#i've never actually been to a physical escape room though

[prof-polaris]

What's your favourite video game?

ah, i quite like escape room games, such as The Room series. I like most puzzle games really :)

i suppose if i had to pick a favorite, it would be the original The Room. I gave myself carpal tunnel once because i was playing it so often to try and beat it as fast as possible.

[remderance]

so...few days ago I've created a hermitcraft mermaid au. and here ya go, some of my thoughts about it and also my drawings.

first of all, cub, grian, zedaph, tango, joehills, xisuma and impulse are humans, when scar, doc, pearl, skizz, cleo are mermaids(I didn't think of other hermits yet)

here's also a bit of lore happening, so let's talk little bit about every hermit.

•xisuma

- he is an owner of this whole circus oceanarium and ocean research center.

- he is a strange guy, once he even stole a bone from rendog to chew on! but nonetheless, he is a hard working man and he does all the managing work better than anyone else possibly could

•scar

- cub and grian were the first to find alive mermaid, which happened to be scar. scar, as the most kind and innocent soul, of course, most of the time spent saving sea creatures from fishing nets, plastic junk and etc, though got a lot of injuries himself. he had been in an accident just before he was caught, so he didn't have a chance to escape due to movement issues, because his tail and fins were badly injured

- scar is an orca! but he won't eat you, don't worry. he might try, though

- most of the time there is only one scientist watching him, and it is cub. even though at first cub was too serious about his job, depicting scar more like an object other than a living creature with thoughts and feelings, it was gone in a little while when two of them had a chance to actually know each other more. you could say, scar softened cub's heart

- he is a silly boy, trying to escape his aquarium probably every day at first, thinking of place as a prison. none of his attempts were successful, to be honest, but he never stopped trying

- also, once he even got in a physical fight with grian, being mad that he was in the team who catched him. who won? for some reason it was grian, who is smaller twice in size and not so good underwater

- grian got in trouble many times because of his experiments and especially testing human food on scar. once he had serious food poisoning because of it, and cub never let grian be alone near scar's aquarium again

- scar once asked for human meat and got a "cubfan live reaction". canniballism is pretty common between mermaids, so he was expecting the same from humans

•doc

- doc is a giant moray eel.

- you could say he is the most intelligent and smart fish you've seen! not just by mermaid standards, but by human too. before the oceanarium he was living in an old warship, where he found a room with books that were not touched by water. that's where from he knows chemistry, physics, engineering and other, that's also where he learned english better, as he is originally from german waters(scientists where really impressed that mermaid could have an accent).

- but this ship happened to be in a military zone, where people one time were testing a bomb and underwater explosion happened. doc nearly made it out alive, though got almost incompatible with life injuries. he couldn't be healed by wrapping wounds with seaweed, so he decided to go to humans to the research center by himself, making a deal: he agreed to be studied for science purposes but got a proper treatment for his injuries in return.

- by that point, he was second one to be "caught"

- he is really smart and he will not be missing an opportunity to squeeze out everything from people working there. he got the best aquarium with the best accessories, rocks, corals and filters. it took almost over a year to figure all of this out and a lot of pressure on workers, but doc is not feeling guilty

- he really likes to eat tomatoes

- he also really likes to get out of his tank and go on an adventure to other mermaids. scar is living nearest to him, so you could often see these two hang out

- he created the word "scitties" and scar likes to use it (especially in situations when he is suggested to wear clothes. he says his scitties are too precious to hide them)

- after some time doc became the first mermaid scientist. his high intelligence just couldn't be ignored

- doc helped to create prosthetic fins and tail for scar

- eventually there was created a special gadget just for doc, so he could easily speak with other scientists even being under the water

- scientist connected to him is grian. they are in good terms and grian totally acknowledges his cleverness. gridoc nation rise up

•ren

- oh sweet, sweet rendog! you just couldn't guess what he is. he is... a dog, simple as that. but a smart one!

- although, he doesn't like meat. he is a vegetarian dog!

- his duty mostly is to deliver food to mermaids. he doesn't like to deliver food to scar as it's mostly chocolate chip cookies and lots of raw meat, and he totally adores to visit doc because of his love for tomatoes

- doc likes to escape, and ren likes doc, so he always goes after him with a mop in his teeth to hide water paddles he is creating

- ren is well-trained and all of the staff knows him, so he has access to almost every room in both oceanarium and research center

- he likes to sleep near doc's aquarium. sometimes doc goes out of water at night, waits for his hand to dry and gently pets him

- oh. and ren also has a very specific addiction. this little fur boy always steals people's sunglasses. why does he do that? why does a dog even need sunglasses? nobody knows. but that is such a common thing, that nobody even cares anymore. yep, there's a dog running around in sunglasses, what is wrong with that?

•here's the fun part. beloved zits!!!

- impulse is the only one true ocean scientist in their group

- zedaph lived most of his life on a farm and knows pretty much everything about farm animals. he is a crazy zoologist and has basically zero idea how to deal with fish

"that's a weird looking chicken", - he says, looking at any mermaid

- tango is an engineer and a drummer in his own band. he slays and also he has a lot of tattoos

- although tango's band isn't zit band, they were playing together in college! they all had their rock phase, zedaph even has scars from piercings made in that time

- the star of our show... skizzleman!! skizz for short, he is a manta ray, and he is going mental. he screams, he bites, he fights, he likes to bother others and especially impulse

- skizz made impulse fall in his tank for countless amount of times

- skizz and impulse often fight, verbally and physically, but also for some reason their bond is very strong. they like each other, just in a different way, but their way to this was very hard

- and yep, he is the reason why all of the zit are here. he's just too strong and uncontrollable for one human to handle, so impulse had to get his friends

- skizz is very clumsy and can't exist out of water due to being a manta ray, so trying to escape he makes just one step and then is found right outside the aquarium angry and waiting for someone to come and put him back

•pearl and gem

- pearl is a blue-ringed octopus!

- she spent a lot of time near the shore at the port and most of the time was listening to people, trying to guess meaning of unknown words and adoring strange human stories. it happened in australia, that is the place where she got an accent. it is an exceptional case too, but unlike doc, this accent is not natural, but a learned one

- pearl's only and favourite piece of clothing is a hoodie with oceanarium logo

- as a natural enemy, doc fears to go near pearl. when he is asking her if she's safe, she never gets him a clear answer

- gem is doing mermaid shows! yes, she is not a real one, she just has her costume and adorable coral horns

- oceanarium got gem a tank to exercise and to rehearse her shows. it appeared that pearl was basically living alongside. they liked each other at first sight, but for months weren't able to communicate well, it was only through body language

- pearl sees gem as a goddess for her elegant, exquisite and beautiful movements. no real mermaid moves like that, so that's just something so exotic and unreal in pearl's eyes, it makes her stare without blinking every time

- once impulse was in charge of caring for pearl and he saw what happened between two. he got a permission for gem to visit pearl's aquarium, and that was the first time they got to really know each other. it was the happiest day!!!

- gem is the only one who can calm down skizz and make him feel fear. nobody understands how, but sometimes impulse asks her when skizz is getting unbearable

- impulse, gem and pearl are often seen hanging out together. they created a trio called "soup group". the name was created because of pearl's unexplainable love for soups of any kind

• cleo and joe

- cleo is a sea snake

- she has fish hooks and spear parts in her on places where in canon she usually would get stitches

- she is basically a nature miracle, because she is a zombie, literally dead creature, but for some reason she keeps on going

- half of her organs are not working properly or are not working at all

- because of doc and cleo scientists guess that mermaids are far stronger and tougher than people, as they tend tο survive even in the most dangerous and unreal situations

- also doc and cleo are extremely big

- not to mention these two are really fond of each other. their tanks are located far away, but doc sometimes gets to cleo and they have the best time in the whole world

- joe is an ocean geek who once won an excursion behind the scenes of oceanarium and research center. that's where he met cleo, and for some reason she caught his eye

- he was very persistent and got a permission to sometimes meet cleo under supervision. it was said, that it is good for experience in interspecies communication, so scientists didn't mind

- though, he didn't do anything inappropriate. he was basically just finding a friend in a strange zombie mermaid! he showed her his favourite shows, comic books, was teaching cleo how to read, they were drawing and scrapbooking with her. just a couple of ocean besties!

- although joe cooks and brings mostly exotic or strange foods, cleo likes it a lot

- cleo likes to scare people and mermaids, but when she tried to scare joe she saw only pure excitement in his eyes

•honorable mention, mumbo, who is a plumber and engineer. everyone keeps calling him mario. he even got a big m on his head!

also: it is canon that all of the mermaids are kind of buffed

[anincompletelist]

feb + march recs <3

[other rec links below the cut!]

y'all know the drill! as always, please remember to leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed the fic or show support in other ways, and be kind! mind the tags and if you come across something you dislike, please kindly (and quietly) move on.

I had quite a few recs to catch up on - and am STILL catching up on - as I have been MIA with physical/mental health shenanigans as of late (so please excuse the fact that these are a bit angsty skjdhkjhd). thank you as always to these authors and their beautiful words for being a comfort! I love having a full 'to-read' list! :D

see you again soon, and happy reading! <3

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I've Always Loved New York, Since Garlic Aioli | KingCaspianX | E | 12k

Alex would say that this date is going really, really well. It hurts to admit because he now owes Nora a six-pack of beer, but he’ll happily swallow his pride if it means he gets to spend as much time as humanly possible with the cute librarian with the elbow patches who’d asked him out last week. The cute librarian, Henry, is not wearing any elbow patches this evening, but is instead dressed in cream linen pants and a soft blue oversized shirt. There’s a slight sheen of sweat on his skin, on his collar bones, down his neck from the balmy New York air but instead of being gross, the way Alex probably is, it’s sinful. He’s glowing. Alex wants to lick his throat. Jesus, he could have sworn he was straight a minute ago. Or, Henry asks Alex on a date. Alex, straight, accepts.

Henry's an Asshole (I Want to Kiss Him) | anarchyat4am | T+ | 7k

At the NYE Gala, Henry starts feeling the hazy edges of anxiety and an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. It takes him longer than it should to take notice of the feeling, and even longer to realise that the cause is likely the binder he’s been wearing all day. He escapes the party, Alex gets him upstairs to his room to change, and the rest of the night goes far differently than Henry could have expected.

getting good now | Standinginmoonlight | M | 20k

Alex sighs and balls his hands up into fists, digging them into his eye sockets until he sees stars, and then he’s speaking without his brain giving his mouth permission. “I can’t believe I’m going to marry someone British.” Or: the Love is Blind AU that no-one asked for.

cause you're classic and I'm reckless | @firenati0n | T+ | 5k

“I've, actually, uh. I've never done this before.” At this, Henry stops short, takes a second as his gaze moves up and to the left, trying to recall something. “I've seen your films. You most certainly have done intimate scenes.” Alex clears his throat. He hopes his nerves aren't completely obvious, the slight waver in his voice about to give him away. “Yeah, well. Never with a man, so. Not at this scale, anyway.” “Would it help to, er, practice?" Henry winces a little as he says it, which does not inspire confidence. But Alex is shocked nonetheless. What the fuck?

love was just an ocean (I would drown before I float) | srrafoxjournals | NR | 21k

There are moments in Henry’s adolescence, maybe even later, when he feels he doesn't belong to anyone. He is no one’s son. He is no one’s little brother. He is no one’s partner. He isn’t related to anyone at all. He’s just there really, just existing. Just an entity. Though he thinks he’s realistically always felt this, it doesn’t make itself known until he turns thirteen. Or: moments from Henry's pov

It's Not Rotten Work If It's You | a_stray_thief | E | 31k

After years of taking suppressants to hide his omega status, after the email leak and the election, after things finally settle, Henry and Alex spend Henry’s first heat together.

say you'll see me again (even if it's just in your wildest dreams) | @coffeecatsme | T+ | 21k

5 times Henry is too scared to come out to Alex and 1 time Alex gives him the courage. Or, 6 times Alex slowly falls in love with Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, for exactly who he is.

*I HIGHLY recommend this entire series! check it out here!

What are the chances? | @wordsofhoneydew | E | 2k

Nora helps June achieve her first vaginal orgasm.

Bang a Gong (Get It On) | @cactusdragon517 | E | 11k

AKA ouroBROros, as dubbed by the Brownstone. The long awaited foursome fic. -- It’s late when they end up out in the yard, the fire from the firepit casting all of them in golden syrupy light under a dark sky. It feels like a night for secrets and Liam thinks it’s why he asks, Spencer’s hand a gentle pressure on his thigh.

cut | validvali | E | 12k

Holy fucking eyelashes. He’s all tan skin and bright eyes and charming smile— everything that makes Henry weak in the knees. Pretty brown eyes dart between the lineup and his clipboard, trying to put two and two together, but all Henry can focus on are those arms. Those hands. That arse. “Can I call you up, handsome?” Henry almost blacks out. [or, the five times alex and henry shoot a video together as (not so) strangers, and the one time they do as a couple.]

Silence & Sound | @nocoastposts | E | 2k

Alex tugs at his hair and tries to focus on choosing his next words. He knows that Henry will help him - that he wants to help him. He knows that all he has to do is say the word. Henry stands and steps closer, holding Alex��s chin firmly and tilting his head up so their eyes are forced to meet. “You need me to clear that lovely head of yours, hm?” “Please,” Alex says in barely a whisper. or: Henry helps Alex fill the silence before indulging in the sound.

Through All My Cards | @cactusdragon517 | E | 7k

Alex, preparing for top surgery, gives in when June suggests he not recover alone. Enter her friend, Henry Fox.

I love you (ain't that the worst thing you've ever heard) | coffeecatsme | E | 20k

Henry doesn’t doubt that, just as much as he doesn’t doubt now that Alex won’t have a single issue with him being trans. In another life, when Henry whispered it in the quiet hours of the night, he didn’t. In another life, when he kissed Henry anyway, he didn’t. In another life. In this one, when Alex meets his eyes, all there is left behind them is a cold glare that freezes Henry to his soul. One year ago, Henry had a whirlwind of a day with Alex after a chance meeting in a coffee shop, only to leave in the morning to protect his heart. He doesn't expect to see Alex again, until he shows up at June's wedding and finds out her brother is the same Alex he hasn't been able to get out of his mind for a year - and he's pissed.

Can You See Me? (I'm Waiting for the Right Time) | @affectionatelyrs | T+ | 7k

“Whose turn was it?” Henry asks while Alex is busy pondering the merits of throwing himself out their fifth-story window and hoping his boner doesn’t take anyone’s eye out on his way down. “Forgive me, but I am a bit tired. Do you think you could take it?” There’s no way that Henry’s not doing this on purpose. He makes words mean things when put in a certain order for a living, for fucks sake. Alex almost quips back depends on how big it is just to see how—or if—Henry would react. “Yeah, um, no problem.” There. Much more normal. He could steal Henry’s job at this rate. “Truth or dare?” [Or, Alex’s world gets flipped on its axis during a game of truth or dare]

At the end of a bar | @hgejfmw-hgejhsf | E | 9k+

Alex has a supremely shitty day at work and finds himself wandering into a bar where a mystery man catches his attention.

What do you have against color? | jumpsuit | E | 11k

Upon opening the hardcover of a found sketchbook to locate the owner's contact details, Alex discovers only this inscription: In case of loss, please return to: Instagram @henryfox.usk He, of fucking course, knows who Henry Fox is. That striking yet humorless, rude, and self-righteous British prick he met on the first day of the symposium. [Or, an AU where Alex and Henry are urban sketchers. A short story of how they get to know each other, fall in love and in bed within one day.]

Sunless Dusting Libraries | @itsmaybitheway | T+ | 7k

Henry should leave, he should wait until everyone is asleep and then silently leave, without a trace. As if he never existed in Alex's life, as if he never touched Alex's body, as if he never wanted only exist in his heart and mind. Because that is what Alex deserves. Alex deserves someone who can love him out and proud, someone who is not shamed for his existence, someone as bright as him, not the pale starlight gleam Henry is. But lying there on the pile of mattresses they piled together and called a bed- Henry can not even find it in himself to breathe, let alone get up and go. Betrayed by his own existence, once again. [or: what-If taken by a depressive episode, Henry can not leave the lake house?]

each time we touch / I wanna take too much | firenati0n | M | 1k

Alex keeps his head angled away from the couch, leaning his back against the base for support as he pretends to be engrossed in conversation with Pez on the floor; pretends not to shamelessly eavesdrop on Henry's conversation with some girl on the opposite end of the couch, a classmate in Henry's course on human sexuality and expression. He digs his fingers into the frayed edges of the shaggy rug, feeling the soft strands slip through his hands as he keeps his eyes on Pez. Keeps his ears on Henry, who's sitting behind him, his knee occasionally nudging Alex's back as he talks animatedly, his whole body moving as he gestures; all languid limbs, lithe body, loose lips, lazy smiles.

to repair a hollowed heart | coffeecatsme | E | 28k

Alexander Claremont-Diaz, the young ruler of the Underworld, the presider of souls that have passed away, has been banned from Olympus his entire life, on account of bringing death and destruction wherever he goes. His seat in the highest council of gods has been left permanently empty until someone sees all that he is and still falls in love with the man behind. It's been twenty centuries since the curse has been put upon him, and Alex has long since given up on finding the right person. [Or, a Hades and Persephone AU no one asked for]

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back with more soon! see my other recs below:

vol i

vol ii

vol iii

vol iv

vol v

emotional hurt/comfort

kid fics

tag for all recs

xx

[steddieasitgoes]

written for @eddiemonth Day 16 Prompt: Library & Curious a/n: This one might be my favorite one I've written yet! It's set at the start of season 2! read on ao3 | link to my ao3 Edde Month series

Eddie’s well aware there are a lot of stupid classes that Hawkins High requires its student body to take. Algebra (there’s no reason for the alphabet and numbers to mix, except in very rare cases, like D20 type cases), Physics (what more do they need to know beyond what goes up, must come down), French (as if anyone from Bumfuck, Indiana could afford to go to France — okay maybe some can, but Eddie’s certainly not one of them that’s for damn sure), goddamn Physical Education (only way he’s running is if someone is chasing him, thank you very much). But the stupidest class of all has to be Study Hall.

An entire class dedicated to doing work for other classes? What kind of idiot dreamed this one up? Instead of letting them out an hour early, some guy, probably in a suit because all bad ideas come from guys in suits, decided to hold them hostage to do more work. It’s ridiculous. Not to mention, it’s one of the few times, outside of lunch, that the grades get to mingle with each other. Sure, lots of studying goes on in between freshmen drooling over seniors and sophomores paying juniors for last year’s test answers.

The only time Eddie actually liked study hall was during his sophomore year when he had it first period and could do all the homework he neglected to do the night before. It’s the only time it actually made sense. And the only time, thus far in his high school career, that Eddie actually turned in more assignments than not.

But now, he’s a senior stuck with study hall as his last class of the day, and he wants to die. Okay, maybe not die die. But die in the sense that he’d rather risk bodily harm escaping the hellscape that is the Hawkins library during 6th-period study hall than sit here. His freedom is so close — nothing but a few windows and a brick wall separating him from the brisk late-October air. Eddie can’t risk it, though. He’s already reached his detention quote for the semester, and if he wants to keep using the drama room for Hellfire meetings, he has to sit in this damn library seat and at least pretend to get some work done.

Which, honestly, isn’t the worst thing in the world. At least it gives him time to work on his latest Hellfire campaign without the prying eyes of Jeff and Gareth or the unnecessary questions from Freak. Sure, he’s supposed to be working on an essay for English Lit, but he doesn’t think Ms. Washington is going to appreciate his take on Frankenstein, so he’ll worry about coming up with a dumbed-down idea another day.

Besides, even focusing on his new campaign is hard enough with the idle chatter going on that the librarian is either pretending not to hear or is too tired of shushing them for.

It’s the usual sort of study hall gossip. Who’s screwing who. What teacher is going to pull a pop quiz tomorrow and become the biggest asshole at Hawkins High. The occasional nervous whispers of the geeks actually studying.

It’s all mindless chatter that drifts into the background when the topic of Tina’s Halloween Bash comes up. That’s the real gossip of the night. Who got the keg, and what other alcohol is being provided? Who is going to be the best dressed? What couple is going to get caught screwing in Tina’s parent’s bed? Are there going to be any good fights or breakups?

Eddie rolls his eyes. Jesus H. Christ, can’t anybody be original around here?

Unfortunately for Eddie, there’s no escaping Tina’s Halloween Bash since he’s been summoned to provide some extra party favors, as the “cool” kids like to call them. Eddie, never one to back down from being a thorn in a “cool” kid’s side, always responds with the same spiel: “Drugs. What you want is drugs, right? Or should I go raid Melvald’s for you?”

Whatever. Money is money, and Eddie can take all the money he can get his grubby hands on if he wants to get out of this shit-hole town when he graduates in June.

Glancing at his watch, he tips his head back in a silent groan of annoyance. Only ten minutes have passed since he slunk into the uncomfortable library seat. Christ, why does time move so slow, sometimes? Eddie tries to focus on his Hellfire notes in front of him, and he’s successful for all of thirty seconds before something catches his attention in the corner of his eye.

Nancy Wheeler and the former Hawkins High King, Steve Harrington, are whispering to each other by the pencil sharpener. He rolls his eyes. Of course, no one else in the library is paying them any mind. And why would they? Harrington fell from grace last year, and Wheeler isn’t exactly the “look at me” type. Still, Eddie finds them morbidly interesting in a way he finds all the tragic heterosexual couples in this stupid small town interesting.

Before Eddie has a chance to fall deeper into his cynical outlook on this stupid Hawkins High couple, Wheeler starts tugging Harrington toward the private study room in the back of the library. It’s a move that shocks Eddie to his core. Don’t get him wrong, he’s heard all bout Harrington’s little trysts in that very room over the years (thank you gossip mill for the very cheap porn), but he never would have assumed Wheeler would be the one tugging him toward it.

It’s that detour from who she’s supposed to be that has Eddie peeling himself off his chair.  At least, that’s what he tells himself as he saunters toward the stack of books in the back of the library closest to the private room. If he hears moaning or anything remotely sounding like they’re hooking up, he promises himself he’ll leave. He’s a freak in many ways, but a creep, he is not.

Glancing over his shoulder, Eddie can see the two of them in the small room. They’re close but not close enough to be doing anything beyond talking. From the look on her face, doing anything of that sort isn’t even on her mind.

Interesting.

Eddie creeps closer.

“Barbara. It’s like nobody cares. Except her parents. And now they’re selling their house.”

“Nance—“

Wheeler rants about something, but he misses most of it. Only catching the very end.

“It’s destroying them.”

No shit, Eddie thinks with another dramatic eye roll. Of course, losing their only daughter is destroying them. The Hollands are one of the few families around here that actually have a heart. At least they did before Barbara tore it from them by running away. Or so the story goes. Eddie’s always been a bit suspicious of Holland’s disappearance. He knows the runaway type, and a straight-A girl, with a well-off family who loves them like Holland had doesn’t fit the bill.

“I know. Okay? I get it,” Harrington says, glancing away from Wheeler to peer out the window. Eddie grabs the first book on the shelf and buries his face in it. It must fool Steve because he starts talking again. “But listen, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Yeah, we could tell them the truth.”

“This isn’t some game, Nance. If they found out that we told any…” He trails off again, and Eddie reaches for another book.

Eyes peering over the pages, Eddie watches as he shuts the blinds before presumably returning to Wheeler. With the blinds shut and their voices even lower, he can no longer hear what they’re talking about. Which is a damn shame because Eddie’s never been more curious about what the disgraced King was about to say than right now. 

+ + +

“M’telling you guys. It was weird,” Eddie says through a mouthful of Doritos.

They’re hanging out in Gareth’s garage. Jeff sits in the old recliner while Gareth stays perched behind his drum kit. Freak is running late, as usual, though Eddie’s not too pressed about it today. Too distracted filling the boys in on what he overheard in the library.

“I don’t know man; it sounds like she was just concerned about her best friend,” Gareth says, lightly tapping his drumsticks on his snare.

“Yeah, those two were inseparable, remember.”

“All the more reason why it’s weird she’s been mopping around lately. Obviously, she knows where Holland is. Or what happened to her.”

“Not this again,” Jeff groans, sinking further into the recliner.

“Yes, this again,” Eddie retorts, throwing Jeff an intense glare. “This town is weird as shit. If the Byers kid can come back from the dead—“

“I thought they proved it wasn’t actually Byers they found in the quarry,” The Freak says, finally joining them in the garage. 

“They did, but Eddie still thinks—“

“Shut up!” Eddie shouts, taking a moment to throw a Dorito at all of their heads. “Let me level with you for a second, okay? Yeah, sure, they said that kid wasn’t Byers, but they never said whose kid it was, which is weird. And then right after that, they “find” Holland’s car? It’s too coincidental, man. You know a story isn’t right when it’s too easy.”

“This isn’t one of our campaigns,” Gareth sighs. “Sometimes things really are just accidental coincidences.”

Eddie shakes his head, running his Dorito-stained fingers over his face. “Nah, man, m’not buying it this time. Harrington and Wheeler know what really happened to Holland. And I think they’re responsible for it.”

“So, what?” Jeff asks, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his knees. “You think they made her disappear or something.”

“Maybe Harrington got Holland knocked up, and his family gave her money to leave.”

“See!” Eddie shouts, slapping his hands together as he jumps on the balls of his feet. “Freak gets it! That’s the kind of thing I’m talking about.”

“Okay, but if Harrington knocked Wheeler’s best friend up, why would she still be dating him?” Jeff asks.

“And why would they both be hiding her from her parents?” Gareth adds.

Okay, so maybe these are valid questions, but Eddie doesn’t appreciate the doubts they’re throwing at him. “I don’t appreciate you doubting me,” he says plainly. “You’ll see. M’gonna figure this out.”

“Right, just like you figured out that Ms. O’Donnell was actually failing you for a reason and not because she had some vendetta against Wayne for not dating her.”

“Hey. That was a good theory, okay. One I still think is true, by the way.” Turning his back on the boys, Eddie crosses the room and tosses the empty bag of Doritos into the trash bin before heading towards his badly parked van.

“I thought we were practicing!” Gareth shouts after him.

“Just let him go,” Jeff sighs. “He’s impossible to work with when he’s in conspiracy theory mode.”

Eddie flips Jeff off, climbing into the van. “I’ll see you boys tomorrow.”

+ + +

Eddie’s been at Tina’s party for an entire hour and a half, and there’s still no sign of Harrington or Wheeler. Not that he’s actively searching them out, of course. He’s just had some downtime in between upselling Hagan for the world’s shittiest pot he could get his hands on, and explaining to some cheerleader how Special K hits differently if you snort it. Plus, his supply ran out about ten minutes ago, so he’s just buying time before someone notices him lingering and kicks his ass to the curb.

He’s about to save himself and whatever jock gets thrown his way the trouble, when he spots Harrington and Wheeler arguing by the punch bowl. He’s too far away to hear what they’re saying, but he has a sneaking suspicion it has less to do with the conversation he heard in the library and more to do with Wheeler’s drunken state. Case in point: the red liquid she just spilled all over her blouse.

Chasing after her, Harrington cuts through the crowd and makes his way toward one of the bathrooms. Eddie waits a minute before following them down the crowded hallway. Thankfully, no one is in line for this bathroom — still too early in the night for the alcohol to have hit their bladders — so he’s first in the unofficial bathroom line. Leaning casually against the wall, Eddie angles his ear closer to the door so he can hear inside.

It takes a minute for his ears to tune out the music and nonsense chatter, but when they do, he can clearly hear Wheeler slurring her words.

“You’re pretending like everything’s okay. You know, like we didn’t… like we didn’t kill Barb.”

Eddie’s never experienced shock before, at least, he doesn’t think he has; the early days of his life are a little hazy around the edges, but that’s the only word he thinks fits what he’s experiencing right now. Part of him wants to shove his ear closer to the door to continue listing, while the other part of him wants to run for the hills, screaming in victory. And if he’s straight with himself, maybe screaming in fear a little, too. Harrington and Wheeler murderers? Who knew?

He knew, that’s who!

He knew there was something shady going on between those two.

Pressing his ear closer, he can hear Wheeler slurring more words, though he’s not exactly sure what she’s saying. Honestly, he doesn’t really care what she’s saying. He’s listening for Harrington’s response right now. What does the mighty King have to say about the bomb she’s just dropped?

“This is bullshit,” she slurs.

“Like we’re in love?” Steve asks.

Huh, clearly, Eddie missed a step or two in his shocked state.  He’s not exactly sure how the conversation strayed from them killing Holland to their, clearly, toxic relationship, but the fact it did is all the proof Eddie needs. If they didn’t kill her, Harrington would have been vehemently denying her claim. And yet, he sounds like a kicked puppy dog right now because she doesn’t love him.

Join the club, Harrington.

The doorknob starts to jiggle, and Eddie bolts. It’s not that he’s afraid about coming face-to-face with the two who apparently killed Holland. It’s just that, well, he needs a minute to think about the information he’s just learned.

+ + +

With Gareth and Freak both busy supervising their siblings around Hawkins and Jeff on candy duty for his family’s house, Eddie has no one to share the good bad news with. RIP Holland and all that, but he’s sitting on some serious dirt right now.

The good part of Eddie’s brain knows he should head straight for the police station. Pull good ole’ Chief Hopper aside and gloat about how he did his job for him. But Eddie’s spent enough time at the stuffy station to know no one is going to believe him especially not against Harrington and Wheeler. He’d have better luck marching in there and turning himself in for her murder. Not that he’s going to do that.

He supposes he could tell Wayne about it, but he doesn’t need to be dragging his uncle into any more of his messes. And since Eddie has no proof beyond overhearing a drunken confession, a mess it’ll surely turn into.

So, he opts for the third option and heads out to Skull Rock to do some thinking.

Maybe Freak is right, and it was some sort of jealous rage brought on by a Holland-Harrington pregnancy. Or maybe Holland saw something she shouldn’t have; the possibilities are endless, and Eddie’s imagination is limitless.

Eventually, he circles back to what he’s supposed to do with this information. Should he turn them in? Maybe not Wheeler; she seems like she’s experienced enough guilt as it and the girl has a bright future or whatever it is the teachers are always talking about. Harrington, though? Harrington, he should turn in, right? I mean, he didn’t even seem phased when Wheeler brought up the murder. Eddie’s watched enough horror movies to know that’s psychopath behavior right there. Besides, it would be nice to see the King behind bars. But then again, he hasn’t been the King in a while. And Harrington’s never really done anything to Eddie beyond standing idle while Hagan threw slurs at him. But he’s not hanging out with Hagan anymore, so maybe he should cut him some slack.

Though they did murder someone.

Jesus H. Christ.

Maybe this is why they say curiosity killed the cat — Eddie’s head is throbbing. He’s about to take another hit from his joint when he hears leaves crunching in the distance.

Shit.

Someone’s coming.

Snubbing out his joint against the rock, Eddie tries his best to make it seem like he’s just here, escaping the busy Halloween night. Which, like, he definitely is, but he can’t be too safe. Especially not when there are two teenage murderers on the loose.

“She thinks m’bullshit? She’s bullshit! Bullshit.”

The voice is unmistakable.

Jesus H. Christ could tonight get any weirder.

Eddie’s only escape is to run deeper into the forest, and he’s not about to do that so he makes himself comfortable on top of Skull Rock like a fucking sitting duck. Searching the pockets of his vest, he yanks out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. Neither of which he was looking for. Of course, he left his pocket knife in his van. Stupid. So stupid!

There’s a moment of silence before Harrington emerges from the clearing. The moon is bright above them, making Steve’s tear-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes glow in the otherwise dark forest.

Maybe he is feeling guilty after all.

“Ah, fuck,” Harrington groans, stumbling to the ground.

Eddie watches as he rolls around for a moment, struggling to find his footing. If Eddie were a mean person, he might let Harrington suffer. But something about his behavior reminds him of a wounded animal, and Eddie’s always had a soft spot for bruised and broken things.

“Shit, Harrington, you okay?” Eddie asks, jumping down.

Eddie’s boots crunch against the leaves, startling Harrington. He manages to pull himself into a seated position and brandishes a near empty beer bottle in Eddie’s direction. “Stay back!”

“Woah, man,” Eddie yelps, hands raised in surrender in front of him. “Don’t kill me.”

“Oh, s’you,” Steve says, slumping against the tree behind him. He tosses the beer bottle aside and runs both his hands over his face. “Jesus. Why does everyone think I would kill s-someone?”

“Uh,” Eddie stutters, glancing around. Now’s his chance to make a break for it. Put those hours of physical education to good use and sprint to the van before Harrington has a chance to make him his next victim. But there’s something in Steve’s sad eyes and dejected voice that makes Eddie stay. “‘Cause you have killed someone before?”

“Man, what the hell are you talking about?” Harrington snaps, fumbling to get out of his jacket. “I’ve n-never killed anyone.”

“So, you didn’t kill Barbara Holland, then?”

“No! Jesus, ‘course not. Barb was… Barb was nice. She was good. Like Nance. Better than Nance, maybe. I don’t know,” Harrington whines, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Barb she’s… yeah, man, she’s dead. But I didn’t have anything to do with that. N-not in the way you think I did, at least.”

Harrington’s not making a lot of sense, which only spurs Eddie’s curiosity on more. Closing the distance between them, Eddie hops to a squat in front of him. “But you did have something to do with what happened to her?”

“Shit, man,” Harrington groans, words slurring more more. “S’complicated, okay. I can’t talk about it with you or her parents or anyone. Or else they’ll come for me or Nance or our families and then we’ll all be toast like Barb. And that… that thing that came out of the Byers’ wall.”

Complicated? Jesus H. Christ, Eddie’s never heard anything more complicated than the jumble of words that just left Harrington’s mouth. He can feel his heart racing in his chest, the realization that they’re alone in the woods talking about something someone doesn’t want Harrington talking about.

“What?” Eddie says more to himself than to Steve. “Harrington, what thing in the Byers wall? You’re not making any sense!”

“The thing. You know, the… the,” Steve hiccups. “The thing we can’t talk ‘bout, else they’ll come for us next.”

Someone will come for him and his family if he reveals what happened to Barb? And the thing in the Byers wall? He wants to ask who would come. What would happen? Is he being blackmailed? There are so many questions dancing on the tip of his tongue, but none of them win the war.

“Harrington, man,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “Are you in trouble? Do you, like, need help or something?”

Finally, freeing himself from his jacket, Harrington lifts his head and looks up. There’s a moment where Eddie’s life flashes before his eyes, but then the sad replay of his life is interrupted by Harrington’s hand on his cheek. A dopey-looking grin on his face as he squints up at Eddie.

“You have pretty eyes, M-m-munson. Anyone ever tell you that?” Steve slurs before promptly passing out against the tree.

What the hell has Eddie gotten himself into?

[goatcheesecak3]

Dating Adam headcanons

Context: this takes place after he escapes the bathroom (which definitely happened and is 1000% canon)

I've never written for Adam before, so I hope I did our bbygirl justice

He really doesn't like bathrooms anymore, for obvious reasons. He'll only shower if you sit outside talking or singing to him the whole time. When he gets out, you dry his hair for him all while telling him how proud you are and how brave he is.

He doesn't really keep on top of general chores, so you regularly do his laundry for him or come by to help clean his apartment. With any other guy you might find this irritating, but Adam's got enough on his plate, you're just glad he's letting you take care of him.

This man is CLINGY, if you're not with him he's constantly texting and calling you to make sure nothing bad has happened. When you are with him, he's pretty much always touching you in some way, it could be cuddling, having his arm over your shoulder or just resting his hand on your leg. He says he just finds physical touch comforting, and after all he's been through, you can see why.

Absolutely no one makes you laugh like Adam does, it's what attracted you to him in the first place. He's got such a clever dry wit, it seems as though he's been blessed with the ability to speak in perfect one liners 24/7. He constantly has you either cracking up, or rolling your eyes playfully.

He's incredibly cheeky, even though he's been your boyfriend for a while, he still flirts with you as if he's trying to pick you up at a bar or something. You find the amount of effort he puts into wooing you very cute.

He has a lot of trouble with sleeping. Sometimes his nightmares get so bad that he gets too scared to go to sleep, other times he wakes up in a panic, thinking he's waking up back in that awful room. You've discovered that sleeping with a small lamp on helps with this, so that when he wakes up he can immediately tell where he is, and playing gentle music while he goes to bed seems to calm him. But the most effective thing you've found, is warmth. Back in the bathroom it was freezing cold and damp, so to give him the opposite effect, you buy him a hot water bottle to cuddle at night (as well as cuddling him yourself).

He's pretty broke, so he can't really afford to take you out on fancy dates, but you don't care about that at all. Sometimes he'll take you for an evening walk in the park, which the two of you really enjoy. For special occasions though, he scrapes together whatever money he can to give you a nice night. He'll usually splurge on a steak and some wine and cook you a fancy meal from home, which you eat in his little apartment by candlelight.

Adam has a real sweet tooth, when you come to stay with him you always make a stop in a corner store on the way and pick him up some chocolate or a bag of skittles or something (and a pack of smokes ofc), and every time without fail it surprises him.

Surprisingly, arguments aren't actually that common between the two of you. Don't get me wrong, sometimes Adam can be a bit of an ass, he can be snippy and quick to anger, but you never let it escalate. You understand that he's got good reason to be a little unpredictable emotionally, so you're patient and kind to him, even when he's out of line. You manage to calm him enough to talk through whatever the issue is, and resolve things fairly quickly.

When he talks about you to other people he doesn't ever say "my girlfriend/boyfriend," it's always "my girl/ my boy". Hearing him introduce you to others like "this is my girl/boy, y/n" just makes your heart flutter.

A/n I've never written for Adam before, so pls let me know if you want more!

Check my pinned post for request details and my masterlist!

Replies and reblogs are very much appreciated <3

[tinybookgirl]

Can You Forgive Me If You Don't Remember What I've Done?

This is actually one of the most difficult things I've ever written. It was supposed to be about both Martin and Timballisto but now it's really just about Timballisto and his trauma. This is also me experimenting with trying to make my prose more eloquent because I always feel like it's so plain and everything else I read is so beautiful. Unfortunately I could never in a million years matches Brian Jacques amazing style, so I can only hope I at least got the characterization correct. I find Martin very difficult to write but we've tried.

Timballisto had scars on his wrists. Thick bands of scar tissue wrapped all the way around, only now finally given the time to heal properly, but the chains had cut deep over the seasons. The fur had been scraped away, dug deep through his skin leaving heavy indents and even now it almost seemed as though the chains were still there.

He didn’t bother hiding them. Some of the slaves freed from the Bloodwake had left, rejoining the shrews or heading off to see what was left of their old homes, or maybe build themselves a new one. Still, many others had stayed with the woodlanders in Mossflower. Timballisto was far from the only creature in Brockhall to bear the scars.

Martin had scars on his wrists. Not so thick, not so deep. If he brushed his fur the right way he could almost hide them, the grooves where the fur would never grow back nearly disguised. Enough at least that one might not notice if they didn’t bother to look. 

Timballisto had seen them as Martin had pulled him onto the deck of the Bloodwake. What Timballisto had long suspected, but long since given up hope on getting an answer for, finally confirmed. 

They weren’t deep enough for Martin to have been a galley slave, Timballisto was certain of that. At least Martin had escaped that fate, suffered by Timballisto and the rest of their tribe. There was no doubt about it, though. Martin had been kept in chains.

*

It was nearly a week after waking, long after the battle with Tsarmina, that they realized she had left Martin with more than mere physical scars.

It was Timballisto who realized it. Martin was still confined to bed in Brocktall, no matter how much he insisted to Abbess Germaine and Columbine that he was more than fine. It only took a single glance to make it clear that was not true. Just sitting up in bed was an effort, the heavily bandaged wounds still prone to reopening and bleeding if he moved too much. Even simply being away too long was a chore.

Yet, Martin continued to insist that he was fine, repeating that he had been through worse. The statement made Gonff laugh, but filled Timballisto with nothing but guilt. 

Both Gonff and Timballisto were reluctant to leave Martin for long, the Abbess having had to force them out of the room more than once when she and Columbine needed to attend to him. For now though, Martin was awake, Timballisto seated on one of the chairs next to his bed while Gonff stood on the desk, in the middle of telling a rousing tale about one of his trips to the Kotir larders.

Timballisto laughed as Gonff pulled his cap low over his eyes, grabbing an old quill to mimic a sword.

“Martin,” Timballisto said, “do you remember, I think you were maybe four seasons or so? And Vurg and Twoola had-”

Martin frowned, “Who?”

Timballisto straightened instantly. “Vurg and Twoola?” He repeated, a note of desperation entering his voice. “They were in our tribe… Vurg was your father’s best friend. You… Martin do you really not remember them?”

Martin’s brow creased, struggling through the fog both the pain and the medicines left in his mind.

Something was wrong, Timballisto realized. There had been other things too, Timballisto remembered. Little things, things they had put off to nothing more than the coma, the injuries, the medicine. 

Martin staring at the Abbess for far too long before managing her name. Martin simply nodding and going along when Gonff mentioned parts of their adventure, adding no memory of his own to the tale.

When, three days ago, Martin had woken up and nearly panicked, unable to remember where he was at all.

This could be nothing more than that. He had lain at the gates of the Dark Forest, after all. Surely it was all normal? Surely, struggling with things as simple as names and places and events was normal after all Martin had just been through. 

Timballisto couldn’t shake the feeling that something much worse had happened to his friend.

Upon realizing they were no longer watching him, Gonff trailed off. He tilted his hat back onto his head to see them properly. “Everything alright, matey’s?”

Timballisto was staring at Martin. Martin glanced between the two of them.

“Yes,” Martin lied, “you- you said… you said Cludd almost spotted you?”

“Martin-” Timballisto said, but Martin cut him off.

“I’m fine,” Martin insisted. No one in the room, including Martin himself, looked convinced, but Gonff continued with his tale anyway.

*

The firelight was bright and warm, the shrew’s celebration in full swing for the return of those thought long lost, the former slaves of the Bloodwake.

It couldn’t last forever, of course. Martin still had a job to do, they were nowhere near Mossflower and still had days of travel ahead of them. They still have to defeat the wildcat Martin had told him about. For now though, Timballisto would allow himself to enjoy his newfound freedom as much as he could.

Timballisto joined Martin, leaning comfortably against a fallen log in front of one of the fires. Martin’s paws were running over the hilt of his new sword. Timballisto set a plate piled high with food between them. 

“I quite literally don’t think I’ve ever had food this good,” he said. They had always managed to keep the tribe above starving, even after Luke and his crew had left, even on the harsh coastline where so little. There had been enough to live on, but never enough to cook like this, never enough for as much as you really wanted.

“You’ll make yourself sick if you eat too much,” Martin said, choosing a chunk of cheese studded with nuts from the plate.

Martin had his sleeves pushed up against the warmth from the fire, and the scars on his wrists, the ones Timballisto had seen when Martin first pulled him from the galley, stood out stark. Timballisto picked up a scone that looked to be more fruit than bread, dripping with honey. “Good.”

Even as night was falling the festivities continued around them. Gonff was entertaining a group of shrewbabes with magic tricks, Dinny helping a shrew at one of the cooking fires. Even Log-a-log looked happy, holding tight onto the children whose lives he had missed out on so much of.

Something panged harshly inside Timballisto. He forced himself to finish the scone, pulling the last of the crumbs from his whiskers. Martin was right, it was making him sick.

“Martin, that wildcat you told us about,” Timballisto said, “you’re going to kill her.”

“Yes,” Martin said. He pulled the sword from its sheath. The firelight bounced off the blade, making it glimmer like pure gold. It was a far cry from the blade Timballisto remembered. Martin, only a few seasons younger than him, dragging the sword about wherever he went, always leaving a furrow in the sand from the end of the blade. It had rarely been hard to find out which tracks in the sand where Martin’s.

That had been sturdy sure, a good blade no doubt. But it had been old as well, and starting to show its age. This one… well, it was hard to imagine a blade more impressive. 

“Have you killed before?” Timballisto knew the answer before Martin said it. It was the way Martin carried himself now, the determination and strength that now sat behind his eyes. 

“Yes,” Martin didn’t look at him.

The silence stretched between them like a gorge. Martin sheathed his sword. Even tucked away, the pommel stone glinted.

“What happened?” Timballisto said. “When you- we looked, Martin. I swear, we tried, but-”

“I don’t want to talk about what happened to me,” Martin said, his tone leaving very little room for argument. Timballisto argued anyway.

“Luke left me in charge, Martin,” Timballisto begged. “Please, what happened?”

“I can’t talk about it, Timbal,” Martin said. He was staring into the fire, arms resting across his knees, the scars on his wrists still on full display. Timballisto couldn���t look away. He placed his paw over Martin’s wrist, Timballisto’s freshly bandaged by the hares from Salamandastron.

“Please.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Martin pulled his arm away, clasping his friend's paw in his own instead. He looked up. “We’re free now. Both of us.”

It wasn’t a lie, but Timballisto knew it wasn’t the full truth. Martin wouldn’t really be free until the wildcat was dead.

Timballisto didn’t feel freed either.

*

“Something is wrong with Martin,” Timballisto said.

Columbine looked up, busy grinding herbs for another set of medicines, not only for Martin but for those who still carried injuries from the battle. “What do you mean? I changed his bandages yesterday, he shouldn’t be bleeding again-”

“Something’s wrong with his mind,” Timballisto clarified. “His memories.”

Columbine frowned, setting the mortar and pestle aside. She wiped her paws on her apron. “Memory loss can be common after severe injuries, especially ones as bad as Martin’s. And the medicines we’ve been giving him for the pain sometimes cause the same issue. Usually they return in time.”

“And what happens when they don’t? What if something more than just memories is wrong, what if- what if Tsarmina clawed his brain or something?”

“I highly doubt she clawed his brain,” Columbine assured him. “As for the memories… I’ll have to ask the Abbess, she knows more about it than I do. What makes you think something is wrong?”

“Earlier today, I mentioned- something. Something from when we were children, but he didn’t remember it,” Timballisto said.

“Are you certain?” Columbine said, “All I mean,” she said, forstowing any argument on Timballisto’s part, “is that it would have been quite a long time ago. Are you sure this isn’t something that it would be normal for someone to forget?”

“The event itself, maybe,” Timballisto agreed, “but that would have been fine. He didn’t remember the others from our tribe that I mentioned either. And I know he would. Something is wrong.”

Columbine tilted her bowl of herbs into a small pot. “The Abbess is more adept with things like memory loss than I am. I’ll speak to her, see what she thinks we should do.”

Timballisto sighed, relieved, “That’s all I ask.”

*

Martin was no longer in danger of death, but he had yet to awaken, and Abbess Germaine had cautioned them all not to leave him alone in case he was to take a sudden turn for the worse. Timballisto had barely left his bedside since Martin had been moved into Brockhall. There was no telling when he might wake, and Timballisto had heard Abbess Germaine whispering of the chance that he never would.

He hoped desperately that she was wrong.

Martin was wrapped heavily in bandages and blankets. He had seized muttering in his sleep the way he had been in the beginning. If not for the bandages one could almost think that nothing was wrong with him at all.

“What happened to him?”

Timballisto looked up to see Gonff leaning in the doorway, his arms crossed across his chest.

“You saw the battle,” Timballisto said, “same as I did.”

“And,” Gonff pushed himself off the door lintel, leaning his paws on the back of one of the other chairs waiting empty by the bed, “I saw the lashes on his back.”

Timballisto looked away. They all had when his wounds were being dressed. None of them had said anything about it. There had been no point, Martin couldn’t answer their questions, not while still trapped at the gates of the Dark Forest.

“I don’t know what happened,” Timballisto said.

“Because Martin told me,” Gonff continued, swinging himself around to sit. “That he simply wandered down south on his own. Knew it was a lie the moment we shook paws, of course. Wandering doesn’t get you those,” he inclined his head to indicate the scars on Timballisto’s own wrists.

Timballisto crossed his arms. “I don’t know what happened,” he repeated. He was no longer sure if it would be better or worse to know. 

“If anyone knows, it’s you.”

“If Martin didn’t tell you, maybe he doesn’t want you to know,” Timballisto said. One could only just see Martin breathing, his chest rising and falling slowly under a mound of blankets. As long as he breathed, he was alive. As long as he breathed, maybe Timballisto hadn’t lost everything. 

Gonff didn’t answer. He simply sat there, watching Timballisto expectantly.

“He disappeared,” Timballisto said finally. “One day, Martin and his grandmother were both gone. The only other thing missing was Martin’s sword.” He shook his head. “We didn’t find them. We didn’t find where they might have gone,” he lied. He found himself unable to admit what had really happened, unable to place the blame where it truly belonged. “We just knew… they hadn’t left on their own. We knew they wouldn’t be coming back.”

Gonff studied him. Timballisto tried not to squirm under the mousethiefs gaze.

“That’s all?”

“That was the last I saw of him,” that at least, was the truth, “Until he pulled me from the Bloodwake.”

“He was a slave,” Gonff said.

Timballisto couldn’t look at Gonff, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Martin. “I know.”

Gonff braced his feet on the bed, tilting back on the legs of his chair. “Any warlords up north?”

Timballisto whipped his head around to glare at him. “Martin was my friend first. If I knew anything else I would tell you. I don’t. That was the last time I saw him, and he never told me more.”

Gonff’s chair landed heavily on the floor. “Then I suppose the only question left is for when he wakes up.”

“And what would that be?”

“Do we ask him?”

*

Brockhall was lovely. Timballisto couldn’t argue with that if he wanted to. It was warm and homey, the ceilings were high and the rooms were huge. The place had been built for badgers, after all. As winter approached the fireplaces were always lit, effectively blocking out any chill from Mossflower itself.

Timballisto didn't really… like it. Or, it wasn’t that he didn’t like it. It was that being underground, without daylight, sometimes reminded him far too much of the searats galley.

Which was ridiculous, he knew it was. Brockhall was warm and comfortable, it was never stinking and stifling. He could go anywhere he wanted, never chained down. There was all the food he could eat from the kitchens, never starved and waiting for whatever scraps were thrown at them. It wasn’t the same at all.

It didn’t stop him from feeling as though the walls of Brockhall were closing in on him, that he might never be able to escape.

So, Brockhall was fine. It was. He simply would rather spend his time outside in Mossflower when he could. For the past few days, more often than not, that had meant aimlessly wandering. Sometimes gathering firewood or helping with foraging parties or whatever other work needed to be done. Mostly, however, it meant trying to avoid thinking about the fact that he had done nothing but avoid Martin for days.

Abbess Germaine and Columbine had confirmed it. A large portion of Martin’s memories were lost, the longer ago the more that was missing. Anything before his arrival in Mossflower was nothing more than a blur.

Timballisto hated being right.

He was chopping wood alone, more for something to do than any actual need for it, when he heard footsteps. It hadn’t begun to snow yet, but a thin layer of frost still lay across the woods. It cracked under Martin’s paws as he approached, wrapped in cloaks and leaning heavily on a wooden crutch.

“Need some help?”

Timballisto split one more log, looking at Martin only long enough to confirm it was him. “Are you allowed out?”

“Under supervision,” Martin nodded towards Gonff, watching them from just out of earshot.

“I think,” Timballisto said, struggling to sound as though nothing was wrong, “The Abbess would have my hide if I handed you an axe.”

Martin laughed, wincing as he slowly sat himself down on a nearby tree stump. He rested the crutch next to himself. “I’ve been trying to talk with you.”

They hadn’t been alone since the extent of Martin’s memory loss had become clear. Although, Timballisto wasn’t sure they had been alone since that first night after the Bloodwake had been taken. At least, not while Martin was awake. 

Timballisto stared at the axe in his paws to avoid turning to look at Martin. Finally he spoke. “Do you remember me?”

“I know you,” Martin said.

“But you don’t remember me.”

“No,” Martin admitted. “I remember rescuing you from the…” he faltered, “... from the ship. But nothing before that.”

Timballisto nodded. He grabbed another log, splitting it in half with one strike. One thing being an oar slave left you with, even with the starvation, was plenty of arm strength. “You don’t remember anything about our tribe? Our home?”

“I know… I know you,” Martin repeated. “I know my father’s name. I know my sword was his. But, it’s not like remembering. It’s simply knowing. Germaine said some things will be like that. The same way you know how to breathe or walk or speak.”

“So what do you remember?”

“It’s all jumbled. Germaine thinks the things that I do remember will become clearer over time, though perhaps not perfect. Especially if someone else can tell me about them.”

“Except,” Timballisto said, filling in the unspoken implication, “that’s for the things you can remember. What about the things you can’t?”

“Germaine think’s they’ll stay that way.”

“So,” he was out of logs to chop. He picked up one that had already been split and split it again, “even if I tell you everything I know, everything I remember, you still won’t remember it.”

Martin didn’t answer. Timballisto dumped the axe by the woodpile. “I’m going back to Brockhall.”

Martin grabbed his crutch, getting stiffly to his feet with no small effort. “Are you angry with me?”

“No!” Timballisto hadn’t looked at him since Martin had first sat down, and he didn’t look at him now. “I’m not angry at you.” His paws had curled into fists.

“What did I do?” Martin said. “If I did something- I don’t remember-”

“That’s the problem!” Timballisto snapped, finally turning to face his friend. “You don’t remember! Finding you again- seeing you alive- you rescuing me was like a dream. I had…” he shook his head, struggling for anything at all. “You were here! You were alive and- and I- and you could- I had you! I had- I could tell you- I had you and now you’re gone again!

Martin’s face turned to stone. “You think I’m not myself anymore?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what you said.”

“I can’t talk about this,” Timballisto turned away. “You should know what that’s like.” That was cruel and he knew it. “I’m going back to Brockhall.”

Martin didn’t follow him. Timballisto wished that he would.

*

Timballisto ducked into the central cave. 

“Windered, I was hoping you-” he frowned. It was empty. Odd since Windered was usually there preparing for dinner by now. It was normal for her to be alone in the cave, getting a start before the rest of the tribe, but it was strange for no one to be here at all.

Maybe she had simply been caught up in doing something else. Surely, that was why the cave in question was empty, the fire put out and the ashes long gone cold.

Timballisto let the curtain fall back over the entrance. “Twoola!” He called, spotting the old mouse tottering along the sand. “Have you seen Windred?”

“Not since this morning,” Twoola said, pausing. “She’s not in there?”

“I’m- I’m sure she’s fine. I was just going to- you know, it’s not important anyway.”

Twoola raised an eyebrow but nodded, returning to his walk. Timballisto scanned the beach. A few were tending to the struggling crops up on the clifftops. Two mice were busy repairing one of the curtains used to hide the cave entrances. Another group was braving the cold shallows, gathering mussels and shellfish and whatever else they could find.

Windred was nowhere to be seen. Even more alarming, Timballisto realized, neither was Martin.

Trying very hard to not run, Luke had placed him in charge, it wouldn’t do to look distressed, Timballisto made his way to the smallest of the caves.

It had lain mostly empty since Luke and others had left. More than enough weapons had been prepared in case they were needed, so there was no need to spend time in there making more. There was plenty of more important work that needed to be done.

The firepit in the center was cleaned out, stacks of javelins, bows, and arrows all lined up neatly along the walls. It wasn’t uncommon to find Martin in here, swinging Luke’s sword about where Windred wouldn’t find him and tell him off for nearly taking some beast’s eye out.

Except Martin wasn’t here.

When had he seen Windred last? This morning for certain. She had insisted he actually sit down for breakfast and he had brushed her off. There was too much to get done. He remembered grabbing a slice of bread and heading out as quickly as he could. He remembered Martin running out after him. He had brushed Martin off too.

“I don’t have time to play warriors with you, Martin.”

“I don’t want to play warriors, I want to help!”

Timballisto had stopped, looking down at Martin. Timballisto had his growth spurt last summer and was now over a head taller than Martin. Martin, however, was still young, Luke’s sword at his side, creating a furrow as the tip dragged across the sand behind him.

“You’re too little Martin,” Timballisto told him. “Go ask your grandmother.”

“You’re not that much older than me!”

“No, but Luke put me in charge. If you want to help, I’m sure Windred has something you can do.”

Martin kicked at a stone, skidding it towards the waves. “I can do more! When my father comes back I need to show him-”

“Luke’s not coming back, Martin,” Timballisto said harshly. Martin was the only one still under the impression that he would. Everyone had known the moment the Sanya sailed past the horizon. They wouldn’t be seeing it again. There was no point in wasting time thinking about what would happen if it ever returned. 

Martin’s face fell. Timballisto sighed. “I’ll figure out something you can do tomorrow, okay? I have to go, we’re running out of firewood and I need to make sure we have enough for the next few days.”

*

The Brockhall kitchen was empty except for a young mousemaid, another of the rescued slaves from the Bloodwake. Timballisto found Lissy busy chopping fruit for a pie filling, the counters coated in a thin layer of flour and fruit juice from her work. The kitchen already smelled heavenly.

Lissy smiled at him as he entered, her face stretched out and lopsided from the thick scar that stretched across it. An old result of a searats rapier, Timballisto had been there when it happened. It was nearly a miracle she had even survived it, trapped as they were with no possible medical care aside from rinsing it in seawater when they could.

“It’s nice to see you inside for once,” she said, still chopping away.

Timballisto sat across from her, snatching a slice of apricot. She swatted his paw away playfully.

“I’m inside plenty,” Timballisto said. “What are you making? It smells delicious.”

“Apricot and plum pie now,” Lissy nodded towards the oven, “but I have a nut loaf baking as well. And I might make biscuits.”

Lissy had a clean white bandage around one of her wrists. She had been scratching at her scars again. Timballisto had seen her when she was distressed, trapped too deep in horrific memories. Clawing might be a far more accurate description.

“Lissy,” Timballisto said, “are you feeling alright?”

She paused, the knife trembling in her paw. She returned to work with more force than strictly necessary. “I’m fine. What about you?”

Timballisto leaned back. “I don’t know. It’s… Martin. He’s lost a lot of his memories,” Timballisto said. He stole another apricot.

“I heard,” Lissy set the knife aside, sweeping the fruit into a bowl. “But the Abbess said it should get better, shouldn’t it?”

“No, yes. More recent memories, yes. The older things are going to be harder. She thinks…” he shook his head. “Most of before he came to Mossflower is gone. It’s unlikely it will come back.”

Lissy had started rolling out her pie dough. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding him?”

“I have not been avoiding him!”

“Yes,” Lissy said, “you have. Before he woke up you were with him all the time, by his side all hours of the day. And now it’s been days since you’ve even seen him.”

Timballisto was silent for a long time. Lissy didn’t push him. He watched her rolling out her dough, adding her filling, and carefully cutting out shapes for a decorative crust on top. It was only when she slid it into the oven, taking the nut loaf out in return that he finally spoke up again.

“He doesn’t remember me,” Timballisto said. “He doesn’t remember our home, or our tribe, or- or anything. He doesn’t know that…”

Lissy sat next to him, “Know what?”

“That..” Timballisto couldn’t look at her, “He doesn’t know that what happened to him is my fault.” He leaned his head back, looking up at the ceiling, the twisting roots that formed the roof. “What would you do, if you met someone from home again? What would you do if you’re responsible for something horrible happening to someone, but they don’t remember it? They don’t know… they don’t know that they shouldn’t be acting as though nothing is wrong because everything is wrong?”

“I think those are two separate questions.”

“Fine,” Timballisto rephrased, “what… what if you met your brother again? The one who sold you to the searats? But he didn’t remember what he did and expected everything to be the same as it was before?”

It was Lissy’s turn to be silent. She quickly stood, grabbing a fresh bowl and a fresh sack of flour.

“I’m sorry,” Timballisto stood up as well, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset, Tim,” Lissy assured him. “I’ve just… I have been thinking about it. My brother. A lot lately. And what I would do if I did see him again.” She looked up, locking eyes with Timballisto. “I think I would take the nearest weapon and kill him with it. But what happened to me and my brother is not the same as what happened with you and Martin.”

“You don’t know what happened with me and Martin.”

“I don’t know Martin well,” Lissy agreed, “but I do know you. My brother was only thinking of himself, and didn’t care what happened to me. He was selfish and cruel and he had been that way our whole lives. But you? Timballisto, you are one of the best creatures I have ever met. And you can’t make me believe that you ever, in a million seasons, would hurt Martin on purpose.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Timballisto said. “I would never have done that on purpose.”

“So what did you do?”

Timballisto sunk back into his seat. “Nothing. I did nothing.”

*

There wasn’t enough of the tribe left to risk sending out anymore than one search party, just Timballisto and two others.

The tracks ended where sand became stone. They scoured the rocky coast for anything that pointed towards Martin and Windred. The light was dimming quickly, but they were reluctant to light tortures. If someone had captured them, they didn’t want to bring attention to themselves in return, and by extension the rest of the tribe. Over the seasons they had all learned the dangers of the northern coast far too well. They knew better than to risk shouting either. The only remaining option was to hope they could be spotted.

“Timballisto,” Caitir, one of the searchers, a bowl and arrow slung over her shoulders, motioned him over to where she and Resta were ducked down behind a ridge. “You’ll want to see this.”

Timballisto was instantly on alert. Caitir pulled him down next to them, pointing towards the beach. “Look.”

It was a ship. Crashed onto the rocks, smashed far beyond repair. It hadn’t been there long Timballisto was certain of. At the very least it hadn’t been there the last time a foraging party had gone this way.

Even from here, Timballisto could see what Caitir and Resta had truly been concerned about. It was a galley ship, the oars smashed and tossed aside on the rocks, the rusted chains still attached to them glinting red and orange in the light of the sunset.

“We have to go-” Timballisto tried to stand, only to instantly be pulled back down by Resta.

“We can’t,” Resta said.

“Martin and Windred only disappeared this morning, they can’t be far,” Timballisto snatched his arm from her grasp. “A crew like that can’t move fast, we can catch up with them and-”

“And what?” Caitir said. “You know very well the three of us cannot take on a whole crew of searats.”

“We need to get back the caves,” Resta said. “They may be coming this way next.”

“You want to just leave them?” Timballisto couldn’t hide the tremble in his voice. It wasn’t very becoming of someone who was supposed to be in charge. He struggled to regain a semblance of command. “If they have Martin and Windred-”

“If,” Caitir shook her head. “Even with the whole tribe we couldn’t fight them. Timballisto, you know we’re right.”

“Luke left me in charge!” Timballisto snapped. “Not you! We can’t just leave them captured- or worse-”

“Luke left you in charge,” Resta said, “Because he trusted you to do what is best for the entire tribe. And you know what that is.”

He didn’t want it to be. Timballisto looked back to the ship. It was large, perhaps not the size of the red ship that had terrorized them so long ago, but still far larger than the Sanya had been.

Even if every member of the tribe could fight, which was far from being the case, there was no guarantee they would be successful. Resta and Caitir were both right, and Timballisto knew it.

Timballisto sunk down behind the ridge, his eyes closed. Resta and Caitir were watching him. 

Maybe they didn’t need to take on the whole crew? If all they needed was Martin and Windred they could sneak into the corsair camp once night fell and simply grab the two of them and get out before anyone even noticed they were gone? But surely they had other creatures enslaved as well and it would take more than three of them to get them all? Did they have time to go back to the tribe and gather everyone who could fight? What if the corsairs didn’t even stop for the night? What if there were more guards than expected? Even if they got Martin and Windred out, what if the corsairs tracked them back to the caves? What if they got themselves captured as well? Resta and Caitir both had children waiting back with the tribe, could he risk leaving those children orphans?

Timballisto wasn’t Luke. Resta and Caitir would not follow his decision simply because he was the one to give the order. If Timballisto was to make a decision, it had to be the right one.

Two creatures weren’t worth the whole tribe.

Oh how he wished they were.

“He’s Luke’s son.”

“Then,” Caitir said, “it’s a good thing Luke will never know.”

Timballisto opened his eyes, taking one last look at the crashed ship. “We’re going back. We’ll disguise the caves, wait a few days to make sure no one comes back this way.”

He had to protect the rest of the tribe, didn’t he? Even if it meant leaving some of them behind?

*

"Why are you avoiding Martin?”

Timballisto looked up to see Gonff, leaning casually against one of the nearby beds. Of course the mousethief had been certain to corner him in one of the Brockhall dorms, when there was no one else was around, and Timballisto was standing too far from the door to make a quick and easy escape. Gonff was far more clever than some would give him credit for.

“Will everyone stop saying that?”

“Maybe when it stops being true,” Gonff laid back on the nearest bed, his paws behind his head, his eyes closed, the picture of relaxation. Anyone would think he wasn’t even listening. But Timballisto knew better than to think he would be leaving this conversation without an answer.

“So,” Gonff said, “why are you avoiding Martin?”

“He nearly died,” Timballisto said, “and yet I’m the one he’s worried about.”

“That’s Martin for you,” Gonff cracked open one eye. “Germaine put him back on bedrest, so he doesn’t have a lot else to do. And you won’t visit him.”

Timballisto crossed his arms. There had to be some way to get Gonff to leave. “I’m not angry at Martin.”

“Good. So why are you avoiding him?”

The silence stretched on. Timballisto uncrossed his arms, only to cross them again a moment later. “If I tell you I have something very important to do, can I leave?”

“No.”

“If I tell you I’m going to visit Martin, can I leave?”

“Of course, but I’m walkin’ there with you.”

There was more silence. Finally Timballisto, deciding his options were either run for the door at breakneck speed or attempt to form an answer, he attempted to form an answer. “He doesn’t remember.”

“So? That means you aren’t mates anymore?”

“No!” Timballisto shook his head. “It’s not about him. It’s- it’s about me.” Timballisto sat heavily on one of the beds. “I can’t see him.”

Gonff rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one paw. “Go on.”

There was another very long silence, made worse by the fact that Gonff was now actually looking at him, instead of his previously feigned disinterest.

“It’s my fault,” Timballisto said finally. “I’m the reason Martin disappeared.”

Gonff sat up like a bolt, any and all traces of civility gone. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t hurt him!” Timballisto clarified quickly. “Not on purpose or anything. But… when Martin’s father left, he put me in charge of the tribe. I should have been watching him or- I was in charge. And when Martin and his grandmother disappeared… I called off the search. If I had kept going- maybe we could have gotten him back. Maybe we could have-” Maybe he could have saved Martin. Maybe if he had been able to save Martin he would have known how to save the rest of the tribe as well.

Martin and Windred had been his first failure in leading the tribe, but they had been far from his last.

“How long ago was this?” Gonff interrupted. 

“What? Um, I don’t know.” Timballisto had long since lost track of how many seasons had passed while on the Bloodwake. “A while ago?”

“So, how old were you when you got left in charge?”

“Uh,” Timballisto shook his head. “Ten or eleven seasons maybe? I’m not sure.”

“You were ten seasons old,” Gonff said, taking the more generous estimate, “and you were put in charge of the entire tribe?”

“Luke took everyone who was old enough to fight with him,” Timballisto explained. “And it wasn’t a very large tribe, so there weren’t too many of us left. We didn’t have enough to go after Martin-”

Gonff held up a paw. “There was no one else who could have been in charge?”

“I suppose there was,” Anyone would have been a better choice than him, Timballisto thought now. They would have known what to do when Martin and Windred had left. They would have known what to do when that winter Timballisto hadn’t planned the crops out right and they got hit by an early frost so there wasn’t enough food to go around. They would have known what to do when the searats landed on their shores and tore down every defense they had ever made. “But it doesn’t matter. Luke chose me. I was responsible and I let Martin disappear, I let him get captured, and- and then I let the entire tribe get captured and I couldn’t do anything to stop it!”

 Timballisto leapt to his feet. “It was my tribe! They were my creatures and I let all of them down and now Martin is-” his rant began to falter, the anger that had been in his voice a moment ago fading, “If I had Martin again, maybe I hadn’t failed. Maybe I could fix it. At least… at least I wouldn’t have failed all of them. Except I don’t have Martin anymore.”

“You want Martin to forgive you.”

Timballisto sunk back to the bed. “I was supposed to protect him,” Timballisto said softly. “And I failed. I failed Martin, and his grandmother, and Luke, and the entire tribe. How can I-  how can I be around Martin- how can he be around me if he doesn’t know? If I can’t… if I can’t apologize?”

It seemed like a pathetically small gesture, but what else was there to do? He couldn’t change whatever it was that had happened to Martin. He couldn’t change what the rest of the tribe had suffered. If he could apologize, if Martin could forgive him then… well, then maybe he could at least live with himself. Maybe he could at least look Martin in the eyes without thinking of all the ways he had failed.

Gonff leaned forwards. His expression, for once, was solemn. “Martin doesn’t blame you. With or without his memories.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I know Martin,” Gonff pushed himself to his feet. “You won’t believe it from me though. So, go talk to Martin.”

*

It took another day before Timballisto actually managed to work up the courage to visit him. But he couldn’t avoid Martin forever. Maybe he could?

No, he couldn’t. Not unless he was willing to leave Mossflower and somehow that felt like a worse option.

Martin was awake when Timballisto arrived. He was propped up in bed, sketching something out on a parchment alongside Abbess Germaine. Martin looked up, setting aside the parchment the moment he noticed Timballisto.

“Tim!”

“Can I speak with you? Alone, if that’s alright, Abbess?” Timballisto asked. He had one paw clinging to the doorframe. He could still leave. He didn’t want to have this conversation. He didn’t want to know the answer. Gonff had told him not to worry, sure, but the worst outcome wouldn’t leave Timballisto’s mind. 

What if Martin didn’t forgive him?

Abbess Germaine stood, looking to Martin, who nodded. 

“I’ll be back later,” Abbess Germaine smiled, patting Timballisto on the shoulder as she left. Timballisto only just managed to free his paw from the lintel as the door clicked shut behind her. He didn’t move any closer to Martin’s bed. He wasn’t sure he could say it if he did.

The second between the door closing Martin speaking felt as though it lasted an eternity. Martin looked incredibly young. He was strong and hardened and grown now, still heavily bandaged, but propped up under pillows and blankets, with the parchment and charcoal staining his paws Timballisto couldn’t help but think of Martin when they were children, before everything had gone wrong.

Timballisto supposed he himself had been a child too, but it had never felt that way. You were always old, you were never a child, and those younger than you were always children.

Martin hefted himself into a slightly more upright position, “Timbal-”

“Stop,” Timballisto said quickly. If he didn’t say it now, he wasn’t sure he ever would, “I need to go first.” He took a deep breath, “I’m sorry. I’m not angry at you. I’m not upset that you can’t remember our past. Well,  I am, a little, but it’s not you I’m upset with. It’s… I need to tell you, because you don’t remember, but I can’t keep going around like everything is normal when-” he was rambling now, Timballisto knew he couldn’t allow himself to stop, “I tried to talk to you about it, after the Bloodwake, but you didn’t want to talk about it, so I assumed that was fine, you had a lot happening, we can talk about it later, but then you were injured and there wasn’t a later because you were injured and when you woke up- there wasn’t a later anymore.

“It’s my fault,” Timballisto said, speaking so quickly the worse almost ran together. The space between the bed and the door may as well have been miles between them. “Whatever happened to you between when you disappeared from the tribe and when you arrived in Mossflower. It’s my fault. I’m sorry, and I know that saying I’m sorry doesn’t do anything, I-”

Martin just shook his head. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes it is,” Timballisto insisted. “Luke left me in charge. It was my choice not to keep looking for you and your grandmother. I was in charge, and I let you disappear. I let you get taken.”

“Whatever happened to me,” Martin said, “is not your fault.”

“How can you say that if you don’t remember?”

Martin didn’t answer at first. He was looking down at his wrists, running one of his paws over the other ones. “I’ve been trying to remember. I can’t.” He looked up, “I never told you what happened to me?”

“No,” Timballisto said. “I tried to ask. You said you couldn’t speak about it.”

Martin nodded. He paw continued to hold at his wrist. It was one of the few wounds on his body that wasn’t currently wrapped in bandages. It didn’t need to be. Unlike so many of the others, these were long scarred over.

“I know you,” Martin said. “I know how I felt when I saw you on the Bloodwake. I remember that I had never thought I would see you again. I…” Martin frowned, his brow furrowed, struggling to sort through whatever memories remained. “Whatever may have happened to me, I never blamed you for it.”

Slowly Timballisto stepped across the room, sinking into the chair by Martin’s bed. The first few days after the battle the chair had never been empty. Either Timballisto or Gonff had been seated in it more often than not. The few times they were kicked out, to eat or bathe, or to simply not be in the way while his bandages were changed, Columbine or Abbess Germaine had taken their place instead.

“It’s not just you,” Timballisto wiped tears from his cheeks. He wasn't sure when he had started crying. “The rest of our tribe is lost because of me. I failed you, and I failed them. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t… I shouldn’t have been in charge.”

He shouldn’t have been in charge, Timballisto realized for perhaps the first time. There had been others more adept at leading the tribe. Windred, Caitir, even Twoola. Anyone who had more life experience than a ten season old orphan who was only alive because he was good at rock climbing. 

Luke had made a terrible choice in who he left behind.

“No,” Martin took Timballisto’s paw. “What happened to me is not your fault, nor is what happened to the rest of the tribe. The only creatures to blame are the vermin who cares nothing for the lives of other beasts. Gonff told me you want me to forgive you.”

Timballisto let out a choked laugh, his throat thick with tears. “Of course he told you. Hold on, did you tell him to talk to me?”

“You wouldn’t talk to me!” Martin laughed, he had tears in his eyes as well, “And Germaine wouldn’t let me out again. But all he said was that you were worried I was the one angry with you. Timbal, I can’t forgive you because there is nothing to forgive.”

More tears poured down his cheeks. A weight he had never even realized was there had been pulled from his shoulders. Timballisto clutched Martin’s paw tighter. “Our entire tribe, Martin. And we’re all that’s left of it.”

Martin didn’t let go of him. He moved the parchment he had been working on back onto his lap. It was blueprints for a castle or fortress of some sort. “Then we can make certain that what happened to our old tribe cannot and will not happen to our new one.”

[karahalloway]

The Highwayman: Part III - The Highwayman Comes Riding

Fandom: TRR (Historical AU)

Pairing: Drake Walker x F!OC (Harper Gale)

Series Summary: On a dark, moonlit night, a highwayman's luck runs out...

Masterlist: The Highwayman

Chapter Summary: Drake arrives, but it's too late...

Word Count: 4,100

Rating/Warnings: M (swearing, physical violence, murder, grief, suicidal thoughts, main character death) Do not read if you are triggered by any of these things!

Chapter theme song:

A/N1: As with Part II of this series, this installment is also quite grim and dark. So read at your own peril. There is no happy ending. As before, I have made some changes to the original, but hopefully, these are for the better.

A/N2: This is my third and final submission for @choicesprompts January 2024 Song Rewrite Challenge. The song I chose to rewrite is The Highwayman by Loreena McKennit.

Part III - The Highwayman Comes Riding

The crack of a musket explodes out into the night.

I duck instinctively, pistols primed and itching to return fire...

...until I realise that the shot had come from the casement.

My throat constricts. "Harper..."

But she has vanished behind the plume of powder smoke that now obscures her window.

"Shit..."

I'd known something was wrong the moment I laid eyes on her. She'd been too tense, too still, sitting on that ledge, more akin to a doll than a flesh-and-blood woman...

...but I'd spotted the silvery gleam of the barrel too late, and now all hell has broken loose.

Fucking Beaumont.

I should never have let my guard down.

Heedless of the preservation of my own skin, I leap forward, fingers on triggers, desperate to reach her.

Another flash of orange...

...and my hat sails from atop my head as a bullet goes just wide of its mark.

I raise a weapon, volleys of lead peppering the thatch to my left and right...

...but I am quickly forced to confront the obvious.

I cannot risk it.

The darkness, in combination with the smoke screen being kicked up by the 'Coats flintlocks obscures my sight into the room, and Harper's location within.

And though I desire nothing more than to dispatch each and every one of Beaumont's whoresons to the depths of hell, the truth is that I'd be firing blind. And I wouldn't be able to live with myself if my bullet found Harper instead of a dragoon.

So, I have but one choice.

Flank the bastards.

Spinning 'round, I dash back down the length of the roof, bullets nipping at my coattails. Diving to the side, I return a pair of retaliatory shots in the general direction of the inn — careful to avoid the actual window — so the 'Coats are under no illusion as to the direction of my retreat.

Sliding down the thatch, I push off from the roof to land bodily atop the muck heap.

Not the most graceful of my escapes, I have to admit, but beggars can't be choosers. And I am pressed for time that I do not have.

Rolling off the pile of shit, I quickly sheath my spent pistols and lope towards the barn with sabre drawn instead.

Emile, the stable hand, had paid back my previous generosity by making me wise to the unsavoury nature of the guests that had descended on the inn. So, instead of hitching Drogon and the new palfrey up in a stall, I've taken the added precaution of hiding the horses out in the gorse.

But where I erred was thinking that the Greencoat patrol had sought the inn out for benign purposes. Because it sure as hell hadn't been me who'd plotted the course for them. In fact, I've always taken care to ensure that my tracks never led directly back to Harper.

Which begs the question... How the fuck did I end up walking into an ambush? With Gale strung up as bait?

My grip tenses on the hilt of my sword.

Someone had let the cat out of the bag. They must've. There's no other explanation.

Who? I have no clue. As there are a grand total of two souls who are privy to the secret that I frequent The Crown, and neither would betray me.

Not willingly, at least...

But, first things first.

Skirting along the shadow of the structure's perimeter, I arrive at the stable doors.

It appears quiet. But after being greeted by gunfire once already this eve, I am loath to take further chances.

Pinching up a handful of peddles, I toss them through the doorway. Only when no shots fire in reply, do I dare slip inside.

"Sir?" comes the hesitant query from within the shadows. "That ye? I heard musket fire an'—"

My sabre slices through the night. "Thought I'd be dead?"

The boy's countenance morphs into a mask of horror as the blade comes to rest 'neath his jaw. "Nay, sir! I'd never! I—"

"Care to swear on that?" I interject with a dangerous edge.

"On a tower of Bibles stacked on my parents' graves, sir!" Emile vouches with a tremble to his voice.

I assess the lad under the pale light of the moon. His face is ashen but his eyes glint with steadfast surety.

I lower my blade. "The 'Coats have Harper..."

The hand emits a gasp of disbelief. "Sacré dieu...!"

"...and I could use your assistance," I add, moving to the closest stall that houses a mount bearing Greencoat livery.

"Anything, sir," he proclaims earnestly. "Yerself an' Mistress Harper ha' always been good t' me!"

"Fetch a bag of oats," I direct as I grab the reins of the bay gelding. "And a length of rope if you have it."

"Right away, sir!"

While Emile sets about his task, I lead the Greencoat mount out onto the gangway. Reaching for the girth, I tighten it back up before slipping the bridle off and tossing it into the straw.

"The things ye requested, sir," huffs Emile, reappearing once more.

"Good," I approve, taking the sack of feed from him. "Now, help me lash this to the saddle."

Working in tandem, we quickly secure the decoy atop the horse. Shrugging out of my justacorps — on top of the retribution for Harper, that cunt of a Beaumont also owes me a new hat and coat — I sling the muck- and bullet hole-ridden covering over the sack to complete the trick.

"Think'll fall for it, sir?" asks Emile as he meets my eye from across the horse's neck.

"Better pray to God they do," I reply, slapping the mount on the rear to send it galloping out into the night. "Else this might very well be our last meeting."

Emile's throat bobs in consternation. "Best o' luck to ye, then, sir."

"Christ knows I'll need it," I accede, grasping his palm to press a gold ducat into it. "Now, make yourself scarce afore the dragoons show up."

With a quick nod, the lad disappears back into the gloom of the barn.

Withdrawing from the stables once more, I skirt 'round the far side of the building, careful to keep to the shadows. Hopping the low fence of the vegetable patch, I make my way towards the low door that leads into the kitchen.

Trying the handle, I find it unlocked. Pulling the heavy wooden door back, I slip warily inside.

The crash of boots above me confirms that the Greencoats have fallen for my ruse. But there is no guarantee that every last one of their dastardly lot plans to depart the inn.

Belvedere Beaumont may be a godless dog, but he is by no means a fool.

Which means I'll need to keep ahold of my wits... and weapons.

Pausing at the bottom of the short set of stone steps that lead up to the main hall, I spare a moment to quickly reload my flintlocks.

Slotting one gun back into my belt, I grasp the hilt of my sabre in one hand, and the second pistol in the other before ascending the stairs.

The hall is dark... and quiet.

Whatever patrons there may have been must've made themselves scarce upon the discharge of the first shot.

Honestly? I cannot blame them. I certainly would not wish to be caught on the wrong side of the dragoon's crossfire.

I clench my eyes shut. Please, let her be safe...

Moving through the hall like a ghost, I arrive at the main staircase.

Cocking my pistol, I proceed onto the first step with as much care as I can muster, even as every fibre of my body is raring to dash upwards as quickly as humanly possible.

Sticking to the wall, I inch my way slowly towards the second floor, flintlock before me, on guard for the faintest sound or movement.

Reaching the landing without incident, I am greeted by the wanton destruction left in the wake of the dragoon besiegement.

My jaw piques in ire.

This had been punition — pure and simple. The setting of a heavy-handed example to put the fear of God into the hearts of all those who may cross paths with Beaumont and his men.

A warning of what will befall those who dare defy the letter of the law.

I shake my head. I should never have involved—

A shadow moves in one of the rooms to my left.

Flattening myself against the wall, I sneak a peek through the doorway...

...and what I see roils my guts.

Robert Gale — the inn-keep — is hunched over the chest standing in front of the large, four-poster bed, his hands bound behind him, his shirt and hair matted with sweat. A dark puddle of blood pools at his feet.

Two 'Coats root through the things in the room, pocketing anything that catches their eye and fancy, sniggering amongst themselves.

A hiss of chagrin escapes me. "Putain de merde..."

There is punishment, and then there is persecution. And Harper's father is — without a shadow of a doubt — a victim of the latter. The extent of his wounds provides ample proof of Beaumont's abuse of his authority.

And I cannot allow myself to stand idly by in the face of this atrocity.

I step out of the gloom and into the doorway.

A floorboard creaks beneath my boot.

One of the dragoons glances up...

...but by the time his faculties have clocked the fact that I am foe, not friend, I have already splattered his brains onto the wall behind him.

His compatriot meets the same fate half a breath later, as he fumbles ineffectually for his musket, his body thudding to the floor as the second of my bullets also finds sharp and swift retribution.

Robert Gale's voice croaks out from the foot of the bed. "Ye should'a left them alone, lad..."

But even that simple act is too much for his broken body, and he starts to hack violently.

Taking three quick strides 'cross the room, I manage to grab the old man 'fore he keels over. "Easy now..."

He heaves a shuddering breath 'gainst my breast. "Now, we'll be strung up fer sure..."

"Nay," I counter softly, reaching behind him to loosen the bonds that secure his wrists. "You just lay the blame at my feet. Where it belongs."

Robert twists his neck up to regard me with bruised eyes and cracked lips. "Yer him... The Raven Rider..."

"Amongst other things..." I admit, lowering him as gently as I can to the floor.

The inn-keep hacks out a strained laugh. "Aye... I can see why she likes you..."

"Have you seen her?" I demand, shrugging out of my waistcoat to press it to the wound at his side.

"Nay," Robert replies hoarsely. "Not since they found the gold in her room..."

The icy hand of dread grips my heart. "Sweet Jesus...How the bloody hell did they even know where to look?"

"Théo..." comes the raspy confession. "He... He heard—"

I nearly choke on my own breath. "The window..."

We never closed the damn window...

Springing to my feet, I dash from the room, heedless of the sound of wood striking wood as my booted feet pound the length of the hallway.

How could I have let myself be such a careless fool!

Not only have I tarred the woman I love by virtue of our association, but I've unwittingly led the bastards right to her! And if they found out about the gold, then...

I cannot allow myself to even think on that.

Skidding to a stop in front of the last doorway, I throw myself inside...

...and skid to an abrupt halt as I lay eyes on the horror spread out before of me.

"No..."

The dogged denial slips from my tongue in a whisper.

But my lack of acceptance does nothing to assuage the merciless truth of the reality that assaults me like a thousand knives to my chest.

Harper lies prone in the moonlight, bound and gagged, her golden tresses soaked in the slick crimson of her blood.

"No... No..."

My feet carry me unthinkingly to her listless form beneath the casement — the window of which sits still ajar — and I crash to my knees at her side.

Grasping her by the shoulders, I pull her to me with trembling hands, praying under my breath, hoping against hope that it's a mere trick of the night, a cruel misjudgement, a sordid nightmare that I have somehow stumbled into, soon to awake from...

...but even though her skin still feels warm to the touch, no breath issues from her chest and those hazel eyes that once sparkled with magic and love now stare dully out into the night.

My nails dig into her flesh as my body bows over hers. "Oh, God... Please... No..."

But if the Almighty Lord hears my plea, He is either a heartless bastard or an impotent fraud because He ignores my beseeachment. And she remains unmoving 'gainst my heart.

"NO!!!"

The delegation roars forth from my chest with a force that is naked in its brutality. The heathen keen echoes out into the night as the bitter taste of anguish engulfs my throat and my soul shatters 'neath the stars.

I am too late. And she is dead.

Shot in the heart and left to bleed out on the cold floor like a dog. Alone. Without any assurances or prayer.

All because I'd allowed my heart to sway my head. Convincing myself that despite all my prior misdeeds, I could nevertheless steal a future for myself. A future I had no right or claim to. A future that was more akin to the spectre of a mirage than any flesh-and-blood destiny. A future that was doomed from the start.

Yet my covetousness knew no bounds. And blinded as I had been by the promise of the lie I'd weaved not just myself but Harper as well, I'd led us into the mire of disaster.

"It should've been me..." I rasp into her neck as anguish blurs my vision. "It fucking should've been me..."

I hear the floorboards strain behind me. But I care not. I have no words or sentiment left. And if it's one of Beaumont's enterprising men come to shoot me in the back? Well, then at least they'll be doing me the favour of putting me out of my luckless misery.

Because the knowledge that I have doomed the woman I love cuts deeper than any mortal knife could.

And I've lost the right to live anyway.

"Imma sorry, lad..." says Robert Gale, laying a calloused hand on my shoulder, his own voice cracking.

I shrug the gesture off. I don't deserve his pity. Let alone his succour. I am the one holding the body of his dead daughter in my arms. If anything, he should be setting on me to tear limb from limb in payment for my sins.

Yet, he does no such thing.

"Had I know afore tonight 'bout ye..." He heaves a hoarse breath from above me. "But I s'pose we all had our secrets... And I know it inna any consolation as of now, but we'll bury her 'neath the oak tree. Next t' her mother. That way ye can—"

"Them," I bite out through clenched teeth.

The old man shifts. "What do ye—?"

"She was with child," I grit, reaching up to pull the bloodied gag from her face.

Robert falls into deathly silence beside me.

"So, raise your hand," I tell him bluntly as I pull her eyes gently closed. "Beat me. Wring my neck. Kill me, for all I care. For this is the only opportunity I'll afford you to exact your just vengeance upon me."

"Ye must think very little o' me, if ye think I'd strike a grieving man," rebuts the inn-keep with a hint of steel. "Let alone one who loved my daughter so."

"Then you are a better man than me," I reply solemnly, leaning in one last time to lay a kiss on her lifeless lips.

"Imma'n older man," he corrects as I gently return Harper's head to the floor. "Who's stood where yer standin'. So, I can afford some clemency. 'Specially in this bitter hour."

"You might come to regret your choice," I reply, forcing myself back to my feet. "As I bring nothing but death. And our paths will not cross again after tonight."

"Where ye goin'?" comes the flummoxed query as I push past him.

I throw my reply carelessly over my shoulder. "To exact vengeance of my own."

"They'll kill ye, lad!" Robert calls after me as I stride from the room. "They'll hang ye fer murder! And her death will've been fer n—!"

"I'm a dead man anyway."

Without caring to look back, I let my boots carry me back 'cross the corridor to retrieve my weapons from where I'd left them in the master bedroom.

Reloading the pistols on the fly, I stash them in my belt and I beat a determined path back to the lower level of the inn and out into the night.

The crash of the door 'gainst the wall catches unawares the pair of dragoons that had been left to stand watch on the exterior. But by the time they turn towards me, I have already run both of them through.

Leaving the sods to bleed out in the mud, I plunge into the darkness rising before me.

The cold, winter air whips through my hair, stinging my eyes and my lips in sharp contrast to the hot blood slithering between my knuckles.

But I pay it no need. For I have but one goal. One mission.

To take every soul I can into the night.

Because death? It is all but assured for me. As whether I go by my own bullet or a Greencoat's, it is simply a matter of choice at this point. For I have no reason left to live.

My world turned to ash the moment she died. And there is nothing left to salvage.

Coming to a halt some ways off from the inn, I shoot a sharp whistle into the depths of the murk. A shadowy form raises its head from the gorse, and in the next instant, Drogon is trotting eagerly towards me, the new palfrey in tow.

"Change of plans, mon gross," I advise as he comes to a stop in front of me, breath steaming in the moonlight. "And I don't think you're going to like it..."

The Merèns regards me for a moment, as if sensing the shift in my soul, before letting out a world-weary sigh.

"You always were far too opinionated," I tell him dryly, reaching up to untether the palfrey from his saddle.

Turning the bay towards the stables, I give it a slap on the rump to send it on its way. With Harper gone, I have no further use for the horse. And Emile will ensure it is well cared for.

The stallion shakes his head at me as I swing myself onto his back. But I allow him no further opportunity for protest as I gather the reins in one hand, and point him north.

"Hue!"

Upon command, Drogon leaps forward, and the night becomes a blur as we fly across the moor, like an ill wish upon the wind, seeking our quarry 'neath the path of the stars.

I have no clue for how long we ride. The silvery eye of the hunter's moon casts an eerie pall over the land, distorting any earthly sense of time or distance as its lunar magic stretches shadows and swallows minutes.

Eventually, though, from out of the darkness and the mist appears a ghostly glow, bobbing on the brow of the hill.

"Beaumont," I growl, watching the company ride closer.

They must have caught the horse and realised the nature of the ruse they had fallen prey to.

But it matters not. The time for tricks and cons has passed. There is no more running... No more hiding. No more trying to cheat or contrive our fates. The last of the road has run out.

It is judgment hour.

Wrenching the flintlocks from my belt, I press Drogon forward, down into the valley, down into the well of our doom.

Yet a strange sense of calm blankets me as we draw level with the oncoming troop. Perhaps because my heart already stopped beating the moment I laid eyes on her. And this last, earthly act is merely a formality. Or, I'm so drunk on the potent potion of grief and bloodlust that swirls through my veins that I've become numb to all else.

Either way, I am a shadow of the man I once was. And welcome the sweet promise of release.

The reins slip from my fingers as I raise the pistols to sight my shot.

The figures of men and horses coalesce from out of the gloom, torches borne aloft.

I reach the edge of the sphere of light...

... and let the first shot fly.

The lead dragoon's eyes widen in surprise as the crack of flint 'gainst frizzen ignites the black powder in the pan, splintering the calm of the night.

The lead round explodes out of the barrel in a flash of smoke and fire, hurtling through the air to imbed itself in the soft flesh of the man's cheek, shattering teeth and bone as it goes.

The shock of the impact causes the 'Coat to jerk back on the length of his reins, pulling his horse into the path of its neighbour.

Taking advantage of the confusion, I fire another round into the heaving mess of bodies, catching a horse in the shoulder, causing it to throw its rider from its back.

Cries of horror and surprise rise up as the precisely stacked formation careens into itself, turning both man and beast into a maelstrom of panic.

Slinging the spent weapons into the night, I whirl Drogon back 'round, his hooves rearing into the air as he seeks to redirect the sharpness of his momentum.

Whipping my sabre from its sheath, a hellish howl erupts from my throat as I point the tip of the blade across the narrow divide in vengeful promise.

"BEAUMONT!"

A glint of gold flashes in the middle of the fray as my target snaps his head up at the sound of his name.

"Shoot him, you whelps!" screams the captain, grabbing for his own pistol. "Blast him dead!"

But I am already charging forward.

Shots crack out into the night as I bear down upon my mark...

...and there is but one prayer on my lips.

"I am coming, mon coeur..."

I am almost upon the wall of dragoons when I feel Drogon stumble. Another round pierces my gut a breath later. A third lodges in my shoulder.

But still, I urge the stallion on...

...until his knees give way in the face of the desperate volley of bullets and he careens into the mud, taking me with him, mere steps from my goal.

A thousand pounds of horseflesh crashes down on me, pinning my leg 'neath the weight. My sabre clatters from my hand to vanish into the tangles of the gorse beside me.

The back of my head collides with the ground, and I find myself staring up into the black expense above me, my body broken, my senses reeling.

Drogon lifts his head briefly, attempting to pull himself to his feet, before succumbing to the inherent futility of the exercise with a mournful sigh.

"It's alright, mon gross," I whisper, attempting to comfort the wounded beast lying atop me, even as my vision skips and my lungs struggle for breath as a familiar wetness drenches my shirt.

This is not the way I planned to go. But it seems I left what remained of my luck in that cramped room where my love had blossomed and then died.

Fitting, really...

A pistol clicks above me.

With the last of my strength, I reach beneath my shirt, where Harper's talisman lies coiled 'gainst my heart.

Twisting the damp silk 'round my finger, I close my eyes with a final exhale.

…look for me by the moonlight.

They say that in the depths of the dark — when the moon is high and full — that the sound of hooves may be heard, galloping 'cross the moor...

And though you may not glimpse it, a ghostly rider's there. Searching for his love, they say, who gave her life for his...

If he finds her, 'tis not known; but he made a solemn vow to her. And a promise bound in blood and silk, is a promise that must be filled...

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[purpleqilinwrites]

the body is a soft animal.

a/n: i have a long-ish fic planned for a cyberpunk 2077 au with nanami on the brain. i just had a specific scene that haunted me and i didn't where to put it in terms of the fic, so i just wrote it (also because i needed a taster of sorts to motivate me into writing the rest of the fic). also, this is the longest piece i've written in a while, so i just want to celebrate a little haha.

fandom: jujutsu kaisen

character: nanami kento

genre: general / fluff (can be read as either platonic or romantic)

info: cyberpunk 2077 au; reader is a ripperdoc; nanami is a merc

warnings: mentions of injury; mentions of killing

synopsis: nanami wasn't sick but still, he found his way to you.

word count: 2.4k

companion fic to "these unfamiliar intimacies".

Nanami Kento

When you remotely unlocked the door to your clinic after hearing Nanami's voice over the intercom, the first thing out of your mouth was "Are you hurt?" He was inclined to say that he wasn't. At least, not physically. He came to see you after a particularly taxing gig that also happened to be physically strenuous, but it wasn't the lingering soreness in his muscles that made him want to see you.

"I'm not," he said after a while.

You had turned away from your workstation in the interval between your simple question and his admittedly late answer, and he could easily guess the next thing you'd ask him.

The question "Are you sick?" was formed in a warped version of your voice, ringing in his ears before the words left your mouth. Your voice didn't register the same way it did when he imagined it in his head, and it made him think that maybe, just maybe he was a little bit sick, after all.

"Physically, no."

You gestured to the examination table beside your workstation, turning your back to him once more to start up the necessary diagnostics equipment for a full-body scan. Nanami acquiesced, quietly crossing the room and adjusting the backrest himself before removing his shoes and then lying down.

The synthetic leather was freshly sanitised, traces of the bergamot-identical antiseptic spray you favoured wafting up into his nostrils. Glancing up at your side profile, he couldn't tell if you had been napping on the examination table before he interrupted it by unexpectedly announcing his presence over the intercom.

When you spun yourself to face him in your swivel chair, he lifted his hand so that you could jack him in for the scan. There was a sound that confirmed the security of the connection, and then there was a different sound that signalled the start of the process. A loading icon began playing in a loop on the little square screen on the largest of the machines, hovering over text that read "SCAN IN PROGRESS". The two monitors on your desk lit up, one with empty progress bars that quickly filled up and the other with a multitude of pop-up messages he didn't bother reading.

"From a medical standpoint, you're entirely healthy. All your cybernetic implants are in good working condition as well," you said, disconnecting him from your equipment. "If you'd like more specific tests run, we'll have to move to the university hospital in Shibuya."

Nanami met your gaze, and he wondered if you had to learn it. If you had to learn to keep your eyes emotionally vacant but intellectually keen. If it ever came in useful when breaking a notably dismal piece of news to someone.

A sigh escaped him before he could reel himself in.

"I came here to talk, actually," he said, sitting up. Your eyes never wavered. Instead, you simply hummed in acknowledgement and drew closer to him on the examination table.

Nanami readjusted the backrest so that he could sit comfortably, though it was more to keep his hands busy. He didn't know what he was doing. What was he trying to accomplish? He did mention wanting to talk. What did he want to talk to you about anyway? His relationship with you was strictly professional. The conversation that could potentially alleviate the pinch in his chest would have to be one between him and a friend he trusted with his life, and he didn't have many of those left.

"Would you like something to drink?" Your voice came from the far side of the room where you had a wall-mounted control panel. He cleared his throat and requested a hot black coffee, to which you nodded before tapping a few buttons on the screen.

You wheeled yourself back to him, crossing the span of the room in one kick, and you informed him that one of your service androids would be bringing his coffee within the next three minutes.

"Thank you," he said, and he felt like he was having his first non-work-related human interaction in decades. Had he spent so much time completing gigs alone that he had socially regressed to a kid who couldn't hold a conversation? Nanami cleared his throat again to banish the thought.

As much as he hated to admit it, maybe Gojou was right to suggest that he accept a few gigs where he'd be forced to work in a team. Gojou, despite his number of obvious flaws, was occasionally able to offer a piece of sound advice, after all.

The service android swiftly ducked into the room with two mugs and exited at the same speed before Nanami caught himself. He thanked you for the drink again, blowing on the surface of his coffee and then testing the temperature with a sip.

The coffee was just right in temperature and more than excellent in taste, and he gave a low hum of appreciation as his first sip slid down his throat.

He looked at you over the rim of the pristine white mug in his hand. You were watching the spheres of ice move in a current of your own creation, bobbing erratically as you twisted the straw you held between your thumb and index finger this way and that in the amber liquid.

"Whiskey?" he asked, fumbling over the singular word and cursing inwardly at himself for it.

You shook your head, appearing not to notice his perceived blunder as you continued swirling your drink with the straw. "I don't drink alcohol," you said. "It's apple juice."

The conversation halted when you picked up your drink and motioned for him to consume his. Nanami obliged, content to cup both hands around the warm mug in between tiny, leisurely sips of coffee.

There was something quite precious about your manner now that he had the proximity and the silence to observe you. You chose a sweet juice instead of every alternative that was available in your extremely well-stocked clinic. Your drink was served in what must be a personal mug with the caricature of a dog painted on beneath the transparent outer layers of glaze. These little things chiselled away at the stoic image of you he had from his first meeting with you, even if it was nothing but a vague recollection of his anaesthesia-laden mind.

Nanami almost laughed into his last sip. He thought of you the same way almost everyone else thought of him. The irony wasn't lost on him.

"Have you ever killed someone and regretted it?"

His temporary good cheer loosened his lips in a way that even a whole bottle of whiskey could not. One moment had him holding his laughter back out of politeness. In the next moment, some words in a fairly unfortunate sequence left his mouth before he could process them.

It spoke to the capricious state of his emotions that he didn't want to take them back.

You blinked slowly, your face tilted in his direction even if you weren't looking directly at him. He suddenly became intensely attuned to the whisper of your air-conditioning system, the consistent tick-tick-tick of the mechanical clock hanging by the door, the dull hum of the machines as they awaited another order from you.

"No," you said, looking him in the eye and propping your cheek against an upturned palm. "I do everything with purpose."

It shouldn't be of any concern to him. He was well-acquainted with the wretched state of the world he lived in. It'd be supremely difficult to find a person who hasn't killed someone by the time they've reached adulthood. He wasn't surprised by the insinuation in your reply.

It was your choice of words that left him feeling like he had trespassed on what should be a secret.

The touch of your knuckle to his chin alerted him to the fact that he had been gaping at you. Nanami immediately apologised, clenching his jaw when he wasn't speaking to keep from making the same mistake again.

He wanted to put the topic to rest. If you weren't elaborating of your own accord, then it wasn't his right to pry. In spite of this, he was still curious. Who did you kill? On what occasion? Have you killed more than once? On purpose?

You were taking your time with your apple juice, cheek still in your palm and eyes fixed on a spot on the mostly bare walls that was apparently visible only to you. From the other end of the folding coffee table, his traitorous mind superimposed a likeness of you sitting in the same chair adjacent to him.

You were leaning slightly over the same table, facing away from him as you expertly broke open the shotgun in your hands. The empty shells clinked against the surface of the table when you shook them out of the barrels. There was an open box of ammo sitting to your right. Your hand knew exactly where it was when you reached for fresh shells to slide into your weapon. You brought the barrels back up to close the break, and it was the sound of a click too real to be his imagination that snapped Nanami back to you.

'Everything with purpose,' you said. You would've made an excellent merc. Better than him, even.

"Have you killed someone and regretted it, Nanami?" You threw his question back at him. It was very uncharacteristic of you, and it gave him a pleasant tickle. He knew you as someone who diligently avoided small talk, and yet, here you were.

"I have," he started, careful to taste his words before he spat them out. "I accepted a gig to dispose of a cyberpsycho. I only found out that he wasn't at fault after the deed was done. I—"

He paused, but he wasn't sure what for. There were plenty of other related things that he was leaving out. You didn't need to know. Or did he not want you to know?

"Did the cyberpsycho hurt anyone before you were contracted to kill him?" you asked. There was that tickle again, running up his chrome spine and settling into spaces between the individual vertebrae. The very same spine that you had painstakingly put together yourself just a few months prior, when he had to be hauled into your clinic in bloodied bits and pieces.

Nanami nodded. "He killed 4 med techs and injured 13 other lab staff. An entire wing of a research facility was ruined," he said, and it instantly transported him to a day earlier when he was on that Militech property far outside city limits once again.

The entire building had been cordoned off a few days before his arrival. Business carried on as usual in the rest of the compound that was unaffected. It was only the ground zero of the cyberpsycho attack that looked like a scene out of those old-fashioned zombie apocalypse movies Yuuji enjoyed watching.

"If you hadn't neutralised him, he would've hurt more people," you said. "There's no reason to feel regret if your purpose was to protect people."

He had been a police detective before he did away with his badge and became a merc. The desire to protect was the lifeblood that kept him going before the change in career, even when the uniform he wore and had admired as a child was what the people committing atrocities against other people were also wearing. It was the same desire to protect that moved him to remain in a line of work where his hands would always be sullied by death.

How did you know? Maybe he was a children's picture book to your knowing eyes, open and simple to read.

When Nanami looked up from his hands, he intended to thank you. For listening to him, and for letting him feel heard. The pinch in his chest remained, but it had lost its nails after sitting by you for a little while.

When he met your eyes for the first time in what must've been at least half an hour, there was an unknown but very much welcome tenderness in them that he hadn't seen from you before. 'Tender' would've been one of the last words he used to describe you, before this conversation. He'd hazard a guess that you preferred being identified on the other end of the spectrum: 'efficient', 'immovable'. The same words other people used to describe him, too.

At this moment, you were tender, and he was breathing it in, basking in it. It was strange to feel soft, especially when the bulk of his body was an arrangement of predominantly metal parts engineered into the remains of his flesh.

The urge to thank you for putting him back together bloomed in him from all the half-formed thoughts in his mind. He wasn't so brazen as to believe that a lesser ripperdoc would've been able to manage what you have. There was a reason Gojou entrusted him to you in his time of emergency.

"You're good at this," Nanami said, instead. To tell you what was in his heart seemed to breach the boundary line of professional etiquette between a merc and his ripperdoc. Maybe there would be a time in the future when he could run his mouth in your presence, a little treat for him that hopefully amused you too. Maybe it would happen soon.

There was a quirk that nipped at the corners of your lips. He counted it as a smile, mirroring you in equal proportion.

"That's the first I've heard of it," you said, lifting your cheek from your palm and straightening your posture. The veneer of a stoic ripperdoc quickly took over the half-smile you graced him with.

"I'll be back when I need a listening ear," he said, presenting you with an offering – of goodwill? Friendship? – and surprising himself with the magnitude of hope he was attaching to it.

You blinked. He watched you visibly inhale, and you looked unsure of how to respond. There was a slight wrinkle in your brow as you mulled his declaration over. "Do come back," you said. "Don't wait until you've been bisected again to come see me."

Nanami chuckled at the unexpected joke, though comedy might not have been your intention. Your half-smile was missing from your face, but the amicable glint in your eyes told him everything he needed to know.

[heartshapedbubble]

guys guess what i finally fucking finished for the two people that are actually interested in my dm fic (impossible) !!!!!!!

"childhood friends", a d.m. fanfic🐍// chapter 2

NOT PROOFREAD YET AGAIN I AM IN PAIN, TW/CW for physical/verbal abus3, reader's gender not specified, OC insert and it's desire's dad and he fucking sucks, fuck sulphur m��lodis all my homies hate sulphur mélodis, this all feels so rushed helpme how do you write, 90% of this isn't canon so don't use this as a source </3, ironically i hate reading angst but ummm

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I pity child me.

So clueless. So young and innocent, not aware of his destiny, and the role he has to play in the adult world. An easily manipulated marionette, just waiting to be grasped and controlled by someone with power.

I wasn't fit for ordinary life. It was obvious since day one - toys were replaced by hardcover books, and the time I could have spent playing was instead fulfilled by studying and learning. None of the adults that I was surrounded by radiated that warm, protective aura of a loving parent. Not even my own father.

And still, I kept trying to find my place in the human world. I clawed through the ever-growing shadows just to make a small mold for myself to fit into the ordinary, even though I knew my pathetic attempts will be suppressed sooner or later. The vision of ideal life was like a small window on a cold, thick wall, but the sunrays seeping through it shined brighter than anything i've ever seen before.

I wanted to be loved.

Even though I knew I was never supposed to be loved.

But what fueled me the most was that night. Their teethy, innocent smile. Their childish way of speaking and all of the sweet joys of life they decided to show me. That night lingered in my head for years, to the point I idealized it way more than i should. It was nothing like i experienced before but it felt like... home. It might have been just an overly glamorized moment, but it gave me hope. Hope that one day I might escape from the empty, lonely world that surrounded me. That there's something better out there. The images of that night etched themselves into my brain, each part looping over and over again to the point I memorized them by heart. But it was all in vain - one part of myself knew that anyway.

To this day, I still wish I stopped trying immediately.

It would have hurt less.

-

The street was empty, except for the fast, loud tapping of feet.

Desire swore that he never ran this fast in his life - he could feel saliva sticking to the sides of his lips and all the various pebbles under his feet trying to kick off his balance. But it didn't matter. Even though his body seemed like he was dying, he never felt more alive. He quickly wiped off the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead with his sleeve, and hid behind a bush in front of his house to catch a breath. The ghastly villa was silent as usual, only the window of his father's office gleaming with cold, bright light.

He slowly picked himself up and got into the house as quickly and silently as possible. Still panting as he folded his coat, he sat beside the clothing rack. He slowly tapped his face as the heat lingered on his fingertips. Damn it, I'm probably red in the face, too. Now that he arrived home safely, the only thing remaining to do was to sneak into his room without alerting anyone.

Trying to sneak through the villa was no easy feat - the house was older than Desire (and probably his father, too) and every single door creaked, even with minimal movement. But there was no other way to get out of this situation without alerting his father in a more obvious way - Desire decided he's going to play the russian roulette of creaky floorboards today. Even if his father notices it, it could be brushed off since all of the butlers had already left the house by this time of the day. Slowly taking his heavy pair of shoes off, he stepped onto the first polished plank, praying to every single deity he could name off the top of his head that it doesn't creak.

The plank responded by silently wedging into the floor under his weight. Thank god. He slowly continued down the hallway, stretching out his legs with every step as if he was some long-legged stork. It was easier to trigger the creaking that way, but it was also the fastest option. Desire just wanted all of this to end, as soon as possible. His glance ended up on the staircase, right in front of him. Moving up the carpet-covered stairs was a way easier challenge, so once he reaches it, the hardest part of the job will be done. After that conclusion, he noticed his feet almost moved on their own. He was sloppier and quicker, but he just couldn't stop the rush of excitement and relief running through his brain in circles. Just a bit more, he thought, adrenaline pumping through his veins, and I'm going to be in my room, sleeping in my bed and dreaming of-

"Desire."

He froze on the spot, and the last step let out an obnoxiously loud creak. He knew that he would screw up, as usual.

"Don't make me call you over for the second time. Come to my office, and hurry up."

His heart felt like it might just break through his ribcage. There was no other choice but to accept his fate and head towards his father's office at the other end of the hallway. He slowly turned away and began walking towards it. It was nauseating, getting closer and closer to the door that seemed to get bigger and bigger with each step. The polychromed silver carvings on the top of it started looking like sharp, massive fangs, as if the door was a monster's gaping mouth ready to swallow him whole. A million thoughts echoed through his mind, none of them being uplifting and helping him calm down. As if that wasn't enough, he felt a knot starting to tie in his stomach, tugging tighter with each new thought popping up.

Finally, he reached the door, feeling his knees slowly twitching as he stood. He laid his hand on the big iron doorknob - it was ice cold, immediately numbing his fingers upon touching it. Hesitatingly, he pushed the door open, and let his eyes adjust to the dim, cold light of the room.

"What's with the slowness? Come over here. Take a seat."

Sulphur Mélodis was a man of tall, menacing stature, making even the most stern of Desire's lecturers flinch when he raised his voice. Despite his build, he was nothing but expensive, yet classy jewelry and sharp, sleek shadows in a fitted, tailored coat. His long charcoal grey hair draped around his neck in thick, gentle waves, and a lone, silver streak of hair ran down by his cheek like a coiled snake. If it wasn't for Desire's vibrant, blue eyes and round chubby face, he'd be a spitting image of his father.

"Father". Ew. That word left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth whenever he had to say it, and even saying it out loud alone felt like a suppresed cough, something he had to forcefully spit out just to get him to pay attention or notice his presence. In reality, Sulphur could be anything but a father, hell, he was more of a potential president candidate than a parent. Desire didn't even consider him a family member sometimes - he was the same like any other of his teachers, butlers and caretakers, treating him as if he was some surreal being or a porcelain doll on a display, except Sulphur was the only one of them that dared to forcefully grip his wrist and put him back to his place. The only one of them that dared to show any actual authority.

He headed towards the end of the table where his father sat, a pulled out wooden chair waiting for him. The dim light couldn't beat the dark shadows, so it only illuminated the sharp edges and corners of his face, carving it out to the point his father's head looked like a skull. Shaking, he sat on the chair and squinted - his eyes finally adapted to the dark and he managed to make out his grey eyes glaring at him. Desire swore on his life that his pupils were just pitch black tunnels that light never refracted from.

"What are you doing up so late? It's already ten o'clock. You should have already been asleep." His father said. His voice was hoarse and silent, but that could change in just about a second.

"I went out to get a cup of warm milk. I couldn't fall asleep." Desire whispered back. What a damn lie. Lying to Sulphur Mélodis was the dumbest thing anyone could do, but here he was, a five-foot-three eleven year old king of all clowns, daring to do so. It was all out of desperation, but he knew damn well that this all could backfire on him in a moment. Still, he dug himself a grave by lying already, and the only thing left to do was to keep digging and pray that the punishment won't be too bad.

"To the kitchen?" Sulphur tilted his head. "The butlers already left your usual dinner for you next to your room. Warm dinner. And this has been going on for years now. How could you forget a crucial part of your routine?"

"I mean, it... happens?"

"Just like that, I presume." He reached into the dark to grab his cane, which always somewhere by his side. He quickly spinned it in his hand, the feather-shaped iron tip pointing at Desire's leg. The tip tore apart the stitched hole in his sock with ease. Desire pressed his lips together. "For silk socks, you have to double stitch to prevent the soft material from ripping apart once again. You've been slacking off during your housekeeping class, haven't you?" One thing was sure, his father was right - Desire often didn't pay attention in classes he considered boring. How would learning how to properly wash glass surfaces help him in life anyway? Sometimes a class would be better spent with a good book on his lap. Besides that, his teacher was a bore. Luckily, even though she wore glasses, she was oblivious to whatever Desire was doing during class, as she seemingly thought reading some fashion magazines during the lecture and lazily assigning tasks would make him get to work.

A gloved finger approached his cheek, rubbing itself onto the sticky surface. "I don't remember ordering peaches for today's meals, either." He silently wiped his hand with a hankerchief.

"I took one from last week's fruit basket. I forgot I had it."

"Those were ripe, homegrown peaches. They would have started rotting by the next two days."

"Well.. maybe you forgot you ordered peaches?"

"That's the thing, Desire: I never forget."

He leaned in towards Desire, two gray, emotionless dots staring directly into his soul. "Not only did you become forgetful and carefree, you're also a horrible liar."

The cane was yet again nested in his palm as he rose up from the chair, towering over his son like a giant. "Come on now. Spit it out. What's happening, Desire? Anything you need to tell me? Everything can be fixed."

It was such an attractive offer. An urge rose up inside of him, an urge to tell him how much he hates having to spend every damn minute of the day studying, how tired he is of being shut up every time he tries to speak up for himself, and how much he despises him. How he hates him for stripping him from his childhood for his own stupid, selfish reasons. How he wants to be free of all the numerous boundaries and limits. He wanted to cry, to scream, to choke on his own tears and point his finger right into his own father's face. But what was the point? It wasn't something solved by tucking a folded stack of cash into one's front pockets and shutting them up, or whatever his father did to get people to mindlessly obey his commands.

"I went out today." He started. What Sulphur said started to seem more like a threat for him to be honest than a sincere encouragement. He was angry at himself - first he decides to lie, and after that he decides to get himself into even more trouble by telling the truth.

"What should I do with that information? On weekends you're allowed to go out for 20 minutes to get some fresh air."

"I don't think you understand. I went out. Away from the house. After dinner."

Sulphur's eye twitched.

"Where did you go?" His voice was still quiet, but Desire could sense the anger in it. He was struggling and gnawing at every word that came out of his mouth, as if he was chewing cement.

"A couple of houses away. I wasn't out for too long anyway."

"This evening you were supposed to have extra English classes. What was the lecturer doing at the time?"

"He went home. You should have seen his face when I handed him the cash and told him to get out as quietly and quickly as possible." His voice was shaky and out of breath, and his legs still trembled, but god, was it a good feeling to snap back for once. He already fucked up simply by trying to get himself out of this situation as soon as possible, so why not die today too?

"Did you go out alone?"

"No. I went with a friend. They were the person who invited me out anyway."

The vein near his father's eye was pulsing as his eyes started seeming emptier and emptier. "I see. You're starting to show some spine." He slowly strutted around his chair, like a vulture circling around a fresh corpse ready to devour it.

"Too bad you decided to show it to the wrong person."

It all went down before Desire could even think of a comeback to his words. The cane slammed the leg of the chair with immense force, making it collapse into pieces, and making him fall down along with it, too. He landed straight on his back, the rough landing pushing all of the air out of his lungs and forcing him into a coughing fit.

"Who do you think you're talking to?" He growled, "Are you even aware of all the numerous sacrifices I make every day all for your education? Of all the money, time and patience I invest into you? And this is how you repay me?". His jaw trembled after every sentence, his cane pointed at Desire like an accusatory finger. "Repay me by being a selfish, ungrateful brat?"

Desire was still coughing, tears piling up on his eyelashes. He didn't have the courage to muster a word. A wave of pain sent pulsing signals to every inch of his body, his limbs feeling like pathetic, breakable sticks as he used up all of his remaining strength to prop himself up with his hand. He felt so miserable, so vulnerable and easily crushed.

"I was never a selfish brat!" Desire's jaw shaked and his lips trembled as he struggled with each scream, full of hatred. His index finger weakly pointed back at his father's cane, twitching as if he could collapse any second. "Y-you just, I-"

Before he could cough up the last sentence, his father's silver cane flashed before his eyes, and the sharp glint permanently engraved itself into his mind.

The painful, scorching feeling suddenly hit his palm and made him cry out in agony. Through tears, he watched the blood leak out of the clean cut that spread itself from his index finger to his wrist. His fingers weren't spaired either, the blunt hit from the edge of the tip bruising them and coloring them a faint purple.

His father twisted the head of the cane once again, making the small, hidden blade in the bottom of it retract. "Don't ever dare speak to me like that again. You're a disgrace, Desire." , a muted voice scowled, every word packed with disgust.

Salty tears kept soaking Desire's face as he winced through the fresh wave of pain that weakened him for the second time tonight. "I...I ... just wanted to experience what every other child did. Or at least, what most of them did", he muttered out quietly, trying not to stumble on his own words, "I... that friend. The person I met that invited me... They were like no one I met before, yet they were so... warm. I could feel the heat lighting up my cheeks whenever I was with them, making me smile on my own. If that's so wrong, why did it feel so... right?"

Sulphur crouched right next to him and exhaled, staring right into his eyes once again. The disgusted grimace on his face seemingly disappeared, at least for a brief moment.

"It's so easy to get swayed in life. Just think, Desire. The average man made his life so simple and enjoyable, to the point he prioritized his own entertainment over more important things, like power and knowledge. Why are you letting things like that obstruct your path all out of a sudden? The path that we paved for you together, that you've been following for years now?"

"I... but what about friends?"

His father slowly exhaled once again, this time speaking more calmly.

"Friends are just another thing created by the average man. Another thing that the modern society made up in order to make people's sad, meaningless lives happier. Instead, there are partners. Co-workers. A "friend" is just a pathetic excuse of a human leech, draining you of all your riches and energy for their own benefit. A friend always expects something in return, even if they don't say so. Think about it - putting so much faith into someone, opening up to them, just for them to move away from you whenever they want and carry all your insecurities, all your flaws and secrets with them and hand them over to anyone else who might be interested. Doesn't it sound bad?"

"But..."

"What do you mean by "but"? Look around for a second, and realize the truth - they manipulated you in order for you to hate me."

Desire's mind suddenly blacked out, processing the words his father whispered to him. Was it really his own conclusion? Did the hatred burn through his childhood unnoticeably, or was it an eye opener when he met them - no, was it something secretly slipped into his mind upon speaking to them? All the confusing theories mashed together into one huge mass of nonsense. Yet, when he looked back at the piercing, black eyes glaring at him expectantly, he couldn't find that gentle warmth of actual love, not even the passing signs of its existence.

"Well..."

"Desire, while growing up, did you have everything you ever needed? Food, water, clean clothes, and all of the books your heart desired?"

"I did, but-"

"Did I ever restrict one of those things as punishment? Did I ever tell you that I hated you? Did I ever say "no" to any of your requests, unless I had a valid reason to do so, which I told you?"

"Um..."

"Make up your mind, Desire."

"...No."

"Exactly."

His sharp jawline relaxed for once as he reached for his cheek and softly caressed it. A faint, sour smile appeared on his face, too, but it was everything but sincere. It was a smile of someone who was drained of all good in the world.

"I only want the best for you, son. And you know that well", he gently spoke through his teeth, "So don't let yourself get swayed with such otherworldly, hateful ideas that tear our family apart. Okay?"

"Yes, dad."

It wasn't okay. It was everything but okay. But he didn't have the power to use up yet another ounce of energy to argue back, to spit out some sad, low-level insult to reignite the argument. While slowly picking himself up from the floor, his father cleared his throat. Without turning around, he whispered: "From tommorrow on, we'll have a... different program for your everyday routine. I'll make sure that no one ever plants such worrisome and hateful thoughts ever again, alright? You can say your goodbyes to that "friend" of yours too."

It was inevitable, but yet, the last sentence stabbed itself right into Desire's heart, like a trusty assassin's dagger mercilessly piercing its victim. "Now, go to sleep. And don't let such things play with your mind and common sense", his father said, closing the door behind him, "You have immense potential, Desire. Make both me and your mother proud. It would break her heart to see you get ruined by something so... primitive."

Throwing himself onto his bed, the blue-eyed boy felt the pain wrap around his body for one last time before falling to sleep. He was defeated and shut up once again, for the millionth time. Trying to desperately grasp for the smile that previously spun itself in his mind like a pop song vinyl, a pearly tear drenched his silk pillowcase. Would he ever see them again? He weakly gripped his bedsheets to feel warmth, to simply hold onto something - but the cold fabric could only gently soak up his sobs and whimpers. Once again, he was just a little helpless boy, whose cries could only be witnessed by his cold, dark room.

[dollsonmain]

Oh god I really hate my own limitations.

So, there's a dust-catcher on top of the kitchen cabinets. A big gap between the top of the cabinets and the ceiling.

I would like to clean it, but I can't.

There are times and circumstances where I can push through one or two of my Lesser Noes. When there are more than one Greater No, though, I can't.

In this case it's crippling acrophobia and a physical revulsion when touching something sticky combined making this task undoable for me.

I'm short, so I do have to stand on the countertop to see or reach the dust catcher. There isn't enough room for me to turn around there, so that adds more No because I am wobbly from being bedridden and my body will sometimes jerk at random, so I do need a large, flat surface under my feet AND something to hold on to both legitimately and for anxiety reasons.

I would be able to manage if it was just dusty up there. I would be able to endure the No of being too high off the ground (honestly it's so bad that being on the bottom step of a step stool sets me shaking) with not enough foot space and dust up there if it were just dusty.

But it's not.

It's sticky.

I don't know why it's sticky. We never cook with enough oil to splatter let alone make it up there. It could be from the previous owners. I don't know. I've never been able to clean up there.

I tried (just now), but the combination of my sponge shredding in the stickiness, my rag sticking to the dust, my hands being sticky, not having anything to hold on to because I can't hold the cabinet for fear of tearing it off the wall even though it can probably hold just fine assuming it's mounted on cleats screwed into the studs like it's supposed to be but this is a McMansion I don't assume anything is done right meant I had to get down immediately and I won't be going back.

I did try cleaning just the ridge with cleanser and a cloth because I could barely reach that from the top step of the step stool but the sticky was too much and I couldn't get high enough to actually spray the cleanser up there and break up the stickiness. I wouldn't be able to see where I was spraying.

I hate being weak. I hate not being able to just DO things.

If I were in a tall building that was on fire and my only escape option were a steep, closed in, opaque tube slide I would die in the fire.

-

What would I need to be able to do this task?

A wide scaffolding? There's no room thanks to the kitchen island, but that might work if it were very stable, especially if it had a hand rail.

Someone to hold my legs? Maybe. That might give me enough of a sense of security to not shake myself off the cabinet.

A hand rail bolted to the ceiling? Actually probably yes?

???

Ideally I'd like to close in that dust catching space with something and not have to care anymore.

[lucianowrites]

Why Do I Like Jumpchains?

I have been creating jumpchain content for a bit now. It has begun to color what I'm known for in some spaces. In the Reddit community over jumpchain enjoyers, I'm actually not unknown, due to my passion for this community and the contributions I've made to forcibly expanding and growing our audience and community. But why do I like jumpchains? That's a good question.

For me, jumpchains remind me of the wonder I felt when I first started playing video games. They allow me to feel what it is like to live in another world, another time, sometimes even another country. In doing a jumpchain I don't just think of the powers I/my jumper get or their cool gear, I think of the sights they get to see.

As a child, one of the things that I loved the most about video games were the sights I got to see. Getting to see even things as simple as Kanto region in the original Pokemon games was incredibly exciting to me. Getting to see Yoshi's Island was exciting to me. Nowdays seeing things like the eerie pool rooms and liminal spaces in Anemoiapolis and seeing the dragon filled skies above Skyrim in TES:V excites me. For me, creating a jumper is, in a sense, giving someone else the chance to feel that wonder. I actually like creating jumpers who don't have meta-knowledge or genre-awareness so they can experience the wonders of these places for themselves for the first time.

Another thing that I really like is the freedom jumpchains offer. Video games are inherently limited by the fact that they are programmed and thus have limits (though ones that are being stretched and improved every day) that imagination and imaginary games like jumpchains do not. If you ever wanted to wander Hyrule as a dragon but knew that no Legend of Zelda game would let you do that, well... Jumpchain. If you ever wanted to ride through the Mushroom Kingdom on a F-Zero machine... Jumpchain. If you have *thoughts* about how someone in a Metroid powersuit would do in Castlevania... Jumpchain, baby!

On a more personal level, I also strongly enjoy jumpchains as a sort of escape. I don't mean that in a way that is super depressing or anything, but I'm physically disabled and I'm also chronically ill. My health will... never be good. For the rest of my life. But with a jumpchain I can allow myself to become someone who can do cool stuff that I can't do. As a kid I was a martial artist with formal training in Taekwondo and Karate and less formal training in Muay Thai and Silat, and I LOVED martial arts. I may not ever be able to do the same kind of martial arts shenanigans I could once do, but I can with jumpchains. Between basic perks in jumps like Generic First Jump and full jumps like Generic Fist, I can envision myself doing cool stuff that is beyond my real-life capabilities. I don't often do self-inserts in real, sketched out, chains but I sometimes daydream about self-inserts doing a few jumps. I like to imagine getting the parkour skills of the mario brothers from the Super Mario 64 jump, and spending time on Isle Delfino in the Super Mario Sunshine jump, or spending a decade honing my skills as a martial artist in the Generic Fist jump.

Why do you like jumpchains? If you see this post, and you feel like engaging with it but aren't a jumper yourself, what do you think it'd take for someone to persuade you to try? I'd love to know what could convince you to try out a chain yourself.

[missmonsters2]

Hey, I really loved your Wednesday series, it was elegantly written, but I have two questions that I'm hoping you can answer because they left me pretty confused.

1: where abouts was yn injured? Was it actually a part of her wing or was it on her back that of course is linked to the joints of her wing. My only other guess is what the feathers are connected to on her wings.

2: so.... can you explain more what Henry's power is, cause its very confusing. He can create rooms? And in those rooms he can create what he wants but it can't leave the room for long periods of time???

I dont understand why he made the room that yn mistook for hers, and how he did it. Also what was the point? He never did anything to them in room. Unless he was able to spy on them? And he would know when yn was going or leaving?? It just left me in quite a puzzle.

Thanks

hihihi i've been loving your tag comments when you reblog! They totally make me laugh and make my day :) Thanks so much for reading and reblogging it all! <3

I can totally answer your questions and hopefully make it clearer. Brace yourself for the long explanation.

1. Fae's wings don't look like what a featherless bird would look like. Faeries' wings are large and expansive, dragging on the floor if they don't hold it up. They're made of long bones and thin skin and veins connecting the bones. Then special feathers grow in layers on the thin skin that's more for protective reasons than for flying reasons. It's the thin skin underneath the feathers that is injured on Fae. It'll go into more detail in season 2 (if i ever get to it) but unfortunately, her mother took a knife and dragged it down/across the span of her wings. It was mostly a deep cut but as Fae was escaping and flying to find sanctuary in Nevermore, it did make the wounds much worse. Everytime she over-extends her wings and uses them, the more the cuts open and it takes longer to heal.

2. I describe Henry's power as a mindscape, but it can also be called consciousness realm or the ability to create a mental world. He's still just a teen, so at most, he can reate a mental rooms. Using his thoughts, memories, and imagination, he creates these rooms and can project them into reality. It's a surreal experience on the person who walks into it. Think of it like one big box that has everything existing it; people, pathways, building, trees, etc. Then, a smaller box is created within the big box. In the smaller box, everything looks exactly the same but it's like a one-way mirror. You can't see out, and no one can see in except for the person who created the smaller box. People can walk through it without actually entering it because only the creator decides who is trapped in it. (this is like the scene in Flashover):

As they're walking, Wednesday can hear footsteps. There's a nagging feeling in her stomach and a pricking feeling on the back of her neck. She turns her head back to look at the lanky boy but sees him sitting under one of the arches of the hall. The sight leaves Wednesday confused, but she turns her head back to you. 

In here, It's a small, but they're in one of henry's mental rooms where it looks exactly like a hallway at Nevermore. For Wednesday, it's just the three of them: herself, Fae, and Henry. But she can hear footsteps of someone walking, except no one is walking when she turns around and finds Henry sitting. This is in reference that just outside of mental room, there's actually someone else walking down this hallway. This would be the same for Fae's studio.

As Henry grows his gifts, it gets stronger. He can keep the mental rooms for longer, create more rooms, manifest items into reality and keep them there extended periods. If he mastered his gift, he could seemingly blur the line between reality and what he's created and make it permanent.

It's both mentally and physically taxing, though. It requries him to have a great attention to detail and a lot of stalking on his end to ensure the timing is always right. You can pretty much assume he's constantly keeping a watch on her, and Wednesday by proximity. And if they separate, he's choosing to watch Fae rather than Wednesday because Fae is his target.

The entire goal of his gift is to isolate Fae from her groupmates without drawing any attention and with minimal resistance. Henry may be strong mentally with his gift, but he is still just a lanky boy. He would easily be overpowered by Wednesday and her friends, or even Fae herself. It's easier to lure Fae away without any fuss down his trail of mental rooms until she falls into the trap he's set for her.

He's doing it by creating carbon copies of her actual environment but without the outside interference of real people. He's doing it slowly to grow his gift but also to ward off any suspicion because Faeries generally have a 6th sense and because Wednesday is also perceptive.

Fae and Wednesday could've been in so many situations where they thought they were alone but they were actually stuck in a mindscape and there were real people just outside of it that they couldn't see.

TLDR: you can think of it similar to Wanda's reality creating powers haha

Hope that clears things up! Thanks again for reading :)

[lisalay00]

Pancake

꒷꒦⋆⑅˚₊┈ • ┈ ・ʚɞ ・ ┈ • ┈₊˚⑅⋆꒷꒦

It was an exam-busy exam week. Every day, I've been scrutinizing another subject book. Yesterday, I was so into the physics formulas that even they'd flashed my dreams. I felt nauseous. And now, I was losing my mind in Edgar Alan Poe's Raven. I had no idea what I was reading. I was too off.

My mind stormed out the thoughts as the door knock interrupted me losing in more.

‘Hey!’ I heard Eddie’s husky voice behind the door without hesitating I opened the door. He was standing in front of me alive. I jumped in his arms and hugged him tightly.

‘God, I miss this.’ He chuckled and leisurely his hands traveled on my back. He leaned back and grabbed my chin. I realized what would happen next so dragged him inside, not to be seen.

Eddie was in my senior year, I was in my junior… We have known each other since primary school. Dating was expected for his uncle, especially; he always said that we were meant for each other even though my Mom was quite offensive yet, she was glad to date someone I’d already known. However, Eddie was quite the kind of guy that parents never want for their daughter. He has tattoos, swears a lot, and has long messy hair. At least, for my mom, he was.

 His exams had already ended last week. So he was free as a bird when I lost myself in the logarithm problems. It was kind of a habit of me going missing during the exam week that’s why Eddie hates exams weeks. Hellfire club friends found a way to creep out somewhere else in his mood in these weeks. But, they usually whine up all the time.

He smirked at my concern and grabbed my chin again. Positioned himself in front of my table.

‘You are one to talk!’ I joked around. His naughty touches spread through my hips and ended to grab them and pushing me to my table. I closed my eyes and sighed as he was leaning closer to my face.

Our lips collided finally; He forced me to wrap my arms around his neck. He smiled between the kiss then I let him get inside. Our lips were gently moving, finding a perfect harmony it was getting more fierce and more and more. He moaned into my lips and we parted unwilling to breathe. Didn’t take too much time he leaned back and this time, it was more rough and wild.

He lifted my body from the table and stepped to my bed.  Unlike his kiss, he was deadly slow and gently left me on the bed. I trembled with the coldness of my bed. Even though we were still fully dressed I felt like my body was in the oven and we were burning high in there.

He spread my legs apart and placed himself closer. Our T-shirts were the only obstacle between us.  Not too late he took the hem of my T-shirt and took it off, like ripping them off.

He tried to throw my T-shirt to the other side of the room. However, It stayed hung on my headboard, it was dangling on it, sighted the piece of cloth a light chuckle spread from his mouth forcefully.

‘I didn't make any plan for this.’ He breathed out. I closed my eyes as I inhaled his hot breath into my lungs. ‘My mom gonna piss off.’ I chuckled as he laughed at my answer.

‘I told her we are just studying.’ He said melodically, stealing another kiss.

‘She won’t believe you, Munson.’  I folded my fingers into his curls taking a quick gaze on his dark brown waves.

'You are so beautiful.' He took me back to his attention; his sparkling brown orbs had me rumbling my heart.

This time, I escaped from his hands before grabbing his jacket's collar and smashing our lips. I took off his jacket from his sleeves and pushed it without looking where it went.

There were a couple of books on my bed, he tossed it elsewhere. I heard the flying paper sounds around the room. He landed himself on the bed and positioned me at the same time. It was the longer the more passionate kiss I was about to forget to take a breath.

However, good things didn’t last long. We actually forgot to lock the door, again and it lead to barging in for my mom easily.

We parted unwillingly. He tossed his jacket to me.

‘We got caught up!’ He wrapped arms around me not forgetting to lean a wet kiss on my cheek.

She was looking at us tiredly and left the pancake plate on the table. 

‘Is it poisoned?’ He teased; she rolled her eyes and murmured something.

‘Don’t forget to study honey!’ She passed his words. I nodded as she closed the door behind us.

I turned to Eddie; he was looking at me.

‘I think we should eat later.’ His devilish smile caused me to laugh him back. He pushed me back to my bed.

꒷꒦⋆⑅˚₊┈ • ┈ ・ʚɞ ・ ┈ • ┈₊˚⑅⋆꒷꒦

[fioras-resolve]

I started Zero Time Dilemma! Here are my notes.

-So like, up front, this is a very different game from VLR or 999. Its intro starts not with an escape sequence, but with a choice. This sets the stage for what this game is Really about, and it's definitely a shift. It might turn out to be a lot for me, as someone who's not used to decisions as core gameplay

-The fact it's all an autoplaying cutscene gives ZTD a very different vibe from previous Zero Escape games. Not sure if I like it, but I might like it soon.

-So like, okay. After doing some cursory research, this game was inspired by Telltale's "The Walking Dead." It's a more cinematic experience, to appeal to the West. The thing is that Telltale had been doing games like this for a decade, and also clearly had more of a budget. So while Zero Time Dilemma being able to have actual shot composition is cool, the characters animate less than characters animate in a Telltale game, or in previous Zero Escape games for that matter.

-SHE SAID AMONG US, SHE SAID ZERO IS AMONG US LET'S FUCKING GO

-God the redesigns of pre-existing characters for this game are so fucking funny. ZTD!Phi feels fucking engineered to be hot, her design shows less skin than Alice or Lotus but manages to feel so much more horny. Although maybe that's just my tastes.

-Oh my god the choice to remix songs from 999 as well as VLR is inspired. VLR already straight-up reused songs from 999, but there's some songs remixed from 999 that didn't show up in VLR. Love that! Genuinely, it's cool.

-Wait so is Diana actually American? Or is she just a redhead with blue eyes for aesthetic reasons?

-Oh my god Carlos is the most Nathan Drake-ass White Guy to ever be put into a Japanese game. He's got the face, jacket, the voice, the Blonde White Dude Haircut. I love that Zero Time Dilemma's new wacky creatures after VLR's GOLM and Zero III are just white people. (Please ignore this if being a Latino turns out to actually be part of Carlos's character)

-So the big thing is that even though this is cribbing from The Walking Dead, its time travel mechanic means that I'm exploring possibilities more than living with my decisions. Although I am VERY early on still, I haven't even gotten to an escape room yet! Speaking of,

-I have not gotten to an escape room yet. What the fuck? That's usually the start of the game! Instead the game starts me off with the decision mechanic and the fragment of time stuff.

-Oh my fucking god, titty physics? In a game where the characters are animated this little? Mira is this game's scantily clad big-breasted woman, and this game immediately services the fans.

-I mentioned Phi's design earlier, and I've gotta say it feels like these character designs were all intended to be either relatable or titilating to a western audience. Like yes, Mira, Akane, and Phi are all different brands of hottie, but there's also Carlos, aka the most Video Game Guy ever, there's Eric, who's just some dude, and also Sigma is also looking incredibly Mid-2010s Western Game Protagonist too. And Diana is the first playable female character in Zero Escape so I feel like she is designed to be at least a bit relatable to femme audiences.

-I love how this is literally just Saw. "Each of your rooms has a small yellow button. Pushing it will let you escape, but send a shower of hydrogen flouride to the other rooms, killing them. The early bird gets the worm." This rules.

-I remember playing 999 and VLR and feeling like they were kind of bloodless, despite all the blood and death. The thing is that in those games, I almost never had to live with the consequences of causing someone else's death, in a way that wouldn't also be causing the death of the entire group. You know, a Game Over. But here, living with the consequences of causing someone else's death is the entire gimmick of the narrative. It's horrifying! I love it. Since this is Zero Escape there's prooooobably gonna be a relatively bloodless True Ending, but the fact that I don't know if that's true here is definitely worth commending.

-I also love how extremely straightforward the gimmick is here, there's no Ambidex Game or Digital Root to deal with here, you just decide who to kill and when.

-Okay I know that fact-checking is anathema to Zero Escape's mystique but I refused to believe that the Sleeping Beauty Problem wouldn't be solved at this point, that's a mathematics thing, there's no way they just don't have an answer yet. So I check on Wikipedia, and apparently yeah, it's still open for debate! Shit! Wonder if this'll still be true in 2028 when the game takes place!

-…Yeah, this is definitely a game I'm gonna have to play in spurts. I'm kinda surprised, for a series that's always been about deadly games, just how much darker this one is. I kinda like it a lot, but it's definitely a lot to have to go through.

[papillon-stories]

Prologue : Shilora

Title : Operation : Live Your Life Shilora

Webtoon : Operation : True Love

Synopsis and Table of contents ● Masterlist 

Pairing : Eunhyuk x oc

(See Endnote)

●☽○ꕥ○☾●☽○ꕥ○☾●☽○ꕥ○☾●☽○ꕥ○☾●☽○ꕥ○☾●☽○ꕥ○☾●☽○ꕥ○☾●

For as long as I can remember, I have been confined to a hospital room, surrounded by the sounds of machines, panicked corridors, and the cries of other patients. My rare condition has left me almost entirely bedridden since birth, and I have never truly experienced the outside world. Despite this, I have an overflowing imagination that has kept me going.

Reading has been my greatest passion, but even that became tiresome after so much time in the hospital. That's when I started creating imaginary characters, including one that I imagined myself to be. Her name is Shilora, and she constantly accompanies me in my dreams and thoughts.

Lately, I have imagined her alive in Operation: True Love, a webtoon that I started reading not long ago. I eagerly anticipate new chapters of the story each week, and I have even begun inventing my own adventures for the characters.

Shilora is everything that I am not, but everything that I would like to be. She is beautiful, with delicate features and long, lustrous hair. I imagine her with an oval face, high cheekbones, and full, soft lips. Her eyes are a deep, brilliant blue, with long, thick lashes that add to their intense, emotional depth. Her nose is small and straight, adding to her delicate beauty, and her lips are plump and soft, with a slight rosy tint that gives her a sensual side in contrast to her innocent eyes.

What I love most about Shilora is her hair. It has been many years since I've had a single strand of hair due to my repeated treatments and operations, so imagining Shilora's long, silky locks always makes me feel better. Despite being confined to my hospital room, my imagination allows me to escape and create new worlds, giving me hope that one day I may be able to experience the real world outside of these walls.

I imagine Shilora's hair as very long, soft, and silky, reaching below her buttocks. The luminous blonde color reflects light in a spectacular way, delicately framing her face and highlighting her natural beauty. Her hair is truly an asset to her, and I like to envision it swaying gracefully behind her back as she walks or fluttering in the breeze.

Shilora has a short stature and a slim, slender figure. Her skin is clear and luminous, with a soft and smooth texture that shows no scars, needle marks, or hematoma from infusions.

Although she can seem fragile and delicate at times, Shilora exudes an inner strength that commands respect and admiration. I wanted her to be a woman of great beauty and grace, with an aura of purity and warmth that draws others to her.

Despite everything, what I love most about Shilora is her freedom. She can run, jump, climb mountains, ski, and fall without worrying about her health. She sings and dances in the rain, laughs in the sun, and cries with the wind. She embodies everything that I cannot be. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be outside these walls, to feel the sun on my face, to run in the grass, to see the stars at night, or even just to stand in the rain.

But I have learned to find joy in the little things in life, like a nurse's smile, a surprise visit from my family, an exciting book, or lively music. I am grateful for everything I have, even though I cannot live a normal life like other people. This has taught me to always be positive and to see the good side of life. I believe that everything happens for a reason, and that one must be patient.

So, I continue to create characters, imagine fantastic worlds, and escape in my thoughts. This is how I feel alive, despite my physical limitations. And who knows, maybe these characters will one day help me get out of this hospital and explore the real world.

...I never thought this day would actually come.

     ●☽○ꕥ○☾●☽○ꕥ○☾●☽○ꕥ○☾●☽○ꕥ○☾●☽○ꕥ○☾●☽○ꕥ○☾●☽○ꕥ○☾●

End Note :

Hello hello sunshine!

I am happy to present my fanfiction to you, I have been trying to do this little project for a while now. I hope I can get to the end of this fanfiction but everything in its time. I will do my best to post the chapters.

So you've probably guessed it, we're going to be in a kind of isekai.I want to clarify, in this story it will be about romance, friendship and above all how life can be great and how much you have to enjoy it. Let's be kind to each other to live without regret! Also, the fanfic will address somewhat heavy subjects such as existential reflections and on the superficial side of people, which is why the beauty of the main character will be enormously put forward.

By the way, do you have any idea why the name Shilora? It is a completely invented first name which has its own meaning, we will know more about it in the chapters to come.

Do not hesitate to leave a constructive criticism and a like, it is very appreciated. :3

[archiveofmiksown]

CHAPTER 1. YOU KNOW I'VE NEVER BEEN GOOD AT ANYTHING, EXCEPT FOR FUCKING UP AND RUINING EVERYTHING!!!

next

    Bubby doesn't dream.

              No, he wasn't built for such things. Certainly, the idea of dreams has made its way to his mind; the swells of knowledge they jabbed into his brain made sure of that. But the actual dreaming thing? Well, he can't quite imagine it.

              But if he could dream, he thinks he'd dream of this.

              The room is a study of metal and rust; irradiated plates and nails held together by old dreams of progress and a promise. Emptied tubes attach to even emptier pipes, running through the bullet-pierced, slime-slicked walls like veins through a hand. In the middle sits the heart of the operation; a large glass enclosure, with the Ultimate Lifeform sitting idle within it.

              Knuckles rap against the glass. Hairline fractures score the shell, signs of struggle evident in how they bloom in the same spots. The effort to escape, however useless, is very clearly consistent. Bubby curls further into himself, half-hissing and half-whimpering. Dreams were reflections of one's subconscious, and one's subconscious drew from their lived experiences. It's only a hypothesis, but he theorizes (and he's good at that, theorizing) that he's lived in this however-many-cubic-meters space for long enough to start seeing it in his sleep.̧

              The floor is hard when he lays across it, his scuffed shoes meeting with the edge of his enclosure. The circumference used to fit him better… he thinks. Strange. He's retained a uniform height since he got put together. The metallic coolness pierces through his frayed and ruined-to-shit labcoat. Bubby sighs. Then sighs again. He stares at the ceiling and its blinding lights. There exists the instinctual urge to remember everything about this place: the ceaseless tests, the scientists who performed them, what color those Knowledge Tubes tasted like. It's not like he has an awful lot of other things to do, and people say it's always fun to reminisce, besides. Alas, his memories fail him, as they always do. There's nothing about this room that he can recall in detail— there's nostalgia in its emptiness, and the piercing brightness of its fluorescent lights, and if he closes his eyes he thinks he can make out a face that looks like his— but calling those memories would be an insult to the idea.

              And the idea's all he has now. The idea of dreams, the idea of memory— once, maybe even the idea of friends.

              Friends…

              He pushes his glasses off his face, then pinches the bridge of his nose. He finds himself lingering on the word, like an echo sounding through an empty chamber. Friends. There's a weight to the term that he can't quite parse— a sadness, almost, that lay hidden behind the thick veil of his forgotten memories. He feels his fists curl into themselves, his knuckles cold against the steel of his tube floor. If frustration alone could activate the salient power of thought, he could probably solve this in a tick. But they can't. And they likely never will. And so he simply lays there, one hand on his face and the other splayed uselessly on the ground, as pathetically angry and angrily pathetic as ever, alone with nothing but pieces of thoughts that he doesn't even know fit back together… if they ever did.

              "Ah, shit," he mutters under his breath. 

              The word seems to have triggered something. Or perhaps it was the anger that powered it? Either way, the scene shifts. All around him, the glass seems to shrink, pressing against his limbs, as though a physical manifestation of his increasing panic. Then, the container shakes; the lights flicker rapidly, and alarms start ringing all around. It sounds like screaming. Maybe it is. The scene around him sharply unfurls— his very vision shatters , the alarms swell to a blare, and the blinding lights grow ever brighter. Rapture, this is called . A very sudden unbecoming of what was seemingly eternal. Bubby sits up. His head thumps against the lowered ceiling.

              "Ah, shit!" his voice is raised now, but just as soon as he hears it does he begin to question if it's actually his. He doesn't remember his screams sounding quite as rough and frantic. But then again, it's not like he remembers much at all.

              "Come on, you— you bald fucking freak!" He hears himself starting to yell. The volume of it startles him. Okay, now he's certain this voice isn't his , but it leaves his mouth like it is. He thinks it's starting to scare him. He shuts his mouth, trying desperately to make it stop, but it refuses. It demanded to be released, "Fucking— wake up! Wake up! WAKE—"