#and haunt you. what if its the closest you can get to keeping the person still around

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ive been thinking about the red string superstition recently and also sol bufo always and it makes me sick how uncannily caldwell tanner has made sol to perfectly target me personally

(+ cropped versions !)

[b1adie]

im better at explaining my thoughts verbally but like. here is my thoughts for some au w/ sparkle x robin.

(sparkle isnt AS deep into the elation in this cuz i feel like canon sparkle cannot hold any serious relationship at all. its impossible. shes just kind of an anthropomorphic rickroll) (and she wants black swan so bad it makes her look stupid)

so like this is assuming that the backstory we saw in sparkle’s animation is true, that she was a stage actress that started losing her sense of self before becoming a fool

and like, robin’s kind of an actress in a way. she’s a singer but the Perfect Facade she has to constantly put on is kind of close! but regardless of that, they’re both performers, so like. could have met at an event or something perhaps before robin got REALLY famous and they could have been friends and found it nice to have someone who understood what it’s like having to keep up an act all the time

but then ofc robin’s career takes off and she can’t be around as much even though she wants to make time to see her friend, their schedules never allow it and before you know it it’s been years since they’ve seen each other. in person, at least! sparkle sees robin everywhere she goes, on posters and merchandise and playing on the radio constantly.

this is around the time the elation starts creeping in and she starts struggling to know what parts of her are Real and what parts are the act. with no other close friends, she doesn’t feel safe letting her guard down around anyone, so she’s constantly playing this role… along with the meddling of the aeons, she pretty much loses it around this point. devolves into something akin to canon sparkle.

AND THEN! she gets that job to go to penacony. and she knows robin is going to be there. she wonders if the fame has changed her, or if she’s somehow really managed to stay that kind person she once was. but then she realizes that doesn’t really matter, because the sparkle that robin knew is long gone... right?

she tries not to think about their past. it’s useless now. it’s hardly even her past. she hears everyone talk about her, but never sees her in person until she watches her fall victim to Something Unto Death.

then, like the mentally stable and well adjusted person she is, she shapeshifts into her and starts pretending to be her. she isn’t sparkle. she isn’t the person robin knew. she’s less than a stranger. robin is dead. sparkle is a mask. she creeps up to a mirror, checking out her reflection. this is the closest she’s seen robin in years. and robin is dead. she clasps her hands together. it’s almost like they used to do. she runs her hand through her hair, greets herself in her voice… the nostalgia turns to vitriol, though, and she can’t help but laugh at how stupid and unfortunate it’s all become.

she goes off to mock robin’s brother about her death. in a way, she’s mocking herself, too. but then again, how can she mock what doesn’t exist? there is no self for her. she is whatever mask she wears, whatever role she plays. this makes it all the more frustrating that those sappy genuine emotions are insistently vying for her attention at the back of her thoughts. memories of the face that once wore these thousands of masks, the voice that wanted to scream, the arms that wanted to catch robin when she fell. those are all gone.

so why won’t they stop haunting her?

she’s close to the mirror again, hands pressed to it, forehead too, lips hovering over the glass…

she laughs and shatters it.

[leo1132]

About that post on angsty/dark zosan ideas, here’s one, but sorry that it’s not a fully developed idea with like plot, but…

Anything with one cannabalizing the other’s heart. The devotion of the meal and consuming what they believe to be the essence of the other so it’s always a part of them. The terrible strength they get from it and how it forever changes their perception of the enemies they kill, doomed to become fresh meat. The slice of sword or a knife become that much deadlier as they better understand the other's craft and the different cuts capable by each method. The blood drawn in a fight more vibrant than anything in their line of sight.

Don’t really know the context around it, or at least there are too many, but yeah, dining on each other’s hearts and the irreversible effects it has on them

Also love the crew hating the person eating for doing this. Them thinking it’s desecrating the dead one’s memories, but only the one consuming knows that this - this is how they keep their memory alive in its purest form

"my heart belongs to you"

I think i had a similar idea somewhere in the past, not quite like the promt but its the closest one I found, zoro cannibalized sanji and later on haunted by sanji illusion, but he doesn't feel confused, instead he feels fulfilled, like his mind and sanji merged together and they'd stay like that forever, i made him left the crew because thats too fucked, happy ending with the last scene: sanji sit on zoro shoulder, they smile to eachother, both felt relief, the story is okay, i don't like it too much that i can set my mind to finish

[snarky-wallflower]

Ipomoea, Reach For The Sky: The Dakkar and Margaret Essay

(spoilers for Searcher Part Two!)

Hi, hello, I predicted this and I’ve never felt more like a prophet in my life. Allow me many, many moments of screaming over this, please! But, to more serious analysis: Can't you see me? Can't you see me reaching out? Am I not one of your own? We're together, but alone. We would have staring contests like we were children, like we are in this moment, and I would never cease to be the first to blink.

Margaret…she’s talking to Dakkar, isn’t she? 

Staring up at the moon, staring at her brother. It's the closest she can get to seeing him from here. He's her whisper in a daydream, her melody that lingers - he's a face that she recognizes.

These two have been reaching out to each other this whole time, and we never even knew it. Margaret and the Moon, Destiny Strange and Sublime - they're speaking to each other, waiting for each other.

It was never only about the moon she was looking up at. It was never only a mystery he was haunted by. It was about looking up at the same moon, about the mystery that only one of them knew the truth to. 

But I’ve been on my own for so long! Please, I beg of you. How can I search when I don’t know what’s missing?

But she was. That’s what we all can see! Margaret was always searching.

She modelled her room in New York after her brother’s in the Blazing World!  We hear her leitmotif in Dakkar's room, after all. She searched through thousands of scientific books, just like the ones her brother would have loved. She stared up at the moon, and was reminded of him. Even without knowing, she was looking. She was reaching out. Staring at her brother from a distance. She knew, she knew even talking to Samuel, that she had once not been alone in this life. I would even venture that when she took in Rose and Samuel, she looked at them and felt something familiar. She recognized a face, a relationship, siblings who loved each other so deeply, in people she'd just met.

Dakkar was her phantom limb.

But while Margaret was lost because she knew nothing of who she once was? Dakkar was lost because he was alone, and he knew exactly why. Here I am, as promised. I’m ready. 

He’s been waiting. Dakkar was left. He was left alone. Left as the only one with the weight of the memories the two of them shared. He took on the history that Margaret had to forget, left alone with every memory that Margaret has been so hungry to have back. He knows the destiny the two of them shared, the plans they’ve made - and he wants her to know them once more, too! Burdened with knowledge. We know he trusted her to have his back, even when she had no idea who he was, because that’s his sister. He trusts her wholeheartedly, even in the midst of his desperation and rage. What else could he do but that?

These things remind, to make the most of time, now let me find the answer to the test of time. It’s all that I can see, in the faces in my dreams, in the moonlight and its beams.

Dakkar is speaking to her! He’s been trying to find an answer to the test of time, the time he spent alone. Time is so central to him, moving within the moving element! He's been moving in the world without Margaret by his side. He’s been trying to find an answer that will bring his sister back to him! He's so focused on finding that answer. It's all that he can see, the chance to see his sister in more than dream. To see her in person once more. He has his promises to keep, and he will see them through. To know his sister once again, and to have her know him in turn.

We see him calling out to Margaret - I can see you, I can see you reaching out, Margaret, you’re one of our own! He sings out her theme, one we’ve known since The Great Moon Hoax, something that’s hers. Hoping she’ll recognize him enough to reach back.

But, not yet.

The scene moves on, but...

Something tells me Margaret’s got my back on this! 

Dakkar is tired, and he has been filled with so much rage. Because he is first in line, first to know exactly what he needs to do to have her back. He’s getting his hope back, no matter what it takes. 

The test of time rarely comes at the best of times! 

The first time we hear them harmonize, and it’s them agreeing that this needs to happen. Dakkar will do anything just to have her back. He’ll risk his own life to have her look at him with that love, that recognition again. That recognition he’s missed for years and years. Margaret has lived in only his memory for so long. Here she is in front of him again. How is he supposed to wait any longer? He needs to bring her home.

Margaret is so determined to find her answers, and to know the weight of the history she’s been missing. A part of her is searching, reaching out. Her voice is unshakably confident - and I have to wonder if a part of that is because she knows Dakkar is by her side again. 

The two of them are in perfect harmony once more, as they do whatever it takes to get Margaret’s memory back. They’ll share their plans once more, come out of the shadows together. Even before Margaret fully remembers, that connection is there.

And then, Sia strikes.

Dakkar's plan works.

Margaret, after so long, remembers. Remembers everything. Remembers exactly who she is standing next to. 

You know where to find me.

The theme of Margaret’s we’ve heard since The Great Moon Hoax. Margaret has been adrift in the world, a child throwing stones in the firmament. Dakkar has been waiting, as promised, with his destiny strange and sublime. Their destiny.

And how does it end?

Sister. You found me.

[moon-huny]

Stole the Moon - Chapter Two

CW: My content is not for anyone under 18. Some sharp objects in this chapter. Mild language. Some coercion and, whats this, sexual frustration? You're still kidnapped so, mentions of imprisonment.

Word Count: 2.7K

Summary: Finally feeling generous, Buggy calls for his right hand man to bring you above deck. Can he smoothly transition into his plan, or do you have other ideas?

A/N: I know I already said it in an update post, but thank you all so much for reading and interacting with my work. And for all the new followers! It truly means a lot.

I am going to rip the bandaid off now. No clown smut in this chapter. I know, I know, okay, I'm sorry. This is meant to be a slow burn people, we need some push and pull before we get to the push and pull, ya know? That being said, there will be some nasty nasty in chapter three, I can promise you that. Okay, that's all, enjoy.

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Days passed and you hadn’t received a visit.

Every evening, a small bowl filled with enough food to keep you alive is passed through the bars along with a small tin cup of watery tasting alcohol. Nobody spoke to you, nobody lit the candles when you ran out of matches, nobody offered you even a passing glance. You were left entirely alone in the darkened hull of a gaudy ship sailing to god knows where.

Maybe he forgot about you. What use could you provide to a man like that? You began to question what it was he even needed you for. What could you possibly know about the sea that he didn't know? You’d tried so hard to remember, hoping something, anything, would come to your mind.

You thought about the map. The one he spread out for you to see that night. You recalled the waiting look in his eyes, hoping you’d recognize it. Nothing. You replayed the moment again in your head, his broad gloved hands smoothing across the fabric of the map. What did the map look like again? All you could think about was the flex of his hand. The way his eyes had flicked up to look at you, under a strong brow and peering through long lashes.

Your memory wandered back to the moment when you were closest to him. When he had you caged against the wall, the heat of his body radiating off of him, hot breath ghosting over your lips. The way his knee pressed ever so deliciously to your –

You gasp, in shock and disgust at your own thoughts. “Oh, absolutely not,” you say aloud. The loneliness was getting to you.

You went to the port hole. In your time down here you’d searched the entire cell for anything you could use to escape. After coming up empty handed, you took it upon yourself to do some… redecorating.

You’d made the bed more comfortable with some fabric you’d found, and stacked the empty cargo into a more comfortable variation so you could look out the small round window. Climbing atop the sturdy mound of boxes and barrels, you looked out across the velvet waves. The crescent moon shone brightly, its reflection causing the gentle water to sparkle and flicker, as though tea candles were floating and bobbing on the surface.

A tear rolled down your cheek, another, and soon you were crying with too little energy to sob. That's when you thought you heard someone walking gently above you on the deck of the ship, humming a tune. It was different from the sea shanties you normally heard during the day, this melody sounded more like a lullaby.

The song was haunting, and yet, hearing another person, knowing somebody was sharing this moment with you in the moonlight, lightened the weight on your chest. Your crying stopped, the comfort taking over your exhausted frame as you leaned against the wall by the window listening to the voice pull you into the warmth of sleep.

Unknown to you, the vocalist leaning against the railing of the ship was devising a plan. A miserable plan to ruin you and lead you to a hell you wouldn’t recognize until it was too late – a sly smirk spreading across his red painted lips.

///

Buggy was spread out across his throne-like chair. The captain’s quarters were decorated like a big top circus tent – red and white fabric ballooned across the ceiling of the small room. The space was filled with gold and treasure of every kind. The desk was cluttered with navigation tools and maps.

“Cabaji, I’d like for you to retrieve our guest now,” his voice dripped with a sinister undertone. He barely paid any attention to the man before him, instead staring at a dainty silver necklace wrapped around his hand.

“Captain, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” Cabaji wavered before his ringleader. The chief of staff knew what you had the potential to do, he knew what you were and it was only a matter of time before you figured it out too.

“I didn’t ask you to think,” his head fell to the side finally regarding the swordsman. “I asked you to go. GET. THAT. BRAT!”

“Yes, captain.” Turning about-face with a sigh, Cabaji made his way down to your cell.

///

Hearing footsteps this early in the morning was unusual. Unusual enough to cause you to bolt upright in bed. Through the darkened hallway – the morning light not quite reaching the lower decks of the ship yet – your eyes adjusted enough to see a recognizable swordsman stalking toward you through the shadows.

You sprang from the bed, your eyes not once leaving the taller man’s form. Standing in the middle of your room, you made your best attempt to question him before he could reach your cell door.

“It’s a bit early,” your voice wavered, a look of uncertainty on your face. “What do you want?” You questioned hoping that the increase in volume would make you sound more confident, it didn’t.

He unlocked the door and threw it open. “Get out, you’re coming with me.”

“Like hell, where is the clown? What are you planning on doing with me?”

This was the first time anyone had spoken to you in days. This was perhaps the only moment you might have to get some answers.

Cabaji sighed with frustration, he wanted nothing more than to sling you over his shoulder, carry you to the captain’s quarters and save everyone a lot of time, and yet, he recalled the final words Buggy said before sending him on this errand.

“And Cabaji, … don’t touch her.”

He wasn’t one to question Buggy’s orders but, on a crew that was so rarely regulated outside of performance, Cabaji had to wonder what the order was for.

“Come. Now.” You gave the green haired man a hesitant look.

“If I don’t?”

“Then I can only imagine Buggy will let you rot down here.”

Spending another moment alone might kill you, especially in the sensory deprivation chamber that was this room.

“Lead the way,” a weak response. Cabaji turned, leaving the door open.

At first you couldn't make your legs move. The idea that you could walk out, just step beyond the threshold of iron and rust and rot. Yet, you did, slowly at first then all at once speeding up to catch the stoic man.

Climbing up onto the deck in the morning light was reward in and of itself. The sun was just finishing its rise, gracing your skin, warming your face and causing you to squint.

“This way,” Cabaji called after you. He made his way toward an ornate door at the stern of the ship. He peeled the doors open, walked in, and stood to the side as you followed behind him.

His eyes scanned your appearance and, after consideration, displayed a distasteful look. You could have assumed you weren’t looking your best, being locked up on a pirate ship wasn’t exactly a spa retreat. The braid you had your hair in was full of tangled knots you had tried again and again to brush, your skin was dull, reflecting your time in the dark and your clothing could hardly be considered appropriate.

“He’ll speak with you soon,” said the swordsman. “Whenever he decides to collect himself,” and he slipped out behind you, shutting the doors.

Standing alone in the den of a predator, you naturally did what any prey would do, you began to inspect.

The room was beautiful – if not a little cliche for the circumstance – the big top theme was not lost on you. Though the room was small, something about the leading lines of the tent-like structure above you made the space feel larger.

On one end of the room, large draping curtains separated his bedroom from the rest of the office. The large wood carved bed dressed up with colorful weighted fabrics called to your aching body. Weeks of sleeping on a plank had taken its toll on you.

There was a large desk in the center with several detailed maps displayed across it. A small gleaming dagger staked into the mahogany kept a stack of papers in place. After looking around the room and seeing no one, you pulled the jeweled blade from the wood opting to carry it by your side just out of sight.

Behind the desk, a large chair with a circus motif. Golden lions wearing collars perched on the armrests, the crushed red velvet of the seat complimented the gold and ruby circus tent adorning the back.

As you reached out to touch the gorgeously detailed piece, a voice from behind startled you.

“It’s just as comfortable as it looks, ya know,” said Buggy. “Go ahead, have a seat.”

He was standing at the entrance. How did you not hear him come in? You both stood opposite one another in the room. A space between you that was comfortable and one you would normally prefer to keep, but you would rather have revenge. Holding the small knife behind your back, you stood stone still, hands becoming clammy and heart rate picking up.

“S’matter?” he said. “You look terrified.” Mock concern, his specialty.

“What do you want?” quiet, just above a whisper, it was like your voice had floated from your lips. The pillowy softness of your words drew him closer.

He made his way around the desk to you. Your eyes never leaving one anothers. He pulled the silver necklace from his coat pocket. He looked more relaxed without the garish captain's hat and the arsenal of weapons he usually kept draped on his person.

“I wanted to return something.” Your eyes glanced over at his hand holding a beautiful silver necklace. A dainty spiga chain wrapped around his fingers, but the real draw was the antique pendant encasing a gorgeous moonstone. You recognized it immediately. It belonged to someone close to you, but her face was blurry in your mind.

“I’ve never seen that before,” you said, hoping you hid your emotions enough to not draw intrigue.

“Oh? Because, I remember it looking gorgeous on you.” His eyes flicked down to where your arms crossed behind your back. Your breath stopped, squeezing the handle of the dagger hoping he wouldn’t ask.

“Put it on me then,” you say, fast enough to draw his attention away from your nefarious little friend. You spun around quickly to move the dagger in front of you, hiding it against your inner arm where your limbs crossed over your stomach.

The blue haired man smiled a sly smile. He stepped toward you, your back to him was not ideal but, as far as you knew, you still had the element of surprise on your side.

His hand came up to gently move your hair out of the way. His gloved fingertips just lightly brushing along the top of your back and over your shoulder, pushing your braid to the side. You tried to steady your breathing, feeling nervousness rising to your chest knowing what you were about to do.

His arms came up over your head to rest the pendant across your chest. As he brought the clasp together at your nape, he didn’t miss his chance to lightly drag his knuckles against the soft skin on either side of your neck. Clipping the silver together, his touch lingered for a moment.

By the way you reacted to such featherlight touches, Buggy knew Cabaji did exactly as he’d asked. Nobody was to touch you. Your hunger to connect with another person had to be fed by him and him only. If this was to work, he’d have to consume your every thought.

Right now, however, you were poisoning the butterflies in your stomach and focusing on executing your impromptu plan. In one swift motion, you spun to face the man behind you. His arms dropped to the side. His face contorted into one of anger, eyes narrowing at you. The dagger pressed into his jugular, a forceful stab is all it would take to kill him.

“Hands where I can see em, clown,” you spit.

His face pulled into a worried expression. Eyebrows furrowing together, eyes pleading, he swallowed a lump in his throat. You admit, you felt powerful. He began drawing his arms upward in order to bring his hands to the sides of head. You swore your peripheral vision was playing tricks on you.

You whipped your gaze to verify that what you were seeing was true. Both of his arms ended in stumps. Your eyes widened and you affixed your terrified gaze back onto the man.

“Nice try, sweetheart!” and punctuated his remark with a wink.

It all happened so fast, two cotton clad hands flew in from behind you and gripped your wrists. The strength of them hauling you back and pulling your arms up above your head. You looked up and confirmed your fears.

Indeed, Buggy’s disembodied hands were pulling you upward just enough so you were forced to balance on the tips of your toes. You dangled in front of him, chest heaving in panic. You let out various little feral sounds attempting to struggle out of the binding grip he had on you. Until, out of pure vexation, you let out a scream.

“Ooo, geez, honey please,” he said, frowning and squinting his eyes closed. “Little too loud for the morning, okay? Let’s maybe dial it back a bit.”

“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

“Yeah, well doll, you missed that chance didn’t ya?”

You let out another few struggling grunts and then another scream.

His eyes rolled, “We done? ... Wanna do one more? Ya know, when women are screaming in my room it’s usually after cumming a third time.”

You just stared at him dumbfounded. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. The comment itself just about slapped you across the face enough to shut you up. He knew it too.

When he clocked that most of your fight had left your body from exhaustion, he made himself at home in your personal space yet again. Feeling his presence so close felt claustrophobic. His eyes scanned you. The weight of his gaze was enough to have you withering, his hands still holding you up.

“This dress is all wrong for you,” he said. “How about you get cleaned up, hmm?” the stump of his arm came up under your chin to lift your eyes to him. “I can’t have an exhausted dinner guest, you’d be asleep by dessert!” Then at a hushed volume, “and I prefer a conscious final course.”

Making a disgusted face at that last comment, what he was offering didn’t sound so bad. The things you would do right now for a bath, a chance to brush your hair, to clean the grime from your nails, to rest. The watercolor green eyes of the man before you softened, as if he knew what you were thinking.

“Alright then … I’ll leave you to it,” he finally dropped you as his hands found their normal resting place on his body. At the snap of his fingers, two young women opened the doors and came rushing in, immediately crowding you.

“Ladies, do you think you can help our guest get more comfortable?” he asked them as he backed up and began to take his leave.

They both stood before you, arms crossed with disapproving looks on their faces. Their outfits were perfect mirror images of each other, same for the makeup. Their hair was cut short, each movement they made caused their tight coils to bounce. The height and overall measurements of the two women were exactly alike as well.

Their only difference was their skin, hair and eye color. The red-haired woman had a pink tinge to her tawny skin – an obvious sunburn from being at sea – and bright blue eyes. The woman on the right had clearly added too much blush atop her natural sepia coloring in order to match her partner’s reddened condition, the hair framing her face was a smooth onyx color, her eyes a warm amber shade.

They turned to face him in perfect unison, “We can try.” They both said.

“Greaaat.” he replied, clearly off put by their synchronization. “Well then, doll, I’ll see you at dinner this evening.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚

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[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Swallowed Whole by The Flame (Messmer the Impaler x Tarnished! Reader) 5

MASTERLIST

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Summary: You go on a hunt to find Redmane Freyja.

A/N: Oh boy, another fight scene that I cannot write. This chapter mentions scenes of violence: blood, gore, swearing - all the fun things.

A03 link

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Chapter 5: Challenge

"If thee dare betray me, I shall maketh sure thou art never blessed by mine own mother's grace again."

It haunts you his exact words, whispered as if death was watching your every move.

It's a challenge, though one where he can judge you for how foolish you are. If he really wanted you to do all this for his loyalty, you would've rather faced the golden hippopotamus again.

You tell yourself you'll prove him wrong, and wipe that smug attitude away when you return. That is if you do it in time. There is a sense of doom to your mission, one you think could go wrong. Redmane Freyja - someone you didn't get the chance to speak to - is a warrior through and through. Capable of standing for herself, and impressive in her prowess. 

Having followed the Moorth Highway south, avoiding furnace golems and trolls that sit by ransacked carriages. By the time you see the ruins on the second night, darkness has fallen, and rain slashes in front of you. You decide it's best to take a rest.

You sit by the closest site of grace, and rain shields your vision, giving less visibility, but it is only the grace you look upon, watching intensely.

Torrent nudges you out of your thoughts momentarily, bringing a gentle hand out to feed him berries you gathered, whilst you rip at the bark-like cured meat. "What have I gotten myself into, Torrent?" You whisper to him tentatively, as your stead munches happily on the treats you provide. A flash of lightning casts the tree behind you to look like a mighty beast, yet you do not jump. Instead, you sigh, your body aches and your mind wishes for rest. "Doom follows me, and I can only welcome it."

Sleep does not come easy, not that it has for many nights.

When morning comes, you dismount from Torrent, and the stead disappears out of sight, back into the whistle for when you need him next. The ruins are a large formidable mess, crumbling from age with the heat of the stone burnt from eternal flames. You're aware of its underground structures, but it is not that you're interested in.

For in the centre, stands the person you've been looking for.

"Tarnished, I am pleased to see you made it out alive from the Shadow Keep." Freyja greets you smoothly, turning to face you, "Is the deed done? Is the tyrant dead?"

"No Lady Freyja, he is not." 

The woman only gives a hum to your answer, "That is a shame. I will have no doubt when I tell Lady Leda, she will not be too pleased either. 

"She will not hear of this news, Freyja," There was a sense of acceptance to your words. You pull forth your nagakiba, bending your knees as you hold a defensive stance, "For I have come for your life instead."

She is silent for what feels like forever until you hear the absurd thing. Laughter. She is laughing at you. "Did your new lord ask of you to do this? Ah, you foolish girl, what have you done?"

You don't answer her, but you feel something boil inside you. Fight me. Fight me now. "Do you believe Lady Leda will not hear of this? The news of my death will trigger my allies to come find you. Do you not hear yourself, who will stand with you? Miquella will not take lightly hearing of your deception."

It is only with a heavy sigh that eases you. She unsheathes her great sword, flashing like a giant sun. "Very well, Tarnished. May your foolishness be your undoing."

"May it be then." You say, and before you in a flash, she charges.

Metal hisses against metal as the great sword hits the side of your armour on your chest, caught mostly by your nagakiba, thankful that it does not slice through. It does, however, leave a long scratch down the steel.

You grunt. Freyja is a mighty warrior you admit, but she sweeps with her great sword with the intent of hacking your head off rather than trying to whittle you down. A foolish mistake, you note, rolling out of the way as her great sword swings down, hitting the very spot you just stood on.

You land a quick slash towards her, having almost no effect as she dodges easily, grabbing you tightly by the forearm and headbutting you with a crack that you think has split your skull. She tosses you backwards, her laughter raucous and vexing.

You continue to circle her, darting back and forth, slicing, which makes her have to try looking out for you. She makes for a big target, swinging her great sword around as she huffs and grunts like a beast not wanting to surrender. A true warrior of Radahn, you wonder why she chose to leave him. For what feels like ages, you both jab at one another, taking turns with neither gaining a hit or dodging the last second. Only one of your slashes with your nagakiba gets her on the back of her leg and you smile in victory underneath your helm, only to dodge out the way clumsily from another one of her heavy-hitting attacks.

"You're slow, Tarnished." Freyja mocks. "Is this the warrior Messmer fought? I feel sorry for him."

You hiss, slashing at her most vulnerable areas, legs, arms, twice at the shoulders in an attempt to get her to become sluggish. Freyja would not slow though, grunting from time to time, but overall seemingly not injured.

You wonder if Messmer did all of this as a cruel joke- to have you face the largest and most formidable of Miquella's followers. It would be easy to laugh too, for you were indeed the fool who accepted. 

You continued, earning a slash to your shoulder at one point that has you promptly rummaging for a healing flask, dodging another attack as you down it. Your shoulder feels stiff, but it has healed the wound quickly enough for you to keep going for her. Circling, slashing, rolling. On and on, this dance goes on until you do begin to notice she is becoming slower.

You stagger her with a parry, going up behind her in a flash to stab her through the rib, getting through the gap in her armour as you kick her forward. Blood ruptures out as she gives a loud grunt, cursing you loudly as she lands on her feet before you can attack her again.

"I will not die today, Tarnished." You can hear her gritting her teeth, leaping like a cat into the air, her sword and herself swinging in time before she lands on the ground right in front of you. Debris and dirt hit you, rocks scrapping your exposed areas not covered by armour and you're flung backwards, landing not so gracefully on your back from the force of her landing. She strides towards you, thinking victory is ahead.

You roll to stand, thinking swiftly as you pull forth a perfume bottle, throwing it her way. It casts pockets of fire in her way, and she stumbles through it, patting herself as you can hear the sound of her blood bubbling and boiling from her cuts.

The next foolish thing you could do whilst she was occupied with the perfumed flames was charge towards her, running through the flames you cast as you scream, leaping onto her, kicking her in the gut that she is winded enough to have her great sword knocked from her hand. Now with her unarmed, you raise your nagakiba over your head, thinking it would be enough to strike the exposed part of her neck to give her a quick death, only to find she is slamming her fist into your gut too, not once, twice, knocking your sword from hand as she lands a punch to the side of your face, knocking you off her and onto the ground.

You scrabble, as she gets up, wheezing and whimpering as you pull forth another weapon. Small and delicate, the knife from your pocket would need to do a lot of damage, only she laughs at the measly size of it, charging you once more.

You dodge another punch to the side of your head, fear coursing through you, feeling more afraid than ever before. To be classed a traitor to all was not what you wanted, but you could feel yourself needing another flask immediately.

Freyja caught sight of it as you tried to reach for it, grabbing your wrist and twisting, releasing the bottles as they flew overhead you both, crashing with a shatter against some debris, clearly broken.

You can taste blood in your throat, coughing some up the more you move. Everything burns, pain that moves from one part of your body to the next part, screaming for rest, mercy. Freyja cries, raising her hands over her head as if ready to slam her fists down upon you when you see an opening. The exposed part of her armpit is uncovered, the blood seeping is her own. You miss the fists to your head, gripping the knife and using your other hand to drive it upwards, screaming with the force.

Freyja only hisses when you're face to face with her now. Her golden-masked face is all you can see, but you wish to believe her face has written on it either fear or approval. You don't think it's been driven hard enough into her chest, driving it deeper which earns a louder cry from her, followed by shallow, deep breathing.

"You fought well, Tarnished." She wheezes, "I pray Kindly Miquella will think the same."

With a final curse, she bends, falling to her back, her breathing ceasing with the blade poking out between her skin and armour. 

It was only when you felt the sense of victory wash over that you felt something was off. Pain kicks in, replacing the adrenaline with a stinging sensation that begins to burn between your ribs. Horror rushed over you, catching you off guard. A cold sweat washes over. Crying out, you jump back away from Freyja's crumpled body, running shaky hands over your body to find what was sticking out of you. Oh Gods. You dread, crying out as a blade you hadn't noticed she had pulled forth, with a handle as thick as your forearm was now protruding in your side.

You had felt many deaths before and suffered great injuries, but none had been so foul as the feeling of torture before death came. You needed to find a site of grace before you lost everything. Gritting your teeth, your hands gripped the handle to the blade, reeling back from the pain of it so far lodged into you. One, two, three! You didn't want to give yourself any time to react as you pulled it out from you, screaming from both the alleviation and fear bubbling in your mind. 

Immediately, your legs gave way and you fell backwards, limbs numb as you still held the bloody knife in your grip. You groaned in disgust, throwing it away as you remembered through it all that you couldn't just leave without the proof Messmer asked for.

"He better be fucking grateful." You spat, clutching your bleeding side as you tried your best to even kneel. With only the knife on you to use, it would be better for hacking than the thinner blade of your nagakiba. You knew what you had to do. Staring down at Freyja's corpse, you kicked off her helm, revealing a mass of unruly hair. 

"Forgive me." You whispered, revealing her neck as you pressed the knife into her flesh, the sounds of hacking and sawing could be heard through the ruins.

Once off, you threw the head into a bag, tying it to your belt as you whistled for Torrent. It was hard not to stop yourself from gagging, the thick smell of blood wafted in the air, creating an even fouler stench in the ruins. You had been through worse, you reminded yourself, dying is now as familiar to you as waking up in the morning, but even on the verge of death, it was the worst feeling to experience. It was not the same as just suffering a quick and easy one, waking up by grace fully healed. 

Once here, Torrent stands solemnly beside you, warily swaying as his beady eyes access you. It takes some effort to mount him, for the beast is patient, and you can only silently thank him for not bucking you off for how many times you try getting your leg over. Finally atop, your skin feels both hot and cold, your armour was sticking to your skin as if it was boiling you alive from the inside. The soft fur of Torrent was all you had to concentrate on, despite the feeling that your brain wanted to switch off. You fight it for as long as you can, hoping Torrent can guide you the way you came. 

You didn't know how long you had been travelling back when the pain was ebbing away at your consciousness, your body was weakened and struggling to stay atop Torrent. Your skin had paled, hands were jittery as you lost the strength in your fingers to hold the reins. Your vision was spiralling, swaying like the waves of the shoreline, not certain what was up and what was down, but the feeling of your body swaying, and finally, falling and falling in slow motion.

You thudded to the ground, Torrent halting as he inspected you with a muzzle to your face, coaxing you to stay awake. 

"Torrent." Breathing noisily, you would apologise to him when you found yourself at a site of grace. You dreaded knowing you would fail at Messmer's quest in his mind, but before you could think further of it, darkness swarmed your vision, and you thanked whoever was watching over you finally gave you comfort.

From the darkness, came distant, cold dreams, filling your mind with doubt:

..."They are incredible, are they not?" There is a sense of dread and awe as you stare up at the sky, bright and bold with the sounds of dragons. The creatures, large in age, sweep and dive down, creating rushes of wind to almost knock back the men who stand on the ground. Some are still wary, when the dragons came once, it had been to destroy towns and wage wars. Now, having them as allies was an unseen miracle. "It is your friendship with them that is outstanding." You marvel, turning to the man beside you, as regal and charming as those with royal blood. He carries himself with a way of understanding all, a calming presence that all could admire. He smiles at you, resting a hand on your shoulder. "I am certain they would love to meet thee. I have told them much and more." "Me? I am just a mere knight, here to serve, my Lord." "Yes, but my most trusted ally and loyal friend." The man chuckles, leading you down as if now is the right time to introduce you to the winged creatures.

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

... "Mother is to remarry again." The regal man says, this time you don't know how much time has passed. There is a slight tinge of disappointment in his words. He has his back towards you, the parchment thrown across his apartments. "I received her message when I broke my fast." "You know to whom?" You ask. "The Carian Queen's former husband, Radagon." "And of your father? What becomes of him?" "He is to begin his long march with many of his armies, my mother has decreed." He turns to you, sorrow that was not just in his voice but in his eyes. "She asks that thee join." You don't wish to, you want to plead and beg, but this sadness is not just felt in him but yourself, something you cannot understand nor explain. You think this man is unknown to you, so why do you feel such disgrace? All you can do is nod, acceptance heavy in your chest. "Very well, my Lord."

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

... A half bottle of wine is now neglected, and large calloused hands dance along your hips and thighs, lips pressed to the pulse point of your neck. "Let me speak to my mother," the man uttered, pulling you closer on his lap, "she will let thee stay." "I can't," you say, his hands felt so realistic in the fogginess of your mind, fingers stroking his jawline, "it is my duty not just to serve you, but your family as well." "I know, my sweet knight." He murmurs in understanding, a sense of despair consumes him, and when he tries to pick you up to continue things in the bedroom, you stop him. "Not yet, my Lord. I only wish to be in your arms tonight. One final night before I must leave." He smiles, kissing you with the need to remember the outline of your lips. "Anything for thee."

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

... A battlefield of blood and bone, ash and carnage. Men in golden armour surround you, in the dying, groaning for mercy and death, their voices dying down in numbers. You clutch your bleeding chest, holding a grand ornate sword in hand, and sweet tears drip from your eyes. You cough, spluttering crimson blood that dribbles down your chin. You stare up at the endless sky, with a man's name being muttered from your lips as you die. 

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

Your lungs burn when you wake from a death-like sleep, coughing up the air and drinking it in as if you can still somehow feel the cold blade deep in your chest. You go to touch it, only to remember that it was all a dream.

"Easy, milady," a voice pulls you back to reality, and when you look at your surroundings, you're not staring into the golden strips of grace, but the roaring flames of a fire. Opposite you, sits a nomadic merchant, plucking at the strings of his instrument, "your wounds are still open."

Messmer. Is your first thought, and you dread to wonder if he thinks you've betrayed him. You're careless in the way you try to stand, running a hand over where the blade stuck through you, only to find heavy bindings that have been kept to stop the bleeding. You hiss softly, guilt pouring through at the attempt this merchant has made to keep you alive.

"It shall be enough to get you to find a proper healer if you're quick." He says in a soft tone, watching you through clouded eyes, his face half covered. 

"Torrent... where is Torrent?" You're blinking back from the intensity of the fire in front of you, blinking back tears you're certain to have come from the cinders, not your life-like dreams. 

"Ah, your stead," the merchant points, and through the bushes, you spot Torrent, munching on berries with no care in the world. "We found you in the nick of time, milady. If we had been any later, well... you would've been a goner."

You try to laugh at that, but you're unsure if he knows you're Tarnished. "Thank you," you stand shakily to your feet, throwing a coin his way that he accepts with some surprise, "I must be going now."

"I must warn you, Messmer's soldiers lurk on the roads. Best to keep to the woods." The merchant speaks with uncertainty as you coax Torrent to come to you. He does, stroking his snout before climbing atop. You feel just about better now that you've had time to rest, but you need to head back to Aldwin so he can stitch you back up. You've been gone so long without a site of grace that you fear you will begin to wither.

"It is alright," you speak earnestly. "He is looking for me."

-

A/N: I am aware that it's recommended not to pull sharp objects out of you unless you wish to bleed to death, but I guess Tarnished thinks it's the smartest plan. I do wonder who this mysterious man is-- oh well, I guess we'll never know *wink wink*

[deepsix-writing]

Fix You. Chapter 1 of 5. (BEGINNING)

After the events of Marble Hornets, Tim is left to pick up the pieces of what is left of his old life. One piece in particular has him haunted.

(NEXT CHAPTER)

When Tim had first seen the hooded figure lying motionless on its back after falling off the balcony, he'd thought, good. Another puppet of the Operator down… one step closer to putting an end to this nightmare. He hadn't realized it was, instead, the beginning of an entirely new one.

'Hey. It's Brian. Leave a message… or don't. Here's the beep.'

Never had Tim known the sound of a dial tone so well. His devotion to that voicemail inbox was as a priest to his god; He knelt in prayer morning, noon, and night, begging and pleading with whatever force it was that looked down on him from heaven to let him hear his best friend's voice just one more time. Steadfast in faith, he never stopped calling, never stopped hoping, even as the seasons changed and he did too. Even as the police came in search of missing persons, and went when they found nothing, Tim remained. His razor collected dust in his bathroom. A beard as thick as his misplaced hope had cropped up on his face.

The investigations had been particularly difficult for Tim, especially when detectives had shown up on his doorstep. For Brian's, he'd easily been able to shrug them off and convince both them and himself that the college student must have been off visiting family out in the west, or enjoying a break from classes by the coast. It was summer, and the benefit of the doubt was his seldom hope. He called Brian's number and let the voicemail play for the police once, then a million times more for himself after they were long gone.

'Hey. It's Brian. Leave a message… or don't. Here's the beep.'

Then came Alex's. The film student had worked up a track record of unexplained disappearances already (something Tim relayed to the cops word for word), but Tim didn't have much else to say about him. The man had already painted the walls of Tim's mind with a noxious crimson; he couldn't bear to lose another shred of his regards to him. The detectives said they would keep in touch with Tim if they discovered anything new, and they went on their way. Tim let the sound of Brian's canned voicemail message fill the empty space in the meantime.

'Hey. It's Brian. Leave a message… or don't.'

Time marched on. Tim marched on. In the mornings, he took his medicine, listened to the voicemail, and afterwards he went to work. Admittedly, the job he worked was a crappy one, but it was the first he'd managed to hold down in years. It would do. Tim would keep to himself and do just enough to get by until he was let off in the evening. Stopping by a gas station for cheap junk food on the way home was a mandatory part of the routine; he would do anything to prolong the inevitable sight awaiting him in his apartment.

He wades through the garbage of his overgrown and messy apartment after he wedges the door open and carefully locks it back up again. It is welcome procrastination for when he makes it to his bathroom and looks in the mirror. When he looks at himself, all he sees is blood.

'Hey. It's Brian. Leave a message…'

His god is dead. Tim isn't sure how long he's been praying to a corpse, but now he's able to smell the rot. It fills his nose and makes it hard to think. When he looks in the mirror, all he sees is death.

A tidal wave of blood replaces the ringing in his ears. He grips the edges of his sink. He stares down a murderer. A brutal killer that single-handedly delivered the end to all of his closest friends. People who'd had rich lives and bright futures ahead of them.

Alex's last moments replay in his mind. His hands, the same ones that had gone white with how tightly he gripped the countertop, were the ones he had used to stab the film student in the throat and the image would never ever fucking leave him. Over and over, again and again until Alex was coughing and hacking and drowning in his own blood. The sound of a punctured windpipe was not one he would ever forget. The scene had smelled like metal and victory at an impossible cost. His hands had been stained red ever since.

It was a microscopic change, one Tim hadn't noticed at first, but he was certain the skin on his hands was a shade redder than the rest of his body. No amount of hand-washing or showers or even bleach would fix it, and no one at his crappy job had known him long enough to see the change like he did. But Tim knew. Tim could hold up his hand against his face and be able to tell. His hands were cursed by a near-transparent shade of crimson, and any time he looked at them, guilt burnt a hole in his stomach. His anxiety would be remedied with another replay of the voicemail that never changed.

It had taken Tim longer than he could proudly admit to figure out what that had meant for his former friend. Combing through Jay's online archive of footage to find out exactly who the hooded man was had taken even longer. It was like watching his brother's last moments on video after finding out he'd died the same night. In comparison, the voicemail was like hearing the voice of his patron saint.

Tim's faith dies in the middle of the night, when he lies in bed with a cigarette in one hand and his phone in the other. The device is perched over his head, shining down on his face as he calls Brian's number, listens to the voicemail, and hangs up.

'Hey. It's Brian…'

It's a neurotic dance he repeats until his eyes grow tired and he's just on the verge of sleep, and then…

"Uh, hello? Who is this?"

Tim dropped the phone on his face before he knew how to react. It fell in the crevice between his side and the bed, and it took him a frantic moment to wrench it out.

"Brian, Brian! Holy shit, are you okay? It's Tim. It's me, Tim! Are you okay?? What, What happened–"

"Woah, hey!" Tim realized it wasn't Brian's voice. "-I'm not – I just found this phone on the side of the road earlier. It's not mine."

Then it set in. Then something withered inside him. When his lips moved, it was a miracle.

"…Where on the side of the road?"

"Oh, just by Rosswood Park. So are you friends with this Brian guy? He probably wants his phone ba–"

Tim snapped his phone shut and never called the number again. Sleep did not come to him that night, and in the next few weeks they were as lovers on thin, frayed ropes. Circles as dark as his guilt weighed down his eyes. Thoughts he'd put behind himself years before came running to catch up with him.

Tim was dead. His hope was a flickering candle that had been tossed into the ocean. It hadn't stood a chance. He hadn't stood a chance. He only knew of one thing left to do.

He found that one thing in his car keys and in his drive to Rosswood Park and in the loaded handgun he'd stuffed in his pocket. He parked his car sideways in the lot overlooking the forest. The front end of the car dipped past the painted dividers, and usually he'd hate it when people left their cars parked like that. Every time, Tim would grimace and regard the sight as a result of the driver lacking common decency. But in that moment, it was the last thing he could have ever thought to care about.

It was funny, how one simple piece of knowledge had changed Tim's entire perspective on life. He had decided that morning would be his last, and just like that, the world had flipped on its head. The rising sun was brighter, the morning sky was prettier, and his bed had been warmer. He even felt like cooking a meal for himself that day.

Tim went to the store after showering and dressing himself in his cleanest clothes. He bought just enough ingredients for this one recipe, and he even bought dried rosemary. It came in a little glass bottle, and was a dollar and sixty cents more expensive than the store brand spices he usually bought. Every time before, his eyes had passed over it. He'd excused the idea of buying it despite seeing it as an ingredient in countless recipes because it wasn't worth it, the dish would taste just as good without it, it was a waste of money. But when he used it to cook his last meal that day, it was like finding the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle he'd tried to put together years ago. It was the best food he'd ever tasted.

In the park, the birds chirped like an orchestra catered to Tim's ears. It was late fall, and the golden hues of falling leaves orbited around him. Before he joined the barren trees ranks, he sent a text to his former manager. Dead men can't work.

For a dead man, his feet were sure and steady. He knew exactly where he was going: the same place he'd died once before. Its once pristine white walls were peeling, and it was covered in graffiti now, but it hadn't changed any more than Tim had.

At the hospital, Tim had learned how the world worked. You start out whole, and every time the world beats you down, it takes a piece of you. With every friend he'd lost, Tim lost a chunk of his soul. And when he'd killed Alex, he'd lost a bigger chunk than he could have ever anticipated. Tim knew he wouldn't have enough of himself left afterwards to survive losing anyone else.

He'd always tried to find those pieces. It was the only reason he hadn't split town the moment he'd had the chance. Tim's eyes had always been full of stars and the against-all-odds hope that one day he could find those pieces again. Or maybe, he'd thought, he could find them again in someone else. But that someone else was gone, now.

Whatever pieces that had left him had rotted and decomposed. They nourished the soil that crept up from the floor of his old hospital room and grounded the lichen that hung from the ceiling. Time could put the very foundations of the room to ruin and Tim would still feel the years he'd spent locked away here like the ache in his feet from walking all this way.

It was as fitting a place as any to die. Tim envied his younger self: back when his mind was his biggest problem, and not his actions. As he closed the half-hinged door and trailed his hands along the peeling paint of his coffin, he hoped and prayed no adventurous teenagers would come and run into his body until the next summer, when wild animals had taken the pieces of him that would be left behind. He didn't want this place to harbor any more trauma for anyone else. He would end that legacy here and now.

Tim pulled the handgun from his pocket. It was warm from resting against his thigh. He brought it up to his chin, then thought better and let the tip of the barrel press against his temple. But it felt wrong. Too dramatic, too highschool. The warm metal slid to the center of his forehead instead. But he couldn't grip the trigger as well, he started to think that instead he could-

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Tim assumed it was the dead man's manager, replying to the dead man's lukewarm resignation text. But why not read a dead man's phone while he still could? He let the gun rest against the side of his head as he pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open.

'Hey. I know it's been a while since we've talked and you're probably pissed at me (understatement I know) but I need a ride. Really really need a ride. I'm supposed to be gone by 4, so if you could be here by then, I'd owe you my life.'

The text was from a number he didn't recognize and was accompanied by an address for some place in downtown Tuscaloosa. Tim was just on the verge of clicking his phone closed, excusing it as meant for someone else, when the unmarked number sent another message and suddenly there was no air in his lungs.

'This is Brian btw. Lost my old phone.'

Tim's grip on the handgun's trigger turned to wrought iron in his surprise, and a loud BANG made the last piece of himself jump out of his body. His ears didn't have enough time to stop ringing before both his phone and gun clattered to the floor. His fingers shot up to his head and he felt dizzy when he pulled them back to reveal blood.

Tim fell down on his ass and suddenly there was a fire in his body that burned hotter than the pain in his head. He wanted - no, needed - to stay alive. Even if that text wasn't actually from Brian…

No, it had to be. Needed to be. Tim brought his hands back up to his head, clasping his temples and crying out in relief when he realized his skull was still intact. Blood and heat still poured from his head, but he'd managed to isolate the unknown injury to a graze mark along his left temple. It was enough to sting like a bitch when his fingertips met the open wound, but wasn't deep enough to reach the bone.

It was the second most profound miracle of the day.

The third was how he'd managed to get back to his car without anyone seeing the state of his face, and fourth was the first aid kit he had stuffed in his car. He'd bought it impulsively about a month after he'd started listening to Brian's voicemail recordings, just in case he ever ran across his old friend on the side of the road on his way to the store or work. He had always held out hope for that man.

Tim checked the clock. 3:24pm.

The address from the text message had to be at least twenty minutes away. Shit.

Tim's work of patching up his temple through the foldout mirror in his car was sloppy, and no neater was he when he stuffed his handgun into the glove compartment and jammed his keys into the ignition. The ringing in his ears was the only accompaniment to his wild thoughts as he sped down the road to meet the man behind the text that had given him a new lease on life.

The address turned out to lead to a neat little building just a few blocks from the not-abandoned, non-psychiatric hospital in downtown Tuscaloosa. The sign out front seemed medical, but through Tim's stinging temple and his racing thoughts and the fire in his gut, he couldn't read past 'rehabilitation'. Tim pulled his car into the lot by the front doors and his parking job is just as crooked as it was in Rosswood Park's lot.

He's about to leave the car, but confronting whatever lies in wait for him suddenly wrenches his heart back to the park. His head lurches and he is in his bedroom with his phone, hearing the stranger's voice through Brian's number.

A cigarette would help ease his nerves, he's sure, but a sign by his car advertising a 'smoke-free facility' discourages him. He settles with rolling down his window and alternating between resting his arm on it and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. It's an ineffective compromise.

Tim looks at the front of the building through the film of grime on his windshield and watches as people filter in and out of the front doors. Some are in crutches, others have casts. All are accompanied by medical staff in clean uniforms, all accompanied by smiles and kind, encouraging words. Tim wonders which of the staff fake their smiles, and which of them see their patients as less than human. He averts his gaze as he locks eyes with one of them, too scared he'll find thinly-veiled hatred for him, too.

When a skinny figure in a wheelchair exits the building with a nurse by his side, Tim does not make the same mistake of not recognizing his best friend. He is bumbling along the paved concrete at a snail's pace, struggling to get the wheels to move smoothly. The chair goes sideways every other inch he advances, but his clothes are clean and he is smiling.

He is smiling. Brian is alive and well and smiling and Tim is launching himself out of his car without so much as turning off the engine. Brian says something to the nurse and laughs and only has a fraction of a second to throw his old friend a surprised glance before Tim snaps up the space between them like a greedy animal and holds him tight. His arms squeeze Brian with no mercy until an awkward chuckle from the man threatens him to burst.

"Gh - uh. Happy to see you too, man." Brian's words are choked out through strangled breaths. "I'd hug you back, but uh– ok. I can't breathe."

Tim relents only a moment later when Brian starts wheezing, and when he peels himself away, his hand still lingers on Brian's shoulder. Wayward priest, meet your angel. Here to reunite you with your maker.

Brian is glowing, at least in Tim's mind. His clothes are cleaner than he's ever seen them, and even as Brian says something to him that he doesn't make out, he's smiling. It's that same stupid, cheeky grin he'd wear whenever he'd tell cheesy puns and jokes to Tim in highschool. Those upturned eyes that always looked towards the sun and would exchange glances with him that said a million words regarded him now with joy despite it all. The same fiery passion in his gaze and ice water in his veins was there now, even now that Tim had completely blanked out on his words.

"Uh… Tim? You alright?"

Brian's voice carries all of the same, and Tim is undone. A weight melts off his shoulders, but something holes itself up in his throat. All he can manage is a nod.

Brian exchanges a look with the nurse and looks back at Tim. Then, he laughs. The sound is a fire that burns away Tim's fear and anxiety and gives way to a giddy feeling he can't remember the last time he'd felt. He moves a hand up to wipe his face and sniffs. He hadn't realized how wet his face had gotten.

Then, he smiles back. He isn't sure if his words will hold, but he tests the waters anyways.

"I missed you, Brian."

I thought you were dead. I mourned for you. Grieved for you as if I'd watched the soul leave your body with my own two eyes.

"I missed you too, Tim."

Brian just smiles. And it's more than Tim could have ever possibly hoped for.

[kinaesthetiqueer]

What These Hands Can Be

Rating: G

Words: 7,174

Pairing: Jaune Arc/Pyrrha Nikos

Characters: Jaune Arc, Pyrrha Nikos, minor Nora, Ren, RWBY, Oscar, Ozpin, Theodore, & Rumpole

Other Tags: Post Volume 9, set in Vacuo, alternating POV

Summary: Pyrrha barely knows what to do with her hands these days. She's been gone so long that everything, and everyone, is so different now. Even Jaune. Especially Jaune.

Author's note: My gift for @ssarkosghost for @remnants-of-rwby-exchange! I am so sorry that is a day late; please forgive me. I went to edit and accidentally added 3k... It is in its entirety below but the AO3 link will be by chapters.

gloved

Pyrrha spends a lot of time looking at her hands now.

Her nails are often chipped, bitten. When she was young, her mother had her wear gloves to curb the habit. They were just thick enough to keep her from nibbling the thin keratin to ragged edges. Mittens helped protect her young hands from bitter Argus winters when she wanted to build snowmen at the park. Garden gloves kept dirt from gathering under her nails as she worked alongside her mother in the tiny flowerbed their townhouse called its own. As she grew older, darker pairs helped to camouflage the tell-tale glow of her semblance in use, carefully hiding her critical advantage. Gloves, for one reason or another, have followed her throughout her life.

The desert is too hot for them.

Without them, Vacuan sands and wind roughen her palms beyond belief. Her callouses toughen, her fingertips thicken, and her palms crack, no matter how much moisturizer she applies after showers. There are other ways to minimize the damage, but to keep one’s aura shield engaged all the time outdoors was one of many marks of an outsider. Pyrrha shrinks at the thought of attracting even more attention.

Most people don’t recognize her these days anyway. Pyrrha runs her hands through her ponytail, much shorter than she remembers. It had been like when she’d emerged from the glowing golden portal, blinking and confused, stepping into what appeared to be a war room meeting of her closest friends and many unfamiliar adults.

“I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Pyrrha had whispered into the silence, rubbing her throat. Her bare feet made little plap plap sounds on the cool sandstone as she took a few unsteady steps forward before stopping just out of reach of the closest person- a young, wide-eyed boy she didn’t recognize.

The portal shrunk, fizzled, and faded into oblivion while she struggled to remember why she’d just stepped into their midst. She fidgeted with the ends of her sash in her hands. Still, the urge to rub her throat remained, as if she needed to warm her voice box before speaking any more. 

The crying and screaming broke the silence first- Nora’s shrieks, Ruby’s choked sobs, Yang’s cracking voice. Then came the questions- Blake’s skepticism, Ren’s disbelief, Weiss’ caution.

Are you really Pyrrha?

Oh, of that, she was positively sure.

What happened to you?

She had died, that was somewhat evident by the scar tissue that twisted and stretched beneath the fabric of her loose linen dress and the horrifying memory of searing heat. Ruby had nearly vomited on the spot at her halting recollection of her death, gaze pinned to the [place that Pyrrha massaged at her collar.

Where have you been?

That question haunts her, even now, a little over two weeks later.

One year, eleven months, three weeks, and five days. The number rolled off Nora’s tongue quicker than it had any right to, but with such fury and despair that no one questioned its accuracy. That was how long it had been since the Fall of Beacon, since she’d been gone, how long she’d been dead to her friends. It’s a massive amount of time to be unaccounted for and unexplainably absent. It had taken a woman Pyrrha had never met to get them to all finally believe that she was herself, that she wasn’t some trick of the enemy or especially vivid group hallucination. 

It was when she’d taken Robyn Hill’s hand that she had first noticed she was no longer wearing her gloves. Robyn was wearing fingerless ones, much like Nora’s, but black. Robyn’s grip was firm, her soft smile reassuring.

“Just tell the truth,” she said.

There was not, and still is not, much to tell.

She’d died. There was nothing. Then there was golden light and they were staring at her. She was herself. She was alive. She didn’t know why her hair was cut or why she had a sash that should be ash, just as much as she should. She answered question after question until they sort of devolved into a distressed, hopeful argument about her existence.

At that point, with the truth told and nothing more for either of them to do, Robyn helped her sit in an extra chair to watch the proceedings. The action of sitting only made her realize how exhausted she was by the affair, even if she wanted nothing more than to be accepted into their fold again.

That being said, the results of their argument mattered little. Instead, Pyrrha finally dared to look over to the one person, out of friends and strangers, that had yet to say a word.

Jaune?

He stared at her, blue eyes wide. His hair was cut in an unfamiliar way and streaked with white that she didn’t remember. The lines around his eyes spoke to an age that shouldn’t be possible, but his haunted expression was more than just seeing his old partner back from the dead. That expression spoke volumes, though he did not.

“Hey,” Jaune says now, knocking on her open door “You ready to go?”

Pyrrha looks up from the creases in her palms, the unbroken lifelines and calloused fingertips, the bare nails and chapped knuckles. The tanned skin there is some of the only exposed skin she has. The rest of her is covered in brown, sheer compression arm and leg sleeves, a burgundy athletic romper, copper vambraces and greaves, and long boots and UV goggles, both suited for the sand. Her sash flows to her calves as she stands and reaches for Mellon and Tora, bringing them to her side with just a thought.

Her red gaiter hugs her neck, making it difficult for her to reach up and massage her throat. Jaune nods and turns into the hallway without a second thought though, so it’s not as if he needs to hear her say anything.

Pyrrha pulls the fabric up over her nose and follows Jaune without a word.

2. clenched

Pyrrha is dead.

Three words, one truth. Through the past years, it’s the one thing he has forced himself to believe and remember, despite the pain it causes. He had promised to fight in her memory, to do what she would have done. The tattered remnants of her extra sash always hug his waist, taut when he twists or bends and flaring out when he leaps or falls. Its flowing length reminds him that its owner lost her battle so that he might win a war. Isn’t that the truth of it? Such things are unchanging, immutable. Decades to reckon with that truth and now here it is undone, just as surely as his aching bones and rusted armor.

Pyrrha is back, Jaune thought when she stepped out of the glowing portal. Pyrrha is… alive?

Her bright green eyes, darting with uncertainty and anxiety, were as expressive as ever. Her hair was shorter, though still a ponytail in that same brilliant red. Her crown was absent, though its charms hung from her ears. With the white linen dress and her sash wrapped around her waist, she looked a bit mismatched, contrasting youth with a world weary frown he often saw in the mirror.

Two weeks and three days ago. 

Jaune’s own tally picks up where Nora’s left off. 

He can hear Pyrrha’s footsteps behind him as he winds his way through the cool hallways of the Shade Academy dorms. Her footsteps don’t sound like he remembers them, less assured. He tries not to listen and focuses on finding the way out. Another quirk of Shade was a particular aversion to exit signage; early on, it was helpful to stick with some of the other students, whether those from Vacuo or those who chose to attend Shade after the Fall. Now he’s that person for Pyrrha, leading her to the open common area that exits to the main campus.

I bet Pyrrha could probably just use a compass to get out.

His chuckle dies in his throat. No longer is it a hypothetical. What once might have been a bittersweet thought is a plausible reality.

Pyrrha is alive. She’s right there. Right behind me.

His thoughts echo her name relentlessly, a plea, a prayer, a petition. It’s caught between his ears in a way that he can’t force it past his lips. 

It’s a trick. It’s just another trick- Jaune swallows, closing his eyes briefly to steady himself. In his mind’s eye, he can see Pyrrha behind him, cruel joy in her emerald eyes, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. He can almost feel the pain of Miló slicing through the gaps in his armor again. 

No, it’s not. She’s here. We both are.

He takes a deep breath, holds it, and exhales. He hears Pyrrha step around him, approach his left side, and take a deep breath of her own.

“You… didn’t actually explain… what are we supposed to be doing?” Pyrrha murmurs, brushing against his side. The gesture can’t be more than an accident but suddenly it feels like every eye in the common area is on him and her, together.

He sidesteps, awkwardly covering the flinch by heading toward the doors again. He does remember the stilted text he’d sent; it’d taken nearly three hours to compose it.

> Need you ready for combat in fifteen. I’ll come by your room.

“Oh yeah, right. Headmaster Theodore got a transmission from a couple of miles out that a relay tower was damaged badly by the windstorm last night. He wants you to clear and organize the metal before someone actually fixes it.”

Jaune times his shove of the door with the end of his explanation and hopes that Pyrrha will not ask the obvious question. They step into the hot afternoon sun. Jaune squints, but Pyrrha just lowers her goggles over her eyes. She looks even more Vacuan than some of the townsfolk. While the so-called Beacon Brigade students, like teams CFVY and SSSN had to earn their respect at the ‘Skirmish of Shade’ and Jaune and RWBY came upon their respect with their efforts in Atlas and beyond, Pyrrha managed to curry the favor of a fair number of Vacuans simply through her sacrifice at Beacon. Her new outfit, her weapons, even her rudimentary scroll- they were all gifts from local shops. In a way, she belongs to this desert kingdom more than anything or anyone else.

“Jaune?”

He flinches too hard to hide it this time, but her expression is unreadable.

“Yeah?” Jaune swallows bitter bile, waiting for the inevitable question.

“Where are we going?”

We. Right.

“West, out of the city. Come on, we’ll be faster on the rooftops.” Jaune heads for the closest wall gate, desperate to leave his thoughts behind him.

“Jaune, please accompany Pyrrha on this mission,” Oscar had asked simply this morning in Theodore’s office. Before that, Jaune had been unsure why he had been summoned; Oscar’s text had very few details. Probably because he would have already been walking in the other direction, soulless desert be damned, if he’d known what these three had planned.

Headmaster Theodore, Professor Rumpole, and Oscar- yes, actually Oscar, judging by the slightly guilty expression- watched him expectantly.

“A squall came through last night and the Western relay node has gone offline; we need the wind damage cleared before we can actually repair it,” Theodore explained further. “That’s where you come in. I’ve sent coordinates to your scroll. Clear the debris and report back.”

Jaune casually adjusted the straps of his chest plate, trying to conceal the hitch in his breathing. “Oh, well, I was supposed to-”

“Xiao Long has been reassigned to a different mission with her teammate Schnee. Mr. Daichi and Ms. Scarlatina are handling your original mission,” Professor Rumpole raised an eyebrow up at him. “You’re clear to help your partner with this.”

“I mean, sure, but what about back up?” Jaune swallowed, nervous. “I’m sure Nora would love to help! They’ve been pretty close, right? Oh, or Ren! Grimm have been really nasty in that part of the desert, yeah? Wouldn’t it be better if-”

“If her partner stopped avoiding her?” Rumpole finished, crossing her arms and glaring at him. “We’re spread too thin to have full teams on small jobs.”

The room was silent for a moment.

Professor Rumpole wasn’t quite as terrifying as Professor Goodwitch, but eventually, he still looked away.

“Fine. We’ll get it done,” he muttered, already turning to go. He could see Oscar making a face out of the corner of his eye. Good, he could stand to feel a little guilty about it. There’s no doubt this was his idea.

I don’t want to… not yet.

“What’s the problem here? Stop spitting into the wind!” Theodore retorted, standing from his chair, pressing his gloved hands to his desktop and peering at Jaune. “Didn't you miss her?”

He froze, a wave of rage passing through him. He clenched his teeth and fists as the feeling filled every crevice of his soul and simmered into a boil. Then, just as quickly, the wave receded, drawing back until he was hollow once more.

“Of course, sir.” Jaune turned and left without another word. 

It’s not as if anyone else would understand.

3. hesitant

Jaune leaps from rooftop to rooftop, with his only objective seeming to be to get out of the city in the westward direction. By the time Pyrrha’s moisture wicking underclothes have soaked up a gallon of sweat, they’re finally on the outskirts of the capital. They’re heading into the blazing sun, which isn’t relenting as it sinks lower toward the horizon.

Not once does he look back at her, only opting to look once she’s at his side in the shifting sands. Even then, he only glances at her and nods once. He pulls his scroll out,much higher tech than hers, and orients them with a map. In the distance, a blue objective waypoint blinks steadily. She nods and he puts it away as they set off.

Her words stick in her throat, like they so often do these days. As they jog through the sand, heat waves shimmer. The trick to running through the desert, as Fox Alistair graciously advised her last week, is to never give the sand a chance to know you’re there. Pyrrha springs from step to step, lightly pressing on the hundreds of grains under her sole for just a moment before pushing off again. Jaune runs alongside her, much more fit than she remembers. It almost makes her laugh, to see him so seriously engaging in exercise that would have had him gasping or swearing at Beacon.

Almost.

The sun has sunk lower into the sky by a few degrees by the time the mangled tower comes into view. Pyrrha almost skids to a stop at the sight of it, slowing her gait as they approach.

“Badly damaged?” She croaks out as they slide down the dunes that have been blown into formations around the structure. Once the sand settles under her, she takes a long drink from her water pouch. Jaune does the same, moving into the shadow of what’s still left standing.

“Emphasis on badly,” Jaune quips dryly. Then he looks over, startled, when Pyrrha snorts. The sound surprises her as well. She clears her throat and busies herself with another drink of precious water.

“Blueprints?” Pyrrha asks, conserving her words. 

Jaune passes over his scroll. She peers at them, looking up at the twisted metal structure. Some of it can be bent back into shape, mainly the huge looming top half of the tower that hangs at a seventy-five degree angle. Other pieces scattered around are definitely just scrap now.

As she looks over and over the structure, she circles it and memorizes the appropriate shapes. Scattered shrapnel gathers into a pile without much thought, neatly pulled from the sand before it can pose a trip hazard. On her third circuit, Pyrrha dares to look up at Jaune.

He still sits listlessly in the tower’s shadow, sand pooling around the ankles of his boots. He has his arms folded across his knees, chin on his arms as he watches her work. Their eyes meet briefly before his gaze darts away. Still, he remains angled toward her.

Pyrrha points up at the twisted spires where the forces of nature had torn the metal apart. “Some of these are too big for me to adjust–”

“That’s fine,” Jaune says quickly. “Do what you can and we’ll–”

“–by myself?” Pyrrha finishes, trying not to look too hurt. The face coverings help with that. Nothing can hide how her shoulders curl in for a moment, betraying how much she wants to shrink under Tora and let the sand cover her.

“What am I gonna do?” Jaune snaps bitterly. His anger carries like sand on the wind. They stare at each other for a long moment, at once a few feet and a million miles away. Pyrrha coughs, reaching beneath her gaiter to massage her throat.

“You could… boost me?” Pyrrha suggests gently. No sooner than the words have left her mouth does she regret them.

Oh… I should have let him tell me. She frowns, licking her lips nervously. Would he have though?

Blue eyes snap up, wide and betrayed. Jaune’s eyebrows furrow, putting the pieces together. His accusation is swift and accurate: “Nora.”

“She’s been catching me up on what I missed,” Pyrrha says apologetically, clearing her throat again. 

That was a bit of an understatement. Nora had spent an hour or so each night in their shared room rambling about JNPR’s misadventures after Beacon. Even though Nora falling asleep mid sentence was somewhat normal for them, she’d still double checked with Ren that she was okay, or at least close to it. They hadn’t yet gotten to the part where Nora earned the sharp, spider-webbing scars that adorn her skin now; Pyrrha hasn’t been sure if she’s allowed to ask.

“It has been a rough few months for us, Pyrrha,” Ren had said over mugs of cactus leaf tea, squeezing her hand kindly. “Let her enjoy talking to you again.”

It’s hard not to enjoy their late night talks. When the desert is dark and cold and the Shade dorms cool down enough for a light blanket, it’s positively cozy to listen to Nora ramble on about events she can only imagine. Besides, Nora doesn’t expect her to talk; she doesn’t need Pyrrha to clear the scratchy, annoying feeling in her throat to contribute. Her simple hums, sighs, and giggles do just fine.

“She’s mentioned it a few times so far,” Pyrrha explains as she fidgets, twisting her bare fingers around each other until her joints ache with the strain of contortion. There’s no escaping this awkwardness. There’s only the two of them, the blistering heat, and the dead reception tower for miles.

Jaune gets to his feet, stiffly approaching despite stumbling down the small remaining dunes. She watches him flex and clench his hands as he nears, until he’s just inches away from her, standing shoulder to shoulder. He stares up at the relay tower while she stares at the smooth expanse of his cheek.

Her fingers twitch.

“Yes. I can boost you,” he says finally, after they’ve stood there for a moment. She nods. After hovering with hesitation for a half-second, Jaune puts his hand on her shoulder.

Pyrrha gasps, reeling from the sensation.

Once before, she’d felt this power- the clear, pure, and deep well of Jaune’s soul. Back then, it had been just a moment, a passing awareness. Now, Jaune’s aura flows through her, intense and all-encompassing. It’s a cool stream, a fresh snow, a crisp mint leaf, an ocean wave-

“Hey, hey,” Jaune snaps, suddenly in front of her. He steadies her by the shoulders, searching her eyes with panic. “What’s wrong?”

Pyrrha surprises herself by laughing, joy as clear as wind chimes. When she lifts her goggles to wipe the tears of mirth from her eyes, they evaporate from her skin almost immediately. He lets go of her shoulders and steps back, swallowing hard.

“I was right,” Pyrrha gasps, trying to catch her breath. “You do have a lot of aura. Jaune, that’s amazing!”

For a moment, Jaune’s face is open and hopeful, beaming with something close to joy. Then something shifts; his expression shutters as surely as the city of Vacuo before a sandstorm. He takes another step to the side, keeping his hands to himself.

“It’s… well, yeah.” He sighs, looking up at the defunct lights that line the vertical beams of the tower. “I’m not the same stupid kid I was at Beacon.”

What?

Pyrrha opens her mouth but nothing comes out. She squeaks, furious at her voice for abandoning her. She reaches out for Jaune, but draws back almost immediately. He side-eyes her, gaze dropping to her hand, then to the sand at their feet.

“I can do less, if it’s easier. Just figured you’d want to get back to campus as soon as possible, you know?” Jaune continues, concentrating until his hands shimmer with aura. “I also don’t have to touch you. I should have asked. That’s on me.”

She frantically massages her throat with both hands, trying to get her fingers to find purchase on the sweat-soaked skin under her chin. Jaune frowns at the ground again, hand hovering near his belt now.

Finally, her voice struggles free. “Jaune, I–”

He hushes her. Somehow, that hurts more than anything else.

“Do you feel that?” He whispers, hand firm on the hilt of Crocea Mors now. Pyrrha feels anger swell and flare in her heart at the dismissal.

“Jaune, this is important–!”

It doesn’t matter how important what she needs to say next is. 

The ground beneath them explodes.

4. sweaty

Beware sudden dunes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Jaune shouts as the burst of sand sends him flying several feet into the air.

The brisk advice had come from a fair number of people, namely members of CFVY who he'd tagged along with on missions in the early days of their return. The vagueness was purposeful, as any number of wildlife, geographic features, ruins, weather, or worse, Grimm, could cause new sand dune to arise. Velvet had at least elaborated with a story about a huge family of mole crabs.

This was no mole crab.

Jaune recovers midair, twisting to get his bearings as huge claws flail menacingly, reaching for purchase and prey. In mere seconds, the creature uncovers itself, shaking off sand to reveal its inky black carapace, ashen boney plates, glowing red markings, crimson eyes, and golden stinger.

“Deathstalker!” Jaune calls out, unsure where Pyrrha is. He expands his shield and lets its hard light wings catch the wind, carrying him out and away from the relay tower. He stumbles into a run at the far edge of the crater made of dunes. Now that he turns around, frantically sweeping his gaze across the landscape, it’s relatively obvious that the dunes that allowed the tower's full height to be revealed were hiding something dangerous. Relay towers didn’t sit in craters of their own making, not in this ever-shifting landscape.

Not again. No, no. Where is she?

He searches for bright red among the settling sand cloud, shielding his eyes as the Grimm hisses. It swivels its body toward the communication tower. Jaune’s heart sinks as he sees the object of its focus.

Pyrrha crouches within the twisted spire of the relay tower, precariously balancing one of the remaining beams. Her newly forged weapons, not too dissimilar from Miló and Akoúo̱, glint in her hands. The blade of Mellon, in its short sword form, retracts on its cord as she watches warily, making the sound that the creature hones in on. Though she is still, the whirring is like catnip; this Grimm is on the hunt.

“It can hear you!” Jaune shouts to her, running down the dune to the fight. Nothing else is likely to be here, right? A Grimm this big shouldn’t tolerate too many others. But a Grimm this big shouldn’t be so close to the settlements either! …I guess anything’s possible with three Kingdom’s worth of stress calling every Grimm on Remnant.

As he’d expected, the Grimm swivels toward him, its beady red eyes glimmering in the sunlight. With the scattered sand settling, the heat becomes oppressive again. He ducks and parries the pincher that swings toward him with his sword, then blocks the other with his shield. The impact nearly squashes him, but he activates his shield to force it back. His timing is perfect, almost instinctual now.

“Jaune!” Pyrrha shouts from above. As the deflected claw rears into the sky, a swarm of shrapnel attacks the creature’s face, piercing its eyes until they weep black and red sludge. Jaune scrambles out of the way as it flails and screeches in agony. Pyrrha clambers down the ladder-like structure, face unreadable behind her goggles.

The sand explodes in front of them as the Deathstalker slams its stinger into the sand where he’d just been standing.

“Great!” Jaune shouts bitterly as they sprint away from it, putting the relay tower between them and the monster. “Now it’s pissed and blind!”

“I’m sorry! It was about to crush you!” Pyrrha cries out. “What else was I supposed to do?”

He rolls his eyes and doesn’t answer. What else indeed.

The Deathstalker screeches behind them, drowning out Jaune’s harsh bark of laughter. Still, Pyrrha looks at him oddly, tilting her head. He ignores her, looking around. The Grimm itself is nearly half the size of the crater. The only thing nearby is the tower, its twisted metal, and the concrete platform that anchors it in the desert. Above them, the bulk of it twists to the side like a misshapen crane arm.

“Get us up there!” Jaune demands, gratified that Pyrrha questions neither his order nor his tone. She immediately crouches and launches him off her shield. Carefully composed as he soars upward, Jaune grabs one of the steel beams and pulls himself onto it. Pyrrha follows, wrapping Mellon’s grappling cable around a piece of metal a few feet away. It carries her to safety for the second time today just as the Grimm scuttles over, ramming its stinger into the sand again. Its struggle to remove the stinger conceals the sound of the cord retracting this time.

Small mercies.

Pyrrha looks over her weapons in her hands, perched next to him. “Jaune-”

“I’m thinking!” he hisses, watching the beast howl with frustration as sand sprays up into the air and its stinger comes up empty. 

She yanks her neck gaiter down to her collar and lifts her goggles into her bangs. “Listen to me!”

“What part of thinking-”

“Jaune,” Pyrrha cries out. “I’m not going to lose you again!”

“You didn’t lose me, Pyrrha!” Jaune snaps back. “You can’t lose something on purpose.”

This high in the air, the hot, dry wind whips around them. Pyrrha licks her lips, expression pinched in a rare moment of irritation.

“What?”

The tide within Jaune swells. The wave crests, but it doesn’t break. He looks away, trying to spot the shimmering mirage of Vacuo city in the far distance. At this time of day, it’s too hazy with the darkening sky to see much of anything.

“I thought you remembered everything,” he mutters. Then he swallows, “this isn’t the time for this.”

Get it together.

“I fail to see any other time for it!” Pyrrha exclaims, voice cracking. “Why is it that it takes mortal peril for us to talk to each other?”

“No way! You don’t get to put this on me!” Jaune snarls, unable to quell the vicious bite in his voice. “All I ever wanted to do was talk to you! You couldn’t even let me return the favor! You kept me going at Beacon, day in and day out, but when the time came for you to actually trust me, you shoved me away! You didn’t even give me a chance-”

“Ozpin didn’t even want us fighting her!” Pyrrha puts her shield on her back so she can balance better, coiled like a spring on the precarious perch. Jaune mirrors her, except he sheaths his sword instead. Old, buried anger comes to the surface. He’s kneeling amongst the rubble of Vale again, trying to make sense of the locker he’s just crawled out of and hoping against hope that he’s having a particularly bad nightmare.

“Exactly! Ozpin died fighting Cinder! But you thought you could do it by yourself?” Jaune laughs bitterly, all too aware that there are tears streaming down his face. “Do you know how many times I’ve defended you and your last choice? Surely, I thought, surely my partner didn’t ship me off and go get herself killed in a fight she knew she'd lose! Of course she thought she stood a chance! Of course she just needed to get me out of her way!”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Even the Grimm is quiet beneath them.

“Did you… Did you just think I thought you were in my way?" Pyrrha shouts, eyes wide in disbelief. 

Jaune doesn’t hesitate to snipe back. “What else was I supposed to think?”

Pyrrha’s face twists with pain or anger; they’re so unfamiliar on her countenance that it’s hard to tell. She clenches her empty hand, pressing her fist against her thigh. 

“I was protecting you!”

“I didn’t need you to protect me!” Jaune counters, as the wave of anger finally crashes to shore. “I needed you, Pyrrha!”

5. gentle

In two weeks and three days, Jaune has not once said her name.

His initial silence was unsettling. His surprised stare was unyielding. After all of the excitement and questions had settled, he’d finally spoken, cutting across the chatter.

“Robyn, could you?”

She’d taken Pyrrha’s hand again, almost apologetically, then nodded at Jaune. He’d taken a deep breath, before looking her in the eye, seeing her and not just past her. She’d shivered, feeling undone by his intensity.

“What are you?”

Those three words inspired nothing but confusion. “I… I don’t think I understand. What am I? I’m… a huntress-in-training? A girl?”

Your partner? 

She’d kept that one to herself.

Despite wanting to puzzle out the expression on his face, she glanced down in time to watch Robyn’s aura shimmer from pale purple to bright green. She looked back up at Jaune, at Ruby and her team who looked between her and him with varying levels of disapproval and understanding. Finally, Jaune sat back in his chair and sighed, apparently content with that answer. The tension still did not leave his shoulders.

“Alright then,” he said quietly into the silence. “Welcome back.”

The greeting felt hollow, especially since he went out of his way to avoid her from that moment onward. In fact, between her miraculous return and their current mission, she could count their conversations on her fingers. 

Now, she rubs her fingertips on the woven texture of her compression tights, savoring the distracting sensation. There’s nothing else to say but the truth.

“I knew I was going to lose you,” Pyrrha insists, using the word that had started this entire argument. “But I wanted you to at least be alive if I had to.”

Jaune is pale, his fury waning by the moment. The tear tracks on his cheeks dry almost as quickly as they’re created. “What did that matter? We could have both made it out. It wasn’t… You didn’t… Damn it, Pyrrha.”

“Jaune, hear me please. Running would have killed me, even if I still drew breath,” Pyrrha swallows nervously, but the lump that has plagued her all these days is completely gone. She continues, “I thought if I fought, I might survive. I could live or die with that, if you were okay. I hadn’t abandoned my duty and I hadn’t failed you.”

“But you made me abandon you.”

Pyrrha smiles, just for a moment. “That was selfish of me, wasn’t it?”

“It was!” Jaune shouts, flinging his free hand out so hard he nearly loses his balance. Pyrrha flings her own hand out, yanking his breastplate toward her with her semblance. He yelps as he stumbles forward over the metal trusses, nearly colliding with her. He flails for a moment, but quickly regains his balance.

The tower groans. With both of them tipping the scale away from the base, its stability compromises rapidly. Pyrrha glances down at the scuttling Grimm beneath them, still wandering in the fugue of its own rage and agony.

“Yes. It was,” Pyrrha whispers. She relaxes her semblance, allowing him to move away from her. 

Jaune doesn’t budge. Neither of them do, knelt precariously across from each other. Her hand hovers between them, still outstretched and bare. Gently, she places her hand on his cheek, expecting him to flinch. But he doesn’t. He leans into it, sighing and letting his eyes slip closed. His skin is rough to the touch, with soft barely-there hairs that tickle the ridges of her finger pads. It’s a wonder all of its own, the feeling of her skin pressed to his.

“I have always loved fighting by your side, Jaune,” Pyrrha murmurs, stroking her thumb along his cheekbone and wiping his tears away. “It terrified me that you might die by mine.”

“Then let me choose that,” Jaune whispers. “You owe me at least that much.”

The metal scaffold beneath them shudders, nearly throwing them off. Pyrrha keeps them both pinned to it, gasping with the force of the continued ramming. Below them, the Grimm has finally given up on trying to reach them directly. It slams its pinchers into the heavily fortified poles at the base, screeching in frustration. They gawk at it, then at each other as the metal beneath them begins to creak and sway even more. The Deathstalker screeches and turns in a circle, viciously  stabbing into the stand with its claws.

“Okay,” Pyrrha promises quickly, though the thought of it seizes her heart in a familiar vice grip. “I swear I won’t… I won’t make that choice for you again.”

Jaune nods into her hand, closing his eyes briefly. He sighs.

“To be clear though,” Jaune says with a tiny, watery laugh, “I’m not trying to die by your side anytime soon. Or ever?”

Pyrrha responds with a tiny giggle of her own as the Deathstalker begins to slam the tower again, jostling them. “So not today?”

“Definitely not today!” Jaune yelps. “Fight and live?”

“Fight and live!” Pyrrha repeats, pulling away to put Mellon back in her belt. They scramble to their feet, running for the main tower as the metal twists and groans beneath them. Jaune turns back to grab her hand, helping them both stay steady as they leap for the tiny grate that acts as a service platform within the main body of the tower. Some twenty feet below, the Deathstalker continues to bellow and batter the foundation, its single-minded hatred fueling it beyond reason. That fury makes it dangerous to fight up close, but in a few more hits, they won’t have a choice.

“Jaune?” Pyrrha shouts over the cacophony of bestial rage and structural collapse. He tears his gaze away from the furious Grimm and raises an eyebrow at her. She squeezes his hand and grins. “Help me?”

He smiles in understanding. This time, when Jaune activates his semblance, Pyrrha is ready for the burst of power and energy that flows through her. She flings out her free hand toward the huge piece of tower that had been their perch, seizing it and flipping her wrist to twist it off the main structure.

The motion shakes the tower, but Jaune catches her by the waist, anchoring them both by clinging to the foundation beam nearby. Pyrrha gasps her thanks, then continues to focus on the task at hand. She lifts the huge chunk of metal as easily as a handful of ball bearings, then crushes her fist, shaping it into a wicked javelin of steel.

Then, with Jaune holding her steady, she flings the makeshift weapon at the Deathstalker’s back. The Grimm screeches in agony as its carapace rips in two, expelling viscous sludge several feet into the air. Flailing its stinger, it struggles where it's skewered into the sand, then finally goes limp. It, and its sludge, dissipate, carrying black ash onto the wind and into oblivion.

They both relax their semblances as one, exhaling with relief. Still Jaune doesn’t let go of her; she makes no effort to move away. Further beyond the relay tower, the sun sinks below the horizon, throwing reds, oranges, and dark purples into the sky.

“Uh, well… if headmaster Theodore asks…” Jaune clears his throat, looking down at the metal carnage below them. The Grim had completely destroyed every bit of the distribution box and shredded the cable connection. CCT technicians, they were not, but anyone could see it was beyond hope. “It was like that when we got here?”

Pyrrha snorts once, then again and again until she’s howling with laughter. She turns and throws her arms around his neck, gratified when he hugs her back with the same intensity. The tower trembles a little underneath them, but it’s not going anywhere anytime soon. Neither are they.

She’s been back for two weeks, three days, and a handful of hours, but only now does Pyrrha feel that she’s home.

“Hey, Pyr?” The love in the nickname punches the wind out of her lungs. She nods into his shoulder until he continues. “The next time you want me to leave, just ask, okay?”

She nods again, clinging to him even tighter. However, she knows, just as well as he does, that she could want nothing less than that. She pauses, concerned.

Does he know? Please… I need him to know.

Choked, Pyrrha murmurs, “I never want you to leave me again, Jaune.”

She can hear the tears in his voice as he replies, “Okay, good, we’re on the same page then.”

Let’s stay that way.

Their trek back to Shade takes much longer than their breakneck outgoing pace. They take down small Grimm here and there, chatting about pasts both separate and shared, walking shoulder to shoulder in the cooling desert. He hugs her before leaving her at her room door, promising breakfast together. It’s both the most normal and oddest thing that has happened in her whole second life.

Exhausted, Pyrrha showers and crawls under her blanket. Whatever missions she had today, Nora isn’t back yet, though it’s plenty late enough for their nightly life updates. Somehow though, she knows she wouldn’t be able to listen for very long. Her eyelids droop shut and she snuggles into her pillow, grateful for its softness.

“I can only do this for you,” whispers the memory of an unfamiliar voice, just as she’s drifting off. “You’ll arrive just when you’re needed and you’ll arrive just when you need it. You’ll say what you need when the time is right to say it and you’ll listen when you need to hear. Everything beyond that is up to you.”

When she wakes the next morning, it’s because Nora is bouncing on the end of her bed.

“Pyr, wake up! It’s Friday! It’s five-thirty and it’s already hot!” Nora announces gleefully. Moreso than other mornings, she can’t help but notice her energy seems more genuine than usual, more like the joy she once had at Beacon. “Get up, get up! I want breakfast!”

Pyrrha sits up slowly, combing her fingers through her hair. Small grains of sand fall to the blanket. She also has the distinct sensation of a dream slipping through her fingers. She frowns, grasping for the memory to no avail.

“Pyrrha?” Nora asks, coming to rest on her knees in front of her. “What’s wrong?”

She blinks at her friend and smiles. “I had a dream I think… I just can’t remember it anymore.”

At this Nora beams and crows, “Dreams, scheams! Who needs them? We have the whole day ahead of us!”

Her hope and enthusiasm is contagious. Pyrrha grins and sweeps her into a tight hug. Nora squeaks and hugs her back, obviously startled but not unhappy about it. When she finally pulls back, neither of them mention the tears on the other’s cheeks.

“You said something about breakfast?”

Nora takes her by the hand and drags her out of bed, then throws her combat outfit at her face. She catches it easily.

“Yep! And it waits for no one! Come on, we have so much to do today!”

Pyrrha can feel her heartbeat quicken with joy, tugging her lips into a smile.

Today, and everyday after that…

It’s a life worth fighting for.

-

Epilogue

Thursday Evening

Theodore sighs. “Oz, this is a risky gamble you’re taking.”

The nickname makes him twitch a little bit.

Half a dozen conversations have come and gone, not to mention a host of different people needing their audience. Oscar makes no decisions without Theodore’s council and he makes none without Rumpole’s. They’ve been in this office for hours, and yet there’s no question of the gamble to which he refers. It’s been a few hours since he’d called Jaune in for a mission assignment.

“Oscar,” he reminds the headmaster. True, it was Ozpin’s memory of JNPR’s initiation shenanigans that had given him the idea, but it was a plan all of his own. “And it’s nothing they can’t handle.”

 “How long do you think it’ll take for them to realize we’ve sent them to a defunct relay tower with an active Deathstalker den?” Rumpole mutters.

“Hopefully longer than it takes for them to say what they need to say to each other,” Oscar replies, sipping his cactus leaf tea.

Rumpole is even shorter than Oscar, but her unimpressed glare manages to make him shrink into his chair a bit, chagrined.

“I may… also have Ren and Nora on standby at the current Western relay node, just a half mile way?” Oscar admits, flushing. “If something goes wrong, they’ll handle it.”

This made Theodore laugh loudly, his voice booming in the tiny office. Oscar winces at the sound, but it’s impossible to escape it. By the time the older man finishes, he has tears in his eyes.

“Ah yes, the other partner duo famous for currently getting along!”

“How convenient,” Rumpole drawls, dusting off her vest with a roll of her eyes.

“Two Nevermore, one bullet,” Oscar quips. He salutes them with his teacup and heads for the door.

Well, you certainly seem rather pleased with yourself, says Ozpin, amusement plain as day.

Oscar smiles into his tea, a small smile just between them.

By magic and miracles beyond his own power, Jaune, Nora, Pyrrha, and Ren had each other once more. With these little nudges, team JNPR will surely ride again, changed but whole.

It’s the least we could do, don’t you think?

[evilminji]

New Question Haunting Me

Is the ENTIRE Zone Green or just the region Danny got spat into?

Cause we know Ectoplasm can change colors.

And the Zone IS literally Infinite.

The Caribbean ocean and the Arctic ocean look different, despite both being sea water. And Carbon sure can make ALL SORTS of funny shapes. Does the Zone have Regions? Actually, yes. We know it does.

Better question. Does it have Nebula? Like, WELL beyond plant sized areas. So big, that even with unobstructed view, you can't really see the edge of the color shift?

My brain is telling me? That the most LIKELY scenario? Is because it's Infinte? It's both There and Here. Just? The Zone, Repeated. With this being the Green One. A specific SHADE of many. Countless.

You just? Go 90 at a degree angle while standing still, maybe a little to the back-up-down-turn-left aaaand? Now you are in the Red Zone. Do it again, everything's monochrome. Etc.

Each place has its own Vibe. Probably it's own Monarch.

Likely just one Clockwork.

But? So far? All the Ectoplasm has come from, effectively This Specific Pool? The own closest and easiest to access from their universe. Which happens to be Green.

It could very well be like different gasses, per color. Different energy waves. Pulling different personality types towards different Zones of THE Zone. You very well COULD turn a corner, metaphorically, and find what to the ancients eye looks like Heaven.

Drifting clouds, endless bliss, soft light. All seen through some temporary portal. While another? Holy SHIT. Everything's on FIRE and people are tearing each other apart! Scary and bad! That must be some sort of punishment!

You see enough glimpses of the alien and untranslateable? It gets hard to explain REAL fast. But you become certain of what you know. Filter it through the lense of your experiences and cultural understandings.

Would be interesting to figure out how those glimps even HAPPENED. Was it the metaphysical "weight" of humanity? Slowly sinking Realm in the sea of the Zone until it reaches the correct ectoplasmic density? A way too support the expanding number of Souls being created?

What must, then, they have been able to see? When Humans were new? If the population keeps increasing, will the Portal in Fenton Works start to disconnect? As Reality is dragged down a layer? What effect does that have on the collective subconscious?

If Danny became King of the Green, would he have to stay THERE? Negotiate with the Monarch of where comes next? I have QUESTIONS! I want to STUDY THE GOO! Somebody let me poke the radioactive substance with a STICK!

@the-witchhunter @hypewinter @hdgnj @ailithnight @nerdpoe

[mossmotif]

RINGS AND CROWNS

✿ ao3 ✿  prince!gojo/stable hand!reader summary: You leave many things unsaid when it comes to your own feelings, so much so that the action comes easily even with the person who has grown closest to you. Perhaps an ill-timed joke is what will push you to work towards healthier things. tags: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Reader is a Stable Hand, King Gojo Satoru, Non confessional confessions, it makes sense I promise, touch as a love language, Fluff, Feelings, Not Beta Read notes: HI!! you guys have no clue how fun this was to write, i really do hope its enjoyable!! also, if anyone is interested i do have a very small scrapped scene from this that i may post on here. anyway, feel free to leave any comments and thanks for reading xx

When Satoru first fakes a proposal to you, you had felt a dangerous uncertainty for the first time in years. The passing joke left you feeling oddly wound up. The horses even seemed to sense your change in mood—the stiffness of your hands—when Satoru ushered out in a hurry you chose not to notice. His white hair disappeared behind century old wood like a sign for you to call after, but you didn’t. His crown was blinding underneath the setting sun, like an aggressive lighthouse. 

He had no ring, only his words and convincing grin. You were laughing at first, at the way he bent at the knee and professed his love for you, how he had loved you since you were both small children, even though neither of you had met each other until late childhood. Then he grabbed your hands, and for a split second you imagined him younger and with a paper crown dawning his head; you’re sure he would run through the woods in confidence with his faux sword and shield. You’re sure that he dreamt of being a knight before the people around him had told him that was wrong. 

And maybe the thought (the touch) changed the safety of your expression. It formed into something much too soft for him to handle. 

You caught yourself, your mind nearly splitting when you shook your head and mustered a smile that fit his. “You’re making a fool of yourself, Satoru.”

He laughed. He got up. Your breath may have been shaky when he finally let go of your hands. 

Grooming the horse does not come back to you as naturally as it should once you finish remembering the memory. You aren’t exactly sure why it continues to haunt you, your mind riddled with him as something other than what he was. The idea itself should have been laughable because his place in your life is nothing but secure; and yet you’d failed to when the time came. 

You imagine him: intertwined hands, quiet conversations, and whispered promises. The borderline fantasizing has you spinning in circles. It’s as if your maturity is ripped away from your hands. You push through your days like a clumsy dancer: catching your feet against tall blades of grass, focusing on the sky to keep from getting too dizzy and with your arms clenched tightly to your chest. Never reaching. 

────── 〔✿〕──────

Spring is in full swing and the horses can finally graze along the new grass. You watch them diligently, keeping a time in the back of your mind. It’s a good distraction from the feeling of Satoru’s hand picking at the grass so close to yours. Every once in a while his pinky will jut out while yanking at roots and graze against yours. You’re sure he’s doing it on purpose to try and spur something out of you.

The afternoon breeze carried his voice, making it sound gentle, a little tired. “I think I’ve finally found something I’m no good at.”

You hum in response, still looking ahead at the horses. Most of them have stopped grazing by now, copying the two of you and laying in the grass to bask in the sun. 

Satoru's hand brushes against yours again. You could easily mistake it as him reaching out. 

You bite back a smile that would be too telling and turn to see him. The sight is ridiculous: a king trading his beautiful golden crown for one that’s been crudely made. He’s overly concentrated on the task, the tips of his fingers are beginning to tinge green.

The crown is misshapen, bulging at some curves and concaving at others. Some of the stems are too loose to hold themselves together, fraying at all ends and tainting any sort of cohesive look Satoru was trying to achieve. It isn’t delicate or anything relatively close to pretty, but he holds it as if it were his actual crown.

“It isn’t so bad,” you say. It really is your honest thought. 

Satoru brightens considerably, a proud grin overtaking him at your light praise. 

“People really are wrong when they say flattery will get you nowhere,” he sings. You want to tell him it isn’t flattery, that anything he holds will be beautiful, but your breath is punched out of you when he leans further into your space fluidly. “You haven’t made anything.”

“I didn’t know you wanted me to.” You peer down at him delicately, drinking in the look of the golden sun on his cheeks. 

If clarity were human, you think he would go by a different name; and maybe he would look at you more than you let yourself think. Maybe the both of you think of different things in the same way.

“Should have known to read my mind then.” Satoru raises his head to look at you, gesturing to the creation on the floor. “How many of these have you made? I bet thousands.”

You shake your head, as if to push away nostalgia, “I only knew how to make flower rings.”

Tiny, little things meant to fit onto chubby fingers. Strong enough to withstand the clench of a fist and a pinky promise and the tight clasping of hands. You cannot remember the face of the last person you gave one to. Your hands used to be so much softer. It felt safer to make them before, it felt safer to grab another person’s hand and have them wear it with a smile. The interaction was pure, childish, and everything was meant to be; the two of you are missing teeth and then fall into the grass after spinning for too long. Maybe they lose the ring and ask you to make another, and that is meant to happen too, because the grass is still there and children still like to spin and fall. 

“Crowns are like bigger rings,” Satoru notes. 

You chuckle, imagining someone with a band large enough to fit around their arm. “And rings are like smaller crowns.” 

Satoru’s smile is dangerous this close, too similar to stunning. His charm is hard to deflect when it begins to seep into your skin; like the sun, like seeing the world again with a friend. How many times has it felt this way? His hands are larger than yours now, he’s taller, his voice is fuller. Satoru sits next to you to enjoy an afternoon just like he had when he first came into the stables completely drenched in mud, but he’s so different. 

“So, which will it be?” he asks. “Ring or crown?”

You snort, watching the way his eyes widen amusedly at the sound. He’s trying to be serious, but he’s smiling too much. 

“What?” he asks through a laugh. “I’m sure if you pick the crown that the council can figure something out for you. We could have a ball for your coronation.”

“Could we dance?” you ask.

A hand is next to yours again, this time too firm to pass away as anything else. Clarity. Maturity has never been lost to you. Rather, a resemblance of what you have lost has been staring you in the face for years, laughing with you, laying by your side in green fields, and reminding you of forgotten things. 

“It wouldn’t be a memorable ball without dancing would it?” He raises an eyebrow. “Assuming you do know how to dance.”

You only return his taunt with a scoff. “And if I pick the ring?” you question. 

One of the horses sighs when another moves to sit next to it. The grass rustles and flattens under the weight of their hooves. The interaction tears your attention away from Satoru knowingly, you let it happen, feeling your question hanging in the air; like Satoru’s holding it up to the sun in order to get a better look. Would that look beautiful too?

Everything becomes so loud, so bright, when Satoru’s hand finally makes its way to yours. And for a split second, you think of returning to distance, reverting to the roles of ground and sky, separate and only gazing. But for once, you’d like the sky to crash into you. 

“Would it not be the same thing?” he finally answers. “Rings are crowns and crowns are rings.”

You consider his response, bringing your free hand up to your face, trying to cool the rising heat pooling there. 

“You stole my line,” you accuse. 

“I came up with the last half!” he defends. “We’ll call it a group effort if it’s ever published in a book of sayings.”

You sigh, pretending to consider the offer. “That was uncharacteristically fair of you, Satoru.” The sentence comes out quietly as Satoru laces his fingers between yours smoothly, like they belonged there.

He scoffs, as if offended by the comment. “Of course. You’re king is kind, you know.”

You feel him frowning but know it is nowhere close to being genuine. The hand that has laced its way into yours is warm and relieved and content. The crown Satoru fabricated lies between the two of you, exactly how it was meant to be.

[halojalex]

Lets hear that essay

oh man i kind of wasn’t expecting to get any replies to this LMAO bUt here we go. strap urselves in this is gonna be a long one

i won’t share the whole document i wrote bc it’s really long and i go off on a lot of tangents but here’s the general idea

for starters, i believe g&c is absolutely about jalex. we already know it's about a gay couple, so with this in mind, alex telling jack that it's about him is enough to at least consider what that means. granted, i know many believe that he was joking, but i've always thought his tone and general demeanour seemed far too sincere for him to be joking; we've seen how alex acts when he jokes around with jack, and this was different.

furthermore, it's also worth pointing out that jack and alex specifically wrote this one song on their own in a cabin (?) away from everyone else; i know this may not seem important on its own, but it's always worth keeping in mind. ie why would two friends go off to write a song about a queer relationship on their own?

adding onto this, there was that interview with kerrang where alex talked about wake up sunshine as a whole and how it’s about discovering yourself and coming to terms with who you are (i’m paraphrasing but that’s the general idea), so to have a song about a gay couple on an album that’s all about alex discovering who he is seems to me like he wrote it from personal experience.

secondly, i feel like it's important to note that, while jack and alex have always been closer than the average friendship, always bordering on acting like a couple, this closeness was especially apparent during the time that alex was separated from lisa and was living with/near jack. people have commented before on how 'dependent' they were on each other back then, so it's clear that the bond between them was especially strong at that time. of course, i'm sure many will say that it could've been bc alex needed jack's support/bc he was living close by so spent more time with him/whatever, however i feel like there's more to it than that, given all the other reasons. i think they were more than friends.

i'd also like to bring people's attention to one particular incident - that photo of them spooning on a beach. frankly, i've always been a little surprised that so many people have skipped over this without blinking, bc that photo to me has always seemed so intimate and domestic, i find it really hard to believe that many friends would casually sit like that.

and of course how can i forget to mention alex's bday post for jack in 2021? that caption haunts me. "what's there to say that isn't already tremendously obvious? you're a bright light in this weird world my dude. love you times a million" how does that not scream a bday post for a partner? "love you times a million"??? bye they ruin me. all of it just seems so,,, romantic?? idk but i feel like if my closest friend wrote something like that about me i'd find it just a little too much. but maybe that's just me. but also i've seen/heard people say that that caption sounded a lot like something they would write/have written for their partner so,,,,,,, make of that what you will.

ofc honourable mention of the time they went to a gay bar together and karaoke. i realise it’s only from word of mouth that we know that it was a gay bar, but it seems a well-enough-known fact that i feel like i should include it.

i’m sure there’s more i could say, it’s just hard to keep track of everything, especially without making this ten pages long. but another thing i believe is that jack has always had feelings for alex, long before they ever got together. granted, that on its own doesn’t necessarily mean that he and alex dated, however it’s important to note. one thing that sticks out to me with regard to this is how andie once made a post commenting on how jack never looked at her the way he looked at alex. this is interesting to me bc it just seemed like she was implying that she was competing with alex in a way. maybe it’s just me, but i can’t really see that post any other way than that tbh. i mean why else would she have said it? if jack didn’t have feelings for alex, then why would it matter how he looked at him?

furthermore the fact that jack wasn’t alex’s best man at his wedding fr keeps me up at night (i mean not literally but u get the idea). like everyone knows how close they are, alex has literally called jack his “best friend in the whole world” (brb while i cry over that), so why wouldn’t he choose jack, his closest friend, to be his best man at his wedding? i always feel like he did that intentionally to spare jack’s feelings. as if he’s always known that jack has feelings for him, and as such he knew he couldn’t put jack through that, as presumably the best man would have had to give a speech etc. just something else i think about a lot.

anyway, all of this was probably very confused, i hope it makes sense as i have a tendency to waffle sksjsksj but yeah, this is my general idea! lmk if anything doesn’t make sense djskdjsk

[wiz-writes]

The OoTY update was everything I wanted thank you for the food 🙏🏼 I love how you gave every RO a moment to shine in, after this I really want to make 4 separate MCs for each of them. And the cliffhanger at the end... you sure do love to torture us, uh?

My current MC is going for Wei Qing and 🥲 thinking about baby Shiyi and Shiqi breaks my heart. Selecting certain dialogues + Wei Qing's unconscious reactions towards the MC made sure to imprint in my mind that their relationship used to be very close before the Elders drove a wedge between them, so playing a MC who was haunted by his 'death' and will get to start all over again with him is going to be interesting, to say the least.

Also, I love the double standards that the MC can keep regarding everyone vs. Wei Qing:

MC: *tries to keep their intentions and identify hidden from their protege, the heiress of the manor, their weapons teacher, etc.*

WQ: Why are you here?

MC: *immediately tells the truth*

LMAO.

Hmm, final thoughts I've had from reading the demo again:

1. I've got the feeling that Master Hua already suspected that the Yinshan Society/someone else (most probably the person who commissioned the society to steal Wujin) would try to do something funny in light of the rumors about his supposed illness. I even doubt he's really ill— I wouldn't be surprised if he spread the rumors intentionally to make his target take the bait, after all.

2.

You touch the piece of broken green jade, running your thumb across its polished surface. You don't know why you agreed to take it back then [...] Maybe it was the shock, or you simply couldn't refuse a dying man's last wish.

Oooh, more mysterious MC backstory that definitely will not cast suspicion/backfire on them later on. No sir, it's just an innocuous piece of jade, nothing more. 🙄

Aaaah, Anon, you have no idea how happy it makes me to hear that you like all the ROs!

The cliffhanger originally wasn't supposed to be there, but I felt that the ending was kind of meh, so I decided to move it to the next chapter.

A bit of background info about MC and Wei Qing, which I'm not sure will ever come up in the story, and also a little bit of insight into what Wei Qing's thinking, so SPOILERS ahead:

.

.

There were altogether seven people in your "group" at Yinshan, with Shiyi being the oldest and the MC being the youngest. Out of these seven disciples, Shiyi and MC were definitely the closest until their Mentors intervened. While you got the MC's side of what happened afterwards and how they moved on, Wei Qing is kind of still stuck in the past, because he never experienced what the MC did. So when his little Shiqi appeared in front of him again, it was like he had gone back to the time when everything was okay. Except, you're not really his little Shiqi anymore.

Man, I think I might write a side story with his POV.

.

.

END OF SPOILERS

As to your final thoughts:

That's a great theory! And Master Hua is certainly capable of coming up with this sort of plan!

Tsk, what did the piece of jade do to you, Anon? It's just a little piece of jewelry, nothing strange about it, no no, absolutely nothing! 😂

This got long, sorry! Anyway, thank you so much for the ask, Anon ❤️

[andydrysdalerogers]

The Type You Save~ T W E L V E

James "Bucky" Barnes and OFC Alexandra "Alex" Richards

Detective James Barnes hasn't seen the love of his life in three years. Since the night she was almost caught stealing a painting. He knows it was her and she disappeared leaving him confused and heart broken.

Alexandra Richards never expected to be pulled back into her old life two years after she left it. She had found love and a home and was happy. Until a note blackmailed her to take one last job. Three years later she walked into the last person she expected to see in San Francisco. Because he lived in New York right?

They always put family before everything. And he would do anything to get his family back. Because she's the type you save.

TW: mob, death, smut, rape intentions, angst, guns, family abandonment, dub-con, manipulation

A/N: The Tag list is open! Only five more chapters after this!

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS. Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Previous: E L E V E N

Series Masterlist ~ Main Masterlist

“Stark, thanks for coming,” Steve said, shaking the man’s hand.  

“Heard my favorite Barnes needed my assistance.”  He smiles at Alex until he hears the telltale sounds of little feet hitting the floor. “Strike that, 2nd favorite” as he opens his arms.  

“Uncle Tony!” Drew launched himself into Tony’s arms. “Are we playing policeman again?” 

“Not right now buddy. I need to talk to your parents.  But I promise, later.”  

“Okies.” Drew went back to his room.  

“So, what’s up buttercup?” Tony chuckled at his own joke. “Why did Rogers say it was urgent?” 

Alex looked at Sam and James. They both nodded and she took a deep breath.  “My past has decided to come back and haunt me.” She proceeded to take the next half hour, explaining her history with Grey. “One of his lieutenants, the one I was closest to, Nate Archibald, approached me and said that Grey will come to me and make an offer: leave with him or he will take my son. She grabbed James’s hand, trying to control her tremble.  

Tony took off his glasses and rubbed the bridged of his nose. “Shit Alex.  This is a lot.  Wilson, what is your suggestion?” 

“My first opinion would be to put them into WitSec.”  

“What is that?” 

“Witness Protection.” Sam looked at her.  “Put you, James, Drew and Steve under.  Give you new identities.”  

“No, absolutely not,” Alex says,  

“Then I recommend that some sort of sting happens.  Collect information on Grey to get him arrested.”  

Tony studies Sam.  “You want to send her in as a mole.”  

“What?!” James jumps up roaring. “You can’t be serious!” 

“It makes the most sense.  She has to meet with him to get the official deal. We can wire her and assign her a CO inspector.”  

“The hell you will!” James began to pace. “You are not putting my wife in that position.”  

“Jamie…” 

“No Allie, NO! There is not a chance in hell I would fucking allow you to put yourself in danger.”  

“Daddy?” James turned around to see his son holding his bear with big round eyes, “Why are you yelling?” 

“Oh chief, its ok.”  He scooped him up. “We’re just discussing something.”  

“Are you mad at Uncle Tony?” 

“No Chief. Not mad at Uncle Tony. C’mon. Let’s go read.”  

“Okies.”  

James turned back to his wife and friends.  “This discussion is not over.”  

Alex turned back to the table and buried her head into her hands, crying softly.  “Steve, I don’t know what to do.”  

Steve pulled her into his arms, letting her cry.  “Alex, I agree with Bucky that its extremely dangerous to  go in and meet with Grey.  We wouldn’t be able to back you up to protect you.  But” he sighed, “I don’t see another way.  We’ll keep thinking. I won’t let you lose your family again. I promise.”  

Sam went to his hotel and Tony went home.  But the tension didn’t drop.  Steve took care of Drew as Alex and James were locked in their bedroom.  

“Alexandra there is no way in hell I’m leaving you alone to be taken away by the psychopath.”  

“Jamie, I won’t let him take our son.”  

“And he won’t. We’ll take off.  Go somewhere remote.”  

“We can’t keep running Jamie.  If we’re running, we can’t make our dreams come true.  We can’t do all the things we talked about.”  

“Yes, we can, love.” James clutched her face. “We can if we are together.  I won’t let you or Drew go.”  

Alex could see the tears in his eyes.  “You’re not letting me go.  But I can’t keep running.  He took everything else from me. I won’t let him have thing.  I think Sam and Tony’s idea is good. It may need some finesse, but I wouldn’t just jump into it.”  

James pressed his forehead to Alex’s. “If something happens, I’ll never forgive myself.”  

“Sweetie, I would never let that happen. I love you so much.”  She kissed him gently. She looked at him through her lashes.  

“God, you’re so beautiful. I just,” he kissed her cheek, “can’t imagine,” kiss, “my life,” kiss, “without you.” He kissed her on her lips so softly, she thought it was a dream until he ran his tongue over the seam of her lips. She hummed at the sensation, letting him in.  He pushed her toward their bed, dropping her on the edge.  

“Jamie,” she moaned as he dropped to his knees and pulled off her shoes and then her jeans.  

“Allie, I can’t lose you,” he said as he kissed in between her thighs. “I want to put a baby in there. So you can never leave me.”  

“I would never leave you,” she cried as he lips made it to her mound, sucking gently.  

“You are pretty when you moan, doll.  I want to see my favorite look.” He flattens his tongue and slowly ran it from her entrance to her clit.  She thrashed on the bed. “OH I’m getting close.”  

“Close? Face?” Alex could barely breathe. She had never seen this side of James before.  

He kept his motions going, kissing, nipping, sucking her pussy, listening to her moan and whine.  He could feel her building. “The look I love is when I make you cum,” he growled as he slipped two fingers into her.  

“Fuck, fuck!” Alex couldn’t keep still; the assault on her body over whelming. “Jamie,” she sobbed.  

“Oh doll, its ok.” He pushed in and out, making sure to hit that special spot inside. “Let go for me.  Let me feel you.”  He sped up and she screeched.  “James!” She detonated around his fingers.  He helped her ride through the high and slow.  He grinned and licked his fingers as Alex heaved her chest.  

He crawled on top of her, still fully clothed, and started to remove her shirt. The roughness of his shirt grazed of her heated skin. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered as he ghosted his lips over her skin.  

“James,” she whispered as she ran her fingers through his hair.  

“Stay here with me.  We can run doll.  I promise. Nothing will happen to you or Drew.”  

“Don’t do this now, please,” she cried. She pulled him toward her.  He hovered over her.  “Please, you’re breaking my heart.  I don’t…” she couldn’t finish as the tears ran down her face.  

“Allie, I’m sorry. Baby, don’t cry.” He kissed her tears  and lifted up to remove his shirt.  “I’m sorry ok?” 

“I don’t want to see him.  I’m sorry.”  She covered her eyes.  

“No, baby, I’m sorry.  Look at me doll.”  She moved her hands. “Look at my eyes Alexandra.” She looked at him.  “You are the love of my life. You are my soul mate.”  He got on his knees and opened his pants.  “Don’t cry my love.”  He took out his cock, already ready to go.  He got back on top of her.  “I love you.”  

“I love you,” she replied, and he pushed in.  He was slow, letting her feel every ridge, every vein.  She sighed; her mind consumed with the pleasure of James moving in her. James kissed her hard.   

“I want my whole life with you Alex. Just you and me. Alexandra and James, Alex and Bucky, Allie and Jamie.” He lifted her leg to his hip and moved faster.  “Family over everything,” he said, his hips punctuating every word.  She gripped his back with her nails, trying to remain on earth. “Cum, doll. I’ve got you.”  

Alex tightens and her core fluttered.  She wailed as she felt her release flow from her.  James thrusted twice and released into her. They were breathing heavy, staring into each other eyes.  

“You’re mine Allie. I’ll make Grey pay for doing this to us.”  He kissed her slow.  He gently pulled out and went to their bathroom.  He got a cloth and cleaned her up.  He held her as she fell asleep, stroking her hair, staring at the ceiling.  When she was fully asleep, James got up.  He could see that there was a light still in the kitchen.  

He found Steve sitting in the kitchen, nursing a beer.  “What are you still doing up punk?” 

“Couldn’t sleep, jerk. Kept thinking she would just sneak out.”  

“You know she wouldn’t do that.  Not now.”  

Steve nodded and took a swallow.  “Drew went down like a champ.  Told him that you guys were planning a surprise.  So, we should think of something.”  

“Thanks.”  James opened his own beer.  “I don’t know what to do.”  

“Neither do I.  Stark mentioned using her as a CI and I just saw red.  I know you did.”  

“It’s only been a year, Steve. I’ve only just gotten her back.” James leaned his head back.  

“Hey, we will figure it out.  But you gotta have a somewhat open mind. We’ll research and see who the best CI is we can use.”  

“I want to run, Steve.  I want all of us to run to anywhere else.  But I know she’s right.  He won’t stop looking.  So, I guess I just need to kill him.”  James’s eyes got hard as Steve’s widen in surprise.  

“You know just saying that is a felony.”  

“You gonna turn me in?” 

“Of course not. I want to kill him too.  I have your back to the end of the line.  You know that.”  

“Thanks punk.”  

“Welcome jerk.  Let’s get back to bed.  We should be up earlier tomorrow and get to the office.  Stark said he’s assigning extra patrol for now.”  

“I guess that’s what we can do for now.  I’m going back to my girl.”  

“It’ll be ok Bucky.  Our family will be ok.”

A/N - sorry this one was so short. Filler for the rest of the story.

NEXT

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[yellowloid]

hello! I saw you made a post on the analysis of the ultracheese and honestly it was such an intriguing read! I read that that you believed golden trunks was an even more meaningful song when related to miles and alex and I would really really rEALLY love to hear what you have to say about golden trunks because honestly its one of my favorite songs

hello and thank you!!! always happy to hear people enjoy my song theories ❤️

golden trunks is one of my favourites too and i was d y i n g to analyse it. it's just such a unique song sound and lyric-wise, definitely in my top three in tbhc.

(as always, disclaimer: this is just a fan theory and everything i'm gonna say is 100% subjective. i'm not claiming it's the Real Meaning TM of the song bc 1) songs can have multiple meanings depending on the lens that is used to analyse them and 2) we'll never actually know what alex meant by writing it. we only know it's the closest thing to a love song in the album, featuring a conversation between him and someone he's falling for. nothing else is set in stone.)

but let's get to the actual analysis, shall we?

to me, this song is about miles. 100% about miles. the person he's talking to, and the person he's falling (or has already fallen) for is miles. there are theories going around on the internet saying it's about taylor or even louise, which are both??? kinda senseless theories??? first let's talk about taylor: why would he create that same sense of secrecy (that is present in songs such as the ultracheese) in this one, if it were a song about his (at the time) girlfriend? why would he add that 'we're friends but i'm falling for you' vibe (that we can find in diwk too) in a song about his current partner? why would he admit to fantasising about that person (keyword: admit, like it took him some time to come to terms with it) in a song about his so of literal years? tbh it doesn't make any sense to me.

and then louise... a bit more plausible since it would at least explain the secrecy if he was cheating, but then again, still doesn't really make sense. what's with the wrestling references. i don't think she's a wrestling fan, and if she is, she's never publicly shown she is. not that she needs to, ofc, but... you know. this theory usually comes from twitter fans who can't even bear the idea of it being about miles, because god forbid someone ever mentions the idea of alex and miles being a thing!!!! so really considering the source of this "theory" is twitter i wouldn't give it much more thought lmao

so now onto the lyrics...

"last night when my psyche's / subcommittee sang to me in its scary voice / you slowly dropped your eyelids / when true love takes a grip, it leaves you without a choice"

this is such an interesting and powerful opening verse to a song. it's so cryptic, and at the same time so blunt. he admits to being a victim of night-time overthinking, that moment when you keep tossing and turning in bed and sleep just won't come to you, dooming you to unwanted thoughts, realisations and fears coming together to haunt you through the night. he's scared of those voices in his head, whispering all those truths to him that he doesn't even want to consider; his mind is being flooded by snaps of the person he's maybe trying not to think too much about, but at the same time he knows it's a losing game: there's no choice to be made, no power held over the images that keep shooting through his mind. he also seems to realise something about the person in question: the possibility of them being his "true love" (or, similarly, him being this person's "true love", hence them admitting to fantasising about him). once again, this is extremely important because he rarely ever refers to love so directly in his songs, and i don't think it's a coincidence he does it here as well as in the ultracheese. having no choice could also refer to him finally coming to the realisation that - despite the fact that he's still so scared of the whole situation - he can't run away anymore. there's no choice, he has to acknowledge the facts because they're all there, hiding in plain sight. there's no way he can escape the truth, and that terrifies him. but he does acknowledge it, as he sings:

"and in response to what you whispered in my ear / i must admit, sometimes i fantasise about you too"

i can just so easily imagine him and miles sitting entirely too close to each other in some booth at a bar, the unspoken boundaries of friendship getting blurred as too much alcohol gets in the way, and miles leaning closer and closer to him just to whisper in his ear that he sometimes fantasises about him in ways friends shouldn't. or as they rehearse their songs right before/during the eycte tour, which always reminds me of this quote:

MK: I remember, one time Alex came up to me and said "I want to see how you spit, while singing "sick puppy" in Bad Habits. I called him a madman afterwards.

AT: Yeah...

MK: But he was right. No one else would say something like that to me, It was beautiful.

AT: You see, Kasia, I just tell Miles about my fantasies, and he tries to fulfill them, even when they are very kinky, like in that case.

(full interview here)

or even during concerts, since we all know how much they loved whispering god-knows-what to each other during song breaks, then proceeding to giggle and flirt with each other like they weren't being watched by an entire crowd sksldklsh. they seemed to be self-aware of this, as they also used to take the piss and play with interviewers when asked about it:

Interviewer: What sort of things do you say to eachother on stage?

Alex: Dark, twisted and very private things.

Miles: You'd think we were freaks if you knew some of the things we talk about on stage. We talk about weird things that don't really make sense to anyone else.

(i think this is from nme, i haven't been able to find the original interview but you can read something more here)

however, imo alex admitting to fantasising about the other person in this song makes his confession so heartbreaking. a while ago me and @jewellersstunts were talking about the fact that it's just so easy to imagine miles whispering something like that to him, maybe during a concert, and him being taken by surprise + generally bad at expressing his emotions through spoken words + him being insecure about their situationship and his identity and just... not saying anything in reply. maybe brushing it off as a joke, when in reality they both knew it wasn't. now, following the fandom theory of them still being friends but having some kind of falling out after the eycte era due to the unclear nature of their relationship - miles getting serious and alex chickening out -, let's fast forward to a couple of years after the tour. when things aren't the same anymore and alex is there, all alone by himself, dwelling on the past, on what once was and what could have been... and him finally finding the courage to give miles a reply through the veil of song, because that's the only way he could ever really be able to express his emotions in some kind of neat fashion (+ i think a similar development was also featured in one of WeirdChick333's fics which as we all know are the canon milex bible so there's that)

i also can't help but think of miles' own album when i think of this song. whereas golden trunks is filled with regret and it's like saying "i didn't give you a reply when you said it, but i'm saying it now. it probably doesn't change anything though, and i'll have to live with that for the rest of my life", coup de grace as an album (and may i say, ESPECIALLY wrong side of life which is my absolute favourite miles song ever) is like saying "yeah you didn't say anything then. you broke my heart and and you keep breaking it every single day, we fought so much and nothing is the same anymore, but i don't care because i want you and you want me, so can we please, please try again?". i think that's really telling of their personalities. tbhc as a whole has a very pessimistic vibe, even though it rarely ever addresses private matters that directly (with golden trunks and the ultracheese being the most direct songs, but still being incredibly cryptic and mysterious). cdg is sad and angry and heartbroken about a nasty breakup, but in general i'd say it still holds some kind of hope for that relationship to be salvageable.

but i'm digressing. let's keep going:

"the leader of the free world / reminds you of a wrestler wearing tight golden trunks / he's got himself a theme tune / they play it for him as he makes his way to the ring"

the reference to wrestling (and possibly to something that actually happened) could be a way for alex to make it clear, even to miles himself, that this song is about him. if it were indeed something that actually happened (them watching a wrestling match or the news, and miles pointing out trump's similarity with that wrestler), then when miles listened to the song - if he still had any doubts - it'd be irrevocably clear to him that alex was talking to him. it'd be some kind of secret code, an inside joke between them turned into a way for alex to make sure miles knew. (also lmao at the twitter fans going to great lengths to prove this verse is about taylor or louise when they've never expressed any interest in wrestling while miles has been a big fan for ages. @ amtwitter bffr)

now, i don't remember if he's referring to an actual wrestler that wore golden trunks as part of his costume and that reminded miles of trump, but the mention of wrestlers in general also reminds me of a very interesting addition by @reconciledviolence729 to my ultracheese analysis. she said:

"For some reason I got fixated on the line: “And dress like a fictional character / From a place they called America / In the golden age.” I can’t help but think how Miles dressed as Ric Flair, who was a significant persona during the “golden era” of American professional wrestling (which is often considered at least somewhat faked aka fictional)."

going back to golden trunks, this verse also introduces some kind of indirect commentary on politics, which is present in other songs from the album and which continues in the next lines:

"in the daytime / bendable figures with a fresh new pack of lies / summat else to publicise / i'm sure you've heard about enough"

(quick aside: "bendable figures" could also be interpreted as a very suggestive image. not gonna elaborate any further on that)

in this reddit theory it is suggested that this mirrors the "breaking news, they take the truth and make it and fluid" verse from american sports, and i think that's a very interesting parallel. however, this part also introduces a contrast to the opening line (last night / in the daytime) which hits us with a sinister dilemma. we like to think that the (often pessimistic) conclusions about our life that we come to at night aren't to be trusted. nighttime does that, it tends to fuck with our rationality by making everything seem scarier, more threatening and disheartening than it usually is. our minds tend to lie to us at night. but here he says that the "fresh new pack of lies" comes during daytime. so what's more trustworthy, night or day? the scary, truthful voices of night or the blatant lies of day? he doesn't give any clear answer to this question. he just leaves us with the doubt, instead bringing the song to a close with newly-found courage:

"so in response to what you whispered in my ear / i'll be upfront, sometimes i fantasise about you too"

the difference with the previous "i fantasise about you too" line is obviously the use of "i'll be upfront" instead of "i must admit" - which is such a slight change, but it's still so important. the use of 'must' and 'admit' imply a certain degree of forceful admission. he finds he can't hide it anymore, and has to at least take notice of it in some way. he doesn't necessarily want to admit it, because he wishes he could still keep that confession to himself. on the other hand, saying "i'll be upfront" is so powerful on his part. he not only acknowledges the feeling, but he takes a big breath and finally comes forward, announcing it without any second thoughts. he finally finds the right way to actually reply, even if it took him so long to do it. and yes, maybe it won't change anything, but this song is a way for him to send out a message, and the fact that he managed to write it and include it in the album (despite never being able to play it live - which makes it even more sus) is a testament to how much of his heart he put into it, how much deep emotion and reflection and courage it took him to be able to compose it and sing it. and that's exactly what makes it so incredibly special.

[ingoodjesst]

i wonder how guilty it made aki feel, reading about how desperately himeno wanted him to leave public safety. how desperately she wanted to keep him alive.

right before himeno's sister visits him in the hospital to give him her letters, kurose tells aki to take a more objective look at himself; now, kurose wonders why aki can't be more realistic. it's interesting to then draw connections between the themes in these two conversations.

aki knew himself too well, that he couldn't leave public safety without feeling lost. he isn't a man who could get by without some grand purpose in life, without some lofty goal to chase and raw vengence to pursue. in his view, there's just things that you gotta believe to keep going - that your family's death won't be meaningless if you avenge them. that no one has to lose their lives and their loved ones to the gun devil ever again if you yourself can ensure its downfall.

but time and time again we see the vast personal cost this takes from aki. only two years left to live. the death of a buddy who tried as hard as she could to keep him alive, even at the cost of her own life.

himeno herself could've left public safety anytime; she didn't because of aki. i wonder how that must haunt him, to know that she died because of the person that he is.

it's like a greek tragedy whose ending you can see coming from the moment the chorus speaks. he could've left public safety and learned to cope with his grief in other ways, paved a new path for himself with one of his closest connections alive by his side, even if his life became much less notable in the grand scheme of things. but he was too stubborn. now he must endure the deaths of dozens of colleagues, including that of his first and longest-term buddy.

more importantly, he was too shortsighted to find purpose in the mundane, in the small-scale connections. he simply had to have aspirations that rival those of a manga character to make meaning of his life.

that's what makes him so palpably tragic. to feel the desperate urge to make something of your life that you squander your own body, your own lifespan, your own relationships. when we already know that aki's life is not meaningless in the slightest. we saw how much he meant to himeno without him fighting a single devil. we see how much he looks out for power and denji, despite and almost because of their unrestrained, hedonistic inanity.

perhaps aki hayakawa just embodies a sort of youthful shortsightedness that we all hope to grow out of before it's too late.

[ash-and-books]

Rating: 1/5

Book Blurb:

A teen girl’s attempt to make amends with her former friend group takes a sinister turn during a weekend getaway at an ancestral Irish estate in this atmospheric, literary horror from the author of Those We Drown.

There’s something in the lake at Wren Hall.

At least, that’s what the locals say. Not that Meg cares much about the rumors. When she’s asked to spend Halloween weekend at the Ireland retreat of the wealthy Wren twins, she recognizes the invitation for exactly what it is: her last, and only, chance to save her spot at Greyscott’s, the exclusive British art school she attended on scholarship until last summer. Clever, beautiful, and talented, the twins are the pride of Greyscott’s, and kindhearted Lottie Wren was once Meg’s closest friend. But not anymore.

None of Meg’s old friend group have talked to her since she left school—and they especially don’t talk about the incident that resulted in her suspension. Now, Meg is willing to do whatever it takes to earn their forgiveness.

But Wren Hall turns out to be far from the idyllic country manor Meg was expecting. The house is damp and drafty, the mirrors are all covered, and the weed-choked lake is at the center of legends that haunt the property to this day—a tainted legacy the estate seems unable to shake.

The truth is, people aren’t the only ones who keep secrets. Places can keep them too—and Wren Hall is drowning in them. When the past bleeds into the present and ancient sins rise to the surface, Meg must ask herself how well she really knows her one-time best friends...or whether any of them will survive the weekend.

Review:

A girl's attempt to make amends with her former friend group takes a sinister turn at an ancestral Irish estate in this gothic horror story inspired by Edgar Allan Poe's The Fall of the House of the Usher. Meg has been invited to visit her former friends for the weekend at their ancestral Irish estate, its the opportunity for her to make amends after the "incident" that got her exiled last year and had all her friends ghosting her. Meg needs this chance to get back in their good graces, and when the gorgeous Wren Twins invite you, you don't say no. Meg was best friends with Lottie Wren... and having a very secret relationship with Lottie's twin brother Seb.... who was also in an on and off relationship with another friend in the group Laure. Yet an incident occurred during the ball last year that involved Seb, Laure, and Meg and now Meg has to make amends with Laure if she wants to get back into the group. Yet spending the weekend at a creepy manor and seeing strange things... and possible horrors and banshees while dealing with her complicated relationship with Seb, Meg has a lot on her plate including trying to remember what actually happened last year. This book was a huge miss for me, and as a big Edgar Allan Poe fan, this was just a disappointment. It definitely gave off YA Bly Manor vibes and every single character in this book was unlikable. Meg had barely any backbone and was boy crazy about Seb, a guy who had no personality and treated her like trash. It was just a disappointing read and all the "horror" moments really just didn't spark anything in me. If you like Bly Manor but with tons of teen drama and very low scares, this could be a good book for you, while if you are a Poe Fan and prefer actual gothic mysteries and horrors, I'd say pass on it.

Release Date: July 30,2024

Publication/Blog: Ash and Books (ash-and-books.tumblr.com)

*Thanks Netgalley and Random House Children's | Delacorte Press for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*