villages.

she should have known better than to hope.

𓇢𓆸

she awoke sweating and breathless, wheezing as she processed the empty room of her tent.

she had seen blood behind her eyes, a wail of pain and sorrow, a heart beat stopping.

eywa’s messages were always cryptic. but this was easy to piece together.

it was more mo’at’s own will that prevented her from fully interpreting it.

the silence of her hut beat against her ears, so very unusual.

she was used to it being full constantly: of injured, of children, of voices dead and alive.

now, there was nothing. as though the great mother was giving her time to grieve.

she refused.

she pulled on clothes quickly, sliding her blade into its sheath as she set out for the tree of voices.

mo’at may have been old, but she knew the path well. eywa showed her some respect in clearing her path of creatures, allowing her to walk without worry.

the forest was quiet, too, sensing the lose, sensing her rising fear and sadness.

she approached the tree slowly, bringing her queue over her shoulder. her chest tightened with grief, with rage.

neytiri’s scream filled her ears.

she connected her kuru to one of the hanging strands.

it took a few minutes of meditation and searching, but soon she found him.

“hello, grandmother. is everything alright?”

“yes, neteyam. i just wished to see you.”

she did not dwell in the spritual realm of her grandson’s memories, lest she show too much emotion. neteyam did not know he was dead, and she would not try to tamper with that fact.

she disconnected her queue, and the titters of animals around her stopped.

she knelt there for what felt like centuries, hands clenched into fists in her lap. she felt like a child, wanting to scream and rage and wail and holler.

but she did none of those things.

instead, she layed her head against one of the many roots of the tree and wept.

neteyam’s breath in her ear, soft and steady.

in and out, went his lungs when he was born.

in and out, he repeated to himself when he completed his iknimaya.

in and out, he practiced as he prepared to leave his home for a strangers refuge.

in and out.

in and-

a gasp.

then silence.

masterlists.

this is completely unrelated to breath of venus if you were wondering. i just really wanted to write this. i think we forget about mo’at a lot in this fandom.

[eretxskullcrusher]

My silly opinion about....

Why Eret and Skullcrusher were so perfect for eachother!

•Skullcrusher already having a rider (Stoick-R.I.P-)

Since Skullcrusher had a rider before,he knew exactly how to work with this slow-learning,not trusting dragons type of person. He works slowly,step by step, building a level of trust from almost nothing. This comforts Eret,who is anxious as fuck (for the first weeks),it teaches him to feel safe and have faith in his dragon.

•It was love at first sight

After the final battle,when Eret approached Hiccup to congratulate him, Skullcrusher doesn't lose a moment. He immediately goes next to him, nudging and sniffing him, looking specifically at his hand. He watches over his reaction. Eret doesn't know how to react at first,but when he looks at him.. A wide smile appears on his face. He reaches his hands towards the dragon, slowly and steady. And Skullcrusher doesn't back away, because he wants to be touched. When Hiccup sees this,he understands that Skullcrusher had made his choice. He wants Eret as his rider. Eret of course accepts and you can an even wider smile, completely made of respect and -yes,love- for his dragon. The way he looks at Skullcrusher says it all. He doesn't grip the dragon's horn. Instead,he gives him a soft, gentle touch. And at that moment,the best thing happens. Skullcrusher's pupils dilate, becoming almost round. This indicates that his brain is releasing a substance known as dopamine. This substance is only released when someone looks at something they really want,or in this case,love. So,both human and dragon wanted to be together,from the first moment they met.

•They were eachother's therapy dogs

Of course and they bonded because of their traumas. Both of them were lost, grieving,when they met. Skullcrusher had just lost his rider,and he needed someone to rely on and trust. He wanted someone who could offer him stability,a caring shoulder to cry on. To be honest, I don't think he was ready for a new rider,until Eret came in his life. He saw himself in Eret's eyes. Eret was lost as well. He had just left his whole life behind, chasing something that sounded like a dream. He was alone in a new place,with a completely new prospective about dragons. In all of this chaos, Skullcrusher popped in. This dragon was exactly what Eret needed. A strong, although bleeding soul,who could help him overcome his fears and embrace his new self. They both had sadness and fear curled around their souls,but, together,they managed to overcome their traumas, cause,as we know,love and hope are so much stronger than pain and fear.

•Eret's Dragon Armour

In "The art of How to train your dragon;The Hidden World",there is this exact line; "The dragon armour supports the idea that there's an incredible connection between the characters and their dragons." So,Eret and Skullcrusher managed to built such a bond which was somewhat equivalent of six years (despite the movie not showing it all -Im still mad about it-). I'm saying this because,of course and the other members of the gang share an incredible bond with their winged friends. But putting Eret and Skullcrusher on that list,means that they created such a level of trust and understanding that it felt like they were together for years ( talking about platonic soulmates huh?). And there's the fact that Eret is a member of the group now and his needs to have an armour that represents his dragon (I bet all my money that Skullcrusher LOVES the suit).

•How matching they are at almost everything

Lastly, another thing that makes them perfect for eachother is their similarities at most,(if not all things). They are both this type of order and quiet, loyal to the death,always sticking by eachother's side,and they like following the rules. Eret is energetic and brave, while Skullcrusher is quiet and stubborn. Together, they complete eachother. Both Eret and Skullcrusher prefer to stay aside,only taking the main spot when something really bad happens. They are loving towards one another,even and a bit affectionate, always making sure they're both okay. Even though there are days in which they'll get separated, they always find the time to make up for the moments they lost. Plus,they both like fighting, only when necessary. Another thing is their matching skills. Skullcrusher,as a Rumblehorn,has an incredible sense of smell (and strength). That's why he's known as "the bloodhound of dragons". Eret on the other hand,has excellent knowledge on tracking down other dragons,due to his trapping years. He is also a quite skilled fighter, something that makes him a very worthy opponent,and even dangerous when Skullcrusher is by his side. Those similarities they have make them a formidable and very skilled duo, perfect for one another.

And that's it! End of the post!

[void-occupation]

The O'Carrick Curse

I just talked about a headcanon in the comment section of a fic that I just read, and realized that maybe I should post it here too.

In the fic ("who you are" by mipmaps on A03) Will ends up offering the surname 'Treaty' to Halt, who accepts, which I am absolutely in love with because of the headcanon that I am about to share with you guys.

I feel like Halt sees the surname "O'Carrick" as a curse, especially when he considers how miserably and/or tragically every O'Carrick (that we know of) has lived and died.

~ Halt mentioned that his parents argued all the time and were pretty much straight-up neglectful to everyone but Ferris. (I also headcanon that they were abusive, but I'll go more in-depth about that another time).

~ Ferris was so blinded by greed that he tried to kill his twin brother multiple times over a throne, and did so terribly at being king that he was most beloved by the people when that same twin was pretending to be him - not to mention that when he finally started to do better, he was instantly murdered for it.

~ Caitlyn spent her childhood being neglected and forced to grieve as the one person who truly cared for her apparently died, and she was the only one who really knew who was behind it. She also spent her whole life being sickly, and it was eventually what killed her, leaving her son (who I'm sure Halt was grateful didn't carry the same name) alone with her snake of a brother.

~ And Halt. He was also neglected his whole childhood to the point of being so afraid of hurting his parents' relationship that he would rather run away and leave everything he had ever known and loved behind then tell his parents that his brother was trying to kill him. Speaking of, his twin brother - with whom he spent his entire childhood, and loved in a way that only twins can - tried to murder him on three separate occasions for a throne he didn't even want in the first place. Shortly after this, Halt lost the man who he had come to see as a father, and had to deal with the survivor's guilt brought on by being saved by Will's parents, and leaving Will himself orphaned. He also didn't tell a soul about who he really was until literal decades later. He had to give up a second home in order to save his son apprentice that he felt responsible for losing in the first place (whom he has almost lost multiple times - the majority of which he felt responsible for). Then, he lost the man that he considered a brother (or perhaps a lover????). Not to mention the fact that by book 8 - aside from Sean - his whole family was dead.

I feel like Halt was bittersweet about his standing as the last of the O'Carricks. One reason, is he's glad no one else has to carry the burden of the (in his mind) cursed name. A part of him however, wonders if perhaps Halt was the curse all along. That was another reason that Halt didn't offer Will the O'Carrick name at his graduation, he was afraid that sharing a surname with Will would leave his former apprentice vulnerable to his curse.

When Will first offered his surname to Halt, the older ranger teared up, and Will was startled when Halt seemed to be on the verge of breaking down.

Before Will could start apologizing, Halt found himself pouring out all of his thoughts about the curse that he had feared his whole life, and his fear of inflicting it on Will and causing him the same misery. Will was completely stunned, because the only other times Halt had been this vulnerable were when he was telling Will about his mother, and when he spoke about his own childhood, and even then, those times were nothing like this. He had never heard this self-loathing from his teacher before but as he processed the words, he realized that it must have been hidden deep within Halt all this time.

Will took Halt's hands in his own, cutting off the older ranger's uncharacteristic rambling, and looked deep into his stricken eyes. "Halt," his quiet voice cut through Halt's mind like an arrow, "You are many things, but a curse is not one of them." Halt's eyes misted over, and it was all he could do to maintain eye contact. Will had never seen this level of vulnerability and hurt in his teacher's gaze, and he would do anything to take his pain away.

"You are not a curse, or a burden, or a monster, and it is not your fault that things with your family turned out the way that they did. You were as much of a victim as they were, if not more so." Here, Will took a deep breath, and bent slightly to maintain eye contact with the Hibernian whose dark gaze had drifted downwards to hide his shame. "Do you know what you are?" The soft question was rhetorical, for Will needed no one to give him answers besides his own heart and memories, "You are a protector, a kind soul, and the greatest man I have ever known. And I am proud beyond belief to call you my friend, mentor, and father."

At this, Halt's gaze snapped back up in shock. How could Will still say that after seeing him like this? After all the broken promises, and the hurt and heartache cause by simply being associated with the former prince? However, before he could speak his thoughts, Will plowed on. "I offer you my surname, not out of a sense of debt or obligation, but because I love you, and I wish for the world to know that we are family, and nothing - no self-believed curse, no painful pasts, and certainly no self doubt - will ever stop me from seeing you as my father. I offer my name because I see how much pain your own brings you, and if I can do even one thing to show you the same care you have always showed for me, then I will gladly do so."

By this time, tears had begun to flow freely down Halt's face, and Will's own eyes burned as well. Slowly, Halt nodded and whispered his acceptance which Will had to strain to hear. The younger ranger pulled his father into a strong yet warm embrace that he could only hope expressed the love he had for the slight man before him.

As Halt melted into the embrace, he felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and though it would never truly leave him, the pain of his curse finally melted away as accepted the family he had feared for so long.

[mermaidsirennikita]

ARC REVIEW: The Stars Too Fondly by Emily Hamilton

4/5. Releases 6/11/24.

Vibes: everyone is queer, pretty much, grumpy x sunshine, grieving and falling in love, BIG MYSTERY--HUGE

Heat Index: 5/10

Cleo is obsessed with space--which is what leads to her friends accidentally launching a ship towards Proxima Centauri (and it will take... seven years there and back for them to return to Earth; if they survive). But in her defense, she was just trying to find out what happened to the crew that disappeared on launch day twenty years ago! And the the dark matter engine kicked off on its own! Fortunately (?) they're quickly joined by a hologram of Billie, the ship's vanished captain. Unfortunately, she doesn't remember exactly what happened. Or what's going to happen now. Also, she seems to really dislike Cleo--or does she?

OH, this was a lot. Both in terms of genres--it's like, sci-fi with some pretty hard science, I think, knowing nothing about science, plus a bit of magic, plus romcom, plus like... a treatise on loss and loving again?--and plot. This is definitely, ultimately, a romance. And it it's really quite beautiful. Yes, there are jokes, yes there's a mystery that actually gave me a bit of the creeps (in a good way), but ultimately this is about one woman who's gone through this massive loss having her heart cracked open by someone who's sort of given up on everything that seems to matter to her and is trying to ignore that by charging into space.

It bit off a lot. Like, this is a big swing of a book, and it's not perfectly perfect. But it is really good.

Quick Takes:

--This is a textbook grumpy/sunshine book. Billie is a take-no-prisoners alpha bitch, and even in hologram form (to be clear: the hologram is fully sentient, the "real" Billie essentially uploaded her consciousness into the ship right before disappearing) she isn't afraid to boss people around. She has a hard shell, and she's not easy to get through to.

Cleo, on the other hand, is bright and curious and perhaps doesn't take life seriously enough (which is definitely in part a coping mechanism for how badly the Earth is doing... which uh, hit pretty close to home!). Billie puts her in order and forces her to face shit head on; Cleo forces Billie to be a kinder, gentler person and breaks through her walls in a way she really needs. Their love story is really touching, and if you're the type of person who loves to see a hardened person get broken down by falling in love (like me) you'll love this.

--There's so much representation in this cast of characters! The "crew" is made up of an Asian man, Abe, whose partner (also in the group) Kaleisha is a Black trans woman. You also have Rose, who's non-binary, Cleo, who's a Black lesbian, and Billie, a bi woman, making up the primary team. It's all woven in very naturally, and you get the sense that everyone cares for each other and has this sense of solidarity. Just little things, like everyone checking to see if the ship has the hormones Kaleisha needs (don't worry, it does).

I also actually really appreciated the way that Billie was implied to be a woman who primarily dated women and then had her sexuality questioned after she got engaged to a man. Her relationship with the fiance she lost, Neil, is a huge part of who she is--and it's not invalidated by her falling in love with Cleo, or vice versa. In fact, so much of Billie's arc is informed by her grief and pain. She literally ran to space to escape her grief, and it's like--you just can't. And you also can't avoid the reality of moving on, and the fear that comes with loving people you may lose. Oof.

--The mystery was so eerie? Like, the idea of an entire crew of astronauts just disappearing right when they were meant to be launched into space... can you imagine the podcasts?

Hamilton wove this in really well--you get news articles, and especially comms between members of the crew, most of them involving Billie. Which is... man. It feels so sinister, and it also feels a bit separate from the Billie you see in the active present, because this is the "disappeared" Billie, not the hologram. It was a little stomach-churning for me, because, though I knew this was a romance and therefore would have an HEA, I still felt so worried for her and worried about what she was withholding.

--My one critique would be that I do feel like the story goes on a bit long, and could have had the ending shortened a bit. You kind of have this big climactic moment, and then we have to pick up the pieces and hurry to tie up loose ends. Which couldn't be entirely avoided, given the plot of the novel, but could have been a bit tidier. Not a huge issue at all, though, and it was nice to sort of bask in Billie and Cleo's relationship at that point.

The Sex:

So like. Billie is a hologram. Therefore, she can't touch or be touched. Which does put a hold on the physical sex in the novel, but doesn't stop it from being sexy and sexual. I mean, in a lot of ways I found the tension between Billie and Cleo hotter than some of the klutzy sex scenes I've read recently--and that's saying something coming from me, Little Miss Write More Sex.

That said, there is one full sex scene in the book, and it is quite hot. Won't tell you how it comes about, but you won't be dissatisfied. Neither were they.

I am not a sci-fi person. I'm not against it, but I often find it difficult to follow and a bit too cerebral for me to get emotionally involved, even when it's a sci-fi romance. This is the kind of sci-fi that works for me. It exists to serve the characters, and while the science is definitely fairly involved, it's not difficult to understand. (At least for me.)

I keep coming back to this, but I just found the emotional themes of the novel really moving in a way I didn't expect. It felt kind of heartbreaking at points. But thanks to the magic of a romance novel, it comes back to this circle of love and warmth (which really does transcend romantic love, too--the platonic bonds in this novel are great). My heart was full.

Thanks to NetGalley and Harper Voyager for providing me with a copy of this book. All thoughts and opinions are my own.

[staggersz]

THANK U SO MUCH FOR THE LAST RANKING HCS !

If it's ok , may I ask for another ranking ? but this time , more angsty 👹

If in a all survived Au , they all have it in some way , but who would the least to most difficulty in coming back to their normal lives ? Who would be more eager to forget what happened ? And who , without intentions of being cruel , would be the most eager to pretend that the others don't exist ?

Idk if I'm being clear if it's too long ✌️

CHEWS AND GNAWS AND CHOMPS ON THIS ASK I LOVE ANGST SO MUCH AFAGWHRGWGGEEG

And yes i can answer this :3

I think Finney would have the least trouble finding his normal again. He wasn’t hurt as badly as the others but there’s still some aspect of having to grasp a new normal. He gains it quickly though.

Billy would find his new normal rather fast. He stops paperboying and gets a library assistant job with Finney and Griff. Billy can remember almost nothing that caused his trauma, and he’s stuck in the mind of a child, so it’s sort of easy for him to move on.

Griffin is like almost on the same level as Billy. The only thing he finds difficult to build a new normal with is the fact he can’t talk anymore due to his injury. He has to learn sign language, but he’d be a fast learner. He also can barely remember his trauma, and he also is stuck in the mind of a kid, or resorts to it.

I think Bruce would be somewhere in the middle, but there is a BIG jump between him and Griffin. Bruce lost vision in one eye, his arm was broken, he eventually quits his baseball team in the long run, and he has to choose a new path in life. He also loses a bit of friends because of personal things, and he has to deal with post traumatic amnesia.

Robin has a really tough time finding a new normal. He’s completely traumatized even after a month of being in the basement, he’s gained fears that just inconvenience him, he’s dealing with insecurities because of what happened (deep scars) and he isn’t who he used to be at all. He’s still grieving the loss of his mom also, so he just has a ton of stuff piled up. He has a suicide attempt because of all the trauma he’s carrying. He has horrible nightmares and sleep paralysis, so sleeping is frightening for him sometimes.

Vance can’t find a new normal at all. He’s traumatized but isn’t getting better but he doesn’t want to admit that he is. His anger issues are worse than before, he’s dealing with night terrors and insomnia, he’s still stuck in a toxic masculinity mindset that was just intensified because of what happened, and at some point in time he’s had huge fights with at least one of the others because he feels like they’re against him in some way. Eventually though, he finds a new normal and learns to find healthy ways to cope.

For the next two questions, the answer for both of them is Vance. He wants to forget everything that happened, and he kind of holds a tiny bit of resentment towards Griffin and Billy because they were “lucky” enough to forget what happened while Vance remembers everything. He wants to pretend the others don’t exist and he wishes they weren’t friends under these circumstances, but he knows he can’t leave them all.

[cowboyhorsegirl]

5 ways Steve has or wanted to bite Tony

thanks for the prompt anon! i hope you enjoy <3

(read on ao3)

on his lips

Because once the thought comes to him unbidden in the middle of yet another argument with Stark since their ill-fated first meeting on the Helicarrier, it haunts him with the want and the desire and the pure lust of it all.

It's not good and it's not right, fantasizing about shoving his most infuriating teammate against the nearest wall, silencing his contrarian logic with more than cutting words, reveling in victory as he commands his mouth with brutal, burning kisses that aren't as much passion as they are fury.

Another kind of fight, only on a different sort of battlefield.

It's not good and it's not right, but Steve is still aching with the emptiness left behind from all he's lost by being a good and righteous man. And Stark . . . for all that he is ostentatious and reckless and bullheaded and annoyingly antagonistic, at least makes Steve feel something, anything. 

Everything.

Steve himself fails to notice as their disputes slowly become less spontaneous and more deliberate. Even so, the plausible deniability does nothing to hinder his compulsion to seek Stark out—during training, at the penthouse, in his workshop—only to rile them both up again.

There is, however, no possible way to ignore the fact that every one of their arguments now ends the exact same way: with Steve storming off his to quarters and slamming the door shut only to put one tense and trembling fist to his cock, bringing himself off with sharp, short thrusts of his hand, his lips caught between his teeth and thoughts of Tony's mouth bitten raw and red all-encompassing in his mind.

on his shoulder

Because Steve is pressed up against Tony's bare back in the Quinjet they landed not five minutes ago. The rest of the team is still making their way out of the hangar, most of them headed to medical after a battle barely won, still well within earshot if Steve were to let a desperate moan fall free from his lips.

The sight of Iron Man going heavy and dark as he plummeted in a dead suit towards the ground after MODOK's attack replays on a sickening loop in his head. Steve still has to shake himself of the last vestiges of fear while he latches onto the hot, heady feeling of Tony around him and the sound of Tony panting—harsh, but quiet as if his breath is being stifled somehow—and the taste of Tony’s sweaty skin under his tongue as he bites down hard to stop himself from crying out in pleasure or grief, he isn't quite sure which.

But there's nothing to grieve, he reminds himself. There's no reason to mourn because Tony is here, right here where Steve can hold him closest, safe and unharmed and alive and alive and alive and alive—

That's the thought that undoes him, has him gripping Tony's hips desperately and painfully screwing his eyes shut and sinking his teeth into Tony's shoulder even more forcefully as they shudder apart against each other until he hears a muffled, wounded whimper. Steve is suddenly, horribly reminded of the magnitude of his own strength.

He lets go, releases Tony from his grasp, but he can't, he just can't move to put any more distance between them yet. Close to each other like this, he can still feel Tony's heartbeat as strongly as if it was pounding through his own skin. And if all he will ever get are these few frenzied moments of rushed intimacy in the aftermath of that brutal battle, then he at least wants to savor it.

Finally, they pull away from each other. Steve winces when he sees the deep impression his teeth have left on Tony's skin as he pulls the undersuit back on, the angry marks he left biting down on Tony’s shoulder and biting back his feelings for him. Regret weighs heavy on his heart at the bitter realization that—after months of wanting Tony, months of wanting to share in dinner dates and lazy mornings and passion-filled nights—the only way Tony wants him back is for a quick fuck in the back of the Quinjet as they come down from the adrenaline high of combat.

Steve sighs as he turns away and bends down to pick up one of the larger pieces of the suit that Tony had haphazardly discarded from his body, determined not to let him carry the bulky armor down to his workshop by himself.

Just as he rises with the back plate cradled in his arms, Tony snatches it away from him, eyes averted and lips pressed together tightly. 

Silly, really. He should know by now not to count on Tony to accept help only for the simple reason that Steve wants to give it. 

It’s there that Steve sees it: bite marks, deeper even than the ones he left, printed into the knuckles of Tony's left hand. A small drop of blood wells up in one of the indents, bright red contrasted against bone white fingers where Tony grips tightly to the edges of his armor.

Regret weighs heavy from Steve’s heart.

on his thighs

Because finally, Tony is spread out glowing and golden and glorious against his stark white sheets and Steve thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. He presses reverent kisses to every inch of skin he can reach, is handsomely rewarded by Tony's sweet sighs and hitching gasps, and Steve thinks he has never heard a lovelier melody than the sounds of Tony's pleasure.

He kisses his way down Tony's body, lips lingering on scars and faded burns, mouthing along the desensitized skin at the edge of the arc reactor, awed by the way Tony wears the evidence of his genius on his skin like a biography that Steve could reread over and over again without tiring, his favorite story.

When he reaches the jut of Tony's hips and his breath rustles over the dark hair leading to the base of his cock, he gently coaxes Tony's legs open, revealing the tender, pale skin of his inner thighs to Steve. It's exhilarating to have Tony like this, open and vulnerable, the thrill of being trusted with his desire.

Steve strokes the backs of his fingers over the unmarred skin, before lowering his head to nip lightly over the same path, warm and velvety smooth against his hands and his lips. 

Above him, Tony moans his approval, a litany of oh god and fuck, Steve as Steve inches ever closer to getting his mouth on Tony’s cock. 

Closer, but not quite there yet.

Steve has something else in mind first.

Because Steve is only human. He’s not a perfect man, has never claimed to be. So when he sees Tony’s thighs laid open before him, completely devoid of any other marks like the ones that distinguish the rest of his beautiful body, he can’t help but take full advantage of the opportunity to leave a few of his own.

As Steve presses his teeth into the soft, supple skin and immediately feels the resistance from Tony’s strong, lean muscles, he thinks that he's never tasted anything quite so brilliant as Tony's bruises blooming under his lips. The scent of him—all leather and vanilla from his cologne and here, so close to the core of him, Tony’s own sweet, musky smell underneath it all—is everywhere around Steve as he shuts his eyes and loses himself in the sensation.

It’s heaven, kissing bruises into the blank canvas of Tony's thighs. It is his most stunning act of creation, all the shades of red and purple he paints with his tongue into Tony’s skin. Steve can't help himself from smiling as he imagines how they might ache tomorrow, an echo from tonight that reverberates anew every time Tony moves.

Steve finishes his masterpiece with one last kiss right where Tony's thigh meets his hip, his cheek just brushing against the delicate skin of Tony’s balls. He shifts back and takes in the sight: hums his delight at the picture they’ve made together, spilled ink on the page that will darken over time before fading away.

A secret only they share; handwritten notes in the margins of their story.

on his jaw

Because Tony loves it, is all, and that’s reason enough for Steve.

He still remembers the way Tony had moaned when Steve grazed his teeth over the corner of his jaw, just under his ear. His hands had flown to Steve’s head, tangling in his hair as he pulled him impossibly closer for a split second before letting out a resigned sigh and tugging Steve just far enough away until they could look at each other, faces a mere hairsbreadth apart and panting breaths hitting the other’s lips in the heavy air between them.

“Was that okay?” Steve starts to ask at the same time that Tony says,“you can’t, can’t—” before breaking off to gasp a breath.

Steve shifts some of his weight off of Tony, giving him a bit of space to clear the lingering glaze of pleasure over his eyes and catch his breath so he can continue. 

A few moments later, Tony swallows and drags Steve closer again. “I have a board meeting tomorrow morning, and I can’t show up with any bruises where my clothes won’t cover them. It’s a . . . professional liability,” he says while waving a hand around as he searches for the words to explain. Once he’s finished, he sighs, gaze rueful, and drops his hand to hold on to Steve’s arm, absently stroking scarred fingers over the smooth curves of his bicep before offering a remorseful, “I’m sorry.”

At that, Steve’s brow furrows. “You don’t have to apologize. I’ll be careful.”

Tony bites his lip, glances away and back again. “I know, I just . . . I wish you didn’t have to worry. I wish we could just enjoy each other.” He huffs out a laugh, shakes his head almost imperceptibly so as he slides his hand up Steve’s arm, over his shoulder to cup the curve of his jaw in his warm palm, guiding them together until their lips meet in a chaste kiss. 

It’s sweet, the meditative rhythm of Tony’s thumb as it rubs gently back and forth across his cheek. Steve can feel himself melting further into the contact. He hums his happiness into the embrace, joy swelling within him when he feels Tony react to the vibration and smile against his lips. 

They stay close after the kiss breaks to narrow the millimeters that feel as gaping and distant as miles between them. Steve relishes the feeling of himself sheathed inside Tony’s soft heat, the way they mold to fit each other perfectly so that they share every breath, every movement, every ripple of pleasure, two bodies moving together as one. 

“I do appreciate it, though,” Tony says as his gaze alternates between tracking Steve’s lips and meeting his eyes. “Thank you for understanding,” he murmurs in the scant space separating them.

Steve brings a hand up to brush his fingertips over Tony’s temple, down his cheek, thrilling at how Tony presses ever-so-slightly into the touch in a subconscious effort to get closer. “Of course. Whatever you want, Tony,” he says, voice low as it skates over his skin, followed by a kiss to his forehead, another on his brow, light presses of his lips all across his lover’s face.

Steve feels Tony start talking before he hears it, the reverberation of his voice across his lips where he’s currently kissing feather-light down his throat. An exasperated groan escapes him before he can stop himself, but unsurprisingly it goes completely unnoticed by Tony as he prattles on. 

“Well, it’s not so much that that’s not what I want, if we’re being particular about it—”

“Tony,” Steve interrupts, unwilling to risk letting him talk long enough to distract himself from the fact that Steve’s dick is currently inside him. Again. “Tell me what you want. I want to know.”

“I want—” he says, and stops, letting his mouth hang open for a second of hesitation before visibly acquiescing to an internal argument he’s fighting against himself. “Actually you know what? Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter. Just, um . . . just don’t leave any marks where I can’t hide them. Think you can handle that, big guy?” He winks at him, but his attempt at a smirk falls flat.

Steve frowns back. “Are you sure?”

Tony rolls his eyes in response. “Of course I’m sure. Don’t I sound sure? And if you don’t get a move on, I’ll be wearing you to the meeting tomorrow, which I’m pretty sure will go over even less favorably than the bruises.” He punctuates his speech by clenching down on Steve’s cock, promptly putting an end to any more coherent conversation for the rest of the night.

But Steve hadn’t forgotten the subtle, lingering regret in Tony’s eyes. It burns in his memory months later as he lays Tony on the plush, massive bed in the private villa on the secluded island they’d secreted away to to celebrate their first anniversary together. This time, he doesn’t pull back when the trail of kisses he’s leaving along the length of Tony’s neck reaches the hinge of his jaw. Steve presses a smile against Tony’s skin instead.

“You know,” Steve purrs, “no work for the next two weeks.”

“No meetings either,” Tony says brightly.

“No clothes to hide bruises under.”

At that, Tony quirks an eyebrow, but he’s smiling when he confirms, “for two whole weeks?”

Steve licks the sensitive spot under Tony’s ear, kisses just hard enough to make his intentions clear. Gets drunk on the sound of Tony’s moans as he gently bites at the edge of his jaw, tongue running over the not yet visible pinpricks of stubble.

“For as long as you want it, honey.”

on his nose

Because the morning is drizzling down drab and gray against their windows when Steve wakes up and immediately decides against his usual daily run. 

Normally he wouldn’t, he’d just persevere through the rain, but Tony’s always telling him how he deserves to take it easy, how he should allow himself rest. 

Every once in a while, Steve’s inclined to agree.

Like today, for instance. He rolls over to face Tony, still soft and peaceful with sleep, and raises one hand to brush away the hair that has fallen into his eyes. From his dreams, Tony has sensed the disturbance, and his nose wrinkles just as Steve finishes smoothing his hair back into place.

Adoration floods him, an emotion bright and overwhelming as the sun, and before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s tilted forward and to the side a bit, carefully covers his lips with his teeth, and oh-so-gently lays a little bite on the tip of Tony’s nose.

Immediately, Tony’s eyes fly open at the exact same time as he says, “What the fuck?” in a hoarse voice. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” but the apology is undercut by the way Steve chuckles through it.

“Oh, like hell you didn’t,” Tony grumbles back. 

Steve hums his agreement as he gathers Tony into his arms. 

“Maybe so.”

Tony puts up a little resistance, shoving back against Steve for just a second, but they both know it’s only for show. They melt into each other, intimacy like a hearth they gather around to stay warm from the burgeoning storm outside.

“Looks like kite-flying is out of the question today.”

Steve raises one eyebrow and leans back a bit to look at Tony head-on. “Have you ever even flown a kite?”

“Have you?” Tony deflects.

“‘Course I have,” Steve says as he rubs the heel of one hand against his eyes before replacing it on the slight divot between Tony’s shoulder blades. “Bucky and I used to fly ‘em from the roof of our building when we were kids.”

They share the silence for a few minutes, ruminating and reminiscing under cover of thunder. But Tony rarely finds calm in stillness, so after a few minutes he breaks the quiet with—

“So what was up with that wake-up call then?”

Steve laughs softly, shaking his head slightly, unable to stop from nudging the very end of his nose against Tony’s as he does, pressed chest to chest against each other like they are. “You just looked cute, that’s all. Sue me.”

“I could! Emotional damages and whatnot!”

“Yeah, yeah, keep talking. Besides, you can’t touch me, I have spousal privilege.”

“That is absolutely not how spousal privilege works.”

“Oh really?” Steve smirks as he exaggeratedly rolls his naked hips against Tony’s boxers before leaning in so his lips brush against the outer shell of Tony’s ear when he whispers, “Enlighten me.”

Tony throws his head back in laughter. The joke is quickly abandoned as Steve’s smile warms into something more genuine at the sound. “You’re insatiable! We’ve been awake for all of five minutes and you’re already ready to go?”

He knows it’s not a serious question, but it barely matters when the answer is all the same. He trails his fingertips over the corner of Tony’s lips, heart fluttering when Tony casually captures Steve’s hand in his own and lays a soft, sweet kiss to the simple gold band on his finger. 

“With you in my bed? Always.” 

“Oh please,” Tony mocks fondly, lips curved in a crooked smile as he gazes up at Steve, before breaking into a yawn. “In any case,” he says as his eyes slip shut, “I’m going back to sleep, gonna get all my 40 winks in, like someone here is usually so adamant that I do.”

“Mmmm,” Steve acknowledges noncommittally. “Nice to know you’ve finally started listening to me after all these years.”

Tony’s eyes briefly crack open, one eyebrow lifting up in objection, but he otherwise pointedly ignores the challenge. “Please don’t tell me you’re leaving for your run right now,” he says instead, driving his point home by slinging an arm over Steve’s waist to hold on tight as he starts trying to find a comfortable position to rest his head. 

Steve shifts down the bed, settles Tony’s restlessness by sliding an arm underneath his pillow. Immediately, the crease between his brows smoothes out, body relaxing on a gentle sigh.

The gray morning light, darkened by the storm, sends shadows over Tony’s sleep-softening features. Steve leans forward, just enough to press a barely-there kiss on the end of Tony’s nose. Between one moment and the next, Tony’s nose wrinkles, his eyelashes flutter, and then his face smoothes out again. His breath stays even. 

Steve smiles down at him, lays his own head down next to Tony’s, and whispers in the space between:

“Not today. I’ve got everything I need right here.”

[kanene-yaaay]

Secrets and the Pros and Cons of Not Running Away

Kanene's notes: I will receive no constructive criticism on this, I saw a character that just keeps being destroyed over and over because he loves and cares too much and since mah bros on that island only SUFFER, I *WILL* take the matters onto my own hands and give them all the tickles and fluff thank you so much for understanding.

Anyway, the Happy Pills Arc is my absolute fave until now, and this animatic is my new obsession. It doesn't has anything to do with the fic, really, but I think it deserves more love drtyuiklkjhg.

Warnings: This is a tickle fanfic. It has hurt/comfort, fluff and some angsty thoughts, but nothing too dark. It happens after the Happy Pills stuff and doesn't follow the canon timeline. Ticklish!Forever and Ler!Philza, Ler!Bad, Ler!Pac, Ler!Mike, Ler!Richarlyson, Ler!Tallulah and Ler!Chayanne. It is 8,000 words long.

[~*~]

Forever woke up. 

His eyes hurt when they opened so he kept them closed for a few minutes more, watching the flash of memories run behind his eyelids in blurry movements and sounds. 

For the first time in a while his mind was silent, clear from all the effects of what the Federation did to him. His feelings no longer exploded crazy in his chest as they often did during the last few days, fighting to survive before the chemicals from the drugs washed them over and got suppressed by a blinding, fake happiness.

Their kids were gone. 

Richarlyson was gone. His son disappeared in thin air and there were no clues or hints that showed any single way to get them back or even know where they went. 

The island was in scrambles, empty. 

There were explosions and grieving and chaos everywhere. Every parent doing any and everything to cope with the fact that from day to night they’ve got what was the most important for them ripped right from their fingers. 

The N.I.N.H.O, his project (his responsibility) didn’t work out this time and they lost everything because of it.

Badboyhalo was losing his colors. Baghera disappeared. Cellbit straight out begged him to not leave him alone during all of this. Mike hadn’t been seen in a long time. Etoiles was trying to keep their hopes up. Everyone asked him what they should do, now. What would he do as their president. 

And what did he do? He fucking lost it. He let his feelings get over his head, exploded everything that he could put his eyes on, demolished his base with TNT and threatened Cucurucho, forced the Federation to do a throwback just so they would have an island to put their feet on. Made the Federation see him as a threat and force those pills on him.

He left everyone. His family. His friends.

(What more could he do?)

And everyone should've left him too.

…

And yet…

And yet Pac jumped head first to save him. Accepting to go under Cucurucho’s “treatment” so he could analyze the drugs and find a cure for it. No matter how much he was shaking in fear the entire time, how bad the Federation treated him before or how there was just no certainty that his plan would even work

And yet Philza saw under his mask of smile, past the point of his gun and right into the pain in his eyes in his lowest moment and said that everything would be fine, that he still trusted him, that he knew who he was and how much he cared about the eggs. He said they would find a way to solve things out.

And yet Cellbit didn’t let him go for a single second. He followed him no matter the instability, during those painful moments of consciousness, beyond the fake minutes of happiness and slipped past his traps just to go and pull him out of it. He shouted and hugged and taunted and broke and fought dirty and did what he could to bring him back.

And yet Bad still talked and answered him, even with how much he was hurting, even with the bombs and screams and the dismissing he came back over and over again with his chats and banters and discussions that so easily led Forever to the trap that would come to save his life.

Once again, there were tears in his eyes. 

They were too his family. Forever was the one who put himself under Cucurucho’s radar by going apeshit and bombarding the entire island and they were the ones who saved him from that white fucking bear. From himself. From the Happy Pills.

He cried.

(What else could he do?)

Agony and hope danced in harmony in his chest, sucking all his other senses to nothing and filling his soul with every emotion under the sun at the same time. It was overwhelming but good to be free to feel so easily. It was horrible that he knew how it was like to miss this freedom so much. It was empty to feel this despair all over again. It was good, no, essential to know he was not alone.

Almost hopeful, even.

And yet their children were gone.

And yet everyone was kind of lost.

And yet they needed someone solid, a strong leader to step in.

Forever didn’t feel strong.

(What would he do?)

He wiped his tears. Sat on the bed. Got up. Put back the flag on his shoulder. Took a deep breath, listening to the very known voices coming out of the infirmary that made his entire face change to a (this time genuine) happy, tired and relieved kind of smile.

The president of Quesadilla Island woke up.

(And he didn’t have any idea of how much everyone had been waiting to show him how much they were happy about it.)

[~*~]

It all started in very tiny ways, as most things did, easy to miss if you didn’t know where to look. 

The first time it happened Forever was at favela. He had just finished fixing the elevator from the Karaoke and was watching the sunset (Hi, Bobby) wash over the beach in a dance of colors at the top of the building, resting on the parapet. Pac was somewhere close, building more houses or getting in trouble with Fit, but, besides them, it was just him, his memories and Copacabana beach.

Forever laid his head in his arms, with a long sigh, closing his eyes and just letting the wind mess his hair and clear his thoughts, enjoying the brief moment of peace before he started thinking about more plans and projects to fill his day and mind with.

It was hard, though. When every block he put down or decoration he pulled up made the blonde turn around with a call in the tip of his tongue, words disappearing when he realized that there was no set of small footsteps following him and probably never would again because they were all gone and he was not and how could he ever even think about-

A shiver ran down his spine and made his thoughts come to a halt when he felt a light tickle in the back of his neck, making him have to move a hand out of his comfortable position to wipe the leaf or whatever out of his skin. 

His fingers made contact with nothing. Uh. Must’ve flown away already.

He was tired. Maybe he should take the rest of the day to clean his base. There were still holes from the mine traps that someone has been spreading across the island lately. Another problem for him to resolve. Looked like those were never going to end.

The tickle came back, following him even when he flinched away, with a puffed snicker falling from his tongue. His hand shot to scare whatever insect it was from his neck again but the touch was as nimble as it was soft, lightly and skillfully dancing away from his hold before it could catch him.

“Que porra.” (“The fuck.”) He tried again and again, going so far as slapping his entire arm behind him, hitting nothing.

The sensation disappeared for a brief while before running all the way across his spine, making him almost jump in the air and finally give up his comfortable position to spin around. “Que que é isso, cara!” (“What is this, man!”)

“Pfff- hahaha!”

Forever turned just in the right moment to see his short friend, with sky blue eyes shining with a playful light, pulling a black, crooked and beautiful wing behind his back, his laugh ringing across the building.

“Philza! Really?” 

“What? You wouldn’t have that problem if you wore a shirt, you know?” Forever’s shouted “WHAAAAT!” did nothing to alleviate his laughing fit, a snort not taking long to appear.

“You, you’re, you’re bullying me, man! I just came out of the hospital and you treat me like this. I can’t believe it!”

“You’re-”

“You come here, you hit me, you don’t let me rest after I get out of a coma… I am an injured, man, you know that, Philza? You’re bullying an injured man.”

“I literally,” his tune tried and failed to sound at least a tidbit serious before he descended in more laughter. “I literally didn’t even hit you!” 

Forever continued as if he didn’t hear the protest of the other, turning around and gesticulating dramatically. “You’re a bully, Philza. You’re such a bully.”

“I am doing that to remind you to put on a shirt! You just came out of the hospital, you’re gonna catch a cold.”

“Nah, nah, nah, you’re mean. You’re just so mean to me. Like, I thought we were friends, you know? But I see the truth now.” He tsked. “That is just sad, Philza. That is really sad, man.”

“Oh my fucking god.” The punch he gave on Forever’s arms didn’t even hurt, only making the president snicker louder. “Shut the fuck up.”

Forever chuckled at how done the other sounded, watching him roll his eyes and shake his head with a big smile before taking (he wasn’t resting anymore so might as well just finish his work here) the chance and walking in between the tables and chairs until he got behind the balcony. In no time he began filling the storage with drinks and food. The high, upbeat joy of banting with his friend slowly calming down.

“Actually, I am going to put back my old black suit soon. I am just taking a break from wearing suits so much, you know?”

He didn’t have to explain what the break was really for and how his old presential clothes didn’t have anything to do with it, Philza understood. 

“Take that time off, Forever, you deserve it.” His tune was soft. 

Forever smiled, wishing he could show Phil how wrong he was. A“break” definitely wasn’t on the list of things that Forever deserved at all. That anarchist was way too kind.

“Thank you very much, my friend.” He closed the cabinet door, turning around (and away), facing the entire restaurant. 

Each chair, each color and decor had been carefully picked by small , gentle claws. The building had been chosen by hand and even the balcony was built lower than normal, made so that a small child could go behind it and pretend to be a barman, sing with the melodies and enjoy the view with their family and friends. 

Signs were still spreaded there, on the restaurant, the rooms, the favela, the N.I.N.H.O, the Spawn, their home and island… None of it had been built to be just for the adults and it all brought a longing pang in his chest. 

Saudade.

They’re gone. They’re gone and he was here laughing and resting and doing nothing to rescue them and how could he be so usele-

Another soft sweep of feathers right under his chin made him flinch away with a surprised, bitten giggle, successfully making his line of thoughts disintegrate for a second time. A half smile painted his face.

“Stop with that, man! It tickles.”

Philza tilted his head slightly to the side, eyes sharp in concentration, as if just realizing something. But at the sound of Forever’s voice he blinked and let his expression become a tad more relaxed, with worried tunes.

“You just seemed to be thinking a whole lot back there. What is in your mind?”

“Nothing really important. It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, I’ve got some bad news for you then, mate. Because it will matter to me. You can tell me anything, Forever.”

And for a moment the other considered not doing that. Teleporting away or brushing his worries with another topic or a joke. But that was Philza. 

Philza, one of the most protective parents who still trusted him with Tallulah when he was away. Philza, who didn’t care about the elections but voted for him anyway. Philza, who trusted him with such a conviction and an unyielding loyalty that Forever had no idea of what he could ever have done to deserve it.

(“You saved my children.” Philza would say if he could listen to him. “You went beyond and further to save everyone’s kids for free over and over so no parent would ever carry the grief of losing them again. You did it for Richarlyson, for Tallulah, for Bobby, for Pomme, for you, for us, for free. I’m not forgetting that easily and I’m not letting you forget too.”)

And that was enough.

He stared at the beach again, the words coming easier when he was not looking at the other.

“Talullah was the one who decorated the restaurant. We were having a Karaoke Night and when we got up here she had already put all those nice trees and pretty flowers…It looks really nice.”

Philza sighed, looking ten thousands of years older.

“Yeah, she has an amazing taste.” Then he walked and stayed right in front of Forever’s view, staring right at his eyes, serious. “We’re going to find them, ok? Richas, Talullah, Chayanne, Ramon… Every single one, we’re going to get them back. So don’t let yourself give up and stay focused.”

The president, his friend, nodded.

“We will get them back.” Forever agreed. “No matter what it costs.”

[~*~] 

But Philza was a discreet fella, so things continued to be shown in tiny ways for a while. A poke when he got too distracted and his thoughts too dark, a scribble to get his attention, a sweep of feathers when he refused to stop working so much and listen to the reason. Forever pretended to be annoyed, but the fact that the other cared so much and in such a playful way kept fishing fond smiles and amused chuckles out of him and that he couldn’t ignore.

His cute secret was secure with him, and so things took a while before it began escalating, all because of a different afternoon…

It started with a jumpscare.

“FOREVER!”

“PUTA MERDA!” (“HOLY SHIT!”) The loud shout quickly descended in a series of nervous giggles. The blond holding his chest and resting in a wall to not fall, muscles trembling with the sudden shot of adrenaline. 

It took a couple of minutes for him to get back his composure and glare at the demon that was still snickering gleefully at him, tail swooping around in delight as he jumped around. 

It took exactly one second. 

In a blink Forever was getting his soul back to his body and then in the other he was throwing himself at him and both were rolling on the floor in a mess of pushes and kicks. “Tu se acha engraçadão, hein? Tu se acha muito engraçadão. Palhaço! Tá palhaço demais, hein, Badboyhalo.” (“You think you’re so funny, yeah? You think you’re so funny. You clown! You’re being such a clown, huh, Badboyhalo.”)

Forever didn’t care that his wrestling was uncoordinated enough so most hits didn’t even land on his friend, different from Bad that actually got more than one or two kicks right before letting himself be lost in a mix of too joyfully complains of “unfair attack” and “dictator” to have any true heat in them. 

Their playful fight was kept for a few pieces of a while before they were too distracted by their own amusement to not let the other go and try to recompose themselves.

“Where! is! it!”

“What?” Forever asked, staring with confused eyes at the black demon who crossed his arms and squinted at him in what Forever could swear was an annoyed composure if it wasn’t the way his tail swayed around and his eyes glinted in glee. Whether it was for being so unclear and successfully confusing the blond or for the original reason he appeared there in the first place it wasn’t clear. 

For a moment his eyes unfocused from the form of the other and watched the wall full of kind, heartwarming messages that he asked for everyone still awake at that night to write so he could make BadboyHalo a surprise. Suddenly all the pieces came together in his mind and formed such a cute picture that Forever couldn’t help but let out a delighted chuckle, lips curling in an amused, teasing smirk. “Ooooh, I see what you’re talking about now, Badboy.”

That chuckles almost became a crackle when the only response he received was a petulant huff and a hand extended in his direction, fingers twitching impatiently. Forever took out his backpack, rummaging through it until he found the compartment where he kept all his flowers, carefully pushing Richa’s favorite one aside so he could pull another one. His fingers clasped around a stem and soon a light purple grazed his sight. “Here. Your daily flower. It’s for until you get better, right?”

“Oh, nice, thank you.” Bad’s voice tinted with a softer tune, carefully gathering the gift and putting it on his own backpack, in a special place, together with the others, before his tune became agitated again, feet tapping on the floor with energy. “But that is NOT what I am talking about.” He got closer and repeatedly began slapping his arm, following the president when he shouted and started running around the enclosed space, jumping in attempts to escape from the sudden attack. “WHERE IS IT! GIVE ME, IT’S MINE!”

“What! What more do you want from me!” When no answer was given besides more chasing and (friendly) hitting, the blonde got the warpstone with an exaggerated sigh. 

“You know, Badboyhalo,” when Forever said his entire name, it wasn’t exactly sing-songing, but it had a little beat painted with amusement and tease, when the demons haven’t been able to successfully annoy him out of his mind, of course. “I really need to go, man, and since you don’t have anything to say to me… tsk, that is so sad, man, I was really feeling quite… generous today”

“No!” The demon tried to grab his shoulder, but the blonde dodged swiftly, still pretending to be looking busy and thinking hard about his next location. “Forever. Do not. You’re not running away. I know what you’re doing!” Forever smiled. 

Being friends with Cellbit, you learned a thing or two. Like how to disappear in the middle of a conversation, but, especially, how to do that in the most annoying way possible. “No, no, no, I’m not running away at all, Bad, I am actually…”

However, that was the thing: Bad was also Cellbit’s friend, and so realized the exact moment that glint filled the president’s brown eyes what was about to happen. His hand flew in another attempt of a grab, missing once again his shoulder when the other, a bit later than last time, dodged, which allowed his reflex to kick in and his hand changed the trajectory and lay on the brazilian’s side, squeezing.

None of them was prepared for the squeal that this action fished.

For a second, a blissful second, everything froze and both stared at each other. 

That is how Forever saw the exact second the demon’s eyes squinted and a playful flame alighted in them.

In a blink his other hand also flew to his waist and began attacking both sides with no mercy. Forever had no chance to even try to stop the barking loud laughter that exploded from him, immediately letting go of the warpstone to clue on Bad’s wrists, trying to push them away by sheer reflex even before his brain could process what was happening. 

“Nonono, stop that! BA-ad!”

Bad couldn’t help but giggle, half adoring and half malefically, at the way the laughter made most of his words get almost intelligible. Besides, Bad thinks he could grow accustomed to having his name being snickered in such an adoring - together with that cute smile and shiny eyes - way more often, really.

His fingers poked and prodded with skill and curiosity, looking for any sensitive spot that could create a new fun sound and concentrating there for a few maddening seconds and plenty of digging before looking for the next one. There was a very nice one juuust above his lowest rib that made the barking laughter become a string of snickers that seemed to grow higher and faster by the seconds. It almost made Bad forget his main job now as his friend and rival the second (actually, even before that, if he was being honest, but honesty was overrated) he discovered that little fun secret about their dear tyrant:

Tease him out of his mind.

“Huh? Stop what, Foreverrr?” “That! You’re ti-” Bad closed his hands in fists and pressed his knuckles on his ribs and rubbed as if his life depended on it, cutting the rest of the sentence with success and filling the room with much more shrieks than before. “What was that?” 

Forever couldn’t answer, his legs were failing and it made him get close to a fall if it wasn’t for the demon adjusting his hold on him and slowly lowering him to the ground, fingers still dancing in each and every rib, scratching and scribbling happily.

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear what you’re saying, some muffinhead is laughing their heart out near here. Perhaps they heard a very good joke. Hmmm, what do you think Forever?”

Forever snorted, eyes almost closed with how much he was laughing, tears beginning to collect in the corner of his eyes. A few portuguese words got tangled with his crackling. Bad nodded seriously and slowed his tickle attack, not wanting to go too far.

“Uh hm, no, I get what you’re putting down here. We just need to ignore the laughter and keep up our nice conversation. I think that is a great idea!” He snuggled his hands cozily under Forever’s armpits, lightly wiggling and poking, which resulted in the laughter becoming a new dance of a calmer, but still high with adrenaline and mirth, string of snickers that made the blonde’s shoulders bounce in joy. “What were you saying before?” 

“Stop tickling me!” “What!” Bad gasped in offense. “How can you even accuse me like that! What the fudge, I thought we were friends. But, no, I see. I came aaaaall the way over here, did nothing wrong and you just treat me like that.” He gave a fake sniff.  “You’re hurting my feelings, Forever.” “Mentiroso!” (Liar!) It was quite difficult to see with tears and squinted eyes, especially when Bad’s hoodie always kept his expressions hidden, however, it was even harder to miss how those shiny eyes glinted with mischief and fondness and his smirk went from one ear to another. 

It was quite the sweet sight. Forever had to push his face away before it made him blush vomit. 

(For a second, he could almost swear that the blue that covered the other’s figure dimmed a little for a piece of time.)

“You’re such a liar.”

“Oh why, thank you.”

Bad freed his hands and softly attacked the back of the elf’s ears, still too lost in the lovely sound of his delightful giggles, crackles and snickers to actually let him go. That was the true sound of Forever’s happiness, not that forced, explosive laughter created by those pills. 

Besides, Forever also wasn’t pushing him away.

Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the only one missing that freeing sound. Maybe Forever also longed for those moments of playful fights between them, of pushing the buttons and teasing and caring and always, always being there, for the better or the worse.

Eventually, the president held his hands and stopped the attack, left over giggles still pouring from his lips like a waterfall. 

Their eyes met.

Forever’s smile got relaxed and small before growing bigger. 

Bad just hummed, tail starting to sway fastly from side to side.

“So, Badboyhalo…”

“Yes?”

Forever’s grip got more firm. 

Bad’s pull got equally stronger. 

They kept smiling.

“Are you… uh.” His voice lost the undertone of playfulness, brown eyes focusing with true curiosity for a moment. “Coceguento? How is it in english? Tickly?”

“Oh, it’s ticklish. For example, you are very ticklish, Forever.”

“Hehehe,” he snorted, and his curiosity was satisfied. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. But what about you, Badboyhalo? Are you… ticklish?” The word came slowly and playfully, tinted with a nice accent.

Bad’s tail opened his backpack, rummaging in search for a very specific item.

“Hmmm… no, actually. I’m not.”

The blonde’s smile got more dangerous. “I don’t know… I don’t believe in you, man.” He found it. 

Bingo.

“Then why don’t you try to find out?” 

Forever pulled him closer and with a swift move the enderpearl that had been in his bag was thrown to the other side of the room, successfully freeing the demon from his hold. Not a second later, though, Forever was jumping on his feet, ready for another chase.

Lots of laughter filled the afternoon, that day.

[~*~]

After that, the avian wasn’t the only one who now randomly poked, prodded and attacked the outgoing brazilian when he wasn’t expecting, anymore. Even though Badboyhalo’s attacks were much more out of the blue, following him in those lonely afternoons when he was distracted in his adventures or too lost in a project to realize the other invaded his base in the middle of a sleepless night. 

But, you see, the difference between Philza and Bad and knowing that Forever is actually pretty ticklish is a very single detail: Bad is a fucking gossiper who loved to set chaos just to see where it would go. 

And, therefore, the main reason why Forever was so screwed right now.

“NÃO! SAI, SAI, SAI. LARGA DE MIM!” (NO! GET AWAY, GET AWAY, GET AWAY. LET ME GO!)

“Que isso, moço, tá fugindo da gente por que?” (What is this, bro? Why are you running away from us?) 

Forever didn’t even have to turn around to see Mike’s giant smug grin. It was almost palpable in his tune. But if anyone could have any doubt about its existence, they just needed to listen to his crackles as both him and Pac chased their friend through the Spawn, leaving a very amused Bad and  Bagi, who shouted a “Boa sorte aí, Forevinho!” (Good luck, Forevinho!) in the wind behind.

“Pois é, a gente só quer um abraço apertado do nosso presida da galera! Cadê o espírito da Favela Six?” (That’s right. We just want a tight hug from our favorite president! Where’s the Favela’s six spirit?) Pac, however, questioned with a genuine tune, almost naive like as he followed the other closely, getting closer and closer by the seconds. For a moment he almost tricked the president into thinking that he was the merciful one, then he remembered about that one tickle fight he, Mike and Tubbo had in the Favela.

Let’s just say it was just a very quick thought, really.

“Favela six é o caralho, ceis querem é me roubar. Eu já disse que não vai ter Armazém da Galera nenhum! Isso é ataque à autoridade, hein!” (Favela Six my ass, you just want to rob me. I already said that there won’t be any Free Storage! This is an attack on authority!)

“A gente só quer o que é nosso por direito, Forevin.” (We just want what is faithfully ours, Forevin.)

The blonde didn’t even have a chance to answer before an arm grabbed his shoulder and pushed, disbalancing him enough so Pac was able to sneak behind him and lock him in a hug, snickering gleefully in his ear.

“Que isso, cara, achava que tu era compromissado! Vou falar pro Fit, hein!” (The hell, man! I thought you were compromised! I’m going to tell Fit!) Forever’s struggles only grew stronger when he saw Mike getting closer, wiggling his hands in the form of claws as he stopped running and instead began to approach slowly, chuckles falling freely from his lips and making shivers run across his spine and giggles to pile in his chest. 

He tried again to free himself from the hug, showing no success. Pac’s hold was firm as a mountain.

“E desde quando que tu tá malhando? Tá todo mamadíssimo aí, né, eu tô sabendo.” (And since when you’re ripped? You’re all ‘mamadíssimo’ now. I see what’s going on.)

Pac let out an amused, with drops of shyness, snort. “Pois é, né, moço. Sabe como é né… Tô indo na academia do Fit bastante esses tempos e tudo mais, aí dá nisso.” (That is right, bro. You know how it is… I’m visiting Fit's Gym a lot these last days and that is what happens.) His tune lost a bit of the light and became more serious, cracked in the corners. “Também, né, a gente nunca sabe quando vai precisar. Eu não quero que quando chegue a hora…” (Also, we don’t know when we’re gonna need it. I don’t want that, when the time comes…)

Forever knew exactly what he was talking about, the same cloudy thoughts that filled everyone’s mind in the island the second he warned that the kids had ran away because a danger greater than everything they’ve seen before was coming, the Federation choosing to announce the train station’s opening in just a few days also did not help their nerves.

He looked at Pac’s shadows under his eyes, suddenly remembering that his friend also went under the Happy Pills Treatment, the horrible withdrawal, the exhaustion of recovery, all to save him. 

His struggles became just a little, a little less strong, heart melting and hurting like it did for every single member of their dysfunctional family since they arrived in that boat.

The scientists deserved to have their own silly fun, even if the fun was destroying their friend and president in a mess full of giggling pieces.

And so Forever let out a loud laughter, wiggling his eyebrows and giving him a knowing smirk. “Tu tá praticando bastante exercício com o Fit é? Aham, hehehe, tô sabendo.” (Doing a lot of exercise with Fit, yeah? Uh hm. Hehehe, I see.)

“FOREVER!” This time the snort that came out from Forever’s mouth was more of a result of Pac's unfairly squeezing his belly non stop instead of a reaction to the affronted shout, the one with blue hoodie not throwing any other remark or getting lost in any dark thought. The blonde counted that as a win for him. 

“Tá bem engraçadinho, mas você não vai conseguir me distrair. Sabe, o Badboy me falou algo muito interessante sobre você que ele descobriu mês passado…” (You think you’re being funny, huh. But you’re not going to distract me. You know, Badboy told me something very interesting about you that he discovered last month…)

Mike finally got right in front of him and Forever immediately started kicking in his direction to keep those offending fingers away from his torso at the same time that he continued to attempt to pry Pac’s hands - that somehow seemed to sense the exact spots he was the most sensitive and concentrate all their pinches, scribbles and tickly efforts on them over and over again - until the attack forced Forever to press his lips on his shoulder to contain the blossoming laughter and embarrassing squeals that tried to escape from his mouth.

His efforts to not let any sound out, however, were demolished when, in his distraction, Mike grabbed his ankle and grinned like a shark that finally got his prey. 

“Eu preferia uma mãozinha, mas já que é isso que você tá oferecendo…” (I’d rather you gave me a hand, but since you’re offering…) And, locking the leg in a headlock,  his fingers began dancing across his sole, walking around his arch and giving some special attention to the extremely ticklish space right under his toes, skillfully dodging any kicks that this move resulted in and breaking Forever’s barriers instantly.

Forever’s booming laughter filled the air in a free dance of joy, mirth and a warmth that filled his heart when he remembered just how long had it been since all of them could just get together and goof around a bit, no kidnappings or imminent dangers in their minds for a blissful pieces of time.

[~*~]

“Soooo, guys, I think I’m heading out, now.” Forever kept jumping on the trampoline, restless energy running on his veins after talking to Phil about his journey in the Nether. The virus hadn’t spread a lot those last days, but the conversation was hard, not only because of how, primarily, exhausting it was to go through all of it, but because for some reason something in him made he almost feel compelled to shut his mouth and not say a single word about the infection to anyone else.

They played and gave each other a few remarks and pokes of fun when Philza asked for Forever to take off his shirt in the bunker, careful touches analyzing the skin around the ébano substance glued on his back and in the nape of his head. Even so, it made the blonde want to hide away the result of his journey. Forever never have been ashamed of his body. He used to walk around shirtless, on the good old, first days on the island, afterall. But if he was being honest... he was afraid about that infection, and Philza didn’t seem very relieved about it either.

It was a literal mark about how he had failed in absolutely every single sense and chance he had out there. In finding any clue, in getting their kids back, in saving Walter Bob or even himself. In the end, he was not able to do any of this.

That is the President of Quesadilla Island, everyone.

(“We’re going to talk with Cucurucho and demand answers about what the fuck is this.”

Forever gave a humorless chuckle, happy that the children were outside playing so they weren’t here to witness how defeated he sounded for a second before adjusting himself to a playful grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, Philza, he is very good at this. Giving us answers, right?”

“We have to try. If someone knows about this it is the Federation.”  Philza brushed the other’s sarcastic ‘há!’ easily and moved until he was right in front of the brazilian, capturing his eyes in a firm stare. “And if they don’t have anything, we’re going to find our own answers.”

Forever nodded, not really believing.

“You worry too much, my friend.”

“Exactly. I already told you but I will repeat it until it gets through your thick skull: I always will worry and I’m not leaving you side, mate.”

For a moment words escaped from his tongue, a mix of feelings of ‘safe’, ‘happy’ and ‘embarrassment’ filled his chest before he got a hold of his senses. 

“Alright, alright, alright.” 

This time, when he smiled there was a light back into his brown, tired eyes. 

“You know, Philza, you really need to get over me, man. The line continues, I’m already moving forward and you still try to romance me, it’s- what is the word? Oh, embarrassing, hehehe”

The avian took advantage of his position to hit the other upside his head, a surprise snort being fished from his lips. 

“Oho, shut the fuck up. You’re the one who is still on this!”)

And yeah, maybe he was just making a strategic retreat after showing vulnerability, but who could blame him, really? No one, that’s who. He would be out before they did try.

“Come on, Richas, vamo de Megabase.” (Let’s go to Megabase) He called, getting out of the trampoline when the boy kept painting and paid him no mind. Tallulah, however, stopped writing on a book to go to him, Chayanne turned to look from his place next to the grill nearby, already testing a new recipe.

The girl placed a sign and stared at him with attentive eyes, lips firmly pressed in a shadow of disappointment. ‘You already going?’

(God. He really missed the sound of little steps and signs being placed. They missed it all so much.)

Forever internally winced. He really didn’t spend a lot of time with Chay and Talullah since they’re back, letting them enjoy more time with Phil and just making quick check ins once in a while. He also took the last days to spend as much time as he could with Richas, afterall.

“Yeah... sorry, Talullah, but me and Richas still have to finish our project, right Richas?”

Still no answer from the younger one, too concentrated in every stroke to pay the conversation any mind.

Forever chuckled, sensing a chance for some mischief. Cleaning his throat, he lifted his voice from the usual soft tune he always used with Tallulah to a more taunting tune, making it louder so Richas could listen perfectly well.

“Ohhh, but maybe you can go and help me to make it, right, Talullah? You’re such a nice, helpful egg who listens to your parents when they call you, just like Chayanne. Richarlyson could take some examples from his older siblings more, tsk.” The president had to hold the snickers when he saw the red cow head stop and slowly, threateningly slowly, turn around to face him, Richas letting go of the brush to squint their eyes at him. Talullah and Chayanne rolled their eyes, amused, already used to the playful banters between father and son. “But ahh, he just never listens. Oooh, I have an idea! While Tallulah helps me with the decoration, Chayanne, you can go too and make your delicious barbecue there to keep us- AH!”

The surprised shout was a direct result for when the younger launched himself at his father in protest and began roughhousing immediately, both descending in growls and portuguese for a few couple of minutes before Forever laid a satisfied Richas on the floor, who immediately placed a sign.

‘Pai, stop. I’m making Pepito’s birthday present, let me finish it >:0 we can go Mebase later :D’

“Ok, ok, I get it, I get it. You like Pepito more than your own father. Yeah, yeah, no Richas, no, I get it.” He began fake sniffing and making crying noises, leading to a Richas kicking his leg in a clear message of ‘stop the dramatics’ before going back to the canvas. “Ok, ok, warn me when you finish your drawing then, we can stay a little more.”

The three kids danced in excitement.

(...)

He is not sure how exactly he had ended up in this position.

Talullah and Chayanne were secure and cozy his arms, half because of a poke of fun at Philza that started with a joke ten minutes ago and they just kept it running and half as a parting hug that was stiffly (but still very carefully) answered by Chayanne and warmly by Tallulah. Forever enthusiastically squeezed and hugged them even tighter. A bit jealous of how Philza could shield them both with his wings during their own hugs and how he could only wish that his arms would be strong enough to defend them when the time comes.

“OK, now it’s for real. Richas, let’s go!”

But, when Richarlyson appeared in front of him, paints and canva already put inside his backpack, his smile had a different tint in it and, between his curls, Forever could recognize the flame that always appeared when that kid’s inner demon - not his terrifying artistic alter ego, though, the general demon that lives inside every rascal kid - woke in search of chaos.

He immediately became wary.

‘Chay, Talluh, can I tell you a secret about Pai Forever? 0-0’

Both siblings immediately nodded.

“Ohh, gossip. I like, I like.” Philza snorted at the affronted look in Forever’s face. 

“Vai contar nada, vai contar nada, seu muleque atentado! Nem sei o que tu vai falar, mas não vai falar não. Que que é isso, Richarlyson, tá se virando contra o seu próprio pai?” (You’re telling nothing, you’re telling nothing, you absolute brat. I don’t even know what you’re about to say but you’re telling nothing. What is it, Richarlyson, are you turning against your own dad?)

During the entire scold Richas kept jumping around in circles with the utmost, simple delight, wiggling his body and tail in sync in front of Forever, as if daring him to let go of the other two eggs to go and actually catch him, like a cat looking deep into your eyes before throwing the cup right off your table.

He put a sign on the ground.

‘Pai Forever is absurdly, awfully, very, very, ticklish. And it’s so funny because he always agrees to give us anything when we tickle attack him at home.'

“WHAAAAAT! RICHARLYSON, TU VAI FICAR DE CASTIGO, SEU OVO SAFADO. VAI PASSAR O RESTO DA VIDA NAQUELE CASTELO ASSOMBRADO LÁ DO TEU PAI CELLBIT. VOU CHAMAR O ELMARIANA PRA PUXAR TEU PÉ DE NOITE” (RICHARLYSON, YOU’RE GOING TO GET GROUNDED, YOU RASCAL. YOU’RE GOING TO SPEND THE REST OF YOUR LIFE IN YOUR DAD CELLBIT’S HAUNTED CASTLE. I’M GOING TO CALL ELMARIANA TO PULL YOUR FEET IN THE NIGHT.)

His kid, his beautiful, beautiful baby boy that he would explode the entire island for and go through the literal hell all over again if it meant that he would be finally safe, only looked at him in a confused expression - as if the lil shit just couldn’t tell why his dear pai was running away from him as he tried to get closer - and began following his steps as Forever tried to put distance between them, holding Chayanne and Talullah the farthest away from his torso that he could while the two squirmed trying to escape and attack.

In the end his back ended up hitting the tree and, without being able to get his items to flee, he had nowhere to go.

“Wait, wait, wait, don-” A chortle escaped the very exact moment Richas began drilling on his sides, making Forever want to bounce up and down with the sudden tickly energy that shot through his entire body, leaving his mouth with a big, dazzling smile and his arms to fall in an attempt to protect himself from the tickling, which inevitably brought the other children close and sealed his fate.

Tallulah was bold, briefly looking at his face for any sign of discomfort before carefully shoving her claws under his armpit, scratching the ticklish skin with ease, but for the loud shriek that this resulted one could think that she just unlocked a full, unmerciful on a tickle attack.

Chayanne took a bit longer, giving his surroundings and sky a wary look, as if a monster would appear the very second he lowered his guard, only to end up finding his father’s gaze, who was watching at them with a soft expression and nodding encouragingly. The little (way to young) warrior relaxed and also took the job of scribbling, encircling and digging (just the tiniest bit, he had to be mindful about his claws after all) the other armpit, fish just more squeals and plenty of gleeful laughter with that.

Forever felt like he was about to jump out of his skin, his body going crazy at the ‘it tickles, it tickles so so much!’ feeling while his brain was still caught in the need to not move around too much to not hurt any kid with his squirms. All of which ended up with the blonde doing a weird little dance around the spot that brought plenty of giggles and amused snickers from the young ones.

Now, the similarity between Philza and Bad is that, while he wasn’t exactly the one who created it, Philza was more than inclined and wouldn’t necessarily refuse to add to a chaotic situation it if the chance came, if he felt like it.

That is why he stepped close, winking at them. “I think it’s better if you just agree to their terms, Forever.”

“I-I” the adult tried to bite back another giggling fit, but their tickles were so goddamn light and maddening- “I don’t even snk know what thehey want!”

“Just agree to give them anything then.”

Forever shook his head. He knew his son enough to understand how much of a pain in the ass that decision could become.

“Needing more convincing? Well, kids, you saw it.”

“Filho da puta-” (Son of a bitch-), and Forever threw his head backwards in more laughter, more squeaks, more half squirms.

Now, Philza may not know Portuguese. However, six months sharing an island with 7 brazilians and plenty of reasons to swear taught him well what some words meant. He snorted, half amused and half affronted.  

“Do NOT swear in front of the children.” Then, a wicked grin was formed in his expression.“You know what? I think the eggs need a little help.”

Forever’s eyes got wide when he saw the avian stepping close, cracking his fingers, making an electric shiver run across his spine and spread through his nerves, making his fingertips tingle with adrenaline and anticipation. 

His legs tensed in preparation for the chase, unfortunately, his son knew him too well.

In a blink Richarlyson threw himself on his legs and hugged them, successfully stopping him from even trying to escape. And those extra pieces of time were all that Philza needed. As fast as he was to defend and attack, he positioned himself right in front of the president, firmly pressing his shoulder to the tree and not really, truly, preventing him from escaping, but successfully securing him in place, in the same time.

“Ok, kids, what I know for a fact is that his neck is a very bad spot…” He demonstrated it by lightly tracing and wiggling his nails on said place, all of the dragon hybrids watching attentively as the action made Forever lose himself in a sea of snickers and yelps, a stronger reaction only coming out when two more tiny hands got mixed in the fun when Chayanne and Talullah tried mirroring their dad.

“But a spot that could make him cave…” Philza hummed before turning to the young one with a red mushroom cow head. “What do you think, Richarlyson? His hips or the back of his ribs?”

Richas looked at his dad. 

At how dark have been the circles under his eyes since he came back, at how he kept chatting with the islanders but never truly talking to them, how he always kept running off to another project or meeting, always saying that Richas was his son and his best friend and the only one he could trust when they got caught up in the middle of the night building and decorating his base.

He saw how, until now, he hadn’t run away. Through the teases, the attacks and tickles, he stayed.

And so, he smirked. 

Placed a sign.

‘Both?’

“Geez, I’m never getting into a tickle fight with you, mate.” Even so, the avian reflected his smirk right back at him and both turned to look at Chayanne and Talullah, who nodded in understanding and placed their claws on the back of his ribs. 

“Nononono! Wait!” Philza placed his free hand on his hips, thumb pressing the spot right above the bone, the palm resting on the back of his spine. Forever’s speech became more high pitched and much faster, with nervous, delirious chuckles already spilling and spinning in the air. “None of you said what you wanted from me! That is not justo, uh, just, huh, fair! Calma aí, come on, wait, wait, wait!”

They did not, in fact, wait.

For a second, once again, everything else in the world disappeared. There were no code monsters, no Federation, no Purgatory or anything else but the warm, electric feeling of fingers and claws prodding, pinching and scratching that took over his entire senses, making his laughter ring free in a song composed of yelps, shrieks, squeals and snickers that filled the air. There was nothing else but the fun, the joy and the warmth of a careful touch and silly taunting smiles that his heart melt with care over and over again.

In the end, after more laughter, plenty of teasing and lots of snorts, they finally agreed to ask him to visit them again after a couple of days for a nice picnic. A request which, in between leftover chuckles, plenty complains and a few gleeful tears, Forever agreed, a plan of vengeance already forming in his brain.

[penguin--rat]

The batfly survives because it has nothing else to do. The Hunter survives because it has to. Neither want to let their family down.

For the batfly, each cycle is the same. Eat, sleep, repeat. By no doubt, this cycle gets interrupted often. Most regularly by multiple of its swarm getting caught and devoured. Rarely do they get through a cycle all in one piece. Little does the batfly care, however, as it does for everything else. Other than eating and sleeping.

If the batfly were capable of feeling things other than hunger, it might have grieved for its lost family members. But it doesn’t. So, it eats again. 

‘Family’.

The swarm is the closest thing the batfly has to one. They all huddle together for warmth at the end of each cycle, just like they share all the carcasses they find during daylight. Each member of the swarm understands that they’d die if alone. This deep-rooted understanding helps them cooperate. Makes them, more accurately. 

If the batfly was smart enough to think about all this, it might have felt sadness. But, it isn’t, and that’s okay. What matters is that it’s smart enough to survive. So, it sleeps again, having survived another cycle. 

The batfly *will die eventually, of course. That’s an undeniable fact for all living creatures. Most creatures fear it. This bug has already accepted this just like its swarm has. This doesn’t mean itt embraces it. Far from it. Dying would mean leaving its swarm behind. That would be unfortunate, given how many more nights there are to huddle through, how many carcasses left to share. Hardly cooperation. Dying would mean going against its deep-rooted understanding. So it survives.

This world is undeniably cruel. Even the batfly knows this. But, it doesn’t dwell on this. Instead, it continues to eat, sleep, and survive. 

Maybe, if the batfly understood the Great Cycle, it’d think its existence meaningless. It’d be wrong. Even the smallest little bugs make this world what it is, one of them being the batfly. Whether it gets consumed by a wild creature, whether it gets caught out in the rain, whether it lives out its life in full, it’d all mean something.

But, the batfly doesn’t have time to think about such trivial things. Survival comes first. So, it does it all over again.

—

For the Hunter, each cycle is precious. Although their purpose has been fulfilled, there is still no time to rest. They must go on. Keep eating, sleeping. Keep surviving. There is no time to waste when their time in this world will end soon.

… Not exactly ‘end’. Their body and soul will still reside in this world. They’ll simply take on a different form. A cursed form, yes, but they’ll still live. The mangled mess that their heart will become will still beat, painfully so, and the Hunter will wish it had just died. But it hasn’t yet, so it continues on. 

There is nothing they, or the so-called ‘gods’, can do about this, about the cysts that cluster on the beast’s body. They’ve spread all across their body now. They pulse and spasm every so often, ready to burst, painfully so. 

If what the pink god said is true, they still have a chance. The old path. Go west, past the farm arrays, and then down into the earth where the land fissures. Simple enough, they thought. They were familiar with the farm arrays - finding an entrance underground wouldn’t be difficult. They may have already seen it before.

But the Hunter is no fool. They know it won’t be easy. Surviving never has been. Their aching muscles won’t be of any help, either. 

Unlike the batfly, the Hunter can feel more. They feel grief for the family they never had, sadness for being cursed with this terrible existence. Maybe, in another Cycle, they return to their father who rids them of their illness. Maybe, there, they live out the rest of their existence happy, without having to worry about starving, or being eaten by a fellow starving beast. 

Maybe, in another Cycle, their existence isn’t so painful. Their heart pangs at the idea, cysts spasming, sending them crashing to the cold ground. This isn’t the first time they’ve thought about such a life.

They feel something resembling shame, sometimes, for thinking these things. It’s not like this existence is only pain. There’s rare moments of joy and respite. They don’t last long, but they’re there. The fallen god was one of them. After they had delivered their purpose, they curled up in her lap, and stayed there until the rain came. She had pet them gently, avoiding touching the cysts amassing on them. There had been far less of them back then.

The cysts cover their whole body now. They wonder if she’d still recognize them, mutilated as they are. They wonder if they’d have the time to visit her again. They can only hope they have enough time to make the journey to the farm arrays. 

But, the Hunter doesn’t have the time nor the strength to think about such painful things. First, it must rest - so it continues on. 

—

Eat. Sleep. Repeat. The cycles all blend together like a blur of light.

But, this cycle, it smells something familiar. Something special. A red, lanky plant, not much bigger than the batfly itself. It’s not the only one to notice this new smell. In a few seconds, nearly half of the swarm heads towards it.

 Despite not providing much substance, the batflies continue on. Everything means something, and this plant means a small joy to nibble on. It’s not much, but it’s enough for the batfly.

Nearby predators notice them flying about, but none care enough to hunt them. Like the plant, they provide little to no substance. They differ from it in the matter that they’re not a joy to consume. Only to a starving beast, maybe, but those lack the stamina necessary to catch these fast and elusive bugs. 

A starving beast is what they find. It lays on the cold ground, gasping for air. Next to it lies the red plant. The swarm advances, paying no mind to the beast. 

The beast’s ears flick as the batflies flutter towards it. It bares its teeth, emitting a low, faint growl. It’s enough to scare some of the swarm off, including the batfly. For some, the plant’s smell is too alluring. They flutter around it, nibbling away. The beast quiets down after a few moments. It stops panting and huffing as well, completely still now. The batfly understands that it has now died. 

Now without worry, the rest of the swarm joins in on enjoying the plant. 

Preoccupied, they don’t notice when the beast moves, at first. It wriggles around, and only when it bumps into the plant does the swarm flutter away. They still stay around the plant, watching the beast, waiting for it to quiet down again.  But it doesn’t. Instead, the bulbs on its back rapidly expand. Puss leaks from it, the smaller cysts completely bursting. The rest of the swarm flutters away now as well.

The creature’s pale body transforms in a way the batfly cannot describe. It watches as the creature’s limbs stretch, how its skin tears in places, how the red liquid trickles down. Its cloudy, bulging eyes get overgrown by  a thin layer of its skin.

Tendrils sprout from the cyst, short at first, but in the span of a few seconds twice the size of the beast. It doesn’t let out as much as a whine. Another tendril sprouts, this time from its mouth. A few cysts, connected by short, lanky strands, fall out of its maw when it opens. 

The batfly does not feel fear. This is a creature, just like any other, in its eyes. It stays close to its swarm, still, and waits for it to leave. 

Again, the beast’s ears flick in the direction of the swarm. After a moment of stillness, it raises itself up. The batfly watches as it reaches out and catches its fellow bug. If it could, it’d mourn. But it can’t. So, when the creature drinks it and falls to the cold ground, it flies to the plant again. It’s still hungry, after all. It doesn't mind the terrible wet sound that comes from the beast.

It nibbles on its tasty leaves. A small respite in this cruel world. Then, it feels something soft, moist, near it. Instinctively, it flutters its wings - tries to. A silent *crack, which only it could hear, sounds out as the tendril wraps around it. It’s not the only one caught, though. At least three more of its swarm are now wrapped up.

Again, the batfly flutters its wings, but tangled up as it is, this action proves futile. It feels itself be consumed by the beast, feels itself get turned to liquid, how the cysts swallow it up. It sees how the creature falls again, how its swarm is let go. It lasts an eternity. It happens in a second. 

Maybe, if it could, it’d feel proud to have saved some of its swarm from getting consumed. Maybe it’d feel fear, for what will come after death.

But, it does not. So, even as it gets consumed, it continues to hunger, as it always has.

[hollowknightinsanity]

Do you ever think about. the fact that Radiance, the Light, the goddess of light herself, was upstaged by the Pale King. because his light was so much greater. and everyone flocked to him instead, and she was left behind and abandoned.

do you think about what she might've felt. the abandonment and betrayal she suffered, the revenge that she went lengths to achieve. would a higher being's grief be more powerful than mortal bugs, or do they grieve the same?

Well now I am

Time to ramble *cracks mental autism knuckles*

So!! I’ve always thought Radi to be more a goddess of dreams rather than light, and since I’ve already made goddesses for All Of It with my Kirby insanity (staring intently at the entire ykkan religion), she’d be more of a. Demigoddess rather than a full-on goddess. But she’s still wildly powerful.

I imagine that, with the context of my own story’s lore, Radi would be the daughter of one of the four Godsisters, specifically the Ykka of Dreams — like, in the Dream’s attempt to keep at least a part of herself alive, she threw out another being made of Dream matter to be her successor in her downfall.

Because she’s made of Dream matter, a type of matter associated with memories and emotions, her rage and grief would be felt by anyone physically close to her. Before she was contained in Holly, her own emotions would’ve been felt by all bugs throughout the entirety of Hallownest, and that’s what probably started the infection in this (VERY UNFINISHED) au. After her sealing though, it would mostly just be felt by Holly, since that’s where she is, but the already infected bugs would still be carrying that wrath.

And allll of that emotional-rage-grief stuff is exactly what killed Radi’s mother.

‘Tis a vicious cycle, the cycle of Godhood.

I also think PK would be the Soul’s attempt at salvation. As such, PK’s power would be equal to Radi’s if not even stronger considering the rarity of Soul Magic. And beings like the Soul are literally built to create new life, hence why all those types of beings are called Creator Entities, which means any creature birthed by the Soul would be of very high magical capabilities.

In Soul Journey, Soul Magic is incredibly powerful and incredibly rare — like, rare to the point that people thought it didn’t even exist anymore — so beings made with the sheer power of Soul Magic are bound to be almost on the same level as the Ykka of Soul. Not on exactly the same level, but almost. That amount of power is more than enough for someone to be worshipped.

Sure, Dream Magic is powerful — the ability to have complete control over one’s mind, to achieve mental Godhood, is unlike any other. But to naturally wield Soul Magic is to have complete control over the very thing that keeps living beings alive. To have control over how someone feels and acts, when they die, when they’re born, what they truly are to begin with. That type of power is absolutely insane, and is to be both feared and worshipped.

That is why PK stole Radi’s spotlight. Being birthed by the Soul means unbelievable power.

And that’s why Radi was so destroyed. She was worshipped, she was loved, she was treated like what she was — a Goddess. But then, some random creature part of a near completely extinct species appeared out of seemingly nowhere and dragged her worshippers way from her, all because he was made by something more powerful than she could ever be.

She was jealous. She was grieving. She was enraged. She was destroyed. Her mental state was in pieces, as was her following.

All that glory, completely stripped from her, leaving her forgotten and alone like she was nothing.

It broke her.

And she lost her mind.

She lost her will.

She lost herself.

She lost everything, and with it, her life.

And suddenly I feel really bad for calling her a bitch.

*ahem*

Yeah, PK was definitely deserving of the worship he received. But Radi in no way, shape, or form deserved to be left in the way she was.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I do think I’ll go cry now

[corvidaeconundrum]

⚪️ for Cesar and mark!

White- When was a moment in your OC's life that they felt the most vulnerable and exposed? Were they alone or surrounded?

A moment when Cesar felt the absolute most vulnerable would be when he became aware of how much of his life had been a lie. When hes finally made aware if what he is, and what he’s done, it breaks him. All his life he tried to be as good of a person as he could possibly manage, and spent so much of that time in the background grieving over his life and how it had all fallen through without him even being able to remember why, other then the fact it was most likely his fault. To have that not just proven true, but shown to be infinitely worse, it’s to much. He’s lucky enough to have his bee family around him at that point, but it takes months to fully get back to somewhat normal.

For Mark, it was when he was about to kill Jonah, and Sarah had entered to witness. Never before had he felt so open and lost then in that moment where looking into his sisters eyes he saw nothing but fear. Fear, and anger. He was doing it for her, to help her, but at that moment it felt like everything he had done for that purpose had just been ripped from under him. He couldn’t understand why she was mad. She didn’t look at him like it was him. He let Jonah go. He only had Joseph after that, left in the ruins of both of their bad decisions. For the first time they saw eye to eye

[the-composer]

When he Ascended, he’d wanted more than anything to excise his humanity from his Soul’s composition. He’d been convinced that part of him would be left in the ashes of his death from which he rose, anew. But for a demigod, that’s not the case.

His humanity represented everything that was wrong with his life and broken inside him. The last thing he wanted was to tote that baggage into the afterlife. It was a second chance, but not necessarily a clean slate. What the Composer couldn’t carve out of him, he’d bury. What he couldn’t bury, he’d doggedly disregard. Simply pretend it didn’t exist — which would prove much harder than he thought when the novelty of being a veritable god wore off and all the afflictions of Yoshiya crept back in. The mental malaise, the distorted thinking, unstable emotions, loneliness, the ennui —

His human half is weak. Inefficient. Disruptive. Messy. It forcefully reminded him how to dread, ache, and cry.

To cope, he had to develop resilience through spiritual evolution by harnessing his divinity enough for the two warring divions to co-exist. 

He didn’t get there on his own. Most of the progress was catalyzed by others, and by learning to love, and to trust, and lean into those to be vulnerable in a way he never could as a human.

The human embodiment known as Yoshiya was finally accepted by Joshua and assimilated. In spite of his neuroses and, he’d go on to build an empire that’s unrivaled by anything the Higher Plane had ever seen. Ironically, it’s that pesky humanity that set him apart and lended itself to much of his success in relating to those he served.

It’s yet to be proven that a Composer’s existence is interminable, or invincible for that matter. Shibuya’s Composier is on record as one of the longest standing, but the Higher Plane could remove any Composer at any given time. If Shibuya’s Composer wished to rule without that looming fear, transformative changes needed to be made.

The second Ascension came as a surprise; it was premeditated but not by Joshua, not like his initial choice to cross over. With the aid of his disciple, he climbed the ladder to the stars, reaching the apex of his consciousness — fully apotheosized.

Strangely, it didn’t feel much different. It didn’t feel like anything. He didn’t feel anything. He could hear, see, and comprehend everything outside of himself, but inside it’s utter silence. Did he finally lose it — what made him human?

Ironically, it terrified him. It hit hard. There was a period of deep irreconcilable panic that he couldn’t describe, much less rationalize. What he’d wanted for so long…

The epiphany is profound. Joshua realizes that it’s his humanity that made him special. His human emotions allowed him to feel trust and love, to be open and be seen and change for the better.

If his human side disappeared, what would that leave him? A God that could no longer relate, that could no longer care, and most importantly could no longer be with them, be among them, be human.

He searched and searched and searched until he found his truth:

You will never be human again. That part of you is gone. There is no going back, which will hurt and must be grieved. But —

Your humanity is ingrained in you. There’s a difference between being a human and possessing humanity. That is what makes you special. That is what makes you an exceptional Composer, and a God to be lauded.

The fact you even feared such a thing speaks to how deserving you are. You will always belong to your people, and you don’t have to give up a shred of your humanity to be with them. You have lost nothing you haven't been ready to release and gained more than you ever imagined you'd ever hold. Congratulations, Yoshiya Joshua Kiryu ~

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Wrapped Up - a Malevolent fic

It wasn’t a prison pit; it was a palace. No one was being starved of food, water, or sunlight. The heat was still on them, however, and Hastur needed this kettle to boil.

They had to figure it out. He could try to fix this, force good behavior, but that would not help; it would lead to resentment, maybe hate. He knew his Composer and his Piece well enough to be sure of that. They had to figure it out—and he was sure they would.

Part of the Surrogate series. Written with @sepiabandensis.

AO3

----------

It wasn’t a prison pit; it was a palace. No one was being starved of food, water, or sunlight. The heat was still on them, however, and Hastur needed this kettle to boil.

They had to figure it out. He could try to fix this, force good behavior, but that would not help; it would lead to resentment, maybe hate. He knew his Composer and his Piece well enough to be sure of that. They had to figure it out—and he was sure they would.

Yes, John had lost his memory; he was still John, and Arthur was still Arthur, and they would come together as inevitably as meteors to the moons, one way or another.

The plan was on track. John would handle Carcosa while Faroe matured. John’s childishness (which reminded him so much of young Gokar’luh that it hurt) only lent itself to the idea he was offspring… even though someone out there clearly knew he was not.

(That was out of Hastur’s control, and he put it in the can’t do anything about it branch for now.)

Oh, but this meant Hastur remained in the palace while Arthur wept like screaming, while Arthur tore inside, while Arthur grieved and cried and shouted. That meant Hastur resisted the damn-near maddening urge to go to and comfort his own, to take him up, to ease him.

Hastur stayed in his own room like one big ebony knot, and he groaned.

He had to make them do it. He wouldn’t be here. They had to rely on each other again. He had to let them work it out.

Oh, it was terrible to let Arthur suffer when he could fix it. But if he did… John would not.

That fact was enough, a terrible anchor, flukes bedded deep. Hastur stayed in his room, and listened to them sob, and was unaware he rocked himself slightly as if to give comfort to the only being he could.

#

When it was finally over, several things were clear.

One: he’d (naturally) been right. John and Arthur were going to work it out. Arthur would rebuild John the way John had rebuilt him, and they’d be entangled even tighter than they already were. Mentally, Hastur checked that box.

Two: holy fuck, the gardens had been busy tonight. If he’d known the whole damn world would want a stroll after dinner, he’d have blocked off the entrances and emptied the place before John and Arthur even got in there.

He should’ve checked first. He should’ve known. He was getting too easily distracted, too tired, too… all of it.

This year really was a first for many things, wasn’t it? Changing his mind on a human and admitting he’d been wrong publicly. Grieving the loss of his son (that were supposed to live forever, this wasn’t… this was…) Speaking of forever, there was also preparing for the end of his life in a pinch over five years.

It was so wrong. He was supposed to be here until the Dreamer woke. Until the end of everything, until he could watch with his many eyes reality fade out of existence, the ultimate and most glorious end.

Nope. Five plus years, then snuffed like a damn candle, because someone didn’t like him.

He was breathing too fast. Calm, Hastur told himself. Getting worked up now would get him off track, and he was still dealing with all the things that were new this year. Such as being tired.

Gods don’t get tired. He would have sworn to that, laughed his many limbs off at the very idea. But he was… catching himself staring at nothing, as if in a daze. Moving less quickly—and likely, no one would notice that but him, but he knew, and feared what might happen if a peer decided to take a swing at him.

And missing crucial details like other people already in the garden could have been catastrophic.

His tentacles bunched up like clenched fists, balls of frustration hidden by his pristine robe. He’d already racked up a debt to the Keeper (never mind what she claimed). But surely, he couldn’t be the first god to be tired. Surely, there was a fix for this. And it would be simple. Yes.

Surely.

Her open invitation seemed to be real. Still, he visited the Librarian first for bribery material. The Librarian, who might also know about tired gods, but… he couldn’t show himself weak to it. It loved him; admired him. Worshiped him. Hastur could not disappoint one of his oldest and most faithful people (or see the disappointment there, were he honest). So, he smiled, and accepted more special books, and prepared his speech, and opened a portal to the Scriptorium.

#

It was quiet in here today. Strangely quiet. Where was everyone?

Well, there’d hardly been a ward saying stay out. She must be with a client. He could wait. He could wait in here, knowing no time passed outside.

He floated casually through the stacks, hovering higher to find tomes of interest, absolutely fascinated by her collection. Things even he’d thought lost thousands of years ago had somehow found their way here, and that was amazing.

He wondered how she did it. Outer Gods, he thought, could traverse time like stepping between rooms, though they had to be careful or they'd wake Azazoth doing it. She was stuck here, though. Did her acolytes have that power? Surely they—

Was that the Fenorian Tragedy? In modern book form? No! Couldn’t be. Yes! It was!

How in hell had she gotten hold of this? The whole thing was lost eons ago, every human who knew it drowned, every monster who’d heard it never recalling the whole thing. Oh, the memories that beckoned as he read this; the tunes familiar as if in a dream, unheard for so very long. He hovered and hummed, thoughts dancing to a time before he even had his kingdom, when Carcosa had been little more than a fishing village with good taste and a shepherd god to guide them.

Why, there was his reference now.

Filler of the Vessels Singer on the Shore Crafter of Calamities Hungry Shepherd, come once more

Hastur laughed darkly. Maybe he should revive a few of these names. It had literally been an age since anyone knew them—anyone, that is, except for the Keeper’s staff and self. Almost regretfully, he put volume one back, and then startled to realize he wasn’t alone.

It was the Keeper’s weird little human, Tabby. “Dude, this is not the time.”

He hadn’t felt her approach. Gods, he was worse off than he’d thought. “I don’t mean to impose. I bring a gift for your master.”

“Not my master, and not the time,” she said, as utterly insouciant as she usually was, but… no. Her hands were clenched. Tabby’s hands were never clenched.

Shit. “Is—” he hoped not—“it something with which I can offer aid?”

“Nope,” she said.

Whew. He floated down. “Thank you for your time. I—”

Tabby’s eyes widened.

That should have been enough warning. He should have blipped away, done something, dodged. Instead, he was too slow, and a giant hand caught him like a fucking butterfly.

Hastur bellowed. He attacked the inside of this hand with the frantic, wild magic of a Great Old One, and it did about as much harm as a few stray sparks from a distant firework.

Ow! I think he bit me, said the owner of the giant (dark, hairy, clawed) hand. Not too hard, though.

Such a good idea, said a second voice, and hiccoughed. She’ll love it! Shiny.

Shiny, agreed the first.

“Sorry, dude,” said Tabby from somewhere out in space, who was clearly no more than a little irked.

Careful! You’ll break him.

I woooon’t. She’ll like it, I think, if the rumors are true.

“Shit,” he heard Tabby call.  “She’ll handle it, okay? Chill.”

This was not okay! He was not chill! What was happening? Nothing was okay!

He strained, all his limbs pushing, and could not budge that hand. They’d thought he’d bitten before? Oh, he had news for them: he went all teeth, mouths in every direction, and chomped down hard.

Or tried.

It was like humans trying to chew on a rubber gag. It did nothing. The owner of the voice didn’t even seem to notice.

But Hastur noticed something. Oh, he did: the flavor. This was not just an Outer God. This was an Outer God who was very, very drunk.

What in the name of all that was holy was happening? He bellowed again, writhing.

I almost wanna keep him myself, hiccoughed the second voice.

Nope. We said! Ooh. Shiny.

Shiny, agreed the second again.

Why must I be so beautiful? he despaired, and then he was stuffed in a box.

#

The box wasn’t obviously a box. At first, he thought it was some kind of horrifying prison: lightless, damn near airless, perfectly square, and he could neither find purchase nor break free.

(His family. His city. They weren’t ready for his loss. Would Dagon step up? Would the boomerang spells be enough to protect upon his death?)

He shrieked a little, then went silent as voices filtered in from outside, big ones, crackling casually through languages he knew but would never dare use, teasing with words of damnation like this was a game at the end of the world. He did not dare catch more attention shouting. Instead, he tried, frantically, to dig out the bottom.

Does, said the first voice, sotto voce. Does he need air holes?

Uh, said the second. Dunno. He won’t be in there long any- HEEEY! Happy birthday!

Birthday?

He was too panicked to think. Had to get through. Had to break free. Had to—

The top of the box suddenly opened—a lid, like an ordinary present—and the Keeper, who was absolutely huge, peered down at him, and froze.

”Oh! Oh. Oh, my,” she said, her enormous voice reverberating.

So, he felt like an idiot. Of course it was her they were talking about. She was the newest Outer God in thousands of years—she’d have a birthday they could track. And this was in the Scriptorium.

A purple flush of embarrassment washed over his hide as he cowered in the box’s corner.

Hey, it’s that guy! cried someone, and suddenly it seemed they were toasting him—beings he couldn’t see, who hadn’t bothered with guises his mind could comprehend (and oh, how terrible they must truly be), which meant they were like swirling storm clouds, wishing him good luck.

And then Kayne started cackling. The sound of it moved, went down, as though he’d fallen to the floor in hysterics.

The Keeper lifted him out of the box carefully, at least six hands smoothing down his robe, sliding along his tentacles to soothe his hackles, ensuring his crown was still in place.

Shiny, said someone.

Shinier than I thought he’d be, said someone else, but both those voices were blanketed by Kayne’s persistent laughter.

“There, there. There we go,” said the Keeper, and put him down beside her. Dear fuck, she was huge right now; he didn’t even come to her hip, and everywhere he looked was a roiling, boiling, drunken storm.

He made one low, panicky groan.

“I’ve got you,” she said softly, then spoke aloud: “Thank you so much. What a thoughtful, ah, gift.”

Caught him myself! said someone.

You did not. I did.

Bah, said the first, and they tussled.

It was playful. It was terrible. It rumbled through the floor and somehow did not cause damage to this place, which he realized she’d sealed so perfectly that not a single volume was endangered.

Feeling ridiculous, he hid by her skirts, clinging just an little, and was deeply confused when Kayne bellowed, “An avocado! Thaaaanks!” before diving into hysterics all over again.

#

It lasted… a long time?

Long enough that his whole system finally realized she wasn’t going to let anything get him, and he began to relax behind the Keeper’s black lace. It was strange, really, not to be the focus of things; apart from occasional comments about him being shiny, or prettier in person (what the fuck had Kayne been showing them?), they left him alone.

Fuck pride. Hastur clung to her skirts, weirdly grateful she was so much larger, and tried to stay unseen.

Kayne was weird. So weird. He wandered over at one point (and Hastur trembled) only to say, “Hastur? More like Hasteenie, am I right?” then wandered off again, cackling.

What in hell…

The Keeper put one of her gloved hands over her veil, but at least did not audibly laugh.

Whyyyy? Hastur moaned to himself.

It was a bizarre party, though. Beings were here that didn’t even make sense. Cäeygha was here, and he was not remotely in the same league as the rest of these beings. He wasn’t even strong enough to fight Hastur.

Not that Cäeygha seemed to recall that at the moment, and so, he was being a dick. “It completely blows my mind that almost four hundred years in, and this is the first party thrown in your honor,” he was saying, voice slurred with sheer intoxication from all of the power congealing around them. “Lovely thing like you? Of course, that’s not your true form, is it?”

Hastur scoffed (hiding behind her, so it was muffled). Idiot giant eyeball.

“Female praying mantises engage in sexual cannibalism in up to twenty-eight percent of cases,” the Keeper said, voice flat.

“It’s very charming. Human shapes aren’t really my thing—we can’t all be Dagon, ha! Ha ha!— but I can see why you picked it. They must adore you. And it’s so elaborate. Did you dress up special for me?” He attempted to brush a tentacle against the edge of her skirts.

Hastur gawked. Was this fool actually…

She moved back smoothly. “In one species of mantis, Tinodera sinesis, it’s estimated that about sixty-three percent of of the female mantis’s diet is composed of males of her species.”

Oh, boy.

So for Hastur, that would have been a really clear no. She’s not into you. Back the fuck away from the super powerful lady.

Cäeygha was… not good at reading. “Pretty thing,” he said, clearly fascinated with the whorling, recursive pattern of pleats and drapes in her skirts. “Goldie over there’s all talk.”

What.

Cäeygha kept going. “I’d be happy to give you a proper welcome to the pantheon, you know?” He attempted to touch her again.”

The Keeper, once again, moved away, sweeping Hastur was alongside her. “The female mantis is significantly larger than the male, and the mantis is unique among insects for being able to rotate its head without moving the rest of its body. This enables the female to swing back and engage the male’s head with her mandibl—”

Hey! Hey, Keeper! Is this [utterly unintelligible word] bothering you? crooned one stormcloud.

Hastur had no fucking idea who the voice belonged to, but the Keeper evidently did. “Yes,” she said, very sweetly.

On your birthday? Nooooo, the voice said.

Fuck that! Said another. You want me to kill that guy for you?

That seemed to get through to Cäeygha. “What?”

Oh, boy, Oh, boy. Hastur shifted silently to stand further behind her skirts.

“That won’t be necessary,” the Keeper said. “I think he’s just had a bit too much, don’t you, Cäeygha?”

Cäeygha gave Hastur a look that screamed ‘betrayal.’ “Whatever you say, Great One,” he huffed.

Great. When that ass showed up for his millennial I’m mad and have to fight you about it thing, this would probably be on the docket.

“Perhaps you should take a moment and get some fresh air?” The Keeper’s voice was patient, leading.

Take it, you fucking idiot.

“I think I’m alright, actually,” Cäeygha said, like the fucking idiot he was.

I’ll just eat him, that’ll solve it, said a slurred, drunken voice from another direction.

“I think some fresh air would be lovely,” Cäeygha abruptly squeaked, and vanished with the smell of ozone and smoke.

Maybe Hastur was feeling too safe. He laughed.

A chorus of raucous, booming laughs followed, hiding his, and he was grateful.

“Weeeell,” said Kayne all of a sudden. “It’s been eighty-four years, and I think our li’l sis needs her growing sleep.” He clapped his hands.

Hastur peeked.

Kayne stood there, the only one in a guise, tieless, shirt undone to the third button and rumpled. There was blood on his chin, like he’d been eating an apple made of blood, and he smiled right at Hastur.

Hastur hid again.

“Come on,” said Kayne. “You’ve all made your mark. Out you go!”

A chorus of required Awwww met him, and Hastur hunched. Had it really been eighty-four years in here? What an oddly specific number.

The storms wafted out, one by one, cackling like earthquakes, smelling like liquor. They left, one by one, and all their carousing hadn’t so much as harmed a single book.

Hastur felt a chill. She was the youngest. Wasn’t she therefore supposed to also be… the weakest? She was strong enough to protect her library even with older, drunken siblings determined to carouse. That was actually a little disturbing.

“Thank you, brother,” she said, subdued. “I never would have thought to throw such an… event for myself.”

“Well, they all needed to meet you,” said Kayne casually, buffing his nails, then licking off the sticky red substance that remained there. “And needed to know you’re not shit. Some of them tried to fuck around in here, you know.”

“I am aware,” she said mildly. “A little warning would have been appreciated.”

“Well, I didn’t know who would try it,” he said. “And now, you’re safer. They know. You’re not bruisable, baby. Important they know that.”

A pause. “Because of what might be… coming?” she said, clearly trying to continue some conversation in spite of Hastur’s presence.

“Yep.” Kayne rocked back on his heels. “Sides’ll be drawn, and all that shit. You keeping him, by the way? I mean, it wasn’t the plan, but it is your birthday. I could make do. He’s not the star.”

She sighed, and with a surprising lack of grace, plopped down on the floor. Her skirts swirled and bunched up around her, crinkling and folding in strange places, and there were certainly a fucking lot of them. (Hastur refused to think about the way he automatically ducked behind them, remaining protected.) “A prisoner, to help keep me company here in my lovely Scriptorium. What a delightful idea.” Silence hung for a half a beat. “Tabby is teaching me about sarcasm. It’s when you tell lies, but in a humorous way that indicates you’re lying.”

“JHey, that’s not too bad!” said Kayne. “Fact is, kiddo, it’ll get better. You’ll get out eventually. And look at it this way: you’re gonna master that sarcasm shit with her around. Good tool to have when you finally step out in the great, wide world, right?"

The Keeper said nothing, but—there, and perhaps Hastur would have missed it if not for effectively hiding behind her, but he could have sworn he saw her shoulders sag. “Sure.”

Kayne crouched in front of her. Even from here, the malevolent power wafting off him made Hastur shudder, and deep, fearful orange flickered through him as he crouched behind the Keeper. “This was good tonight,” said Kayne. “They know now you can’t be fucked with. Okay? One thing at a time, sis.”

Hastur had absolutely no capacity to understand what he heard in that monster’s voice.

“You’re right,” she said, and her voice was so small, so quiet. “One… one thing at a time.” And she paused. “I was hoping it might be this year,” she said, very quietly. “It’s not.”

Kayne tilted his head—and for once, it wasn’t insect-like, or reptilian, or any weird shit. “You’re really young, Keeps. You know that, right?”

“I do.” And now Hastur could absolutely see her shoulders sag, and her veil (always moving, always flowing) seemed to droop and settle and hang lifelessly around her shoulders. “It must be so… look at me, a child throwing a tantrum because she didn’t get what she wanted for her birthday.” She let out a small noise. “I did like the party, at least before everyone got too drunk. It was just… a lot.”

“Enjoy it.” Flat. Serious. Actually serious. “There will come a day when you can’t fucking find anything to light your wick, babe.” He stood. “Good job with the rabble. Need me to beat anybody up, or you good?”

“I’m good. I’ll ask Tabby for advice on how to better handle unwelcome advances in the future. Thank you.” And she perked up, just a tad. “You really are the bestest big brother.”

He shrugged. “I absolutely admit to stacking the deck in my favor. Someday you’ll realize just how few fucking siblings I actually want on my side.” He waved. Winked at Hastur (who hid). “Ciao!” And he disappeared with a crackling sound, leaving a smell of burnt sulfur behind him.

Hastur finally exhaled, feeling like a deflating balloon.

The Keeper sat in the silence for a long moment. “Are you alright?” she asked.

Oh. She was talking to him. Well, she’d been good to him tonight; he had to be debonair, and smooth, and eloquent, and, uh. Um.

Uh.

Fuck. All the magic in this room had gotten to him. He was drunk. Fuck. Fuck! “I think I had too much,” he said. “But I am safe thanks to your intervention and wise… wisdom.” That wasn’t right. Was it? Well, it was close enough. He was pretty sure.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, and she sounded positively mortified. “Oh, you poor thing. I can’t believe you got wrapped up in all of this. I’m so terribly sorry.”

“Pfft,” he said unsteadily, and produced the two books he’d brought: one on the history of the Demurian Enclave, which had existed for precisely one hundred and fifty years, then completely vanished, but not before creating some irreplaceable textiles; and the other a book of rare poetry, some of which (shh) he’d written himself. “I would have wrapped them,” he slurred. “I didn’t know. Happy birthday? Though they were…” He didn’t dare lie. “Not originally birthday presents. They are now,” he finished firmly, and held them out with a flourish, displayed flat on many tentacles, which he curled beneath the books like elegant table legs.

“Hastur,” she sighed. “You really don’t need to—”

“It is your birthday,” he said primly. “And this is your present. Now. From me. Take them.”

She did.

“And don’t trick me and give them back, like you did last time,” he said, and was immediately startled by his own boldness. He curled his tentacles, as if unsure what she would do. “What would I do with them, anyway?” he added, sounding more woebegone than planned.

She let out a teeny, tiny laugh. “Oh,” she said, almost immediately after. “It isn’t funny. But… Thank you, Hastur.” She clutched the books tight to her chest. “I… thank you for my present.”

It took a moment to recall why he’d come here. There was a reason, or he’d… just go do something else, but there was a rea… right! “Tired gods,” he said, in a tone that absolutely indicated it had nothing to do with him. “Are they a… thing?”

He was very proud of himself for remembering.

She let out another tiny laugh. “Asking for a friend, are we?”

He considered that for a moment too long. “Yeeeeeees,” he finally decided, and that got an actual laugh out of her.

“Oh, Hastur,” she said, as if he were being somehow endearing (which he was not; he had too much dignity for that). “Yes; tired gods are… an issue. Rare, of course; any god of even moderate power need only lay aside a small time for contemplation and rest, as opposed to true unconsciousness or sleep in the way that most mortals do. With such a small sacrifice, most gods would never put themselves in a place of tiredness, and nor should they.” That was oddly gentle.

Hastur drew himself up. His robe undulated in an unfelt wind; he ensured the gleam was perfect (shiny, he thought). “And if my friend has no such choice? What can be done for him?”

“Well,” she said slowly, two of her hands folding neatly in front of her. “If he finds himself completely short of time in his home to rest, perhaps what he ought to do is find a place outside of time and, ah… sleep it off?”

He paused. “Gods don’t sleep.”

“Rest, Hastur,” she said, even more gently, but somehow firm, like an order coated in feather down. “Rest. You will better fulfill your plan if you do, will you not?”

Oh.

Oh.

She knew it wasn’t a friend. “I… don’t feel I… should I?” he said, plaintive, far more helpless sounding than he wished. He was not handling this conversation as nobly as he wanted.

“One thing I have learned from caring for my acolytes is that your body will gain its rest, one way or another,” she said, propping her chin up on one long arm with far too many joints to be called ‘humanoid.’ “So many of my acolytes will put aside their need for rest in the pursuit of knowledge, only to crash when the pressure is taken off them for even a second, and finding themselves asleep and drooling at the most inconvenient locations, losing time they may not have. There’s only so much I can do, in many of these cases, but I found when I encouraged them to schedule time for it… many of them found themselves able to rest, and stopped drooling on their notes.”

Hastur was too drunk to really parse this. He still thought he caught the gist. He wasn’t a fool. “I… there is no time outside of… I must be outside of it, then, but… I don’t think I have enough to pay you for the next nineteen hundred-odd days.” And so quietly, like a secret, he said, “I’m not as immutable as I once assumed.”

“I think you should ask for what you need, and let me worry about things like ‘payment,’” she said, as if that was something obvious. “I am the one charging, after all. I get to decide what an adequate payment is. As for today, I don’t think this is ‘payment’ so much as not allowing you to portal drunkenly home, since I would rather you didn’t portal directly into Lake Hali and flood my Scriptorium. So I suppose you should stay until you sober up.” She reached out with one finger, large and long as his forearm, and gingerly stroked the side of his cowled head. “What do you think?”

Hey. That was pretty nice.

He felt like he was deflating even more, and it was a good thing to do. “What would you charge me to… rest?” He’d come this far, and it absolutely was up to her to set payment. What harm could bartering do? “I need to manage this. Until my time is done. And she is safe. And they are safe. What do you need from me?”

Vaguely, it occurred to him that he was bargaining for a time that might seem almost long to her. She was so young! Well, that was all right. It would all be worth it if they were safe.

“We’ll start with… someone to watch ballet with.” She let out a low hum. “Nothing strenuous, of course; merely a bit of conversation. And if that no longer suffices, we can switch to movies, or plays, or any number of things. I’ve seen my collection, yes; I’ve watched quite a lot of it with Tabby. But hoarding it brings me no joy. I want to share it.”

That sounded like something other than what he thought. Some kind of personal exchange, time rested for time given. Well, he could do that. He’d always been good at that. “You would be satisfied with this?”

She was quiet for a long, long moment. “It’s very lonely here,” she said, very softly. “Tabby does her best, but she’s only human.”

Damn. He was so fuzzy. That almost sounded like she was lonely. As if anyone like her could be lonely! “Is that a yes?” he said, because clarity was needed right now.

“Yes, Hastur. I would be satisfied with this.” Her fingers (two of them) rubbed at the join of his neck and his shoulder.

Definitely pretty nice. “Then I accept,” he said, unable to make it sound like it wasn’t him doing the favor here. But surely she knew. Surely she understood. He… he needed the rest. He couldn’t risk them. “So we will watch an… ballet now?”

“I certainly think so,” she said, and without any effort at all suddenly they were in the theater. “Now what should we… Ah. Perhaps A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

Hastur was already slipping. Perhaps deflating more, though this felt more like melting pleasantly. Like the warm relaxation after sex. Like the satisfaction after a battle, resting in the sun, perhaps on the beach of Lake Hali.

He was allowed.

“Told you he’d have shit timing,” Tabby suggested, taking her seat on the couch beside the Keeper. “Some fuckers are unlucky like that.”

“Tabby!” The Keeper sounded positively delighted. “Did anyone bother you?”

“Nah,” the girl said, clambering directly onto the Keeper’s skirts to rest her head on the god’s lap. “I think your brother warned them, and you telling off that one guy helped. After Hastur got nabbed, I just hid.” She lifted her head to give him a look. “He… cool?”

“He’ll be just fine.” One of her hands shrank, became human sized, and gently started working through Tabby’s hair.

For just one moment, Hastur desperately wished Arthur would do that with him.

For just a moment. Only a moment. It was all he’d allow himself. No: Arthur would do that with John, or at least the essence of it, and that was right, and good, and it would last. He would spend no time on it. On that yearning. On that… strange and sinking feeling of opportunities (six years) lost.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” he mumbled, and settled into his seat. Rest. He could rest. He had to trust she’d let him do it long enough to mean anything. And then he wouldn’t be slow, and wouldn’t risk them, and it would be worth all the books he’d ever collected.

Which was his last truly coherent thought. The ballet began—silly humans in pretty white tutus and tights, doing things (and he considered strongly putting Arthur in that just because it would be delightful) and then…

He saw the ballet. He didn’t go to sleep. Gods don’t sleep. But his mind went quiet; his body went still. As insane as this day had been, birthday abductions and Cäeygha and all the rest, this right here was worth it.

Hastur went quiet inside, and no longer gave a damn what anybody said as humans danced silently on screen to music written by other humans who’d died centuries before.

And it was pretty nice.

#

“So… is ballet like… Cocomelon for elder gods, or what?” Tabby whispered an hour later.

The Keeper sounded delighted. “Sometimes I want to put you under a microscope,” she said, and that was the end of that.

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

Notes:

I am deeply appreciative to Brown and Barry 2016 for this excellent paper on sexual cannibalism in praying mantises, which also gave me the funniest research history for a fic I have ever had Also, for your educational purposes: An avocado! Thanks It’s been 84 years. Do you want me to kill that guy for you?

[loversj0y]

im crying over techno again (this is long and sad im sorry)

i miss him so much man. i hope he knows how much he did for all of us. ive been rewatching old wilbur videos and seeing him in them brings me so much bittersweet joy. he meant so much to all of us. i hope he knows the ways he changed us.

he was my final push to start streaming. i was inconsolable the night he died. the week after i kept thinking about how long i’d pushed off the idea because i simply didn’t think i had the time. something about losing someone that you even just perceive as being close to you gives such a shift in perspective that i figured at that point it’d be stupid not to. and the thing is, he was so incredibly supportive. of every last one of us. he always supported the people in his community.

its a big thing in my life honestly to live in his memory. usually people say stuff like that in a negative connotation but i dont think its negative. i hold his memory close to me as a reminder of the things that ive lost. and its a comfort in a sense to let his deadpan mockery push me to be better and to do things i might fear doing.

he has a space on my ofrienda. i pray to him in the same way i pray to all the family i have lost because even without knowing him personally, he welcomed us all enough to allow me to feel like there was a family with him when my own felt incendiary and volatile.

i think about the fact that lovejoy is playing a festival with the killers. its a festival im incredibly excited to go to, but on nights like this when im crying over a lost brother i never had, i feel saddened in knowing how much he would have loved to have seen it. i think he will be there, watching. but the feeling wont be the same. i think of how wilbur must feel. knowing that he’s playing a festival with the same band that he’s not only loved, but that he shared his love for with techno, to the point that it made such a strong lasting impression on techno. i hope he knows how proud techno is of him. i hope that if he stays to watch the killers perform, he feels techno with him. because i know he’ll be there.

i have a lot of thoughts on how much he meant to me, to all of us, and im kind of just pouring them out in a stream not unlike the tears that wont seem to stop tonight. if i can be honest, ive been avoiding a lot of stuff related to techno. i took a step back from everything as a whole because it hurt too much and i didnt know what to make of it, not really. i keep finding myself mourning how little time i got to have as an active techno watcher, given how recently i joined the fandom and such, but i also know i should rather feel thankful for every second that i got to have. i find myself avoiding a lot of mentions of technodad still. he’s lovely and he means so much to all of us, just like his son, but i cant help but feel my chest reopen each time i hear him speak about his son. ive seen the feeling of watching a person you love mourn a family member who was taken too young personally. ive seen it in my own family with my cousin, and it all feels so heavy. i know there is this narrative of being thankful for the time we had with a person. but i still consistently find myself balanced on the precipice of anger and acceptance. i dont struggle with bargaining or depression, let alone denial. i know hes gone. i know nothing will change that. but i also will never be content in feeling appreciative of the time we had because we could have had more time. even if it was just a. second more. it wouldnt change things but maybe it would ease the ache in my heart as i think on all of the people who loved him who will live past him, myself included.

i keep coming back to the song life worth missing by car seat headrest. i cant quite explain where i find the parallels but i feel it in this delicate balance that i find in the song. theres this delicate balance between grieving and losing yourself in grief and im not that sure that ive found it. for a control freak, one of the things that always has hurt me is my lack of control in death. i cant change it. and all i can control is the way to cope but i simply dont know how to do that. and the temperamental part in my head is the battle i find myself fighting because i know how he wouldnt want this. he wouldnt want the heavy grief but i dont know how to not feel it. i find myself feeling the heavy grief or essentially nothing at all.

and theres quiet, kind moments throughout it all. when i think maybe i can hold his memory and move with it. but those moments dont last long. but they mean more than any other part of this whole process. when i hear him in my head, making fun of me for not putting myself out there. when i feel him supporting me as i feel unstable and shaky. regardless of your thoughts on religion or my own, i know that he is there. whether it is real or it is in my head, both are substantial enough to give me faith. and isnt that religion in and of itself?

i know that all the things we wanted him to know, about how he changed us, how much he meant to us, all of it. i know that he knows them. but i still am allowed to mourn that we never got to feel him know them. am i allowed?

i think im allowed. i think he’d allow it. i think he’d understand.

because when i feel whatever sense might lie in my convoluted ideas of religion and my strong sense of morality, i know one thing above all.

that he understands.