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intheorangebedroom · 1 month ago

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Tonight you belong to me, epilogue

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Lee discovers life on her own.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 🧡 Here we are, this is the end! I'll see you on the other side 🧡 @frannyzooey marry me? 🧡

Word count: 8.6k (I'll never learn)

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Epilogue: In The Beginning

He comes to you every Friday, in the loneliness of your room, in the hollow space of your life, through the cold hard rectangle of your phone.

Hey, baby.

Hey, Frankie.

How’s my girl doing?

The caress of his voice convokes the memory of his touch, of the bedspread’s synthetic fabric, stained and slippery, and the rough material of the brown rug abrading your knees.

You close your eyes, so you can see it better. His freckles, his dimple. The dip between his collarbones. His skin of gold, the smoothness of his curls, gliding between your fingertips.

His cold hard stare. His soft sad eyes.

I’m good.

You close your eyes and smile, because he’s there, still, another week, true to his word, and the modulated sound in your earpiece lets you hear his own relief, breathed out in a smiling exhale.

Through space and distance, through memories, his hands ghost your skin.

Sometimes, the round accents of his low husk guide your hand downward, down between your legs, wringing wistful waves of pleasure out of you.

Let me hear you come, baby.

It’s a distant echo. A forlorn imitation of what his body did to yours in the motel room. Outstretched shadows on a cave’s wall.

And afterward, his voice sounds pained, hurting the same way your heart feels bruised.

Sometimes, most times, he just wants you to talk.

Tell me. What’d you do this week? Learn anything new?

Is it worth it? What you've learned in this seven day gap, this open wound of a time-stretch, waiting for his voice to fill your ears like his body once filled your life, is it all really worth it?

Your bones are worn out, your skin feels too big. Your heart is shrunk, aching, heavy like lead, blackened like coal, near the wild creature crying ruby tears.

And yet, you learn. Every week, you have something new to tell him. Every week, intently, he listens.

In the loneliness of your room, in the hollow space of your life, through the cold hard rectangle of your phone, your love continues to grow, nurtured by words and silences.

—

In a surprising turn of events, you don’t entirely dislike New York.

The city still mildly scares you. Its buoyant history feels like a sparkling secret you’ll never be let in on. Its mythical aura makes you feel small and provincial. It’s definitely too big, too noisy, too stressful. And, you’ve learned at your expense, ridiculously pricey.

But it is also completely, blissfully anonymous. People don’t only ignore who you are, they also do not care. Since you got here, your name hasn’t once elicited the silent gasp or double take it never fails to provoke down in Tampa.

And instead of drowning, forever disappearing, you wake up every morning and breathe in a big gulp of saturated New York air, making the conscious choice to tame the current.

Spring is undecided, imprecise. It oscillates between chilly mornings and warm afternoons, cumbersome jackets and disorientation.

Your shabby blue suitcase stands out like a sore thumb in a corner of Polly and Ava’s living-room, styled with slick 1950s furniture, straight lines, confidential art pieces, and quality material.

Thrown from a life sentence in a glass tower into this transient condition, you vacillate, but hang on tight, and you wait, in between Fridays, to be tethered by the thread of Frankie’s praise and encouragement.

On weekdays, from 9 to 5, you sit behind a black square desk on the third floor of a modest Manhattan publishing company, proofreading copies of psychiatric essays for typos.

The work is dull, tedious, an entry-level position hardly above an internship, but the task is concrete, its results tangible. It provides you with a decent salary you might owe entirely to your connection with Polly, and the priceless satisfaction of a job accomplished when the working day is done.

You miss him.

Summer is unforgiving. The entire city smells like hot trash, melted asphalt, car exhaust and overwrought engines. The combined heat from millions of strangers' bodies pressed together in urban proximity is otherworldly.

The nearby presence of the Atlantic Ocean, centuries of waves, dark and unfathomable, is impossible to conceive. Your frazzled eyes search the city sky in vain for the line of the horizon.

The commute from your furnished studio apartment in Jackson Heights is uncomfortable and never-ending. You read voraciously, to prevent your mind from wandering to the square window with the yellow curtains, the black-edged mirror and the one dollar store painting of the Appalachian. Your lost paradise. Your unexpected home.

At night, you’re too tired. Too tired to eat, too tired to read any more, or even watch television. You stumble onto your empty bed and pray for an empty sleep.

On weekends, you seek refuge in air-conditioned museums. There, in the bustling silence, among crowds of eclectic tourists snapping performative pictures in square format, your life is suddenly, quietly upturned: art understands. Art heals. Art is the key to translating your raw feelings. A catharsis for your searing emotions.

You miss him.

With fall come crisp winds, clear lights and yellowing leaves, and the city turns another kind of spectacular. You finally seem to find your bearings.

At work, you’re given more responsibilities, along with your very own intern. A tall, polite young man in an awful suit that hangs off his lanky frame, he stops blinking every time you address him, hungry eyes snapping to your lips every now and then. It makes you smile, what you do to him.

In your kitchenette, which is really more of a narrow corridor than anything else, you’ve taped a world map on which you pin a round, colourful thumbtack for every new cuisine you taste. Cold burritos shared with Frankie on the motel’s dirty carpet are hard to beat. But Columbian chicharrón ranges at a close second.

Forsaking rest, you spend your Sunday afternoons in a 1st Ave cinema, which specializes in pre-war films. In the solitary darkness of the red velvet-lined theater, you fall in love with Louise Brooks, with Pabst’s German realism, and Murnau’s Sunrise. New names and faces crowd your thoughts during your daily commutes: Bette Davies, Theda Bara, Marion Davis... Slapstick comedies have you kicking your feet, and you devour every book and article you can dig out on the Hays Code.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, you clock off early and hurry uptown, where you attend evening classes in art history in a small overheated classroom decorated with faded museum postcards from all over the world.

The attendees form a small mismatched crowd of second-chancers, seeking meaningful connections more than a proper education.

Thierry is the first to approach you. A stupidly handsome, late twenty-something man, sporting a dark Mohawk and second-hand bespoke shoes matched with a leather perfecto, Thierry claims to be French Canadian, and you know better than to call him out on the obvious fib. If anything, you’re more than willing to play along. Thierry takes you out as often as you’ll let him, sometimes to cafés and thrift stores, but more often to gay bars. He says you’re the best wingman he’s ever had, with your distant demeanor and the melancholy in your gaze.

“My peers love your brand, bébé,” he says.

On one of these drunken late-evenings turned early-mornings, in a Brooklyn dinner with greasy pleather benches, over eggs Benedict and burnt filter coffee, Thierry tells you he was born Travis, in Nowhere, North Dakota. His voice remains surprisingly steady when he explains how, tired of living in fear, he ran off to New York with less than 18 dollars to his name. But his eyes won’t meet yours. Too shiny. Too liquid.

He tells you about the straight man, married with children, who once broke his heart, and asks you about the one who broke yours.

“I didn’t need a man to do that,” you answer in earnest. You watch the tears brimming in his dark blue eyes. You hear him say, “I love you, Lee. You’re the best friend I have,” and you believe him.

Around mid-October, Vera joins the Thursday evening class. She’s prompt to initiate conversation, and soon, you spend every other Saturday afternoon in her quaint Brighton Beach apartment, eating blini with homemade jam, mesmerized by her deep gravely voice as she recounts tales of her life in the USSR. Of how she fled the country, back in 1986, with nothing but grit, a suitcase full of photographs, and a heart bleeding memories. She speaks, you find, simply because you are willing to listen. Before you leave, she hugs you strong enough to crack your spine.

Vera was a mother, once. To a blond boy named Igor, who died of undiagnosed leukemia not long after he’d learned to walk.

When you leave her place, your clothes are impregnated with her scent, bergamot tea and vanilla tobacco. You take a long stroll to Coney Island in the brisk dusk, clutching your scarf high on your face. The sharp Atlantic wind makes your eyes water. Shivering, you sit on a boardwalk bench, and marvel at the Wonder Wheel’s lights, brightening the crepuscular fall.

You miss him.

Ava seldom has time for you in her ever busy schedule. Sometimes, the two of you meet for a quick lunch, and every once in a while, she takes you to an art performance where young adults with edgy haircuts douse their naked bodies in paint in front of a live audience to protest climate change or human trafficking. You don’t always understand, in truth, you rarely do, but you always welcome the opportunity to broaden your horizon.

Polly makes sure to have you over for dinner at least once every two weeks. The regularity is touching. Some nights, you feel like indulging, and take a cab back to your place.

You learn. Every day, you learn. Through sweltering heat and ice-sharp cold, through lively chatter and the crackling of dead leaves. Through loneliness, yours and other’s. You learn.

Home isn’t always a place. Sometimes, home is people.

And you miss him, you miss him, you miss him…

—

Twenty-nine Fridays.

Frankie once more sat down behind Lupe’s desk at the dispatch center, to count down the weeks since your departure on the large cardboard calendar.

There’s 29 of them now. Soon, those empty Fridays will outnumber the ones you filled with your skin and your scent.

Your absence has torn a gaping hole inside his chest, and loneliness came pouring in to fill it. The feeling is alienating. It’s worse than shame, worse than fear, fear of hurting and fear of dying. The grief is all encompassing. It’s worse than everything he’s ever been stricken with.

“Time will help, hermanito,” his sister had said shortly after you’d left. “Time is gonna make it better, don’t worry. Paso a paso.”

Will hadn’t said anything. Will would never lie to his face.

Frankie knows, just like Will does, that time ain’t gonna do shit. If anything, time will only make it worse.

Time has forsaken him. Everywhere around him, people go on with their lives, moving forward, making plans.

Lua’s curls grow longer, her babbling evolving into fully formed words, and her balance becoming surer as she explores the world around her with her big bright eyes wide open. His beacon. His pride. His little miracle.

Marcus moved in with Lupe. There was a proposal, quickly followed by talks of a spring wedding.

Tess’ll be starting college soon, sponsored by the Redfly Family trust, her little sister already attending middle school.

Will went back to Colorado, where he found a counseling position at the VA office in downtown Aurora.

Benny quit the MMA circuit and followed his brother, like he always does. Met a girl back home, a brunette with water-clear eyes, a kind heart and a sharp sense of humor. Now, they work together on her father’s tree farm, and he says things like, “she gave me a purpose.”

And Frankie’s stuck here. Stuck inside his pain, locked up within his loss with a hole the shape of you inside his chest, surviving on the promise of your voice every Friday at 7pm. Of your cheery tone when you talk about what you’ve discovered and learned, your new friends, your new tastes, your unassertive victories. Your steady healing.

Only he knows your life up there can’t always be milk and honey. But you won’t tell him about the hardship. Bottling it up for his sake, he assumes, but then, where’s his fucking purpose?

His longing just follows him everywhere, dimming the sun, turning his food all wrong, turning his friends to enemies, places that once brought him solace no longer meaning relief. The cab of his truck devoid of your scent, a song on the radio that you’re not here to hum, and his blood turns to lead. The whole world around him, a reflective surface to reverberate his grief.

So Frankie waits. Minutes, hours, and days. He aches and simmers and he waits. He’s cut for grit and patience and restraint, anyway. He waits for time to remember about him, to let him hop back onto that fast-paced train, he waits to be alive again. Hold your body close to him, feel the coolness of your touch, breathe in the scent of your perfume. Be your man. Keep you safe. Forever and always.

He waits, until one afternoon in early December, when Lupe approaches him in the break room after his shift.

“We need to talk,” she says.

The following morning, a Thursday, an incoming call wakes him up. The sound of your sobbing comes in shaky and muffled through the receiver, and his spine grows rigid.

“I need to see you,” you say.

And Frankie knows he’s done waiting.

—

The front door rattles with three successive knocks. Like a bloodhound, you still, head perking up, a near white-knuckle grip on the vacuum handle. You press the tiny button on your headphones to pause the music, and Kate Bush’s voice fades to silence, allowing the vacuum’s roar to resurface. You kill it, too.

It’s impossible you could have heard anything over all this din.

You balance the vacuum handle against the dresser to grab your phone that’s lying there, and check the time on it.

Noon. Frankie’s plane just took off. He isn’t due here for another three hours. Leaving you just enough time to finish tidying up the apartment, take an everything shower and hop on a cab to go pick him up. You purposefully postponed the cleaning until the very last minute, so you wouldn’t go insane waiting for him in these last hours.

A little pang of guilt flares hot across your neck and cheeks, quick and sharp, at how shamelessly you begged over the phone, a couple of days prior. Letting him hear your sniffling, the sound of your tears rolling down your face, if you could have, just because you couldn’t bear the misery of crying on your own anymore. Unabashed and so very selfish in your need of him. Of his hold and his warmth. His eyes and freckles. The weight of his body, the low thrum of his heartbeat. Petulant like a child. Please, please come here.

You snatch the headphones off your head. The room is silent. Three floors down, the neighbor’s yelling at her husband again, their baby crying. No one in the hallway knocking on your door, then.

“Damn it,” you mutter, tossing the headphones on the dresser and padding over to the minuscule entryway. Wearing nothing but your sleep shorts and ragged college t-shirt, all of which should have been in last week's laundry load. If someone’s here, they’re in for a smelly treat.

You wrench the door wide open, like a dare, like a vain wish, and you’re met with the solid wall of Frankie’s broad chest.

A gasp, yours, short and high-pitched, and he collides into you, his arms circling your waist, pulling you flush against him. His face burrowing in the curve of your neck, his hat knocked off his head with the force of the collision. A hard press, a sharp inhale, he’s hoisting you up and carrying you inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

Your heart, black and shrivelled, is suddenly too big for your rib cage. The wild creature’s purrs are deafening. Dopamine floods your brain, you’re madly happy, a relief so intense you’re trembling.

“I’m not leaving this stupid city until you’ve given me this t-shirt,” he says, his mustache grazing the tender skin behind your ear.

He smells like cold air, and underneath it, him. Old leather, a hint of sawdust, blond and taffy-sweet, and you smile through the tears lumping the back of your throat, wrapping your arms over his shoulders, fingers threading through his curls, digging into his thick jacket, socked feet dangling an inch above the floor.

“It’s gross. I’ve been sleeping in it for a week, at least.”

“Yea, well, that’s the point, baby.”

You laugh, a choked up sound, half elation half sob, the curve of his own grin felt against your throat.

“I’ve missed you. Fuck, Lee, I’ve missed you so much,” he groans, and his words, rasped and warped, bear the weight of his loneliness. Months worth of sleepless nights.

His large hands span your back in all directions, a needy grasp at the soft curves of your hips, back up to your shoulder blades, and down to your waist, making sure —Are you real?— making up for everything that’s been lost. Your back arches into his chest, into his pulsating life force, your leg hitching up along his cold denim.

There’s all of his strength, all of his need in this embrace. Forever imprinting the shape of you into his flesh.

“I’ve missed you, too,” you whisper.

His right hand leaves your back, barely, just long enough to slide the strap of his black rucksack off his shoulder, before it returns to you. Fingers curling around your nape, his forearm aligning with your spine. The metal of his belt digs into your belly as you push into him with a near matching strength, no space left between your bodies for anything but this bright beaming bliss.

Entwined like honeysuckle and ivy, you stand there, in the entryway, under the dangling naked bulb. Basking into each other’s scent. Bodies thrumming high and strong like a power line of the highest voltage.

“Let me look at you,” he says after a while, hands cupping your face, dark eyes raking over your features under his creased brow, “how are you feeling, baby?”

His gaze flicks over to the thin scar in your hairline before it locks with yours, and it’s a binding spell, again, always, intact and unaltered. Black magic and fate, things that aren’t even real except he makes them.

“I’m good!” you laugh, your fingers curling around his forearms, a stubborn little tear hanging from your lashes. “I’m good, now.”

“Yea? Good,” he nods. “You look good. You look fantastic.”

Your lips pinch down a bashful, incredulous smile. He leans back into you and presses a pointed kiss to your lips, greedy, wet, open-mouthed, and you respond in kind, eager, starved. He tastes of coffee and him, and you might lose your sanity with how content you are feeling, how happy, how frighteningly complete.

His hands snake under the hem of your t-shirt, and there’s the cold tip of his fingers, the warm cup of his palms, spanning the expanse of your back, roaming over your shuddering skin and your body ignites in their wake, coming back to life, inch after inch after touch.

You’re the first to break the kiss with a sudden concern, irrelevant, futile, and he’s holding your face again, his eyes hooded with want, drinking you in.

“I thought your plane landed at 3pm. I wanted to come pick you up. I’m not even done cleaning, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I’m sorry. I got to the airport too early,” he chuckles. “Figured I could change my flight. I should’ve texted you.”

“Oh no, it’s fine,” you start, but his face slots back into the curve of your neck, and you flinch with a new sensation, as he nuzzles his way up, his plush lips a soft caress over the shell of your ear, his scruff a soft tickle. A dark shade of amber pooling down inside you. The thinner hair on your nape standing up.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Frankie,” you breathe out, voice weighed by that thick and sticky thing coiling in your center. “It must have cost you a fortune.”

“Got a veteran discount. And even if I didn’t, I couldn’t fucking care less about the price,” he murmurs into your skin.

A veteran. A pilot. Once more, always, the notion turns your blood to mush, thick like molasses, saccharine like a schoolgirl crush. And then, a thought, overwhelming, terrible: this man, a veteran, a pilot, dropped everything to fly across the country and make sure you were okay. Because to him, you are worth it. Because he cares. Because you’re his.

Pride, fierce and territorial, tightens your belly. Pride and that something else.

“Do you want something to drink?” you manage to ask, a reminder that you’re still very much your mother’s daughter. “Coffee? Something to eat? Do you need to rest?”

“Thanks, baby,” he says, straightening up to let you see the wicked grin dimpling his gorgeous face, “I got everything I need right here.”

—

Through the density of his body, tense and giving, through a need stronger than the both of you, in the stifling intimacy of a closed motel room, month after month, week after week, you’ve learned him.

Out of necessity, you’ve allowed time and physical distance to come between you and him, only to find the knowledge is still there, constituent to your very being. Ingrained, ineradicable. Like an instinct, like the sun’s fiery circle burnt into your retinas through closed eyelids.

Mellow inside and out, lightheaded and boneless, you follow him to the kitchen. Standing close to him by the steel sink as he washes his hands, enraptured, enamored, chest pressed to the back of his arm, cheek rubbing the brawny swell of his shoulder. Humming, like a cat purrs.

You lead him into the room where you eat, sleep, and dream of him, bare walls, sparse furniture you never chose, a single narrow window. It’s supposed to be home but doesn’t feel like it, until he steps in, and everything changes.

He looks massive in here, just like he did in the kitchen, too large for your everyday life, all proportions distorted, your perspective reframed by the scale of his shape.

You watch him undress, and the details of him resurface. The plane of his solid chest, the breadth of his shoulders, when he removes his jacket. The graceful arabesque of his wrist tattoo, his lean forearms, when his flannel slides off his frame. The dip of his collarbones with its firework of sparkling freckles. His tanned skin, his softer belly, his scars and old wounds, when he tugs off his t-shirt. The trail of darker hair underneath his navel. His thighs, as he slides down his denim, thick and strong, his knees, his calves, the harmonious shape of him, the sum that surpasses the parts, everything so perfect, and you realize just how much you remember, how delusional you had been, thinking you could go on without it.

Everything pushed to the back of your consciousness, so the separation could be bearable.

As he stands before you in the gray midday light, your desire is tinged by mute apprehension. You fled Tampa moved by the urgent necessity of your own survival. Now that you've shed most of your scarred skin, now that the danger no longer feels imminent, how will you survive his absence, once he’s gone?

Frankie calls your name, his round husk roping you out of your head, and you ask, “Should I keep my t-shirt?”

“Not today. Today, you take off everything.”

Sat on the edge of your bed, he beckons you, guiding you to stand between his spread thighs with firm, tender hands. The reverence that softens his mahogany eyes, the love and want you find there, it’s all yours. Yours to keep and treasure.

The tip of his fingers thread along your curves in a delicate touch, brushing down the back of your legs, up to the small of your back, along your spine. Then down your arms, his lips nestling into the inside of your wrist, smooth and fragrant. A soft trail of love, light kisses and caress, shedding weeks of longing in their wake.

You cup his face, thumbs slotting in the bare patches of his scruff jaw, and relish in the way he leans into your hold.

He bends into you, his mouth a wet press to your soft belly. The scrape of his teeth, gently teasing.

Twining your fingers into his thick curls, your fingernails scrape over his scalp. The echo of his groan reverberates deep into your center, slick leaking warm down your folds. You tug his face back to look at him, and ever so quiet, he hums, the sweetest sound, the greatest gift, eyes flickering shut under the pleading arch of his brow, a smile curling the corner of his lips. So much abandon. So much trust. You’re falling.

A fleeting memory tugs at your heart, wistful, indelible. Yours for the night only, and your breathing falters, you’re sinking deeper.

Yours forever, if you’d only say the word.

“Do you remember when you wouldn’t let me touch your hair?” you tease, but there’s hardly any air left in your lungs.

His smile broadens.

“Remember when you told me your name was Marion?”

Your laughter rushes out of you and his eyes flash open, his smile fully bloomed, transforming his face, all dimples and crinkly eyes.

“Come here, Marion,” he chuckles, sitting you over his sturdy lap.

All at once, you’re crushed against his chest to the music of his rumbling mmhs, before his embrace loosens, head dipping, nipping at your collarbone, calloused palm skimming up the underside of your breast.

“Fucking perfect,” you hear him growl before his mouth latches around your nipple.

You keen, quiet, grateful, eyes fluttering close as his tongue twirls around the hardening bud, hanging on for dear life to the breadth of his shoulders. So many sensations, after feeling so little for so long. There’s a live-wire buzzing down from your sternum to your core, and your pulse’s a desperate staccato, you struggle to remain afloat.

With an appreciative sound, he sucks on your nipple, a rough hand squeezing your breast, and when he bites into the soft flesh of it, it shoots straight to your clit. Your hips bucking forward of their own volition, seeking more.

Under your folds, his cock twitches, exquisitely stiff for you, already.

“I could come like that, you know?” you pant, rolling your hips into the bulk of his want.

A shake of his curls, and he lets go, his mouth releasing your breast with a wet sound.

“No,” he husks, teeth ghosting the column of your neck, “you’re coming on my cock. Put it in.”

Your heart stutters, skips a beat, or two, or several.

His fingers dig into the meat of your thighs but he’s not moving you away, and there’s no space between your sealed bodies, no leeway for any movement. You’re trapped in his hold, pinned to his skin, glued to the amber golden light of him. And your hips keep rolling, and your heart keeps tripping, and your want keeps swelling.

His lips wrap over the beating vein in your neck, sucking on the tender skin, sharp and stinging, teeth sinking into the surfacing blood. You lean into him, lean into the bite, lean into the pain.

You give yourself to it, all the love and the want and the affection, lose yourself in it, limp and pliant as it pours inside you, and everything has a name, now, everything is right, as his touch dissolves all the hurt calcified around your heart, all the fear you wouldn’t let out, all the failures and the doubt.

You breathe out his name, and he breathes out yours, and you’re whole, bright, in bloom. Brimming with life.

He fits in your hand, warm and hefty, smooth skin and bulging veins, throbbing under the caress of your thumb, leaking thick and tangy over your knuckles, and you’re desperate for a taste, but you can’t let him go.

“Put it in, come on” he grits, but there’s no bark to his words, only need, bleeding into the bruising furrow of his fingers into the plush of your ass.

A lift, you’re weightless in his hold, and he’s pushing thick and stiff at your entrance. Your face hanging above his, lips parted, trembling, and it’s already too much, the way everything within you pulsates and tingles.

His gaze levels with yours, and his eyes spear into your eyes before he lowers you onto him with an unyielding grip and a shaky exhalation. And with each splitting inch, the searing girth of him stretching you blind.

Fingers curled around his biceps, forehead pressed to his, you sink down to the hilt. The coarse hair at his base grazes your clit and sweat beads over your temple.

With measured breaths, he pauses, giving you time to adjust. Eyes skittering over the small line splitting your brow, the quiver of your lip that you're too full to bite down on.

For the first time ever, there has been no Stop me. This is something else.

This is what comes next. What you’ve earned, what you’ve prayed for.

There’s a tremor in his frame, the only evidence of his waning control, and he grabs at your ass, rocking you onto him, languid, scorching, a deep grind, perked up nipples grazing his solid chest, and you're already ascending.

“Frankie,” you whine, plead, beg, walls a frantic flutter as his cock slots right into the center of you in rolling waves.

“Let go, Lee” he rasps, “let go, I got you.”

With the hushed assurance of his words, round and sincere, your release crackles and tenses. You slump in his arms, undone, rebuilt.

“I’ve missed you, Lee,” he presses into the slope of your shoulder, “God, I’ve missed you.”

—

He’s insatiable. Some of it is reminiscent of your first encounters at the motel, when his hunger was indiscernible from his rage.

Tied up, with your arms behind your back and your face buried in the mattress as he holds your ass up with a bruising grip on your hips and pounds into you hard, rough, relentless.

His fingers tangled in your sweat-damp hair, your knees on the hard tiles of the shower as he fucks your throat until you forget how to breathe.

And suddenly reverential, his gentleness nearly too much when he wakes you up to cover your body in kisses and strokes. Overwhelming, the desperation with which he seeks the contact of your skin, his gaze spearing into your eyes as he grinds deep into your heat.

The urgent, low husk of his voice when he murmurs, “Tell me what you want, Lee, let me give you what you need.”

When he sits you on his face and relents control, when you pull on his curls to press him closer to where you want him, shameless and wanton, riding your release.

—

“And what about the Russians?” you ask, propping your chin on his chest. “Have you ever fought against the Russians?”

“Jesus, woman,” he laughs, “how old do you think I am?”

“I’m not talking Cold War Russians, I’m talking CIA stuff. I know you lot, Delta operatives.”

“Oh yea?” he grins, cocking an eyebrow. “What have you heard?”

A mischievous expression dances on your face and he chuckles again, a wider grin pulling his lips. Lightheaded, is one way to put it. Melting inside is another. Giddy like a teenager with your levity.

Your eyes flicker down to his dimple and you lift your hand off his chest to brush your finger into the dip in his cheek. You keep it there for a beat, seemingly absorbed, enthralled by the touch, and then it’s over. You lower your head back onto him, cheek resting right over his scar, he knows there’s no coincidence to it.

Frankie lets out a silent sigh. His head lolls back on the fat pillow. Twenty-nine Fridays, carved out and hollow. Twenty-nine weeks, 1123 miles, carrying his love and hunger like a penance, and then this. Your naked body tucked against his, under the thick downy comforter, in this tiny room saturated with your scent. Your taste on his tongue. Your easy laughter. Your gaze sinking into his eyes. It's a blessed sensory overload. That old slicing ache in his chest singing another song.

Somehow, you look younger than when he last saw you. Maybe not younger, just more carefree. Understandably so. Those last weeks in Tampa, you had become so frail. But you’ve put on some weight since. It sits harmoniously on your figure, suits your features and brightens up your face. Means there’s more of you, too, and he can’t keep his hands from roaming your curves.

He knows he’s gotta talk to you at some point. It’ll kill the mood, probably. Inform you of that decision Lupe took that will affect his life for the foreseeable future. Affect yours as well, maybe. To some extent at least. That insane rippling effect. His past choices always breathing down his neck, when he’d give everything for a clean slate.

But you look so fucking delicious. He went so fucking long, too fucking long without you, now he cannot get enough. It’s too soon to risk it.

There were plans. An itinerary you had drafted in the short lapse of time it had taken him to organize his trip here, and that you’d texted him on the night before his flight. Things you wanted to show him, places that matter to you. The Coney Island boardwalk, the Guggenheim, and some marine paintings in the Frick Collection you were excited to share with him. He’d texted back with some requests of his own: your office building, the place in Brooklyn where you attend the evening classes, your favorite places to eat.

But since he arrived, he’s kept you in, or you have him, he cannot tell. Either way, the two of you haven’t left the dim apartment, and any notion of time has been reduced to the alternation of semi-dark urban nights and stonewashed winter days.

He tries not to dwell on the fact that your apartment barely looks lived in. Bare walls, save for that map in your kitchen, if he can even call that a kitchen. Your suitcase standing beside the dresser, like you’re ready to take off. No curtains, no rug, no lampshade. It’s almost like you don’t really want to settle. Like you’re still trying to decide if you truly belong here.

The only evidence of you is taped to the mirror above the dresser. A Polaroid of a kid in pigtails blowing raspberries, washed out yellow and blurry by the years. Your sister, if he had to guess.

And that receipt tucked between the pages of a leather-bound book on your nightstand. From the cantina. That very first Friday he brought food to the motel. He checked the date stamp.

It breaks his heart, the way you’re torn and scattered. Neither here nor there. His guilt might be irrelevant, misplaced, but it churns his insides nonetheless.

Still, New York is where you live now. You’ve made some good friends, work a job you seem to like enough to give it your best. It’s probably just a matter of time before you store away the suitcase.

Part of him wants to go out and explore this city that has robbed you from him. Learn everything he can about your life here, so that when he flies out on Saturday morning, he can picture you in your environment, going about your daily life. Anything to try to survive your absence.

He wants to meet your family. A dinner is scheduled sometime this week with your sister and her girlfriend. He’d like to meet your friends. Further explore the mixed emotions and feelings he experiences whenever you mention these people, whenever he thinks of them. Gratitude, for the affection and comfort they give you. Envy, for the parts of you that are familiar to them and that himself will never get to know.

The person you are when you’re with them.

“Frankie?” you call quietly, your leg a smooth brush against his as you hitch it higher.

“Yes, baby?”

“Have you ever thought about how people are like… made of layers?”

“That’s funny, I was just thinking about it.”

“Really?” you exclaim.

Your head pops up comically, and his jaw tenses. Why can’t he bring himself to let you see the dopey smile that melts his face whenever you look at him like this? Until now, he’s never felt vulnerable demonstrating his affection.

But things with you are different. That living pull between you is too big, bigger than him. He senses it thrumming behind your lungs while it whirs inside his chest like an answer, constantly, it might bleed him dry with its intensity. Like first love. Pristine. Brand new. All encompassing.

“Mmh,” he grunts, gathering his brain. “Yea. Or maybe like puzzles?”

“Yes,” you agree, your tone serious, and you scoot up a notch, propping your head in your hand, so you don’t have to crane your neck to look at him, “puzzles, exactly. And everyone you know holds a different piece of you.”

“Yea, pretty much, I guess.”

“And so the puzzle of you is never truly complete because the pieces are never all together at once.”

You pause, pondering over your reflection.

“Do you think all the pieces could fit together, if they were assembled?” Frankie asks after a moment, a strange sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, like his center of gravity has suddenly shifted.

“Probably not,” you muse, head shaking imperceptibly, your gaze lost somewhere in the distance.

The memory of the motel room resurfaces, stifling heat, amber lighting. The distance that sometimes clouded your eyes, your silent retreat within yourself, that inner world of yours, your island. Week after week, getting closer, within his reach, yet never fully accessible. He swallows thickly.

“I think you got all my pieces,” you say in a casual tone, in contradiction with his thoughts.

He tightens his grip around your waist.

“I don’t think I do, baby. But it’s okay,” he lies, as if he’s not free-falling from the sky, plummeting straight into your ocean.

Slipping out of his hold, you sit up on the rumpled bed, your naked back turned to him.

“Do you think I’ve got all your pieces?” you ask.

“God, I hope not,” he sighs, running a palm over his face.

Hugging your knees, you lean forward, away from him. The room is thick with a compact silence, as if all the sounds were absorbed by fresh snow.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?” he asks, brushing his knuckles along your spine. A shiver fizzles under his touch.

“I was wondering… Is it important? Do you have to know someone to love them? What’s the right balance between knowing your partner, and knowing yourself? What’s the tipping point?”

His hand splays over your lower back.

“The tipping point to what?”

You shake your head in frustration, straightening your back, your knee bumped against his thigh. Offering him your profile, but not your direct gaze.

“I don’t know how to explain. When do you start losing yourself to be what others… what people expect you to be? At what moment do you start feeling isolated? Misunderstood? In a relationship, I mean? Because that’s the beginning of the end.”

“Fuck, Lee, I don’t– I don’t have those answers,” he frowns, sitting up with a cinch. “I know I love you, all of you, even the pieces I don’t know. I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to be someone else.”

Reaching behind you, you take his hand and weave your fingers with his. Your fingertips are cold, and he squeezes his into the back of your hand, to imprint some of his heat into you. Some of his words, too.

At last, you fully turn. Under your scowl, something darkens your gaze. Something Frankie cannot decipher. His face close to yours, his eyes boring into your eyes, the moment tightens his throat, decisive, important. The pregnant silence. The gray winter light painting shades of blue on your pale skin. The old pain spears through his heart, sweet and beaming. It’s gonna split him in half. He knows he’ll never forget it. Never let go of this sensation.

“I trust you, Frankie.”

“I trust you, too.”

Your brow shifts, the tiniest inflection, and your eyes widen, luminous like a rising sun, like a summer morning.

“I promise I’ll always be honest with you.”

“I promise I’ll always be honest with you, baby,” he rasps, the weight of his secret sitting on the back of his tongue.

—

On the fourth day, at last, you venture outside, ushered by your sister’s and Polly’s dinner invitation.

The itinerary had to be stripped to the bare minimum. Frankie will be flying out in two nights. Your heart stutters and sinks every time you think of him leaving.

The cold is unforgiving, the sky a gray shade of white, heavy and full like a quilted blanket. Against reason, you offer to take him to Coney Island, where the Atlantic wind will freeze the ears off your head. You’re not sure why it’s important for you to take him there, but he says he’s game.

Bundled up in your thrift store coat, your face half concealed between a scarf the size of a tablecloth and a wool hat, you watch him brave the cruel temperatures with nothing more than a Sherpa lined trucker jacket over a fleece shirt, and his ragged Standard Heating Oil cap.

As you stand and shiver, waiting for the bus —the first act of an interminable route— the tip of his ears poke out from underneath his curls, reddened by the frosty air. Sliding your numbed-out hand in his, you’re surprised by the warmth of his palm. Your mind wanders to the harsh conditions his former life has trained him to endure. You squeeze his hand with all of your strength.

Later, sitting side by side on the subway’s hard plastic seats, you rant to him about your love-hate relationship with the NYC Metropolitan Transportation Authority. The never-ending rides, ideal for reading, listening to music, or idle contemplation. The welcome aloneness of anonymity, in a sea of indifferent strangers.

He listens, his sharp profile tilted down in concentration over your words, and you’re mindful to downplay the downsides, the maddening time-consuming sprawl of the city, the promiscuity, the last-minute route changes and the undecipherable PA announcements.

It’s not a lie as much as an omission. You can’t send him back over there with the knowledge that despite all its perks, you’ve failed to make this place your home.

Thinking of your earlier promise, you fall silent, the deafening thunder of the train’s wheels over the tracks ringing out in your ears like a metallic injunction.

Your head lolls onto the round slope of his padded shoulder. His large hand curls over your thigh with a strong squeeze as he presses his lips to your temple.

“What are you thinking, baby?”

“I was thinking that I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to living here,” you confess.

His shoulder slumps under your cheek.

It’s another hour on the F train before you make it to the ocean.

On the boardwalk, by the deserted amusement park, the wind slices through you, biting the exposed skin of your cheeks and chilling your bones. The defunct Parachute Jump stands erect like a skeletal sentinel, guarding over the memories of summers past. The graceful Wonder Wheel’s silhouette stands out in bright colors against the bleak December sky, like a benevolent promise, the assurance of continuity and the return of better days.

“I think it’s my favorite season to be here,” you murmur.

“I can see the appeal,” Frankie rasps against the wind, eyes trained on the line of the horizon over your head. His arms circling your waist, the wall of his solid heat at your back.

“What have you told your sister about me?” he asks after a moment.

“Not much. Are you nervous?”

“No, not really. Wait, should I be? Her girlfriend’s a shrink, right?”

You laugh heartily, and immediately regret it when air made of pure frost rushes inside your lungs, freezing its way to the very end of your bronchioles.

“Polly’s nice, don’t worry about her. Don’t worry about either of them. I love them, but I’m not waiting for their blessing.”

You’re done abiding that collective “we.” Another resolve rising up to the surface without your conscious knowledge of the process.

“Oh shit, look at that,” Frankie exclaims.

Above you, snowflakes descend from the white sky in a fast-paced twirl. Your very first New York snow. It’s neither fluffy nor cute, though, more like fierce little icy shards barreling toward you like small crystalline weapons.

Your first thought is of his child.

“Has Lua ever seen the snow?”

“No.”

You squint against the wind and the stabbing snow, against the white daylight and all of your past hesitations.

“I can't wait to meet her, you know.”

He pulls you in closer, reaching out for your body through layers and layers of winter clothes.

For a while now, the feeling has grown steady and strong inside of you, taking up more space each day. Nurtured by the pictures and many stories you’ve asked Frankie to share with you. This time, you’re better equipped to name it, from the very beginning. And it’s strange, in a tranquil kind of way, the unconditionality of this love. The irrationality of it. You love her, without any reason for it. You love her, just because.

“How is it, being a parent? Did you know from the start what to do?”

“Oh fuck no,” he scoffs wryly. “Most of the time, I feel like she’s the one teaching me how to be her dad.”

The honesty of the statement makes you smile.

“Do you think you could bring her, next time?”

“She’s gonna have to get used to it.”

Frankie’s words reach your ear as you’ve already spoken yours. You whip around in his arms to face him, struck by the look on his face. Like he’s trying to chew his molars.

“Wait, what? Used to what?”

“She’s gonna have to get used to the snow.”

—

Your eyes are fucking blazing, so big they eat up half your face. A single teardrop clings to your lashes, from the near polar gale, probably, and you’re shivering cold.

He can’t stall any longer. Not again. Not this time. Not when he just gave you his word to always be honest with you.

“Lua’s mother's getting married. They’ll be moving to Rochester in the spring. Her fiancé’s from there. His father passed away a couple weeks ago, and his mother has ALS. He wants to move back to take care of her.”

“Rochester… New York, Rochester?”

Frankie nods. Against his chest, your lean figure grows stiff.

“She’s taking Lua with her?” you ask in a thin voice.

Frankie nods again. The wind picks up in gusts, those sharp snowflakes falling down obliquely, murderous, whipping your faces relentlessly. He wants to get you somewhere inside, somewhere warm. What if you get sick when he’s about to leave?

Why you seem to fall for the things that are the most arduous to love is a complete mystery to him. This place in the winter. Him.

Your fingers curl around his lapel.

“She’s taking Lua, yea. We talked about it. I’m gonna have to relocate. There’s no way I’m seeing my kid less than I already do. I started scouting for jobs in the area.”

“Is that why you came here? To tell me?”

“I came here because you said you needed to see me, Lee,” he answers, the hint of a scowl sharpening his tone.

You tilt down your face and furrow into his neck, your woolly hat a fuzzy tickle against the scruff of his chin. Your unrelenting tenderness, that brought him back from the darkness.

“I’ve checked the flights here from up there. It’s a short trip, a little under two hours. I could come down to visit every other weekend. If you want me to, of course” he adds, his voice warped with sheer fucking terror, his heart thumping in his throat.

“I don’t like it,” you shoot right back, rising your face to look him dead in the eye.

It’s that same look again, the one from that very first night at the bar, feverish, lost, hopeful against all odds, against your better judgment. Instinctively, his hands fly to cup your face. It’s cold as marble, and his palms ignite at the contact of your skin, again, still, always. Your eyes pool with something dark and dense, your fingers leaving his jacket to cuff his wrists.

“Every other weekend isn’t enough, Frankie. It’s not enough.”

“What are you saying, Lee?”

“I'm saying I want to go there with you.”

His pain huffs out of him. Disbelief in a puff of white breath.

“You want to follow my ex and her new husband to fucking nowhere up north, when you just settled here?”

Brow pinched in a stern expression, you nod frantically between his palms.

“Yes. I want to be with you.”

“What about your sister? Your job? Your friends? What about–”

“I can find another job,” you cut it, words punching out of you and landing straight into his gut. “You said it’s only two hours to fly here, I can visit them, I want to be with you, Frankie, please, please, plea–”

His mouth crashes over yours, silencing your plea. Your lips are icy-cold as you press back into his kiss. He feels your arms rounding his back, your little fists bunching his jacket, clinging to his shoulders. He could swear he feels your heart, too, pounding loud against his, leaping out into his rib cage, exactly where he wants it, where he needs it, next to his, to keep it warm and safe.

How did he get here, on this freezing boardwalk, facing the dark immensity of the Atlantic Ocean on the cusp of a second chance? On the verge of everything he never dared to long for? Everything he has ever truly wanted?

“You’re gonna come with me, baby?” he chokes, the words rolling thick over his tongue.

“Yes,” you sniffle, a tear running down your cheek.

“You’re gonna let me love you? Gonna let me build you a home?”

“Yes, Frankie,” you nod again, a smile tugging your lips, more tears slipping down your face, and he’s surprised the wind doesn’t turn them into pear-shaped diamonds.

“Okay. Okay, alright,” he smiles. “Can we get somewhere warm now?”

You laugh, leaning into his hold. Blue lips, red cheeks, pink scar. Eyes of gold.

“Yes,” you agree with another sniff. “Remember when we wished for seasons?”

The End

****

End notes: alright, Orange bedroom besties, raise your hand who thought they wouldn't end up together? I tried, this time I really tried, but there's nothing I can deny this man... or you, I guess? This series took a big chunk out of my life. It consumed a lot of my heart, time, energy, brain, emotions... Wow, look at that, not unlike therapy, huh? Anyway, enough about me, my point is, THANK YOU. Thank you for your patience, I know I'm the slowest and I feel terrible, thank you for reading, or for just passing by, thank you for bookmarking for later, engaging, lurking, liking, commenting, reblogging, sending an ask, reccing, thank you for supporting me in any way and manner, thank you thank you thank you, Ily and I appreciate you, genuinely, so very much 🧡 Thank you Kelli my love, for beta reading that whole damn thing with so much kindness, for teaching me so patiently, for holding my hand every step of the way, for listening to my endless rambling, for being you, smart and talented, selfless and gracious, for being my friend. This is a story about hope, and your stories brought back hope into my life. I love you, I like you, I admire you, until the end of times 🧡 Thank you Lua @pedrit0-pascalit0 for letting me love you on main, oops I mean use your name! Thank you for sharing your thots on the Pilot™ with me, thank you for being a menace in DMs and keeping me alive and alert with your smart and talent and humor. Ily. Big loads 🧡 @dreamymyrrh you know what you did, and everything you gave this story. I'm so grateful for you 🧡 I love you more, I don't want to hear anything, shhhhh 🧡 Now I'm gonna go lie in the dark utterly terrified that I won't ever have another idea or write another word rest a little bit and get back to work as soon as inspiration strikes again!

THANK YOU ALL 🧡

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mountmortar · 19 days ago

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also. while i'm talking about silver (and i'm fairly sure i've talked about this before on here but it's probably been lost to the depths). i don't know if it was intentional or not but gsc like.... 100% implied that silver also stole his kadabra. unless he just Magically Happened Across One In A Place Where Kadabra Shouldn't Be. because in gsc, kadabra is only available on route 8 in kanto and that's IT and the first place that silver shows up with HIS kadabra is on victory road, prior to the protagonist challenging the league for the first time. and the kadabras you can catch in kanto are only about level 15 or so and his is level 35. So. Y'know.

and like you can catch an abra around goldenrod city but silver never had an abra on his team before just Appearing with a fucking kadabra out of nowhere (as opposed to blue in rby who actually did catch an abra and used it in battle even if it didn't know anything except teleport). and at this point in the game, immediately before battling the player, silver is at his most desperate because the whole ideology he's based everything in his life around is crumbling under his feet. he's battling, according to one npc, "as if he absolutely had to win at any cost". it would not surprise me in the least if he decided to just snatch someone's kadabra like he snatched his starter and his sneasel as a last-ditch attempt to make everything make sense again (kadabra -> alakazam -> strong pokémon -> strong beats weak).

he stole that kadabra i'll die on this hill and what makes it wild is that kadabra (and later alakazam) is a super smart pokémon in general. kadabra's pokédex entry in ruby says "Only those people with a particularly strong psyche can hope to become a TRAINER of this POKéMON." and all of alakazam's dex entries talk about how smart it is (but here's crystal's in particular: "It has an IQ of 5000. It calculates many things in order to gain the edge in every battle.") and. y'know. if it really is stolen then it would probably be disobeying his every command. but it's not. and that's really compelling to me

#rival silver #johto

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astralleywright · 11 months ago

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it was great to have Matt really emphasize a point he's made before last night-that the history of Exandria (including that contained within the official books) is not a neutral, untouched retelling of events but a narrative written by the victors.

one of the many thoroughlines of Campaign 3 has been the power of knowledge; of who has it and who doesn't, and how the powerful employ it for their own ends. the most obvious example is surely the Weave Mind, whose staggering control over what its subjects know on both a macro (erasing entire histories, making Ruidians see the dreams of Exandrians) and micro (being able to enter their minds at any time) level compromises much of what we learned of Ruidis during our first trip there. but similar behavior is reflected all across Exandria, by the Weave Mind's enemies as much as it's allies.

like the Weave Mind, Vasselheim also erased massive parts of Exandrian history-the death of two gods by Predathos, and the subsequent creation of Ruidis as a prison- from the world. Both they and the Ruby Vanguard hunted down members of the Grim Verity and the Omen Archive for discovering this information, and for conducting research about Ruidis and Ruidisborn. the Vanguard infiltrated and actively recruited from that research as well, even, as seen in the case of Liliana.

Liliana, who left her home and her family in the first place to find answers about her powers and her nightmares-and thus, her pain-that she would never have a chance of learning in Gelvaan. in fact, many Ruidisborn we meet seem to find their way to the Vanguard because they want answers, or belonging; this reveals the harm done by Vasselheim's repression of knowledge. by trying to keep the truth of Ruidis out of "the wrong hands", they helped create the conditions, the lack of access of answers, the suspicion and ostracization of Ruidisborn, that have let their worst enemies thrive.

there's a problem with accessability to education across all of Exandria, really. public libraries seem to be largely nonexistent, especially with regards to higher level knowledge. even the incredibly benevolent Cobalt Soul restricts access to the wealth of information it has, and for many of the same reasons Vasselheim obscured information regarding Predathos; they don't want that knowledge being abused by the wrong person. but determined practically, "the wrong hands" tend to be those who don't already have power and access. the very first scene of the campaign is Imogen being denied entry from a university library, all but explicitly because of her lower class status and lack of connections with the upper echelon of Jrusar. if Imogen hadn't been able to get in, or if she had been found by members of the Ruby Vanguard before the Grim Verity, who knows where she'd be right now? what she'd believe, even if she had doubts about the Vanguard's methods? (would she even know the full breadth of their methods? or would they keep that from her, too?)

and on the other hand: surely the head of the Cerberus Assembly wouldn't be restricted from almost any library, right? especially not after a trade or a bribe or a spell or two?

#critical role #cr3 #4sd spoilers #bells hells #c3 #cr #crposting #long post #anyways. matt mercer you sly old dog you've done it again #ftr he mentioned the thing abt the official books i believe in ep 89 (divisive portents)#cr meta

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would-this-pokemon-be-a-friend · 5 months ago

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How about Banette?

Man, trust me when I say it pains me to score ghost-types so lowly, seeing as it’s my favorite pokémon type. But alas, a banette, being a being whose sole reason for being alive (undead?) is revenge and torment, specifically of children, and even more specifically a single child.

But before I get into it, banettes are a great size to be a pet. At three and a half feet tall, they’re on the bigger size as far as house pets go but not to a completely unreasonable level. Looking at those stubby legs, we can tell that these pokémon probably don’t spend a lot of time running around or climbing, which makes their space needs pretty straightforward. Wild banettes spend most of their time creeping around in dark alleys and garbage dumps (Emerald, Scarlet), but this seems more out of necessity than choice (there’s nothing tied to their health and darkness, from what I can tell). The issue with banettes come down to their personality, which comes from their curious origins.

Banettes don’t seem to be a traditional biologically-derived species, rather arising from an inorganic source… probably. It’s very confusing. What we do know for sure is that each banette originated as a child’s doll that was cast away and forgotten for one reason or another, which has become a living pokémon. Most pokédex entries report that banettes are brought to live by being possessed by an obscure, cursed energy (Ruby, Sapphire). In these entires, it seems like this spiritual energy is the real creature, with the physical form we see being nothing but a puppeteered shell, since the spirit is released instantly if the banette’s mouth is ever opened (Sapphire). However, there does seem to be some sort of symbiosis between the is conscious, cursed energy and the inanimate doll itself. It’s confusing, like I said. According to some pokédex entries, “strong feelings of hatred” are what animated the object (FireRed/LeafGreen). My best guess is that the spirit that inhabits the doll is taking part in some sort of role-play, offended on the behalf of the doll for being abandoned. Regardless of the reason for banettes’ resentment, this feeling drives their behavior in a not-so-good way.

Banettes spend most of their time stewing in their feelings of hatred towards the child that lost them as a doll, seeking them relentlessly to get their revenge (Emerald, Diamond/Pearl/Platinum). This isn’t a great starting point for a pet’s behavior. If my pet spent most of its time conspiring how to find a random child I don’t know to do know-knows-what terrible things to them, I would find it… difficult… to say the least. Now, can you soothe a banette’s vengeful feeling? Technically, yes. According to the pokédex, a banette that is cared for and treated well will cease their vengeful mission, which is great, but they also sort of cease being; Once a banette has reached a certain level of peace, they become inanimate once again (Ultra Moon). It doesn’t take a lot to read between the lines: a well cared for banette won’t be a pet for long.

We’re obviously already on shaky ground, and we haven’t even talked about how dangerous banettes are. They can use all the classic potentially-lethal ghost-type moves we know and love, like Curse and Phantom Force. This is no good. If a banette gets mad at you because you, for example, prevent them from hunting down and harming a child, it becomes a pretty serious threat.

Overall, banettes just aren’t a good fit for a house pet for many, many reasons. I would only recommend that someone take a banette into their care if their goal is to soothe it and bring it peace, not as a pet but as a therapy patient. Do not adopt a banette as a pet, please.

#pokémon #pokemon #banette #pkmn irl #pr-f

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sonichedgeblog · 7 months ago

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'Sonic Mania: Ruby Chronicles' (Mania Mod) by DigitalPhantom Experience new routes, Knuckles levels, harder bosses, and new colors! https://shc.zone/entries/contest2024/1027 Support us on Patreon

#Sonic Mania: Ruby Chronicles #Mania Mod #SEGA #Sonic #Sonic The Hedgehog

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xxfaithlynxx · 4 months ago

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Rubies and Shooting Stars

Pirate!Sylus x OC!Aria Harglow

ENJOY the next installment!

NOT PROOFREAD!

Please DON'T steal or plagiarize my work. Much appreciated! As always. ~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 3:

I was enjoying my morning basking in the rays of the sun within our father’s library, reading one of my favorite romance novels. The corners of its pages frayed from how oft the pages had been turned, the binding had begun to wear out, so I’d sheathed the leather cover and spine with another layer. I wasn’t about to lose this book, even if I had to add honey between each page to keep it together, I would.

Caleb arrived surrounded by our cook, René, a tired looking but kind old fellow with an accent that made him sound pomp and above all. His personality, once getting to know him was anything but. Beside the cook and my brother were our two butlers, Wil and Grégoire. Also, on the older side of the coin. The four men burst into the room, causing me to jump, near dropping my beloved book, while they bantered back and forth before all, but Caleb stepped back and tipped their heads forward, argument or... whatever it had been, forgotten as Caleb’s eyes settled on me. I’d not paid much attention through my shock of their entry for what they’d been bickering about.

Sitting in a gleaming robin’s egg blue sarong, I felt my cheeks redden as those same purplish eyes, my mother’s eyes, narrowed as they took in the fabric artfully draped around me while I half lay on the lounge beneath the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, book in hand, and hair falling over one shoulder, small coils and curls of the same ash blonde my mother once had, gleaming in the sunlight.

The silence stretched for an uncomfortable length of time before my mouth couldn’t handle his stare any longer, “Brother, we could request a portrait to be done if you’d like to stare for much longer. What do you need?” My voice sounded far more level than my mind was, I detested being stared at, especially by him. I just knew he’d scrutinize something regarding my chosen outfit, or my hair, my skin, my expression, my lack of decorum. Tedious male…. I watched as his eyes flashed momentarily.

“The outfit brings out your eyes, dear sister. You look more like our beloved mother every day; may she be at peace.” Well, I wasn’t expecting THAT. I blinked, the list of snide remarks dying on my tongue. “I’d… or rather, we’d just been discussing out next little event.” He cast a glance over his shoulder, toward René and the butlers, when I flicked my gaze beyond Caleb, the older gents smiled kindly at me before nodding.

Event? Oh, joy. “Event, you say. What kind of soiree have you befit the house of the Duke this time, dear brother?” I glared at Caleb, he knew I detested anything to do with society, my coming-of-age ball had been strongly argued upon until I was told it was a necessity and that my non-attendance would bring great shame upon the House of Harglow. Shame upon my father… which I wouldn’t stand for, so I’d accepted. Now what was the little fop up to? I thought to myself as I watched a slow rise in color paint my brother’s cheeks.

“You… were…” I watched his jaw working, like he was trying not to throw up, what was happening? “You were right. There, I said it. I was too… mother-hen about the guest list of your coming-of-age ball… and I wanted to rectify my egregious actions that night by offering a ‘do-over’ as it were.”

A ghastly, and extremely unladylike sound rattled from my nose. Did I just snort?! Caleb’s mouth fell open, as well as the other men in the room. I couldn’t help it, the laughter and incredulity burst from my chest in gut wrenching sounds of amusement. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes as I doubled over on the chaise, book resting on the cushion at my hip, my arms now having to hold myself around my waist. “Ari! Control yourself!” I could hear the command in his tone, but there was also amusement in his voice, and through the slits in my wet eyes, I saw the stutters at the corners of his mouth as he desperately tried not to grin back, he’d told me that my laugh was as contagious as a yawn.

Coughing softly as I forced my left hand up to cover my mouth, and then press to my chest, while my right came up to wipe away crystalline tears from my waterlines, I smiled at Caleb. “Oh, brother mine, you know to make me laugh.” As I calmed down, a look of seriousness fell over Caleb’s still splotchy face. Oh no… “You… you are joking, yes? Please, for all the apricot tarts in the kitchen… please tell me that you are indeed joking, brother.” Growing up, those tarts were our bargaining chips for everything, be it getting out of trouble together or offering our shares to the other to hide our misdeeds. My dear brother, my oh so sweet and dear brother… oh how I currently dislike thee. The man was a storm, a relentless coxcomb storm.

“I am afraid he is not, my dear daughter.” I froze, my body taking over ahead of my mind as I stood from my seat and dipped into a curtsey as my father entered the room.

Caleb stepped back, hands now clasped behind his back as he bowed forward a fraction at the hip, before my father strode up to me. He wore his usual dark knee-breeches, puffed at the knee to accommodate his high black leather riding boots. As I rose from my curtsey, I took in the rest of his ensemble. A black and silver waistcoat, done up by a single button over his middle. A soft gray shirt, with puffy sleeves cuffed at the wrists, and finally his white cravat, done in such a way to make his neck seem longer as he stood to his full height. Mother was a tall woman, and father is also quite tall… as is Caleb, where is my height? I questioned myself but cut the thought off when I saw my father smiling down at me. His eyes, my eyes, sparkling down at me. “Father….” I started, but stopped, my mouth clamping shut as I felt something heavy weigh my voice down within my chest.

“Wil, if you please.” My father asked, and I watched as our youngest butler of at least forty-five stepped forward, producing a stack of small notes from a pocket within his waistcoat. He nodded his head, after handing them to my father. “Caleb brought it to my attention, my little melody, that there were a number of young gentlemen that felt spurned for having not been able to dance or garner your attention the night of the ball, and all have sent invitations for luncheons, promenades, and of course visits.” I balked. All of them? “So, Caleb and I, thought it prudent to potentially, instead of running through the list one by one, instead simply host another event. As Caleb said, a ‘do-over’.” He reached out with the hand that held all the notes, and I felt my arm stretch to receive them. Damnit….

~~~~~~

“What’s the deal, Zay… Boss has been off his game lately.” One of the red headed twins asked as they lay across one of the galley tables, flipping a dart in hand, Zayne made a mental note as he ran a cloth over another table’s surface. Right, Kieran… the dart maker. The other twin popped his head over the same table, jostling his brother a bit so the dart fell tip down into the wood next to his shoulder. And that’d be Luke… the troublemaker of the two. “Fucker.” Kieran growled just as his brother dropped off the seat and rolled underneath the table, avoiding the now swinging arms of his counterpart.

“Yeah, what’s up! We’ve been stuck at this port for weeks… with nothing to do.” Luke draped himself across the table that Zayne had just cleaned. The red heads were getting on his final nerves these days.

“It’s Captain to you, and he’s… procuring something.” Luke and Kieran shared a look, wagging their eyebrows, “Don’t get any ideas, you two. He’ll be back when he’s back, and then we’ll get to go home. For now, we stay here… and take care of the ship.” Zayne threw them both a look but drilled his gaze into Luke’s head. “We. Stay. Here. Got it?” He’d been relegated to babysitting the boys since they’d set a fire in an alleyway a day or so prior, and the Captain hadn’t taken very kindly to those two bringing attention to his ship and crew.

They both rolled their eyes and answered in unison, sitting down on the bench seat of the table Kieran had been sprawled on, like they did eerily often, “Yes, Sir.”

~~~

The captain in question, was standing outside of a nearby jewelry shop, just up the main path from the docks, pretending to window shop as he eyed the young woman inside. His eyes roved over her form; her dress today was a simple empire cut gown. Gathered around her shoulder were puffy silver sleeves that stopped just shy of her underarms, he nearly drooled at the sight of her cleavage, not near as ample as some of the ladies he’d seen at the brothel Philip had taken him too, but still delicious looking. He had to start taking deeper breathes to keep himself composed, lest he rush in the building just to drag his tongue over her soft looking flesh just below her collarbone. The skirt started just beneath her bust, falling directly to the surface of the floor, her little slippers poking through the edge of the hem whenever she took a step. His traitorous imagination momentarily pictured her with those pink pearl-colored skirts around her waist, his mouth working between her legs.

He smirked to himself as he felt a rush of heat surge into his ears and further south, and he canted his head forward, feeling the brim of his hat touch the surface of the glass. He murmured to himself, “Get a bloody grip.” When his eyes returned to her form through the window, he took a deep breathe and decided he needed to quit the area soon before he did something drastic… and less than gentlemanly. Not that I am one….

And yet, he remained. His eyes glued to her as she seemed to be gushing over a pair of ruby set earrings, she’d tried on to show her little brown bob haired friend. Mm… those seem familiar. He thought to himself as his reflection came into view, his eyes staring back at him, focusing his eyes again, he tilted his head as he wondered, having seen the little dove’s bedroom, he would’ve thought purple was her go to color, but maybe… red was her color of choice. He’d certainly thought the burgundy she’d wore to her ball had fit her in a more elegant, siren type of way. Inhaling heavily through his nose and taking one final longing glance into the window just as she went up to the counter to purchase those ruby earrings, he took a deep breath and began to turn to walk away. I’d like to see her only those earrings…. He froze mid-step as she suddenly turned, her eyes meeting his.

His heart nearly stopped, and as much as he wanted to stay, talk to her, get to know her, hear her voice speaking directly to him. He knew his body was betraying him to the highest degree and he didn’t know if he trusted himself right now, even though he knew he’d never compromise her in such a way, no matter what. A sudden thought came to mind, and as she turned to thank the madam behind the counter, he turned and fled. I have a call to make….

~~~~~~

“T-thank you, ma’am.” I’d felt like someone had been watching me since the moment Tara and I had wandered into this shop, and granted I couldn’t have been sure it was the man in the dark attire who stood outside the window to the shop, or someone else, but those eyes… his eyes… they were as red as the earrings I’d just purchased.

“I’m glad you found something to match the dress, Ari! You’re going to look stunning at your next ball!” Tara’s arm slid through mine, fingers clasping my elbow as we too slowly made our way to the front door of the little shop. I’d near run out, but was too stunned by what I saw to make my body cooperate properly. “Are you okay? You seem tense.”

We exited the shop, and I swung my head around, looking for the man I’d seen through the front glass. Where did he go? “I – I… I think….” I paused, what did I think? Those eyes…. I’d been so stunned and rendered breathless, I’d forgotten to take stock of the way his shoulders were, his height… the things I’d memorized the other day as I swore, he walked away from me.

“Ari? What are you looking for?”

“I have no idea.” I finally answered her, my voice barely a whisper as my mind conjured up the image of his eyes, looking right at me. My answer wasn’t a lie, I truly had no idea… he may have been just a passerby looking into the shop, he may not have been even looking at me, maybe something in the window caught his eye. Had he been looking at me? Through me?

I heard Tara make a sound next to me, and when I looked, and I found her smiling behind her hand at me, causing me to blush out of nowhere before biting my lip, only to give into my own fit of giggles alongside her. “You worry me, dear Ari.”

“I worry myself, Tar.” I winked at her before we fell into step next to one another and headed back up the hill of the district, back towards my home.

“So, you were telling me something about how Caleb and His Grace were having some ‘make-up’ soiree for you?” She asked me, I’d been hoping going into that shop would make her forget I’d mentioned it. It’d slipped out on accident.

I sighed heavily, “Yes, apparently, since Caleb admitted that he was of fault for the lack of suitors during the first ball… he and my father spoke, and they want to have another one.” I rolled my eyes skyward. Caleb had mentioned that there was heresy going around about, having originated amongst the shadier ladies of this society, how I was the one who snubbed the men who’d been invited, so the fault obviously fell on my shoulders. Of course….

“That is thrilling, no? I can not wait to see how your brother muddles that one up.” I had to give her smile, for how much I knew she truly liked Caleb, she was always picking on him.

“I suppose we shall see, the invitations were sent out this morning, I know nothing of the guest list, but I am assuming your brother received one, by extension, you.” I nudged her with my elbow as we made our way along one of the many garden lanes leading to my home. Villa, Estate, whatever you wanted to call it. She smiled at me before we stopped in front of the massive metal gates leading into the grounds of my home. Tara rarely came on to the property, so this is typically where we parted ways. Secretly, I loved she let me have some time to myself. Such a good friend.

“I do hope to see you there.” I made sure to add some strain in my voice, You better come… I need my best friend there. I won’t survive without you! I screamed in my head.

“I wouldn’t miss it.” She winked at me before casting her signature shit eating grin, “We’ll be there! Ready to go, Bunny?” She turned to her lady’s maid who’d been walking a few paces behind with Nonny. The little freckled girl nodded, giving her a small smile before Tara gave my hand a squeeze and kept walking on.

I felt Nonny come up behind me and poke my shoulder, I turned and smiled at her. “You may go on ahead if you wish, Nonny. I’ll be okay from here.”

She nodded and turned to head in to the gate. I took an extra moment to watch Tara leave. A soft smile lifted my cheeks as I saw her wave her arms around while she talked to her lady’s maid. I knew the young girl was timid, but Tara’s contagious happiness brought just about anyone out of their shell. It’d worked on me.

Taking a deep breath, I turned to face the tall cast iron gates that lead to the stone pathway leading back home. Where I’m Caleb was eagerly waiting to hear of my outing on the town, see how many suitors stopped me in the street—which was a whopping none. I giggled internally, Caleb would never ask me those things, he’d probably pester me about… something or other.

Stepping through the bars of the gate instead of simply walking to the outer edge to the side gate, I stretched my arms above my head and begun the trek. As I walked, I let my mind wander. Past the sounds of the birds singing in the trees that lined the path. Beyond the wind that rustled the turning leaves and branches of each huge oak, or massive willow mass. Far beyond the stones and sand my sandals crunched over as I stepped. Directly into a set of ruby red eyes.

~~~

“My lady, you really shouldn’t wear nothing beneath your robe, it is most unbecoming.” Jen was back in full force. I sighed, tossing the robe aside before snatching the soft satin eggshell chemise from her outstretched hand and pulled the slip over my head, adjusting it beneath my arms so I was comfortable.

“There’s far more freedom sleeping in the nude, Jenny.” I winked at her and grinned when the usually stoic, straight faced lady’s maid blushed heavily, right up into her hairline. She’s either about to scold me, or about to combust… but which one. I tilted my head, and she closed her eyes, her lips pursed, one of her brows twitched. Oh, she’s annoyed.

“Why must you act so… improper, lady Ari… you are the daughter of His Grace the Duke, I humbly implore you to act as such, I highly doubt your late mother would approve of such behavior.” I sighed as she left my bedchambers, of course… she was right. Mother would not be as kind as Father has been with my tantrums. I am twenty-one now after all. I felt the heat prick the corners of my eyes and couldn’t help the petulant stomp of my foot against the ornate wood flooring.

I started pacing in my room, walking from one end of my balcony window to the other, one hand curved under my chin while the other was pressed beneath the other arm beneath my armpit. My brows furrowed as I mulled over the multitude of things my father and brother… and even Jenna had said to me in the past week and some. Had it truly already been a fortnight since my birthday? I stopped at the center of my window and turned to face the glass.

There was a waning moon tonight, that northeastern quadrant darkening. Even so, the glimmering stars hung brightly in the sky as I swung open the double doors and stepped out on to the stone tile. My arms wrapping around myself as I gazed up into the sky, the breeze cutting through the thin fabrics of my robe and chemise. Similarly to the night of the first ball, I walked to the edge of the railing and turned to stare up into the sky, arms loosening so I could rest my elbows against the surface. Glittering and twinkling, I stared at those cosmic giants, and they stared right back.

A stretch of light shot across the expanse of the ceiling of the sky, fading as fast it appeared. A small smile lifted my cheeks as I closed my eyes, sending my wish out into the void. The same void I so direly wanted to lose myself in, to experience and explore. To have the kind of freedom my soul desperately craved, the very reason I acted out. Why be shackled to a life of mundane banality when there was so much more out there to learn, to find and experience?

Opening my eyes once more, I nodded, hoping beyond hope that something… or someone out there could grant me my wish, but also knowing that that was highly improbable.

~~~~~~

He stood in the shadows, arms crossed over his chest. He’d been leaning against this wall for the better portion of an hour and the parts of his back that the stones dug into were beginning to ache something fierce. It must’ve been some sort of outbuilding to the main portion of the villa. Two thoughts crossed his mind as he stood, his crow perched atop his shoulder, staring up at the same balcony as he was. Her light was still lit, and he could still see movement within.

Should she not be in bed by now? Why do I care so much? Were his two most prominent thoughts, the latter being the one that haunted his mind, ever since the night he’d first spoke to her.

He heard his crow rumble beside his head, the corvid’s feathers ruffling as he cooed a purr into the night. Glancing back up at the balcony, he saw why. Absolutely gorgeous…. His arms fell to his sides as he saw her, staring up at the sky, much like she’d done that first night. She wore a white nightdress, or nightgown. The material shimmering in the dimming moonlight. Her hair was loose, falling down her back in waves of pure pearlescent silver, reflecting the soft golden hue of the moon, almost giving her an aura of the same pure gold. He felt his body take a step, not enough to move him into the moonlight, but enough to draw his attention away from her momentarily as he swallowed thickly before looking back up at her, and then up at the sky.

His jaw popped as his lips parted upon seeing the shimmer of the shooting star streaking across the skyline. A small smile pulling both corners of his mouth upward as his eyes snapped back to her, a soft hum of pleasure escaped him as he saw her eyes close, and her own soft smile grace her lips. Were you wishing for freedom, little one? Of course she was, what else would a caged dove wish for upon seeing the vast expanse of the starlit sky, other than flight.

With his eyes transfixed to her up on that balcony, he leaned back against the wall of the little outbuilding. Letting his mind wander back to earlier that afternoon.

“Gentleman caller for Lady Ari, Your Grace.” The butler had announced, bowing his graying head as he led the captain into a large library or study.

“Show him in.” I walked in, hands clasped behind my back, top hat perched between two fingers as I entered upon this Grégoire’s nod. “Thank you, Grégoire.” As I stood fixed in place, the butler made his exit. “Now, who might come to call on my beloved daughter?” The man claiming to be the father of my new horizon smiled kindly at me from behind a massive mahogany desk, piles of books and papers littered the expanse of its surface, several quills and inkwells lined the furthest edge, a single gilded quill was gripped between his thick fingers. A mustache that angled over a thick upper lip, curving around his mouth into a full beard, far whiter in color than the rest of his hair. I blinked, she had the same eyes.

Mentally, I berated myself for getting caught off-guard, “Your Grace, I am Captain Sylus Qin, and I am here, seeking your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

~~~~~~

#love and deepspace #lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lads #prose #sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus qin #love and deep space #l&ds sylus

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alternishicons · 4 months ago

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percy jackson pokemon teams + explanations (explanations are under the cut, characters are: percy, annabeth, jason, piper, frank, hazel, leo, nico! note that i use she/he for percy, he/they for leo, and she/they for annabeth and piper!)

i used the full evolved versions of all pokemon. the assumption is that most/all of their teams were caught at the earliest stages of evolution. i did not take evolution levels, move sets, generations, or stats into account, unless they were mentioned in the pokemon’s dex entries or in very specific cases. these are mostly based on the pokemon’s dex-entries.

percy

hers was pretty easy! i feel like he’d definitely befriend a lot of pokemon, but would only use water types. her pokemon are:

primarina, because i feel like his mom would gift him a popplio

lapras, because i think older percy would like its more calm, passive nature, and she’d want to help against it’s extinction that was talked about in earlier dexs

vaporeon, because i wanted to give him, hazel, and nico matching pokemon, and the eeveelutions were easiest, and also because of vaporeon’s ability to become invisible in water

walrein, because in the emerald and sword dex entries, its stated these pokemon will defend their herds with their lives, which matches percy’s loyalty

mantine, because i think she’d find the symbiotic relationship of mantine and remoraid admirable and interesting

keldeo, because it fights using water and he likes horses

annabeth

annabeth was sort of a struggle. while i could pretty easily give the others a type based on their abilities, there wasn’t one i could think of for her. i decided to make them specialize in fossil pokemon, because when i think of architecture i think of old things (sorry) and i think she’d find studying them interesting. their pokemon are:

bastiodon, because its defensiveness could help her when she gets too cocky during fights

armaldo, for the same reason as bastiodon

archeops, because of the fact its an intelligent pokemon, as said in the black, x, and omega ruby entries. i also chose archeops because of its ultra sun dex entry: “this ancient pokemon’s plumage is delicate, so if anyone other than an experienced professional tries to restore it, they will fail”. i think annabeth would love a challenge like this.

tyrantrum, because of the fact its dex entries talk about it ‘acting like a king’, which i think matches annabeth’s pride and cockiness. i also chose it, again, for its ultra sun entry: “complete restoration is impossible, allowing room for theories that its entire body was once covered in a feather-like coat”. i think they’d enjoy theorizing what it may have looked like

dracozolt, because i just really wanted to give her two of the galar fossils because of it’s unique method of fossil revival

arctovish, because of the same reason of dracozolt. also because i think she’d want to help against its issues breathing and eating

jason

i wanted to give him a more electric-focused team, but that didn’t happen. his team is:

dusk-form lycanroc, because i think its mix of being both docile and intense matches jason pretty well

luxray, because its ability to see through objects reminds me of jasons ability to see the doors of death. For some reason it says he can do this on nico’s wiki, but not his own, so i have no clue if this is true or not.

mimikyu, because of jason’s issues figuring themself out and who he really is

pidgeot, because of its strong control over wind and the air

ampharos, because it can release bright lights that are ‘beacons for lost people’, which i think would be comforting to jason

magnezone, because i like magnezone, and also because it needs a magnetic field to evolve, which i think jason could somewhat function as

piper

i didn’t want to give her just fairy-types or just cutesy pokemon, and i’m actually pretty happy with her team. their team is:

jigglypuff, because putting people to sleep with its singing reminds me of her charmspeak

musharna, because of its ability to eat dreams, which i think piper would appreciate

sylveon, because its ribbons give off a ‘calming aura’ that makes enemies lower their defenses, like piper’s charmspeak (again)

gardevoir, because i feel like psychic/fairy fits. also because of ralts’ and kirlia’s abilities to read the emotions of other people, especially their trainers

thievul, because i think it would help piper steal things when trying to get their dad’s attention, especially as nickit

salazzle, for the same reason as thievul

frank

again, same as annabeth. i didn’t have any immediate types that ‘fit’ him. unlike annabeth though, i didn’t have anything i could do as a substitute, so i just went with what fit him. his team is:

ditto, for obvious reasons

mamoswine, because i feel like he’d catch it as a swinub while doing the quest in alaska

donphan, because i think he’d find it cute as a phanphy, along with the fact that its generally calm, but is impressive in fights

lopunny, because its a more skittish pokemon thats still very powerful in combat

pangoro, because its a very strong fighter, but is also very kind, and is known to fight against bullies

sawsbuck, because of the fact it changes depending on the season, and that i feel like frank would find deerling cute

hazel

i didn’t want to give hazel ghost-types, because i felt like that was more nico’s thing. i also didn’t want to give her ground/rock-type, because i think it would remind her too much of the gems. i did want to give her psychic-types, because of her control over the mist. her team is:

zoroark, because its illusion ability reminds me of the mist

espeon, because again, i wanted to give her, percy, and nico matching eeveelutions

spectrier, because its literally known as the swift horse pokemon, and its hooves make me think of hecate and the mist

(male) meowstic, because of its more defensive move sets and fighting tactics

sableye, because i think she would appreciate it eating up the gems she finds

aurorus, because its an icy fossil pokemon. i like to think she got it as an amaura while living in alaska, and since it was her partner pokemon, it got revived it along with her

leo

i think they’d like pokemon way more then people, and like percy, would befriend a lot of them, but he has a specific team he likes. they ended up with more pokemon i feel like they’d like then pokemon i think match their personality. their team is:

marowak, because i think its evolution from cubone to itself due to overcoming the grief of its mothers death would be something leo could connect with

flareon, because its a fire-type that stores up heat, and because its said that it cooks food, which i think leo would like

charizard, because its a fire dragon, which leo would obviously find very delightful

rotom, because most of its dex entries talk about it being mischievous and playing tricks, which i think could help brighten leo up when working on projects their struggling with

talonflame, because its a fire type that can physically grab things with its talons, which could help him around with festus and while working on things

haxorus, because its a very kind dragon-type and i think leo would find it cool

nico

his was easy, too. mainly for fictionkin reasons and because his personality matches a lot of ghost types. his team is:

umbreon, because he’s matching with percy and hazel

absol, because the fact it appears before disasters would probably be somewhat comforting or appealing to pokemon

marshadow, because it can hide inside shadows

trevenant, because i think nico would want to help phantump, as well as admire trevenant’s kindness to other pokemon

gastly, because of the fact its nearly invisible, but can be very dangerous in attacks

cursola, because i think nico would want to protect them due to the fact they’re technically dead corsola. also because its ‘heightened otherworldly energy’ reminds me of nico

#Can you tell i like pokemon #ill probably do this for the batfamily after new years #not icons #percy jackson headcanons #pokemon headcanons #headcanons #percy jackson #annabeth chase #jason grace #piper mclean #frank zhang #hazel levesque #leo valdez #nico di angelo #pokemon #made for headcanon

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netcup-vouchers · 6 months ago

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intuitive-revelations · 1 year ago

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Doctor Who Thoughts! (Ep 1 and 2)

Since the spoiler situation is so risky this year, I'll keep my usual episode notes below a read more for now. Took these non-chronologically while watching and rewatching (becuase even though I'm ridiculously busy rn with thesis and work stuff, of course I'm doing that), so it's less of a reaction and more of a moment-to-moment breakdown.

Ep 1: Space Babies

"I was adopted and the planet that took me in... they were kinda posh. They'd use titles like the Doctor, or the Bishop, or the Rani, or the conquistador. Say Doctor for a thousand years and it becomes my name." So we're right in with the recap. Good. Also still leaning on the Timeless Child thing, which I have mixed feelings about. I love it not being ignored... but I would still rather it not become THE origin for the Doctor. At least not without acknowledging some of the ambiguity on how exactly the Timeless Child is linked to the Doctor. (Personal favourite explanation: they're just the Other. They're not a previous 'incarnation' of the Doctor, but a previous 'REincarnation', something which we know existed on Gallifrey even prior to regeneration, and opens up its own questions about Gallifrey.)

A little odd emphasis on the titles, given it's such a renegade thing. Makes me think of entry-level fans who assume all Time Lords use such titles.

Love the Rani name drop though, of course. A bit odd to get one now, considering there was JUST almost one in The Giggle. Russell what are you up to...?

"You're the Doctor, but you're… the police?" "Police box, no! No, no, no, no, that's a disguise." "Oh." Ruby takes a deep breath realising she didn't just join a cop.

You CAN'T just spring This is Gallifrey on me like that Murray Gold. Not this early.

"I am the last of the Time Lords"... ugh again. Thanks Chibbs.

Also still a bit interesting that all Time Lords are assumed to be gone, given there's nothing as catostrophic as the Time War that caused it, just the Master raging out. There's still plenty of room for surviving renegades and such. (cough!Rassiloncough!) Pretty sure the Division agents in Flux were Time Lords too, though who knows if they're from the 'present' era. More on this in Ep 2.

"And I am so, so glad to be alive." Wow, you can tell 14 went through his break. Quite a turn around from 12 hesitating to regenerate and 13's hidden struggles.

The Doctor healing the butterfly... on one hand, it's not unprecedented with stuff like 10 and the TARDIS crystal, 11 healing River's hand or 12 and Davros, but compared to those cases it's a little odd seeing it done so easily for something with no tech or inate regenerative ability.

I find it interesting that Lizard!Ruby looks almost Silurian, but clearly isn't given her hair and antennae.

The TARDIS trip gags of this and 'mavity' are a fun stylistic switch for the show, but I do hope we don't get too many of them.

"Is that a matter transporter like in Star Trek?" "We've got to visit them one day." Assimilation^2 canon?! /s (but seriously, love stuff acknowledging the 'everything is canon' nature of the DW uni-/multiverse).

So much emphasis on the coincidence with Ruby. RTD loves that trope doesn't he?

"Baby farms boost the population. Sometimes a world goes sterile or... I don't know, goes mad and bans kissing." Or in the case of Gallifrey... maybe both, depending on how you follow Platt or Parkin's lore for the looms.

Don't think I didn't spot that Mavity easter egg on the overlay.

The phone call is a nice moment... even if entirely RTD ripping himself off.

So... the space babies! It's charming, it's campy, it's fun... it doesn't really work... I'm still glad for it, because what is Doctor Who if not being exceedingly ambitious with a dumb idea (if anything I'm glad that even with Disney money, DW's production value shines through!), but the babies expressions always match so poorly to the dialogue that it's pretty distracting. I hope kids will like it though.

I kinda wish these were just child actors, instead of cgi, babies, and voice acting. It would have made a lot more sense in the story, and probably been cuter tbh. (Side note: didn't Disney ask RTD to propose a more ambitious first episode? I wonder if that had some part in this.)

"I made this for you. It's a little flower." Some of Eric's expressions with the dialogue do make me crack up a bit though.

Also glad to see more "[blank] in space" formula episodes, since that was one thing the RTD era always really shined with.

The waiting for Mummy and Daddy thing is very charming too. As is the Doctor and Ruby taking time to give them all hugs.

The multi-pronged satellite design weirdly evokes the Division's timeship design. Definitely just a funny coincidence though. It's cool seeing less 'one-way-up' station designs though.

"Did we grow up wrong?" 😥 (Also with looms on mind, this weirdly feels like a reverse 'childe' situation.)

"Oh 'Nanomatrix electroform'." With the revelation that 'Nan-E' is a person, I like to think this is the Doctor just bullshitting his way through.

The snow and the memory changing is... interesting. More later.

"Oh, I thought my birth was crazy!" Let's not get into it Snail.

The shutting down of the baby station, yet it being illegal to actually stop birthing them even though the station has a limited lifespan feels VERY topical to me, in a weird way. It evokes the post-Roe abortion bans in America, and how pro-life people only care about the fetus, regardless of viability or post-birth care.

"That's the fate of every refugee in the universe. You physically have to turn up on someone else's shore." Again politics, quite explicitly with the use of 'shore' rather than orbit or a similar term that makes sense in an interplanetary context.

"Children will return to the upper levels, or have no /expletive/ dinner. Let Nan-E say fuck!

I love all the actual info in the screen art. If I was an active wiki editor I'd love to take the time to break down all the system info.

At first I thought the bogeyman would be a more 'fantasy' creature a la the Goblins, between it's storybook nature and scaring the Doctor, so it being an artificial creature designed to be scary down to its sounds was a cool twist. Also being made out of bogies?

The fact the story also firmly decides that it's worth saving too? That it's "one of the children"? Muah! 👌 No notes.

The way the airlock works with the 'oxygen field' is a little counter-intuitive and confusing, but I'll allow it. I take it as a safeguard force field gradually powering down, hence the slow depressurisation.

"A great pile of sh-" Let the Doctor say shit"

I buy the methane working to get them to Mondo Caroon a bit less. Hopefully planetary orbit is close enough for refugee status.

Again, Eric's face cracks me up.

TARDIS key! I like this tradition.

A bit cruel to not take Ruby to Ruby Road after bringing up the mystery during the episode, even if it makes sense. Clearly also a bit of a callback to Father's Day.

The emphasis on Ruby's adoptive mum vs bio mum is good.

This arc with Ruby feels weirdly like RTD giving his own take on a Series 6/7 story arc, even down to the ambiguous TARDIS bioscan like with Amy.

When the Doctor mentioned Time Lords and titles again, I was bracing myself to see something related in the scan, so didn't even realise it was snowing until the wide shot. But it said her species was human, so nevermind...

"My name was..." Such a tease! I doubt he's actually giving his birthname, even though it's not unprecedented for the Doctor to tell people. Probably either just explaining the title or something.

Ep 2: The Devils Chord

Maestro emerging from anything playing music is so Wordlord-core.

"Henry get away from him." "Them." Woo!

I could have sworn 'Timothy Drake' would be a real person (at first I assumed he was somehow linked to the Beatles), but a quick google doesn't seem to find anything? All I found was a modern-day composer, who seems to have done an album based on Voyager data. Weird choice to go with just a random person sharing the name of a DC character.

Henry Arbinger is neat. If he's actually a seperate character, I guess he's technically the Toymaker's grandson? He does seem to pre-exist Maesto's imprisonment.

Maestro is so good throughout the whole episode.

The fourth wall breaking with the theme! Transition into the main theme could have been smoother though. I kinda wish they just kept a full piano version all the way through, like Capaldi's guitar.

Speaking of the theme, it somehow appearing in universe on the jukebox?! Really funnily lines up with a later joke in retrospect.

"My mum she had a girlfriend: Claire." Between this, the "heartbroken lesbian song" later and Maestro, this episode really starts to showcase the queerness of this era.

Ruby's first plaid dress is so Clara-ish. As for 15… while I don't mind the Doctor being a bit more casual, seeing him wandering the TARDIS in jeans and trainers is kinda meh. The period costumes are great though. Always happy to see those.

Speaking of 15 and Ruby. They continue to be a delight.

Not gonna lie, as someone who's never really listened to the Beatles but knows their songs only vaguely, it took me a moment to realise there was something wrong with their 'dog' song.

Wasn't expecting the Cilla Black cameo!

Very weird doing a historical with living people. Particularly Paul McCartney, given he has a fairly prominent role, along with John Lennon.

Probably a bunch of easter eggs I'm missing because I don't know the Beatles. I only just discovered while writing that the "Mr Epstein" the Doctor mentioned was their manager.

Weird that we've had two mentions of the First Doctor and Susan in 1963 in two episodes. With it being Feb 11th here… cue more fan debate about when exactly they arrived in London, especially if you account for the "bad smog" in December 1962 line.

"You've got children?" "I did have. I will have." Now he could just be referring to the First Doctor's future, but I can't help but imagine this as a Miranda Dawkins reference! In fairness, he does say that "Time Lords get a bit complicated" which doesn't really match that interpretation. Could also connect it to the future!Other + Other'sGranddaughter!Susan interpretation of things I suppose.

"Where is she?" "I don't know. The Time Lords were murdered. The genocide rolled across time and space, like a great big cellular explosion. Maybe it killed her too." Uhhhhhhhhhh, WTF does that mean? It doesn't sound like the Master's actions, unless he went on a killing spree beyond Gallifrey? My best guess is it's referring to the Time War (in general, rather than just its ending - which tbf does at least match our current knowledge about Susan's fate). If it does refer to it, it kinda seems to ignore both the Moffat and Chibnall arcs with Gallifrey, both its return and its destruction again, by referring to the Time Lords as being 'murdered' in that genocide. Sounds more like The Ancestor Cell than anything tbh. The wiki connects it to the Death particle, but I doubt that.

Maestro giving the Giggle, already connected to music, and the Doctor immediately grabbing Ruby's hand and running running?!

The Doctor removing the sound with the sonic sure is... another sonic power. I've never been one to complain about the sonic use, but between this, plugging in the sonic last episode and the holograms and force field in the anniversary specials, this is getting a bit much. I'll allow it in this case though, as I assume it's working through the TARDIS translation circuit.

The sound design is great this episode.

Also again, the fourth wall breaks rule.

"That thing must be part of the pantheon" Wait... it's obviously linked to the Toymaker but... the pantheon as in the Pantheon of Discord? Like the Trickster's part of?

"One trick once: that's all you get with gods."

June 2024. Woah, so it's been a big time skip! 6 months from Ruby's perspective, and she has been travelling at least some of that time. The Doctor might know what's up with Ruby by this point?

Kinda crazy how much emphasis we've gotten ever since Flux on time's malleability, with the time tracks shifting so easily. Really supports my idea that the Ravagers' attempt to undo the Anchoring of the Thread has had an ongoing effect.

The ash turning to confetti when Maestro appears!

"Lord Temporal" ooh, how Obverse Books of you Maestro!

"Child of the Toymaker" Huh. That works surprisingly well with the version of the Toymaker's origin that has a sister (Hecuba from "The Queen of Time"). Interesting, considering The Giggle seemed to lean more in the Crystal Guardian direction.

"The Music of the Spheres" I know it's an actual term, but you can't say that without me thinking of the Prom minisode.

"You might be bright, and hot, and... *dun du-dun* timey-wimey." Heck yeah. Only contention is it could have been slightly more perfect if Maestro played the four-beat baseline, since 'heartbeat of a Time Lord' and all that. I guess that's kinda synonymous with the Master though, which might have been misleading.

Though they do then play four beats when attacking the TARDIS (also awesome), so I guess they could have gone with it in the first place.

"The only thing I can do is take us back to 1963!" Fast return switch time?

Him kissing the TARDIS better!

Weird emphasis on the TARDIS groan once they exit. Seemed disconnected from Maestro, but didn't come back again.

"I thought that was non-digetic" Perfect! So should we take this to mean that the Doctor can hear the show's soundtrack?!

The music while Ruby is dragged away. At first I thought it was "The Sun's Gone Wibbly", but listening closely it sounds closer to the music from the climax of Waters of Mars, itself very similar.

"Playing lovesick songs for heartbroken lesbians." I mentioned the queerness of the episode already, but can I also point out I think this is the first time we've actually used LGBT terminology in the show? We've certainly used the descriptors before and plenty of people have explicitly had partners of the same gender etc., but for example, Bill never called herself a lesbian, nor did Clara ever identify as bi. Only exception is 'gay', and even then it's mostly only been jokes (eg. the thin fat gay Anglican marines, Rose calling Nine gay as an insult etc.).

"How can a song have so much power, and power like him? The Oldest One. The night of her birth, he can't have been there. What for?!" Oooh, so the One Who Waits is connected to Ruby. Interesting... also another connection to the Guardians and/or 'pantheon'. Is the One Who Waits one of either of those? If a Guardian, then the only candidate is the Red Guardian (who was technically there that night being the Doctor), but that would be ridiculous to be the answer. If connected to the latter, then... the Trickster? Or more likely someone completely new, of course.

Ngl, at first a little part of me thought the 'reverse devil's chord' would end up being part of the theme song.

The Beatles were surprisingly underused through the episode, but them finding the chord is a decent use of them, even if it could be seen from miles away.

The wink launching into a song and dance number, less so! I was wondering when the musical scenes from the trailer were coming...

Shout out also to the Murray Gold cameo on the piano, somehow playing himself according to the credits, despite this being in the 60s.

I'm not familar with them so not 100%, but I think the two dancing with the Doctor and Ruby here are cameos from Strictly Come Dancing too? Specifically Shirley Ballas and Johannes Radebe.

Speaking of "the twist in the end" pretty cool that "Harbinger" survives. It's unlikely, but I'd love to see Maestro return, maybe for a full-on musical episode?

The piano dancing was cute. Very 'Big'!

Overall thoughts in a few words?

Space Babies was kind of meh, even if I appreciate the campiness of it and the ending is pretty good. Pretty standard decent, if not great, episode.

The Devil's Chord however might actually be one of my favourites? Maybe even my favourite RTD episode, though I'd have to think through them all. And that's without being a Beatles fan and probably missing all sorts of flourishes.

Looking forward very much to next episode too, with Moffat back! I saw the episode was about the Doctor stepping on a landmine, but I thought that was a joke before the Next Time teaser. 😅 Apparently it's Ncuti's favourite episode of the season, which is a good sign!

#Doctor Who #Space Babies #The Devil's Chord #Fifteenth Doctor #Ruby Sunday #DW Spoilers #DW Meta #Doctor Who Spoilers #long post

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tothisemptiness · 5 months ago

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Golden Hour: Part 2 Analysis Series Part I: The Diaries

Hello everyone! I am here with the full analysis I had promised here. As I kept analizing and writing, I realized the post was becoming too long and it would be too tedious to read in one post so I decided to split it in various parts in which I would talk about one aspect of my analysis in each. If you want to read the other parts of this analysis you can find them below:

Part II: "Ice On My Teeth" MV

Part III: The Chess Piece Theory

Bonus Part: Character Studies

I want to start off with a personal note. I feel we are being stalled. A good half of the diaries this time only restate what was already told in GH:1 diaries. Honestly, the two albums' diaries could have been a single diary or GH:2 could have started the action off a bit more. If we go with this pace but tell a story as big as the first one I fear this thing is going to take something like 10 years (anticipating we won't get anything for a good 2 years at one point since they will do their military service) since right now they are going at half the pace of first arc.

I won't explain the diaries in detail here, I will just discuss the important parts so I strongly urge you to read them here. You can also find Golden Hour: Part 1 diaries here.

I feel it is important to understand their ages for measuring their level of maturity here. I believe they are around the same age as their real ages now. The only time indication we are given is that it has been 3 years since the end of Will diaries and the last time we could clearly hold track of time was the Fever series when events happened one after the another. I take their age in the first Fever entry, add around 2 years for the time they spent in World Z (the necessary time for establishing a big anarchist group) and add 3 years on top of that.

Not a plot point but I found the "Please. I call all handsome men oppa." line hilarious, she is so real for that.

In San's part there is an emphasis on "cleaning up your own mess". It is a big part of growing up, and our story here is about growing up. This makes me think that the guys have either caused a mess in the first part unkowingly and have to clean it up in this arc, or they will cause a mess in the near future and will have to clean up that.

The "Z backed into a corner, broke the Cromer in his attempt to flee, and, as a result, Woo Young and the members were thrown back into this world before they could see the climax of their movement." line in these diaries suggests they didn't come back on their own accord. In GH:1 diaries it is simply stated that Z was defeated and ATEEZ returned home, entrusting World Z to Black Pirates and Thunder. We just assumed they went back because they wanted to. This is a crucial part of the story that we never got to see, so will we ever see it?

"I know. I fell for him and nearly asked for his number." MINGI CANONICALLY GAY ICON??

The question of more artifacts comes back up, I believe this will be important in the upcoming comebacks. So far we have seen only one artifact that teleports you to the same place around the same time each time you use it for interdimensional transportation. A different artifact, however, may potentially teleport you to another universe or a far away time in the universes that we know. This would be a good way of connecting Halazia-related content to the main story.

I can't believe they actually referenced Britney Spears and said Wooyoung performs like her. These men are never beating the gay allegations.

"I saw so many ads with Min Gi on my way here today. He's everywhere! Do you know what it made me think of? (...) It's so over the top, it almost reminds me of Z." This may just be a fun jab, talking and reminiscing about the old times, but it is still a very interesting parallel between the characters in this arc and Z.

After Z breaks it, Yeosang picked Cromer up. He also picked up a red ruby named Sopro from Left Eye when they were getting out of the Disposal Sites in Fever Part 3 diaries. Now, we already didn't see the second Cromer break due to a huge timeskip, but nowhere in the diaries did they ever mention the red ruby, even though apparently Yeosang asked the group who should take care of it again and again and, surprisingly, nobody cared. It is a very interesting point, considering this object looks important since it looks like a gemstone and is said to be important and powerful by Left Eye. How nobody but Yeosang cared about it is currently beyond me. And even after acknowledging its presence, the group still moves on from it rather quickly and diverts the subject just like they had done before. The first and only appearance of the ruby is at the end of the "Crazy Form" MV, carried by the blue bird we had previously seen and heard of in "Halazia", its prologue and epilogue. In the "Crazy Form" MV reaction video, HJ shushes everyone up and indicates the cookie is important, and when asked who broke the Cromer he responds "the blue bird". The blue bird breaking a Cromer (not "the Cromer" because so far ATEEZ has used 2 Cromers and we don't exactly know which one this is) and carrying a red ruby away parallels Yeosang, who is often associated with the image of a bird, perfectly well. I think at this point it isn't too crazy to assume the blue bird directly represents Yeosang.

"I wonder what happened after we left. (...) Do they still remember ATEEZ? Or, do you think we've already been forgotten?" As part of the story, Yunho of course wonders this. We, as the viewer, know a bit more than what he does. Yes, they remember them, but not in the way they would like.

As the evening proceeds we see more and more reminiscing, becoming gradually more bitter than sweet. Even before that we see members questioning whether their current situation is what they really wanted their lives to be, hanging on the edge of dissatisfaction. It is clear that "Golden Hour" is not a term used to describe the current situation of our characters, it is for describing what they hang onto. They are hurt upon realizing that they have left their golden hours behind. Another theme of this series will be moving on from the past and recognizing golden hours as they happen, which I think will be even more evident in the later entries. The bitterness reaches its peak when Wooyoung suggests trying again and meets Yeosang's criticism, resulting in him leaving the party.

Another meaning of the term "golden hour" is "the first 60 minutes from the time of injury or appearance of symptoms in which an injured or sick person must receive definitive treatment". It is often related to trauma. Story-wise, their "golden hour" was the time from when they returned to World A to the point they ran out of money. If they were to make it big as artists, they must have done it right then but now that they are way past that time period their chances are near zero. Now they have to lead imperfectly put together lives, like a broken leg that heals a bit wrong due to insufficient first aid.

"Sopro is a sort of magical spirit that synchronizes the feelings of those who hold it with those who draw breath around them. According to legend, one of the four priest guardians of Halazia gathered the breaths of all of Halazia to create it." A simple paragraph that reveals so much. Let's pick it apart. Finally we have an idea about what Halazia really is: a sacred place according to a religion that was founded in the past in World Z. Maybe a temple with a considerable population or a sacred city (like Jerusalem for example). Combining this info with the knowledge that "Halazia" takes place after ATEEZ leaves World Z (judging by the prologue), we can say that in the future people turn back to religion, which was not present during the rule of Z. But, as it happens with all religions that have been around for a significant amount of time, the new version of this religion is somewhat changed in respect to its original version and we can say that by looking at the religious imagery that combines with the Halateez symbols.

"Sopro is a sort of magical spirit that synchronizes the feelings of those who hold it with those who draw breath around them." The desire to make everyone feel the same way. Stripping people of their free will. Doesn't it feel a bit too similar to Z's rule? It also doesn't say that those who are around the wielder will feel the same as the wielder, it just says their feelings will be synchronized. So instead Wooyoung may end up feeling the same as the others rather than the others feeling the same as him. There is a small grammar trick there (that I don't know if is the same in Korean) that changes everything.

Left Eye says that using Sopro may be dangerous. In fact, we don't know anything about its functioning and right usage except for the fact that it makes everyone breathing the same air as its wielder and the wielder themself feel the same. And who uses it? A drunk, hurt, and judging by the hour, likely sleep deprived Wooyoung. Amazing idea. Surely nothing will go wrong.

"Reignite our passion like it was back then," Now if I have watched enough films and have prayed enough to whatever god was listening to me, I should know that you must always be very specific in your wishes and prayers or else they come true in the literal meaning, which isn't always exactly what you actually meant. And here Wooyoung doesn't specify what the passion is for. Rookie mistake honestly.

A remark: There is this ongoing discussion on whether Wooyoung is a hidden villain or not in the fandom which was disputed by HJ saying that there are no members with hidden intentions. With his last action, WY arguably started an arc by the end of which the members will be changed irreversibly, very probably by going through horrible things in the process. He didn't have any hidden intentions: he messed everything up all while wearing his heart on his sleeve and had no bad intentions. He just made the error of thinking everyone truly wanted the same thing as him and acted selfishly while thinking he was doing them a favor. Now why does this action affect our old storyline? The indications are mostly given in videos like "Hala Hala". I believe the answer to this question relates to another theory of mine that isn't exactly related to this era, so I will focus more on it later on.

Where Do I We Go?

If you have already read my Golden Hour: Part 1 analysis, you know that I take the diary entries as the main things that further the lore and the MVs as things that expand the themes and mini-stories of the lore set up by them. Because of that I find this to be the right moment to establish where we are in the lore and hypothesize about where we will go next. Let's look at the 4 act story structure we had restarted with GH:1.

This is the latest point we are in.

The hook was the entirety of GH:1 diaries which set up the scene.

The inciting event was WY and YS's fight.

The key event is WY using Sopro.

What will happen next? First of all, a crisis will happen and we will meet our new antagonists in the next diary.

I doubt we will be introduced to an entirely new universe like World Z given that the end of its story arc is still not revealed to us clearly and we still have a very obscure story arc that is so far represented by the Halazia-related content. However, I don't think we are going back to anywhere near the point ATEEZ left World Z because even though it has been 3 years in the lore, we've gotten out of it just last comeback. It is also the thing our protagonists want and you can't give the protagonist what they want right at the beginning of your story. Therefore, I think we will be thrown into a time in World Z's future that is more connected to the Halazia arc so that we can start detangling it and exploring it more in depth.

I believe we will see a somewhat failed attempt at returning to World Z following this story that I completely made up because it is fun: By not being very specific in his prayer, WY ignited the wrong kind of passion. They have been secretly yearning to go back to World Z to their glorious lives more than just performing so they look for ways to go back there. In the desperation and haste, they do manage to go back to World Z but get the time wrong and end up too far into the future.

Furthermore, I think a big part of the struggle in this arc will come from the inside of our protagonists and inner conflicts in the group may cause big problems since now they don't share the same worldviews and dreams anymore and have a life outside of each other.

I think the theme of this new arc will be focused on finding the balance between dreams and real life, passion and responsibility and becoming your own person while keeping in touch with your roots.

If you read until here thank you so much and I hope you enjoyed it! If you have anything about this post that you would like to discuss I always welcome it <3

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