#was it fun to write? also yes

[kit-o-nine-tales]

Sunlight

Read on AO3

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Meg/Castiel

Rated M for canonical character death

Summary: They say that demons don't dream. Meg knows that's a lie. They say that demons can't change. Unfortunately for her, that turns out to be a lie too.

Aka: The demon known as Meg thinks about Castiel a lot over the years... and ultimately flies too close to the sun. A songfic using "Sunlight" by Hozier.

I would shun the light, share in evening's cool and quiet Who would trade that hum of night? For sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

She is a demon. She’s been a demon for longer than she can remember. She’s known all the different domains of hell intimately, been on both sides of the knife so many times that she imagines that nothing of who she’d been before remains. And she’s happy like this. She has a mission; something she believes in. Their father will walk the earth again, will rip the wings from all the angels and remake the earth so that his children can walk it without suffering under the cursed, purifying light of life and the sun. Angels and hunters would believe that demons can’t dream, but they do. And the one who calls herself “Meg” dreams of the day when she can leave hell behind forever, and stride across the earth in her true form without having to fear the light.

But whose heart would not take flight? Betray the moon as acolyte On first and fierce affirming sight Of sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

And then the Winchesters and their pet angel ruin everything, sealing her father back inside his cage, putting Armageddon on hold, maybe forever. Father’s trapped with one of his brothers, the one he’d meant to kill. Sometimes she sits outside of the cage, her head propped up in her hands as she listens to the sounds of them fighting. He’d been angry with her, before they put him there. She’d gone against the plan, wanting revenge on Sam and Dean. She failed, over and over. And she wonders if maybe this might be for the better. As much as she might wish otherwise, something changed within her during her encounter with Castiel, no matter how much she’d tried not to believe him, even if he did cast her into the flames and walk on her right afterwards.

She’s a demon, for fucks sake. What’s a little holy fire compared to countless centuries spent on the rack, having your own entrails fed to you, millimeter by millimeter?

Nothing, that’s what.

She sits outside her father’s cage, her chin in her hands, and she dreams. Meg, Queen of Hell has a nice ring to it —  if she can manage to get Crowley out of the way. And she knows just the people she can use to help her do that.

I had been lost to you, sunlight And flew like a moth to you, sunlight, oh, sunlight Oh, your love is sunlight Oh, your love is sunlight But it is sunlight

When she next sees Castiel, she has her own goals now. Granted, they're fairly simple: kill Crowley and take over hell. She wants the Winchesters to owe her, she wants the Winchesters to help her. She wants — she wants to live. And she’s drawn to Castiel. She's not ashamed to admit it, because again, demon. What could be more demonic than potentially corrupting an angel, drawing it into the sin of lust?

She’s no stranger to using her attractiveness as a weapon, or corrupting the innocent (though the so-called "innocence" of angels is a crock; as far as she knows, a lot of them have just as much blood on their hands as the average demon, if not more, even if they do claim it's for righteous reasons.) But when she kisses Castiel to steal his angel blade, it proves itself more than just that. She actually enjoys it. And so, it seems, does he, if the way he presses her up against the wall and kisses her back is any indication. It’s at that moment Meg knows she’s completely fucked. The plan’s gone to shit, and she’s actually risking herself just to give the Winchesters and the angel a chance of winning. Clarence and the Winchesters leave her to the hounds and she chuckles at herself. That angel is a bad influence, and she’s hardly even spent any time around him. But he has her feeling. Wanting. Dreaming.

They say that demons don’t dream; but they only say that because demons shouldn’t dream. They’ll only start to get ideas. And that never ends well.

All the tales the same Told before and told again A soul that's born in cold and rain Knows sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

The Winchesters don’t trust her. Smart of them, really. She is what she is, they are what they are — tales as old as time and all that. But they have little other choice, with Clarence’s noggin scrambled by Sam’s hell memories. Part of her finds it funny; the angel can’t withstand even a small taste of what would just be another Tuesday to her — but at the same time, she knows what it is to suffer under the artistic hands of her father, and it is not something anyone can just shrug off. She honestly kind of respects Sam for managing to hold himself together as long as he did.

This altered Castiel is strange, which means something, coming from a demon. He’s got no filter, and has this… unsettling innocence. He looks at her and he sees her. The real her.

And he looks at all that pain, all the scars and artful carving that twisted up her soul, making it sharp, dark, and bloody — and he calls it beautiful. Looking back at him in these moments is like staring into the sun. Antithetical to the core of what she is, painful and altering, and yet... she can't tear herself away. Like something out of a dream... or a nightmare. She brushes it off with a dirty joke, but once again she finds herself being changed against her will by forces outside her control —  only this time, part of her... allows it. Part of her dreams of where this new path will lead.

And at last can grant a name To a buried and a burning flame As love and its decisive pain Oh, my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

He calls her his caretaker — and as much as she wants to reject it, the name has power over her. She kills for him, and she knows it’s not just out of pragmatism. Like this, he lacks the fire that drew her to him originally, but still she finds she can’t ignore him. Just as she can't ignore the twinges of pain as parts of her reshape themselves under the influence of their strange connection. It's nothing compared to being strung up and remade on the racks, of course. More like a sunburn, maybe.

She surprises herself with how well she’s come to know the habits of this altered Castiel. He comes when she calls, and she can’t deny that she gets a thrill out of holding that over the Winchesters’ heads. Whatever changes Castiel might be triggering in her, she is still a demon, after all.

She dreams, all the same. She’s always been quite the dreamer, for a demon. Azazel and Lucifer had said it was what made her special. Demons aren't supposed to dream, but they do. Still, her dreams have always been different than those of her of kind. And now she dreams of a recovered Castiel, of power and dominion and safety and a powerful angel at her side, sexy and dangerous and likely to be the death of her. She's a loyal creature, for better or worse. She is what she is, and he is what he is, even if it doesn't seem like it right now.  So after she saves him from Hester, she runs. She can only really rely on herself, despite everything. Still, she dreams, and avoids staring into the sun.

All that was shown to me, sunlight Was somethin' foreknown to me, sunlight, oh sunlight Oh, your love is sunlight Oh, your love is sunlight But it is sunlight

Of course, it can't be that easy. She makes it half-way across the world, where the local supernatural denizens have no connection to Crowley (demons from other cultures and religions have fairly different power structures) and Castiel, he of the pleading eyes and deep, disjointed thoughts pops up in front of her, scaring away the Kitsune she'd been bargaining with for some fresh virgin's blood to power her cloaking sigil.

"You know, lamb's blood would work just as well," Castiel says conversationally, "though I'd prefer it if you didn't kill the lamb. I could keep it calm, make sure it doesn't feel the pain or get scared."

"Why are you here, Clarence?" Meg asks tiredly. So much for avoiding the sunlight.

"It's gone quiet," Castiel says sadly. "But my fighting days are over."

"So you need a big bad demon to do the fighting for you, huh?" She pulls out her angel blade.

She'll do it, of course. She is what she is; loyal, for better or worse. She can't say who is using who here, anymore. But she supposes it doesn't really make a difference.

"I don't like conflict," Castiel says once again.

"I know, Clarence," she says, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

He places one of his own hands on her shoulder, and suddenly she's standing outside that extremely cliche hunter's cabin again. The only thing it's missing is a plaid flannel of its own.

Meg sighs, and goes to knock on the door, while Castiel zaps himself into the Winchesters's car, hiding. She rolls her eyes. The things she does for her cloud hopper.

Oh, your love is sunlight Oh, your love is sunlight But it is sunlight, sunlight

The Winchesters ask their questions, she redirects them to Clarence (she is still a demon, after all —  she's not going to fight all his battles for him. Especially not his ex-boyfriend drama.) Still, she keeps an ear out, telling herself she's not going soft. Though she can't lie to herself as well as she'd like.

Then it turns out Rocky and Bullwinkle were stupid enough to try and summon Crowley. She tries to run, calling for Cas, but it's too late. The Rat King of Hell arrives, and she can taste how badly he wants to kill her.

Her little problem only gets worse when Clarence steps in to protect her from Crowley. For all that he hates conflict, he's willing to step up for her. It... touches something in her. She can't remember anyone ever doing that for her, not since she became what she is.

And it's enough to scare away Crowley, at least for now. The Winchesters need Castiel, and Crowley wants the Winchesters to deal with Dick Roman for him... and as Crowley says, Castiel would be upset if something were to happen for her. When the King of Hell can see that there’s something there, she knows it must be real. Crowley can smell manipulable connections like a shark can scent a drop of blood in the water. For now, Castiel’s attachment to her keeps her safe. But there’s no guarantee it will stay that way.

There's proof enough of that in her dreams; more often then not, when her mind drifts, things take a darker turn. She sees herself, burning up in the light of Castiel. She sees herself dying for him, sometimes at the hands of other angels, sometimes demons — prophecy was never her gift, but she can feel which way the wind's blowing. Whatever this thing between them is, it will be the death of her. She knows it in her gut.

Oh, and these colors fade for you only Hold me, carry me slowly, my sunlight Oh, all these colors fade for you only Hold me, carry me slowly, my sunlight

It's only more true when she agrees to help the Winchesters in their shitty plan to take down Dick Roman. If the demon she was seven years ago could see her now, it would stab her with her own angel blade. Meg, child of Azazel, student of Alistair, devotee to Lucifer —  once again willingly serving as a distraction on the Winchesters' behalf.

This is all Castiel's fault. Being around him... she can feel the sharpness of her fading, her thorns rounding out, slowly.

It's made her stupid — but then, maybe she's always been like this. Loyalty is loyalty. A cause is a cause. She'd started down this path planning to use Clarence and the Winchesters to her own ends, but now she's driving Dean's stupid, over-compensating muscle car towards a building filled with the kind of creatures that  angels and the first demons had nightmares about. Armed with just a knife and a jug of Power Clean.

She and Castiel exchanged glances right before they went their separate ways. He seemed... sharper. Like he got a little bit of himself back. They said a lot without saying anything. It gave her something to dream of.

And she's going to need that, she thinks, as Crowley's goons take advantage of the damage the leviathans did to her to throw her up against a wall and capture her.

Each day, you'd rise with me Know that I would gladly be The Icarus to your certainty Oh, my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

Months pass. Meg endures. Meg dreams. Compared to Azazel, to Alistair, to Lucifer, Crowley and his goons' attempts at torture are nothing; drops of spit in the ocean. She lies, she acts, she lets them think they're getting information out of her, all the while she keeps them from finding what they're actually looking for.

She thinks about Castiel, lets herself dream through the torture. Sometimes she thinks of calling for him. He'd come, if she called. She still believes that.

She doesn't call.

Crowley comes to gloat a few times, tells her that her little angel is dead, along with Dean Winchester. She doesn't want to believe that. She doesn't want to prove him right. So she doesn't call. If she were to call, and he never showed, then it would mean that Crowley's right.

Even though part of her thinks that if he were alive, he would have come for her by now. Unless he doesn't know she's been taken. Maybe he's lying low, making plans, searching... if she called, it would put him at risk.

So she doesn't call. There's not much she can do to protect her cloud hopper where she is right now, but that much, she can manage.

She scoffs at herself —  when did she become such a damn softie? Nothing good ever comes from staring at the sun. Nothing good ever comes from dreaming. Not for a demon.

But she stared anyway. She dreamed anyway. And she just keeps dreaming.

Strap the wing to me Death trap clad happily With wax melted, I'd meet the sea Under sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

She knows the end is coming, one way or another, when Crowley starts complaining that some one is killing his minions. Maybe it's Sam, out for revenge. Maybe it's both of the Winchesters; Dean turning back up like the bad penny that he is. Or maybe it's her Clarence, finally coming to find her.

Yeah right.

Even when Dean, Sam, and Clarence do show up, she knows it's not for her. It's for the Angel Tablet, same as Crowley. Still, she's glad to see Castiel again. He seems different. More focused. Better, but still, not quite the Angel she remembers. She can tell Dean notices too. But she doesn't say anything. She knows what she is. Hell, if she said something, Dean probably wouldn't believe her. Better to just get out of here, save her own skin.

But then Castiel turns to her. "We need your help."

How can she say no? "Any of you dummies got a map?" She chuckles.

This will be the death of her. She knows it. But she just can't seem to stop looking at the sun. Reaching for it, dreaming of it. She lets them take her to their temporary base, wincing in the light of day.

Sam and Dean leave her and Clarence alone, and he looks at her like... like she matters. Like he cares. He takes care of her, cleaning her wounds even though eventually they'll close up on their own.

"These wounds have festered," he says worriedly.

"You really do know how to make a girl's nethers quiver, don't you?" She smiles at him and takes a swig of her booze. Trashy stuff, exactly what she'd expect from the Winchesters. Not that she really cares. She just likes to rag on them. Since, well... she's a demon. Funny how she has to keep reminding herself that, these days. Doesn't help that him taking care of her is actually really hot. Never thought she was one to get off on the touchy-feely crap. But here she is.

"I am aware of how to do that. Although it doesn't usually involve cleaning wounds," Castiel replies, far too seriously.

She raises an eyebrow. Damn Crowley for the shitty bleach-job. She's much better looking as a brunnette. Funny, how body just feels like hers now. The girl from Cheboygan's long gone. She almost feels... bad about that. Ew.

"Why are you so sweet on me, Clarence?" She asks. Even now, even when he clearly doesn't need her anymore, there's still something there.

"I don't know. And I still don't know who Clarence is."

She laughs. "Would it kill you to watch a movie, read a book?"

"A movie, no. But a book with the proper spells -- yeah, it could, theoretically, kill me."

He would give her a real answer for that. Funny though, she feels the need to tell him that he shouldn't be sharing that kind of information with a demon. She doesn't mention it. Instead, she keeps flirting, curious to see where it might lead. "You know, you're much cuter when you're shutting up. So, which Cas are you now? Original make and model or crazy town?"

"I'm just me."

A lie, but one she'll pretend she believes for now. Not like she knows anything about deprograming angels. Aside from maybe doing it the old fashioned way, original sin and all that. "So, your noodle's back in order?"

"Yeah, my... noodle remembers everything. I think it's a pretty good noodle."

Even though he's better, he's still... cute. She shouldn't even be capable of finding things cute. What is he doing to her? "Really? You remember everything?" But like Icarus, she just keeps reaching for the sun.

"If you're referring to the pizza man... Yes, I remember the pizza man. And it's a good memory."

They let that sit for a moment, staring at each other. She winces a little. "What are you doing to me, Clarence?" She finally asks.

He cocks his head to the side. "I believe it's called flirting."

"Not that," she sighs. "Look at my true form."

He blinks at her. "I don't think that was my doing."

She rolls her eyes. "Who else could it have been, Clarence?"

"You," he replies.

She sighs, raising the bottle to her lips again. "You ever miss the Apocalypse?"

"No. Why would I miss the end of times?"

He just doesn't get it. It makes sense, she guesses. Not like the sun cared that it melted Icarus's wings.

"I miss the simplicity. I was bad. You were good. Life was easier. Now it's all so messy. I'm kind of good, which sucks." An understatement. "And you're kind of bad -- which is actually all manner of hot. We survive this... I'm gonna order some pizza and we're gonna move some furniture around. You understand?" She might as well keep dreaming, though. She's come this far.

"No, I-I  — " He seems confused.

Meg gives him a sly smirk and waits, watching as understanding dawns on his stupidly kissable face.

"Wait —  actually... Yes, I — "

But before he can finish that thought, the cock-blocking Winchesters make their return. And joy of joys, they have another one of their shitty plans.

The dream was nice, while it lasted.

Oh, your love is sunlight Oh, your love is sunlight But it is sunlight

They stand outside a warehouse after dark. She could run. She could tell them she's done, that she's given them what they want. Save herself before she gets too close to the sun.

But she won't. The light is inside her now. There's no running from that.

When Sam suggests that she watch their backs, she's ready to do it. They don't trust her, even after everything. Not that she blames them. Light or no, she is what she is. That's why it burns so much.

But Castiel trusts her. Castiel cares. "....You should stay here and protect Meg."

"Since when do I need protecting?" She wants, suddenly, to hear him say it. That she's worth protecting.

"Since you were held captive and tortured for over a year."

Not quite what she was hoping for, but she'll take it. "Touché."

For all that the Winchesters talk about not trusting her, Dean does still leave her with Sam, which says more than words ever could. Even with the torture, she's pretty sure she could take Sam out it she wanted to, given the state he's in.

They're lucky that she doesn't want to. She's... fond of Sam, weirdly enough.

Oh, your love is sunlight Oh, your love is sunlight But it is sunlight

Not that he appreciates that.

"Wait -- so I took how many bullets for you guys, and you didn't even look for me?" She asks as they work together to ward the building. "Like, once?" She scoffs. Stupid of her to hope otherwise, really. Going soft sucks. "My hero. What's with all the "trial" and "being damaged" crap?" Even so, she's still concerned. Stupid sunlight, burning inside her, smoothing down her thorns.

"Look, no disrespect, but you haven't exactly been the most, uh, trustworthy person in our lives, Meg."

She can't deny that one, but still. "You're not gonna tell me? Seriously? How am I not team Sam?" She scoffs again. He doesn't get it. Or he doesn't want to. Fair enough.  "Fine. Whatever it is, you okay dying over it?"

He ignores her. Which, fair; but if she's going to die for these bozos — and she is, she can feel it, like a sudden free-fall in her belly — she's going to say her piece first. He's fighting for a cause —  she wants him to decide if he's really willing to commit to it.

"You don't want to say, fine. But remember, I spent time in that walking corpse of yours. I know your sad, little thoughts and feelings."

"That's creepy," he replies dryly.

It is. "You think I want to have little lingering bits of Winchester-thoughts bouncing around in my noggin? Honestly —  You should be paying for me to see a shrink." She shakes her head. Stay on topic. "Here's what I remember. Deep down, in parts you never let see the light of day, you want to live a long, normal life away from creepy old things like me."

Of course, that's an easy one. She doesn't even need the Winchester leftovers to know that.

"I do," Sam scoffs. Then he sighs. "You know, I spent last year with... someone, and, um... ...now I know that's actually possible." He looks like he doesn't even know why he's telling her this.

Frankly, she doesn't either. She's said what she wanted to, so maybe she should quiet while she's ahead. "Wait —  that's how you spent your last year? With a chick? Lame."

"You know, how about we just wait quietly?" He shakes his empty spray can.

She almost laughs. That's the Sammy she remembers having so much fun with. He's always at his best when he's being a little on the bitchy side. Whoever said blondes have more fun got it wrong; bitches have more fun.

"What was her name? You don't even trust me with a name? Cut me, do I not bleed, Sam?"

Surprisingly, she genuinely wants to know. Did this woman change him, like Clarence has changed her? Did he fly too close to the sun too? Or did he shed his wings and save himself?

"So, some chick actually got you off hunting, huh? That's one rare creature. Tell me —  how'd you meet this unicorn?"

Demons aren't supposed to dream, and neither, she thinks, are hunters. It never ends well.

Oh, your love is sunlight Oh, your love is sunlight

Even more surprisingly, Sam tells her. Maybe part of him senses the light in her, burning away at what she ought to be. Or maybe he just wants to tell someone, and figures nobody cares what Meg has to say. Maybe he senses the end coming for her too —  prophecy was his thing, even if he doesn't do it anymore, now that Azazel's blood's gone dormant with the demon's death.

"You fell in love with a unicorn. It was beautiful, then sad, then sadder. I laughed, I cried, I puked in my mouth a little. And honestly, I kind of get it."

Her dreams never have a happy ending. Castiel is the sun, and it's going to destroy her in the end. It might be warm, it might make her feel nice in all the right places and the wrong ones, but that doesn't change what it is. What she is.

"Really?" Sam sounds like he might actually be willing to believe her. Like he might want to hear her story too.

But they're out of time. "We've got company."

Crowley's goons come out in force. And she's sure that the King of Hell himself won't be far behind.

But it is sunlight

And of course, she's right. Maybe she's got more prophecy in her than she thought. Bitching isn't as fun when Crowley does it. And she can tell that Sam doesn't have much more fight in him. She's gotta get him out of here. She sighs internally. Sunlight might be the biggest bitch of them all. Sure stings like one.

"You gonna talk us to death or get down to it already?" She taunts, drawing Crowley's attention away from Sam. She knows how this ends. But Sam doesn't have to die here too.

Crowley pulls out an angel blade, and Meg feels like she's seen this moment a thousand times since she let the sunlight in. Yeah, she knows how this ends. She's fucked. Damn that angel. Damn her. Damn everything.

Meg steps up to the plate, looking back over her shoulder at Sam. "Go. Save your brother... and my unicorn."

"Did Timon and Pumbaa..."  Crowley asks tauntingly. The door to the warehouse closes behind Sam. "...tell you their big plan? Did they share that little chestnut with you? They mean to close the Gates of Hell, sweetheart. They mean to kill me and all the demons -- you included."

She figured as much. One way another, her dreams were doomed from the start. It doesn't change a thing.

"You had me at "kill you," Crowley," she drawls with a smile.

He raises his fists. She braces for impact.

Oh, your love is sunlight

She does her best not to laugh at him as he lands another brutal hit on one of her kidneys.

"I could beat on you for eternity." He says. Dumbass.

Oh, your love is sunlight

"Take all the time you want, you pig." They hear the sound of car doors closing, and they both look up.

Meg finally lets herself laugh. "No Cas in the back seat. Your stone is long gone." She knows how this will end, but she's going to go down fighting. She stabs him in the shoulder.

But it is sunlight

Crowley gasps angrily, pulls out the blade, and drives it into her. Lightning sparks. Time slows.

Sunlight, sunlight,

She’s always wondered where demons go when they die. She knows it’s not purgatory, and even though it would make sense for them to just wind up back in hell, she knows that’s not how it works either. Maybe there’s just… nothing.

sunlight,

Can dead demons dream? She doesn’t know, but dying ones can — because even in the milliseconds she’s has left after Crowley stabs her, she’s still dreaming. She dreams of Castiel, finding her body and grieving. She dreams of Cas, showing up in the nick of time and healing her, rounding away even more of her thorns. It would hurt, but she’d live.

But she knows her dreams won’t come true. She’s a demon, and demons aren’t meant to dream.

sunlight,

Maybe dead demons don’t go anywhere. Maybe it’s just dark, quiet nothingness.

Once upon a time, she might have welcomed that. But not anymore.

Now… her last thought as the blade in her chest sparks its last, tearing all that she is to shreds, is that she’s going to miss the light of her unicorn.

sunlight

[wardingshout]

Zelda goes mushroom girl

[bacchuschucklefuck]

they tried to rebrand as The Criminals but riz is literally the city council's treasurer and also turns out people in their late 20s don't really name their friend groups. so now they're The Intrepid Heroes

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Thank you all for an incredible 500 days of love and support. I offer you: answers to questions that no one has asked.

(As always, more can be found in the tags <3)

[psychotic-nonsense]

"I'm sorry."

It's the first thing Steve says after everything.

After getting Vecna Cursed. After nearly dying. After a hallucination of Eddie saved him. After running through a looped forest. After finding sanctuary in Steve's memory of that Starcourt bathroom. After Eddie reveals himself as Eddie.

It's the only thing he can think of. It's not big enough to fit everything, but it's the only thing that fits in his mouth.

"Don't be."

Maybe that's the only thing Eddie can think of too. The only thing Eddie can bear to say.

Because don't be can't stop Steve's eyes from watering when he sees the vest in his closet. Don't be can't stop Steve's feet from dragging him to the cemetery every evening to clean Eddie's graffiti-covered tombstone. Don't be can't stop Steve from sitting beside Wayne and listening to him talk about the Eddie he remembers. Don't be can't stop Eddie's body from showing up in Steve's dreams, nor Eddie's corpse from his nightmares. Don't be couldn't keep the pain away enough, didn't stop Vecna from latching onto it while Steve was walking alone in the woods.

Don't be isn't enough for what Steve wants to hear. But even stuck here waiting, hoping, for someone to get Steve out, there just isn't enough time.

"I miss you."

"...Why?"

Eddie says it back so quickly, so quietly, like it's just unfathomable to him. Maybe it is, considering their last memories. But their eyes meet and he looks just as sad, just as longing, as Steve.

"You were my friend."

Steve can't help but say it like that. Like they were friends for years instead of days. Like Eddie was that important to him in their final moments. Like his heart really aches for Eddie every second of the apocalypse.

Can't help but say it like he means it.

"I wish we could've had more time..."

Steve's voice cracks a little there as he turns away, hiding. It's all he wants. It's all Vecna used to entice him with. It's all that's keeping him going, to finally fulfill the last request Eddie made. It's all he has left to feel close to Eddie.

The Eddie that's sitting right next to him, silent, his sight weighing on Steve's skin. Conscious and aware and the real Eddie. Trapped in Vecna's head as a backup power source, yet who still risked everything to come save Steve. Who Steve will never see again because killing Vecna means killing Eddie for good, and his heart doesn't want it, is begging for another solution...

But for once, his broken head overpowers his shattered heart.

"Maybe we did."

Eddie takes Steve's hand. Meets Steve's surprised look with his own small smile of hope. They're both suddenly tearing up, eyes glistening with life in this gray stall.

"Maybe in another world, we got a second first chance. A first second chance. Maybe even a third, or fourth. Maybe in a different life, we had everything we wanted. Because you, Steve Harrington, are too good for me to be doomed to meet just once."

And for a moment, Steve sees it. Feels it. Versions of them connected through the universe.

Little kids playing in the lake. One with bruised skin and shaved hair, loud but unfathomably lonely. One with a bruised heart and soft eyes, timid but stubbornly hopeful.

A rockstar with glittering chains, center stage in the spotlight. A set of eyes in the crowd or behind the curtain, watching only him.

A werewolf and a vampire, two cryptids of horror, meeting in the dead of a full moon night to feel safe with the only other one who understands.

A future where they won, where the only death was the one that mattered. A process of healing and learning, coming home to a family every single day.

A world without pain, without their hell, where two high schoolers found freedom from their shackles and company in each other. Hiding away together in the dark corners of the town.

Steve even sees other versions of them. Versions that he knows were originally never supposed to meet, yet forces so much greater than them pulled them together.

A metalhead drug dealer, constantly getting into trouble with one nail-bat-weilding cop.

A criminal's fugitive nature leading him to a rugged trailer park, and the dangerous owner within one such home.

An eccentric king in an old coliseum, always choosing one particular warrior as his champion.

A young programmer being pulled away from his work by sobs above his apartment, running upstairs to check on the law student that recently moved in.

Two actors, finding an easy friendship in the months of filming one season of a show that would change their lives.

In that moment, Steve's overwhelmed by the closeness he suddenly feels with the soul beside him. Falling into tears, he pulls Eddie into a tight hug, holding him so so close to convey everything he can't say. Feeling Eddie hold him back, hearing everything Eddie can't say in return.

Familiar music comes on outside the stall. Robin's voice calls out to him, telling him to come home.

And when he does leave, Steve hopes that someone out there will understand that he never can. Because here in Eddie's arms is the only place that will ever truly feel like home.

"Thank you... for everything, Eddie."

Thank you, Steve. For everything and more..."

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

- List of AUs, in order, after, "Versions of them connected through the universe": Childhood Friends / Rockstar!Eddie / Werewolf!Steve & Vampire!Eddie / Eddie Survives / No Upside Down & High School

- List of Multiverse Steddie AUs, in order, after, "...yet forces so much greater than them pulled them together": Eddie x Gator / Baron x Michael / Geta x Sean / Keys x Eric / Quinn and Keery

[luxaofhesperides]

Could i request a ghostlight where danny can turn into a dragon, it could be though a curse or just training from queen dora?

Like dragon Danny seeing the yellow signal outfit and thinking "mmmmm gold, shiny, must take".

He should probably be more worried about being cursed.

Scratch that, he should definitely be more worried about being cursed. However, it wasn’t done intentionally or in bad faith. This is just the consequences of him, Sam, and Tucker fucking around and finding out when left unsupervised with the grimoire of a long dead witch.

In their defense, they didn’t know Tucker could use magic. This revelation both upset Tucker, who refused to be swayed from tech, and Sam, who thought she was a better fit for magic considering how goth she is. Danny hadn’t really cared, since he was too busy being turned into a dragon. At least it isn’t like with Dora’s necklace; Danny is still himself, can think clearly, and isn’t overcome by rage. 

He’s just… Danny. But as a dragon.

“Well, you do something to fix him then!” Tucker shouts, waving a hand in the air angrily, “Since you want to be so good at magic, you do it then!”

“I would if I could! But you’re the one who gets to use magic, so figure it out and turn Danny back!” Sam shouts back, getting in Tucker’s face with a fierce scowl.

Danny sighs, shifting uncomfortably. His room is not big enough for a dragon, and his back is starting to cramp up. He looks longingly out the window to the clear skies that call to him, and wonders when his friends will stop fighting. 

They keep shouting, so he doubts they’ll be able to focus on actually helping him for at least another hour.

The only silver lining about the situation is that Jazz and his parents are gone, taking the weekend to visit a few colleges so Jazz can decide which one she wants to go to. Though he’s been cursed into dragon form and his friends are yelling about it, at least his family can’t make it any worse with their attempts to ‘fix’ things. 

There’s a lull in the yelling, Sam and Tucker both turning their attention back to the grimoire. Danny shifts his wings, tail flicking slightly, and leans his head closer. He wishes he could help figure this out, but he can’t talk in this form, and any attempt at charades will destroy his room. 

His friends look focused, at least. So maybe they’ve decided to focus on finding solutions instead of fighting. 

“Here,” Sam says, shoving the grimoire over to Tucker roughly. “Try that.”

Tucker reads over the spell, then scoffs and pushes the grimoire back. “That’s not going to fix anything. Didn’t you read it? It clearly says truth is the greatest revenge, revealing one’s true form force it into light. It’s talking about making people who are secretly cruel turn ugly or something like that! It’s not going to do anything for Danny!”

“It says one’s true form and Danny’s is a human! That would work!”

And they go right back to arguing.

Danny sighs, turning to stare out the window again.

In any other circumstance, being a dragon would be so fun. He has wings! He’s big and has claws and can probably breathe fire! And it’s not making him act on animal instincts or anything! If he could just be outside…

He glances at Sam and Tucker again. 

Maybe he can go outside, enjoy the curse a bit before they figure out a way to undo it. Spend some time flying around with wings. 

All the curse did was turn him into a dragon. It just changed his form. If he still has his ghost powers, if the curse didn’t change his nature from halfa to dragon…

Carefully, Danny focuses on his tail and tries to make it intangible. There’s a strange sensation of ice running down his spine, then it goes into his tail. In the next second, his tail drops through the floor, and Danny bites down a grin. 

He is so out of here. 

He gives Sam and Tucker another glance; they’ve got their heads bent over the grimoire, paying no attention to him. 

Perfect.

Danny goes fully intangible and sinks through the floor of his bedroom, then maneuvers his way outside the house. As soon as he’s out, standing beneath the sunlight and able to stretch out his new body, Danny pulls his power back and takes a few careful steps on the grass, testing his balance. His wings shift on his back, and he stretches them out, feeling the way his new limbs move.

Everything feels natural, as if he’s always been a dragon.

Taking a deep breath, Danny spreads his wings out and takes off running. A few hard pumps of his wings gets him into the air, and he can’t help but let out a joyful roar. 

Distantly, he hears Tucker and Sam yelling again, but he’s too happy to be free of that room to care. Let them argue. He wants to have fun.

Staying in Amity Park is a no go; Val might go after him, thinking he’s a threat, and ghosts could pop out at any time to cause problems. He might as well take this chance to fly around wherever he wants. Chicago wouldn’t be too hard to reach with how fast he’s flying, but he’s been there before and doesn’t want to stay in Illinois. 

What other big city is nearby that he can fly to?

New York?

Or, better yet, Gotham. 

It’s definitely a bad idea, but if any city is able to handle a dragon appearing without warning, it would be Gotham. Plus, he might get to see some of the heroes in action! Sure, it’s the middle of the day, but surely a dragon is a good enough reason for Batman to show up before the sun sets. 

Mind made up, Danny flies up into the clouds and heads towards Gotham, following the roads out of Amity Park. 

The flight is quick. It takes barely over an hour to see the dark figures of Gotham’s tallest buildings, fog surrounding the city like something out of a horror movie. The sun glints off the ocean behind the city for a rare, cloudless day. He’s heard stories about Gotham’s weather, how dreary it is, the occasional acid rain, the gloominess of it all. As bad as his luck is, it seems that the sunny day is trying to give him something good to even it out after being cursed into a dragon.

Excited, Danny angles himself down, diving out of the lower clouds and shifts his wings to catch on a wind current that smoothly sends him towards the city.

Just to be careful, he goes invisible as he gets closer, staying out of sight once he enters the city proper. 

Noise overwhelms him immediately, cars honking and voices yelling, the occasional gunshot and sound of something breaking. It makes Danny wince, disoriented enough to make him falter as he flies above the streets.

Amity Park is quiet and peaceful in comparison, so much so that he hadn’t realized just how enhanced his senses had become in a dragon’s form. 

The sounds of everything are so much, and all the movement of such a big city is dizzying. At least he can’t smell anything but salt from the sea; if he had to deal with the constant smell of blood, guts, and sewage, he would find a way to fully die to get away from it.

He slows down to a smooth glide, weaving his way between buildings as he takes in the city. Even with the sun out, it’s gloomy, the tall buildings casting shadows across the streets, a mix of art deco and gothic architecture filling up the space. He wonders if he should find some place up high he can rest, maybe bathe in the sun for a bit until he felt like moving again. If he managed to fall asleep, that might give Sam and Tucker enough time to figure out how to undo the curse.

“Ow! Shit, that hurts.”

Or he indulge in his curiosity and check up on whoever just cursed loud enough to be heard over the ambient noise of Gotham.

It takes a minute of searching before Danny’s eyes zero in on a bright flash of yellow moving across rooftops. 

All other colors seem dull in comparison, and Danny has just enough time to think, Oh, there’s the dragon instincts taking over, before he’s flying after it, unable to focus on anything else.

Every time the yellow leaps out of the shadows, it’s as if it glows. As if Danny’s chasing sunlight. 

He gets close, but loses the yellow every so often with how he has to maneuver around buildings, putting his new flying abilities to the test in an effort to keep up.

Then the yellow comes to an abrupt stop. Danny can’t stop in time and flies past it, tilting his body and spreading out his wides as far as he can to make a tight turn. 

“I’m fine, just bruised up, but I feel like I’m being followed,” the yellow says to no one. There’s a pause, and then the yellow says, “I don’t see anything, is the thing.”

If the yellow has anything more to say, it doesn’t get the chance to do more than open its mouth before Danny’s crashing into it, tackling it to the ground. 

He’s elated as they roll across the roof, the living sunlight caught safe in his arms. He holds it close to his chest, protecting it until they come to a stop, dropping his invisibility as a low rumble builds in the back of his throat. The dragon brain has thoroughly taken over, and it takes far too long to wrestle control back from it.

Once he’s able to think more clearly, Danny looks down at the poor guy he’s caught and realizes, hey that’s a hero!

And then he realizes, that’s a hero. I fucked up.

He tries to say sorry, but all that comes out is a low chuff. The hero, who he can recognize as the Signal because who else wears mostly yellow in Gotham, leans back as much as he can, trapped in Danny’s grasp.

“Hey, dragon,” Signal says nervously. “I’m really hoping you didn’t catch me because you were looking for a snack.”

Danny huffs, bumping his head against Signal’s chest. He hopes he doesn’t come across as aggressive, because all he wants to do is laze around with a hero, his dragon brain happy to keep hold of its yellow sunshine.

He’s not going to let go of Signal, though. He intends to make the most of this moment while he can.

“Okay. You seem friendly? That’s good I guess.” Signal sighs, then tries to wiggle out of Danny’s grip. Danny doesn’t budge until Signal gasps and curls into himself, clearly in pain.

Worried, Danny lets go of him and tries to see what’s wrong, his snout poking against the Signal’s ribs.

The Signal hisses out a breath, trying to push Danny away. “Stop, don’t do that. Man, I hope my ribs aren’t broken. That would suck.”

That would suck. Rib injuries are the worst, and the bruises always seem to stay longer on ribs than anywhere else, in Danny’s experience. He would love to offer the Signal some ice, but as a dragon, he’s not sure how to use that particular power. He settles instead for backing off and making himself small, offering an apologetic rumble.

“Thanks,” Signal smiles, gingerly uncurling from where he’s hunched over, an arm crossing his stomach, protecting it. “I guess you’re friendly, then?”

Danny nods.

“...And you can understand me?”

Danny nods harder, a high pitched growl slipping out of his mouth. 

“That’s so cool. What are you doing here in Gotham?”

It’s not a yes or no question, so Danny’s stuck on how to answer when words are so far out of reach. He shrugs, wings shifting against his back, then carefully bumps his head against the Signal’s helmet. 

“Yeah, that was a bad question. Do you need help?”

Danny scrunches up his nose as he thinks. He is cursed, but so far, being a dragon isn’t all that bad. It sucks that he can’t talk, but everything else is cool! He just doesn’t want to be a dragon forever. But it’s nothing the Signal can help with, so Danny just shrugs again.

The Signal tilts his head. “Alright. I guess I’ll get going then, and you can chill up here.”

The low growl comes suddenly, without him even thinking, and Danny wraps himself around the hero again. Distantly, he thinks that he should stop, that this is technically holding the Signal in place against his will, but the much louder, dragon part of him is deeply upset by the thought of the Signal leaving while he’s injured. Danny can protect him, so there’s no need for him to go anywhere! In fact, he’s only safe as long as he’s with Danny!

He leans more of his weight onto the Signal until they both fall back onto the roof, pinning the hero in place. 

Danny tries to be gentle, but the impact still makes Signal groan, tensing up in pain.

Sorry, he tries to say, the words coming out in a low chuffing noise. He draws his tail up to curl around the Signal so he’s completely surrounded by Danny, kept safe from anything that would try to attack him. 

Letting out a breath, the Signal lightly knocks his head against Danny’s neck, the helmet barely felt through Danny’s scales. “Alright, Oracle, can you send someone to my location? I’m a bit stuck.”

It’s hard to hear, but Danny manages to make out a voice saying, “Black Bat is heading there now. What’s wrong?”

“I’m a bit stuck.”

“Injured?”

“Just my ribs, but that’s not really the problem. There’s a dragon who’s very determined to keep me on this roof.”

“A dragon,” the voice repeats. 

“Yeah. It seems to like me? But it’s also not letting me leave. So. I’m stuck.”

There’s a pause, then a soft burst of static before the voice says, “I’m going to send a message to everyone else just in case they’re able to provide any back up. I’m sure Tim is looking for an excuse to ditch Bruce at that accounting meeting.”

“Guess I’ll just wait to be rescued, then,” Signal says, sighing. Then he tilts his head up to look at Danny. “Is there some way you could talk to me? To pass the time. Maybe morse code? Do you know what that is?”

Dragon brain makes him stupid, apparently, because Danny does know morse code. He didn’t even think of alternative ways of communication once he discovered talking was impossible with his new vocal chords. 

It’s probably not even dragon brain. It’s just Danny brain that makes him like this.

Embarrassed, Danny drops his head onto the roof, drawing his tail closer to himself so it can cover his eyes, his best attempt at hiding his face. Then, with one sharp claw, he taps out Y.E.S.

“Oh! So, what’s up?”

N.O.T. D.RA.G.O.N. H.U.M.A.N. G.O.T. C.U.R.S.E.D.

“Why did you say you didn’t need help if you got cursed?!”

Danny wants to say it was an accident, but has no confidence that he can spell ‘accident’ correctly, so he goes with F.R.I.E.N.D. M.A.D.E. M.I.S.T.A.K.E.

“And can they fix it?”

I.D.K. T.H.E.Y. W.E.R.E. F.I.G.H.T.I.N.G. Danny huffs out a breath, flicking his tail in annoyance as he uncurls slightly, giving Signal some more breathing space. He doesn’t look as stressed out anymore, which is nice, but he still holds his ribs tenderly, careful not to move too much. G.O.T. B.O.R.E.D. L.E.F.T.

The Signal taps his own fingers against the roof, thinking after he takes in Danny’s words. “Do you think we can call them and see if they know how to fix it? I doubt you want to be a dragon forever.”

N.O. P.H.O.N.E.

“It’s cool, we can use mine.” And he pulls out a cell phone from… somewhere. Danny has no idea where. It’s like he blinked, and a phone suddenly appeared. His hero suit probably has a lot of hidden compartments and pockets to hold as much stuff as possible, but it’s so well designed that Danny can’t begin to think of where he’d put anything. Especially when his dragon brain keeps getting distracted by how nice the yellow is.

Danny taps out Tucker’s number when Signal asks for it, watching as the call connects and is put on speaker.

“Hello?” Tucker’s voice says, hesitant and a little distracted.

“Hi,” Signal responds with a mischievous smile, “Do you happen to be missing a dragon? Cause I’ve got one here who’s hoping he can get a little help from a friend.”

Danny hears something clatter on Tucker’s end, then Tucker starts yelling for Sam. He’s not quite able to bite back his laughter, entire body shaking with it. The Signal keeps his composure better, but he does share a glance with Danny that has him biting his lip, trying to keep his smile from growing.

“Where is he?!” Tucker demands, and for a moment Danny feels ashamed of how much stress he’s putting his best friends through. And then he remembers them fighting nonstop while ignoring him and doesn’t feel bad at all.

“Gotham.”

“...Gotham,” Sam repeats. Her voice is flat in the way it always gets before she verbally (and sometimes physically) tears someone apart. Danny winces hard enough that it jostles the Signal, making him glance back at Danny.

“Yeah. Gotham. He said he was cursed?”

Sam sighs heavily. “Yeah. Not my fault. It is Tucker’s fault, though.”

“I think I found the solution though! And also, it was an accident. You were the one who wanted to read the grimoire.”

He can tell they’re gearing up for another fight, so Danny lowers his face closer to the phone and lets loose a dark growl. It shuts them right up, and he briefly wonders about learning how to growl like that as a human, since it’s so effective.

Tucker clears his throat, and continues as if nothing happened. “Anyways. The cure. The thing that will make Danny stop being cursed.”

There’s another long pause.

“The cure…?” Signal prompts.

“Kisses.”

“Sorry, what?”

“It’s kisses.”

“Like… true love’s kiss?”

Danny hopes it’s not true love’s kiss. If it is, he’s never going to be human again. Who would his true love even be? As much as he liked Valerie, that ships sailed long ago. And he loves Sam and Tucker, but not quite like that. 

“No. Thankfully,” Sam says. “Just kisses. What matters is the amount, not the person it’s from. So whoever you are, we’re gonna need you to be giving Danny as many kisses as possible until he’s human again. We’re also on our way to Gotham now. Johnny’s offered us a ride.”

On cue, an engine revs loudly. 

“We’ll be there soon!” Tucker shouts over the engine, and the call ends just a second later. 

Danny huffs, shaking his head lightly.

“Interesting friends you got there,” Signal comments idly.

Y.E.S. Danny taps out. L.O.V.E. T.H.E.M.

The Signal sits up and moves away from Danny, who has to stomp down the urge to curl around the hero tighter to keep him in place. He stands up, putting his phone away, and looks over Danny. His gaze feels like a physical weight, moving from his face, and the horns on his head, to the scales covering him, to his wings and tail.

His tails flicks back and forth nervously. Danny can’t get it to stop.

“Dragon,” someone new says, startling Danny. He spots the newcomer immediately, a lithe figure in all black perched on the ledge of the roof. Her voice is rough and he can’t see her face at all, fully covered as it is in her mask.

This must be Black Bat. He doesn’t know much about her; no one does, with how she’s managed to avoid being photographed and how rarely she is seen by anyone at all. He honestly wasn’t sure if she was real or not, but here she is.

“Hey,” Signal greets easily, “We need to kiss him better.” 

Black Bat tilts her head. “Kiss… dragon?”

“He’s cursed. And kisses will fix him. Not true love’s kiss, but just a lot of kisses.”

“True love’s kiss?” she repeats.

“Oh, shit. I guess you haven’t read any fairy tales?” Black Bat shakes her head, and Danny wonders how she’s managed to avoid all fairy tales for so long. They’re usually among the first stories children are exposed to. “Yeah, in a lot of those stories, a curse can only be broken from a kiss by someone by love.”

Black Bat nods slowly, and it’s clear she doesn’t really understand, but she does hop off the ledge and walk over to Danny. She pulls up her mask to reveal her mouth, then looks to the Signal for guidance.

“Like this,” Signal says, then leans over and presses a soft kiss to Danny’s cheek.

If he were human, Danny would be blushing madly. As it is, he has to force himself to stay still and not hide his face in his hands, claws and all, from how flustered he is.

Black Bat follows in suit, dropping a delicate kiss to the top of his head. 

Danny loses track of how many kisses he gets, all over his face, beyond flustered by the amount of affection two heroes are showering him in. It’s just to break the curse, but it’s still a lot of kisses! 

Signal kisses the tip of his nose, and there’s a flash of light. Danny feels himself change, growing smaller, his human softness returning to him. It’s barely a few seconds, and then Danny’s human again, sitting on the roof with the Signal and Black Bat standing over him.

They blink at each other for a long moment, then Black Bat smiles and pats the top of his head. 

Danny smiles. He knows his cheeks are red, can feel how hot they are himself, and ducks his head, too embarrassed to look at either of them.

“How are you feeling?” Signal asks, crouching down to be eye level with Danny.

He tries to answer, but all that comes out is a hoarse rasp. He winces and brings a hand up to his throat, then shrugs and gives the Signal a thumbs up.

He clears his throat. This time, he manages to whisper, “Thank you.”

Black Bat gives him a cheerful wave, then hops back onto the ledge and jumps off. Signal barely takes his eyes off Danny enough to give her a nod goodbye. He reaches out and brushes Danny’s hair off his forehead some before his fingers trail down the side of his face. 

“I’ll admit, you looked cool as a dragon,” Signal says, “But you’re much cuter like this.”

Danny gives in and hides his face in his hands. The Signal laughs, warm and bright, and kisses his forehead. 

“Come on, let’s make sure your friends can find you.”

“They’re going to be so annoying about this,” Danny mutters.

“It’s how friends show affection.”

“Seriously, though, thank you. I know being tackled by a dragon isn’t what anyone expects. Did I hurt you? Your ribs…”

The Signal shrugs. “Nah. I’m all good. Just a little bruised, but it’ll heal quickly enough. Though, you’re more than welcome to give me a kiss to help me feel better.”

Danny shoves him lightly for the teasing, but he does pull the Signal back for a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth.

It’s only fair, after all.

[triangular-static]

look i understand if people just don't like the idea of billford, i think we have a different internal concept of what shipping means (they're not good for each other at all but i need to dissect their dynamic like a bug. you understand. it's fun) but it's fine to avoid things you don't like, good for you genuinely

however people saying they like. don't see it. like. i'm not saying there's no platonic way to read it, i'm aroace spec myself i'm all for reading things in different ways. but i do think saying they weren't partners in any queer sense at all is trying too hard to go against what the narrative is trying to say, or missing it. somehow

anyway media literacy time if a character makes a joke like this

and the previous context of that joke within the show is that it's about an ex wife. what connection do you think the text is trying to get you to make.

and that's just from a writing point of view. not even noting that from an in universe perspective ford likely knows the joke from the same source as stan. and is therefore. placing himself in that role of the joke are you seeing where i'm coming from

(not to mention bill's side of this text which is. extremely manipulative but also does not read very platonic. again, it can technically be read as platonic! bill literally can manipulate ford's feelings. but the specific wording used is very much meant to look like possessive ex partner wording whether the character means it that way or not. it's coding. look again i'm not saying it was good for them i'm just saying there was something there.)

and then there's also the divorce/break up/rock bottom input on the website. like. how else is that supposed to be read. and the corresponding page in the book itself.

the language being used here. like yes he's saying it in a joking way but then there's the other side that isn't joking which is him crying at the bar. it's the both sides (the very coded language on top of the very genuine emotions and dynamic beneath)

i know most of us are on the same page with this i've just seen a couple people saying they don't see it when this is some of the most clear cut coding i've ever seen. and these are just the things that explicitly reference a relationship off the top of my head i'm not even including the general vibes of Everything

tl;dr it's barely even subtext anymore it's all but straight up text. what's not clicking have we forgotten what coding is (lighthearted i just enjoy the phrase what's not clicking. what's not clicking)

[beatcroc]

there's no way the bathroom at peppino's pizza is actually that big but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ . hey ummm anyway.... i care them...... anyway there's a lil ramble on my take on fake pep's like psyche or whatever in tags on the og post if ur into that kinda thing :y

hey! it's a series! fake peppino world tour: [noise] [noisette] [peppino]<- u are here [gustavo] [gerome] [noisette again]

[gingermintpepper]

“Your hair’s gotten longer.” 

It’s conscious effort that keeps him from tucking the strands behind his ear, from taking the knife at his hip and shearing it all off. He keeps his stance focused, attentive, there’s little else he can do when he’s taken so completely after his mother when it comes to his hair. His father scratches his chin, the clouds of his beard snaking about his finger like mist parting for mountain-peaks. Ares’ chin is still child-smooth. He can feel the tickle of his over-long fringe against his soft jaw. There’s no heart in his chest, but still he feels as though a pulse is lodged in his throat. 

Father sighs, put-upon, disappointed, and Ares feels a slight tremor start in his calves from holding himself so tense. “Well done, Ares. Go clean yourself up and get some rest. Phoebus will want to look you over later.” 

He should be ecstatic to be praised by his father. Over-the-moon with joy. There should be pride emanating from every pore of his body, the blood on his skin should be sweeter than ambrosia. 

Instead, he bows, manages a soft ‘thank you, Father’ around the lump in his throat and immediately flees the room. A mild ‘make sure to trim your hair’ hits the back of his head like a spear through the skull. He almost wishes the great door had slammed on his foot so he would have reason to feel this horrid in his retreat.  

Phoebus Apollo is waiting for him in his infirmary. 

He’s gilded as ever, gold from crown to heel. Perfect like the statues they carve of him in his temples. He has a smile for Ares when he sees him, a crinkle at the edges of his pretty eyes from the weight of his joy. Ares is waiting to see the crack in the marble, to see if that’s the chip that’ll reveal his fangs.

“Brother,” he greets, and his voice is warm - like the arms that embrace him, his voice is so warm, “Welcome back. I’ve heard you’ve done well.”  

There’s a tremble in Ares’ fingers he hadn’t noticed before. Strain from carrying his sword for so many days, a throb from wounds he hadn’t noticed he’d accrued. “Heard? There’s already gossip?” 

Phoebus blinks, disarming, demure, coquettish, “But of course,” and Phoebus’ voice is honey to Ares’ gravel, the juxtaposition is grating on his skin, “It’s Olympus. The gossip began long before you set your course.” Those warm hands lead him further into the room, bodily sits him on the chaise, pulls his helmet from his head. It’s all one, unbroken motion, “It’s summer alas, so I could not watch your war myself, but I hear it was quite the decisive victory.” 

A thousand thoughts run on horseback through his mind then. 

Did Father overhear some terrible slander that pre-emptively disappointed him? Was Ares’ victory merely a rumour, a bet his father hadn’t bothered to take? Was the gossip more enticing than the stark truth? That Ares wasn’t some child toddling about in the shadow of his sister, that his sword and spear weren’t merely for show - he’d think such a thing would warrant celebration. Not -

“Oh my,” Phoebus is in front of him, pleasant warmth more sticky heat with how close he’s pressed himself into Ares’ space. From this angle, Ares can see the multi-coloured flecks of his eyes, like shards of golden glass suspended in ichor. From this angle, with his hand so gently holding his hair, were Ares to blink too hard, he’d swear Phoebus looked just like his mother. “Your hair’s grown long again.” 

He pushes Phoebus off with such force that he bangs into the wall. It’s Phoebus, it won’t make even the impression of a scratch on him, but Ares wishes it would. Wishes he’d hit his shoulder or crack his neck or hit his head just hard enough for all that perfect, gilded gold to bleed. 

“I’m only here for you to heal me,” the tremble in his hand extends to his shoulder now. He flexes and unflexes his palm. Gods what he would give to just have a sword - “Don’t waste time with the pleasant-work.” 

Phoebus huffs, adjusts the fit of his himation, “...Only because we’re meant to be celebrating your victory.” He crosses the room in two great strides, his hair a swirling tempest behind him as he gathers his poultices and wraps. “The only reason I’ll not throw you from the window is because we are meant to be celebrating your victory.”  

There’s not enough acid in his tone for this to truly be a fight. Ares’ jaw clenches, he bites out a terse, “How benevolent.” 

“Aren’t I?” He’s got nectar and his sutures in hand, that focused look falling upon his face when he switches from overbearing busybody to Paeon of the Gods. “Now strip unfaltering Ares, let us see the measure of damage done to your indomitable flesh.” 

(Somewhere between the fifth set of stitches and the gentle frown that crosses Phoebus’ face when he notices the persistent tremble in his fingers, Ares pins his eyes to the far wall and asks, “What does it mean when Father says ‘well done’?” 

Any other sibling would mock before they gave a true response. Any other sibling would laugh and dismiss it, would say that praise is praise and any lingering ill feeling is just the worst of the war still fogging his mind. Phoebus does not answer immediately. He doesn’t make a single sound. The question settles like fetid water between them, unignorable, the scent right there on the tip of the tongue yet firmly unacknowledged. Ares closes his eyes and tries again to settle his squirming so he does not interfere with Phoebus’ work.  The metallic snip of scissors cutting thread breaks the silence. Phoebus bids him to sit up and slides his warm palms up his back until his fingers tangle gently in the ends of his hair. He twists the dark red strands until he’s gathered it all into a neat handful, holding it loosely as he switches his scissors for his shearing blade. “You should know it was not praise,” Phoebus says softly. The first of Ares cut hairs fall like viscera from his head. Phoebus treats each cutting with the sacredness of a blood-sacrifice. If he focused on the moment of tension right before the blade cuts though, Ares thinks he can imagine the agony of his sister’s sacred birth. “It is acknowledgement. Father thinks you’ve done well so he says ‘well done’.”

Gently, Phoebus releases him. Ruffles his head so all the extra hairs fall like red rain to the floor. Ares runs his fingers through the ends now curling against his ear. “Has he ever told you ‘well done’?” 

A laugh, warm and gilded, “No, and it would not make you feel better if he had.” 

Ares swallows down a thousand different questions. Phoebus wouldn’t answer them, he’s infuriating like that. Instead, he clenches his teeth, the phantom of Father’s dizzying tangle of grey cloud-hairs persistent in the corner of his eyes. “Cut it shorter.”

Phoebus doesn’t protest. He never seems to say a word when it really matters.)

[ghostly-cabbage]

We need to talk about the worst thing about making AUs....

The fact that then when you inevitably think about crossovers you don't want the crossover with the canon you want it with your specific AU. Your brain worms, your circus, but THEN WHAT?

Oh, yeah, to understand this crossover you need to go read this entirely different fic/series? Girl help 😭 you can't do that

[scificrows]

Okay, my brain refuses to think about anything other than Murderbot, so I looked at every use of the word "friend[s]" in TMBD and... created some pie charts. Normal human activities.

Some Thoughts™ I had while putting this together (under the cut):

In All Systems Red, Murderbot notes that the PresAux crew are all close friends (twice! and goes on to explain their internal relationships which I think is very cute). This is pretty much the only use of 'friends' in ASR, except for when Murderbot says that SecUnits can't be friends with each other.

It seems that this may be one of the first times Murderbot has ever really been around a group of friends before? Murderbot notes that this is not the norm for its contracts and admits that the fact that they are all friends and the way they interact with each other make it actually enjoy that contract (before!!!! the hostile attack, so it already enjoys this contract before they start seeing it as a person etc ghghhhh). [Inference: Friendship seems enjoyable.]

The first character that calls Murderbot its friend is ART in Artificial Condition. Murderbot immediately refutes this (and then goes on to call ART its friend to its clients for the rest of the book). [Inference: Maybe ART is Murderbot's friend. And maybe that is... agreeable]

Rogue Protocol has more than twice as many instances of the word 'friend' as any of the other novellas. Why? Miki. Friendship and its implications for non-humans are a central theme because Miki is friends with everyone. Murderbot initially scoffs at the notion that Miki and Miki's humans are friends. At the end of the book, after witnessing how desperately Don Abene tried to stop Miki from trying to save them, and her grief after its death, Murderbot has to admit that she had in fact been Miki's friend. [Inference: Humans can be friends with bots and can sincerely care about them]

In Exit Strategy, Murderbot tentatively uses the word "friends" for its humans for the first time (several times actually). It questions whether it can actually call them its friends or not and later realizes that it had been afraid what admitting that the humans are its friends would do to it. At the end of the book, Mensah tells Murderbot the PresAux crew are its friends, which is the first time a human has directly said that to it (at least on-page). [Inference: Humans can and want to be Murderbot's friends]

In Network Effect, Murderbot seems to be more habituated to the word 'friend', confidently calling ART and Ratthi its friends, like it is no longer just trying the concept on unsure if it fits. There are many instances in which other characters refer to MB as ART's friend or the other way around and Murderbot's humans refer to Murderbot as their friend several times. Generally, there seems to be less hesitancy, because yes, all of them are Murderbot's friends, why wouldn't they be. [Inference: SecUnits can have friends. This SecUnit has friends. They care about it a lot.]

Conclusion: The Murderbot Diaries tell the story of a construct that does not seem to consider the possibility of friendship for itself and is fine with that - until it accidentally starts caring a little too much and suddenly more and more people annex it as a friend (ew) to the point where it can no longer deny that this is happening and has to begrudgingly admit that yes, it has friends now and maybe that is actually not a bad thing.

[cerise-grenadine]

so, when @dearestdo3 posted her lovely Pokémon drawing, it made me want to sketch my old team too! well, i should say teamS because i couldn’t choose in the end 😩

so here’s the roundup: (it’s more of what team would represent him rather than who he’d pick of course 🤭) (and it's my AU!Snape so no Lily or does involved)

Young angry Death Eater Sev.

Corvisquire — his patronus is a raven, and although at this age he wouldn’t be able to cast one, i still had to include one bc it represents him quite well. (not too fond of other raven Pokémon, i hesitated with Corviknight but find him too sturdy/metal-looking)

Seviper — he obviously needs a snake Pokémon. not my fave snake design but i usually pick this one for two reasons: can’t ignore that he’s called SEViper, and i like that he is canonically Zangoose’s rival who reminds me of McGonagall/Gryffindor :D

Alolan Marowak — this Sev has traumatic mommy issues so Cubone is a nice pick, and the sinister witchy Ghost evolution is 👌🏻 (tried to draw him in an agressive action pose and failed miserably alas, so he’s just waiting ominously)

Duskull — i had to pick at least one Death Eater Pokémon, so the death mark one it is.

Absol — he’s just there for the gloomy emo vibe 🤌🏻

Crobat — well. he’s a BAT. a COOL BAT.

thought about drawing a Voldie-Serperior in the background and then got lazy so please imagine he's there 😌

Chiller adult Sev. pissed off by his work and moldy voldy coming back, but overall has been working on his issues and is much more in control of himself. healthier habits and hobbies.

Seviper & Corvisquire are still there bc they’re very representative of him

Gloom — i wanted a poison Pokémon for potion reasons. Gloom and her oozing seemed an interesting pick — especially since i accidently gave his gf a Bellossom

Hatterene — she’s so witchy and so gender ✨i felt she was not unlike his adult self, solitary, a bit sinister, magical and graceful.

Umbreon — he’s here for the emo vibes but chiller than Absol

Sinistea — magical tea for the magic British school. again chill vibes but also a little bit dark — fits Sev.

Muireann. what can i say, she’s all fluff and love and music

Blissey — she’s nurturing, she’s caring, she’s wholesome.

Vulpix — she’s also young and fiery

Gourgeist — Gourgeist is a redhead jack-o-lantern, and in French she’s named after banshees, so she made sense in the team of an Irish witch.

Wooloo — a wee happy lamb! also they have the same hairdo.

Bellossom & Meloetta are both here for musical reasons: Muireann is a dancer and singer and music is one of the most important things in her life — she’d have musical Pokémon.

[difeisheng]

A Jianghu Mystery of the Middle Xi: The Tomb of Li Xiangyi

By Qiling, University of □□ (2024)

Left: A photograph of the inscribed text at Li Xiangyi's tomb, reading, "The grave of the Sigu Sect's departed Sect Leader, Li Xiangyi". Right: Artist's sketch renditions from eye-level frontal and aerial side views, recreating how the tomb may have appeared during the Xi dynasty.

Among the numerous important archaeological finds from the Xi Dynasty, the tomb of Li Xiangyi is not the most well-known, nor has it yielded any artifacts of particular intrigue, yet it has raised questions about certain points in history since its discovery. The tomb constitutes a small site, near a mountainous overlook which should have received little common traffic at the time of construction. Its structure is in line with some other aristocratic burials of the Middle Xi period: aboveground, with a chamber at the center of a raised rectangular dais several meters wide, large enough to bear only a single individual. A stone marker, which has survived in legible condition until today, declares it the tomb of Li Xiangyi, leader of the Sigu jianghu sect.

Records about Li Xiangyi are found at other archaeological sites contemporary with this tomb, and so his name is not an obscure one. The Sigu Sect complex has already undergone excavation for nearly two decades, with evidence that Li Xiangyi spent several years there as its first sect leader and founder. His tomb is within two hours' walking distance of the Sigu site, though isolated in its location, compared to the Sigu Sect's grand mountain entrance. (The complex itself was inhabited well after his death; bamboo slips cite Qiao Wanmian as the Sigu Sect's next major leader some years after, who oversaw it for several more decades into the later Xi). In addition, the Baichuan-Pudu site, closer to the eastern coast and historically the headquarters for the Baichuan Court, is affiliated with Li Xiangyi. Its origins apparently lay in an offshoot of the Sigu Sect, which grew into its own independent legal organization after his death.

Legends surrounding Li Xiangyi's life have been well-documented, both at Sigu and Baichuan-Pudu, but also in books and transcriptions of oral stories at sites around the country. These are dated to both the Middle and Late Xi periods, as well as a few scattered mentions in writings from the following dynasty. As a jianghu sect leader and swordsman, Li Xiangyi's reputation truly preceded him. Some tales speak of his early accomplishments, ridding towns of villainous tyrants and defeating criminals. Others talk about the founding of the Sigu Sect when Li Xiangyi was seventeen, and his subsequent missions leading his fellow swordsmen to protect the borders of the country. Not all of these narratives can be verified with surviving historical proof, and given Li Xiangyi's status in the shifting canon of folklore, the percentage that are hyperbole or fiction is likely significant. However, one that should be true, and is the most frequently told story throughout these sources, is that of Li Xiangyi's death.

All texts place Li Xiangyi as having died relatively young, with some providing a specified age, generally around twenty. He perished in a duel with Di Feisheng, leader of the Jinyuan Alliance, a rival jianghu organization and presumed threat to the Sigu Sect. As the sources say, the Jinyuan Alliance killed Li Xiangyi's sect brother, Shan Gudao, and in retaliation he used the Sigu Sect to launch a war against the Jinyuan Alliance. His final battle was the last in this war, dying in the East Sea on Di Feisheng's ship. The Jinyuan Alliance in return was badly defeated by the Sigu Sect; excavations at its first compound in the last five years have shown evidence of siege, with fire having destroyed large parts of the buildings. Afterward, the Sigu Sect disbanded without Li Xiangyi, with only the Baichuan Court continuing to function, before being resurrected one decade later.

Given this knowledge we have about Li Xiangyi, the matter of his burial should be straightforward. He had a tremendous impact on the jianghu in the few short years that he stood at its peak. He died heroically, if tragically, to obtain justice for a brother. He was honoured with a tomb, standing guard over the sect he dedicated his youth to. Why, then, is said tomb regarded as somewhat of a mystery?

This tomb was first stumbled upon during extended surveys of the Sigu site territory, with excavation taking place within the last two years. Parts of the stone chamber and foundation of the dais have withstood time, as have most things left inside. The tomb bears no signs of looting. However, there are some details which, alongside discoveries from other archaeological sites, contribute to a shadow of uncertainty on the existing narrative of Li Xiangyi's life.

Firstly, is that the austerity of the tomb does not line up with what we know of Li Xiangyi. Although overall sufficient enough for someone of his great reputation, the tomb is rather plainly embellished. There are an unexpectedly small number of burial objects inside, with those present being neither rare nor expensive. For all his contributions to the jianghu, less money and resources were poured into remembrance of Li Xiangyi than seems proper for his time.

Secondly, and far more significantly, is that the tomb holds no human remains. Whether the fact of Li Xiangyi having no recovered body to bury was made public is unknown; if it was, we do not have record of it. Certainly those who arranged for the tomb to be built and sealed would have carried this with them the rest of their lives, but no one else may be accounted for. Granted, it is not impossible for a disappeared body to have been common knowledge or presumption, as Li Xiangyi was killed at sea with no guarantee of being found. Yet this, combined with the ordinary appearance of the tomb, causes the entire site to appear... a nominal thing. Constructed to maintain acknowledgement of Li Xiangyi's absence, though his death was only marked by words, rather than a physical state.

He was given a tomb, but was Li Xiangyi truly dead before it was built?

In terms of the aforementioned other archaeological site findings, there is one that potentially implicates Li Xiangyi's death at an interesting political junction, within the context of the dynasty. The Xi Dynasty was unstable and relatively short-lived, established after taking back the Central Plains and adjacent territories from the southern conquering state of Nanyin. It endured for just under two centuries, the first of which was fraught with pockets of conflict, with many jianghu skirmishes such as that between the Sigu Sect and the Jinyuan Alliance. The greatest threat to the Xi Dynasty (until its fall) came one hundred years after its founding. Recovered archival records from the Xi capital excavation report that remaining Nanyin loyalists attempted a coup, supported by jianghu organizations, including a restored Jinyuan Alliance (although whether Di Feisheng was still its leader at this time is unclear). This attack was ultimately unsuccessful, but important to note is that the leader of this renewed Nanyin force is described as being Shan Gudao, Li Xiangyi's former sect brother.

Although Li Xiangyi brought the Sigu Sect into a war upon news of Shan Gudao's death, that demise seems to have been faked, with Shan Gudao disappearing underground only to reappear as part of a later rebellion. Could Li Xiangyi have been aware of this? Was his reaction to Shan Gudao's apparent death genuine? Or part of a coordinated plan, using him as a reason to destroy the Jinyuan Alliance, to eradicate any future resistance? Did Li Xiangyi, too, fake his death alongside Shan Gudao, in service of a shared cause? Were remnants of the Sigu Sect instructed to build an empty tomb, cementing Li Xiangyi as a dead hero so he could work in the shadows of the jianghu instead?

This is merely speculation, contradicted by the fact that if Li Xiangyi had indeed done as such, unlike Shan Gudao, after his duel with Di Feisheng he has no reappearance in any surviving records or at any archaeological site. As well, Li Xiangyi should have had no motivation for committing to such a scheme, with even loyalty to Shan Gudao a stretch for putting all the lives of the Sigu Sect on the line. That being said, history has a way of surprising the present, and this theory may not be entirely ruled out. At any rate, Shan Gudao's survival is a baffling accompaniment to Li Xiangyi's (lack of a) burial, one which will hopefully receive clarifying answers in future archaeological developments.

Perhaps the strangest piece of the puzzle concerning the end of Li Xiangyi's life, however, is Di Feisheng. After the Jinyuan Alliance was scattered by the Sigu Sect, stories regarding Li Xiangyi declared him dead and disappeared. Yet not unlike Shan Gudao, he became known in the jianghu once more about ten years later, witnessing the Nanyin's attempted coup and living long after. His tomb remained untouched, and was excavated eight years ago as part of the greater Tianji Mountain site project. The location of Di Feisheng's tomb is surprising, not only because it directly links him to the powerful and wealthy He clan of Tianji Manor, but also because he was buried next to their sole young master during the Xi Dynasty, Fang Duobing.

The son of financial minister Fang Zeshi and engineering master He Xiaohui, Fang Duobing became a notable youxia travelling the jianghu in the emperor's name, assigned in the wake of the attempted Nanyin coup. According to palace records, he was also betrothed to Princess Zhaoling, although the marriage agreement was eventually formally dissolved. What is otherwise known of Fang Duobing was his admiration of Li Xiangyi, having styled himself as a follower and disciple of him during his youth. As well, one eye-catching artifact among Fang Duobing's burial goods was a preserved wooden replica of a blade, with Li Xiangyi's name carved near the hilt. Likely a children's toy, prized and kept safe throughout Fang Duobing's life.

The exact nature of the relationship between Di Feisheng and Fang Duobing is not entirely certain, but it must have been a very close one, for Di Feisheng to have the privilege of burial on the Tianji estate. This topic justifies future study for our understanding of the Tianji He clan, already known in prior generations for its socially subversive relationships, but pertinent to Li Xiangyi is that the man whose most infamous act was to kill him, was laid to rest beside one who revered him. Why was there such a bond between these two figures, if the stories of Li Xiangyi's death have any truth to them? Did Li Xiangyi really die by Di Feisheng's blade? Did Li Xiangyi's empty tomb, plausibly signifying Di Feisheng's innocence, alter his relationship with Fang Duobing? Or indeed, did Li Xiangyi, the man himself, have a part to play in this?

No traces of him from this time remain in the archaeological record, true. But this should not be taken to mean without doubt that he was not alive then at all.

The discovery of Li Xiangyi's tomb has been an exciting development for studying this era of the Xi Dynasty, but it has also outlined doubt in areas of one man's life that were previously taken as likely facts. Li Xiangyi's tomb is scarcely fitting for his name as a founding sect leader, built more for the sake of its existence than anything else, and there was no body sealed inside to begin with. In addition, Shan Gudao— someone dear to Li Xiangyi— established a precedent of faking his death. Di Feisheng, known across the jianghu for killing the man, held a close bond with someone later in life who had personally looked up to Li Xiangyi, and so he may not have been fully responsible for Li Xiangyi's death to begin with.

What truly happened to Li Xiangyi, resulting in a tomb such as this? The past holds the answer, knowing things that we do not. Hopefully the future of archaeology will continue leading to new discoveries, and allow us to more completely understand the legend that was Li Xiangyi.

[mstormcloud]

I think applying tropes commonly found in Sonadow fics to other sonic ships is very funny

Like today I saw the cute posts by Blu-ish about how hedgehogs circle and headbutt eachother when courting and how Sonic and Shadow would do that and I agree.

However I think the implication that mobian hedgehogs do this is HILARIOUS when applied to ships that only involve one hedgehog.

Like Silver starts circling around Espio one day and lightly shoving him with his hip or his shoulder and Espio is like: ???? What are you doing??

Or even Blazamy like- Amy keeps circling Blaze and the less Blaze reciprocates Amy does it more to try to get Blaze to react. Blaze eventually just tries to politely tell Amy to stop cause it’s hard to hold conversation while she’s moving all around.

But later Blaze talks to Silver and is like: “I have no idea what she is trying to do…perhaps she is finding a weakness in my stance? Should I fear her hunting me for sport???”

And Silver is like: uh. Well. I think she’s hitting on you? It’s a hedgehog thing.

And Blaze just freaks out because WHAT DO YOU MEAN AMY WAS FLIRTING WITH HER

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Reasons to play In Stars and Time: Canon Pronoun Warfare.

[kg-clark-inthedark]

My gift for @puddtoast for @dishonoredgiftexchange’s 2024 fugue feast. I went with the prompt of Aramis Stilton thinking about lost love in the wake of Luca’s downfall while listening to his last audiograph from Theodanis Abele, and then realizing he’ll be okay when a monarch butterfly lands on the audiograph player.

I’ve been head over heels for this emotional sucker punch of a prompt, so I hope I did it justice!! Also I’m delighted to have finally drawn Stilton for the first time. Thank you for providing such fun and detailed prompts to choose from! (Btw I didn’t know what symbolism you were hoping for - if any - when requesting a monarch, so I ran with what I grew up with, in terms of the whole “carrying souls of the dead” thing. Hope that works for you!)