#just a wistful little doodle

[moonsofmachinery]

Hallmark Sanctity, My little iterator OC! They're a Gen 2 Iterator from the Roaring Skies Local Group. They go by Wistful Tuning Flowers and tend to spend most, if not all, of their time in anon Sliverist group chats. They kind of have a fear of committing to any personality, so they use anon group chats to flesh out someone they would... 'want to be', devoid of any problems or issues. Basically uh, they're a little messed up. Doodles below!

Pleading Intellect is an Anon Pseudonym but I general call them that because its what they're most known by. In my own headcanons, though, they're known as Half Wit Wonders. I just thought it sounded cool and kind of fits their attitude and curiosity in the few broadcasts we do see. Hallmark is also friends with Grey Winds. Hallmark tends to view Grey winds as the perfect image of 'Calm' and 'Responsible' they think they are while forgetting that Grey Winds does have flaws as well. They do eventually come to terms with that fact and have a better, truer friendship with them because of that. Which is why they make a messanger (With Pleading's help) to go and attempt to contact Winds when they suddenly go offline.

Hallmark is a character in my fic which I have not posted, and probably will not post for a good while. Its kind of a passion project involving ocs mixed with canon and its very near and dear to me. I dont know if anyone will like it, but I will eventually post it. If you're interested, maybe send me an ask :]

[maelstrom-of-emotions]

BakuDeku fic idea

Okay, so I had this idea, and it's been nagging me for like, forever, so, naturally I gotta talk about it.

So, maybe, years later, after they've gotten married and all, Katsuki is organizing Deku's desk because for all that the damn nerd is a genius, he's terrible at organizing things.

And then he comes across Deku's notebook collection, the notebooks that Katsuki would swear up and down were practically an extension of Izuku's soul.

He opens them, having seen them occasionally when Deku would get nostalgic and turn the paces, tracing the intricate lines with a sense of wistfulness, or when he would get right into Katsuki's face saying ‘I figured out where I saw that quirk Kachaan! It was here,’ but he's never flipped through them, despite having Izuku's consent to do so.

And so for the first time, he flips through them, starting from the first, of course, because Katsuki is many things, but he's no madman.

The first one is all bright and wide-eyed, filled with sketches of All Might and other top heroes, and Katsuki can't help the fond smile that spreads on his face as he sees the small doodles of himself dotting the margins of the notebook. It was like staring at a damn kindergarten art project. Deku's admiration for them practically oozed off the pages.

The leading notebooks that came after that were filled with scribbles, points and additions, edits and mentions, but it was all still pretty wholesome (and so Katsuki may have taken a photo of a particularly adorable sketch of a chibi him, with the words 'Lil' Victory upon it, so he can make it into a custom keychain, sue him.)

And then, out of nowhere, they get intense. The sketches were detailed, showing fights, strategies, and damn, even the villains. And the proud smile that grows on his face is entirely deserved, because, that was his nerd, alright. It was like seeing inside the mind of a madman but in a good way. Deku was getting serious, that adorable little nerd.

Somewhere along the way, Deku had begun to record the injuries caused by the quirks. The pages were stained with reds and purples, like some kind of twisted canvas. Bakugou winced, remembering the pain that had carved itself into Deku's skin. The scars on Deku's body had a story, and they were all right there, etched in ink.

(He hates the fact that he had been the cause of most of those scars. Hates the thought of Deku, staring at the scars on his body and copying them on paper, having been familiar with them for so long, that he doesn't even need to double-check. Hates the way that it brings tears to his eyes.)

The notebooks after that were a whole new world. he sketches were practically alive, the movements fluid and precise. It was like watching a damn animated movie. This nerd was on the edge of genius.

The points on quirks had improved too. Notes on how they worked, weaknesses, and strategies to counter them. It was like Deku had cracked the code to every damn hero he'd ever faced. Bakugou couldn't decide if he was impressed or annoyed. Probably both.

That notebook was the culmination of everything Deku had ever learned. The battles were fierce, the strategies ruthless. This was Deku at his damn peak.

He's just about to put them back, telling himself that the tears in his eyes were due to the dust when he sees the last notebook. It's the newest notebook, the cover bright and glossy.

He opens it and expects another one of Deku's meticulous quirk analyses, but this...this was something else entirely.

Page after page was filled with details about their friends, their likes and dislikes, little facts that even Bakugou didn't know. It was like Deku had become some kind of damn detective, gathering every scrap of information he could find.

And then he turned a page and was greeted by an explosion of orange and black, and there it was. His name, his figure, drawn in causal clothes, with little notes written in beautiful handwriting.

The details hit him like a damn sledgehammer. There's an arrow pointing to his middle finger 'wears a ring on this one.' An arrow to his clothes with the words 'prefers soft clothes (best hoodies to steal),' there's one pointing to his neck followed by 'wears a locket with parent's photos' and on, and on, they go. His eyes start to water at 'rich laugh' and 'bright grin.'

He pauses at the one written in red ink with the words 'softest heart' written right next to it.

This damn nerd, he knew him better than anyone else. Knew the quirks and intricacies that made up Bakugou Katsuki.

He couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. Maybe, just maybe, Deku wasn't so damn bad at understanding people after all.

And if Izuku finds himself bombarded with bowls of Katsudon, well, that's nobody's business but his own. Even if the nerd cries when he sees the keychain.

[minhyeong]

&. 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 (𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞)

genre: angst, unrequited love au | word count: 1,188

↳ Jaemin thought you were a lot like a red balloon that he accidentally released into the blue sky, hastily slipping right out of his grasp and floating far away. 

He used to do this peculiar, little thing where he would allow himself to briefly, for just a few short moments, fall in love with another stranger who stepped into his line of vision on the streets, train stations, and even at the corner store that he frequented. 

Jaemin was good at falling in love with strangers to fill the momentary bouts of loneliness, but he was also good at falling out of it. No face in the sea of people lingered too long in his mind. 

So he didn’t understand why he allowed you, of all strangers, to stay. Perhaps you had shown up when a particular bout of loneliness stretched on for a little too long. 

Jaemin couldn’t quite remember the first time he laid his eyes on you or pinpoint the exact moment you dug a deep well into his heart until you became someone irreplaceable. However, he could vividly recall the way he felt like he was drowning at the bottom of the well when you told him you started seeing someone. 

The skyline was so bright, and the breeze smelled like lemons and cotton candy. Sidewalks were littered with doodles drawn with broken chalk. The chocolate ice cream he had before he left the house left a sickly sweet aftertaste on the tip of his tongue. There was a spring in his steps as he approached you, the grin reaching his eyes that squinted under the relentless sunrays. It was the first day of summer, and his life was going to change; he could feel it. 

His confession was knocked right out of his mouth. Jaemin had to fight to keep the smile on his face while you raved about someone else. The revelations felt awfully like violent stabs of rejection for the words that he never had the chance to deliver. 

Jaemin thought you were a lot like a red balloon that he accidentally released into the blue sky, hastily slipping right out of his grasp and floating far away. 

He didn’t think it was possible for him to hate the first day of summer this much. 

Jaemin disappeared off the face of the earth for four days before he reappeared. He spent his time alone sitting on park benches and empty tables at cafes where a bitter scent hung heavy in the humid air and thoughts of missed opportunities clouded his mind. 

After eleven missed calls and blocks of blue text messages, he finally responded to your twelfth call. 

“Where have you been?” Your voice pierced through his phone as you demanded answers. Then, you faltered, huffing as you paced around your room to calm down. “Are you going through something? You know you can tell me anything.” 

A wistful silence settled in between the call. Jaemin fiddled with the hem of his white shirt. “Sorry for ghosting you,” he mumbled with a brief chuckle. “Want to... hang out?” Even without seeing him, you could sense his hesitation and mild uneasiness.

Jaemin showed up in front of your house in thirty minutes with half melted ice cream and beverages in a reused takeout bag. He barged his way into your living room before you could even fully open the door for him, and you nearly got knocked over by the force of his sudden enthusiasm. 

“I brought your favorite! I was thinking we could watch a movie! Or maybe even two movies if you don’t fall asleep by then, so we have to start now!” He shoved everything on your coffee table aside and unloaded everything inside the bag. When he noticed your stillness, he paused, returned your stare, and cocked his head to the side. “What?”

He confused you like a challenging puzzle, and sometimes you wondered if you really knew him. You shook your head, simply glad to have your quirky friend back, and settled into the couch beside him. He handed you a spoon and shoved the tub of ice cream into your hands, wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes as he took the lid off for you. “Little Mermaid?” 

Jaemin sang along, forcing out every high note he could rip out of his strained vocal cords, and he appeared so happy whenever you stole quick glances at him that you forgot all about the way he behaved strangely for the past few days. 

You didn’t even notice an incoming call until he faintly heard your phone vibrating next to the half emptied bottles on the table and nudged you with his knee to bring your attention to it. 

He wished he hadn’t when you flipped your phone over and he saw the contact. He didn’t miss the way your entire face lit up when you answered the call, and he certainly didn’t mean to overhear your conversation even though you had stepped away. 

But there was a warmth in your voice that he was unfamiliar with, the kind that made his heart lurch, the kind that filled his lungs with waves of despair. He clutched his spoon a little harder until the plastic folded under the pressure. 

By the time you returned, Jaemin had already cleaned up your table of trash and wiped down the stains on the glass. He stood by your door with his sneakers on, looking a little lost. 

You glanced at the television screen that was still paused at the spot you left off at. “Where are you going? The movie isn’t over yet.” 

“It’s late,” he said sheepishly. “I should go.” 

You blinked at him, confused by the switch in his behaviors once again. “You can stay over. It’s not like you never slept over before.” The chuckle you let out quickly dissipated when he maintained a stoic expression with glassy eyes that were bordering on sadness. You uneasily shifted your weight from one foot to the other. 

His eyes flitted toward you when you called out to him with a soft murmur. 

You were looking right at him, eyes unwavering as you inched toward him, but he didn’t feel seen. 

Jaemin couldn’t help but think he felt a little less lonely before he met you. 

“No,” he asserted, a broad grin returning to his face. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t enough to convince you. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, I’ll see you around,” he interrupted before slipping out the door. You rushed forward to hold it open before it could slam shut, jamming your foot in the door frame as you stepped out. 

Jaemin was already halfway down the block before he pivoted on his heels. The faint street lamp tinted his features a gentle orange. He smiled at you, so you smiled back despite the inexplicable dread that sat heavy on your chest. 

“Have a good summer.” He waved, the smile never leaving his face, before he pivoted again, sprinting down the street and vanishing into the summer night.

He felt like a stranger. 

No, Jaemin could never be a stranger, yet an odd feeling took over, as if you were never going to see him again, and if you did, he wouldn’t be the same Jaemin you once knew.

[amee-racle-ofmyown]

Csptaineer art request 5. admiring them from afar

dear anon, I know you asked for art but I had intended these as writing prompts! however!! I may doodle something for this later anyway, because it's cute :3

and still, never do we tire of watching stars glow

head engineer mark x reader (the captain) | words: 877

For as long as you'd known him, he'd always had a certain look of awe about him when it came to space:

When you were kids, huddled up in blankets watching a documentary about The Solar System while you shared a bowl of cookies.

And as teens, laying side by side in the dry summer grass, gazing up at the stars dotting the sky, laughing and pointing out constellations and making up stories about what it would be like when you got to be among them. 

And as cadets, the first time you voyaged beyond Earth's atmosphere.

Now the Captain of a ship he'd built from the ground up, it took you by surprise when you looked up from your data tablet one day to see him gazing at you with that same look of wistfulness and wonder.

His expression lasted for the briefest moment before he registered that you'd seen him, eyes widening and cheeks flushing almost imperceptibly from this distance. He immediately averted his gaze to anywhere but yours, busying himself with whatever he could.

You let out an amused huff, an incredulous yet flattered smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

It was far from the first time you'd caught someone giving you a starstruck or near-mesmerised look, especially within your own crew. But for him to be the one staring like that? The same admiration and fascination that you'd seen in his eyes when he beheld an eclipse, or a meteor shower, or your new home planet, directed at you…? 

You couldn't deny the small flutter in your stomach, or your heartbeat slightly quickening its pace.

You brushed off the thought and continued working, but from then on you couldn't help but keep noticing the awe and longing when he looked at you, whether it be from across a room or in conversation. It made you wonder if this was a recent phenomenon, or if you had simply been blind to it for a long time.

It was one of those moments of catching his warm, starlit gaze in which you were caught off-guard once again.

You met his eyes with the same intensity once you realised he was watching you, raising your eyebrows slightly to get his attention. He looked embarrassed and a little taken aback, as he always did in such scenarios, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head as he decided whether or not to abandon ship. Instead, his mouth curved into a smile that crinkled his eyes with fondness, followed by a quick wink. 

Now it was your turn to look surprised. 

It's not that the gesture was out of character or that he couldn't be bold when he wanted to. You just hadn't expected it now.

Later, you found it in you to be direct.

‘What's with all the staring lately, Mark?’

His eyes widened at the question. It wasn't particularly like you to be so upfront about something like this.

You watched as your head engineer’s expression turned apologetic and a little guilty, like he'd been caught red-handed.

‘Uhh- I'm sorry. Am I in trouble, Captain?’

You giggled quietly. ‘Nah. I never said I minded, just wondering…’

He visibly relaxed at your response.

‘Oh, well in that case. To be honest, Cap, it's sorta hard to look away sometimes.’

You felt your face flush at this, but were given no pause to utter a reply even if you’d had the words; he continued quickly, as if just realising what he'd said aloud and in the same moment deciding to fully commit to speaking his mind, before he could let himself back out.

‘I just- I love seeing you doing your job, you look so happy and assured. And proud — of everyone you work with, proud that you're part of the team. You're always so willing to help out and listen to what everyone needs. And watching you take command of a situation- You just– you have this aura that screams that you belong here, this is what you were meant to do, and you have a positive effect on everybody around you. We're so lucky and grateful to have you as our Captain.’

And here you are, stunned into silence for a moment. 

He stands there, trying to gauge your reaction, a little flustered himself but steadfast in his confession.

You feel a little giddy, but take a breath to soothe your racing heart, finally composing yourself again as the smile you can no longer hold back paints your face.

‘Thank you, Mark. That's… that's really sweet.’

He grins. ‘Just being honest.’

‘And I feel exactly the same about you, by the way.’ 

He tilts his head in confusion.

‘Watching you in action, it's the same.’

You can see it in his eyes when it clicks.

‘Wait, Captain, are you saying you-’

‘Almost as much as you,’ you chuckle. ‘Except I don't get caught. You could definitely use some improvement in that area.’

He looks away, smile becoming sheepish, the tint on his cheeks you are sure matches yours from only moments ago. 

‘But… like I said,’ you speak up again, drawing his attention back to you. ‘I don't really mind. It is kinda cute seeing your reaction when I catch you.’

[kellanved-ammanas]

TF2 Drabbles: Scout/Sniper - Nosy Hypocrite

Summary: Perhaps Scout being rlly good at art and he drew the teams shenanigans and then they accidentally find his sketchbook and are rlly Impressed wit him.

~

“Yo, Sniper, I was just fixin’ to head out to get ya, come over and take a look at this,” Engie said, interrupting Sniper’s attempt to sneak his way through the common room to the base’s kitchen.

Sniper took one last wistful glance in that direction before walking over to the card table where Engie, Pyro, and Demo sat. “What is it?”

“It fell out of Scout’s bag before he left on his run,” Demo replied as he handed Sniper a familiar looking sketchbook. “So I grabbed it to take a look since he ain’t never let anyone look at it despite doodling in it all the bloody time.”

“Turns out he’s pretty damn good artist,” Engie added. “You seem to be one his favorite muses.”

“He likes you,” Pyro said with a little gleeful clap.

This was part of why Sniper liked to live in his camper van a short distance away from the base. Not a single member of the team had much respect for anyone else’s privacy. That being said, Sniper’s curiosity outweighed his desire to not be a nosy hypocrite. He looked down at the sketch book in his hands, flipping it open to the first page.

On it was a pencil drawing of the whole team, posing dramatically. He’d seen Scout’s little napkin doodles before – those were the only artworks he ever willing let anyone else look at – and had thought them pretty good but when Scout really put effort into something, the results were impressive. Scout was indeed quite a good artist.

Sniper started flipping through the pages, pausing to look at each one. Most were done in pencil or sometimes pen, a few were coloured with what might’ve been coloured pencils but, not an artist himself, Sniper wasn’t sure. Subject matter wise, Scout had most often depicted members of the team, portraits occasionally but mostly them doing things, sometimes clearly fictional, but some might’ve been based on or even drawn while observing a real thing happening.

True to Engie’s words, Sniper featured the most often, both in pieces that were just doodles but also in more polished ones as well. There were even a few of him sleeping or shirtless and one in particular that made his face grow uncomfortably warm at the sight of in which he was both. Did Scout really look at him like that? And that often? Yeah they hung out a lot but…

“It don’t mean anything,” he said upon reaching the end and looking back up at the three of them, waiting for his reaction. “He just draws what’s in front of him and he likes to hang out with me for some reason so…” he trailed off with a shrug.

“You sure about that, laddie?” Demo said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m sure. We’re just friends. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m out of coffee in my camper. I was on my way to the kitchen to get more.” He turned and left, purposefully bringing the sketchbook with him. There was a decent chance the rest of the team had already seen it and if not, they’d soon be informed of its contents anyway, sparking who even knew what kinds of rumors, but he’d return it to Scout anyway. He always stopped by Sniper’s van on his way back from his run, he should appreciate it as well as the heads up on the fact that people had seen it. … And maybe, perhaps, if it came up naturally and could be asked as non-awkwardly as possible, Sniper might ask why Scout liked to draw him so much and if it actually did mean anything.

[altocat]

Hi alto! got any hurt / comfort hcs on your mind for sephgen? Can be during cc or post canon, im honestly just looking for some doodle inspo rn :P

Ooh I love hurt/comfort. Let's gooo Sephgen nation!

-Genesis is made of jumbly Jenova material compared to Seph. So he sometimes doesn't really heal quickly after battle and is left exhausted and/or a little feverish. Sephiroth often comes to quietly sit at his bedside in the clinic, typically sporting that calm, nonchalant expression of his while Genesis bunches up in the sheets and GLARES at him.

-But once or twice, things have reversed. There was one time when a lab procedure Sephiroth went through...didn't go right. He spent days afterwards being feverish, his body either going rigid or into involuntary spasms. The Mako was all wrong. EVERYTHING was all wrong.

-Genesis was the first to get up in his face and tell him that he needs to REST before he kills himself and how the hell are they supposed to spar if Sephiroth can barely walk in a straight line? He's able to drag Sephiroth back to his room, shoving the shivering silver soldier beneath the sheets, grabbing every bit of medicine he can find in the cabinet, bunching a massive heating blanket around him, and pulling up a chair at his bedside looking ON POINT with some tsundere nonsense.

-He sits there and reads to Seph (Loveless probably), bantering with him occasionally. Sephiroth seems to gradually be growing more and more feverish as his body fights for recovery and Genesis consistently tells him to go the hell to sleep idiot, what you think you're so special that your body doesn't need it? He has to lull Seph into it little by little.

-Sephiroth's thoughts at this point are extremely bleary and clouded from fever. He's completely out of it and finds that he doesn't really remember things the next morning once he's recovered. But at one point--he's sure it was a hallucination --he hazily remembers Genesis scooting under the covers next to him, facing him by mere inches, gently touching his face, his words muffled, fading through the torrent of fever. That lithe auburn shape lying there with him, comforting him until he fell asleep again. Was it real ? Probably not. Decidedly not. But Sephiroth thinks that the touch had been nice, soft fingers in his hair, against his skin. So soothing.

-Genesis, naturally, went to chew out the lab something fierce after that one. What the hell are they trying to pull anyway? Sephiroth could have died. What makes him so special that he needs to deal with this shit every week?

-Things are back to normal shortly after. They spar and banter with each other like usual. But both idiots still remember the bittersweet occurrence, silently wistful, outwardly competitive.

[la0hu]

5 star review

hall of fame: 8.5/10

seungmin's vocals are insane this album and he deserved this album opening line

THE CHORUS growly distorted electric guitar heavy bass HEART EYES PLEASE!!! PLEASE WHAT THE FUCK

chan's postchorus melody (and in the outro) is so fun, it's got choral/circus-y vibes if that makes sense

felix's weird xylophone raps + jeongin's panning ah's. it's giving me maze of memories >:)

the man on the moon clip.... chan must be proud of that one

this feels like cheese's cousin and will probably be on loop

s-class: 8/10

not the hugest fan of changbin's opener, shockingly enough

hyunjin's first line is the best attention grabber, soooooo well done

goofy ass sound effects in the first verse but i'm not complaining

"swerving i'm speeding on serpent rooooad" i think i floated a couple inches in the air the first time i heard this prechorus it's sooooo fucking good -- and this is coming from someone who normally hates the melodic prechorus thing in like every other song (god's menu, venom, freeze, etc.)

the chorus... i hated it the first time i heard it. but now it's catchy. also in context with the rest of the song it makes complete sense to me

controversial opinion(?): i love changbin's enunciated simple rap over the old school beat, and i especially love how han's track layers some classic samples on top

SECOND CHORUS DISTORTION suuuuuuch a good call... otherwise the chorus would be boring but it's enough of a change-up that it also foreshadows the upcoming parts of the song that stretch and shift the typical song structure

pre-dance break rap exchange is not my fav but it keeps the energy up anyway

DANCE BREAK IS GOOD!!!!!! love the production

title track ranking: better than thunderous, maniac, case 143 (duh); not quite god's menu level of shocking and not as tasteful as back door

item: 9.5/10

the productionnnnn.......... i'm drooling

the rap tone from changbin is so bratty and the pacman/game theme of the song is so funny

i wish had better words for the backtrack sounds bc i want to point out all the sounds and their textures; like the high-hat percussion beat which is super similar to the one they used in domino; and this heavy dark crunchy synth sound they keep using

FELIX GROWLY CHORUS. cheap thrills maybe but my fav part of the song

the fucking autotune felix section "celebraaaate" is so bad that it's funny which makes it perfect for the song. it's like jeongin moaning in N/S do you understand

second prechorus + postchorus is a little boring idk why -- that's why it's not 10/10

repetitive lee know before felix's final chorus is inspired

domino's annoying but lovable younger sibling. will be on loop

super bowl: 8/10

digusting beat, very excellent (makes me think of doodle)

the lyrics are so insanely corny it's DJ VXNILLX at his best i swear to god

the nct-esque chanting lmao... sm wake up!

"aw this shit's so bussing" WHY LMAO (edit: i have learned this is not what he's saying but it's what everyone is hearing so)

honestly. the ASMR whispering is so cringy to me but it's also amazing genius. and also so embarrassing but also hot. very confusing stuff

bridge is so out of place but who cares tbh

topline: 6/10

very fun almost "throwback" hiphop type of sound, i love whatever they sampled for the backtrack

"cause we don't give a fu--" we cheered.

tiger jk is a good rapper! :)

maybe strange opinion but hyunjin's second rap was the best of all the raps imo

it's a good song, but it's a little plain for me (maybe just in comparison to the other songs); i'm probably gonna skip it a lot

dlc: 7/10

it's CUTE! it sits at the same table as blueprint, run, mixtape: oh, ex if that makes sense

i think this has better production than the other changbin songs i'm aware of, actually; it still has his trademark sort of wistful bitter melancholy but the sound is a little more diverse than stuff like sorry i love you or streetlight

the instrumental beat drop sections i like more than i thought i would, especially the breakdown towards the end

one criticism: i would've introduced the "la la" sample much earlier in the song, it feels a little out of nowhere in the last third

i actually love this kind of skz song so it'll probably have longer lasting power with me

get lit: 7.5/10

this song comes out of the gate swinging jesus fucking christ

love the club banger backbeat that's like 100% muffled bass

this is insane but i would've preferred an even harder drop from the bassline for the chorus

the mumbling line hyunjin + felix have with the muffled beat is so good

last drop is CRAAAAAAZY!!! CHAN IS BARKING

collision: 5.5/10

why am i suddenly in a dimly lit smoky jazz bar with bronze/gold details and red roses everywhere

i saw someone on twitter say smth about the sax and i have to emphasize that this is clearly a trumpet

a rare bangchan win from me: his verse was the best imo

the main chorus melody is extremely plain but still very sweet and catchy; it feels like a song to slow dance to after a date night at a fancy steak place. tbh not my cup of tea but still nice

fnf: 8.5/10

i cried at literally the first line. my dog just died sue me

normally i don't like how chan arranges guitar-heavy production but this song did a great job without feeling too mixtape: time out

prechorus doing something to my heart that hurts

the chorus is so sad to me... i think watching the intro for 5star and seeing chan's thoughts on this track casts this whole song into a different, more complicated vibe. like the meaning behind "i'm catching up" when singing about death and grief -- that's actually really good, and i really like how this line is "stuttered" or halted in the first two choruses, and only gets pronounced in full for the very last chorus, bc they've literally "caught up"

i also really like how for the "uh-uh-uh" lines, the melody shifts into a minor key -- that's what's keeping the chorus interesting and from falling into bland territory

second verse is deeply upsetting for me. yes i'm still thinking about my dead dog

the eagle cry is a little silly/on the nose but i think it's a sweet touch bc i know how earnest it is

also just generally speaking, i'm a sucker for songs whose lyrics/topic are really fucking sad but are musically very upbeat (which is why i love txt's discography so much too)

outro/final chorus very good, especially the full "i'm catching up!" followed by the falsetto...

also this song activates my synethesia like crazy for that fresh spring green, so i will be listening to this a bunch

youtiful / the sound / mixtape: time out 0 / 10

these pissed me off that's all i have to say



FINAL THOUGHTS

first thing: i will say this, and it will be deeply upsetting for stays who loved skz for their pre-noeasy stuff, but it's true: chan's production and musical direction was heavily influenced by other things when he was first starting out because he was still learning, but i would say starting most obviously with oddinary, this is actually what skz's (read: chan's) personal production style is like -- and this is what skz's future releases will sound like too. there's much less imitation in production style in this album, and if it's there, it's more of a reference or allusion like in topline, and not so much a participation in a genre tradition. this makes sense, bc they've been saying repeatedly how they don't want to be defined by a genre, but want to pioneer their own -- even if it sounds really fucking weird. stuff like victory song, levanter, even side effects felt like they could've been made by other artists bc chan was still getting his production legs under him, but stuff like god's menu, domino, and case 143 is where he started pulling together a personal style.

i would characterize go live as a demonstration of skz's flashes of genius while still borrowing the sound profile of genre to use as training wheels; noeasy was them slowly playing with developing a unique sound and practicing songwriting; and 5 star is them doubling down on the production and songwriting skills they've developed since noeasy. this is their most "matured" set of songs and you can hear the difference. it's not necessarily better than the other two albums in terms of personal taste, but i think it's obvious how much work they've done the past two years to be able to come up with and execute the 5 star tracklist, and listening to it i feel like i can see 100% the intention behind the execution, which is admirable even if you hate the music. luckily i don't!

you can tell that all of them figured out what their particular talent is (what makes them "special" ha) bc they echoed what they did in the past, when those talents were first apparent. s class has a lot in common with god's menu, in vibe and structure. item is the successor to domino which skz admitted themselves, bc they were aware of how special that kind of song is. hall of fame and super bowl feels adjacent to stuff like cheese, where it's all attitude and/or aggression. felix has leaned into his voice being used as an "accent" or "point", lee know has a lot of "shouting" tone power, han's songwriting is getting more diverse (with get lit) and more defined (with collision), etc. it's not that they're copying what they've done before, because more stays would be happy with this album if that were the case, which judging by my mutuals' reactions, many are NOT; it's more that they've developed a self-awareness as artists. this album felt like evidence that everything they say in interviews about their artistic development is true, it's not just posturing: they work hard to change, and they'd much rather be continually weird and alienating than stay the same and grow complacent, even if it pisses of their fanbase and most of the general public.

personally i'm extremely relieved because 1) i obviously loved nearly all the songs but also 2) i was terrified maxident and The Sound were going to signify the BTS-ification of stray kids, a la dynamite / butter / permission to dance. 5 star solidly put those worries to rest thank fucking god. maybe my music taste is broken but i get Weird skz forever so i win

extra notes:

the "switchup" happens in a lot of songs in this album, most obviously in s class, but i'm not 100% convinced it's them capitalizing on any trend (like the switchups that nmixx is known for), since they've done switchups like this before in god's menu & back door and other songs too; for me it feels more like chan playing w the patterning he did in god's menu, bc 5 star as an album has a lot of homages to their go live era

everyone got a lot better at everything imo -- particularly in vocals; seungmin did a standout job on all of his lines obviously, but i also noticed lee know's voice has a lot more support and actually chan's lines i would put in the top three too.

live vocals from their stages are also WAY improved; i'm guessing the maniac tour gave them a lot of experience

[loveforpreserumsteve]

A Whole New Ballfield: "ALN" Story (Pre-Serum Omega!Steve and Alpha!Bucky Modern Domestic AU)

Five:

"I'VE DONE IT! YA HEAR ME? I SAID, 'I'VE DONE IT!'"

Steve heard Kit call from the other side of the house. Trying to get an order done for his shop, Steve waited in his office for the twenty-one year old to find him. After all, the young alpha would sooner or later. There were only a few places that he was likely to be.

"IS ANYONE HOME?" Kit continued, making their way through the living room. "OR AM I JUST TALKING TO MYSELF?!"

"In here!" Steve threw the kid a bone. Deciding that it was better than all of the shouting. Especially since he was trying to add the appropriate details to make the little wooden doll look like the customer, per their request. And for that, he needed to concentrate.

Entering the former nursery, Kit plopped down on the storage bench and asked, "Where is everyone?"

"Well, dad is at the shop," Steve removed his magnified glasses so he could rub the bridge of his nose. Needing a break, he stretched his arms above his head until audible pops littered his spine and he turned towards the young adult. "Bitsy's at dance, Nevie's at the library, and Cori's at cheer camp."

"You're telling me that I finally found the person I want to spend the rest of my life with, and no one is here?!" Kit asked, incredulous.

"What?" Steve held his hands up to stop them from continuing, wondering if he should turn up his hearing aid because, surely, he didn't hear his child correctly. "Bring it back and run that by me one more time?"

Positively giddy, Kit beamed, "I think I've found The One."

Steve couldn't help but be happy for the kid. They were a good person and deserved all the love that a person could give them, and then they deserved even more. "Okay, well, tell me about them? What's their name? How'd you meet?"

"Oh," Kit huffed out a breath. Looking wistful as they started, "Her name is Carmen, and she works at Sheila's."

"Sheila's? The coffee shop?" Steve asked, thinking of the small café that the triplets and all of their friends were currently obsessed with.

"Yeah," Kit happily sighed, clearly smitten. "She's the most gorgeous person I've ever seen."

"And...?" Steve prompted, wanting to hear more.

"And she's smart! So incredibly smart! She's going to school for bioengineering," Kit added, eager to gush about their new crush. "Plus, she knows, like, every drink! And there's a lot! Way more than what's on the menu. Which, did you know that there's this tea latte that tastes like a snickerdoodle? I swear to god, it's the best thing I've ever tasted. Almost as good as mimi's cookies!"

"What, and you didn't bring one home for your dear old pops?" Steve teased, standing up so he could shove the twenty-one year old's broad shoulder. "Shows how much you love your father."

Playfully, Kit rolled their eyes and followed Steve out of his office. With all the coffee talk, Steve decided that he could go for a mug or two, himself. Kit, of course, didn't argue. Not when it came to Bucky's favorite brownie flavored dark roast.

"Do you know any more about her?" Steve asked, reaching into the cabinet, and grabbing Kit's preferred purposely lopsided, artistically disfigured Mad Hatter mug.

"She's not just smart, she's an artist. She doodles these little characters on napkins and the paper cups," Kit fondly informed with a proud grin. As if they were already in a relationship with the barista and couldn't help but brag about her.

It reminded Steve of Bucky. Of course, it would be Kit to be like this. They were some of the best parts about their fathers. Passionate and a hopeless romantic with eyes like the sky and a smile like sunshine. Anyone would be lucky to have them.

And that was exactly what he told his child at every opportunity.

"I'm sure that she'd be pretty impressed by you too." Steve smiled, taking the creamer from the fridge. "It's not every day that someone comes along a person who can rebuild an entire engine in five hours?"

"Stop, you're gonna make me blush," Kit mocked, fluttering their eyelashes while feigning demureness.

"I will not," Steve playfully argued. "Don't you listen to dad? It's our duty to embarrass you. But it's also our duty to lift you guys up. And you're a prize, sunny. Inside and out."

That large grin that Steve loved so much stretched Kit's lips, "Thanks, pops."

"Anytime," Steve gave their hand a soothing squeeze before passing the mug of coffee to Kit to fix up the way they liked it. Pouring himself some coffee, he asked, "Does she know how you feel?"

Blushing, Kit took a drink so they could think. Shrugging, "I've been going to Sheila's practically every day. And I don't think it's a secret... I mean, I'm pretty sure that everyone else knows... Like, her coworkers always call her to the front of the shop whenever I'm there."

"Oh, sweetie," Steve chuckled. Reaching across the island, he squeezed Kit's hand once more, "How 'bout you ask her out? Touch base? See how she feels about you?"

"Yeah," Kit easily agreed. Smirking, Kit took a drink of his coffee, "What's the worst that could happen?"

"Exactly," Steve assured, taking a drink of his own brownie batter coffee. Always admiring that easy-going and optimistic outlook on life. Hoping for Carmen's sake that it worked out because, "Anyone would be lucky to have you, sunshine."

[bebagerie]

been talking to myself on some Icarus spell, but it got better when you didn’t go

[wrenqueenisboss]

Tuned Into You - band au!dream x gn!reader

warnings: swearing, use of dream's real name pronouns: they/them, mx., words: 1.8k summary: some hs and band au dream to feed the soul

~-~-~-~-

You're in the middle of English class when you can feel your phone vibrate in your pocket. Cursing under your breath, you quickly try to sneak a glance at your device when the teacher isn't looking.

"Mx. Y/n."

The whole class goes silent. You look up, face bright red with embarrassment.

"Is there something so interesting in your pocket that you needed to distract yourself from my lesson in order to attend to it."

"No, sorry, Ms. Hawthorne." You pull at the edges of your sleeves, a nervous habit of yours. Your friends snicker next to you and you have to bite your lip when Quackity kicks the back of your chair lightly.

The teacher frowns. "Okay. Do not get distracted again, please, or I will have to send you to the principal's office." Your history professor turns around just in time to get away with you rolling your eyes dramatically.

A crumpled ball of paper falls onto your notebook. George subtly points at it, gesturing for you to open it. Wincing at the slight noise, you open the piece of paper. The edges are covered with the little doodles George always occupies himself with. But in the center is a very clear message written in a neat scrawl.

"who tf just messaged you? ur phone is supposed to be on silent"

You scoffed and quickly wrote out a message in reply. "I know, dickhead. it is. but I changed my settings so that his texts go through"

George chuckles quietly to himself after seeing your response. He nudges Sapnap next to him and just barely tilts the paper so the other boy can see. You look over and see them both mouth one thing. "simp."

The rest of the lesson goes smoothly. You gather your stuff to leave when the teacher calls your name again.

"Mx. Y/n."

You freeze, expecting and dreading a punishment for earlier when you turn around, plastering a fake smile on your face. "Yes, Ms. Hawthorne"

"Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

You stare in confusion at your English teacher. "Yes. I don't have anything right after school, so I can talk for a little bit."

She smiles and sits down at her desk at the front of the room, gesturing for you to do the same. Still a little unsure, you sit down, setting your bag on the floor.

"Mx. Y/n, do you happen to know where Mr. Was-Taken happened to be during my class?"

A blush rises to your face and you struggle to respond. "Uh, no."

Your English teacher hums thoughtfully, gently tapping on the surface of her desk. "I know you two are close." She smiles knowingly, twisting the band on her right hand.

"What do you mean, Ms. Hawthorne?" You ask, desperately trying to figure out how she realized the fucking English teacher could decipher whatever complicated relationship you and Clay had.

Ms. Hawthorne laughs, young eyes sparkling with wistful memories. "I had my own high school romance story. It's quite the Disney tale to be honest."

You can't help but laugh. "Really?"

She holds out her hand, displaying a simple gold band around her right index finger. Little etchings of stars sparkle in the odd classroom light. "You have Ms. Moon for math, right?"

Ms. Moon, the kind math teacher who always has a cute story about her fiancé and their adorable pets.

"Yeah, Ms. Moon is amazing."

"I agree." A quiet chuckle as she twists the ring again. "They are my fiancé, after all."

You smile incredulously. "Really?!"

Ms. Hawthorne laughs again. "I'm being serious. You and Mr. Was-Taken have a special bond. I just wish he'd attend my class more." A thoughtful look. "That boy is a talented poet."

You rub the back of your neck nervously. "Clay writes some good songs, too. He plays them all of the time."

You get up to leave after a moment, but you are paused once again. "Mx. Y/n." A sheet of paper is slid across the desk. "Mr. Was-Taken's homework. And, you might want to let him copy off of your notes.

Ms. Hawthorne smiles one more time before she gets up, letting you go. The bell finally rings and you run out with the rest of your class, finally whipping out your phone to check the message Clay had sent during English.

"my house :)"

You scoff, that lovesick smile already rising to your face. "I was in English class, idiot"

You quickly type out the message and send it back, already running to get your bike. Not surprisingly, your friends are already waiting for you, bikes in hand.

Sapnap notices you first. "Y/n! Where were you?"

You wave sheepishly, hastily unlocking your bike and swinging a leg up just as everyone else does the same. "Ms. Hawthorne held be back because she wanted to talk to me about Clay's homework and stuff."

"'Stuff'?" Karl asks, pushing up the sleeves of his oversized hoodie so he can hold the handlebars.

George pushes off first. "What kind of 'stuff' are we talking about, Y/n?"

Quackity laughs, chiming in with a fake accent, "Do tell."

You wish desperately to not have to answer. "She said that she noticed some kind of special connection between Clay and I. Some shit like that." You shrugged as you and the rest of your friends rode away from the school.

Sapnap barks a laugh. "Didn't we all tell you how obvious it was?"

And as much as he and George seem to have a rivalry, the always-sleepy brunet laughs in agreement. "You two are always flirting. It's getting sort of gross now."

The rest of the bike ride is calm. Everyone else goes off to their houses and soon it's just you, pedaling to yours. Which happens to be right next to Clay's.

You walk your bike behind your house before walking into Clay's yard. "Clay!" you call, still carrying your heavy backpack. "Where are you?"

"Here!" comes the yell before he drops down from above. From the Treehouse.

His three chains clank together when he lands, blond hair (with the fading green tips) flopping over his eyes. "Hey, Y/n!" He smiles wide, waving you over to the base of the tree where the ladder planks were nailed in years ago.

"How was school?"

You move to flick his forehead, but he gracefully moves out of the way, quickly climbing the ladder up to the treehouse. You call up after him, "You'd know if you actually went!" But he's already at the top, sitting on a branch.

You yelp in surprise when he hooks his knees around the branch and falls backwards, hanging upside down in front of your face. His green eyes sparkle and soft hair hangs above his head as he flips you off with a cocky smile.

You stick your tongue out at him before climbing the ladder as well, trying to shove away the blush on your cheeks and the butterflies going crazy in your stomach.

Clay, the quick bastard, is already getting his fingers set on the head of his green electric guitar. The one he painted himself - with you there as well, of course.

"Besides," he adds on. "I have more time to write songs, anyway." With a soft smile that makes your stomach do flips, he give the guitar a test strum. And you can't help the way the corners of your lips twist upward at the beautiful sound.

You don't notice the way his face heats up when he sees your expression. "Y/n?"

Both of your eyes meet. It takes a lot of strength not to look away.

"Do you want to try playing for a bit?"

You take a look at the guitar he's holding out to you, think about the beautiful songs he plays, and the fact that you're not used to such and instrument.

"I like hearing you play a lot more."

That time, you notice the wild blush making his freckles stand out even more.

"I- okay." He stammers, trying to regain his composure. "Well then... here's my newest work-in-progress song. I call it 'Tuned Into You'."

Now you're both blushing wildly. But you bring your backpack forward onto your lap so you can lean forward comfortably, admiring Clay as he begins to strum the guitar.

The lyrics. They're beautiful. Complex and painfully simple at the same time. Falling in love and hiding it. Feeling free and having to clip your wings. But always finding that one person to love. The one person you can always face with a genuine smile.

But you're a rose in a world of daisies, he sings softly. And I'll always pick you first. If only you knew how far I've fallen I'm just tuned into you

When he finally finishes the song, his face is bright red. Emerald eyes sparkling with something that makes your heart flip.

You open your mouth to speak but he quickly rushes to pull something out of his guitar case. You peek over his shoulder in curiosity, hoping to get a glimpse.

But only when it's in your hand do you see what it is. "A pin," you breathe, taking note of the dried rose petal that's been carefully set into the pin's front.

Clay runs a hand through his hair, tousling the blond strands and faded green ends. "Remember that random rose bush we found behind our houses last year?"

Your heart melts with recognition. "No fucking way you saved that flower."

"As if you didn't," he shoots back smugly. "It's pressed into the inside cover of your journal. I remember you showed me the day after you glued it in."

You pin the button onto the front pocked of your backpack, smiling with him when you sit back and admire the way it looks. "Perfect!" you exclaim.

"Like you," both of you say in unison, looking the other in the eyes.

A heartbeat of silence. And then laughter. Harmonious and joyful. The sound of high school puppy love. Your faces are still bright with happiness when laughter finally subsides.

"I guess that's figured out then," he remarks with a grin.

The warmest feeling of love filling up your chest, you grin back. "It is, Lover Boy."

He takes your hand in his, black and neon green nails contrasting against his and your skin. He presses a gentle kiss to the back of your hand.

"About time you had the guts to call me that."

~-~-~-~-

Only Ms. Hawthorne and Ms. Moon noticed how something new had been drawn on Clay's guitar. Underneath the simple smile he had drawn was a rose.

But when the fiancé's saw the rose pin on Y/n's backpack, they shared a knowing smile.

Taglist:

@gray-moon2 @allywritesforfun @pixviepie @i-tradio @cloudswritingcorner @toodeepintofandoms @meimeihershey @bluospirit

[inkybirdy]

a couple of Maz doodles, ft. Baby Link, from yesterday. ____

The child is crying again. The child is clean and fed, swaddled as well as any other infant in soft fabric and tucked into the woven cradle. The whirring of the cicadas and the babbling of the creeks through the fields, the small drifting orbs from the fireflies in the late Kakariko evening would, in theory, be enough to calm anyone. 

Still, the child cries. 

Soft, punched-out little whines and sniffles, his small voice hoarse from yet another hour of doing so. They’re whispering sobs by now, but still he heaves and trembles. 

Sitting on the porch of the house he can’t bear to go inside, rocking the cradle mechanically with his foot, Maz Koshia barely registers the noise - like he’s hearing it through cotton. He sags heavy where he sits, exhaustion soaking through his bones, his face and arm aching from where marred flesh is attempting to scab and scar. 

Past the haze of fatigue, Maz feels a bitter kinship with the child. I didn’t want this, either. He thinks. Both unprepared, both abandoned, both tired. 

‘You’re all he’s got. He’s yours, so take him,’ Cotera had said, reaching across his sister’s lifeless body to shove the baby into his arms. Unfortunate. Instead of kinship for the child, Maz supposes he should really only pity it. 

“Yeah kid, I know. I get bored to tears hanging around with him, too.” Kohga chuckles at his own jab as he wanders up the path and takes a seat next to Maz on the porch, casting the kid a sympathetic smile. 

Sooga has kept his kindhearted distance like the rest of the village, giving Maz space to hold his agony, but imposed solitude has never been Kohga’s style. He’s always been rambunctious, sometimes loud and showmanlike for no reason, never afraid of disrespecting a room or taking up space. It’s a little comforting, Maz supposes, that the weight of the last weeks hasn’t seemed to muffle Kohga much at all. A little. 

“Shut up.” Maz's voice cold and hoarse and foreign to himself. 

“Your moodiness is gonna set a bad example,” Kohga is undeterred, but the snarkiness in his tone does soften after a moment, “You need to be sweet to him, y’know.” 

Maz turns sharp, red-rimmed eyes in Kohga’s direction. However, the glare is short-lived; Maz can only manage it for a few moments before his irritated frown turns back towards the ground. “You take him then, if you know so much.” Another harsh, but half-hearted mutter. 

Kohga’s shoulder nudges against Maz’s a few times until he finally looks up, Kohga’s wistful smiling disarming. It makes something catch in Maz’s throat. “Everything’s gonna go to shit.” Kohga’s warm tone doesn’t match his words, “More than it is, already.” “And?” “And we don’t know when. How fast it’s gonna be, what exactly it’s gonna look like.” Maz picks a crack in the porch to glare at, gritting his teeth, “Make your point.” “He doesn’t have to bother.” 

Maz blinks, and Kohga waits patiently for a moment. “It’s all done.” Kohga insists. “We’ve got some loose ends, maybe, but not him. You get to decide how he grows up for now, Maz.” The baby heaves another whimper, and Kohga’s smile is fond..  “He doesn’t have to get left in the woods, or sent off to a temple, or thrown in front of a dragon. He gets to have people who give a shit if he dies. He doesn’t have to know about any of this, you get to decide what you tell him. He can just - y’know.” Kohga shrugs, “Be a kid.” 

By the time his gaze drifts over to the kid directly, Maz’s eyes are burning. He swallows hard and takes a sharp breath, gripping the edge of the porch. Like he can see clearly how Maz’s brain is reeling, Kogha sits silently for once. 

Eventually the words truly settle in the air around them, and Maz shifts forward. Timid, a little shaky, Maz lifts the crying infant out of the cradle and tucks him snug into his arms, warm against his hammering chest. Maz expects the kid to writhe and scream, unsettled by his tension and his fear and his grief - but he doesn’t. Instead, the kid’s tearstained face presses to Maz’s chest, his little hand clinging tightly to what small bit of Maz’s shirt he can grip. 

The kid babbles, exhausted and overcome with the inertia of his misery, but he quiets before much longer. He rests, sated. Maz’s heart remains in shambles, the weight of the child on his injured arm aches, but he doesn’t dare readjust. Rather, as gently as if he were afraid to break the new and fragile peace, he presses a kiss to the baby’s head.

“Okay.” Maz murmurs. He surrenders. “Yeah - okay.”

[mythicandco]

It was not often that Emperor Belos visited Hunter’s room.

Usually he was working on the portal or in his throne room, or occasionally roaming the castle halls after dark. Hunter had once seen him without his mask, staring at a mural of the Savage Ages. He’d somehow looked equally disgusted and wistful. He was saying something under his breath that could’ve been a conversation, had there been anyone around to talk to.

Hunter had left his uncle alone that night.

But today Hunter was just sitting in his room doodling Red, waiting for new orders to come in. He’d grown weirdly attached to the palisman since they had flown in his window, and they were a wonderful model, sitting perfectly still while he tried to capture every detail and shadow. He wasn’t very good, but he was sure he was improving.

That was when a gentle, yet resounding knock sounded from the other side of his door, and a familiar voice asked, “Hunter, may I come in?”

Hunter’s eyes went wide and his palisman ducked under his pillow in a flash. He stashed his drawings under the bed and said, “Come in!”

Emperor Belos pushed open the door with the care of a potionist concocting a delicate brew. He was wearing his mask, but it looked like he’d thrown it on in a hurry and hadn’t tucked his hair out of the way, instead having it tied loosely up into a ponytail.

Hunter always got deja-vu when he saw his uncle with this hairstyle. The last time he’d had it up like this was when Hunter had accidentally damaged his staff and Belos had gladly agreed to help him fix it. He wasn’t sure why his uncle had been so eager to help him fix his mistake. It seemed like every passing day made Belos’ curse worsen, and his fuse shorten.

But even with his outbursts of violence (which were all perfectly reasonable considering the circumstances of each one), Belos still cared about Hunter. He trusted him with secrets he never told anyone else, and appreciated and cared about him as long as he stayed loyal and useful. Hunter remembered the stories his uncle would tell when he was little, tales of two brothers who went on adventures and quests and sometimes messed up, but ultimately cared about each other above all else.

Belos had never told the character’s names, but Hunter had always kind of imaged them in his head as himself and his uncle. He wasn’t sure why, but it was just what felt right.

Belos’ hand hovered in midair for a moment, before he reached up to take off his mask. The door shut behind him and he sat down next to Hunter, looking at the wall.

“Are you alright, Uncle?”

“Yes,” he smiled a little bit. “Thanks mainly to you. I’m proud of you for getting the Titan’s blood. You did well.”

“I almost didn’t,” Hunter replied, looking away. “I almost failed again.”

“We mustn’t dwell on would’ves and could’ves,” Belos waved a hand almost dismissively, as though he was clearing himself of those thoughts as well. “What matters is that the Day of Unity is closer than ever, and it’s because of your hard work.”

Hunter couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you, Emperor Belos.” He paused, recalling a question he’d never been able to ask. The last time he’d wondered about this aloud, Belos had turned him away and said, “Maybe at a later time.”

But now seemed like as good a time as any - he’d come into Hunter’s room, most likely just to talk to him. The Titan’s plans were going smoothly and everyone had a moment to stop and breathe. But on the other hand, if Hunter asked, his uncle might leave. He might never get a chance to sit side-by-side with him like they were brothers again. But on the other other hand, what use was sitting in silence?

“Uncle, I’ve been… meaning to ask you something,” Hunter admitted finally before he could chicken out. He bit his lip as Belos turned his full attention on him, already regretting his decision. Well, no turning back now. “With the Titan’s blood acquired and the portal almost ready and how everyone’s taking a little break before the Day of Unity arrives, I thought it would be a good time to ask.” He swallowed. Moment of truth. “…Who were my parents? A-and I know they were killed by wild magic,” he added, “but what were they like before?”

Belos’ expression turned from listening intently to horrified to very, very sad in less than a heartbeat.

Hunter’s back straightened. “I-I mean, y-you don’t have to-“

Belos held up a hand, silencing his nephew. “No, it’s alright. You have a right to ask. It’s only fair after the trouble I’ve put you through.” He chuckled, but it was dry in his throat. “I didn’t…” He hesitated.

“Your mother was a wonderful woman. She was always going off to slay beasts or tame small creatures. I know she loved animals and had a fiery spirit. And your father loved her very, very much.” He paused. “We didn’t part on the best of terms. I wish I could’ve told her that I was happy for her.”

“You said not to dwell on would’ves and could’ves,” Hunter pointed out. Belos smiled again.

“Yes, well, I suppose deep down we’re all sentimental old historians,” his uncle responded. “Now, I knew your father very well. He and I would always get into all kinds of trouble. It hardly mattered when one of us fell, because the other would help him back to his feet. We almost never saw eye-to-eye, always butting heads, but it was the kind of friendly rivalry good friends are supposed to have. He was like a brother to me.” His expression hardened.

“I’m sorry you don’t have a sibling, Hunter.”

“I-“ the witch paused. This thought had occurred to him only once, back when he was little. It was a silly thought - who needed a sibling when your uncle was the emperor of the Boiling Isles, and your family was his entire Coven? Hunter didn’t need friends to weigh him down, not when he had big things to accomplish. “What do you mean? I have you.”

Belos visibly winced, and Hunter flinched. He’d said something wrong, now he was going to be left alone again, or maybe worse, please don’t-

But the emperor didn’t move beyond that, and instead let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “You are the spitting image of him.”

Hunter took a moment to process this. “My father?” he finally asked. Instead of replying, Belos stood up. Hunter’s worry increased. He had said something wrong, he had upset his uncle! “I’m sorry,” he stood up as well. “Whatever I said wrong, I didn’t-“

“It’s not your fault, Hunter. I must get back to work.” Belos put his mask back on, and then he was gone. The door shut behind him with a click.

Hunter buried his head in his pillow with a muffled sob. An indignant chirp startled him from his wallowing in self-pity.

“Huh?” he sat up, ramrod straight. “Red?”

“Chirp, chirp chirp chirp tweet,” the little bird palisman replied, hopping from one foot to the other.

Hunter let out a yelp of surprise. “He is not!”

The little bird cocked their head at him. “Chirp chirp tweet, chirp.”

“Alright, maybe that,” he admitted. “Did you listen to that whole conversation?”

“Tweet tweet tweet,” Red swooped down and scooped up the drawings from under the bed. “Tweet chirp chirp chirp tweet.”

“Haha, fine,” Hunter picked up his pencil. “What was the pose you were doing earlier?”

“Tweet chirp tweet tweet tweet,” Red hopped up onto his shoulder and craned their neck towards an unknown source above and in front of Hunter. Somehow he was able to draw it, and it came much easier to him than the other poses Red had struck so far. He even added himself, with the bird on his shoulder. It looked pretty good. He held up the picture to show the little palisman. “What do you think?”

“Chirp,” the birdlike, wooden creature responded. Hunter laughed.

“Okay, but only a few more.”

[plush-rabbit]

Writing Notes

Request: If you're still accepting requests, id love to see Dabi and Mr. Compress and how they would react to their S/O leaving them cute little notes and stuff just for them? Love your writing dear!!

A/N: I hope you like them!! Note writing is so cute and if I had the patience for it, I would probably take it up but alas, I have no one to write to so y’all are stuck with author’s notes and tags!!

-

Dabi:

Dabi is emotional, he wears his heart on his sleeve even if he won’t admit it or show it. To have you leave cute notes around his room- stuck between a book, under a half empty bottle of beer, or even placed onto the lid of his cream- he always seems to find them. He won’t ever admit it and he hardly ever brings up your little surprises, but he does appreciate them. They’re sweet. They’re probably the nicest things that anyone has ever done for Dabi in the time that he’s been alive. He’ll hold your note in his hand, the brightly colored piece of paper decorated with your handwriting and he takes a long time to read the note, lingering on each word, smiling when he realizes that you have different ways of writing the letter ‘e’ and how the note is free of wrinkles.

Your choice of pen changes with each day. One day it’s a glitter pen, the other, a fine tip, the next it’s gel, and it’s different everyday. The paper is neat- decorated with flowers in the corner and most of the time, there are small doodles. One day he got a note with a quickly drawn image of him, flowers and stars near him and it was soft, something so sweet and innocent that he stood for a few minutes wondering why you would draw him.

The notes are placed in a tin box, bent from the years and scratched from time, but still sturdy with a secure lock. He keeps all your notes safely tucked in. He can’t bear to fold them, and he’s tried to make origami with them, but the papers vary in size and he can’t bear the thought of folding them let alone to cut them. So, he lays them flat in the tin box that is clean and smells of rubbing alcohol. He doesn’t want anything to sully your notes, one of the few things that he has that is just for him.

He won’t ever reread the notes. He’ll keep them safely tucked away, memories and words of love etched forever in your writing that is kept safe in the dark. There are nights when you aren’t around that he’ll place the box beside him, a calloused finger that runs against the edge of the box and he’ll stare at it. He finds that going back to your words is something of a cheap thing to do. It’s almost selfish for him to do so. He holds guilt heavy in heart but resentment and anger will always win. But, when he stares at your words, when his memory starts to recall the papers written with lily white words, he doesn’t feel so bad about it, to taint the paper that you touched with his hands covered in ash and burning skin. He lies in bed with either you by his side or alone, the weight of your words echoing in his mind until he’s fallen asleep.

Dabi really enjoys the sentiment of you writing notes to him. It’s domestic, something that he’ll never have. He may hate himself, may wish for death and commit to the act, but he isn’t emotionless. He feels so much that it burns him and he is so starved for any type of touch that isn’t fists. His lips are scarred and skin is burnt, staples hold him together but his mind crumbles, and yet, your notes seem to ground him. Simple words written on a paper that leave him breathless and wistful to imagine a life where he can hold your notes in his hand again, where he won’t sully the words that you chose to give to him.

Sako Atsuhiro:

Atsuhiro loves the notes that you write for him. A romantic at heart, he holds them dearly to his chest. He’ll hardly read them in front of you, however, preferring to keep his expression a secret even if he does know that it’s you writing him such sweet things. He's a bit odd in this sense, wanting to keep his reaction so secret when he’s usually so expressive already. Although, he does have a good reasoning for this. He likes to take his time with it, to hold the note in his hand and let his eyes. He’s had relationships in the past, but they were never like this, they were never so vulnerable and filled with bits of something so sweet. It was always passionate, a spur of the moment where something so domestic could be waiting for him. And yet, here you are with a pen in hand and your lips against his cheeks.

He’ll think about the notes constantly, lean against a beaten down seat of the van, let his eyes drift to the opposite side of the wall and think about your notes. His eyes will grow soft, a smile on his lips and he’s thankful for the mask, keeping his emotions hidden from the others. It’s no secret how much you mean to him and how much he means to you, but there are some things that he wants to remain private and your words to him happen to be one of those. He’ll lean and close his eyes, fingers dancing against his legs as he wonders what to do with your notes. The thought of marbling them has come across his mind but he’s scared to lose something so precious for him. For now, they remain tucked neatly into a folder- something for the time being until he finds the perfect place to store them.

During bad days, rereading your notes to him makes him feel better. It’s days where the heat burns against his skin, where sleep calls to him like a siren and he’s reaching towards the folder, pulling out a letter carefully to read your words. Some of them are longer than others. Some tell him to simply have a good day and others remind him to drink water. There are a few- his favorite, really- that call him handsome and speak of his devotion and he holds those close to him. Not everyday is easy and he can’t have you beside him as much as he would like, but he has your notes. He’ll stay up late reading them, sleep dragging his lids down, tears in his eyes when he yawns and he’ll spend the night reading.

He’s tried writing you his own notes, but it always comes out lackluster. He adores you, he simply does, but for some reason, when trying to express his words on paper, they fall flat. Papers are crumpled up, thrown to the trashcan and he’s wondering what he’s doing wrong and why they won’t come out like yours. The pen is halfway used through its ink and your folder of letters sit at the table that he writes and he’ll sigh. He’s not giving up- he won’t admit that, at least- but trying to write like you feels foreign to him. Your love for him is best expressed on paper- it’s simple, something so small but so significant in his life that he’s grown so attached that he can’t bear to lose a single note no matter how “insignificant” it may be. Your notes are words that you don’t get a chance to say out loud, they’re something for him. His love isn’t like that. It’s louder and prouder, it’s him constantly having a hand on your and kissing your temple.

He adores them. They’re his notes, his reminder to take care of himself, his own thing that cannot be taken away from him; they are his love from you to him. He’ll sit beside you, hold your hand in his, and clear his throat. Atsuhiro will pull out the folder, clearing his throat and ask if you would read some of the notes to him. It’s embarrassing enough to know that you know that he keeps the notes but if he has to admit that in order to hear your voice read the notes, he’d do it again and again. His arms will wrap around your midsection, his head between your stomach and chest, and he’ll ignore your teasing laughter, and focus how your fingers twist around his hair and curl it softly. He’ll focus on your voice and murmur how a certain one is his favorite as you read to him. It’s a delicate moment where you’re with something so precious to him. You take delicate care to not let a paper crinkle under your fingertips. His lips will press on your stomach, and he’ll return to listening to you read the letters until he can hear you yawn.

[chibinekochan]

Obey me! They are your penpals

Loosely based on a request for you having a penpal but this just gave me more ideas. 

Your penpal is one of the obey me boys but neither of you knows.

  Leviathan 

He just started this since he saw it in an anime somewhere. 

I mean talk about old school right? 

Well, he really gets into it not much later. 

He loves hearing about human culture and you both have so much to talk about. 

His letters are more like books. 

Levi just always goes off a random topic about some anime, game or idol group. 

He even does small little doodles for you. 

It does bother him to have to lie to you about some things, like being a demon and all but it can't be helped. 

Levi honestly wishes to get closer to his penpal but he can't just go to the human realm and he is sure you wouldn't like him in real life. 

When you come to the devildom you think that your penpal is human and so you just write that you are an exchange student in a different country. 

So it does take some time for you both to figure it out. 

I mean of course it seems odd to both of you that your penpal has so much in common with the other but it doesn't really click until you see Levi writing one of his novel length letters. 

You are surprised and then do a lowkey face-palm, since you honestly should have seen it right away. 

Levi is equally surprised, mostly due to the fact that you aren't running away screaming from him, honestly it's a daily miracle. 

He is very happy that he can finally see his penpal and hey you are also friends. 

Levi is pretty glad that he overcame his fear of being in some sort of love triangle, since he is crushing pretty hard on his penpal and on you. 

So now where you are the same person Levi doesn't feel like he is cheating anymore, crisis averted. 

  Mammon

You became penpals a pretty long time ago, when you were still a child. 

So to Mammon it was always like having a cute little sibling. 

One that actually adores him and that believes him. 

Mammon always loves to hear your little updates and he melts every time you add a little gift to your letter, like the snowflake you made for him after he told you that it doesn't snow in his home country. 

His letters are usually short but it's clear to see that he cares and he often gives you advice and encouragement. 

Over time your letter exchanges become more irregular.

Mammon is sad about this but he knows that you are getting older and you can't write forever to him. 

It makes his heart ache but he hopes that you will be okay, even without big brother Mammon to help you. 

When you come to the devildom, honestly, it's a lot to take in and as much as you always enjoy writing, your penpal life just kinda gets in the way. 

On top of that, you now have Mammon to give you support when you need it. 

Somehow he reminds you of your penpal, despite his tsundere ways. 

One day you notice that Mammon is a bit wistful, you wonder why and then you see something vaguely familiar. 

It's a small felt plush toy that you made, you are surprised to see it and ask Mammon how he got it. 

Soon you both realize that Mammon is your old penpal. 

Mammon was sad this entire time about losing his penpal but here you are. 

He gives you a big hug. 

Of course now your relationship has changed but Mammon doesn't mind that part at all. 

  Asmodeus 

He always liked getting letters from his admirers. 

Asmo keeps these letters in a huge box and reads them from time to time. 

Then he has the idea to woo someone just with his words. 

In the end you become his penpal. 

Asmo resists the urge to send his pictures to you many times.

Over time Asmo forgets his original goal, he just enjoys writing to you. 

It's funny to him how much these letters start to mean to him. 

Asmo waits for them and has a whole routine of relaxing and reading the letter. 

He is so glad that he had this idea. 

He never thought a relationship built from words could mean so much to him. 

As much as he would like to meet you he also doesn't really want to change the type of relationship you have with each other. 

He is also scared that you might not click in reality. 

He is pretty content with this. 

Then you come to the devildom and become fast friends with Asmo. 

Since it just feels like you've known each other for ages. 

You talk for hours and just have a ton of fun. 

One day Asmo tells you about his penpal and how much he enjoys the letters, he even shows you one. 

Right away you admit that it's your letter. 

Asmo finds this hilarious. 

How can you make him fall for you not just once but twice? 

Asmo wishes to continue your letters, since it's just so enjoyable for him. 

You agree, since it's equally important to you. 

  Lucifer 

It started more or less accidentally, by sending a letter to the wrong address. 

Your reply made his day and so your conversation continues with letters. 

Lucifer is starting to really enjoy the exchanges. 

He can just write about whatever he wants and you don't judge him at all. 

It's pretty relaxing for him to be able to be so open to someone. 

He has to change some details of course but it's so refreshing. 

Your perspective on everything just feels really nice and he feels very understood. 

He finds himself reading your letters many times over, whenever he feels troubled. 

Lucifer always takes the evening off when he gets a new letter, since he takes his time reading it. 

His brothers are baffled but (ab)use the situation. 

Lucifer doesn't realize that his penpal is you when you come to the devildom. 

Lucifer soon gets some suspicions after noticing the similarities between your way or writing and your way of speaking. 

When he sees your handwriting it's confirmed. 

Lucifer isn't sure if he should tell you for quite some time. 

He just really enjoys your letters. 

When you two grow closer he finally tells you that he figured out that you are his penpal. 

You are a bit upset, since he knew for so long but eventually got over it. 

Lucifer writing you a very heartfelt apology letter helps. 

  Diavolo 

He was always very interested in other realms but he has very little time as is. 

Still, when the opportunity arises, he joins a letter exchange program. 

You are the person to receive his letters. 

Of course Diavolo has to change a lot of details, so you believe he is just a very busy man. 

Diavolo always has so many questions that you come to the conclusion that he must be very sheltered but you think of him as very charming and gladly answer him all you can. 

Sometimes you even send him some pictures of your hometown. 

Diavolo always loves these very much. 

He keeps every letter in a binder and often reads parts of it to Barbatos. 

Diavolo often marks the days he got a letter in his calendar. 

Usually with a star or a heart. 

He enjoys writing long letters to you about whatever comes to his mind. 

Especially when there's something funny about Lucifer or something cute like a random kitten that he saw. 

His letters always make you smile. 

Diavolo can't always reply right away, due to his busy schedule and his long letters but he always shovels an evening free for this. 

He is very excited about meeting another human, you have set high expectations in your letters. 

Even when you are just a pretty regular human. 

You fit right in but now you are also very busy and you sadly have less and less time to be penpals with your mysterious penpal. 

It's quite sad, since you always wanted to meet him. 

At some point you have to get something from Diavolo and go to his office. 

There you see a picture on his desk. 

The scenery looks awfully familiar to you. 

You take a closer look and see it's your hometown. 

At first you don't add two and two together and just casually ask him about it. 

After a bit of back and forth where you both take too long to realize that you are each other's penpals it finally clicks. 

You both laugh about it and then spend hours talking. 

Now your letters turn into a weekly meeting to just talk about whatever. 

  Beelzebub 

It started as a recipe exchange. 

Beel is always looking for new meals to make or give Satan a recipe to cook. 

Soon the recipes changed into questions about ingredients. 

Since Beel uses demon food you have never heard about and you use human food and appliances that Beel never heard about. 

Then you two talk about your family's and other random things and soon you are normal penpals. 

You both just have fun exchanging letters. 

Beel doesn't even notice how much your letters make his day great whenever he gets them.

He always has a huge silly smile on his face. 

Belphie shakes his head and rolls his eyes but Beel doesn't care. 

Then you arrive in the devildom. 

Until this day you didn't really believe that Beel was a demon and just thought that he was trying to be funny or was just strange. 

Much to your surprise the devildom is real and everything that Beel talked about is also real. 

It's pretty amazing. 

After meeting Beel you can tell that he is the guy you have been writing to all this time. 

You confirm it rather quickly with him, Beel instantly gives you a  big hug. 

You are his cooking letter buddy after all! 

He is pretty happy to finally meet you. 

After cashing your breath, after the surprise hug, you are equally happy. 

  Simeon 

Your letter friendship started with an angel letter exchange program. 

Simeon enjoys it, despite being forced into it. 

At the start there are many penpals but over time he has less and less people to reply to him. 

Simeon enjoys every single letter but somehow he always liked yours the most. 

He doesn't even know why. 

It just feels like you two click the most. 

Simeon doesn't think deeply about it. 

After all you are a human on earth. 

Some are unreachable on many levels. 

On top of that Simeon can't be a hundred percent open with you, since he can't just come out and say that he is an angel. 

So your relationship is always a bit distant in the letters, as much as he regrets it. 

Simeon knows that your relationship will end someday, no matter how it happens but your letters will stop. 

That's fine with him, Simeon just cherishes whatever time you two have. 

Then he gets sent to the devildom. 

He takes his work very seriously and Simeon enjoys his stay in the devildom a lot. 

He still keeps in contact with you but it gets harder to keep up with it. 

Simeon has some regrets about it but can't help himself but moving forward. 

Then you come to the devildom. 

Often you find yourself writing to your penpal about the, pretty crazy, events. 

Soon Simeon figures out that you are his penpal. 

He doesn't want to end your letter based friendship, but he also feels like this is his only chance to meet you and talk to you without lies. 

Simeon invites you to some tea, while his roommates are out. 

He gently tells you everything, you don't judge him at all, you are very happy to finally meet your penpal. 

   Check my Obey me! Masterlist for more content

[cherrydreamer]

(This one is for @ihni and is based on her amazing Midsummer doodle) (TW for implied/reference child abuse (Neil Hargrove’s usual assholery) 

AO3 Link

Midsummer (4.3k) Billy always knew his Mom was a little different from other moms.  Other moms knew all about things like how to get the grass stains out of white shirts or how to  pack a lunch box so the juice carton didn’t squash the fruit and the tomatoes in the sandwich didn't make the bread all soggy.  And other moms remembered to make brownies for the bake sales, and to send their kids in the right costumes for dress up days and to bring enough money to the store so they don’t have to leave the candy behind.

But Billy didn’t mind too much when his Mom didn’t know about those things. Because his mom knew all about magic.

She had a head full of rituals and rites from way way back, starting with some Swedish great-great-great-great-great grandmother and then handed down from mother to daughter for generations. Things like throwing a continuous strand of apple peel over your shoulder to reveal your lover's first initial or gazing into a candlelit bowl of water and waiting for a glimpse of the future. And she knew really clever things too, like which flowers she could make into a tea to help Billy with his stomach aches, and which ones could be rubbed onto an arm to stop a bruise appearing.  But it was the Midsummer rituals that she held most dear. The ones about rolling naked in dew or tying coloured threads to sprouts of barley or running around a field at midnight with a four-leafed clover clutched to your breast.

None of it was very practical of course, in their shabby little house on the shabby little street, miles away from fields of wheat and with a husband who saw nothing charming or fun about a wife who slipped away in the middle of the night in just a flimsy nightgown, but there was one she managed to get away with most years.

The gathering of flowers. 

Collect seven different types of flowers from as many meadows. When going to bed, put the bouquet underneath your pillow. You will see your true love in your dream.

She'd explained it all to Billy one morning when he saw her arranging the crumpled, slightly squashed flowers into the old polka-dotted jug that stood in the kitchen windowsill. She told him all about the midsummer magic and the visions of your true love and Billy had been confused. Not about the magic- that all made sense- but about why she still did it. And so he’d asked her, with all the innocence of the young, "Isn't Daddy your true love?"

She'd sighed then, pausing as she gently nudged the dropping rose into place, and then she’d looked at him, a wistful look that didn’t at all match up with her big smile, "Sometimes it's still nice to dream, baby."

The next year she took Billy with her. They hadn't stuck to the rules, not exactly. Billy was pretty sure that their scrap of backyard didn't count as a meadow, and neither did the slightly less scrappy front yard owned by their neighbour and he was almost certain that the poppies from the side of the road probably shouldn't count either. 

But his Mom reassured him that it was OK, that as long as he tried hard to think good thoughts before he went to sleep the magic would still work. And Billy found himself believing, eager to see what his dreams had in store for him. He even went to bed an hour earlier than his usual bedtime, running to his room as soon as they got in to tuck the flowers carefully under his pillow case before he lay down, still in his outdoor clothes and squeezed his eyes shut, willing sleep to come.

It wasn't easy. The roadside flowers had a weird chemical smell which made his nose hurt and there were still some prickly thorns on the rose and he couldn't help but think of the fact that Hogan, the neighbour’s soppy St Bernard, had almost certainly peed all over the lilacs, but Billy tried to ignore all of that and willed himself to think of only good things instead. Things like beaches and rock pools and apple pies with a drizzle of honey and picnics with his Mom and Dad and the time his third grade teacher had said he wrote the most engaging story about a surfing penguin that she had ever read and gave him two gold stars and a glow in the dark sticker.

And eventually Billy slept. But he didn't dream.  Didn't get to see his true love.  Didn't wake with a vision in his mind and a smile on his face. 

Instead he was woken abruptly, his heart hammering in fear as he was yanked up roughly by his arm to be faced with a furious Neil who'd followed a trail of muddy footprint to Billy's room and then found a parade of bugs that had been hiding in the flowers and had crawled out onto Billy's sheets in the middle of the night. And so instead of his flowers being arranged in his Mom's spotted jug, they were thrown unceremoniously into the trash, and instead of chatting eagerly about his dreams with his Mom over breakfast, Billy was made to go hungry as he stripped the sheets from his bed and cleaned his room from top to bottom, all the while ignoring the stinging tears in his eyes and the burning pain in his shoulder.

By the next Midsummer, Billy's Mom wasn't around anymore and Billy soon forgot the rituals. Not that it mattered. He didn't believe in magic anymore.

---

It's later, years later, when he’s reminded of it again. Almost a year after The MindFlayer, a year after Billy's entire life turned upside down. A year after everything changed.

Some of it for the better. 

He’s still stuck in Hawkins, courtesy of some government mandated bullshit, but they gave him enough hush money to make it out of Cherry Lane and Billy scored himself a sizeable trailer right on the outskirts of town, far enough from Neil for him to finally feel safe but still close enough that Max was able to visit after school. 

Max is one of the better changes. Maybe the best. Top two at least. They’re closer now. Shared trauma and last-word apologies being more than enough to bridge a gap. And it's on one of her visits that Max stirs it all up. 

Not that she means to. She's sitting on Billy's third-hand beaten-up couch while he cooks, droning on about a party the older kids at school are throwing that night, something called a ‘Midsummer Mixer’, which seemingly has absolutely nothing to do with the solstice and everything to do with finding an excuse to get drunk and have a party in a farmer's field, and angsting out loud about Lucas and the pretty girls at school who will definitely be there too and how she doesn't know if she should go. How she doesn't have the right look. How she doesn't fit in yet. 

Teenage girl bullshit, really, Billy thinks. Shit she only thinks she needs to care about because she's started reading Teen Beat and Seventeen instead of comic books and skateboard mags.

But then he looks up from the sauce he’s simmering on the stove and sees the real distress in her eyes. The sadness she’s trying to mask with her moaning. So he turns the pan down, walking over to the back of the couch and ruffling a hand in her hair as she scowls and bats him away, 

“Stop whining, shitbird. It’s a party, yeah? Just a lame bonfire in a shitty field. It’s not exactly the height of the Hawkins social scene.” 

And then he does his usual big brother warnings, wagging his finger as he imparts wisdom such as, ‘beer before liquor, never been sicker’ before reeling off a load of exaggerated teen pregnancy horror stories, relishing the way that Max goes bright red and tries to cover her ears. He hams it up, his voice getting louder and louder over the sounds of her disgust, his hands catching her skinny wrists as she tries to clap a hand over his mouth or shut him up with a jab to his ticklish ribs. 

Eventually Billy runs out of ways to embarrass her and Max runs out of energy, but she’s finally smiling and the pan on the stove is starting to bubble again, so they call a hasty truce.

Billy loads them both a plate of spaghetti and then, between shovelled mouthfuls, starts giving her some proper brotherly advice. "Seriously Max, lame as you are, you're still a million times cooler than those stuck up bitches. But-" he pauses as he stands up, holding up one finger to get her to wait as he leaves the room, "If you wanna really show 'em-" he calls from the tiny bedroom in the back of the trailer, "then wear...this."

He comes out brandishing a denim jacket. It's well-worn. Parts of it are faded and there's a hole starting to wear by the cuff, but the collection of  band pins and patches give it an air of coolness that more than make up for its shabbiness. 

"Wear this with that ratty green dress you got last week, and definitely wear your Chucks instead of trying to stagger around a field in dumb heels. Trust me-" he throws the jacket at her, hitting her smack in the face, "You'll look.... You’ll be fine."

But he watches as Max just picks at her food, a furrow in her brow as she stares at the plate, so as soon as they’ve finished with dinner Billy forces her to stay in her chair so he can braid her hair, arranging it into a fancy, twirly crown around her head. He steps back to admire his handwork, reaching out to undo a few strands which fall artfully around her face, and then he nods, satisfied.

“Done. Now you gotta scoot, OK? Get home, get dressed and go have some actual proper fun for the first time in ever.”

Billy walks her out with a few more half-jokey warnings and a sincere promise to call him if she gets into any trouble at all. He’s just about to close the door when he spots the little crop of stubborn daisies and Queen Anne’s Lace that grows around his mailbox, and he calls Max back, getting her to sit on the wooden steps just outside his door as he carefully weaves a selection of the white flowers in and out of her braid.

“There y’go,” he murmurs when he’s done, “Proper May Queen now. Just don’t mess ‘em up when you put your dress on.” 

Max raises a tentative hand to touch the petals, and Billy instantly slaps it down, “What did I say?” he grumbles at her, “Don’t mess ‘em up. You’ll never get it looking as good as I have.”

Max grumbles back at him, but he can tell by her smile, and the way she keeps on checking her reflection in the trailer’s windows that she’s pleased. He lets her preen for a few minutes, then waves her away,  “Get gone, shitbird. Try not to land on your head if you fall off your bike. Your ass is a softer landing anyway.” 

Max flips him the bird as she cycles away. And then Billy’s left alone. 

And for the first time in years, he thinks about his old midsummers. The rituals. The rites. The flowers. He knows now, from painful, first-hand experience, that monsters exist. And if nightmares can be real, why not dreams? Why not magic? Why not true love?  And he has meadows now, a whole load of fields that surround his little house. He knows them well. He’s walked the paths and navigated the trails and he’s seen the flowers springing up. There’s easily at least seven different types. And it is Midsummer Eve. 

Billy’s walking away from his trailer before he even realises. It’s the perfect time of day, that point in a summer’s evening when everything is tinged with a rosy hue and the searing heat of the day has softened into something pleasant and the breeze has started to stir. So Billy walks. And he smiles. 

When he reaches the first meadow he thinks about his Mom. He wonders if she ever did find the person she dreamed of. Someone who'd let her roll in the morning dew. Maybe even someone who'd roll with her. Billy lets himself imagine her, just for a moment, pictures her encouraging smile and tries to remember the exact scent of her jasmine perfume and the way her lips would feel on his forehead. And then, when the ache in his heart starts to feel like too much, he shakes the thought away and picks his first flower. A bright yellow daffodil.

And then he moves on. Moves to another field. Another flower. And he finds himself thinking of another person entirely. 

Harrington. Steve. The first face he saw when he woke up in hospital. Steve, with his long body sprawled out awkwardly on the rigid plastic seat, face crumpled against his palm and his hair mussed as he sat half dozing; sudden jolting upright when Billy started to speak, voice rusty and cracked as he croaked out, "You look like shit.”

Steve whose big, brown eyes met his, full of exhaustion and now so much surprise. Whose lips parted in shock, just for a moment, then grew into a huge smile, the brightest greeting Billy had seen for a long time. Who rolled his eyes and said, "Dude, seriously? First thing you say in three weeks and it's an insult?" And who took Billy's hand and held on and didn't let go until Billy's sudden, silent tears had subsided. 

Steve who had sat by his bed for hours and explained everything. Who came everyday bringing magazines and a Walkman and, on one occasion, some weird handheld game console that neither of them really knew how to play, but that Billy kept because it made Max green with envy whenever she saw it. 

Steve who helped Billy to move what little he had left into the trailer, and then stayed because he had bet with Billy that ‘none of the good pizza places will deliver all the way out here’ and who then insisted on crashing on the couch because he was ‘far too tired to drive home now, Hargrove. I’m a danger to all the other road users.’ 

Steve who was there, right there, when Billy woke up on his first night in an unfamiliar place with a scream in his throat and tears on his cheeks. Steve who whispered reassurances and held Billy until he calmed, and then made a joke about his morning breath not being that horrifying, surely Hargrove, as he flicked on the lamp and turned on the radio and filled the trailer with light and sound and chatter and jokes.

Steve who kept turning up to Billy’s trailer with the Harrington’s hand-me-downs like the television set that apparently didn’t quite fit with Mrs. Harrington’s living room decor and the thick, woolen blankets that had started to make Mr. Harrington sneeze.

Steve who turned up on Halloween with horror films and candy, and on Thanksgiving with Tupperwares filled with leftovers and on Christmas with a boombox tied with a red ribbon and a bag filled with twenty individually wrapped tapes so that Billy would have 'a few more things to unwrap'. Steve who seemed surprised when Billy handed his own little clumsily wrapped package, and then utterly delighted when he opened it to reveal the little plush rooster- a call back to some dumb in-joke that had sprung up between them. 

Steve who also came over even when it wasn't a holiday.  Steve who kept coming round even when he didn't really have a reason to. Steve who stuck around because he wanted to.

Billy walks over to the next meadow letting his fingers trail along the tops of bellflowers that had grown to reach his knees.  And he keeps thinking about Steve. 

He thinks about his tiny moles peeking out from the collar of a polo shirt; he thinks about his warm chuckle that Billy knows how to turn into a gasping, snorting laugh; and the way he sings along to the radio when he drives them both to the lake and the fact that Steve always gives Billy the pickle from his burger without being asked. 

Billy walks through more meadows. picks more flowers.  Hunts out little irises and heady lavender and vivid marigolds and the pinkest of peonies and a delicate primrose. And all the while he thinks of Steve. It doesn’t take him long before he’s done. For all the openness of the meadows, Hawkins is still a small place, and Billy’s back home just as the sun starts to set. He’s yawning as he crosses the threshold, the walk and the bending over and the heat of the day have all taken it out of him. And maybe he’s a little eager too, maybe there’s still a part of him that's still an excited little boy. So Billy gently shakes the flowers out one by one over the bathroom sink, checking them carefully for bugs before he gathers them back into a bundle to lay under his pillow.

This time there are no prickly thorns to prick his skin, no chemical scents to catch in his throat, nothing but the sweet scent of the flowers and the bubble of excitement in Billy’s chest.  He doesn't need to remind himself to think happy thoughts. Right now, they're the only kind on his mind. And, for once, sleep comes easily.

---

He opens his eyes to find himself in the meadow again. Lying down this time, with a picnic blanket spread underneath him. And Steve’s smiling face above him, looking down.

“Hey there, sleepyhead.” 

Billy just blinks at him, and Steve smiles even more,  “You’re like a cat, sleeping in a sunbeam, ‘s cute." But then Steve’s brow furrows a little and concern fills his tone, “Are you feeling OK? Not too tired? I know it’s a bit of a walk to get here but I thought...worth it, y’know? Cause it’s quiet and you hardly ever see anyone and the flowers are-”

“Steve,” Billy cuts him off gently, “It’s perfect, sweetheart.” The endearment trips from his tongue before he can stop it, but it makes Steve smile instantly, his worry lines disappearing as his eyes crinkle instead.

“Well that’s all good then. You deserve perfect, baby."

And then Steve’s leaning forward. And Billy’s closing his eyes. But what he expects doesn't happen. Instead Steve leans past him, reaching out into the grass and pulling up a flower. A bright pink peony that he twirls in his fingers and then slips into Billy's hair, tucking the stem just behind Billy's ear and carefully arranging it until it's sitting just right. He sits back and admires his handiwork, his thumb brushing against Billy's cheek as he cups Billy's face and gazes at him with something like wonderment.

"You look beautiful," he murmurs, and Billy can hear the sincerity in his voice. The weight of it.  And then Steve leans forward again. And this time he closes his eyes too. 

---

Billy wakes with a jolt. There’s a tingle on his lips and his heart is hammering and his stomach is whirling madly. But it's the good kind of whirling. The excited kind. Butterflies rather than tendrils.  He knows, without even glancing in the mirror, that he's woken up with a smile on his face. Big and bright and real. He also knows that he shouldn’t think too much of it. He’s dreamt of Steve before, and not always innocently either, but the dream he just had feels like something more. Something deeper. Something special. 

Magical.

Billy can’t shake the images from the dream. He thinks about it as he goes to the bathroom and washes his face. He thinks about it as gets dressed. He thinks about it as he picks up the slightly crushed flowers from under his pillow, straightening them out and bundling them together to place in the chipped beer glass he found in his cabinet.

And then he has an idea.

---

He’s in his truck, idling outside of Loch Nora before it hits him that he might be being dumb. But he can’t turn back now. He won’t. Instead he parks up a little way away from the houses and gathers up the flowers from the passenger seat, giving them a quick once over before he’s springing out of the truck and walking a familiar route to a familiar house.

It’s still early. There’s still morning dew on the lawns and, save for a single, dedicated jogger, there’s no one around. And Billy knows Steve’s work schedule well enough to know that he’ll almost certainly still be sleeping off the stresses of a late shift with Keith. But he’s still cautious, still makes himself step quietly as he passes Beemer is parked neatly on the driveway and stands outside Steve's door.

He clutches the bouquet in his hand. Thinks for just a second before he’s tugging the scrunchie from his hair- the skull-patterned one that Max bought him when she saw his hair creeping past his shoulders- and wrapping it securely around the stems of the flowers, tying them into a makeshift bouquet. It’s not exactly luxurious, the flowers aren’t exactly at their best after a night being flattened under Billy’s pillow, and they could definitely do with some water to perk them up. But the red of the scrunchie adds an extra touch of brightness, and there’s a certain rustic charm about the shabbiness of the blooms.

So Billy stops doubting them. Stops doubting himself. He places the bouquet down on the doorstep. And then, without a backwards glance, he walks away.  Half an hour later, there's a knock at Billy's door. It's Steve. Standing there with the tiny bouquet in his hands and Billy's scrunchie wrapped around his wrist.

For a moment, neither of them say anything. And then Steve smiles. Smaller and shyer than Billy's ever seen him smile before. Bashful. Billy's almost expecting him to shove his hands in his pockets and start drawing circles in the dirt with his sneaker. Instead he turns the flowers over and over in his hands, looking down at them and then back up at Billy.

"No one's ever given me flowers before," he says.

Billy swallows the bubble of fear rising in his throat. Bites back all the words of denial and fake confusion despite the glaring red evidence wrapped around Steve wrist. Instead he raises an eyebrow, "Bit presumptuous, Harrington. Who says they're for you? Your Mom's a fine looking woman."

Steve laughs at that. Not the full on gaspy one, but not his polite chuckle either. Instead it's fond. Warm. Familiar. And he steps closer into Billy's space, "Not sure she's exactly your type though." 

"Oh, I dunno," Billy grins back and licks his lips, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart as Steve's eyes flick down to follow the movement, "Good hair, brown eyes, nice ass and rich as fuck. Sounds exactly my type."

"My mom's eyes are green," Steve says simply. And then he pauses, his eyes falling back to the flowers in his hand as he ducks his head and shuffles his feet. And Billy’s ready to bolt. To make some excuse and slam the door and slide down on the other side of it and bury his head in his hands and scream and cry and break things and drink and cry a bit more until he passes out. But then Steve looks up at him. And he smiles again. A little bigger this time. Much less shy.  He plucks a flower from the bouquet, the pink peony, and twirls it between his fingers for a moment before he threads it into the waves of Billy's hair, tucking it just behind his ear.

"Looks good. Really good," he murmurs, twisting a few of the curling strands around each other to hold the flower in place, and Billy’s fingers thrill at the contact, at the way Steve’s fingers tickle his scalp and on the sensitive shell of his ear. 

And then Steve's hand slides to Billy's cheek, his thumb tracing the outline of Billy's face so gently. Reverently. Like Billy is something to treasure.  They stay like that for a moment, frozen, and then Steve steps forward, closing the few inches between them, and closes his eyes.  So Billy closes his eyes too.  His heart hammers against his chest, and the butterflies in his stomach flutter again as Steve places his other hand on Billy's waist, the bouquet dangling from his fingers and brushing against Billy's hip.

There's another pause. Another moment.

And then Steve's lips meet his. 

Billy's thundering heart soars as Steve's thumb strokes across his cheek and his fingers curl into Billy's hair and his tongue licks across Billy's lips and into his mouth and Billy can taste him, can taste his morning coffee and his toothpaste and a sweetness that is probably just the very essence of Steve and Billy knows that he’s falling into Steve, that he’s leaning right into Steve’s touch and his own hands are grasping, fingers fluttering at Steve’s waist, almost afraid to hold on, to touch, in case it’s too good to be true and he wakes up back in bed with seven flatted flowers underneath his head. 

And Steve pulls back, just enough that he can gaze at Billy with an expression of pure happiness, grinning and glowing and looking so beautiful that Billy can't help but grin back. And as he does, he feels a bubble of utter joy rising from somewhere deep and long-forgotten.

And Billy believes in magic once more.