#i watch this arc like its my last lifeline

[irn-bru]

it doesn't matter how many times i've watched it, the master making the doctor a tiny brown suit to wear in his fetus form always has me howling laughing. the master might be diabolically evil but you've got to give it to him, he is funny

[dangermousie]

Look at those arms! MMMMM!

You know, I really like Gilina. Or, more correctly, I really like what Gilina represents, both in terms of Crichton’s development and in his feelings for Aeryn. Gilina is Earth Crichton’s dream girl: she is blonde, pretty, sweet, and plucky (she is no push-over). She is also a girl geek, and a techie and for our scientist, that’s quite irresistibly appealing. (Btw, let me take a moment to note how much I like that the show showed us that Crichton had a type in women, B.A. (before Aeryn): they were blonde and sweet and had a certain safe niceness to them. Aeryn is not blonde, not sweet, and not safe at all. And neither is his feeling for her). If Gilina was a girl working for a research institute on Earth and she and John met at some party, I can easily see them talking, dating, falling in love and getting married. And having a happy married life. And the John of ‘PK Tech Girl,’ despite some unpleasant encounters in the Uncharted Territories is still enough of the Earth John to be attracted to Gilina, to be at the very beginning of developing something for her. He is still enough of an innocent, with enough uncomplicated and sweet left in him, for Gilina to be his type. But of course, that is not the case any more when they meet again in ‘Nerve.’ When they meet again, Gilina has had a fairly uneventful PK tech existence. She hasn’t changed much. But she is not Crichton’s type any more. Not after Maldis and finding out firsthand that there are psychopaths that will just enjoy watching you die for the fun of it, not after Crais and finding out that no, if you only explain the truth, it won’t make it better. The person will still want to kill you even if they believe you, even if it’s wrong and irrational, and there is nothing you can do. Not after ‘Jeremiah Crichton’ (my least fave ep of the whole show, but whose theme of Crichton’s long isolation is well taken). Not after finding out the truth about Zhaan, or almost dying out there in space with Aeryn. Not after the mind and soul fuck of ‘A Human Reaction.’   Gilina is not for this John. Not any more. And it’s not just that in the meanwhile he’s ceased to see anyone but Aeryn. It is also that his character has changed. And that is only the beginning. When he meets her in ‘Nerve’ it is pre-Scorpius, pre-Aurora Chair, pre-everything in S2, 3 and 4 (I’d do a list but it would take too long to type). If Gilina met S4 Crichton, she’d freak and run away and rightly so. A digression, but I find it fascinating how John's non-Aeryn women reflect his change. We have his ex-gf on Earth who he was serious enough to apparently want to propose to, before they went their separate career way. She is sort of like Gilina only blander, less engaging (Earth Crichton strikes me as someone who's had things come to him too easily because of his intelligence or what not. His passion (for whatever) was never truly engaged to the full, and the gf reflects that.) There is also Caroline (who we meet in Terra Firma) with whom he had something or other, but she is rather like his Earth-ex and it's clear the Crichton of TF doesn't even have anything to say to her any more. From them, we progress to Gilina (about whom see above). In first half of S2, there is the PK Disruptor. Now, she is a lot more edges, more hardness. If she is like anyone, it's a female version of Bond. And Crichton sleeps with her, because hey, he's tried everything to get Aeryn to admit any interest, he's beaten his head against the rock and he's beaten it and beaten it. But she refused and she's conclusively walked out of his life for good (not even came to see him for the very last time, when he needed her most). And also, girl can kill him, good to stay on her good side. There is no Gilina sweetness in her, at all. PK Tech Girl Crichton would annoy her and be intimidated to be with her, not so much Crichton of that s2 ep arc. But interestingly, that is the last time he even looks at another woman, no matter the circumstances. Once Aeryn and he admit their love to each other at the end of S2/beginning of S3, that is it. Even at the second part of S3, when Aeryn is off with Talyn-Crichton, Moya-Crichton goes deep into his obsession with wormholes, not any girls at all, and he is just as obsessed with Aeryn as ever. Even after the end of S3, the beginning of S4, even after he tells Aeryn "I can trust you with my life. But not my heart" and he locks himself away, he still does not look at anyone else. He cannot. And even the drugs cannot knock her out from his mind. Which is why his last non-Aeryn woman is Grayza, who rapes him while at the same time telling him if he gives her the wormhole stuff she will help him find Aeryn (OMG, that bit is seriously the worst in the whole scene). I think the darker progression of these women-others mirrors the darker and darker universe. OK, digression over.   I find it interesting that in S1 we have a number of people (beings, whatever) whose life is affected, changed by Crichton and who are grateful for that and thank him for changing/opening/saving either explicitly, or it’s implied. But after S1 this slows to a trickle pretty fast and then stops almost entirely. Crichton is such an innately kind person, and one of the saddest things in the show is seeing this kindness leach away under the tortures (literal and figurative) he is subjected to. I find it so sad and so significant that in the S3 finale it’s Aeryn who brings up the fact that the command carrier has a lot of lives which John’s plan might end. Aeryn. Not John. She’s become more compassionate (she, who started out saying ‘I hate that word’) and he’s become much less. These are both reactions to their environment, to events they are in (When they initially meet, she is a product of an individuality-less, soulless scenario. Even if he is wrong in reading her at the very very first in Premiere during intros, he is not wrong in reading her potential, in recognizing she is a person, and even as early as Premiere she proves him right. I also love that for Crichton, she is always her own person, not a preconceived notion of what she should be. He loves her for being Aeryn, not for some idealized being in his head). And yet it is never completely suppressed, it is always there, however muted and downtrodden, however circumscribed. He had to jettison most of it in order to stay sane and to survive, but somewhere deep inside he is still the guy who, in a completely strange world, took the time to fix the eye-stalk of a mechanical critter thingy he didn’t know at all.   And of course, part of the reason he jettisons it is also because whenever he tries to save someone or make it better, it often ends up making the situation worse. I am thinking for example of S3’s lovely ‘Different Destinations’ which turns a beloved sci-fi trope on its head and he has to live with it and he can barely bear it.   And I love how the show never lets us forget the cost this takes on him, that he is not a power-hungry psychopath, a cavalier callous being only caring about his small group of friends. That coda to S4’s ‘We Are So Screwed’ where he is with Aeryn, and he breaks down, and he can’t help it, and he weeps for what he’d done, for what he almost did (and it’s going to be small fry in comparison with PKW) is just brilliant and heartbreaking and one of my favorite bits (and I love that she is there, and she silently comforts him, and he clutches her arm as a lifeline). And that is why I actually liked the drug storyline in S4. After all the stuff that Crichton been through, I am surprised he didn’t end up going on something earlier, just to deal with it all somehow (I love that the show brought up earlier that he has nightmares, feels tremendous guilt, and that was mid S2, I am sure they are much worse now). And it also made sense that when his number 1 obsession, Aeryn, told him to give it up, he did, as he’d pick her over anything. She’s his number 1 drug. Basically, he needs Aeryn desperately. She is what allows him to function, allows him to stay (relatively) sane, what holds him together. When he can’t have her, or doesn’t have her, he falls apart and needs something else to get through the days (wormholes in S3, lakka in S4). I do find it interesting that Crichton keeps his compassion, however tattered, but he develops absolute priorities, as a result of choices he shouldn’t have had to make. Most people don’t really analyze whether they will pick the woman they love or selling one’s soul and giving up something which earlier, to protect, you didn’t give up even when tortured or hunted or broken. They don’t have to. Crichton’s developed rigid priorities are a result of the environment where he had to confront those hierarchies in himself. Crichton’s earlier ‘purity’ and goodness and optimism exist in part because he is a product of a relatively sheltered life (compared to Uncharted Territories). But that early cleanness allows others to see a better or at least a different path for themselves and so they repay the favor later by pulling him out when he is on the brink of succumbing to all these horrors (which really do seem to be scarily disproportionately triggered at him). One of the things I love about Crichton is that even after he’s seen and dealt horrors, he has a certain moral absolutism to him (however broken it gets at times) and a pure refusal to give up, and strength even if only to make the least worst of two bad choices presented to him. Something untainted is always there, maybe a legacy of his initial idealism, and so he never breaks, not permanently, not irreparably, though he comes very very close. Throughout the show, even as that world bends and molds and twists him to its own parameters, he manages to make the world somewhat bend and mold and twist to himself.   Do you know what I really really wish for John and Aeryn and the kid after the end of PKW? A few years of total peace, where they can just travel the space in Moya, and John can do his research, and be with Aeryn and watch their child grow, without having to worry about saving his and their lives every other day.

OK, these are getting epically long omg.

[feysandfeels]

Which TS songs remind you of the different couples in SJM’s books???

Boy do I ??

You are a blessed soul for asking me this, and know that I adore you. 

There is now a part II to this.

Feysand:

Begin Again: “I've been spending the last eight months Thinking all love ever does Is break and burn, and end But on a Wednesday in a cafe I watched it begin again” Baby Feyre finding that love is not toxic, that love is supportive, that love can be wonderful. “You said you never met one girl who had As many James Taylor records as you But I do” but think of is as “he said he never met a girl who wasn’t afraid of his power, but i do”. Also also “Walked in expecting you'd be late But you got here early and you stand and wave I walk to you” because Feyre’s used to T*mlin’s mediocre ass but Rhys surprised her by being a decent human and treating her with respect, which makes her realize that she was starved for respect and that T*mlin was not giving her what every decent human being should get from the get go from their partner.

Ivy: Feyre slowly falling in love with Rhys, thinking about Rhys in the Spring Court between Night Court visits Also throughout ACOMAF how she battles with her ever growing feelings for the Lord of the Night, while feeling guilty about T*mlin, because they *just broke up*: “Oh, goddamn My pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand Taking mine, but it's been promised to another Oh, I can't Stop you putting roots in my dreamland My house of stone, your ivy grows And now I'm covered in you” and “I wish to know The fatal flaw that makes you long to be Magnificently cursed He's in the room Your opal eyes are all I wish to see He wants what's only yours”.

End game: I can practically see Rhys singing this in the shower thinking about Feyre, when she decided to work with him and him thinking like “YES THIS HAS TO BE A SIGN”. His reputation precedes him and in rumours he’s knee deep, him and Feyre would be a big conversation, he has enemies, he has heard about her and she has heard about him. He thinks “she’s so dope that he might overdose”. She’s been calling his bluff on all his usual tricks so here’s the truth from his red lips!!!!!

Dress: “Even in my worst times, you could see the best in me Flashback to my mistakes My rebounds, my earthquakes Even in my worst lies, you saw the truth in me And I woke up just in time Now I wake up by your side My one and only, my lifeline”. Need I say more? I think not your honor. 

Call it what you want: “I said you don’t need to save me, but would you run away with me?” That’s Feyre’s whole arc, I rest my case.

Nessian: the happiness I feel about the fact that these two are together is just enough to make me smile on a Monday

False God - The song literally opens up saying “We were crazy to think Crazy to think that this could work Remember how I said I'd die for you” HELLOOOO?? NESTA THINKING ABOUT THAT SCENE IN ACOWAR?? but also feeling that she’s unworthy of Cassian and that there is no way in hell that he will love her with all that she is.

Don’t Blame Me - The power of this song lies in the I unapologetic- powerful-full on I give myself to you and I will do it over and over again energy it has. And this is the energy that Nesta has for Cassian (even when homegirl really tries to pretend otherwise lol boo you tried). The “through your love I found salvation” religious aspect of Don’t blame me is Nesta, because through Cassian’s love and presence she found the perspective she needed on herself. Also this book was a religious experience for me. Jesus fuck.

Sparks Fly: From Cassian to Nesta, with love. First of all Cassian would be a diehard swiftie (all of the bat boys for that matter, merch a the concert, what will we do if we get invited to the rep room?? fans. Az woud be like the quiet yet “no, speak one ill word of Taylor and that’s your end, she did nothing wrong she was framed and I have evidence”). Second of all “The way you move is like a full on rainstorm And I'm a house of cards You're the kind of reckless that should send me running But I kinda know that I won't get far” That’s him alright, that’s him knowing that Nesta is a force to be reckoned with and he wants nothing nothing but to be in that storm and live within the force of nature that she is. Thirdly “My mind forgets to remind me, your a bad idea You touch me once and it's really something You find I'm even better than you, imagined I would be I'm on my guard for the rest of the world But with you I know its no good And I could wait patiently But I really wish you would” 

Elucien: This is an Elucien blog. 

Lover - In all honesty wanted to give this song to Feysand, because they are my main otp and this song is the highest of the high from Taylor, but I can’t deny the fact that this song screams Elucien. “With every guitar string scar on my hand” I think is a beautiful parallel for Elain and gardening, “My heart’s been borrowed, and yours has been blue” this speaks of Gr*yson and Jesminda, “I loved you three summers now but I want them all” that’s Lucien speaking ma’am. “Have I known you 20 seconds or 20 years?”, both of them about the bond. “And you'll save all your dirtiest jokes for me and at every table, I'll save you a seat, lover” we all know Lucien has a mind for dirty jokes and sass and Elain would always save him the sit next to her because he is the one who truly saw her and, in his distance, was the presence she needed while she figured it all out. Finally, The fact that the song has very clear wedding tones I think fits the headcanon, that more than a mating ceremony, Elucien would have a wedding, because it feels like something Elain would feel more comfortable with. 

Treacherous -“I can't decide if it's a choice Getting swept away I hear the sound of my own voice Asking you to stay”..... mmmmmm is this or isn’t it Elain getting closer to Lucien, but still wondering if it’s the bond or her, yet nonetheless surrendering to the fact that she wants him to stay. “This slope is treacherous This path is reckless This slope is treacherous And I, I, I like it” Elain doesn’t want an easy love, to simple do as the bond suggests she wants something that has twigs and branches and where she needs to question herself and truly ask what she wants out of life and this relationship. Also the softness of the melody juxtaposed with the vulnerability, brings a soft rawness that is Elain. 

King of my heart: Neither of them expected to feel like they could love with all the hope and unapologetic free falling feel characteristic of first loves, yet here we are. They rule their kingdom inside the room because they are discovering their feelings for each other away from prying eyes and people that have expectations on how they should work with the mating bond and all that. “Late in the night, the city's asleep Your love is a secret I'm hoping, dreaming, dying to keep Change my priorities The taste of your lips is my idea of luxury” Again, with the love away from everyone, feeling their world shift around what they are starting to feel for one another. “Is the end of all the endings? My broken bones are mending With all these nights we're spending” did we say healing arc through love and support an “not expecting anything to come off this, but I just want to see you well” à la sjm?? I THINK WE DID.

Emorie: I’m working with crumbs here, delicious crumbs that will make a delicious emorie cake, but crumbs nonetheless.. I need more and I need it now.

I think he knows - My girl Emerie crushing hard hard haaaaaaaaard on Mor.

Cruel Summer - “I don't wanna keep secrets just to keep you And I snuck in through the garden gate Every night that summer just to seal my fate (oh) And I screamed for whatever it's worth "I love you, " ain't that the worst thing you ever heard” this is prime PRIME PRIME ANGST, we will get from these two.  

Gwynriel: this is an edit because I'm not a hoe for these two (yet...trust me once I see Az heal this is the tag where you will find me) and I did not know which songs might fit them and then when I posted it I was like WAIT WAIT I KNOW.

Gold rush - Gwyn talking herself out of her crush on Az after finding out about the whole necklace and being like “I don’t want a gold rush”.

Daylight - Az is a Taylor hoe first, spymaster second. She just makes him feel things. But in all seriousness “Like daylight It's golden like daylight You gotta step into the daylight and let it go Just let it go, let it goI wanna be defined by the things that I love Not the things I hate Not the things that I'm afraid of, I'm afraid of Not the things that haunt me in the middle of the night I, I just think that You are what you love” this is Az healing and being in better place where he can reflect on how he used to relate to love and romantic relationships, he now understands that love is not black and white but golden. He stepped into this notion of love and through it he found a beautiful relationship with Gwyn, he wants to be defined by the love he feels for her and the love he feels for his family, not by the things that haunted him, not by his mistakes, not by his trauma. He is golden, he is daylight, shadows and all he is daylight. 

Az + Elain: As a romantic end game they are not my ship, but I do stand by my pre-acosf position that these two would be really good friends

Out of the woods -  Where we stand after acosf I say that it is not far fetched that they might hook up and then realize that it’s not for them and that experience helps them access a new part of their healing: “They lost each other, but they found themselves”. The anxiety that this song mirrors is the anxiety of them knowing something doesn’t quite *fit* right, that they are both in turbulent times emotionally and this relationship is not giving them the peace they thought it would. They are paper airplanes, because they know that it’s not the right call for where they are in their own journeys if they want to heal properly and that neither will get what they truly want from the other one. The monsters who turned out to be trees, they are in the woods in this relationship, they were built to fall apart.. are all images that speak of the dynamic we could see of them, they try it doesn’t work and then after, when they are in better places mentally they will look back and be like “we dodge a bullet there didn’t we”.

Bonus: His necklace hanging around her neck, the image is clear there and so is the commentary. 

Az + Mor: formerly known as Moriel, the ship that used to reign my heart

Breath - This song is entirely from Az’s perspective once he and Mor talk about, well, everything. This is not how he had planned it, this is not how he wanted this to go, but “people are people and sometimes it doesn’t work out, but it’s killing me to see you go after all this time” referencing letting go of the romantic feelings he had for her. They were a crutch for him and now he has to face life and the things that torment him about it, without the protection and comfort his crush on her offered him. “And we know it's never simple, Never easy Never a clean break, no one here to save me You're the only thing I know like the back of my hand,” regardless of what you all want to think, they do love and know each other but shift in their dynamic will mean an adjustment for both of them... it’s not a clean break. “Never wanted this, never wanna see you hurt Every little bump in the road I tried to swerve”, also Idc about what you all think, Az never never never wanted to hurt Mor, if he knew his behavior was in someway affecting her he would have done something, and I think from the aftermath of him going after Eris on ACOWAR we can see that... also this might allude to him actually knowing that Mor is a lesbian and he has tried to make sure she feels safe around him and knows that he has her back agains the whole world if need be, regardless of her lack of romantic feelings for him. 

Feyl*n: honestly who knew there would be so many songs that would fit these two. Such bops for a crappy dude like T*mlin.

Exile - “I never learned to read your mind (never learned to read my mind) I couldn't turn things around (you never turned things around) 'Cause you never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs)” He never even tried to learn to read her mind, he never turned things around and she gave so so many signs. The way he looks at Rhys like he’s his understudy, but no sugar he’s the principal actor and you got fired.

Getaway car - and I oop. Because that is essentially what they were both to each other. Feyre needed someone to give her security and financial stability, T*mlin needed someone to break the curse: “It was the best of times the worst of crimes”.

Bad blood - LOOOOOL. They used to be mad love and now they have bad blood.

Tell me why -  Imma just leave a collection of quotes here that well allude to them through the first act of ACOMAF: “I took a chance, I took a shot And you might think I'm bulletproof but I'm not You took a swing, I took it hard And down here from the ground, I see who you are” Feyre seeing T*mlin for the abusive person that he is, from the ground.. where his behavior put her. Also “I'm sick and tired of your reasons I got no one to believe in You tell me that you want me, then push me around And I need you like a heartbeat But you know you got a mean streak Makes me run for cover when you're around Here's to you and your temper Yes, I remember what you said last night And I know that you see what you're doing to me Tell me why” The if he loved me, why did he do it and the “it’s not a question of if he loved you but how” conversation she has with Rhys.

I could go on and on forever placing all T-Swift songs around acotar characters, but I think this is getting longer than we all anticipated.. or did we? we all know I am not ✨concise✨. Anywho, thanks for sticking around.

Besos!!

BOOOONUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSS:

Obviously, Invisible String is for all my mated/soon to be mated boos, and I think Peace is a song that can apply to both Feysand and Nessian from Rhys’ and Nesta’s perspectives respectively. 

[seaswalllow]

how about some techno and dream allyship

((ah yes... the server’s god and the blood god walk into a bar...))

((this wound up being a Whole Fic, christ, am i sorry JLKDSHLKJH))

trap

don’t trust him

where’s tommy? trap trap don’t trust him where’s dream what’s he doing-

“chat, shut up,” techno hisses softly. hefts the pickaxe over his shoulder, sharpened edges glittering in the dying sunlight. 

all the while, his eyes never leave the bustling boardwalk. ranboo down below look he has a trident? when did he get the trident there’s tubbo besides him-

chat continues to swirl about him, sticking to the shadows; neither they nor techno quite subside, though. staring down at the banners proclaiming today’s festivities, techno thinks that the muted dread congealing in chat’s voices, and the deja vu rearing its head is well deserved. 

l’manburg has never been terribly original about its bloodshed. 

techno chugs another invisibility potion in a well-practiced motion, and feels the silvery weightlessness settle into his bones. checks for his armor in his inventory, checks his pickaxe and crossbow, and settles back to watch from the roof. 

he doesn’t wait for long, as it turns out. 

dream dream dream rip his mask off see if it’ll choke him on his blood blood for the blood god he’ll try to use you you should leave you should fight-

the edge of his pickaxe digs into his back. techno takes in a measured breath. watches as punz flickers in the shadows at a distance, watches as dream settles to a stop in front of tubbo, a friendly hand resting on the young president’s shoulder. 

it’s too far to hear the fine details of their conversation, and dream’s mask doesn’t lend itself to interpretation. techno watches the way tubbo holds himself, too loose, too friendly- and the way that behind him, fundy and quackity watch dream with something just short of naked anticipation. 

dream sees it too, if the way his gestures land too close to the axe strapped across his back are anything to go by. 

trap this is a trap nothing good at a festival

tubbo turns, gesturing to the podium. ribbons and banners flutter about; techno sweeps his eye across the open platform. there will be no trapping another president on that ledge. 

dream turns with him, but the arc is too wide, and for a moment, techno feels the full weight of dream’s eyes on him, even as the voices explode into a flurry of whispering. 

he saw us he knows not safe get out of there 

“be quiet, chat. of course he knows we’re here,” techno mutters under his breath. “he sent for us as his glorified security detail.” 

with the way that the cabinet watches him like strays circling a villager, there’s reason to it. 

techno watches, hawkeyed, as dream follows the trio up to the podium. there’s ranboo, hovering around the edges, gripping onto the notebook like a lifeline. wilbur- ghostbur- isn’t far off, one hand fisted into friend’s blue wool, an unusually somber expression on his face. chat murmurs uneasily, and techno does not look forward to discovering if similar situations will draw out similar poisons within the dead- or if certain things stay dead. 

he sweeps his gaze elsewhere, noting the distinct lack of armor yet the uneasy atmosphere. there’s a poster that niki and puffy are hovered in front of, whispering

to his credit, tubbo is good at the facade. years of necessity have worn the mask of pleasantry and politics into him like a second face; he treats dream like an old friend, the faintest hint of tightness around his eyes the only indication of displeasure. 

or pain, perhaps. 

the first festival was hard to forget, after all, especially for someone who was but a child. 

tubbo is turning now, sweeping his arms out wide before snapping them back to his side; too many familiar mannerisms, too many old scars. 

techno follows his movements, and pauses. 

enchantments have a tell, he’s learned. some stronger than others; a faint heat shimmer, a lingering smell of ozone, a muffled hissing. 

there’s a haze lingering above the wooden planks that fundy and quackity are shifting in front of. 

what are they planning they going to blow this up are they trying to die they will spill blood we will spill it first

a gentle ping cuts through the rising swell of chittering. 

<dream> not yet. 

let them make the first move, techno reads between the lines, and he grits his teeth. there’s nothing else to do except to shift to keep them in his direct line of sight, and sweep for any other giveaways. exposed trails of torches, oddly shaped rocks beneath the waves that now fill in the crater-

the soft hiss of redstone fills the air, and techno whips to face tubbo, who has stepped up to the podium. 

then he speaks, and techno realizes, oh, sam or fundy definitely had some hand in this as tubbo’s voice echoes above the waves. techno, admittedly, does not hear a good portion of the speech as the voics hiss and swell with indignation. 

a celebration of l’manburg’s independence, of l’manburg’s freedom, of shaking off so many chains of blood and tyranny, tubbo calls it. hypocrisy, techno thinks, as his eyes trace the pillar where the anvil used to stand. a shinier, sweeter form of the iron fist hovering above them in threat. softer, perhaps, gilded with noble intentions, but nevertheless a threat.

but first, tubbo says to the audience. but first, before we can truly celebrate our freedom, there is one more chain to be cut. 

techno draws in a breath. carefully, carefully eases his hand to his crossbow. dream is stock still; a deer in headlights, chat whispers. a hunter waiting to strike, techno sees. 

trap trap they never wanted peace where’s phil where’s tommy trap RUN FIGHT FIGHT-

the planks have been cut away. there is a chest, there are axes glittering in the cabinet’s hands. we’re sorry, dream, fundy says. i’m not, tubbo amends. quackity is no longer blustering. a potion bottle breaks at dream’s feet, and although he does not flinch, draws his axe, techno can smell the sickly sweet rot of poison from here. punz looses a trio of arrows before he leaps forward, gunpowder filling the air as he throws down stack upon stack of dynamite around them, while netherite cracks out a discordant tune against steel, dream meeting fundy, axe for axe.

blood for the blood god, the tides roar around him. his armor glitters as he draws his crossbow. quackity is the first to see him. they savor the fear, the indignancy in his expression.

blood for the blood god, he roars, as he rains fire down. 

two in one for the hitlist, he hears quackity shout above the explosions. he thinks he hears dream laugh as the next axe blow shatters wood and steel. who would let you, alex? fundy is nowhere in sight, and there is blood dripping into the waves, blooming above the coral, an axe lying abandoned. 

 is this the hill you want to die upon, icarus? flying up to meet the sun, only to burn? he slings the crossbow over his back, hoists up his pickaxe to block quackity’s axe. twists, locking one side of the pickaxe’s tips around the axe, and sends it flying into the water, uses the momentum to complete the arc and sink the other tip deep, deep into flesh. 

there is fear again, deep, deep in quackity’s eyes. they’ve laughed about his hunts before. quackity isn’t laughing now as he wrenches his shoulder free of sizzling metal.

blood for the bl-

-blade, hold your fire. hold your fire, dream orders, and for a moment, they all balk at the icy tone cutting through the battle’s haze. techno slams a hoof into quackity’s leg, sends him to the ground with the distraction, and hefts the pickaxe as he watches dream. 

“i came to act as a security guard, not a negotiator,” he informs the masked god, and dream laughs from where he has an axe levelled to tubbo. chat swells, unsure of who to direct their ire to as the shock subsides. techno ignores them.

“lucky for you, the job description won’t involve too much negotiation. you see- they’re both about to die, aren’t they? they’ve burned up all but one of their lives. if they die, they die here, with nothing to their name but failure. if they accept it, they can hold on to that last life.” 

quackity opens his mouth, and techno wiggles the pickaxe on his shoulder ever so slightly. 

quackity is quiet. tubbo is shaking, and techno swallows down the bitter feeling that roils on the back of his tongue. he remembers his battles that young, when the bloodlust wasn’t tainting the fear and fury. 

“surrender,” dream says. “surrender, or he will put that pick through quackity for a final time, and i will burn this city to the ground and bury you in its ashes.” 

silence. 

silence, and then tubbo’s axe clatters to the ground. quackity surges up, and techno raises his pickaxe, and dream calls “hold your fire, blade-”  

-and techno slams the pickaxe’s hilt into his head. quackity goes down, and stays down, but he stays there at their feet.

dream shakes his head. 

“look, it was either that, or stab him. you don’t want that second option, apparently.”

“because they have surrendered,” dream points out. “they’re not a threat.”

“did he look like he was surrendered? dream, did going for my throat look like he had surrendered?”

“please, he could barely get to his feet. no way he’d be able to reach your throat on a normal day, anyways.” 

techno snorts. “i think whatever they tossed at you messed with your perspective.” 

why is he laughing danger danger kill them all all of them are d a  n g e r-

dream is laughing, and it dawns on techno as he watches tubbo’s pale expression that they didn’t understand just how far out of their depth they were, going after a god with a potion and three axes. 

then again, he reasons, they stopped seeing how out of their depth they were the first time they raised their axes against him. 

“felt a bit like being splashed with expired milk, honestly.”

techno hums, noncommittal. he hoists quackity up onto his shoulder. “you said you had a place for them?”

dream holsters his axe at his side, and draws an arm around tubbo. the posturing leaves the chat hissing, but techno watches, impassive, as dream hums “a very special place, indeed, where they can’t be a danger any longer.”

[doorbloggr]

Friday 21/5/21 - Media Recommendations #3

Its Friday again, so its time for me to tell my readers about media that I enjoyed and recommend others engage with. But this week, since the things I want to talk about share common themes, I want to theme this week around Belonging.

Finding your physical, social, or emotional place in the universe is an overarching theme in lots of storytelling. It is a universal human experience to want to belong. This week, I'm gonna skip out on recommending music and instead give you two anime and one manga that share the theme of belonging.

Contents for those who want to skip ahead:

Anime: Mob Psycho 100

Anime: Miss Kobayashi's Dragon Maid

Manga: Chainsaw Man

Fair warning, this is going to be a long post

Anime: Mob Psycho 100

Belonging stories are often described as tough, difficult, distressing, but rarely are they... wholesome. Mob Psycho 100, despite the name, is a very welcome change to the formula of a beaten-down person fighting the world. Sure, the world has hardships and adversaries, but it also has support networks and allies.

Mob Psycho 100 is a story about a very rattled, timid boy named Mob who has been stricken with psychic powers, but the good people in his life help push Mob to become the best version of himself. The show has a lot of subversive themes, and much like Mob himself, sends a message that we should never judge a book by its cover.

Mob's powers are strengthened by his own inner traumas and stress, and the anime will periodically update viewers on this mental state with a percentage out of 100. The higher the number, the closer Mob is to his breaking point, and when it reaches 100, Mob loses conciousness and a savage mindless version of himself fighting at full psychic force takes over. In most Shonen type anime, refining this form and pushing it to its full potential would be the end goal, but Mob is taught by his master to avoid using it. He can become a stronger person without losing control.

Reigen, the main supporting character is many people's favourite part of the series. We're introduced to him as a self righteous con artist who recruits Mob to benefit from having an actual Esper working for his exorcism business. But Reigen has a heart of gold and every action he makes is to grow Mob into an emotionally stronger person. Mob meets many other Psychics throughout the series that see the potential in Mob's power, asking him stop being nice and just go apeshit. But the first thing Reigen teaches Mob is to never use his powers against people. And he puts himself in the line of fire to uphold that value.

Mob Psycho 100 is an story about believing in yourself, and that if you look for help, it will be there, and you will grow stronger from it.

Anime: Miss Kobayashi's Dragon Maid

On the other end of the spectrum, what if you were a perfectly stable person, had a perfect grip on life and were always in control. But you lack company. That is the story of Miss Kobayashi's Dragon Maid. This anime sends a message from two different angles about how you can grow from a person with few/no flaws into a stronger form you never knew could exist if only you let others into your heart.

Kobayashi's Dragon Maid essentially has two main characters. Kobayashi was a business woman in her early 20s living alone and just generally enjoyed the solitary life. Tohru was a Dragon from another world who lived most of her life as an independent powerhouse, and mostly flew solo. When the two meet each other, they form a lasting bond that improves the both of them.

Although this anime seems mostly like a slice of life fanservice, and it is, the deeper story is about finding your place in the community, finding a home. Much of the anime focuses on Tohru, who has settled (mostly) into a human form adjusting to her voluntary role as a housemaid for Kobayashi. She comes from a world of magic and much of the way our world works is a learning process for her. Although she is a powerful magic user herself, Kobayashi tries to teach Tohru to be more humble and human. After all it is not the magic side of Tohru that Kobayashi enjoys, it is the social side, the emotional side, that endears the people around her. Tohru is brought down to Earth to become a more emotional, grounded person.

Kobayashi on the other hand, becomes more of an outgoing person as a result of caring for what eventually becomes two dragon girls. In showing the dragons how the world works, Kobayashi grows more socially confident and allows herself to express more of her quirkier side to her friends, and the dragons. The other dragon girl that moves in with her, Kanna, wishes to go to school, so Kobayashi is moved to become more motherly and socially involved in order to help Kanna achieve this.

Miss Kobayashi's Dragon Maid is a cute little story about finding where you belong, and who you belong with. You just have to put yourself out there and be nice.

Manga: Chainsaw Man

This is not a cute little story. Chainsaw Man is a very harsh, gruesome story about finding meaning in life. Main character Denji works in squalor as a devil hunter to make up the insurmountable debt his father left him. But when conditions force him into a situation where he is left in an even worse state, fate hands him a lifeline. After he becomes part devil himself, he is discovered by Makima, a high ranking devil hunter who works for the Public Safety Devil Hunters, and is offered a much cushier life in the big city. All it will cost him is his unwavering loyalty to Makima.

Given how rough Denji had it for most of his life, just being able to live a life of 3 meals a day, with a home and money is the ultimate dream. His allies tell him that he needs a dream, a goal, motivation, to give his life direction, but Denji believes that being allowed to live in relative freedom is the relative end goal. I say relative freedom because Makima is a cruel mistress, and her demands for allowing Denji to exist is that he become her dog.

Chainsaw Man is not all doom and gloom however. The tone manages a unique balance of absurd, deadpan humour and senseless, non-nonsense violence. The action is a spectacle, but very straightforward, no pomp and circumstance, just chainsaw goes in, blood comes out. What sets this manga apart from other gory demon hunting stories I've read/watched is the growth of characters.

Where similar themed stories would start with a character who has a goal and they grow stronger to accomplish that goal, Chainsaw Man is about finding a goal to start with. Many of the characters, not just Denji, but Power and Aki too; their arc is finding a meaning in life. Yes they fight because they have been told to, but what if they found something to fight for?

Chainsaw Man is about finding a reason to live. Instead of living in the moment because of who or what you belong to, decide what makes you want to keep living and live for that meaning.

[id-never-letyoudown]

Rare pair hell below (plz work readmore) part 2

Henry Hidgens didn't have the best childhood. Being shipped off to live with his aunt and uncle after coming out to his parents and then disowned does not make for a happy nor healthy mind. He was sixteen when it happened. His only light in those trying times were his aunt and uncle. They supported him. No matter what he wished to do.

He wanted to learn an instrument? Sure. He wanted to take up songwriting? Absolutely. Shoot a gun? You bet. And Henry was quite ambitious to say the least. He dabbled in a little bit of everything while he lived with them. It had been the first time he'd been allowed to truly express himself.

And they accepted him. Sure they had to get used to a few things, they'd sometimes use the wrong name-but they were always quick to correct themselves. And that was all he could ask for. His parents never bothered to try. Last he heard they were telling people that their only daughter had died and they had no sons.

Henry wanted to do big things, make a name for himself doing what he loved. And he just happened to love many things-and if you asked him he excelled at them all. Of course.

It took some string pulling and a lot of extra credit and the like, but Henry had managed to get himself accepted into a nice college outside of Hatchetfield. He never could decide on what he wanted to do, so again he tried a bit of everything that tickled his fancy.

He was particularly gifted in biology. Anything to do with the human body. And had a special interest in things that had adverse effects on them as well. Diseases, plagues-you name it.

His presentations drew a lot of attention. Attention that brought him to the door of the P.E.I.P. Not literally to their door, of course. Especially when he moved back and resumed his studies in Hatchetfield. They were interested in him. His intellect. And thought he could help them. The fact that he called Hatchetfield his home was another point of interest. And the fact that his last remaining family had died in a freak accident months prior made him stand out. A smart man who knew how to handle a gun and who wouldn't be missed if he should disappear? He was practically made for their organization.

Henry declined their initial offer, having just landed a position on a team of scientists currently studying a disease he was very curious about-and just so happened to be immune to.

He had made a lot of friends at Hatchetfield Community College-a few of which became his lovers. They would all go to the football field at five o'clock to catch up every day. Always. Henry had been a little impatient and wasn't as thorough as he should have been during his decontamination procedure one day, eager to see his boys.

He infected every one of them. And had to watch them each die, one by one. Comforting them while searching for a cure. He still visits that campus in the anniversary of the start of their collective deaths, because having to go back days in a row would have been too much for him.

He ended up joining P.E.I.P shortly after that. He wasn't at the top of their ranks, sure. But he was known as a good marksman and the person you wanted to see if you needed some special equipment. But his speciality was theorizing. Because he had this uncanny ability of almost always being right.

It was discovered that he had foresight. Not the most powerful they've seen, but a good asset nonetheless. This is what made him a valuable member of P.E.I.P.

It should be noted that Henry, though preferring very much to work alone, had grown incredibly fond of a certain general. The two had even-and continue to-hooked up on several occasions. Henry had gotten a little attached and was hurt when he discovered McNamara was marrying his good friend Xander-but he supported them both fully. The three do still fool around together and Henry even became the surrogate for their son, in exchange for "a bottle of brandy for every stretchmark" and "never ask me for anything ever again".

His time at P.E.I.P was filled with adventure and excitement. He loved every minute of it.

And then the fatal day happened.

Henry was well aware that they had lost an agent to the Black and White. But that didn't stop his curiosity. He swore it was like it was calling to him. The portal. He'd dream about it. Sometimes he found himself passing by the lab it was kept in and stopping for no reason other than to gaze longingly at it.

He didn't have the clearance to venture into the Black and White, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't come up with a good enough reason for he himself to go.

And then one day he just so happened to find the masterkey card just... lying on his desk. Like it was waiting for him. And when he grabbed it it felt as though someone was standing right over him. Just this great, overwhelming presence. But a... welcomed one. Which wouldn't make sense to him until later.

He had to sneak in when everyone else had gone. But once he made it, once he stepped into the Black and White for the very first time-he fucking ate the primordial pavement and cracked his helmet.

And just as the panic was about to set in he heard it. A man's voice. One he's heard before but could only now make out.

It'd felt like he'd been wandering around that great expanse of nothingness for days-it had only been minutes-but seeing this stranger, and knowing he must have so much to tell him, made it all worth it.

"Was wondering when you were gonna get the hints, Dove." The man spoke, wearing far too much denim for Henry's tastes-but somehow he made it work. "Bet you got a lotta questions."

"You have no idea-" where did he go-oh!

Henry's helmet was gone now. And he could feel the man's warm breath against his ear. And feel him right behind him. Practically touching. "Oh but I do." When he turned around the man was gone. Henry only had to look back to find him in his original position. "And I can answer them all."

".... There's a catch, isn't there." It wasn't a question. Henry knew he needed to leave through the portal soon, unless he wanted to stay there trapped forever. "What do you want?"

"Smart, Dove. See, that's why I like you. Straight to the point. You know exactly what you want." Oh please, it took him years to settle on a major- "It just wasn't plain to see. Power."

"Power?"

"Power. Fame. Recognition. And everything in between. I can give you it all. All you have to do is shake my hand."

"I shake your hand and I become a pawn for one of your lords, is that right?" Henry eyes him skeptically, but the offer was tempting. After all-

"You know apotheosis is already upon us. Might as well rig the show while there still is one."

Henry stares at the stretched out hand, his own twitching at his side. It was true. He's seen it. Several Its, actually. So many outcomes. So many branching realities. Lost when he woke up. But coming back to the surface the longer he stayed here.

"I..." He reached for his hand, eyes finding bright, apple green. He saw a promise. A promise for power. For the ability to set the pieces wherever he wished and watch them fall. For everything he could ever wish for and... more? More.

Henry wanted so much more than what he'd been given. What he worked for.

And just as he was about to lay his palm down he was yanked back. Something had pulled on his lifeline, sending him stumbling back.

"Henry!" The general shouted behind him, and just as he looked back, to give the stranger one more look, he was gone. "Henry what were you thinking?!"

"No..." Henry had to be dragged back through the portal, kicking and screaming. "No-let me go! Let me-" and then the crying began. He couldn't stop the tears from streaming down his cheeks. When he finally stopped resisting McNamara let him sink to the floor, in front of the deactivated portal. And the promises it held.

"You should have let me go." His voice cracked, slumping foward. Black strands of hair fell in his face, obscuring his vision. Not that the tears weren't already doing that. "You should have-" he hiccupped.

A hush fell over the room. An odd tingling sensation ran over him. Similar to walking out into the heat after spending hours in a cold theater. His hair, strand by strand. From root to tip. Began to turn a silvery white.

Needless to say P.E.I.P didn't let him go for a long while after that. They interrogated him. Poked and prodded. Took samples of his hair. Something told Henry he needed them to think he was just slightly unhinged. Just a bit. Just enough to get them to believe he wasn't a threat.

And when they did let him go, they called it 'retirement' and gave him a new identity. And a job as a professor. Just to be safe. So no one would ask questions. He wasn't particularly happy about it. And stormed out of the facility in a huff. During a big storm.

McNamara was right on his heels. "This is just a precaution, Henry-"

"A precaution?! Putting foam on sharp corners in a precaution-this is just-u g h!" Henry threw his hands up, already soaked to the bone. White hair sticking to his face. Damn he needed a haircut. "This is wrong and you know it!"

"You entered the portal without permission-do you know what could have happened if I didn't come back?!" He had to shout just to be heard over the sound of pouring rain.

"This place was like home to me, you know that-and I make one mistake and that's it?! Poof! How fair is that?!"

"I'm trying to convince them to let you back on, I just need you to lay low-"

"Lay low?!" He laughed bitterly, pushing his hair out of his eyes. You couldn't even tell the difference between the rain and his tears. "I'm Henry 'Hidgens' now! What the fuck kind of name is that? And sixty-three?! R e a l l y?! I don't even look that old! Who's going to believe that?!"

He spread his arms out in a wide arc, "You're all going to regret not having me here, just you wait and see. You're going to come crawling to ol' Henry Hidgens, Biology professor at Hatchetfield Community College for help one day and you know what he's going to say? Fuck y-"

Thunder shook the area, lightning lighting up the sky in a crooked arc. And then, in the blink of an eye, Henry was struck.

That's what he got for ranting in the middle of a storm.

Anyways, when he was given the okay to return home he spent months crafting his new life. Hey, if he was going to be given a new identity he might as well have fun with itm and he still had to heal from that lightning strike.

He bore a scar that branched like veins all down across his body. Staring from the left side of his neck, and down to his right ankle. He liked to play up the 'unhinged and questionable professor' bit a lot. And loved to pepper in the very real fact that he'd been struck by lightning.

Hell of a thing to brag about.

It had been nearly half a year now since then. He's settled into his new life nicely. Becoming Hatchetfield's known hermit of a whacky professor.

Lately he'd been having a feeling he was being watched. And sometimes, sometimes, he'd see him. The man he now knew as Wilbur Cross. The agent P.E.I.P had lost. They never told him what actually happened though.

He had just come in from his garden one day when he felt it. That familiar presence.

Henry set his basket of apples down. His aunt and uncle had owned this house before, and planted a nice garden-which had been neglected after their passing, but Henry was tending it now. They had a few apple trees as well. Henry planned on making a pie.

That presence was still there. Bearing over him. He didn't know if he was just being paranoid or hopeful or what. Regardless-he went behind his bar, took up his shotgun, and returned shortly after.

And when he did he froze. Because there he was, sitting on the counter. Eating one of the apples. At first the shock was enough to make his jump and aim right at him-not that it bothered this man to have a gun trained on him.

"Wilbur..." Henry didn't know what he felt exactly when he saw him, but suffice to say he was overwhelmed. He lowered his shotgun.

"Hey there, Dove. Ya miss me-"

"I accept."

"Whoa now-at least let me do the pitch!"

"You already did that, remember? And I accept, on one condition."

Wilbur's brow cocked, "Who said you could make conditions?"

"I did. It's an easy thing, really." He came closer, just as Wilbur hopped down from the counter. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey, sliding it over to himself. "Every promise you make to me, you have to keep. And, we seal the deal with a drink."

"You trying to butter me up with booze and apples?"

"The apples are a coincidence."

"A n d you're making demands of me? On top of pulling a g u n on me?.... You know, I think this might be the start of a great partnership. Pass me a shot glass-" he saw Henry pop the lid off the bottle and take a drink with hardly a grimace. His heart would have skipped. If it still beat. "... damn, Dove."

"So, we got a deal or what?"

"First of all, my line." Wilbur grabs the bottle from him, fingers lingering a few seconds too long. "Second, you bet your sweet ass."

They drank together. And thus started their partnership.

[roseherondale]

Golden Hour

Summary: Pandora opens up to Icarus and Mayes, finding a way to move forward. Set during the time jump in episode 1 of Winds of Fortune (Life of the Party D&D)

Theme: Gold

Word Count: 1,310

Warnings: mentions of trauma

Read it on AO3 here

Golden rays hit the mountain in perfect arcs that covered Arx Volatus in a beautiful haze of radiant light. Below, was a pool of crystal clear water, sparkling and rippling where a waterfall trickled into it, sending delicate spirals across the surface. Across the horizon, the sun was perched low in the sky, casting a warm orange glow across fields and trees.

Beside the water, hidden behind the waterfall, was Icarus, eyes closed against the bright light, one hand on his necklace, the other resting on his lap. A light breeze ruffled the dark curls around his face, and he smiled, relaxed, as he brushed one back behind his fin-like ear. Across his face, the patterns of flowing water mixed together in a dance of shadow and light, constantly changing and flickering. The fluttering darkness made the scene on his arm, of storm clouds and lightning, seem real, as though the waves were actually turbulent.

A slight distance away, cast in the same incandescent light as the scenery below, was Mayes, the sun symbol of Pelor enclosed in one hand. Their brown hair was tied back in its usual bun, the sun illuminating the different shades. Unlike Icarus, they were sat completely within a patch of sunlight, hunched over and sketching, thin strands of hair falling into their face. The light scratch of pencils and rustle of paper accompanied the gentle rush of the water.

After a while, the sound of footsteps joined in, steadily getting louder until Pandora appeared in the small sanctuary. She was an ethereal vision, resembling a sunset herself with orange skin, hair the colour of fire and her golden freckles illuminated like stars. Her horns dripped with golden jewellery and on her collarbones were the dark inked markings of laurel leaves, a symbol of peace since destroyed.

When she reaches the base of the steps, she hesitated for a moment, watching her friends and taking in the atmosphere, feeling calmer and more at home than she had since they had arrived in Arx Volatus, on the backs of griffons, escaping Erran.

“Hey, Pandora,” Icarus said, without opening his eyes or moving at all.

“Hello. Can I sit?” She asked, wringing her hands in front of her, nervously.

Icarus opened his eyes and gestured that she sit down with one hand. Mayes turned around so that they were facing her, silhouetted by the sun and the warmth on their back was as though Pelor was laying a comforting hand on their shoulder. Carefully, Pandora sat, facing both of them, arranging her dress around her.

Since arriving a couple of months ago, she had withdrawn herself from her friends, focusing on studying magic and trying to forget everything that had happened in Erran. The further she pushed herself away, the more she felt herself slipping, the cliff rapidly approaching, and the less she felt she could stop.

In a moment of pure helplessness, she had found herself walking down to where she knew Icarus and Mayes would be, where they always were when they weren’t working. She craved the comfort and company of her friends, the unbridled joy and optimism they brought, and she so desperately needed but continued to meet with bitter scepticism.

“Everything okay?” Mayes asked, a slight line appearing on their forehead as they frowned.

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” Pandora said, quickly. Then, “no, actually it’s not.”

“We’re here for you if you need to talk.” Icarus said, after a moment of hesitation, holding out his hand. She took it and reached out her own for Mayes’.

“I know I’ve been… different, and you didn’t ask for this version of me as a friend. But thank you for looking out for me and being patient. We all lost a lot when we left Erran, but I never came to see if you were okay or needed anything; I just closed myself off.” She felt tears in her eyes and her voice came out as strangled. “I’m sorry, but I want to be better, to do better, to be a better friend to you both.”

“Don’t say that,” Mayes whispered. “You’re a good friend, Pandora; we love you. We know it’s been hard, and we didn’t want to pressure you.”

A couple of tears escaped, trickling down Pandora’s cheek, across golden freckles. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why I pushed myself away; why I didn’t come to you both sooner.”

“You’re here now. And we’ll always be here for each other, even if you don’t want us to be.” Icarus smiled weakly, squeezing her hand.

“You can talk to us whenever you’re ready to, Dora.” Mayes said.

She took a deep breath, and when she spoke, it was with a raw vulnerability; the product of allowing all of her thoughts to fester within her for weeks. “I don’t know what to do anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see Perseph… her face in my mind as she chose that,” she spat the last word, venomously, “over her family; over me.”

She took a deep breath. “I play it over and over in my head, thinking of anything I could have done differently. I go back to when we were kids and then, to before I went to Delphos. What did I do? What did I do so wrong that she chose to do this? Why would she abandon her family like this? Why would she abandon me?” Weeks of pushing down her emotions and channelling them into anger caught up with her, and she pulled her hands from Icarus and Mayes’, burying her face in them as she began to sob.

Icarus and Mayes glanced at each other, alarmed, before immediately moving closer and putting their arms around her.

“It’s not your fault.” Mayes whispered into her hair, repeating it over and over as she cried. The sun seemed to blaze brighter behind them, embracing them all in a swirl of gold.

“You’re safe, Dora. You don’t have to go through anything alone.” Icarus said, when her tears slowed, and she sniffed.

The quiet warmth was intoxicating. She opened her eyes, looking out over her friends’ shoulders, watching the glint of light in the water. Heavier footsteps sounded on the stairs behind them.

“I thought I’d find you down here,” Damen said, softly.

“Hey, Dames.” Icarus responded, voice muffled from where his face was pressed against Pandora’s hair. The tall, red hobgoblin looked down to where his friends were huddled on the floor, his eyes, one green and one gold, filled with fondness and sorrow for everything that had happened to them. They reminded him of his son, Panos, and he was grateful that if he couldn’t be with him at all, he could still be with his makeshift family.

Mayes raised their head, smiling sadly. “Come join us.”

Damen knelt down between Icarus and Pandora, putting his arms around them.

“It’ll be okay, firefly. We’re here. No matter what has happened and what will happen, we’re not going anywhere.” He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

“We’ll always be together,” Icarus smiled, weakly. “We can face anything; even this.” Damen’s mouth curved into a smile and he raised one hand to ruffle Icarus’ hair.

“Always.” Mayes said, firmly.

In that moment, there were a million things Pandora wanted to say, but instead, she clung onto her family, holding onto them, tightly, as though they were her lifeline. In a way they were. They were her last tether to the world, the only things keeping her afloat in the stormy sea that encompassed her. They were her remaining link to her life in Erran. Together, they had been through so much, and finally, for the first time in weeks, under the golden rays of the setting sun, she felt like she was home.

Thanks for reading, I really hope you enjoyed it! This was my first fanfiction for LOTP so let me know what you thought x

[noneatnonedotcom]

Rwby earlier

so the basic question this story asks is what would rwby be like if it was set earlier in the timeline. this time i focused on jaune, who’s the last son of a knightly house that has since been betrayed by the kingdom of vale. he’s not a huntsman. that terminology only came at the end of the great-war. jaune’s a knight. the last of his kind and a hero...

of sorts

hope you enjoy

Jaune surveyed the battlefield before him.  It was dry relatively flat though there were small rises and dips. All in all a good bit of ground he’d managed to lure his enemy into. 

They needed every advantage they could get.

The Faunas Rights Revolution as they were now calling it was… well, it was a disaster. Incompetent generals on the human side, brought on by the destruction of the nobility after the end of the great war and the loss of the warrior culture, basically won the war for the animals.

The only reason Minstral and Atlas had held on as long as they had was because of him and the Vale Expeditionary Force fighting the battles for them. And still, it was down to just them now. He’d not been recalled from the field and as a knight of vale… as the leader of vale forces rather, those lofty titles and ideals were dead now.

Much like everything else good in his life he could see its blood purely on the hands of vales former king. 

He watched the wind sweep across the field making waves in the grass and flowers of the beautiful vista. In the distance past the forest, the mountains rose majestically. The fall of fort castle had secured a line of attack on Minstral itself. The subsequent sacrifice of Minstralian troops on the altar of stupidity was the final nail in the coffin for humanity.

Or it should be, this field would be the place where the future was decided. Weeks of following the Herd of faunas had been leading up to this very moment. Now he had a chance and with it, he would exact a bloody tax on the animals for the rape of Castle Town. and for all the evils they had committed.

To his left, he had two formations of heavy cavalry. In years past they would have been knights. Their armors were polished the beautiful colors they covered themselves with and their horses stood out especially in comparison to the drab colors of the faunas most being poorly equipped and trained. But their natural advantages, numbers, and human incompetence had let the animals run rampant across the countryside.

His men were well trained, all had their auras unlocked and the warhorses they used had not only been specially bred but had been trained to use aura as well. The act of unlocking their aura had made them intelligent enough to use the new abilities they’d gained. 

He’d argue that each horse was smarter than your average tax collector.

His enemy was confidant, the only challenges he’d faced so far were poorly trained human militias led by incompetent officers. He outnumbered jaune two-hundred to one. And jaune had made a point to have the enemy think they were chasing him. This wouldn’t be a battle.

This would be a slaughter.

He let his enemy mass his troops, his polearms at the front with a few cavalry off to the flanks. Nodding at the knight commander of his second formation he signaled the man to lead his hundred men to chase off the mounted enemies. His only worry was the muskets that the enemy had stolen. Luckily it seemed they had no real idea how to use them beyond the very basics. 

Jaune watched the battle, one hundred men charged a great mass of the animals on horseback. actual numbers were impossible to guess since the creatures didn’t organize themselves. The advantage of numbers though was soundly in the favor of the enemy. 

The initial shock of the charge nearly won the contest outright but they rallied. The knights not killing nearly as fast as they should have. As the left flank came to join his first formation fled from the fight. The enemy cavalry giving chase. It would appear that the first part of the battle was over.

At the very least the enemy cavalry was off the field. The last hundred men shuffled nervously and jaune reached down to pat the white destrier he was riding. Snow was a fine stallion and he was thankful to have his friend at his side now. He took a deep breath enjoying the relative peace of the moment as the enemy began marching towards him. 

This would be a good day.

This is how he would mark himself as a hero. 

“There is not much to say about the situation but I nonetheless feel some words must be spoken.”

The didn’t truly march, they more ambled in a vague formation. Jaune smiled at the sight.

“I do not believe in the superiority of humanity, in truth I see no real difference physically between the two of our species” 

The front ranks seemed to get nervous as they approached the last line of knights. A block ten men across and ten men deep. This wasn’t at all like the previous foes they’d fought. But they were pushed forwards by the ones behind them. Bunching closer and closer together.

“But those are not faunas you see before you, they are not human, they are animals! Animals who would rape and murder the women and children of Minstral the same as they did for those of Castle town!” he felt his fury seep into his voice “they are animals who when offered a peaceful end to hostilities asked for more. Knowing that the councils couldn’t grant them that!” snow stomped into the ground sharing his hatred “they are animals who came from Managerie purely to harm others! I remind you, men, that this is not a battle!” his voice carried over to the herd now and jaune felt his aura unfurl across himself and his hundred men “THIS IS A LONG OVERDO EXTERMINATION!” he cried to the heavens as his knights cried out with him. “TRAMPLE THEM BENEATH OUR HOOVES AND RUN THEM DOWN! FOR VALE! FOR GLORY! FOR HUMANITY!” his lance tilted down “CHARGE!”

And the sound of thunder echoed across the valley on the bright sunny day

In his mind jaune said a prayer

My body is a cage of flame

The burning yet verdant giant

Retribution, a shrine that presides over human affairs and purifies them.

I am the one who destroys

THE WICKER MAN!

Moments before the impact he saw in his mind ruby rose, she was sitting in the garden trying to learn to sing from her friend Weiss. It sounded more like screeching in truth, but the love song was meant for him and it was more beautiful than anything he’d ever heard. And he remembered her sitting on that very same marble bench in the golden light streaming through the trees when she’d said she loved him as he loved her and his soul sang with the memory.

His lance killed a man as Snow plowed through the line of men heedless of the polearms bouncing off the now unlimited aura. Men flew through the air and were trampled into the soil now becoming mud with the liquid of their blood jaune thrust his lance down again and again as snow stomped and bit and kicked and men all around him did the same.

Time lost meaning to him for a long while the auras of him and his men unbreakable as jaune held onto that beautiful golden memory as the animals cried out in pain some drowning in the bloody mud others grasping at deep wounds from the lances.

In time the animals turned to flee, jaune and his knights gave chase. But disaster struck for the animals when the first formation fo cavalry from before came back. Now with double the knights coming from both sides, the animals sought to surrender.

Quarter was not given to the people of Castle town.

And the animals were slaughtered in their entirety. 

The entire main army of the faunas was destroyed. Twenty thousand killed off in a single day by Jaune Arc the Butcher of Anima. The council would condemn him. And most of all an old man name Oswald who was the head of the Beacon Academy had said he was little more than a monster. 

Apparently he’d tried to convince Ruby to leave him after the news of his victory broke. She’d outright refused. 

Apparently, jaune was now quite hated by the Circles the old man frequented. Whether this was because of his actions or the fact that Jaune was more important to the last known silver-eyed warrior in Remnant was unknown. 

In the nights jaune still had dreams, dreams of men trampled beneath the hooves of horses and those screaming for mercy as they drowned in the mud of the battlefield. Of monsters who came for his beloved wife . Of old men striping what light his life had away from him.

And every time jaune was woken by the embrace of his little rose, a hero in her own right. And they would lie in the darkness of their room and she would sing that sweet lovesong that he remembered and he would cling to her like a lifeline.

And then in the morning they would sit in the garden and watch the children of his sisters play and thoughts of war were forgotten. 

 so yeah jaune in an earlier age becomes a hero, he stops a great atrocity but commits one of his own. something that haunts him well into the later events of the story btw ruby and jaune are both cannon ages for this, they just got married earlier than most. (they are basically still in the medieval ages lol) Ruby’s also one of the first batch of huntsmen to study at beacon. jaune’s not allowed in. and Oswald is the incarnation before Ozpin. 

jaune’s real struggle is not with his capabilities but rather how able he is to live up to his ideals to be a knight. his victory in Anima was a moral failing for him and he most certainly pays the price for it. but the people he was stopping weren’t exactly good guys either. they were an undisciplined mob who thought they were owed. just look how the french revolution turned out

let me know what you think the song ruby sings for him should be btw

[pinnithin-writes]

Hardly An Apology

Written after 417 aired. 2093 words.

There was still blood on Pleck’s face.

This wasn’t necessarily a problem exclusive to him. They were all a little bloodied, a little shell-shocked, a little worn out. The entire crew had been put through the ringer, atoms arranging and rearranging in rapid succession as the Dame took them on a ride through time. On her last day alive, too. That was nice of her.

Lately, Pleck had thought a lot about what he was going to do on his last day alive. Y’know, after he’d learned about the whole “throw yourself into the Allwheat” thing. He’d tried to stay optimistic about it - he wasn’t exactly a master problem solver, but he hadn’t resigned himself to oblivion just yet, poking at the dilemma from different angles as he tried to find another way out.

Late at night, with the eldritch thing whispering to him, he had to admit his fate was hard to ignore.

He stood at the bathroom sink, mechanically rinsing the blood from his mouth and nose, avoiding his own reflection. He knew he needed a shave. He knew he needed to comb his hair. The chores of self-maintenance piled up as the days bled together in a meaningless smear while Seesu’s campaign spun its wheels. At least they’d finally gained some traction today.

No thanks to him. Sometimes, Pleck wasn’t even sure why he came on the missions for all the good he did them. He lacked Dar’s confidence. C-53’s intellect. Even AJ, headstrong and fearless, pushed them toward their goal with his actions. What did Pleck do? Well, lately, he just sort of hung around.

A favor for Dar, really. They had asked him to be there, to be him, so Dar could effectively be Dar . And because Dar had asked, Pleck had done it. He owed Dar a hundred favors for how many times they’d saved his sorry skin.

He cut the water off. Dried his face with a towel and let out the ghost of a laugh - a short, humorless exhale through his nose. It sounded louder than it had any right to be in the silence of the bathroom, with only the buzzing fluorescent light overhead to keep him company.

Pleck had been promoted today. Second Lieutenant. Or, Lieutenenant, he guessed. A rank and a job, given out of what, sympathy? Kindness? It didn’t matter, really. Turns out he’d repaid that kindness with a blaster shot to the brain.

Coming back to Bargie after all of that was a nauseating experience. He grimaced at the memory as he hung the towel up to dry. They all had a bad habit of putting up humorous walls around themselves when they were uncomfortable, grasping at distractions, latching onto funny details like they were lifelines in a stormy sea. Making jokes was something they knew how to do, something they were good at, something grounding. It anchored them, but anchors were oh so heavy.

Yeah, keep it tight! Great slogan! Great pants! Great job! Good one, guys!

They still watched someone die right in front of them. And then watched another someone pass on moments later. A one-two punch to the gut. Nothing a couple good jokes couldn’t fix, right?

A brief moment passed where Pleck thought he was going to lose the contents of his stomach, slapping a hand against the bathroom wall to brace himself as the vertigo twisted his gut. He saw it on the backs of his eyelids when he blinked. The zing of blaster fire, smashing in a starburst against Dar’s body. They were dead before they hit the ground.

His fault. Just like everything else.

He pulled in a shaky breath, managing to fight down the nausea. Rodd, he’d been mid-apology when it happened, too, as part of owning up to his long and exhaustive list of mistakes. It didn’t matter that he’d pulled the trigger years ago, when he was someone else entirely. It was still something he needed to make amends for. “Sorry I shot you,” he’d meant to tell Dar. “It was wrong and I feel terrible.”

Now what was he going to say? Sorry I killed you and left your body in the mud? Sorry you had to watch yourself die and then clean up my mess?

Guilt crawled into Pleck’s throat and settled there. He tugged his robe tighter around his torso, a self-soothing habit he’d developed over the past few months, and exited the bathroom. Instead of wandering down the hall to his closet, his feet carried him in the other direction to the adjacent room. He heaved open the door and flicked on the light, greeted by the gentle hum of the air unit and a distinct rise in humidity as he stepped inside.

The memory of the thick air on Flerp smacked him in the mouth and he had to take a second to lean back against the door. Calm down, calm down, he told his racing heart. You’re in the hydroponics room. Aboard the Bargarean Jade. You’re not on a distant planet in a downpour watching your friend die. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his good eye and pulled in a steadying breath.

It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re all okay.

That was it, right? Why he felt so wrong about it all. Like he didn’t have permission to grieve. There was nobody to grieve - Dar was with them on the ship now, and Dar was with them on the ship in the past, and everything had turned out alright. It was fine, they had a laugh, and they went about their business.

Pleck still felt shitty, though. He tried to swallow past the guilt in his throat.

He pushed off from the door and padded to the first rack of grow trays. He’d been coming in here a lot lately, having nothing to do around the ship. The warmth of the air and the moisture it held made him think of warm summer rains back on his home planet. Pleck remembered walking barefoot out in the grass fields as a kid, feeling the soft give of the soil under his toes as he watched the irrigation structure crawl a lazy track across the farm.

This room wasn’t exactly like that, but he did often go without shoes in here. More for nostalgic purposes than anything. The smooth metal flooring still felt nice on the soles of his feet, warm from the blaze of the grow lights. The system in here was automated, racks of machinery operating the whole process without any assistance needed from a sentient. There was no possible way Pleck could have jucked this one up.

Just like he’d-

He’d-

Pleck shook his head to clear it, focusing on the hum of the fan and the gentle sway of the plants in front of him. It made him feel a little homesick, actually, following the little seedlings to maturation. These were mostly leafy greens - butter lettuce, romaine, some spinach, a few varieties of cabbage - kept in the dark as they germinated for a few days within a square plug of peat moss and polymer. Watching the mechanical arms rotate the baby sprouts from the darkness to the light was hypnotic, and Pleck often found himself passing hours in here without realizing it.

It made him feel useful, even if he wasn’t really doing anything, making a slow circuit of the room and checking on the plants. Pinching off dead leaves where they appeared, refilling the nitrogen caddy, checking the roots for rot, harvesting and bagging the vegetables for the fridge later. Mindless, repetitive motions that slowed his pulse and passed the time.

He needed to be here right now.

Pleck tended the greens, grounding himself in a tactile comfort as he tentatively turned over the day’s events in his head. He skirted around the time stuff - it hurt just thinking about it and he preferred his feet planted firmly in the present - instead uttering a small prayer for the passing of Adelaide Wiggles. The last of her species. The Memorex had died with her, slumped to the cobalt floor of a crumbling mansion. Dignified, somehow, despite the biscuits clattering across the floor as she fell.

She’d looked her end in the eye and greeted it jauntily. Pleck wished he had that kind of resolve.

Watching the Dame’s life gently snuffed out like candlelight, while quite sad, was much easier to focus on than the other thing that gnawed at him. The thing he had done. It lodged in his neck like an extra set of teeth. He traced a fingertip over the gentle arc of a lettuce leaf, wondering if that had been the one to pull the trigger.

Pleck didn’t make a habit of firing guns, not past the old peashooter his father used to let him borrow as a kid. Sometimes they’d go out after X-Marse to the ditch behind the farmhouse and shoot bottles off the broken fridge that had lain there rusting for years. A rare treat. A Rangus vacation. Pleck smiled softly to himself at the memory as he plucked off a sick leaf and discarded it.

A blaster was different, though. It held all the kick and the power needed to kill a sentient, and in a blind panic, Pleck had done exactly that. It had happened so long ago he didn’t even really remember what it felt like, but he did just watch it happen, the stock hammering into his ribcage because he was holding it wrong. He at least remembered the purple bruise that had bloomed there afterward. Taken two weeks to heal.

How selfish he’d been. How utterly ignorant. The fact that his cowardice had gotten Dar killed snagged in his brain like a fishhook.

He stopped in his tracks in front of a healthy grow tray, pressing a trembling hand to his mouth.

He’d really done that, hadn’t he?

Killed Dar.

His captain, his friend, unshakeable in their confidence. That powerful solar flare of a being, all loud words and bold decisions and unstoppable will. Barreling through life like a freight train. And they cared about Pleck even when Pleck didn’t care about Pleck. One infinitesimal moment and they were dead.

Second Lieutenenant. Please. If he had a badge he’d turn it in.

The sob that escaped his chest was more of a thin sigh, rolling over him like one of those summer Rangus storms. His shoulders curled up and he pressed his hand harder against his mouth, as if he could hold the emotion in. He was so sick of having breakdowns in here. It was his cry spot of choice, the ventilation fan just loud enough to keep Bargie from overhearing, and he’d lost track of how many times the Allwheat’s record scratch of a voice had knocked Pleck’s feet out from under him.

He sucked in a shuddering breath through his nose, blinking away the burning in his eye. Dar wouldn’t want him crying over this. He had no right to be crying over this. He wasn’t the one who watched themself die today. Dar alone held that privilege - they were the only one who’d actually done anything about it, stepping up and taking charge, as was their nature, while Pleck stood there uselessly, as was his.

First Beano, now this. Pleck had to start keeping a tally of the friends he’d killed. Another joke for the crew to anchor themselves with. Who was next? C-53? AJ? Watch out, guys. Pleck’s coming for you.

He stood there, trembling in the misty room while the guilt soaked him to the bone, knowing he could never make this right. Dar had already done that for him.

Minutes passed, and the tension eventually ebbed from his shoulders. His breathing evened out. The greens in front of him bobbed passively on their trays of water, up-down-up-down, gentle like his heart. Letting out a long, slow exhale, he leaned his head against the cool aluminum of the hydroponics structure. He was grateful for this room full of life after the death he’d witnessed today.

Maybe one day they could talk this over. Maybe he’d find the impossible words needed for this insurmountable apology. And they could laugh about it, for real, full and genuine and from the heart. For now, though, he needed to hide himself away in this sanctuary, entombed ever so softly by the humid air and the swaying leaves. He couldn’t face them just yet.

“I’m so sorry, Dar,” he whispered to the empty room.

I’m so sorry.

[sienna-writes]

Butterfly Blood || novel update

chapter three

I initially had a lot of trouble with this chapter. It’s been through about three drafts and it’s still nowhere near perfect, but I’m working on just moving forward with the novel now and am trying to quit obsessing over revising because... it’s unrealistic to expect a first draft to be perfect. 

The first draft of this particular chapter, though, was basically all dialogue, and all very poorly executed dialogue. (Dialogue is absolutely the weakest aspect of my writing but I’m working on it.) On my second attempt at the chapter I initially attempted to create an outline, thinking this would help me find a direction. However, in my next writing session I ended up totally ignoring the outline and just winging it, and the second draft was formed. I really liked the events in the chapter now but still wasn’t happy with some of the individual scenes so I reworked it yesterday morning. The argument between Rowan and Karmen still needed revision  because Karmen’s character within it was totally inconsistent to his usual disposition. So! The final (for now..) draft is a more stripped back, since Karmen is too disassociated to get as angry as he did as quickly as he did, and I think the tension and the build up is a lot better timed and more... muted? It’s less overt, more subtext heavy, and I'm relieved because that is what I had been trying to achieve all along.

Again, it’s not perfect, but it has evolved and it is definitely better than before. 

The chapter is just over 3000 words now, but I am only going to be sharing the main, gritty extract. The other scenes are less exciting, but I also suspect they need the same amount of work till they're even remotely sharable. (I was going through a bad writing slump in this chapter lol.) I really hope you enjoy it? I'm ultimately quite proud of how it turned out in the end :)

excerpt:

[Rowan has missed her GP appointment + her dad uses it as an oppurtunity to also be angry about her slacking in school]

    “I’ve booked another for tomorrow morning. You’ll miss some school, but I figured that’d be an incentive since you don’t seem to care about that anymore.” There is now an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before.

    Rowan visibly flinches, digging her fingernails into the supple skin of her palms. The dents purple then fill with blood. She locks eyes with her father, searching for the reason for his sudden anger. He has struck a nerve and he knows it.

    “Miss Phelps called.”

    She pushes her toes into the dirt, white sneakers now blotted with dust. “Oh.”

    He doesn’t ask for an explanation, simply straightens his back like an ancient scroll unravelling itself and meets her gaze finally. Karmen stands with his chest puffed out and his chin pointed forward. It is apparent that he won't ask her side of things. He’s heard enough, and has his made up his mind about her already.

    Rowan pushes past him to get inside. Karmen doesn’t shift as she squeezes by his statuesque stance. His face twitches like a camera shutter, so fast she can barely believe the change in his expression. She convinces herself it didn’t happen and throws her bag onto the couch, almost tempting another lecture. A tamer one. Something he could murmur through his daydream fog before slipping back into his silence and letting everything remain undiscussed. Like it normally is. Her slipping grades. Her laziness in class. Not writing a single word in an entire school day. Talking back for little to no reason.

    He turns as her rucksack lands, his footsteps looming behind her. Something sharpens the air between them, but she can’t tell what. The elephant is in the room and it is wrecking the place. They watch the destruction mutely, each waiting for the other to intervene and consequently letting the walls crumble into ruin. The old house audibly creaks, it is so quiet. Finally, Karmen speaks. “What’s the matter with you?”

    Rowan runs through all the excuses she can think of. I was dropped as a child. I was a premature baby, so my brain must be under-developed. The content is so easy it feels obsolete. I’m being bullied. I’m just not as smart as you thought, dad, sorry. Teachers are liars and we both should have known this.  “There’s just too much.” She says instead, through gritted teeth, moving into the kitchen. “I can’t focus on school and have to be there for everyone.” It is limp and she knows it. It flops between them weakly like a helpless fish. She takes a glass from the cabinet and closes it softly.

   He consumes the lie like a starved ghost, though. Proving he doesn’t know her. Doesn’t know how absent a friend she has been of late. How she has become her father at school, numb and quiet. How, secretly, she enjoys the façade because people avoid her, don’t ask difficult questions, don’t tackle her with unnecessary comments about her long-lost mother. “Then stop being there.” He says simply.

Rowan scoffs. “I do enough of that at home.” She studies her dad’s face—clenched jaw and squinting eyes—as if it hurts to look at her. “Everyone’s always telling everything how things must be. I must participate, I must be smart not emotional, I must not slack for exams I know I will pass without a glance at my books”—suddenly an urge to twist the knife into his gut overwhelms her, she draws out the moment as she fills the glass with a thread of water from the tap—"I must deal with a stranger for a Dad and a god knows what for a mother. A shrieking banshee? An abusive fugitive? She’s probably become a social worker just to scorn us.”

    He rolls his lips, lowers his gaze and chews on the inside of his cheek, sucking it in. Rowan’s breath catches in her throat. In this moment he looks shockingly hollow. Did she empty him? Wind him with her blows? Spoon out his entrails with an ice cream scoop? Carve him like the roasted corpse of some great beast? Karmen puts two hands on the back of the chair opposite her, clutching it as if he might just fall over. His stare is cold and unsympathetic when he raises it toward her. “Don’t you want to make something of yourself?”

Yes. “What?” She laughs bitterly, placing the tumbler on the counter with a satisfying thud. “Like how you made something of yourself?” There is a terrible moment where he sits in the midst of the cruelty, shrinks into himself as if absorbing it, before his mouth creaks open and he lets out a broken shriek.

“GOD DAMMIT ROWAN!” Rowan flies back, arms sheltering her head instinctively as he reaches for the glass she placed on the counter, spins, and throws it at the wall. One big horrific movement. A cutting arc of his arm through the air and then the shattering. “Are you ever even listening?”

    Millions of glittering fragments of her life laid out before her, encircling her bare feet. She thinks of the sneakers she slipped off at the door, wishing she had them now.  Something about naked feet look so naïve, so vulnerable. Her toes shrink, curling inward. Her breath quickens and her hands begin to tremble. All this broken glass. All these fragments like a lifeline stretched between them. Her eyes blink away tears in different shards, her reflection is fragmented, her features lost and bobbing about as if at sea.

    “Are you, dad?” Rowan asks in an empty voice, staring at him till he flinches. He stares at the glass on the floor in shock.

    “I...” He crouches, sifting through it with his bare, shuddering, and unsure hands. “I don’t know why I did that...”

    Rowan gets a sudden urge to have the last word. Except she doesn’t speak. Her eyes settle on the glass and the idea flourishes like a flame in her mind, burning everything rational, everything he might think. To hell with appropriate. To hell with acceptable. One unsteady step. She expects a crunch or a crackle, but instead there is a damp muffle and squelch. Her spine rattles and her teeth prickle in response. A sunrise in her chest warms her throat but she presses against it with her palms, forcing it down. It is a scorching, molten pain. Third degree burns and all she swallows rays of light till she is drowning, gorging. Slipping through furnace tongue flames. Rowan gags. Bile and acid boils her tongue and the bright, burnt out orb slips into her stomach. She gulp, gulp, gulps every atom of the blaze that consumes her. Till she is heavy. She walks across the broken glass as he yells out. Let there be outrage. Let the sky fall. Its clouds embrace her limbs, draining everything fluid from her, letting her grow limp. Letting her rain. Heavy. As she moves away from the kitchen, she feels her footsteps peeling from the floor, warm and wet. And she is so, so heavy. Then she stumbles, splintered feet unable to keep her up—her legs can no longer hold her and her lava—as the pain erupts within her fierce and sharp and sudden. Flashing its ugly teeth. Catching one last glimpse before her vision goes dark, she sees a red ocean seeping into the living room. How could one body hold so much? Fast and gushing the rapids wash her dregs of consciousness away. It was just a few steps...

soo... yeah. Rowan walks on glass because, oh lord that girl has no impulse controls. 

I'm not going to lie, although it was a pain to get this scene to the stage I have just shared, I think it's one of my favourites in the book so far. I'm proud of how much it's grown. Also, I love me some dramatic descriptions of pain and characters being nasty... :”)

I hope you enjoyed this update! (if you did, reblogs really help me out, but absolutely no pressure <3) I’m also still looking for people to add to the tag list, so if any of this interested you, feel free to send me an ask, message or comment. :)

Tag list under cut (ask to be added or removed):

@alicewestwater @elaz-ivero @coffeeandcalligraphy @hanwatchingmovies @sirfitzroys @chloeswords @nev-953

[a-student-out-of-time]

Connections Review Part 3

Storm Maverick- Category 5

And we return! This will be the final part of the Connections Arc. I had initial plans for this to be 2 parts but sadly Maverick got too big and therefore he required his own part. This is by far the most divisive part of the Arc as everyone seems to be content with the time travel and harems, but as soon as Maverick ‘Motherfucker Hellspawn’ Storm got relevant it all went downhill for some. So, what do I think?

So, this is part is less ‘What is Maverick doing’ and more of what I think of Maverick. As you guys know, I am aware that Maverick is a lot older than people seem to recognize as he has his origins in Askthedespairkids. And in the context of that blog, Maverick is actually a pretty good character. You have to remember that the blog was saturated with OCs and a lot of them suffered from severe sueness or edgy syndrome. I will not make names and I will not say who made the worst OCs because that’s the easiest way to start an internet war, but the two big reasons I got bored of Askthedespairkids and quit reading is due to how poorly written a lot of these OCs were and they hogged a lot of the spotlight, and the canon characters ended up being regulated to the side-lines, which didn’t tickle my fancy at all. True, Maverick was very over the top and what he ultimately ended up doing to his former classmates in Class 75 is incredibly graphic and probably worse than some of the executions and murders canonically, but I would rather blame the general OPness of that blog. Now this is on the Mod’s terms Maverick can hopefully be hit with the nerf hammer a bit more so he isn’t as ridiculous as he was in Askthedespairkids. Furthermore, you can’t call Maverick a Villain Sue and not apply that to Junko Enoshima, because yeah, she is a Villain Sue, that’s why I don’t like her.

But things are different now. Maverick is standing on his own, against only a couple of other OCs and canon characters. Furthermore, the Mod’s writing skills have improved since the Askthedespairkids days so there’s a bit more pressure on Maverick. I think there are two issues I find with Maverick. The first is that I didn’t like him making a move during this arc. The arc was fine just focusing on time travel and the various harems and relationships of the characters, adding Storm just bloated the arc and made it much longer then needed, I feel like Maverick could have been revealed next arc and the next next arc would be the next arc we are currently getting into. This gives me serious Oncoming Storm vibes where an Arc is ridiculously long and a build up to a (hopefully) big payload. Now let me make this straight, this Arc is a million times better then Oncoming Storm, I don’t think any future Arc would be as bad as Oncoming Storm, as that was long and boring whereas the previous stuff was interesting, its just that adding Storm made the Arc very bloated and artificially extended the length of the arc making it tedious. Perhaps a forewarning to the Mod when they decide to include someone like Mikado and Junko into the story. The second issue with Maverick is…he’s basically a poor man’s Junko. At the moment I’m really struggling to find any meaningful differences between Maverick and Junko. With Juu being around we already have our big bad villain for the second Session and if I’m right, Session 3’s main villain is going to be Mikado and Session 4’s villain is Junko. I know Maverick is important to the backstories of Umeko and Kyoji, especially Kyoji, but aside from tying up those loose ends, what is the point of Maverick? Does he exist to give the Quantum Crew a practise run against Junko? And yes, his threat level is higher as he’s kidnapping an obscene amount of people and is able to block us Anons, but Maverick shouldn’t know we exist. I really, REALLLLY hope there’s a logical explanation for that because if Maverick is somehow able to sense the Anons and see how much of a threat we are, then the accusations of Maverick being a Villain Sue do hold water.

Overall, I will be more critical of Maverick now then I was back then because he enjoyed being next to poorly written characters but that safety net no longer exists and there’s too many glaring similarities between him and Junko. Now for his actions yeahhh…. I did warn you guys that Maverick is that special kind of evil but I don’t think it was until Nikei revealed about all his foster families committing suicide that it really hammered home. It’s basically vindication of what I said before. The stakes are a lot higher now because previously yes there was all the girls being kidnapped but it was just Tokyo and one demographic, but here lots of people all across Japan are vanishing and being brainwashed by Storm, so the pressure is on for the Quantum Crew to stop him. And some familiar names as well as Damian, Aiko’s pen pal and Hiroyuki, Kiroko’s younger brother have gone missing alongside Kanon. Kanon vanishing means I think Leon is going to be important next arc because we did promise Leon that Hajime & friends would help her and he’ll be willing to throw his lot in to save his cousin. And the pressure is even more on because Yuki’s been taken as well, having traded Mikado for Storm. This is going be big, especially for Sora as she’s been struggling with how much she cares for Yuki and this will be a real test to see where her allegiances lie. Especially as its unknown what happens if either Yoruko or Sora dies, because if Hajime dies, time rewinds and he uses a life but what if Yoruko and Sora get offed? They don’t have lifelines so what happens if Hajime resets, does Yoruko revert to her old self or does Sora get erased from existence as she isn’t supposed to be ‘born’ yet?

Kyoji also got some development as we see him bonding with Monaca and the newly reformed Kanade, and it’s a very ironic twist that the two characters who are often nicknamed as ‘Satan’ in the fandom are now more or less siblings. As good as a caretaker he is for them though, his recklessness and self-loathing issues are still there as it prevents him from seeing Miaya despite a meeting between them being sorely needed and thinking she won’t want to see him again even if that may not be the case, and wanting to deal with Storm ASAP despite legit concerns that it could be a trap. Thankfully Chisa and Chiaki were able to talk some sense into him and rein in some of his more destructive behaviour. Given how manipulative Storm is and we have not one but two characters who are willing to go off the handle, possibly three if Nikei jumps the gun again, its going to be a very intense arc coming up as not only do the Quantum Crew have to fight against Storm and his backers, but also keep some of the more hot-headed members of the team from being reckless. The new members of the Quantum Crew are pulling their weight though as Kazuichi offered insight into the tech that Storm could use, Chisa obviously helping to keep sanity in check and Ibuki had one of her lucid ideas and managed to suggest how Storm delivered all the VPN password codes to his victims in a way that isn’t unnoticeable which is just mailing them a vacation brochure. I’ll admit, this was really clever by the Mod as that went over my head when it was delivered, but I should know about Chekhov’s Gun, which is don’t include something if its not going to be relevant later. Lesson learnt and I need to be more alert to detail now.

And that concludes the Connections Arc as the QR Code was scanned and they saw the welcome message from Maverick and Kyoji cursing Storm’s name. And my ranking shall be a C-. It would be a solid C but the inclusion of Maverick bloating the arc out and the fact that now he’s not being propped up by terrible OCs means the writing flaws of the character are starting to become more apparent and his similarities with Junko makes me question if he is a necessary character in the story or not. I will withhold too much judgement until the next Arc concludes but I did enjoy the Arc until the Storm part so its not enough to drop into D territory so C- it is. Either way, I’ll be watching the next arc with great interest and hopefully my new method of cutting down on needless wavering is making this easier to read. See you once the Storm calms down! -Review Anon

//Once again, thank you for the reviews. And admittedly, yes, I do wish I’d held off on introducing Storm’s plans until the ongoing plot threads were resolved and everyone came home. I can see all this being the beginning of the current arc and it probably would’ve worked better. That’s definitely the biggest flaw I can see with the last arc, though it’s important for setting stuff up and my desire is not for preparations to drag out, but for us to get to what’s important.

//After the Oncoming Storm, I’m wary of writing any more long preparation arcs, especially when I’m stuck in a long depressive episode ^^;

//I’ve never claimed to be a perfect writer or even a good one, but I’ve tried to improve on my writing since my early days. I had very little idea of what I was doing back then and it really does show. I only ask that you all go into the next arc with an open mind and not let past experiences of bad writing color your opinions, which I’m sure you won’t.

//I won’t spoil anything, but this upcoming arc has what’s probably my hardest decision as a writer to date and I’ve decided to committed to it, even if it hurts to think about. 

//I do hope you look forward to what comes next ^^

[keeroo92]

Hunger Ch6

Return

Warnings for blood and most definitely NSFW. Enjoy~

Word count - 3,354

_____________

 The last vestiges of daylight faded away; orange and pink dissipating into black as night fell. Songbirds flitted between trees with tiny buds, a hallmark of spring’s approach. The smell of wet dirt and freshly cut grass danced with the fruity sweetness of raspberries, and inside their homes the residents of the city performed their evening rituals.

 Some cleaned, many cooked. Others argued or reconciled, laughed or offered comfort. Children played and finished homework, and teenagers rebelled as they always had. A fair few fucked, but that’s not the point.

 The point was that not a soul would have imagined the two ageless figures stalking the night, searching for their latest prey.

 Their light feet made not a sound on the tiled roofs they traversed, jumping from one home to the next like well-practiced acrobats. They were shadows, flickering and dancing to a song only they heard. Despite the speed with which they moved, neither of them showed any sign of exhaustion. No heavy breathing broke the twilight stillness; no sweat stained their brows, and no doubt tainted their hearts.

 “What’s on the menu tonight?” asked the first figure. The second licked her lips, surveying the area.

 Months had passed since your rebirth, but the changes still amazed you. The power held in your fingertips and the strength coiling your muscles, the heightened senses and constant hunger were all reminders of your fresh life, and the debt you owed your Master.

 But tonight was not the night to repay it.

 “Him,” you murmured, tilting your head towards a youthful man taking out the garbage. Average height and build, but with eyes as blue as tropical seas and a pleasing face. He’d suit your needs well enough.

 V smirked and made a sound of agreement. “Very well, my pet. How do you plan on luring him?”

 You narrowed your gaze and watched the youthful man, noting which apartment he entered and planning the best route. It didn’t matter too much if someone saw you and your Master on the way in, but coming out was a different story. No doubt you’d both have blood staining your clothes and skin.

 Your attentive ears caught the rattle of chains as he latched the door with a measly mechanism. A feral grin split your lips as you turned to V, licking your fangs. “I have an idea.”

 ~~~~

 It took less than an hour for the curtain of black to envelop the world in a cocoon of night. Birdsong morphed into insect chirps, stars blinking feebly through the city lights as if desperate to remind those below they existed. Shadows lengthened as periodic street lights illuminated the cracked sidewalk, granting the perfect path to your target’s front door.

 The now-familiar giddiness of the hunt brought a wide grin to your face as you approached. Memories of your human life only served as a contrast to your newfound strength, and you revelled in the sparks of excitement ricocheting across your skin.

 Anticipation was a heady drug.

 You knocked on the door, licking your lips as heavy footsteps drew closer on the other side. The same face from before greeted you and your companion from the cracked opening, the flimsy chain still in place as if it offered any true protection.

 “Uh, hi. What can I do for you?” the fool asked.      Oh, so very much.  

 Seconds passed as you honed in on his heartbeat and pinpointed his hands, reaching through the thin gap to take hold and drag his flesh home to your fangs. The venom tasted of herbs as you pushed it into his skin, forcing him under your spell. The flavor of ambrosiac blood sent atomic energy flaring through your core and almost stole your senses, but a subdued cough from V helped anchor you against its pull. With crimson staining your lips, you drew back to speak.

 “What terrible manners. It’s impolite to leave guests on the doorstep.”

 A faint blush stained the man’s cheeks, his eyes already foggy and dilated with the effects of your influence.

 “R- right. Won’t you come in?”

 Poor little sheep, inviting the wolves to dinner.

 His apartment was nicer than you’d expected, a sturdy oak dining table littered with papers and granite countertops the centerpiece of the compact room. Scattered potted plants and stylish art decorated the area and soft music played from nearby. It would do.

 “What’s your name?” you asked your feast.

 He smiled and stared at you like you were the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Awe and desire echoed in his voice.

 “I’m Aaron.”

 Calloused fingertips grazed your shoulders, the venom granting your dinner far more courage than he deserved. Already, a thick bulge tented his clothing. You pushed him back with one hand, tossing a languid smile at V. After so many exhilarating hunts together, you didn’t even need to speak for him to know your intentions.

 The elder vampire stepped away, taking an ornate dining chair as his perch. Within moments, your clawed fingers held scraps of cloth; all that remained of Aaron’s attire. His length stood at attention, tip weeping and an angry shade of red. With a single motion, you forced him to lie on his table, brushing aside the mess of papers and books that blocked your way. You stared deep into his blue eyes as you peeled away your own clothing, putting on a show for your Master.

 The vampire’s gaze glittered with hunger, emerald and jade devouring each inch of newly revealed flesh.

 “Won’t you help me entertain my companion?”

 Aaron nodded, warm palms trailing flames across your bare rib cage. A knot of coiled need begged for release at your core, insistent and needy. It ignited into a firestorm as you climbed onto the table and sank down on the stranger’s length, groaning as he stretched your slick cavern open.

 Sex was the best part of being vampire; nothing compared with the way each ridge and vein felt inside you, more detailed and intense than anything you experienced as a human. Arching your spine, you rose and impaled yourself once more with a soft whimper. Fluid spilled from your core, hot and wet and coating your inner thighs in seconds.

 “M- master… are you jealous?”

 You rocked your hips, rising and falling and grinding with wild abandon. From where he sat, you know your vampire could see everything, every drop of creamy essence and quiver of flesh.

 “Not at all, my dear. One could say I’m enjoying the view. Though, he ought to fuck you harder. You only cum if you’re bleeding.”

 Catching on to the spirit of his words, you frowned down at your meal. “Don’t you want to feel me cum, Aaron?”

 A single flex of your inner muscles sent his eyes rolling, fingers gripping your body like a lifeline as he writhed beneath you. Spurts of his seed leaked from where your bodies were joined, his length twitching against your velveteen walls.

 “What a pitiful display,” V murmured, rising to cast an imperious eye at the young man still panting through his release. “You’ve no clue how to please her, do you? What a simpleton, too weak to even fuck a woman properly.”

 The vampire grasped Aaron’s hands and forced his nails deep into your skin, drawing forth rivulets of scarlet to drip down your spine and gather in the hollow of your hips. The trails of fresh blood were ice on your flushed body, the coppery tang a delicious aroma adding to your pleasure. You whimpered and ground against the cock buried inside you, coaxing it back to firmness.

 “It’s not as fun if I’m the only one bleeding,” you pouted. A heartbeat later and your fangs were piercing Aaron’s chest, his fiery blood spewing into your waiting mouth. Your fingers scrabbled at his ribs, leaving grooves behind to spill yet more nectar. You moaned and lifted your hips, slamming down again as you dosed him with more venom.

 “You look so perfect like this, feral and needy and covered in blood…”

 A slim finger swiped across your spine and towards your back entrance, gathering your own blood to use as it probed inside. V smirked as you gasped, curling his digit and pumping deep into your ass. His thumb circled the sensitive ring of muscles, easing them into relaxation so he could add a second finger. His other hand tangled in your hair and brought your lips to your dinner’s flesh, coaxing you to sample him again and again as V stretched you open.

 Aaron’s rough hands kneaded your chest, his hips arcing off the table to slam into yours. Curses and moans spilled from his lips and his blood coated his rib cage like paint on a canvas, splattering across the table with each impact. You added bite after bite to his abused body, each mark fanning the inferno of your need.

 You were so close, your peak taunting at the edge of your consciousness. Rocking into V’s hand and against Aaron’s cock, you whined and pouted as the former pulled away. You felt so empty once his fingers withdrew.

 “Don’t worry, my dear. We’re only getting started,” the vampire said, circling the table.

 He scraped his nails across your shoulders, pride glimmering in his eyes as he dropped his pants and passed by your field of view. Warmth bloomed in your heart at his glance; you’d do anything to make him proud of you.

 “Pay attention, Aaron. This is how she likes it,” he said as he reached your feet.

 Lithe fingers took a bruising hold of your thighs and tugged you closer to the edge of the table, Aaron sliding along with you. There was no warning as V plunged his cock deep into your ass, his hands holding you wide open for his ease.

 For a single heartbeat, you couldn't breathe. It was so tight, so filthy and delicious and there was nothing better than welcoming your Master inside you, no matter which hole he claimed. A moment more, and the pain eased into bliss as his head thrust against Aaron’s, nothing but a thin wall of your most sensitive tissue separating their scorching heat. What joy, to be so utterly filled…

 V set a blistering pace, his nails digging into your body as he slammed himself home over and over. His soft grunts and periodic moans mixed with your own and the fading cries of your meal, the slapping of flesh the perfect offset. Trickles of creamy delight drenched your thighs.

 “Feed, my pet. Let me watch you have your dinner,” he purred, teasing at your clit. You didn’t need any further encouragement and sank your fangs deep into Aaron’s throat, tasting cartilage and gristle as you searched for a vein. His scent flooded your nostrils, soft gasps the best he could manage as you stole his blood.

 “Yes, that’s it… every last drop.”

 Sparks burst into life as V rubbed circles around your swollen nub, his length still pounding into your ass as Aaron ravaged your cunt. A surge of scarlet saturated your mouth as Aaron crested, his heartbeat racing as he filled you with his hot seed. His pulsing cock hit every nerve, the ridges of his head caressing your walls with each wave of his pleasure.

 V hummed, a wicked chuckle splitting his lips as he watched you overflow with cum. His hand quickened, catapulting you over the edge with a wail of ecstasy. White light flooded your vision, wave after wave of bliss radiating from your core to the tips of your toes as you came apart. Guttural moans fell from your reddened lips, your entire body at the mercy of your Master, just as it should be.

 “I do so enjoy watching you drip with cum,” he commented. “You look so beautiful unraveling at my touch.”

 Indeed, his touch was fire and brimstone as he forced your orgasm to last an eternity, using tricks only he knew to keep you at the heights of ecstasy. Surrender came easily to you by now, your mind blank save the feel of his flesh on yours and the taste of blood on your lips. The thrill of losing control barreled past your sense of self, overwhelming in its raw power.

 “My dear, how far can we stretch you, I wonder?” the elder vampire hummed.

 You whimpered as he pulled away, your ass and thighs quivering after his sudden retreat, but he gave you no time to complain as he sheathed himself in your cunt, his cock rubbing against Aaron’s inside you. Inhuman sounds spilled from your throat as the two men moved as one to share your cavern.

 Your fingers dug into flesh and left gaping wounds behind. What little blood still remained inside your meal spilled forth across his chest, where you slurped and suckled every drop. The flood slowed with each moment, his life coming to an end. You sensed his impending demise and stared deep into his blue eyes, shuddering as the light left them and his face went slack.

 “What a sad excuse for a man,” V growled behind you. “If not for me, you’d never know how lacking such creatures are.”

 As if to emphasize his point, he slammed into you hard enough to shatter bone. The table screeched as the momentum forced it to dent the wall, cracking plaster and sinking into a support beam. You laughed and dug your nails into the exposed wood to pull away. Pretending to resist always spurred your Master to new heights.

 “Oh, pet… do I need to remind you of your place yet again?”

 “Maybe I should show you your place instead,” you replied.

 He chuckled and tore your body from the beam, flipping you face up and pressing your chest to his, slender fingers taking a brutal hold of your ass. You wrapped your blood-soaked arms around his neck and curled your legs over his snapping hips, your head falling back with a deep groan.

 “This is your place, little one. Just admit it, you know the truth.”

 Another snap, another groan. He hadn’t been this merciless in far too long, how you’d missed it. A dark hiss and the shifting shoulder muscles under your hands were the only warning as he bared his fangs and dug them into your breast, right over the mark left from his turning. You felt your blood surging to his lips, knew it was leaving your body to enter his, and came apart yet again.

 You screamed your obedience to his will, crying his name as galaxies whipped past your eyes. His cock flexed deep inside you as you clenched around him, a dark moan vibrating across your ribcage as he spewed his seed across your walls. Wave after wave of ecstasy washed over you, punctuated by the grunts of your Master.

 After an eternity of bliss, the ebbing ripples of pleasure faded away to leave euphoria behind. Your crimson lips stretched into a wide grin, laughter bubbling from your throat. V pulled back to catch your gaze, a quizzical eyebrow raised.

 “What’s so funny?”

 “This table… I’m amazed it’s not broken!”

 He smirked and lowered your legs to rest on the floor. “Indeed. If only we could take it with us.”

 Another peal of laughter forced its way past your mouth as you scanned the room for your clothing. V helped you dress, his tongue cleaning the last few streaks of blood from your flesh as he went. It seemed there might be a second round of fun once the two of you got home…

 ---V---

 You followed behind him, fangs working at the dried blood under your fingernails as the door clicked shut behind you. The elder vampire hummed happily, a pleasant warmth in his belly and a tingle of echoing pleasure still teasing at his fingertips. In the pitch black night, a soft smile graced his face.

 “Race you home!” you taunted a beat later, taking off in a dead sprint.

 He followed with a laugh, easily catching up. You had much to learn about your new abilities before you could hope to best him and his centuries of experience.  He moved so fast his figure blurred, streaking across the quiet suburban landscape with all his vampiric strength. Though the evening had been calm, wind rushed by his ears and through his midnight locks.

 Seconds away from the decadent home he shared with you, a scent he hadn’t tasted in many years stopped him in his tracks.

Impossible.  

 But there was no mistaking the aroma of the vampire who turned him.

 V’s fangs clicked down as he bared his teeth, holding out an arm to keep you from running past. This was not a foe to face unprepared.

 “Hey, what the- what’s that smell?”

 Emerald eyes panned the block, searching. He thought he’d made it clear the last time he spoke to his creator that he never wanted to see his face again, but apparently the bastard needed a reminder. That was fine, V didn’t mind tearing him apart. Not one bit.

 “That, my dear, is the scent of another like us. Learn it well,” he replied tersely.

 Your eyes widened and an excited grin twisted your lips. Putting off this conversation may have been foolish after all. But he had no choice; he’d be      damned if he let Vergil do as he wished.

 “Another vampire?! Awesome! Do you know them?”

 He growled and turned to face you. “This is not a social affair - this man is dangerous and you must not lower your guard for an instant. Never trust another vampire.”

 The click of Italian leather shoes on pavement signaled Vergil’s approach a fraction of a second before his blurred form solidified. Unsurprisingly, the man looked exactly the same as V remembered him. White, slicked back hair, piercing blue eyes and an aura of disapproval. The passing centuries had done nothing to soften his cruelty.

 “Such harsh words. I thought we parted quite amicably,” commented his creator.

 V stepped in front of you and snarled. “Your memory does you a disservice, then.”

 But Vergil’s attention had shifted, his analytical gaze locked on where you stood behind him. V cursed internally; he shouldn’t have been so obvious about his urge to protect you. Now Vergil knew you mattered to him, though he had yet to know why.

 “And who is this? Have you gone and added to the family?”

 You stepped forward with a smile that put your fangs on full display. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Y/N.”

 “Charmed, I’m sure,” said Vergil. “A recent turning, I see. Welcome. How are you adjusting?”

 At the very least, you knew better than to reveal the exact nature of your relationship with V. A more foolish creature may have tried to show off, but not you. One of the numerous reasons he didn’t regret his decision.

 “I’m getting used to it. Sorry, but I didn’t catch your name,” you replied without once looking at V. He’d have to reward you later.

 “I am Vergil. I must apologize my dear, but I need to speak with V privately.”

If he means to destroy me, he won’t find it an easy task.  

 “But-” you started.

 Vergil’s eyes flashed, his brow tightening. If V didn’t get you to leave, then his creator may decide you needed to be taught a lesson. The man had no patience for impertinent behavior, especially not in his bloodline. Forgiveness would not be forthcoming if you offended him.

 V turned back to you and glared. “Go. I’ll be along.”

 If not, I hope she has the sense to flee.  

 You bit your lip but nodded, darting away into the black curtain of night. Vergil huffed but did not comment. Small mercies.

 V stared after you a heartbeat more before turning to face his creator, pushing you from his mind to focus on the coming battle. If he survived, there would be consequences. If he died, you would be alone. No good options, but obviously he had a preference.

 “Shall we?” he asked.

[hgb94]

I’ve got a lot of emotions about Zolf, clearly. This got...a little long. So, here are all the things I love about Zolf, and all the things about him that break my heart. Really, all the things I love about him end up breaking my heart. I’m definitely not projecting at all in here. This is 100% well thought out. 

Zolf is The Protector. It’s one of the first and most obvious of his characteristics that I noticed. He constantly tries to protect the lives of people around him, even if he barely knows them, even if he doesn’t particularly like them. It was heartwarming to see how deeply he cared for people he’d known such a short time. He knew Sasha for about 10 seconds before stepping in between her and Barret’s men. “Didn’t seem very fair odds.” He’d known Hamid for two or three days before offering to wear Barret’s ring for him. “Mr Barret, as their employer, you are dealing with me.” He didn’t even like Wilde, but he categorically refused to hand him over to Gourmand’s men in exchange for his own (and the group’s) safety. He grew to despise Bertie, but still did his best to keep him safe. And when he finally becomes enraged by Bertie and is ready to kill him, his central reason is: “I have had it with his constant endangering of the people that I like and love!” The only thing that gets him to stand down is Sasha reminding him that Bertie’s death would upset Hamid. He’s generally the one advocating for the more sensible course of action. He gets angry with Hamid for engaging in reckless heroics and yells at him for a solid 5 minutes before admitting that he feels responsible for him and he doesn’t want him to die. Sasha wants to ride the gyrocopters, and he’s citing a newspaper article about recent crashes. It was endearing and heartwarming, but by the time he left in Prague, it was heartbreaking, for three reasons.

He blames himself when the people he cares for get hurt, and when he can’t protect them, he feels useless. After the catacombs and Mr. Ceiling, he can’t walk, he can’t fight, and he doesn’t even have a weapon. Everything he did to protect them during that arc, at significant risk to himself, wasn’t enough. “I’ve been so useless.” Sasha died. Hamid got hurt. He had to sit at the top of the stairs, unable to do anything, listening to Hamid scream as he was burned by the fire elemental.  One of the only things he really has left to protect them after the catacombs is his ability to heal, which is probably why it hurts so much when Hamid refuses his healing, choosing to use a potion instead. (To my knowledge, Hamid has never willingly accepted healing from Zolf since learning that Zolf’s healing powers were connected to the whole Poseidon drowning sacrifice thing.) There in the Arc, without his legs, without a weapon or armor, healing is the only thing he feels like he can offer. And Hamid won’t let him. The world collapsed and not only can he not fix it, he blames himself for it. “I don’t think I’m powerful, I think I’m powerless! I can’t do anything about this, I can’t fix the mistakes that I’ve made. I can’t walk, I can’t get out and heal people because I need help to get down the stairs.”

He’ll do anything to protect others, but he hates asking for help himself. Honestly, although I didn’t realize it until later, this starts becoming evident at Dover. The only thing Zolf can do during his imprisonment and court-martial is provide Hamid with information to formulate a defense. He has to sit and wait and rely on his new friends to get him out of it. He was powerless. And afterward, Hamid had to push him to accept a temporary loan of 500 gold to pay off his debt to the navy. Later, when Mme. Rose asks them about their most embarrassing memory, Zolf’s is being court-martialed. When he’s lectured at the Temple of Poseidon and sent to cross the channel on a tiny boat in a terrible storm, he doesn’t ask anyone to come with him. He makes it perfectly clear how dangerous this will be, assures them that he’s the only one who needs to do this and won’t blame anyone for taking the train instead, and then waits for them to choose. In the catacombs, with his ruined leg, he focuses on Hamid. He buries the fact that he’s now effectively legless. Box that up and deal with it later, because Hamid and Sasha need him to stay calm. And on the way out of the Arc, it doesn’t matter how much he’s done for the group, he feels the need to apologize to Sasha for her having to carry him around when he’s legless. “You investigate, I’ll watch up here. Don’t want to be a burden.” When she stretches out her back at the hotel after putting him down, he apologizes again, like it’s his fault. 

The only life Zolf willingly risks is his own. When Sasha goes overboard crossing the channel, he only pauses long enough to try and make sure Hamid is safe before throwing himself after her, while offering Poseidon his life for hers. As Mr. Ceiling forms a massive robot to attack the group, he’s in a wheelchair, legless, without armor or weapons, and he hides the three of them from its sight and puts himself between it and them. When Earhart puts a gun to Sasha’s head, he shakes off his airsickness and draws her attention. “If you expect me to fear death, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.” I don’t think that was false bravado. It’s true. He doesn’t fear his death. He’s never been afraid for himself. He fears the deaths of people he loves. I would argue that is his greatest fear. 

I also love Zolf’s passion for romance novels. It’s freaking adorable at first. He’s locked in a jail cell and falls in love with a series of romance novels. “Jennifer, no!” “Richard is not the right one for you!” From the description, they’re simple, melodramatic, and predictable, and I’ve definitely read a few books of that exact genre. He loves them and they’re a wonderful escape for him. When he reacts so violently to Bertie endangering the author, Harrison Campbell, it seems a little excessive at first. And ultimately perhaps that was just the straw that broke the camel’s back, the last in a long string of incidents that caused him to snap. But I get it. I have that thing. The thing that you go to on the bad days. When your mind won’t stop spinning out of control with worst-case scenarios.When you have to get out of your own head for a few hours. When you’re numb and struggling to feel anything at all. It becomes a lifeline that you hold onto when you’re drowning, and to have someone tell you that it’s trash, to mock it, to try and destroy your connection to it…I’d have tried to toss Bertie overboard too. Okay, so maybe I am projecting a little.  Zolf’s self-confidence and faith. At the start, Zolf projects a lot of confidence. He’s the leader, he guides the group, makes decisions, and he seems to know who he is, Zolf Smith, Cleric of Poseidon. He believes that he knows what his god wants, and he’s devoted to those beliefs. His confidence balances his caution and allows him to lead the group through dangerous situations while keeping a clear head. After visiting the Temple of Poseidon, he does his best to alter course to his new perception of Poseidon’s desires, but there’s a little crack, a hairline fracture in his understanding of his god and himself. And then Mr Ceiling takes a chisel and hammer to the cracks and shatters Zolf’s faith. “I saw a robot casually decide, ‘maybe I should be a god’, and do you know what, I think it could have done it, because, our gods, right, they’re like us. They’re as stupid and as fallible as us, and they screw up. If something can casually decide, ‘maybe I’ll be a god’, and I have no way of saying that it couldn’t become a god, what’s Poseidon?” He’s faced with the fallout of their choices in Paris, and he doesn’t know if they did the right thing. The economy of Paris has collapsed, chaos, riots, violence, how many people have died? Is this really better? “I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time, I can’t see into the future, but usually my decisions don’t affect millions of people!” And after his dreams from Poseidon, Zolf is filled with more questions than answers. “I don’t know why he’s…stupid dreams and symbolism and rubbish like that and not anything...just…I just want to have a conversation.” Poseidon gives him new legs, but legs aren’t answers. “I just don’t feel like I deserve them. I don’t know why I have them. I don’t know why he’s given them to me. I just don’t know.” They make their way out of Paris and see a Meritocrat destroy Eiffel’s Folly to control the rioting. He learns that his family were part of the Harlequins. Has he been working for the wrong people? And then he nearly kills Bertie and he kills any faith he had left in his ability to lead this group without putting them in danger.

In the end, all of this leads to Prague. He’s lost his faith, he’s doubting his god, he’s doubting the Meritocrats, he’s doubting his choices. “I am the weak link.” “You might believe in me, I don’t anymore.” He’s afraid he’ll crack, make choices that put them at risk, and if he can’t trust himself to protect them, why is he still here?  He has to leave. Partly to sort himself out, to deal with his own issues, but also for them. He can’t stay in command when he can’t trust his own choices. “I don’t trust myself, and I don’t trust myself around you.” If someone gets killed, that’s on him. “I know that if something happens again and I crack…I might not be able to do anything to save you.” At the end of the day, he’s still trying to protect them. He just believes that the best protection he can offer is his absence.

And...a little Sasha heartbreak as frosting on this pain cake. Zolf promised to help with her degenerative magical disease. He promised that he wouldn’t let her die. As long as she was with him, he’d be able to slow it down. They’d go do research and look into it and find someone else well-versed in magic and diseases who could cure her. He promised. And then he left. And sure, she could have done it on her own. She could have pushed “cure my disease so I don’t die” to the top of their priority list. She could have told Hamid what was happening, immediately sought out the Aphrodite lot as the cleric of Artemis suggested. She could have done that alone. But this is Sasha we’re talking about, and the only person Sasha ever trusted enough to willingly ask for help was Zolf. And she sits there, listening to him in Prague, listening to all the reasons that he feels he needs to leave. She never brings up her sickness as a reason for him to stay, never even hints at it. She listens to everything he says, and she tells him he should be free to leave. “If you’re choosing to go, then...you should have the choice. That should be allowed.”

[morelikesin]

Security

The fourth chapter of my self-indulgent kiss fic! Caustic and Bloodhound are the exclusive focus here, but the other love interests are mentioned. Below is the chapters in order.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - Intro

Chapter 2 - Mirage

Chapter 3 - Octane

Chapter 4 - Caustic (You are here!)

Chapter 5 - Ending

Chapter 4 below the cut!

Teams had already been randomly selected by the time Octavio and Bloodhound made their way to the dropship loading dock - the former of the two strapping on his mask just as they approached the others. Their entrance earned a few brow raises.

"Late with someone, huh?" Anita chortled under her breath, looking the pair up and down as if trying to uncover something - her and the others remembering distinctly that Bloodhound and Octane left the group hangout early together last night. Bloodhound cleared their throat and, fighting away the flush appearing on their face, defended themselves with a "It vasn't like that. We just sl'lept in."

"I see," She hummed. She looked as if she wanted to say something else, but caught herself. She turned her head and went to her assumed teammate, Loba, leaving the two to their own devices.

Octane rest a lithe hand against the small of Bloodhound's back. As the hunter looked to him, he gave a fingergun with his free hand and a tilt of his head, "I'll see you later, cariño."

Bloodhound flushed slightly deeper. They're never going to get used to how outwardly affectionate Octavio was, but they didn't fully mind. "The Allfather will gift us today."

"I don't need gifts, mi amado! I have skill. You do, too - ten cuidado."

Bloodhound bore a snort and a smile. "You, as vell."

The two split off to find who they were paired with - Bloodhound making their way to check the roster. Lifeline and Wattson, Revenant and Gibraltar, Crypto and Mirage, Wraith and Pathfinder, Loba and Bangalore, Octane and Rampart, and Caustic and-

They jolted just slightly when taken out of their thoughts by the tap on their shoulder - quickly turning to see who it was.

Hello, six foot five.

Caustic gestured subtly between the two of them. "Suppose you're my partner, this match."

"Suppose," Bloodhound nodded. "I don't r'recall us ever being paired in a duos before."

"There's a first time for everything," The man spoke, "Doubt it to be far different from our trios matches."

"Assuredly."

Due course of the dropship had Caustic and Bloodhound land near the front of the Bunker. Their luck could have been worse, considering - Caustic managed a Hemlok with every possible attachment at level two, while Bloodhound had to make the best of a Mozambique and a single arc star. They both managed entry-level body shields to boot.

When they reconvened in a seperate building overlooking the events taking place in the valley below them, Bloodhound was offered a Triple Take and a level three magazine for it.

"I know you're a damn good shot," Caustic quipped as the hunter took the gun with a minor bow of their head.

"Þakka fyrir," Bloodhound loaded the lengthy rounds into the mag as they spoke, "That's ver'ry kind."

"Truth isn't kindness, I assure you," Caustic replied.

It took only mere moments of quiet to pass - the two of them just done with looting - to start hearing nearby gunfire. Bloodhound aimed their sniper towards the noise to observe the line of fire. As they predicted, the streams followed from atop the hill to the right of bunker, and similarly from a rooftop below said hill. The hunter leaned towards their teammate for confirmation, "It's two teams so far. I say we push forward."

Caustic gave a nod and held his Hemlok close to him, "I'll head onto the roof first," stopping his speech to open the building door, making sure Bloodhound kept close behind before continuing, "You keep back with that sniper of yours. Mozambique for if things don't go according to our calculations."

"I can do that."

As they got closer, the figures became clearer - the two on the roof happening to be Lifeline and Wattson. Bloodhound split off from Caustic and took cover behind an already-opened supply bin - nearby the fight but far enough to ensure the shots would be as effective as they could get them. Taking a second to look where Caustic was, the man watching for a signal, they quickly looked back to the two teams and studied the situation briefly before steadying their aim on Wattson's middle back and giving a raise of their arm to signal Caustic. As the man lifted himself up onto the roof, the hunter fired a shot at his target - and as planned, it immediately downed her.

Caustic wasted no time giving two shots towards Lifeline, and as she was already understandably confused as to the rapid events, she took few secondary bursts to go down as well. With that, the woman gave a playful scoff, with her and her partner quickly clearing themselves of their items and shields.

Bloodhound made their way to the roof after watching the hill for a moment - deciding that their ceasefire was a result of their third party. They assumed right now they'd be healing up, giving a small window to pick them off as well.

"Good game," Wattson politely complimented the pair before jumping down the roof with Lifeline, and of course now making their way towards the center of the map to wait out the games and watch. It was always a shame that stakes were normally so high that teams couldn't exchange pleasantries after a fight, but post-game always made up for that.

Bloodhound immediately switched out that Mozam for a Spitfire, along with its ammo, as Caustic lifted a hefty L-Star and kept tab to conserve its ammo as their wasn't much of it. A few quick armor trades and some shield cell and syringe collecting were necessary before the hunter nodded towards the hill incline.

The two slowly made their way up, the task slightly harder for Caustic given the heft of his ability equipment and his larger size. Deciding against a quiet approach, deeming it unnecessary given the team most definitely heard their fight be stolen from them, Bloodhound holstered their gun and activated the tracker on their wrist.

"They're both on the upmost fl'loor."

Caustic nodded as he prepared one of his gas traps near the front door, giving a "I'll block the ground floor, keep them from the roof."

Bloodhound proceeded to find a steady foothold in the metal legs of the building before jumping up and grabbing onto a shallow beam. Before their grip could falter, they tucked in their legs and pushed up with their feet to then scramble up to the roof. It was an impressive height to do so seamlessly, and so quickly.

It always impressed Caustic how Bloodhound could so easily climb and maneuver themselves places - figuring it from their time spent in the woods and their innate talent as a hunter. The thought shook itself from the scientist's mind as he heard shuffling from inside the building. He responded with a reload of his Hemlok.

Bloodhound had since lost the sight on the team - their tracker able to give them vision on persons through walls for only a few moments - but based on hearing alone, they sounded as though they haven't moved from the floor they were on.

That was until the door to the roof opened. The hunter instinctively reached for the arc star and flicked their wrist sideways to throw it directly towards whoever opened it.

"Well, damn," was all Mirage said after realizing Bloodhound managed to stick him with the star.

Backing away in time for the burst of electricity to surge momentarily, Bloodhound could hear Caustic's gas trap from below be set off from, assumedly, Crypto. As per the men's firefight below, the hunter finished off Mirage with relatively few hiccups, proceeding with a notification from the game announcer that another team was eliminated.

"Of course you'd have an arc star - why wouldn't you have an arc star?" Mirage teased prior to unloading himself of his items.

Bloodhound hummed and picked up the level two helmet diagram Mirage had dropped, inserting the chip into their belt so other teams' guns would register the head protection. "I almost didn't take it, Allfather believe me."

"Good thing you did, I guess," Mirage laughed in the charming way he always did, "But I'm sure you would'a got a- would'a found a- would'a.." Mr. Witt paused briefly and restarted, "Sure you would'a came up with somethin' either way. You're smart like that."

"Þakka fyrir," the hunter gave a nod at the compliment, "that's ver'ry humble of-"

Mirage then leaned up and gave a kiss on the side of Bloodhound's mask. His voice dripped something playful as he spoke, "Win the game for me, will ya?"

Bloodhound could only nod and watch as Mirage backed away and threw a pair of fingerguns before leaving the building by heading downstairs. The Gods must think it funny to watch their reserved hunter be so outwardly flirted with by not one, but two people.

They found themselves wondering what Caustic was like in that regard.

The thought, along with Mirage's well-meaning kiss and the casual flirting of Octane earlier that morning, flooded Bloodhound in the form of suddenly hot skin. They tried to push those ideas into the back of their mind.

Upon returning downstairs to check the loot Crypto had, Bloodhound noticed Caustic had been inserting a scope into his L-Star.

"..Ve make a formidable team, Dr. Nox," the hunter praised, replacing the simple scope on their Triple Take with one that had a four times range. "I mean it as a compliment when I say I'm impr'ressed."

The scientist cracked a gritted, throaty chortle, "The same can be said about you."

Bloodhound knew it was probably meant to be a simple courtesy, returning a compliment, but it did make them feel a special kind of appreciated. "..Thank you."

The match proceeded to go almost unnervingly well (not to mention quick) - Wraith and Pathfinder were wiped by Loba and Bangalore, who were then shortly after cleaned by Rampart and Octane, who were then almost immediately picked off by Bloodhound and Caustic - the two watching the events unfold and partaking when they knew they could secure the overbearing amount of loot.

Rampart held out a lovely Kraber for Bloodhound to take ahold of as if it were a gift - wearing a cheeky smile and chewing her bubblegum before blowing it in a big, round bubble. It popped, and she pushed the piece to the side of her mouth to speak, "Guess you earned this then. You mates did good! Real good."

Bloodhound bowed their head a bit upon taking the new weapon, and traded it out in place of the previous Triple Take. In regards to her compliment, Caustic and Bloodhound gave a simultaneous "Thank you," surprising them both in doing so.

Rampart had then started walking towards the zipline to leave - the line still bouncing slightly from the previous team's departure - turning around and waiting for Octane by leaning against the balcony railing.

"I'll be rooting for you, amigos!" The man gave a playful, loose salute as he took a step backwards - his head turning a bit to look up towards The Cage. He then gave a quick "Aguas!" and nodded up towards the tall structure before quickly escaping with Rampart via zipline.

As soon as the two heeded the warning and looked behind themselves, a sniper shot cut through the air and just barely missed Caustic - the bullet marking etched deep into the thick metal of the wall not a few inches from him.

Taking that as a clear sign to haul their asses somewhere else, they took cover inside the building they previously stood on the balcony of, and kept away from the main window.

"Dammit - they have high ground over us," Caustic spoke gruffly, and took a moment to prepare a gas trap behind both doors that lead outside. As they inflated with the concentrated poison, he spoke again, "Do you think you could get a shot on them from here?"

Bloodhound, in an attempt to answer that question, stood closer to the window and discreetly lifted the Kraber to aim towards the tallest point of The Cage. They caught a glimpse of Revenant and Gibraltar leaving the tallest ledge and retreating inside - the hunter lost as to what they could be doing in there.

"Not at the moment," they finally replied to the scientist as they lowered their gun and backed away from the window again. "They retr'reated inside. I assume them to have to come out sooner than later."

The man nodded and crouched down, one knee on the ground. Resting his arm over his opposing thigh, other arm at his side, he checked the timing of the ring via tool-bracelet. "We have thirty until the ring closes in. My guess would be that they'll wait to see who the ring favours, and act accordingly."

The hunter, while Caustic was talking, had crouched down similarly to how he did - though one hand planted itself to the ground.

"I think that to be our best bet," they agreed. "I'll keep a concentr'rated eye on their position - be my better ears."

Caustic remained nonverbal, but aloud confirmation wasn't needed to understand that he would do that anyway. At least, it's just something Bloodhound has taken note of him doing during games or day-to-day.

Inching closer to the window, remaining crouched, they aimed their Kraber once again towards the doors of the tallest floor.

As if on cue, Gibraltar had opened and kept close to the doors - seemingly using a shield cell.

Bloodhound relayed back to their partner, "I have an opening."

"Take it."

And so they did - a perfectly lined up headshot on Gibraltar cracked his armor and left him bare for another shot. Attempting to realign, Bloodhound held their breath once more, and just as they had a shot-

They were suddenly pulled back and heard a deafening crack whizz by where their head once was. Their breath was caught in their throat, and the grip on the Kraber tightened from the sudden event.

Bloodhound looked back to Caustic, who had pulled them closer to the wall - out of sight of the window - and flush against his body, arm tightly wrapped around the front of the hunter's waist. The relieved breath the man exhaled came before his statement, "Revenant had a shot on you eastward. I'd noticed just before he took the shot, it seems."

The hunter swallowed. The way Caustic was holding them made thoughts they ought to push deep back into their mind bubble up and come into disconcerting clarity. If it weren't for the current situation, they would've taken the opportunity to shyly entertain these thoughts - but the ongoing game kept their mind rational.

"Thank you - you're a gr'reat scout," they praised.

Caustic's hold around Bloodhound loosened as he took away his arm - the latter kneeling as they had before and holstering the Kraber. Caustic offered a cheeky "Last I recall, you're recon."

Bloodhound merely gave an exhale in response - the kind that isn't a laugh, but is indicative of one. Promptly after their banter ceased, the ring had stopped and highlighted the new arena.

"The ring is to our benefit - good faith."

"My assumption prove true?"

Bloodhound answered the man's question by activating their tracker - sure enough, Revenant and Gibraltar had now met up and were heading towards their building. Deciding against leaving the inside, despite how most often it was fitting to get to the roof, the two looked at one another with a nod before standing up and equipping their weapons of choice - the Spitfire and L-Star for the hunter and scientist respectively.

"They'll have to pass through these variables to come inside," Caustic began, "though my grenade is prepared if they become unpredictable."

Bloodhound nodded and gave a raise of their hand - the motion urging them to listen in on any noticeable footsteps or noises likewise. Several moments of patience granted them the detection of the opposing team coming up to either door - Caustic and Bloodhound reading each other like a book and splitting to take on either opponent.

Bloodhound took the opportunity to call upon the beast - speaking a low "The hungr'ry wolf always tekst að vinna," and releasing a noise similar to that of a wolf's cry from somewhere almost otherwordly.

Gibraltar hadn't been fast enough to notice the traps before attempting to get close - the gas set off quick and Caustic's stream of fire coming quicker. As the tank rose his shield and fired his G7 Scout, however, the scientist found the fight surprisingly even-matched.

This left Bloodhound to take care of Revenant. Figuring the bot to be smarter than to trot inside a building where Caustic was known to have set up camp, the hunter made a hasty exit via the window - finding the bot attempting to scale up the roof. Raising their gun to land armor-shattering hits, Revenant bailed on the high ground idea and threw down a dark swirl of power that left the hunter shamefully confused - the draining power emitting from it making their head near-dizzy as it mixed with their Gods' given inner beast.

They then found themselves being pinned against the outer wall of the building by their neck - the bot's spindly fingers digging into the skin. The pain was different from the paint-ball-esqe bullets that they faced on a regular basis while partaking in the games. Kicking Revenant square in the chest, the blow quite powerful, to try and get away only caused the bot a moderate stumble and an immediate harder press against the wall. The dull pain became more noticeable, and it was then that another kick was delivered into his attacker's chest out of genuine injury.

If Caustic hadn't broken away from the fight with Gibraltar - the latter unknown to Bloodhound to be downed or otherwise healing - to aid the hunter in the form of shooting burst rounds into Revenant's side, Bloodhound imagined they wouldn't now have the chance to scramble up to the roof and recharge their shield.

The next few moments were almost too quick to occur for Bloodhound to take note of in detail; Revenant was painfully low from Bloodhound's earlier shield-break and Caustic's several rounds put into him after that, Gibraltar came from the other side of the building to back his teammate up, and as a final stand Caustic threw down the gas grenade he held onto and made his way up to the roof with Bloodhound. It was then that, with clear sight on either enemy through the noxious fumes, the pair brandished their weapons and opened fire until a loud clash erupted through the arena.

The announcer spoke.

"We have our Apex Champions."

Almost as if they didn't believe it, Bloodhound checked their tool-bracelet. In bold, block letters read the title "CHAMPION".

They released a shocked breath - the high of their beastly calling wearing off just in time to exchange words with their fellow competitors. Just before they left the roof, Caustic and Bloodhound looked to one another. The look lingered for a deceptively long moment before Caustic turned his head and left for the ground - the hunter swallowing back a dry throat and taking after him.

It wasn't until all the Legends returned back to the dormitories, their pleasantries and praise on one another's efforts (especially towards the winning team) having been exchanged in full and then some, that Bloodhound started to really feel the aftermath of the wound they received.

They bit it back. Given what happened the last time they dared to share their discomfort after a match, they felt no desire to bring it up in front of anyone else. They considered having a word with Revenant about etiquette and watching his inherent roughness, but he'd apologized for the last time. It took him a while to do so, but he did nonetheless.

Chalking it up to a mistake, the hunter stood the dull ache and simply kept their hand against the side of their neck to hide any visual marks as they spoke with their fellow legends and humbly accepted their compliments regarding the game, not to mention the collective eight eliminations between the two of them, along with Dr Nox.

Unbeknownst to them, however, the man could tell something was wrong by the ever-so-subtle hitches of their breath at the ends of their sentences. This worry was confirmed when Bloodhound had moved their hand to adjust their gloves - a splotch of irritated red staining their skin.

The legends talked for nearly an hour in the dorm's communal living room - though when conversation ran dry due to everyone's growing need for some personal time and relaxation, Dr. Nox had asked Bloodhound to stay. With everyone else gone to their rooms upstairs, the hunter expected the man to want a word about their win.

"You fought well, blesséd hvati," Bloodhound praised. They were cut off from offering any more as Dr. Nox gave a "You, as well." He kept speaking as to make sure he got in what he needed to say.

"My intention isn't to pry where I'm unwanted, but I've noticed your demeanor to be...concerning. I've taken note of an irritation on your neck."

Bloodhound quickly swallowed. He noticed? They knew the scientist to be observant - it being one of his more obvious traits - but they could've sworn to the Gods that they kept the injury well-concealed.

With nothing able to hide it anymore, as a deflection would prove useless, Bloodhound slowly removed their hand and gave a slow nod.

"..Perhaps. It simply aches, Dr. Nox - I'm capable of withstanding it."

The man took an odd breath in, one indicitative that he had gone to speak, but it didn't see itself through. He gave a hesitant "As long as you're sure."

With that, they parted with a nod, a gracious "Good game," and left for their respective rooms.

The sudden knock at Bloodhound's door caused them a momentary startle. Realizing the cause of the noise shortly after, they sighed and turned to grab their mask. Quickly clipping it on, thoughts focused on who could be visiting mere hours after the day's game, they grasped the doorknob and opened the door just enough so their figure could be seen.

Sighing in a small amount of relief, the hunter gave a small "I didn't expect you to visit, Dr. Nox."

The man released a small chortle, grainy and throaty as his voice always sounded. Bloodhound was shy to admit that they'd grown to like it over the time they've known him.

"I can leave, if you prefer time alone. I simply worried about your injury."

"That's very consider'rate of you," Bloodhound assured, their tone purring as they dismissed the other's concern, "But you needn't tr'rouble yourself over me."

Dr. Nox merely snorted in response, before following it up with a "Your health affects the games. Even if I weren't personally concerned, I'd be concerned for your performance."

He was personally concerned, then?

Bloodhound quickly sighed. They found themselves flushed, all of a sudden, and the thought that Dr. Nox cared on a personal level - or assumedly so - was the reason for it.

"...Thank you, I suppose."

"Welcome. Could I take a look at that wound of yours?" Almost as if to prove his intentions, the man casually displayed an ornate medkit - not unlike the ones used in the games, but it was clearly more expensive and probably even better equipped. "It'll heal on its own fine, but I assume you'll want it gone faster."

Bloodhound slowly nodded, hand reaching cautiously up to their face to start undoing their mask. Turning around and using the heel of their foot to pull the door open a bit more, inviting the scientist inside, they gave a softened "You'd assume cor'rect. I vish not to hinder myself if I can help it."

Dr. Nox proceeded into the room carefully, closing the door behind him. He took note of the desk against the western-most wall and set the kit down, wasting no time getting it open and the needed aid ready.

Bloodhound was known to be somewhat of a hybrid naturalist-botanist-zoologist (talk about a mouthful), and proved extremely useful in and out of the games if one wanted trivia about the wildlife, the extinct wildlife, or if no syringes were available and a plant or two could be makeshifted into some sort of medicine. They had plenty of abilities beyond that, but these were the ones that their teammates would experience the most. Dr. Nox could recall several times the hunter would mention the Leviathans path as they travelled through King's Canyon - and even more times they would easily identify a medicinal plant and save them an extra syringe, or especially if they didn't have any in the first place.

The scientist only recalled this from noticing the various potted plants set on the sills of the room's windows - lush and clearly thriving under the hunter's care. From the time spent with Bloodhound, he's gotten quite familiar with the various species they run into - and every time he would correctly identify something, the hunter would give praise.

It was sickly sweet, this praise that they always gave, and yet the man has yet to find himself grow tired of it.

He, in the past, would chalk this up to his never-ending crave for knowledge. Bloodhound was a great resource for new information, and even someone he could discuss higher levels of conversation with - but in the past few months (not to mention this past definite tension-filled game), the feeling has since become more than a need for knowledge, and a need for something else. He didn't dare try to find what this was, but in the back of his mind he knew exactly.

The hunter then set the mask beside the kit - pulling the man from his observations. The motion caught his peripheral vision and urged him to look to the other - with the view amazing him still, albeit how much he tried to not confess it to himself. Dr. Nox thought it a shame how that hunter hid that pretty face under a mask all the time.

"The br'ruising has deepened, I believe," they suddenly spoke, their fingers brushing against the sizeable bruise on their swan-like neck - to which Dr. Nox merely swallowed and stuffed the feeling that action overwhelmingly filled him with.

He made a subtle turn of his head to inspect these said bruises. Reaching out a bit, the man made sure to confirm that Bloodhound would be okay with them being touched by giving a low "I need to be able to touch you to give you proper treatment." The hunter simply nodded.

It was a foreign feeling, being touched on their skin by anyone, let alone skin-to-skin. They couldn't help but feel themselves becoming flushed again - hoping Dr. Nox wouldn't notice.

Dr. Nox noticed. He made sure as hell to not make it seem that way, though. Taking a cotton pad doused in antiseptic, he gently pressed it into the abrasion and monitored Bloodhound's reaction.

They made a soft wince through a bitten lip, closing their eyes and furrowing their brows just slightly. Dr. Nox felt obliged to give a "Sorry," and the other replied with a dull-pained "No need."

After a thorough cleansing, the cotton pad was discarded and traded for an applicable square bandage. He was careful to be gentle around the area as he applied it. Bloodhound looked grateful for the caution.

They blinked their eyes open, looking to the man and his focused grey eyes. They'd only been able to admire them for a moment before Dr. Nox noticed the gaze and met it back - to which they quickly looked away as if they had been doing nothing. The man went back to the bandage applying. Both of their hearts might have skipped a beat there.

It didn't help the hunter that Dr. Nox's fingers brushed against the angle of their jaw occasionally - damn the placement of that wound. Swallowing out of a habit of nervousness, the man obviously noticed the feeling and met his eyes back to the hunter.

It was so quiet, between the two of them, and yet the situation was so loud in trying to make itself known. The near-caressing hand on Bloodhound's neck, the axiomatic want in their eyes, and when did their bodies get so close-

The final straw might have been when Bloodhound raised a hand to softly, so achingly softly, touch the hand the man had pressed against the side of their neck.

Before Bloodhound could register what was happening, the two of them suddenly had their lips pressed together - passionate and hard as if Dr. Nox was unable to hold back from kissing the hunter any longer. They emitted a low, short whine as the man then held the back of their head - Bloodhound melting into his firm, sizeable hands.

Unbeknownst to the hunter, that whine did a thing or two to the scientist. Dr. Nox pressed their lips a touch harder, making Bloodhound emit a smaller, higher-pitched mewl in response. The hunter found their hands reaching to grip the collar of Dr. Nox's fur overcoat - and when they pulled away just slightly, parting their lips to breathe, the scientist took the opportunity to kiss against their open mouth and press his tongue against the other's. Bloodhound's brows furrowed further, their skin became unbearably hot, and their grip tightened as the kiss melted into a tight-lipped french.

A long moment after, the kiss was over, and the two pulled away for a needed breather - eyes still shut.

Bloodhound swallowed. The aftertaste lingered.

Dr. Nox then took his hands away to rest them at his sides. Bloodhound noticeably hesitated to take their hands back.

It was quiet between the two of them for a brief few moments - each processing what had just took place.

Dr. Nox spoke first. "..My apologies."

Bloodhound blinked, moving their dominant hand to hold the other in front of their waist, arms bent. Before they could even think to ask what he meant, he continued.

"..Suppose I should've..." The man paused briefly to take in a breath, "requested permission in advance of that."

Bloodhound looked down, loosening the hold on their hand a bit, "..Suppose."

There was another second of quiet between them.

"But I.. vouldn't have said no, Dr. Nox."

The two looked at one another again at roughly the same moment. Bloodhound swallowed again - their gaze soft. To their surprise, Dr. Nox's own gaze was softened as well.

"You can call me Alexander."

"..Alexander."

Bloodhound liked the feeling of that name in their mouth just as much as Alexander liked hearing it come from their mouth.

"..You may call me Blóð. Blóðhundur."

"Blóð I shall call you, then," Alexander spoke with a perfect pronunciation.

They watched each other a few moments more, both silently realizing just how much they loved hearing the other intimately saying their true name, before tearing their eyes away reluctantly out of tension. They found themselves in distaste of the quiet replacing what they wanted to be the other's voice. The hunter raised their hand and rest their fingertips against the bandage Alexander had applied - making a small wince. It felt better than before, though.

"..Þakka fyrir. For your concern about me."

Alexander gave a taut nod, "I couldn't not be."

There was another few moments of silence - despite how much the mind thought, their mouths didn't move.

In an attempt to find a place to start, Blóð spoke up in a softened voice. "..Ve should talk. I.."

They couldn't finish the idea, with the unplanned words never making their way past their lips. They slowly closed their mouth when they realized they couldn't convey anything verbally.

Though, the hunter felt a wash of relief douse their nerves when Alexander seemed to understand what they meant anyway.

"We should," he began cautiously - taking his time with how he was saying it. "Talk about.. us, I assume."

Blóð gave a weak nod.

In truth, they were nervous. Differing reasons they were, with Blóð being anxiously new to romantic relationships and Alexander focused intensely on not messing anything up. While the former had gotten experience with their feelings and otherwise these past few days with Elliott and Octavio, they've quickly learned that with each person, the experience is different each time - the only factor that remained the same was how incredibly strong the hunter felt for each. To their lack of bemusement, the experience with Alexander was no different.

When they gathered a humble amount of courage, Blóð reached out to touch the man's hand. The hold was loose, and only consisted of their fingers pressed together, but it was something.

That something visibly took the scientist aback - but when he then pulled their hand closer and properly held it, palm to palm and fingers intertwined, suddenly it felt as if everything would be just fine.

[novantinuum]

From Gallifrey, With Love

Fandom: Doctor Who, 11th Doctor era

Rating: K

Words: 3100~

Story Summary: The Doctor genuinely didn't expect to leave Trenzalore alive, that long night. Doctor's POV of the clocktower regeneration + missing scene.

It's hard to find any fics that go into much detail about regeneration and that's a shame really, because I love weird alien biology stuff like that. So I got really indulgent and wrote one myself.

Far above the clock tower, the Dalek flagship hung in the lower atmosphere like a hunter crouching in the brush, waiting for its prey to die.

“Sorry I’m a bit slow,” the Doctor said as he hobbled up the last of the stairs, clinging to the railing like a lifeline. His right knee protested, having not exerted this much effort in a very long while. “I may not be at my best right now.”

Drones identical to those he remembered from the Time War whizzed around the tower in an endless threatening display of might. They fired upon the small town as he watched, powerless to stop them, decimating homes and shops and gardens in a blaze of ash and smoke. Screams cut through the night. They sliced directly into his weakening hearts, already beating slower with every day. His body was shutting down, and he genuinely didn’t know if it was due to age or guilt. He leaned into his cane as he lowered himself onto the chair he’d placed up here years back.

“You are dying, Doctor!” one of the Daleks broadcasting from the flagship proclaimed, as if he didn’t intimately know that fact already.

He grimaced as a dull spike of pain radiated up his thigh from his other knee, from where the rest of his leg had been severed centuries earlier. “Yes, I’m dying. You’ve been trying to kill me for centuries, and here I am,” he declared, voice dripping in cynicism, “dying of old age. If you want something done, do it yourself.”

“You will die, and the Time Lords will never return.”

A younger man might have rolled his eyes at this. Daleks, they never ceased to state the obvious, now did they? He almost felt disappointed that they hadn’t killed him yet. “You still can’t work up the courage to shoot me, can you?” he mumbled, growing louder with every word. “You’re still worried I’ve got something up my sleeve!”

For once, his arch enemies restrained themselves to silence, taunting him by cutting circles around the tower. He huffed, dropping his head in failure.

“Well, you knock yourselves out, boys. I’ve got nothing this time.”

The Doctor sniffled, despite himself, and prepared for the end. Below, children were crying. Wailing. The sound of gunfire split through his ears, a gift from the last remnants of the resistance. Explosions rang in response as the Daleks ruthlessly attacked the populace. He aimed to die, the last time he was caught in a war with an impossible end. Perhaps in some twisted, poetic way, he’d finally gotten what he wanted. At least this time around he wouldn’t die committing double genocide.

He thought of Clara, standing somewhere below. Probably outside, because she was never one to do as he told. He sighed heavily. At least this time, if he had to die, he wouldn’t die alone.

All fell to silence, beyond the Daleks’ fury. The universe beyond their stars, holding her breath. And then… a roaring clamor as loud as thunder split the skies of Christmas in two. His hearts seized as he whirled around to look, to seek out the source of this disruption.

Impossible...

His eyes blew wide. Far above this petty skirmish, the crack in time opened its gaping maw. He squinted in confusion, knowing this was the Time Lords’ doing, but not knowing why. Why would they risk their safety now by revealing themselves after over 900 years of trying to quietly wait this threat out? Stupid, stupid! He didn’t spend all his lives working to save Gallifrey for them to all but commit suicide!

Admittedly his sight was far from adequate these days, but he could swear he saw something emerging from between the milky white light of the crack, something tangible. Something… gold and fine as silk, and gliding straight towards him. He didn’t dare move. His joints locked in place, he watched it advance with a sort of mesmerizing wonder, watched with eyes nearly crossed as it passed between his lips. It settled within him much like the warmth of a satisfying supper, much like— oh. Oh. The Doctor knew then in his hearts exactly what this offering was, even if he still couldn’t explain to himself why.

He splayed out his hands in front of him. His double heart rate increased as that hauntingly familiar golden glow spread through his varicose veins, excess energy wafting like dust off his skin, the telltale sign of impending regeneration. But this was impossible, absolutely impossible. He was dead, he saw his grave, he was—

“You will die now, Doctor. This is the end of you!” the Daleks above taunted.

—he wasn’t going to die today. The realization hit him with a bit more numbed shock than he anticipated, nearly knocking the breath right out of him. When had he grown so complacent in his supposed destiny that he’d forgotten how to hope? He slowly rotated his wrist in front of his face, feeling the Time Lords’ miraculous gift resurrecting him moment by moment.

“The rules of regeneration are known. You have expended all your lives!”

It was making him more than a little giddy, coursing through his tired body like a maelstrom of lifeblood. Suddenly he could stand without pain radiating in his joints, without his remaining leg weakening under strain of supporting his full body weight. He could think without his mind growing cloudy and distant, lost amongst centuries of stagnant memory.

“Sorry, what did you say?” he said, rising to his feet once more. “Did you mention the rules? Now, listen. Bit of advice! Tell me the truth if you think you know it, lay down the law if you’re feeling brave, but! Daleks never,” he punctuated his words with a tap of his cane, “ever tell me the rules!”

He lifted his closed fist, still grasping the cane, back to the sky, allowing his enemy to see the impossible golden energy brimming under his skin. Below, the clock struck twelve, its bell tolling the first chimes of midnight.

The hoard of insolent metal drones seemed to swell in panic, picking up speed as they buzzed about the town. “Emergency! Emergency! The Doctor is regenerating, the Doctor is regenerating!”

“Oh, look at this! Regeneration number thirteen,” he exclaimed, swinging his cane as he gaily traipsed atop the platform. “We’re breaking some serious science here, boys! I tell you what, it’s gonna be a whopper, ho ho!”

“Exterminate, exterminate the Doctor!”

He paused for breath, for a moment drinking in the scene, drinking in his surroundings. The Dalek force reduced to pleading desperation, pathetic creatures, and not even one brave enough to face one ancient, solitary Time Lord. His body, surging with a fresh-from-Gallifrey cocktail of power he hadn’t felt washing over him in a thousand some odd years. These were impossible circumstances, but the first impossible he’d played company to for over half a lifetime.

“You think you can stop me now, Daleks? If you want my life,” he bellowed, and threw his arms outwards, letting his cane drop from old, weathered hands, hands that glistened mischievously with the light of renewal. “Ha, ha! Come! And! Get it!”

He sucked one final breath between his chapped lips. Digging his feet— both flesh and prosthetic— into the dense concrete of the clock tower’s platform, he willed the dam to burst. This time, however, he wouldn’t allow the explosive mixture of hormones and artron energy running rampant through his veins to progress on automatic, oh, no, no, no. The Daleks were still advancing, faced with the prospect of a regenerating Time Lord in the middle of their battlefield, which— so shoot him, it couldn’t be helped!— one should never do in any circumstances if they valued their continued existence. His one advantage? They still expected a standard regeneration. Instead, he was about to do something far, far worse. He clenched his fists in solid determination.

The Doctor swung his right arm in a fast, wide arc as if fancying himself an air guitarist, mentally willing the energy pooling under his skin to surge towards his extremities. He partially let go, shooting his fingers outwards and allowing the golden light to surge outwards in a dense, fiery fury. His teeth clenched together so hard they ached as he desperately attempted to channel this wayward energy through the ashy sky, directly at an advancing Dalek drone. It didn’t take more than a split second for the strike to hit, instantly reducing the rust-gold drone to burning shrapnel plummeting towards the shingles below. Emboldened laugher bubbled up within his chest despite everything else, despite the mortal danger of this whole scenario.

He’d seen other Time Lords carry out this sort of weaponized regeneration before, of course. On the front lines of the Time War, in the heat of battle, there was often no alternative but to regenerate out in the open, under fire. In such a scenario, one could theoretically push their regeneration to become dangerously explosive, and in doing so neutralize advancing enemies while healing oneself. It was a risk, though, oh golly was it a risk. A very grave one. He himself had never needed to take it, always lucky enough to drag himself to the TARDIS or another safe place before finally succumbing to death. Stubborn, stubborn man he was. But even a thousand years past the War, memories of young Time Lords regenerating in the open only to be gunned down dead by Dalek fire in the middle of it still haunted him. Only luck would keep him from facing the same fate. Well, luck and the fact that this was no ordinary regeneration in the first place.

Hearing the whiny approach of another small Dalek craft to his left, he threw his other arm to the wind, using his fingertips as a sight as he willed the energy buzzing with an almost electric tang in his veins to burst forth. It flowed off of him in violent waves, dense droplets of gold spilling from his hands almost like liquid. Another direct hit. His eye tracked the descent of the burning Dalek shell to the square of the war ravaged town below. Time seemed to creep at a maudlin pace as he drank in the scene one last time. One last time, with these old eyes. The townsfolk were screaming in panic, advancing to any shelter they could find amidst the chaos. And amongst the faces, dozens upon dozens of faces he knew he’d seen every day for decades but had failed to remember in his advanced age, there was one he knew he could never forget. One woman who would always keep a tight hold on his hearts, for all the sacrifices she’d sewn through the threads of his time stream. Her hair pooled around her face in smooth ribbons as she yelled for the others to take shelter. His focus jittered at the sight of her, regeneration almost tussling conscious control from him.

Clara.

He— his breath hitched, and his nerves tingled as he wrestled to retain restraint— he couldn’t, no, no, no, not yet. He had to give her a few more seconds. A few more seconds to lead the rest of the children inside, before he let go completely. Wise, clever Clara, of course she’d understand what he was about to do. Daleks whizzed in circles in an endless gamble, none daring to cross too close in the wake of the power threatening them should they edge just a few meters more towards the clock tower. Once more, giddiness over the sheer impossibility of this scenario hit him with a vengeance, teasing his mouth into a devilish grin. He laughed without abandon, arms spread wide in the fires of renewal.

Echoing far above the roar of regeneration and the chaos of the Dalek hoard he head the front door of the church slam shut. Time enough to let go.

“Love from Gallifrey, boys!” the Doctor proclaimed at his lifelong foes, voice steeped in contempt. He swung his arms and hands inwards, folding into himself, and then gave up his last shred of conscious control.

From there, caught in the throes of biological process, his memory of what happened was a bit sketchy. He recalled surrendering himself to regeneration, feeling every cell in his body flooded with the explosive mix of hormones and artron energy all at once. A peculiar tingle ran from his left knee down, as he regrew a limb he’d learned to live without for centuries now. Somewhere along the line, he must have gnashed his teeth together.

The burning intensified. The Doctor could feel new hair follicles growing from atop his scalp, muscles tightening and regaining strength. And then, as unexpectedly quick as this limit breaking regeneration had emerged from the crack, the energy bathing him in an ethereal glow of gold and orange grew thin and dissipated into the night. He stumbled backwards, nearly blacking out from the repressed shock of all that had just happened.

When he finally came back to himself, to the world at large, he was met by smoke, and rubble, and… confusion. His ears rang, a high pitched whine that threatened to snap the last threads of cognitive thought currently cartwheeling through his mind in free fall. But no matter to that, no matter to the state of his own physical condition— somehow he’d blown the entire roof of the bell tower to smithereens with the sheer destructive force of his regeneration! A small part of him— the part not currently fussing over the shrapnel from the Dalek craft that was still plummeting from the sky, impaling roofs and making a disastrous mess of the streets— silently thanked the stars that he hadn’t regenerated inside the TARDIS for once. She’d likely never forgive him.

Speaking of the TARDIS…

His hearts seized as he nervously eyed the wreckage of the buildings around him and desperately tried not to imagine his old girl in the same state. Tough as she is, even she wasn’t fully immune to shocks as rife as that. Far past thinking first and acting later at this point in his life, he climbed over what was left of the stone balcony and lowered himself to the roof. He needed to check on his ship, to ensure she was all right. He slid down the shingles, as delicately as one could. When he reached the lowest point of the eave, he ground his heels to slow himself down, and then slung himself over the edge, dangling only a measly few meters in the air.

He let out a shallow huff as he dropped to the ground, distantly acknowledging with a jolt of surprise that the timbre of his voice was the same, that his hands were smooth but his body was the same— centuries younger, but the same. Absolutely identical. What was up with that, hmm? Why hadn’t he changed? He carded his fingers through thick locks of hair, no longer scarce and paper thin. Was it because this was the start of a brand new cycle? Whole new set of regenerations, a whole new set of silly Doctors? Set… A reset. Brow creasing, he brought his hands in front his face, flexing his digits as gold dusted his skin. He swallowed hard, trying his best not to feel a rush of disappointment over this revelation. So that’s what it was, what all this must be. Not a get out of jail free card. Not a bargain. A good old fashioned factory reset.

The Doctor skirted to a stop in front of his TARDIS, reaching out with a shaky hand. He inhaled, deep. Pressed his palm to the blue stained wood. She thrummed under his touch, reassuring him. Not damaged. A tough girl, see, exactly like he said. Well, like he thought. But then, he’s always getting those two mixed up.

“How ‘bout it?” he whispered, gently stroking her outer shell, affectionately, reverently. “Time for our last hurrah, eh?”

He reached for the cord strung around his neck and pulled it free, slotting its key into his ship’s lock. The door swung open. Her engines hummed in a baleful sigh as he crossed the threshold, recognizing the presence of artron energy within his system. He felt her presence brush against his mind. A delicate whisper. What might she say if she could talk, he wondered? They’d talked once before, hadn’t they? Long time ago...

Both feet inside the TARDIS. A gasp for breath, as if awakening from an impossible dream. Over nine hundred years, taking the slow path on the same demure planet, growing old, growing frail. God, how he’d missed this— the promise of tomorrow, a doorway to all of time and space. He glanced back once, only once, at the ruin he’d brought to the town called Christmas. He never looked back. Almost never. The Doctor, weary warrior, let the image of this place burn itself into his mind so that he’d never forget it. Not ever. Not for a second. His parting burden was that he would always remember those days, each battle, the full weight of his struggle. The reason he did it, the reason he stayed for years and years and never gave in, not even if it killed him… the trusting smiles of the children he failed to save, the keening sobs of villagers who’d suffered losses far beyond what any of them deserved...

Because sometimes, on his very good days…

Everyone lived their lives, and they were all happy. And after what he’d done today, they’d be able to live those silly little lives for as long as they pleased.

His fingers trailed across the inner door frame, twitching to slam shut the doors and whisk himself into the greater cosmos. A soft hum from his old girl reminded him of why he had to wait, just this once.

“Clara,” he breathed, peering at the church the townsfolk hadn’t dared emerge from yet. She’d be the first to dash into the square, to search for him. His impossible girl, still looking out for him centuries later. “My Clara…”

Suddenly he gasped, clenching his teeth to ride off a wave of discomfort rippling through his body. His hands flared with gold, the shimmering energy wafting off his skin.

“One last bow,” he murmured, exhaustion catching up with him again. Didn’t have long. Not long, before—

He opened the cabinet housing the phone on the TARDIS’ exterior and dialed her mobile. If he could only hear her voice, one last time with these ears, then-

The Doctor pulled the corded phone through the doors, shut his eyes as it rang through, and waited.

[sabraeal]

If it ain't too late: ObiYuki, REMEMBER ME (childhood headcanons, much?)

Set after Tanbarun Arc; directly references events in this fic.

Wide Florida Bay | Previous

The door rattles open, panels clinking like the world’s cheapest garage door, and –

And this must be what people opening tombs feel like, because, damn, that is some stale air.

“Climate controlled my ass,” Obi coughs as he steps inside. “How long ago did you last open this thing?”

Doc hesitates. “Three months ago.”

“Well, it feels like –” the words shrivel on his tongue as he glances back at her, every line of her rigid and hunched, like a deer that knows it’s about to get mowed down by an eighteen-wheeler – “we’re about to invoke a mummy’s curse.”

Cool, great. Real sensitive. Just missing his Miss Congeniality award for that one. God, he should just stick to what he’s good at – lifting things and shutting up.

Okay, well, he probably needs to get better on that last one, but – whatever.

“Well…” Her voice is muffled behind the cowl of his hoodie, and that’s – that’s also a problem. A bigger one now, but it’s not anything he can solve. Not without fucking up their relationship, and her and Chief’s relationship, and his and Chief’s relationship, and probably just – everyone he’s every known or come to care about in the last three months.

Take home: keep it in your fucking pants, Obi.

She huffs, ducking further underneath the fabric. “There are, you know, remains in here.”

He bobbles the box he’s holding. What.

“There’s what?”

“That’s, um…” She coughs, pink peeking over the cowl. “That’s sort of what I’m here for.”

He can do this. He can play it cool. This is definitely not the first time he’s been in the room with a dead person. Probably. “Oh. Great!”

“I mean, it’s just – just my grandfathers ashes!” she’s quick to clarify. “And my – my grandmother’s. I just…I didn’t know what to do with them after – after everything. So I thought I’d just…keep them here. Until I do.”

“Oh.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, enthusiasm for this whole clean-out thing waning sharply. Not that he’s not going to do it – god, he’s too stupid for her not to – but you’re supposed to talk about the skeletons in your closet before you ask your friends to help you clean it. “So you…know what you’re doing now?”

“No,” she admits softly, shoulders rounding. “But it doesn’t feel right to leave them here. Not when I’m not really sure….”

If I’ll ever come back. She doesn’t need to say the words, not when every line of them is written on her face.

“Right,” he says, turning back to the mess. “So, what are we looking for? Urns? Decorative vases? Sand art? Shoe boxes? Give me some help here, Doc.”

“Um.” If anything, she turns more red. “A peanut butter jar.”

That holds him up. “A what?”

“Not like – not jiffy or anything!”

“Of course not, Doc,” he grumbles, picking up a stack of shoe boxes. “Only the freshest, most cruelty-free peanut butter jar for Pops, sure.”

“No, I mean –” Her hands fist on her hips, cheeks blown out. He really needs to stop finding that so cute. “It’s a tin. A – an antique. My grandfather never wanted us to spend money on him, and would say, just cremate me and bury me in a peanut butter tin, that’s all I need.” Her shoulders hunch. “I didn’t – I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Hey.” He doesn’t know he’s reaching for until cotton’s already under his palm, until he feels the birdlike brittleness of bone under his fingers. She really needs to eat more. “You did your best. That’s all you can do.”

She looks up at him, eyes watery, and nods.

“Right.” He gives her a squeeze before he lets go, because he’s a glutton for punishment. “Peanut butter tin. And your grandma?”

“An – an urn? It’s nice.” Her hands flutter, flustered, at the stack of cardboard. “I think I put it in the same box?”

“Cool.” He nods. “Let’s get started.”

“Oh!”

He cranes his head up, blinking away the dust swirling in the air. “What’s up, did you find them?”

“No,” she says, frozen over a shoe box. “I just – I didn’t realize I had packed these away.”

He gets up, knees creaking. God, he’s really getting out of shape with all this fat living at the frat. “What is it?”

“My sand dollar collection.”

She barely glances up at him as he steps up beside her, just leans back. Her shoulder brushes against his sternum, and over the must of the unit, he can smell the lavender of her shampoo. Oh, he is just – in trouble. With all this.

“We lived an hour and half from the ocean in any direction,” Doc tells him, sand dollars clinking as she shuffles through the box. “So we never got to go to them that often. But when we did, we’d always find a sand dollar and bring it back. Like a lucky charm.”

She pulls one out – small, the side of the center of her palm – and he – he –

He can’t breathe.

“This one’s from Virginia Beach,” she says, distantly. “Isn’t that where you said you were from?”

Fuck. Fuck.

Doc looks up at him, smiling, and – and –

He knows her.

He’s nine. Obi remembers that, if not a lot else. Nine is when his whole world fell apart.

It’s complicated when your mom dies. There’s – feelings, and funerals, and well-wishers, and –

And it’s even worse when you’re a kid, and it’s your last lifeline out of foster care.

He’d known she wouldn’t get better; at the age of six he’d already learned words it would take a lifetime for other people to understand – chemo, radiation, overdue, metastasize, fatal, palliative, opiate – but still, still –

He was young enough to believe in miracles. To maybe even believe in a dad that showed up at the eleventh hour, with soup and sandwiches and clean clothes, that said the magic words, I’ve been looking for you.

It was so much easier to hope for a fairy tale, to hope that maybe he was Rapunzel and his mom was an evil witch, raising him in a tower. That one day someone would come and say – and say –

“Do you mind moving over?”

He blinks, staring into the biggest, greenest eyes he’s ever seen. “What.”

“You’re taking up the bench,” the girl pipes. For one, ridiculous moment, he thinks she looks like a muppet – tiny, pink, with a bobbed haystack of unbelievable red for hair, eyes taking up half her face. Like Zoe, or maybe Prairie Dawn, just – red. “I just wanna sit down.”

“Oh.” He cranes his neck around, looking at all the other empty benches, and just – scooches. “Sure.”

She beams up at him, so bright he almost needs to squint to look at her. Instead, he looks away. “Thanks! Did you get lost too?”

That makes him stare at her, this tiny thing with knobby knees and freckles just…everywhere. He’s not really good at guessing ages, but she can’t be over five. Six, at most. “Something like that.”

It takes him a good minute to realize she’s waiting for him to clarify, that this is her bid for conversation.

He jerks his head across the street. “You see that building over there?”

She squints. “Uh-huh. It’s big.”

“Right.” He’d thought that too, when he’d first saw it. It wasn’t a big skyscraper, not like some of the other ones that surround it, but – it’s got that feeling of bigness. Of being a place where people have their lives decided. “Well, the grown-ups in there are trying to decide what to do with me. And apparently it’s not good for me to know, so I’m out here.”

“Ohhh.” She nods sagely. “Did your momma die too?”

He mouth works, and the only thing that comes out is, “Too?”

She nods. “My momma died a while ago. And they couldn’t find Daddy, and I had to go stay with some people for a few weeks.”

He licks his lips, hands clenched on his lap. “Well, I’ve been with some different people for a few years. All over the place. I’m used to it.”

The girl nods, like there’s no difference. “I didn’t like it. They were nice, but I wanted my momma. And then my grandparents came!”

“You knew them, though?” he says, adrift. It’s like he’s in some alternate reality where, like, the Power Rangers are in the ocean instead of in space, and adorable muppet-girls just pop out of nowhere in parks.  “Your grandparents?”

She shook her head. “They said they’d seen me when I was little, but I didn’t remember them. Not really.”

“That must have been scary,” he offers, not sure why. She’s just so tiny.

“A little,” she admits. “But I’m happy now! We went to the beach yesterday!”

“Oh,” he manages. “Wow.”

“Yeah, we always find sand dollars, and I collect them!” She digs into her pockets, pulling out tan little discs. “I found two this time!” She shoots him a shy look from the corner of her eyes. “Would you like one?”

“Oh!” The girl holds one out, expectant. “No, I would just – I’d break it.”

“It’s fine,” she tells him. “It’s for you. You can break it if it’s yours.”

His hand shakes as he takes it. Something happens in his chest too, but it aches, and he doesn’t want to think about it. “Thanks.”

“Now we both have one from Virginia Beach!” She leans in with a grin. “I bet that means something good will happen to us there!”

He laughs. “I’m not –”

“Shirayuki?” a voice calls frantically. “Shirayuki!”

She grimaces. “I better get going. Good luck!”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, watching her scamper off to an older couple. Her grandparents, probably. They look relieved to see her, worried too, and –

Loving.

His hand grips the dollar hard, its edges cutting into his fingers. “I’ll need it.”

“Obi?” Doc’s hand brushes his, startling him. He can still feel the sand dollar in his hand, fingers aching where it had dug in. He knows her. He knows her. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah!” he coughs, turning so he can’t – can’t look at her. Doesn’t give away everything with his dumb face. “I’m just – I’m good. Let’s keep looking.”