#scams stupid fucking arms were almost the death of me. i love the idea but every time i draw it i get frustrated that i have to like

[mispelled]

Wasn't going to post this because I was just playing around with color and it's messy but I kinda like it so. Old man yaoi be upon ye

[scribbling-dragon]

for the fic requests: i’ve personally been kind of craving a grian & jimmy siblings fic that isn’t all like the “wholesome” or overprotectiveness that i see a lot in the tag, sibling relationships can be pretty nasty but still have that underlying affection or familarity to each other because of shared life experiences etc,, i think a dynamic like that (especially in any of the life series with the added stress of being in a death game, you can choose whatever setting tho because i think those two are just Inherently Fucked Up) would be cool to read about if you’re up for it

are you really siblings if you don't try and kill each other on the regular?

summary:

“Nah, most he’d do is scam you out everything valuable you own.”

“And leave me for dead.” He finishes.

“Well, I never said anything about you not dying to something stupid, just that Scar wouldn't kill you.”

“Wow,” he mutters, “what care and concern from my dearest older brother, truly, I have never felt more loved in my life.”

(ao3 link)

(2,080 words)

(reblogs are also appreciated <3)

The sand shifts beneath his feet as he steps onto it. The grains immediately worm their way into his shoes, through some strange impossibility that should mean that sand shouldn’t currently be in his shoes. There’s no way for sand to be in his shoes, yet he can find the grains itching at his feet almost immediately- within seconds of stepping foot onto the first patch of sand.

He grumbles under his breath, stepping further and further into the desert, squinting his eyes against the offensive sun that does its best to blind him the moment he looks up. The sand continues to sink around his feet, grains worming their way into his shoes and sticking to his feet.

It’s Grian’s stupid fault for choosing to live in such a hostile environment- seriously, there were so many better places for him to pick to live in and yet he chooses a desert? The man’s supposed to be smart, or something, and yet he chooses the biome that is potentially the most hostile to beings living in it (other than, maybe, an ocean. Choosing to live in the middle of the ocean is also a pretty stupid idea, but he’s also pretty sure Grian’s done that too). Maybe the man isn't so deserving of the clever title everyone gives him; maybe he’s just an idiot.

He glances up again, taking his chances with being blinded by the sun to see how much further he has to go. Monopoly Mountain still looms on the horizon, a seemingly insurmountable distance away. It feels as though he’s hardly made any progress with his journey across the desert, and the constantly shifting sand beneath his feet does nothing but add to the nightmarish trek.

He begins to curse Grian out beneath his breath.

“Now that’s just plain hurtful.” He startles, twisting to face the new arrival.

Grian’s perching on a nearby cactus, hand lightly resting on the top of it for balance. His talons curl around one of the arms of the cacti. It doesn't look at all comfortable, and Jimmy hopes he’s picking cacti spines out of his feet for the next week.

“You chose to live in a stupid place.” He complains. “Seriously? What’s wrong with a- a nice forest? Somewhere that’s not this hot or difficult to walk through!” He kicks at some of the sand, which only succeeds in shifting it slightly and adding to the slowly growing desert in the base of his boots.

“It’s for exactly that reason we chose to live here, Tim.” Grian cocks his head to the side. “Don't exactly want everyone wandering on past our base, especially not with so many red lives running around.”

“Hardly anyone’s going to be running past your base with Scar there.” He scoffs. He’s almost tempted to kick at the sand again, but that’d do nothing but make him more annoyed at the existence of a desert. He pledges to himself, then, that he shall never set foot in another desert unless it is with the sole purpose of eradicating every grain of sand from within it. Can't be a desert without any sand, can it?

“Or me.” Grian grins. “More than a few people are wary about me after that enchanting table trap.”

“You give yourself far too much credit.” He laughs. “I was the one that set that trap off- it didn't even work. Everyone overestimates how far you plan ahead.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he responds. This desert really is far too hot, he can feel the grains of sand beginning to collect between his feathers. Something which is going to be a pain to get out once he’s returned home and is safely away from this hellspawn of a biome. “You don't plan ahead at all.”

“Don't I?” Grian tries to sound surprised, raising his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner. It’s done with the sole intent of irritating him. And it works. Irritatingly. Grian just knows how to get under his skin, managing the feat with nothing more than a few expressions and carefully spoken words.

“No,” he can feel his feathers begin to fluff up a little, “you don't. Have you even thought about how this is going to end? About how all of this is going to end? Because I know you haven't, you never think that far ahead, never beyond the next trap or prank you're planning on pulling, hm? What happens when your contract with Scar runs out? What happens if he’s the one to kill you? What happens if you're the one to kill him?”

“It won't come to that.” Grian frowns at him, wings twitching. The hints at his annoyance are subtle. Everything about him is subtle, subtle up until the point where it is not, and you're left wondering where all of the sudden annoyance came from. “It won't.”

“But it might.” He shrugs. “What happens if you and Scar beat each other to death, hm?”

“The same thing that will happen if you and Scott beat each other to death, Tim,” Grian looks at him. “You die, and you move on. Game over, you go home.”

“And everyone else forgets this even happened in the first place.” He says, shoulders sagging. “Everyone goes home, none the wiser. As though they never disappeared in the first place, because it’s so easy for you to do that.”

“You make it sound like I enjoy that.”

Jimmy sighs. “I know you don't. But you don't think about these things. How are you meant to stop yourself from getting hurt if you don't think about it?”

“Isn't that what you're here for?” Grian asks. He hops down from the cacti, stretching his wings out as he lands. The wingspan is far larger than he normally has, tawny brown feathers so different from the usual bright reds and yellows of his wings.

His own are the same as they've always been. Unchanging. The bright yellow remains unaffected by whatever magic forces Grian to adapt- he’s not sure what he’d prefer; the unchanging warning of his own wings, or being forced to adapt with each different server, changing as he moves between them. 

“And here I thought you actually appreciated my company.”

“Of course not,” Grian scoffs. “Now, what was it you needed? Unless you just felt like complaining at me.”

“Uh,” why was he in the desert in the first place? He hadn't done anything remarkable that day, certainly nothing that he would have decided to trudge out here to inform their allies of- “Oh! Scott wants more sand, says our supplies are running low.”

“And he sent you to do it for him?”

“He’s doing enchants,” he says. “You know I can't do those very well.”

“Oh I am aware.” Grian laughs. “Your attempts are still as messy as when you were ten, I take it?”

He grumbles in response, which only prompts Grian to laugh more even though it isn't really that funny.

“Sand?” He prompts, when he realises Grian’s just going to keep laughing at him. At this rate, he’s going to pass out from a lack of oxygen, or the heat getting to him, before Jimmy can even secure the goods and been on his merry way back to his distinctly not sand-filled home.

“Yeah, yeah, c’mon,” Grian beckons him to follow, and he does, falling into step behind him. Grian moves with ease across the landscape, somehow managing not to sink into the sand as deeply as he does. Maybe it’s something to do with not wearing boots, though he’s certainly not about to risk burning his feet to test it- he’d rather Grian doesn't laugh at him anymore. “I don't see why you couldn't just dig up some of the edges, why come all this way to find me?”

“I'm not about to die because Scar found me digging up part of the desert.”

“He wouldn't kill you for it,” Grian sighs.

“Uh, yes he would. Have you met the man?”

“Nah, most he’d do is scam you out everything valuable you own.”

“And leave me for dead.” He finishes.

“Well, I never said anything about you not dying to something stupid, just that Scar wouldn't kill you.”

“Wow,” he mutters, “what care and concern from my dearest older brother, truly, I have never felt more loved in my life.”

“Oh, knock it off,” Grian nudges him far harder than necessary, pushing him into a small pile of sand that flies up as he kicks it, getting in his eyes and his mouth. He spits the sand out, feeling the grains catch in his teeth as he grimaces.

He stumbles after Grian, just to shove him back, watching him stumble slightly, teetering a little to the side. Grian shoves him back, as though Jimmy’s own shove wasn't revenge already.

He jabs an elbow into Grian’s ribs in return, digging into the spot he knows is especially sensitive after Grian cracked three ribs while attempting to fly for the first time. Grian shouts, loud and wordless, which is all the warning he gets before Grian leaps at him, shoving him down into the sand.

“Grian!” He cries. He can feel sand nestling amongst his hair, digging into his feathers. “Hey, hey!” He shoves at Grian, attempting to dislodge the avian. It doesn't work, and they simply end up rolling around.

Grian kicks at him, talons scratching down his trousers, no doubt ripping his jeans- something he’s going to have to explain to Scott later, no doubt. He kicks right back, shoving at Grian’s face as he goes to bite him, shoving him away until he’s at a safe enough distance that he won't - literally - go for the jugular.

Grian licks his hand.

He pulls it back with a shout of disgust, kicking at Grian hard enough to dislodge him, scrambling to his feet before Grian can lunge at him.

“What was that for!” He yells, hopping back a step when Grian still looks tempted to lunge for him.

“You jabbed me!” Grian yells back, gesturing wildly with his arms. His wings flap too, stirring up the sand and stinging at his eyes.

“And you tried to bite me!” He doesn't shriek- he doesn't. Grian is a known liar, so even if he does go around snitching on him, not that he shrieked in the first place, no one’s going to believe him. “How many times have I told you not to go for the throat!”

“How many times have I told you not to elbow me!” Grian shrieks back at him. “I wouldn't have to bite you if you didn't elbow me!”

“You shoved me first.” He crosses his arms. His wings twitch behind him, feathers ruffling as he tries to dislodge as much of the sand as he can.

“And? It’s my desert.”

“It’s not your desert.”

“Uh, yeah it is?” Grian tips his head to the side. “I live in it. It’s my desert.”

“Whatever,” he throws his hands up, turning around. “I give up! Keep your stupid sand!”

“What are you gonna tell Scott?” Grian yells after him. He ignores him, stalking across the sand, gritting his teeth every time it slips beneath his feet.

When he does arrive back at their base, Scott is still enchanting, nose deep in one of the books and glasses perched precariously on the edge of his nose as he leans forward to read it, quill and ink set aside for the moment.

He looks up as Jimmy enters, eyes widening in surprise at the state of him.

“What happened to you? You look like you had a fight with a bucket of sand and lost.”

“Grian.”

“Ah,” Scott nods his head along sagely. “That certainly explains why you've come back dripping sand, yet seemingly lacking in it.”

“It just wasn't working out,” he waves Scott off. “I'm going for a lie down.”

“Alright,” he nods, watching his husband go. One of his trouser legs was torn, as though it had been ripped to shreds by a wild animal, or a particularly vicious bush. He has a feeling it was neither of those, though. He supposes he must give Grian credit where credit’s due, though he’s not sure what the man gets out of beating his brother up.

It simply makes him all the more glad to be a single child; he can't imagine the hassle of having a brother that seems hellbent on killing you at every turn.

[bewaretheidesofmarchyall]

Dream SMP Good Omens AU

I wrote a Good Omens AU! It’s on AO3 here, but I’m also posting it here

Sixteen years before the apocalypse, three babies were dropped off on the doorstep of an orphanage. Two of them were human as human can be, while the third was prophesied to bring about the great war between heaven and hell, start the apocalypse, and just have a generally fun time. 

How exactly did the antichrist get left on a doorstep on a rainy night?

A few hours before

Our journey starts in a graveyard, where Baby No. 1 was found. 

Now, when I say "Baby No. 1", know that I mean the great destroyer, future doom of the world, bringer of death, currently wrapped in a fluffy blue blanket in a wicker basket, etc. 

He glanced around at the tombstones almost judgmentally, as though to say I don't think this is where one-day-old children go, but hey, I don't know enough about existence to dispute this. 

The wicker basket remained tucked away in the graveyard for a while, a few drops of rain gently falling down. Apparently, the poor weather was what Baby No. 1's escort was looking for, as he appeared as the mist began to gather. 

Wilbur Soot always had a penchant for dramatic atmosphere.

Quite a few lords of hell would call Wilbur the worst demon ever to walk the pit. This was absolutely untrue. Wilbur was a fairly mediocre demon that happened to be walking the pit, but certainly not the worst, putting that stupid fiddle contest bet aside. 

The gossip-mongers would only say things like that (and other, harsher things) because Wilbur had been one of the best fallen angels to ever swear vengeance on a broken sword. 

But it's frankly hard to keep up an emo phase for 6,000 years.

He strolled over to the basket, checked to make sure that there was still a baby in it, and waited impatiently for the thing's ride to arrive. Technically, he was supposed to be the one driving the antichrist to St. Beryl's Orphanage, but he had tickets to see Heathers that night and decided to use that most clever trick: Getting someone else to do his work instead. 

Still, he didn't have much trust in the guy he'd asked, and wanted to make sure that the child actually got from the graveyard to the car.

It was already five minutes past the scheduled time, and the weather was terrible, and he was fine with starting the end of days, but why did he have to work overtime? At least Schlatt wasn't here to laugh at him being on babysitting duty. 

Almost on cue, a raspy laugh came from the shadows of the church in the center of the graveyard. Ugh. Speak of the angel. 

Almost everyone would call JSchlatt the worst angel to ever wear a suit. 

And they would be absolutely right. 

He had no care for heaven, or the great war, or any sort of noble deed. The only predictable thing about him was his biting snark and the ever-present stink of cheap alcohol. 

When he entered a room, everyone there knew that they would soon regret not keeping him out by any means necessary, and he knew that they knew, and he enjoyed that. 

The greatest miracle ever performed in all of earthly and non-earthly history was that he hadn't been thrown out of heaven by his horns yet.

"Are you on babysitting duty, Wilbur?". Wilbur crossed his arms, trying and failing to hide the annoyance on his face. He could have had a cool arch-nemesis, but no. He was stuck with this dick.

"Laugh all you like, Schlatt-"

"Oh, trust me, I am."

"But once the child reaches 16, he's going to bring about the finale of this pathetic excuse for an earth".

Okay, so maybe he wasn't entirely rid of that emo phase. Schlatt looked at him, smug.

"Whatever you say, Soot. Hey, did the lower-downs tell you who's watching over your little finale?"

"I am. I'm watching over the antichrist, being a "corrupting influence" (whatever that means), that sort of thing."

"Well, my higher-ups had a similar idea. They seem to think that if the kid is nudged in the right direction, he'll start the apocalypse and fight on heaven's side. Bla bla bla, defeating Satan and/or Slimecicle, honestly I zoned out during the briefing. Long story short, they thought the kid needed a positive role model, and my name got picked.". 

The idea of "positive role model" and "Schlatt" being considered at all similar rattled Wilbur enough that it took a few seconds for the implications to sink in.

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. We're going to be neighbors!"

"No, no, no, no-"

"Isn't this exciting?". Wilbur barely restrained a scream, and only shuddered in horror. Before he could lose what was left of his sanity and discorporate anyone, a car horn beeped. It's about time.

He half walked, half sprinted over to the black car. The window cranked open, revealing a nervous foxlike face.

The general consensus was that Fundy was too mediocre of a demon to be worth any notice. 

He'd never been seen doing anything appropriately horrible or failed spectacularly, so according to most of hell he didn't exist. 

In truth, Fundy was about to prove tonight that he was much worse of a demon than they thought.

"Sorry I'm late, I forgot I cursed a major highway, and then I had to drive on that highway to get here, and-"

"Just take the kid.". The basket was passed to Fundy, who looked at it with fear and wonder.

Baby No. 1 didn't look like an antichrist (I mean, he was the only antichrist at this point and could only look like himself, but he didn't look like how one would expect an antichrist to look). He just looked like any one-day-old baby. Fundy tried to disguise how grateful he was about that. Maybe, just maybe, the plan could work. 

He looked back up to Wilbur.

"So, what was the important demonic business?"

"Hmm?"

"I mean, you said you had "important demonic business", and that's why you couldn't drive the kid yourself."

"Ah, yes. That important demonic business. Well, Fundy, that's for me to know and you to not know.". Wilbur shifted, hiding the Heathers tickets in his coat sleeve.

"Enjoy your drive!". With that, he teleported away from the graveyard. Schlatt shrugged, and continued eating protein powder out of the jar.

-----------

Fundy drove like a maniac down the highway, swerving off the road to avoid the cursed-induced traffic. 

He'd pulled off hundreds of scams before, but they were all on the humans. He'd never scammed the forces of heaven and hell simultaneously before. He was pretty sure that was called "treason". Which was punishable by death if he got caught. This is the worst idea of my entire fucking existence. 

As he sped down the road regretting his life choices, rain pouring down on the windshield, his co-conspirator teleported into the passenger seat.

"Hey, you ready to do something illegal?"

The executives in heaven had no idea what to make of Quackity. 

They could hardly call him the worst angel when there was Schlatt running about drunk off his ass, and he was even good at his job most of the time. Even now, the executives couldn't quite pin down a time he'd directly broken a rule.

However, he had a habit of taking the rulebook, shaking it out, finding whatever loopholes existed, and using them to do whatever he pleased.

There wasn't a rule saying he couldn't wear yeezys and sunglasses to important board meetings. 

There wasn't a rule saying that he couldn't try to seduce the archangels, that was implied at best. 

And there wasn't a rule saying that he couldn't get attached to the human world. The higher-ups had never considered that anyone would, so it hadn't been written down in the paperwork. 

Their mistake.

Here was the truth: Quackity didn't want the apocalypse to happen. If you spend 6,000 years in any place, how can you not care about it? Sure, humans are there and gone in the blink of an eye, but the things they make to show they were here can stay for centuries.

He knew too much history about the place to just stand back and let it get set on fire. 

So, he'd searched through all of heaven for a collaborator. There was no one willing to help him there, their reactions ranging from "I'd love to help, but I don't want to get hellfire poured on my face" to "If you're insinuating what I think you are, I'll turn you in to get hellfire poured on your face".

So, he took the escalator down to the basement. It took him a while to find someone, even there, but eventually he met a familiar fox-faced demon, and a plan was hatched.

Why did Fundy join in on a dangerous scheme like this one?

Attention, mostly. Humans were the only ones to really acknowledge his existence, even if it was almost all negative attention. Which was fair. He did steal their things a lot.

"Ready as I'll ever be, I guess."

"Great.". Quackity looked into the basket containing Baby No.1, breathed a sigh of relief that he looked like a normal human, and revealed a cardboard box. Inside the cardboard box was Baby No. 2, wrapped in a green blanket.

When I say "Baby No. 2", know that I mean a quiet mortal child with wisps of light blond hair, born to a regular human that didn't want him.

"I found him on the side of the road.". The two of them sat in silence for a while at that, before Fundy brought up the plan again.

"So, we drop them both at St. Beryl's."

"Yeah."

"And then they think that this kid is the antichrist, and the antichrist is the kid."

"Yeah."

"And our bosses try to raise the kid and sway them to the dark side or whatever, while we raise the antichrist and keep them from destroying the world."

"Yeah."

"Um. Quick question."

"Yeah?"

"If we're putting them both on the doorstep at the same time, how do we know they won't think the antichrist is the antichrist and the kid is the kid?"

"....I didn't think about that.”. They pondered the problem together. Eventually, Fundy conjured a sharpie and wrote "antichrist, this side up" on the side of the cardboard box in bold letters.

"That should work. Also, you need to stop teleporting into my car while it's moving. You could fuse with the seats, and that would suck to clean up."

And so, Baby No. 1 and Baby No. 2 were dropped off on the doorstep of St. Beryl's Orphanage. It was harder than expected to say goodbye to Baby No. 2, but they managed. 

The duo was somewhat confused by the third baby on the doorstep, who hadn't been put there by any of them, and actually just so happened to be dropped off at the wrong orphanage at the wrong time.

Baby No. 3 was in a red blanket, and when I say "Baby No. 3", know that I mean a human child that was currently doing what he would be doing for much of his life: Screaming at the top of his lungs. 

It is assumed that he was born to humans since he was one, but the kid could have been dropped off by a galaxy for all we know.

All that we need to know is that fate had not favored Baby No. 3, and that would continue for a while.

And so, three babies were dropped off on the doorstep of an orphanage, sixteen years before the apocalypse.

--------

Quite a few people (and things that at least looked like people) were excited about this. It was supposed to be a secret that the antichrist was at St. Beryl's Orphanage, so obviously everyone from purgatory to Portland had heard the news.

The lobby was jam-packed with a few demons with extremely good disguises, far more demons with very bad disguises, a mafia-style group of angels, another mafia-style group of angels but they were pretending to be a book club for some convoluted reason, a few very lost ghosts who didn't even want to be there in the first place, the man who was going to burn the orphanage to the ground in a couple of hours, the dread Charlie Slimecicle, hassled orphanage staff, and, notably, the owners of two motorcycles in the parking lot. 

The two motorcycles were a sickly hospital white and an empty-seeming black respectively, and their riders were lowkey famous (not that they liked to brag about it or anything). 

Any and all apocalypse enthusiasts knew their names (or at least their titles), and once they met up with two more friends Doomsday would truly be underway.

But that party wouldn't be started for another sixteen years. 

For now, only two out of the set of four were gathered, and tonight was less about the apocalypse than the drama and firsthand gossip to get. They sat in the corner, watching the chaos unfold with reflective eyes.

-----------

Now, someone would eventually have to adopt these babies. The antichrist would have to grow up among the mortals, and St. Beryl's Orphanage was always more of an apocalypse creating scheme than an orphanage to begin with, so they would have to find some unwitting soul to take Baby No. 2 and Baby No. 3 soon. 

Thankfully for everyone involved, three humans that showed up that day ready to adopt, with varying degrees of dread.

The first was a man seemingly in his late thirties, wearing a green coat that could almost be considered a cloak.

The second was a young adult with sunglasses and an almost royal quality about them.

And the third was a sweet-looking young woman in a soft striped sweater, who clutched an ancient book tightly under her arm.

They were quickly hustled through the lobby by the head of the orphanage, who tried her best to keep anyone in the group from seeing anything odd happening around them (Which is a bit of a challenge when certain demons think that a fake mustache from a corner store is enough to look completely non-supernatural). 

She rushed around from the tiny waiting room with the potential parents to the room with the babies to the stampede outside, internally wishing that she'd done what she'd planned in college and been a therapist instead of running an orphanage/doomsday cult.

All of the humans in the waiting room were understandably confused, but their questions were unheeded. 

The three of them sat in silence for several minutes. When it became clear that no one would be coming to check on them, small talk was attempted. 

Names were learned (The first parent went by the name Philza, while the second was named Eret, and the third Niki), the weather thoroughly discussed, and finally, the conversation turned to the inevitable:

"So, why are you here?". The question was asked by Eret, who seemed genuinely curious. Phil looked down from the clock he'd been watching, annoyed.

"To adopt a child. Why else?"

"I figured that, but what led you here? You don't have to answer if you don't want to, I'm just trying to break the silence.". Phil continued staring at the wall, preparing his words.

Half an hour before

"You want me to what?"

Phil had been driving home when he got the call. If he really had a say in the matter, he would have sent that to voicemail in two seconds flat, but his caller wasn't the kind of person you could hang up on ("person" wasn't even accurate to him). The rain was falling down on the windshield, the traffic was abysmal, and apparently he was supposed to adopt a child. 

"Listen, with all due respect, I owe you nothing anymore. I don't have to do missions for you, I don't have to kill for you, and I especially don't have to take care of a baby for sixteen years for you.". He nodded along as the other side of the call said his bit, before responding.

"Sixteen years is quick? Maybe to the likes of you it's quick, for me it's actually a sizeable chunk of time! I don't care that I have to 'just keep him alive-'". He was cut off, and he waited impatiently for his chance to speak again, which he got.

"You and I have gone our separate ways. Me and Technoblade are both in retirement, and there's no way in hell I'm adopting a child. That's my final word.". 

The voice on the other side of the call spoke how he usually did: Methodical, calm, devoid of mercy. Mentioning Techno had been a mistake, and the conversation eased into detailed and pointed threats. Finally, he gave up.

"If I do this, you'll finally leave me and Techno alone?". An affirmative answer. Phil sighed, already weary of the experience.

"Fine. Screw you, but fine. I'll take your stupid project."

Current

Phil folded his arms, a scowl on his face.

"I'm just very paternal."

For some reason, Eret doubted that, but they nodded anyway.

"I decided I wanted to adopt a few months ago. I mean, I have the money for it, and there are so many kids without parents. I think I just wanted to do something about it, and try to give some kid a good childhood.". They laughed quietly under their breath.

"Sometimes I feel like something else put the idea in my head.". Phil and Eret looked towards Niki, expecting her to speak. She held her book close to her, fingers drumming on the cover.

"I've known for a while that I was going to adopt a baby today. St. Beryl's Orphanage, April 1st, the year I turn 19."

"How did you know?". Niki opened the book, re-reading the same familiar page.

"It's just fate."

-----------

Meanwhile, the two horsemen of the apocalypse were tired of just watching. 

If they stayed any longer without doing anything, this trip wouldn't be worth the motorcycle fuel. 

They rose from the seats in unison and slipped casually into the baby room. The head of the orphanage had been slumped against the wall, exhausted. However, when the duo entered the room, she leapt to her feet.

"Excuse me, no demons, no angels, nothing dead or dying, no refunds, no Charlie, and no one I don't want here is allowed in this room!". The one cloaked in black stepped forward, hands raised in a pacifying gesture and a kind smile on his face.

"Well, I'm none of those things! My name's BadBoyHalo, but most people are kind of formal and call me Famine.". That last bit of the sentence was accompanied by a sheepish eye roll, as though to say I know it's silly, but I can't help being well-known.

"My friend over there is George. What's your name?". The head of the orphanage tried very hard to feel suspicious. There were two strangers in the most important room there, she should have her guard up as far as possible. Yet, for some reason, she couldn't feel any distrust for the Famine in front of her.

"My name is Puffy. Why are you here?"

"Us? We're just here for a look. Right, George?". George hadn't really been interested in the conversation, although it was hard to tell what he was thinking about behind his white sunglasses. He raised his head, looking bored.

"Yeah. Sure.". 

Puffy could see several concerning things about letting two horsemen of the apocalypse take a quick look at the antichrist, but she couldn't quite think clearly.

She tried to focus on the current situation, but all she could think about was how much she wanted a good night's sleep, and a vacation, and a different life. Bad's smile remained constant, cheerful and understanding.

"Is this the job you want, Puffy?". She shook her head, eyes glassy.

"When I was a kid, I wanted to be a hero. Help out people who needed helping. I really have no idea how I got here.". Bad nodded.

"Well, Puffy, you seem tired. There's a lot of muffin-heads outside making a racket, and it seems like a lot to deal with. If you want to just go upstairs and take a quick nap, we can handle things for you!". Puffy quietly agreed and walked out of the room in a daze. Already, she could tell something was wrong, but she felt sapped of the strength to care.

As her head hit the pillow, she made a vow to herself that if she came back and the kids were harmed in any way, she'd personally bring hell to their doorsteps.

-----------

"Bad, did you seriously hypnotize a woman so you could hold a baby?"

"Not just a baby, George! Three babies!"

"That makes it much better, yes.”

"You're just upset that they like me more.". Bad bounced around the babies, cooing over them.

"Who's the cutest little antichrist? Who's the tiniest omen of doom? You are!". He picked up Baby No. 2 and tapped his nose.

"Boop!". George stood there quietly.

"He's going to be mad if he finds out we came here."

"Exactly, if he finds out. Besides, he needs us."

"I know he needs me. You, on the other hand, are kind of on thin ice."

"Calm yourself. Hold a baby.". Bad picked up Baby No. 2 from his box, where antichrist: this side up was clearly visible, and handed him to George. George held the green-blanketed baby, staring intently into his eyes. 

Baby No. 3 started screaming once more, and Bad ran over to pick him up and shush him.

"Aww, it's okay. You're not going to die for another 16 years, you have nothing to scream about now!". Baby No. 3 seemed to take in his words for a few seconds, before shrieking even louder. 

The door was flung open by the ominous angelic book club, who tried to shove their way to the child in George's arms. Bad sighed, exasperated, and shifted into a more monstrous form.

"Seems like I have to do some security work. Can you hold this one too?". Without waiting for an answer, he passed Baby No. 3 to George and walked out into the hallway, using his hollow iron scales to push otherworldly paparazzi aside.

After the first act of Heathers, Wilbur slipped out of the theater. It wasn't a particularly good production, and he didn't see the point in staying. 

He decided that if he wasn't going to do anything else, he should probably teleport to St. Beryl's and do his job. 

The orphanage was even more chaotic than before, and he had to light one or two minor demons on fire to clear his way. 

Finally, he reached the room with the antichrist. The room was mostly empty, except for one basket in the corner, and a familiar stranger holding two babies and panicking slightly.

The stranger turned to face Wilbur, and he realized who he was speaking to. He'd never met a horseman of the apocalypse before, but he'd heard of their reputations and seen them from afar.

"Pestilence. Pleasure to meet you.". Pestilence leaned nonchalantly in the doorway with a smile, which was quite a feat for someone holding two sobbing children.

"Please, call me George."

"George. Interesting name, for someone with your position."

“What's wrong with it?"

"It's fine, your colleagues have just mostly had ridiculous names. I mean, who in their right mind names themself Sapnap? No offense, don't discorporate me."

"Well, relatively speaking, I'm pretty new to the job. Stick around another 500 years, and who knows what will happen?"

"With your name, or with discorporating me?"

"Both, I guess.". Wilbur checked his pocket watch (it had been broken sometime in the 1910s, and he hadn't had the time to get it fixed, but he still liked the idea of checking a pocket watch).

"Fun as this conversation is, I was thinking that I should be the one to deliver the child to his parent.". George opened his mouth, probably to say no, but the sound of the babies crying increased. He stopped, irritated, and nodded.

"Why not? It's not like I actually work here."

"Excellent. Just give me the antichrist, and I'll be out of your hair. Unless you want to meet up again after this-"

"I'm good."

"Alright.". George held Baby No. 2 and Baby No. 3 side by side, as if weighing them. He titled his head from the child wrapped in a green blanket to the child wrapped in a red blanket. Finally, he handed the one in red to Wilbur.

"I'm pretty sure this is the antichrist. I'm a bit colorblind.". The sentence was accompanied by an airy laugh and a small grin, and Wilbur smiled back before leaving the room with Baby No. 3.

-----------

Phil was going to murder him. 

The guy couldn't die, but he was going to murder him anyway. Of all the petty things, he had to threaten Philza and his loved ones just for him to sit in a room for hours for absolutely no reason. 

Was this that creature's sick idea of a prank? 

Five seconds before he was going to storm out, agreement be damned, there was a polite knock on the door. He got up to open it, and Baby No. 3 lay on the floor, silent and peacefully sleeping for the first time in his short existence. 

Phil shrugged, deciding not to question it.

He gently picked the baby up from the ground, and headed home. 

(If he'd been looking more intently, he would have noticed 1) A certain demon sitting cross-legged on the ceiling, having decided that he probably shouldn't come face to face with someone he was supposed to spy on, and 2) His closest friend hiding behind a newspaper in the lobby, ready for some good old fashioned arson).

-----------

Anyway, once the antichrist was safely adopted (or so they thought), all that was left was to find a place to put all of these bonus babies. George picked up Baby No. 1 and Baby No. 2, and headed for the waiting room, where Eret and Niki regarded each other as friends already.

Unfortunately, Quackity decided that he had some meddling left in him for the evening, and he decided to make sure everything was going according to plan. He teleported into the orphanage seamlessly, folding his wings into his coat and looking over his sunglasses.

George strolled into the waiting room.

"Pick a child, any child. I don't have all day.". Eret tilted their head in confusion.

"Isn't there paperwork, or an application process, or something official we're supposed to-"

"Do you want the kid or not?". Niki reached for Baby No. 2, and Eret shrugged and took Baby No. 1.

Quackity watched the process take place through the keyhole. 

This seemed alright. They both seemed like non-horrible humans, and he'd be fine watching over either of them for the 16 years. Then, he noticed the book under the young woman's arm. 

The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. First edition, which should be impossible, unless she's some kind of descendant. And I'm not dealing with lying to a witch. 

He tried to remember which kid was the actual antichrist and which was the fraud. 

The green one and the blue one were both important. The blue one was the fake, and the green one was the real deal, right? Or was the green one the fake, and the blue one fake? Wasn't there a red one at one point? Fuck. 

At the last moment, Quackity decided that he couldn't just stand still and risk it. He did the first thing that came to mind and killed the lights. 

The lightbulbs exploded, leaving everyone in darkness. In the chaos, he telekinetically switched the babies.

Alright. No witches today, thanks. I'll just follow the other one home from afar, and everything will be fine.

----------

Later that night, when the orphanage was almost empty, a man set his newspaper aside and crept through the building. 

He lit Molotov cocktails with precision and chucked them wherever a fireball seemed needed. Flames weren't his usual method of destruction, but he had to get creative sometimes. 

His plan had been slowed down by Phil showing up at this "orphanage", but once he left the game was back on.

If anyone wanted to start the apocalypse and take away everything the two of them had worked for, they'd have to go through Technoblade.

The entire building was consumed and burnt to the ground. The arson case would remain unsolved, like most of his work, and Techno hadn't seen any potential casualties that would make people want to investigate. 

Sadly, there was one person left in the building when it burned, and she couldn't wake up from her dreams of the sea and a sword in her hands to smell the smoke.

----------

Wilbur followed Philza home unnoticed, disguised as wisps of shadow and cigarette ash. 

In lieu of a cradle, Phil temporarily arranged a drawer as a bed for Baby No. 3 and set him down. Once the baby seemed safe and calm, he left to collapse on the couch. 

Wilbur frowned. Where's his name? Names were important. They could be bargained with, broken, foretell fate, and be used as a lifeline if need be. You didn't just leave a child without a name.

This had to be remedied. He conjured a post-it note and a pen, and snuck over to the drawer considering the merits of different names. 

Kraken? Should I name him Kraken? No, he doesn't seem like a Kraken. The child stirred once, yawning, bright blue eyes nearly opening.

His name is Tommy.

The realization hit Wilbur all at once. Tommy wasn't a particularly demonic name, but it just felt too right to pick anything else. 

So, he wrote "Tommy" on the post-it note and stuck it on the blanket, hoping that Phil would think it had been there the whole time. 

The baby grabbed his finger as he pulled back his hand, not letting go. Wilbur's heart wasn't melted at all. Not a bit.

"I'm going to need that back, Tommy.". Carefully, he took his finger out of the tiny hand's grasp.

"It's very nice to meet you. My name's Wilbur. I'm your guardian, Tommy, and you're going to burn down the world one day."

-----------

At the same time, Quackity followed Eret back to their home (although mansion might be more accurate. Was the chandelier really necessary?). 

They'd been planning for this for months, and anything that Quackity could worry about had already been taken care of five minutes ago. Baby No. 2 was even named quickly and with care.

The angel breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing evil could be named "Tubbo", right? 

Eret disappeared to a nearby room, allowing Quackity the chance to formally meet him and Fundy's charge. He teleported down to the cradle and contemplated the kid.

"Hey, I know that this has been a long day, but I'm Quackity. Me and my friend are going to be looking after you for a few years, because Tubbo? It's up to you to save the world. Good luck."

-----------

At the same time, Niki went back to her home. 

The rain finally stopped, and she put the Nice and Accurate Prophecies back on the shelf to hold Baby No. 1, the real prophesied end of days. 

I don't know if I'm ready for this. I don't know anything about being a mother, or stopping the apocalypse, but I'm expected to do both.

The child opened his eyes. They were the one usual thing about an otherwise average baby: One eye was a fiery red, while one was a leafy green. They vaguely reminded Niki of a forest fire.

She set up the cradle and cast various charms, determined to get this right. 

She was so focused on protecting her son (for he was her son, now) that she didn't notice a skeletal green hand reach out of the shadows for her book and cut out select pages and phrases with a knife of bone. 

Niki gently put her child down, already full of intense care for him.

You're going to be okay. I don't know about heaven or hell or any of those idiots, but I can promise you one thing, Ranboo: I'll make sure you're safe. I swear it.

Hope you enjoyed!

[the-wanted-man]

𝔹𝕒𝕕 𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤 ℍ𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕟 𝕀𝕟 𝟛𝕤

FFXIV Write 2020 | Parts

noun • a piece or segment of something such as an object, activity, or period of time, which combined with other pieces makes up the whole. noun • some but not all of something. verb • (of two things) moving away from each other.

'Parts’ pulled from an amazing scene with the super awesome @luck-and-larceny​

She walked away and already he was feeling lighter. The way he patted his pockets when she was out of sight was only habit - he was sure nothing had been taken from them save a dumb card marked ‘Darlin’...

Stupid. The whole night had been one bad idea. 

Hooves of rolling thunder stopped at the edge of his camp where he hopped from the saddle of his horse and led the agile creature in by its ropes. Tied its lead of to some branches and then paused uncertainly before the fire. That was a generous term. It was more just the pit now, with the previously burning wood turned to charcoal. Cold, like him. 

He shivered and rubbed his arms absently, trying to ease the gooseflesh off his skin. It wasn’t actually cold, but he felt it. Something was different about this place now. It had some kind of energy he couldn’t begin to understand, or maybe it was all just in his head. His eyes drifted back to the dead fire where much had come to light, and he considered the alternative - Maybe the magic had been there the whole time, and he’d only just come to realize it.

"OK, Roman," she said quietly. "First... Is this area that we're in a place you usually camp at? Is this where you usually sit and think? Lay and dream? If not, where have you done that the most since you've been here?"

It wasn’t the first thing he’d given her of himself, but it was the first thing he’d hesitated to. Physical things were fine. He was...admittedly already planning his next gift. Something made by hand. Stories were fine too. He liked telling her things,but really only when it felt like it was on his terms. This question was almost like she was asking too much. The places he went held parts of him. If she knew what it meant, then she would come to hold parts of him too. He wasn’t sure he wanted that. Not really.

Still, he’d told her yes, his midnight fortune teller, because even in the relative ignorance of his request he knew that this at least was important to her and in a way, it was a piece of her too.  And so they’d sat by the fire, while the Hunter in the stars watched them watch each other, and spill secrets that had meaning only to them. She’d asked what he’d wanted to know, and though his heart said one thing, his lips uttered another.

    Love.     

              “Death.”

Her pretty blue eyes had gone so wide, and he’d felt...excited. Proud, to have surprised her.

"Okay, love," He remembered kind of liking the familiarity if not the name. It’s not that he didn’t like the name, he was just very careful not to like it. "Death then."

Why had he chosen that? Why had she said that? Why did he like that.

She spread the cards out in front of her. "I don’t read cards like other people do. I can tell you why sometime if you like, but it probably doesn't matter... But if you could just indulge me a little, I bet we learn something."

She had squeezed his hand then, and he had liked that too.

"Close your eyes. Think of one thing worth living for. Think of one thing worth fighting for. Then think of one thing worth dying for. When you can paint a picture of these things in your mind, grab 3 cards and show them to me."

They weren’t easy questions, but they were answered easily in a single word: freedom. He chose his three cards, noticing how she watched him all the while and maybe there was something in that look, but whatever it was faded when she flipped his first card. He didn’t like that dimming, whatever it was.

"First, I need you to know that every card is open to your own interpretation. I say a thing and it sounds wrong? It's probably wrong. I told you I'm only right half the time. But I forgot to say that you are right 100% of the time."

Far from a promising start. He didn’t think it was common practice for fortune tellers to flip a card, and start reassuring.

"What you live for: The Star. This usually comes right after or during a period of turmoil. It's about...ah... finding yourself or others or..." She frowned, and he wondered why? What thoughts were hidden behind the crease in her brow?

"The Star is like... the Hunter, right? Or Nymeia! It's something to believe in or follow when everything feels hopeless. You live for discovery and renewal and...ah. That sound hokey? Or does it sound right?"

It wasn’t that it sounded right so much that it was that it felt right. He felt it trying to rob the smile he was firmly keeping in place to mask his sudden trepidation. He felt it like an oncoming thunderbolt. He just felt it. These cards were plucking parts of him too. His education rationalized against it but his gut wasn’t settled. He told her it was right, that she should keep going. He should have stopped, but he didn’t abandon the paths he set upon. He was stupid that way, he thought.

"I don't know how to interpret this, Roman. You have to help me..." Her thumb caressed the corner of the card in question as though trying to coax it into speaking fir itself. It didn’t.

He probably would have helped her with anything if she asked.

"What you fight for: Five of Cups. So um..." She ran a hand through her dark hair, tussling her bangs. "Usually Cups are a good suit. Optimistic, joyful, romantic even. But 5 of cups is... different. Uh... It usually shows up when something in life hasn't gone the way you want it to. It represents...regret mostly. Disappointment. Melancholy. Feeling... stuck. Or like the past won't let go. I... I don't know why it's what you're fighting for."

Ah. That image looked familiar. A man staring at three spilled cups while he ignored two full and upright behind him. He looked forlorn. He felt something aching to her description of it all. That was familiar too. When he fought for the things he regretted, was it for love or was it for Death? He’d had a choice in both, up to a point. Was it the constant disappointment he seemed to chase, for something that didn’t seem to work?

Or was it the constant need for excitement Any kinds. All kinds. It didn’t matter what happened in the end if he was warm. It could just as easily be both. Fire was passionate, and bold, but it was destructive too. It couldn’t feed itself. So it took what it could, hungrier than any starved animal could be. Was he the type of person to self-immolate? Perhaps, beneath the guise of a greater nobility.

Something stung harshly at that revelation, and though he told her he didn’t know what any of it meant, he knew that she knew he was probably lying. His voice was shaking. He was definitely lying and she definitely knew.

"...Roman, I... We can stop this now if you want,"  It was nice, hearing his name from her. It sounded like she cared. He pursed his lips. That was dangerous though. And she wasn’t supposed to.

"Ok. So the last one. What you'd die for? It's... It's the Tower." The art of the card was ominous, a tower teetering on the edge of a cliff, destined to fall. "This looks bad," she said rather unhelpfully but corrected herself, "But it doesn't have to be. I'd die for the Tower too if it came down to it. Roman, this card..."

"This card is change and the destruction of something. Upheaval. It's chaos." She gave him a big smile. "It's freedom from something. Revelation. Something else will come crashing to the ground and it might seem like it's bad at first. It might seem like there's no hope at all. But whatever it is that comes down had to come down for something new to be reborn from it.

Ignore the art of this card and imagine it as a phoenix instead. It burns so bright it kills itself and from its ashes it is born again and renewed. Maybe this means you'll see a lot of destruction. Maybe death. I don't know. But whatever takes you in the end will only do so because you tore something down to make something else instead. Freedom."

The word should have been sweet, the way his name sounded from her lips but it wasn’t. It had a bitter quality to it. Freedom through death, but death nonetheless. And if it wasn’t that, then this was all a scam. This woman had stolen a name to get close, and she was speaking of phoenixes and things she really shouldn’t fucking know about and he felt that blazing, rise of heat in his chest and all that angry, all consuming inferno and he wanted all his parts back, every little piece he’d given her down to a card with a stupid heart and a stupid meaning that said ‘Darlin’....

But she looked just as shocked as he was, if not confused. If not scared and he hated himself deeply for making her even remotely feel such a way. She also looked at him kindly and she didn’t leave like he thought she was going to. She stayed the whole night even to pretend everything was fine, and on into the morning over breakfast and eggs, and until he’d dropped her off at a dusty aetheryte in town where she eventually winked out of sight. He’d decided then that betrayal didn’t suit her anyways.

"Did you know...That when I take things away... I replace them with something else?”

It was the last thing he’d reflected on. Memento. She had such a name for a reason. Now he had one of his own: a stormy blue sphere with swirling spirals of ash inside. He didn’t have a lot, so when he’d found it he’d known, and he’d wondered if she knew how much she had actually taken, and how much she had come to replace. There was a type of niceness to that thought, and to the type of friend who liked to give, just as much as she took.

There was left over bacon, and left over eggs so he set the fire again, and got comfortable with a book and with the magic in the air. Maybe, just maybe, he could stand to be a little more generous. A little less paranoid. The cards hadn’t been anything good. Had been scary he felt, for them both but he didn’t have to listen to them. He didn’t plan on it anyways. He cracked open his book, viewing parts of anatomy and learning how to heal them.

It was all going to be fine.

.to be continued...

[xyliane]

life and death and love and

summary: yusuke and botan have a conversation about immortality. because neither of them are good at decorum, they have it over kuwabara’s grave. kuwabara wouldn’t care. probably.

notes: hello yu yu hakusho, my first fandom, my forever love, home to my favorite shonen protagonist and favorite mentor in anything. @wuzzyletoastermac is a terrible influence. gen, looooong post-series, discussions of death. yusuke and botan brotp, 1800 words

----

Yusuke stops aging at some point. Or stops aging visibly at least—he never looks as dignified and ageless as Kurama, or as young and pissy as Hiei, instead wavering between too young to drink and too old to not know better. But eventually, Kuwabara looks at him, dressed in old jeans that shouldn’t be as flexible as they are, then back to himself with salt streaks in his red hair, and says, “Shit, Urameshi, you stay young and you still don’t look as good as me.”

Then there’s a time when someone mistakes him for Keiko’s grandson and she still hasn’t stopped giving him shit for it. Decades dead, and Botan is still popping by with messages: Yusuke do you still have a thing for older women? Is that your big secret?

It is her fault, too, ripping into his ear for not showing up for her birthday party just because Demon World had been a little preoccupied with an influx of stupid in the form of militant invaders from another dimension, like a video game gone terribly bad. She’s eighty-one. She’s had eighty-one birthdays, she’d have eighty-one more if Yusuke has anything to say about it.

Needless to say, she doesn’t. If there’s one thing Yusuke’s learned in his impossible life, it’s that people die, and most of the time, they stay dead. Him and Kurama, he’s still not sure if they’re the lucky ones, or the ones that got scammed.

(Yusuke makes sure Botan gives Keiko a deathday card every year, now. He’s sure it makes her laugh, and if she ever wants to be reborn, Yusuke is sure he’ll keep sending them. Birthdays, deathdays—they’ll become unwieldy after a while, but he’s got a long time to worry about that.)

(For now, she stays dead and nags him from beyond the grave, beyond worlds. Yusuke can’t believe he loves her.)

Demons have an odd view of their own mortality, or lack of it. Yusuke first realizes this with Raizen, who for all his centuries is still fixated on years that soar by like fireworks, bright and brilliant and gone in a flash. Moments that shape his life, ignorant of the decades and centuries that lie between. Yusuke, still a baby in comparison if not in strength, can’t help but feel the years slipping through his fingers, each one staying in his memory even as some things begin to blur. It’s scary in a way he’s not used to, something he can’t fight against and isn’t sure he wants to.

“What’s it like to, you know. Live forever?” he asks Botan, offering her a smoke over Kuwabara’s grave. It’s been a few years now, and the dipshit is still insisting on haunting Yusuke’s thoughts. Absolutely unfair, really—it’s not like they don’t see each other, not with Koenma blatantly ignoring Yusuke’s irregular stints of breaking and entering Spirit World unless the brat needs something.

One day, Yusuke will admit he does it because he misses them, Kuwabara and Keiko and even the old hag. For now, he still looks young enough that a little B&E is excusable as a weird sort of early-demonhood rebellion.  

Botan crinkles her nose at the stench of burning nicotine. She’s perched on Kuwabara’s gravestone like it’s a posh throne, absolutely no care to deference of the graveyard or the cat toys half-buried in front of the grave. Maybe Yusuke’s finally rubbed off on her, but more likely she’s more comfortable in a graveyard than anywhere else in the human world. Someone smarter would have something to say about the boundaries between life and death, but Yusuke’s not that sort of person. “I’d think Kurama would be a better advisor on this subject,” she says delicately.

“Kurama’s in the same boat as me. We don’t die, but we already did, and who knows, maybe I’ll go three for three one of these days. I’ve pissed off enough people.” Yusuke takes another pull, smoke wafting in front of his nose. “Besides, I tried asking him already. He just gave me that annoyingly smug smile he gets when he doesn’t know the answer and told me to give it time.”

Botan giggles. “That does sound like Kurama.”

“Look, I asked other people too,” Yusuke huffs, counting on his fingers everyone he’s tried. “Enki and Kokou were too busy planning the next tournament, and I don’t think they really understood the question anyways, since we can die if we get punched hard enough. Hokushin and the monks went all zen guru on me again. Yukina practically gave me a dissertation on the power of life and made me babysit her twins again—one of them has Kuwabara’s hair and Hiei’s personality, and it makes my head hurt. The angry gremlin himself just did his grr I am angry piss off thing he does when he's not sure what to say. And I tried asking Jin and Chu, but they don’t seem to understand the idea of mortality at all. Fucking fight-happy dumbasses.”

It’s a sign of their decades of friendship that Botan restrains herself from more comment than, “They are the fight-happy dumbasses.”

Yusuke flips her off with his free hand. “So I’m asking you. If anyone knows what living forever’s like, it’s a shinigami, right?”

She laughs, bell-like. “I suppose I can see your point.”

And then it’s quiet again, birds chirping and leaves rustling. For all that Yusuke’s stopped aging, Botan never has. She’s always looked as old as she needed to, not so much like Koenma’s drastic physical change but just…fitting in. Never too old to be a kid’s friend, never too young to be an elder’s confidant. It might be magic, but Yusuke’s pretty sure it’s just Botan.

Yusuke finishes his cigarette and stabs it out on the dirt in front of Kuwabara’s epitaph. “So?” he demands.

“Hush you, I’m thinking.” She props her chin up on her hand, elbow on her knee and foot on the tombstone, like some perky gargoyle.

“If this is you thinking, maybe I don’t want to live forever. It’s like watching a loading screen.”

“Some of us actually use our brains on occasion,” she says. A strand of blue hair falls out of her ponytail, wafting on the breeze. She twists it around her finger.

“I’m more of a concept than a person, you know?” she says. “Death. Shinigami. Yamaduta. Grim reapers. We exist as we do because people think us that way, part of the wheel of life and death. We keep the cycle moving. Don’t want it getting clogged up, after all.”

Yusuke snorts. “So I…thought of death as a hyperactive blue haired girl? Puu aside, that does not sound like me. Definitely not fourteen-year-old me. I was a shithead.”

She laughs. “No, no. Nothing so personal as that. Many people prefer the concept of death as a terror, anyways, something to be feared and hidden. But we…I will live forever because death will always exist, and people remember that it exists. And if people believe death to be manifest, well. Someone has to do the job.”

“It definitely won’t be Koenma.” The thought of toddler-sized Koenma attempting to corral lost souls into the Spirit World is almost enough to cackle at.

“And I certainly don’t want his job. Or Jorge’s, for that matter. All of that paperwork.” She makes a face, nose scrunched and tongue out. “But I will live forever, because there are people to believe in me, and because there is a system that needs me. I’m an extension of more than just my thoughts.”

She hops off the tombstone, narrowly avoiding a kitten plushie an angry red-headed boy had placed there not too long ago. (Yusuke is, of course, sworn to absolute secrecy over this, but he doesn’t mind. He held Hiei’s secret long enough, holding onto Kuwabara’s spawn’s is actual child’s play. And if the kid’s anything like Hiei or Kuwabara, the blackmail potential will be endless.)

“So what does that make me?” Yusuke asks, neck cracking as he looks up at Botan. “I’m not ferrying anyone across any rivers anytime soon, not even if Koenma tries to hire me again. That’s a shit gig.”

Like he’s fourteen and stupid, rather than decades and aware of his stupid, Botan bops him on the nose. “It makes you who you are, Yusuke. And remember, you’re as immortal as I am, in your own way. As Keiko is, or Kuwabara, or Kurama or Hiei or the rest of your ‘fight-happy dumbasses.’ As anyone you love, and loves you.”

He considers this for a moment, turning the thought over. “You know Botan,” Yusuke says slowly. “You’re pretty smart. But you’re also full of shit.”

She laughs again and ruffles his slicked-back hair. He throws his arms over his head, attempting and failing to protect himself. Being a questionably immortal demon with nearly infinite power means keeping up appearances, especially since most of the demons he knows have never heard of the concept of hair gel and can get away with it on a mixture of spite, sarcasm, and whatever’s in the air in Demon World. “Botan!” he protests, feeling as bratty as he sounds.

Satisfied with her work, Botan leans back and summons her oar, hopping onto it in midair. “I love you too, Yusuke. And if I live forever, so will you, even after you do something stupid to get yourself killed again and Koenma makes me drag you kicking and screaming across the river.”

He leans back, propping himself up on his hands and crossing his legs. “Take your time, I guess,” he says.

She hovers there for a moment, obviously waiting for something. “Do you want a ride back?” she asks. She doesn’t specify where back is supposed to be: back to Demon World, back to his old home, back somewhere he never quite fit in but damn if he didn’t try.

Yusuke pulls himself to his feet, dusting off his jeans and pulling a comb out of his jacket. “Nah. I’ve got a family visit this afternoon. Gonna check in on the twerps, see how they’re doing.” He tosses the rest of his cigarettes onto Kuwabara’s grave, where they scatter over the plushie and the cat toys. He’s almost tempted to light them on fire, just to be ornery. He’s a moderately-sized scary demon from hell—youthful appearances and doting grandkids aside. “Tell Keiko I say…Well, you know. I love her, I miss her, all that. Kuwabara too.”

“Of course.” And she’s gone, off into the sky in a dash of blue hair and grins, her kimono manifesting halfway into the scattered clouds. It’s a nice day, sunny and bright despite the early spring chill. Kuwabara would’ve loved it, the old romantic.

Not Keiko, though. She preferred summer storms.

Yusuke sighs and jams his hands into his pockets, nose tilted to the sky. Maybe he is getting old, if he’s thinking about stuff like this. Well, there are worse things.

[magicianparrish]

The Fastpass Scam

What? My first fic posted in almost 3 months, what? It’s a miracle honestly! Anyway, it’s a small one and it’s another Disney au where all of the 7 work at Disney. And this was also inspired/taken from an experience I had with all my friends having a fastpass for Space Mountain, and I did not, so we scammed my way into the fastpass queue...and many other rides after that. It’s short, it’s simple, and it’s not beta’d or edited. So take it in all it’s first draft glory. 

Everyone had their phones out in front of them. They were standing in the middle of Tomorrowland, trying to figure out who was connected with whom on the Disney parks app they had all downloaded at the beginning of their program.

The sun was blazing down in the middle of the park, making it difficult for them all to see their screens properly, without having to sacrifice taking off their sunglasses even just for a minute.

Percy looked up from his phone and ran a hand through his hair. It was coated with sweat, making it stay combed back while his head was tilted up. He looked up towards the blue sky, where there were no clouds for protection from the rays of the sun. It made him regret coming to parks, just a little. They should’ve gone to Animal Kingdom instead, at least there was the protection of the trees for shade.

“Fuck it’s hot out, can we like not stand out in the middle of the sun and find shade instead,” he suggested with a hint of complaining.

Annabeth looked up and nodded in agreement. She pointed towards the little area right under the People Mover track that provided some shade. Together their friend group shuffled along to stop the burning on their skin and continue their search.

“Okay, I have everyone linked up to the 12:20 timeslot for Space Mountain, except Hazel,” Annabeth announced her fingers sliding across her touch screen.

Hazel let out a huff, tilting her body weight to her right leg, and placing her hand on her hip. She was wearing a sundress that glittered a golden color when reflecting the light, and it matched her cinnamon colored hair that was tightly braided into a bun on top of her head. Her green magicband standing starkly out on her skin.

“I haven’t a clue on how to work this damn thing I swear to god.”

Her southern drawl elongated all her vowels and made even her complaining seem cute. Leo wrapped an arm around her shoulders and leaned his head against hers. Hazel was the only person shorter than Leo, something he took advantage of greatly.

“Aw, it’s okay. Not everyone can be as technologically advanced as Moi,” Leo bragged with a big grin on his face.

He was in a t-shirt that was colored off white, with a pair of suspenders and khaki shorts, creating a horrible combination that could be considered some weird way of dressing up for Dapper Day.

Hazel huffed again and shrugged his arm off her shoulder looking down at her old iPhone 4 screen. She pressed some buttons and kept scrolling trying to figure it out.

“I can help if you want,” Annabeth offered with a smile, but Hazel waved her off.

“Let me see if I can figure it out.”

After a few minutes of her being not successful, Percy glanced at his phone time to see it was 12:17. They technically had an hour time slot to get on the ride, but they preferred to do it fast otherwise they’d forget and a fastpass would be wasted. And no one wanted to waste a fastpass on a ride that was difficult to get them anyway.

“It doesn’t look like it’s going to work,” Frank meekly said breaking the silence of the group.

His cheeks were flushed red, but whether that was from blushing or the beginnings of sunburn was up to interpretation. Hazel put her phone away in defeat. She shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, y’all should just go on without me. I’ll wait in the gift shop.”

Immediate protests started. They wouldn’t leave someone behind just because of something so trivial like not having a fastpass. Percy turned to see that Annabeth had her thinking face on. Even from behind her sunglasses, he could tell. Her eyebrows were scrunched together and her lips pursed.

“I have an idea.”

“What is it?” Jason asked.

“Okay, this works when we’re in big packs like this one. So, me, Jason, and Piper will walk up and scan our bands first. And Hazel will be put in the middle and she’ll scan hers and keep going even though the mickey will turn blue. But you have to move quickly, and Percy, Leo, and Frank will have to scan right afterward so she doesn’t get caught.”

“Are you crazy?” Percy asked in shock, “you can’t just scam the system like that! If there’s one thing to know, it’s that Disney knows everything.”

Piper scoffed and linked her arm through Annabeth’s. Through her Ray Bans, you could see her looking at everyone.

“Take a chill pill, it works every time Annabeth and I have done it. Not a big deal. It’ll work for Hazel too. The hardest part is getting through the first checkpoint.”

Jason and Frank shared a skeptical look. Percy always though the two of them together were always up to no good. They always dragged them into schemes.

“And we won’t get termed for doing something like this? Seems risky,” Jason pointed out, ever the voice of reason. Their own Jiminy Cricket.

“Bro, it’ll be fine. Worst they do is they turn Hazel away and then we don’t ride and the day sucks that much more,” Leo joined in teaming with the girls.

“Just take your park pass out, let’s go,” Annabeth said pointing to the giant white mountain of a ride.

Both she and Piper skipped on ahead still linking arms. Leo quickly joined up with them, leaving Jason, Frank, Percy and Hazel to take up the rear.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Percy muttered.

“Not even two months into the program, and we’ll be kicked out for something as stupid as trying to scam our way into a fastpass line for Space Mountain,” Frank added.

“Those three will be the death of me. Smartest people I’ve ever met but they lack common sense sometimes,” Jason concluded.

The fastpass queue was a little backed up, so it didn’t matter how long it took the four of them to meet up with the other three. Piper turned around, her pink band raised up ready to be scanned.

“Stick to the plan Grumpy’s,” she stage whispered.

The cast member at the podium looked bored out of her mind. Percy empathized, it would get monotonous just watching people scan their bands all shift. He’s never been more thankful for being in entertainment where he can move around.

Annabeth and Piper scanned theirs first, the mickey glowing a bright green in approval. Leo went next, and then Hazel did hers. It went bright blue and brought attention to the cast member who raised an eyebrow. Her amber eyes glanced down at her main gate pass.

“Cast member? Go ahead,” she said jerking her head towards the entrance of the ride and then touched a few buttons on the screen in front of her.

Hazel let out a sigh of relief and met up with the other three who had already passed. Once Percy, Jason, and Frank scanned theirs in they walked into the dark corridor of Space Mountain.

The breeze of air conditioning that greeted them, made Percy sigh and elicit a loud groan, which was chorused by all his friends. It was the most beautiful feeling in the entire world.

As they made their way deeper into the line queue, Piper and Annabeth turned around to walk backward and face their friends. Their sunglasses were raised on their heads, showing their eyes. Both had shit-eating grins on their faces.

“Told you it would work,” Annabeth bragged.

“Hakuna matata, what a wonderful phrase, hakuna matata, ain’t no passing craze,” Piper began to sing.

“IT MEANS NO WORRIES, FOR THE REST OF YOUR DAYS,” Annabeth joined in, their voices at a yelling tone.

Percy glanced over at the regular queue and saw that people were looking at his friends like they were crazy. Percy stifled a laugh, and he saw the rest of them were too. Piper and Annabeth had broken into hysterical laughter at their own expense and were skipping along.

Leo turned around, “Stick with me, and you’ll never go hungry, or have to wait in regular lines, again!” he shouted. He tried to do his best Scar impression, but his voice wasn’t nearly deep enough for it to do any justice.

“What’s with all the Lion King today?” Frank wondered.

Hazel shrugged her shoulders, “I don’t know, but these three might as well be the hyenas.”

“We heard that! See if we get you into fastpass lines again!” Piper threatened.

Percy just shook his head laughing at the shenanigans of his friends whom he loved.  

[tessatechaitea]

Nightwing #8

"Nightwing" looks like a verb that is probably a pretty raunchy sex act. "I'm nightwing your mom right now because we nightwed last week and she was totally into it."

Last issue, Raptor tried to convince Dick that he was Dick's dad because it's always a laugh riot convincing your friends you've banged their mother. But then Raptor also decided it would be a good idea to kidnap Bruce Wayne for some reason. I think it had to do with branding. Branding is not a superhero name. Dick decides to start this issue by having a vague memory of one night when his mom and dad were up late talking about some strange guy bothering his mother. He had two attributes that made Nightwing's dad uncomfortable: his eyes and his...okay, it was just his eyes! I meant both of his eyes. The two of them! I totally wasn't going to say his penis because I'm maturing. It's 2017 and Donald Trump is about to be president. The time for dick jokes is long over and, possibly, took us down this road.

That must have been one uncomfortable cavity search. Although I'm sure Bruce could handle it. He probably had a miniature Batcycle crammed up there.

Raptor is upset with how Batman and Bruce Wayne fight crime. He's more upset that he took a Romani child and turned him into another rich white douchebag who battles street crime instead of helping destroy poverty and racism and other probably important stuff. The kind of stuff I can't be arsed to care about because, individually, I'm doing okay. But when I stop doing okay, you better believe I'll be out there trying to convince people to care about my issues! I'll be all, "I totally cared about your issues back then! Just don't read my commentary on Nightwing #8 and if you do, remember that I'm a largely facetious person who never really expresses perfect truths! I'm complicated!" Maybe I shouldn't even mention this review if I don't want people to read it because asking them not to read it will probably make them curious and then they'll read it! What jerks!

Raptor had better hope he found Bruce's microphone which broadcasts constantly to Alfred just in case a bad guy decides to monologue his plans (which is nearly every case). I won't say where the microphone is hidden but it involves gauging.

People who believe in the Stock Market as some sort of entity that creates wealth will still acknowledge that certain press drives stock prices up and down. Yet the people who listen to experts about the Stock Market never question how that's a thing if stocks are supposed to be representative of a company's profit and prosperity. They're not. Prices are representative of how popular a stock is and whether people think it's worth holding onto for a little longer because people are still buying it. But give some bad press about a company and watch the stock drop. Not because the press affects the profitability of the business. It simply damages its reputation which makes people fear other people will sell the stock so they sell the stock in fear that the price will drop and then the price drops because everybody starts selling. Analysts point to these things and call them anomalies or bubbles or blips and that they're not part of the actual system. The system, they say, is that prices generally go up and money keeps getting created and everybody eventually has a retirement fund. But the truth is that if no new buyers entered the Stock Market, it would cease to function profitably. The Stock Market does not generate money. It does not grow cash. Just like a pyramid scheme, it needs money coming in for those already in it to make money. Yes, yes. There are things called dividends which companies pay out to shareholders when the company makes a profit. Those are totally different and probably the way every stock should work. If I'm investing money into your stupid company, I should get more of a return than the hope that later somebody will want to buy the stupid piece of paper with the Gold Star I received for giving the company my cash. Of course, it's probably more like I gave the five thousandth owner of that piece of paper money, like a comic book sold across many buyers, long since in the hands of the original owner. But at least I can read a fucking comic book. I have this Stock Market rant once or twice a year and nobody has ever been able to explain to me how I'm wrong and the Stock Market actually does work in the way that analysts will tell you it works (mostly because analysts have lots of money in it and they want to keep perpetuating the system until they can cash out). I'll stop when somebody explains it to me in a way that doesn't make it out to be a scam instead of the answer I usually get which is "I'm sure it doesn't work like that at all." Nightwing arrives to save the day! Except that Raptor isn't done with his rant against capitalism. Or whatever he's on about. I know he's really into branding so he can't be totally against capitalism. That's where branding really shines! Raptor also begins going on and on about their man-suits. He's totally lost me but I think it's just making me like him even more. He's become mysterious and unrelatable! Just the kind of person I love to fuck! Raptor explains to Dick how he came down with leprosy and was driven out of the circus. But Dick's mom eventually came to him and offered compassion and thrills. Not those kinds of thrills! At least not yet. No, she and Raptor became the Robin Hoods of Paris, stealing from the rich and elite and giving back to the Romani and themselves.

I think Marie would just be glad that Dick was safe and well-protected and, eventually, happy.

It's easy to attack Bruce Wayne because he's rich and constantly gets richer. But what should he do? Give away all of his money so that he can't help in whatever ways he helps? I'm not sure what those ways are because it just seems like he's using his money to constantly make more money. But then "Bruce Wayne's Charitable Contributions to Gotham and Beyond" is kind of a boring title for a comic book. After getting beat up and lectured, Nightwing smiles. That's the point Raptor loses because everybody knows Nightwing has it all figured out and when he smiles, he's about to explain it all as he kicks ass. This time, Dick is all, "You're just like Bruce, you idiot!" And Raptor is all, "What? NO! I'm melting!" But then he remembers his trap and he's all, "Bruce is dead!" And Dick is all, "Bruce has been free for like five minutes and now he's standing right behind you!" And then Bruce smiles which means bones will be breaking. Also, I'm not sure any of that happens after and including the "I'm melting!" part because I got ahead of myself as I was typing and haven't gone back to the comic book.

I like that Dick says this because I don't think it can be said enough. It's my favorite reason (and maybe the only one) that allows for Batman's use of young sidekicks. They've always existed to save Batman even if, as they're doing it, Bruce Wayne seems to be saving them as well.

Dick does some of that Batman justice Raptor hates which means he breaks the arm and leg of Raptor to incapacitate him. Then he goes up to save Bruce who has basically already saved himself but Bruce allows Nightwing his moment and pretends to almost fall to his death. Later, Tiger arrives to take Raptor into Spyral custody. He makes sure to tell Bruce Wayne that he doesn't know he's Batman at all and will keep it that way.

See?! I never would have thought Bruce was the type of dad to lose games to his kids on purpose. Sucker!

The Ranking! +1! I'm sad that Raptor didn't get to become a friend and mentor to Nightwing. I suppose Nightwing already has enough friends who are also kind of enemies. There's probably a word for that. Anyway, at least he'll be back. The main reason superheroes don't kill is because fans want to see the bad guys return over and over again. Who reads Batman for Batman? It's all about Joker and Catwoman, really! But not Penguin. Fuck Penguin.