#i think i was beating up cacti?

[danaris112]

When will I have time to play video games

[good-beansdraws]

His ass is not going to be forgiven!!!

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Jack Howl - Room Relaxation Vignette

"Happy Birthday"

[Sports Field]

[tup, tup, tup]

Jack: Pant, pant… I could really feel the burn on those last 20 meters.

Jack: What's my time…? Oh, not bad. I'll have to remember this feeling for next time. Alright, guess it's time to stretch and head back to the dorm.

Riddle: Are you doing solo practice after your club activities once again? You sure are diligent, Jack.

Jack: Oh, Riddle-senpai. When you say "again" like that… did you already know that I always stay behind longer?

Riddle: Well, when the Equestrian Club ends our activities for the day and leave the stable for our respective dormitories, we do pass by the field.

Riddle: I've spotted you running by yourself many times before. Are you training for a meet of some kind?

Jack: Ah, actually, recently my times have been fairly stagnant, so I've been trying to adjust my running form.

Jack: Nothing I was doing was really working… But I think I've really started to figure out what I need.

Jack: For now, I plan on heading back to my dorm and, starting tomorrow, I'll focus on working on my newest running posture.

Riddle: A good decision. It would not do for you to injure yourself by overworking.

Riddle: Besides, a student's priority should be their studies. Passion is well and good, however you would do well to not neglect your studies.

Jack: No need to tell me twice. I don't plan on neglecting my practice nor my studies whatsoever.

Jack: I made it here to Night Raven College, after all. I'll put forth even more effort so I can achieve even more.

Jack: Even if it's the day before my birthday, I'll have to continue doing my best… No, I'll have to do even better than my best.

Riddle: Oh, is your birthday tomorrow?

Riddle: Then I'm sure there's much for you to prepare. It would be rude of me to continue to keep you, so I'll leave you now.

[Riddle walks off]

Jack: Eh…? Oh, sure. Thank you, Riddle-senpai.

Jack: …Did I just say out loud that it's my birthday tomorrow? I hope he doesn't think I'm excited about it, or anything…

Jack: Ughhhh. Nah, it's no good worrying about something that's already done! Time to stretch!

[Savanaclaw Dorm – Jack's Room]

Jack: Whew… I feel much better after a shower. Guess it's time to finally get to my homework.

[Savanaclaw Dorm – Jack's Room]

Jack: Guess that's enough of reviewing today's lessons. I gotta put my homework in my bag before I forget, too…

[Roommate A speaks up]

Jack: … Huh? You wanna copy my homework before I put it away? I didn't work on it to help you guys out, why would I show it to you, anyway?

[Roommate B talks back]

Jack: You don't know the answers? Well, that's your fault for not listening during class. Don't come begging me for scraps.

Jack: Ugh, look at 'em, all grumbling over something stupid. Anyway… I guess I just have "that" left to deal with before going to bed.

「Survey on Quality of Life Improvements for the Student Body」

Jack: So they're looking for campus life improvements, huh. Well, there's the fact that some can be irritating just because they're a year or two older…

Jack: But it's not like the academy can really do anything to help improve personal problems. So, I guess…

Jack: I know I'd like it if they could do something about the rule that freshmen must live 4 to a room.

Jack: It's stressful enough having to share a small room with someone else, let alone 3 other people.

Jack: I can't wait for next year. Sophomores live 2 to a room, so it should be way better than right now.

Jack: There'll be more space in the room then… And I'll be able to find more sunlight for my cacti as well.

Jack: Even though I was able to beat the others to the spot that would provide the most light back when I first got here…

Jack: It's still not enough. Compared to the rooms reserved for the upperclassmen, it's still not as bright here, so I have to take extra care of the little guys.

Jack: Cacti are just like humans in that they don't do well if they don't get enough sunlight.

Jack: …That reminds me of back home for some reason. When winter comes, I always see people here and there sunbathing.

Jack: As a kid, I thought they were just lazy, and couldn't figure out why they'd want to just lounge out under the sun…

Jack: When I learned that there were health-related reasons behind it, I was both surprised and impressed.

Jack: It's not like I've been lacking any chances to be out under the sun ever since I've come to Sage's Island…

Jack: But if I could have a room big enough to roll out a rug, it might not be so bad to lay out and sunbathe on it a bit.

Jack: Alright… I've finished filling out the survey, so I guess it's time to sleep.

[roommates chattering]

Jack: Hey! You guys are being way too loud. How long're you gonna be at it?

Jack: You all better go to sleep right at lights out tonight… 10PM is bedtime! Don't keep me awake!

Jack: …Yeah, like those guys'll listen to what I say.

Jack: I should go back to the survey and ask for a canopy bed… Or maybe a partition.

Jack: Sleep is important for me to build my muscles… So I can't have them keeping me up… Yaaawn…

[Savanaclaw Dorm – Jack's Room]

[alarm blaring]

Jack: …Mm, is it morning already? Welp, then. First things first after waking up…

Jack: There's no question about it. TIME TO REPLENISH QUICKLY WITH SOME PROTEIN!!

Jack: I need to gain back all the nutrients I lost while sleeping. I'll swing by the kitchen for a protein drink and then head towards the washroom.

[Savanaclaw Dorm – Washroom]

[splash, splash]

Jack: Whew… No one's awake at this time, so it's nice and quiet here.

Jack: …Man, no matter how I look at it, my hair is tousled into a real mess. This happens every morning, sure, but…

Jack: Since I have thicker hair, it's so hard to tame the bedhead. Ah, tsk, there's even some pillow marks on my ears.

Jack: Well, I guess I'll just start with wetting the roots of my hair and then use the dryer while pulling the strands back…

[blow-dries hair]

Jack: Once the unruly strands are tamed, I'll comb it… Good, it's more or less better now. If I don't do this first, it ends up taking longer in the end.

Jack: I've tried a bunch of different hair products, but I ended up liking this wax the best.

Jack: Hair gel might be better to keep the shape, but it gets too stiff and takes too long to wash out.

Jack: Only using wax means that my hairstyle starts to lose its hold around evening time, but all I need to do for that is to just fix it up in the afternoon.

Jack: Nice, that looks good. All that's left is to spray it a bit…

[sprays hair]

Jack: Normally I won't use it 'cause I don't like it to get on my ears, but I want to make sure I look spot on today of all days.

Jack: As for makeup… Nah, I'll go without, like usual. I'd like to look good, but I don't want to get all dolled up or anything.

Jack: I'll just use my normal sunscreen. Can't say I really like how it feels on my skin, though…

Jack: But I remember the first time I ever went skiing by myself and the pain I went through when I forgot to apply sunscreen.

Jack: The way I got burned by the sun reflecting on the snow and I had to live with the embarrassment of the goggles leaving that imprint on my face… Augh, I don't even want to think about it again.

Jack: But thanks to that, I finally understand why my parents wouldn't shut up about not forgetting to put on sunscreen.

Jack: Looks like there's a bunch I'm able to understand more as I grow up, like that whole sunbathing thing. Guess that's another reason why it's fun to grow older.

[Savanaclaw Dorm – Jack's Room]

Jack: Alright. Now that I look presentable, I think I'll stretch out my muscles to prep for morning practice.

Jack: Phew… This old chair they supplied the room with really comes in handy for stretching.

Jack: Right after we got grouped together, none of us wanted it so we kept trying to shove it onto each other, but that was just a pain to deal with, so I kept it…

Jack: It's hard, sturdy, and it doesn't wobble so easily. Plus, the size is just perfect for someone of my height.

Jack: Next, I'll step onto the seat and… I guess I'll look over my class notes while I stretch, as usual.

Jack: I think we were on this page of the textbook for Magical History…

Jack: "The following year, the ancient incantations that were inscribed on the cave walls were successfully deciphered. The gathered mages then attempted to speak the ancient incantations…"

[Roommate B complains]

Jack: …Huh, what, I'm too loud? My voice woke you up? Well, good timing, the sun's almost up. Get up, already!

[Main Street]

Jack: Urk, is that who I think it is over there…? …Good morning, Riddle-senpai.

Riddle: Good morning, Jack. Have you finished with morning practice already?

Riddle: Happy Birthday. That's all I came here to say.

Jack: …Of course it was about that. Sorry to be a bother about it. I didn't mean to let it slip yesterday…

Riddle: Heh, you're no bother. We may be of different dormitories, however it is the duty of us upperclassmen to support our underclassmen.

Riddle: You should continue to do your utmost. …Of course, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that.

Jack: Yes, sir! I'll keep on improving!

Requested by @farfalla049.

[hopepetal]

Decided to do a bit of writing for the first session of secret life! Very slight spoilers for Grian's first episode below! (I took a lot of creative liberty)

--

There’s something achingly familiar about the sand underneath their feet. The way it shifts as they make their way through the desert– not their desert, but that’s alright– in search of resources and food. The sun beats down on them from above, and Grian has to give Scar a warning look. Don’t even think about taking your shirt off.

Scar grins back at him, and if they had been allies, he would’ve ignored that warning look to playfully annoy Grian as he had done many a time back in their desert. But this is not their desert, and they are not allies. There is no blood-forged loyalty between them, no soulbond tying their lives together. 

And yet, they had returned to the sand together, laughing softly at the awkward jokes that each other made. Drawn together by no one’s will outside of their own, Grian and Scar walk together under the desert sun like they are allies (they are not).

Grian’s feathers rustle as he notices a small grouping of cacti, hopping off of the camel with his stone axe in hand. His back aches slightly from the mildly uncomfortable ride– he still liked llamas more. This, he tells Scar as he begins to carefully chop the cacti and scoop them into his inventory. 

“I dunno!” he replies with a shrug, when Scar asks him why he doesn’t like camels as much. “Llamas are just more comfortable. And camels are really slow, I don’t know if you noticed that.”

Scar chuckles slightly, shaking his head. “This poor camel is workin’ his butt off to transport you back and forth, and look at how you treat him! Hatin’ on him, calling him names! You’re not too kind to your workers, G. Shame on you! Shame on you, I say.”

Grian rolls his eyes as he moves to collect the next cactus. “You’re so dramatic, Scar. I never said I hated camels.” The cactus falls, and Grian pushes it into his inventory with a little less care for the needles that prick his skin. “I just like llamas more. More comfortable on the rear, y’know?” 

Scar scoffs playfully, tutting softly in disappointment. “I never thought you’d discriminate based on butt comfortatibilital–” He cuts himself off with a slight frown– “comforta– comfortability!” His lopsided grin returns to his face as he moves over to the camel and reaches up to gently pet its rough fur. “Don’t listen to the meanie, Mr…!” He pauses, looking over at Grian. “Any name ideas?” he asks, and Grian lets out a disbelieving laugh.

“Scar!” Grian pauses in his cactus gathering and turns to face the other man, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows. “You shouldn’t start naming every animal you see. It’s the life series, for goodness sakes. You know it’s either going to die or be stolen, and what are you going to do when you retaliate and then no one wants to ally with you?”

Scar pulls his lips together into a frown, pouting. “That’s just not gonna happen! Just you wait, G– I’ll be so useful and kind to everyone on the server that they’re all gonna be my allies! Yes sir, Scar Goodtimes is going to be a friend to all this season!”

Grian laughs. “Can’t wait to see how that one turns out,” he teases. “You have a bit of a history of either going off alone, or only having one friend.”

Scar gasps in mock surprise, though the hurt that shines so briefly in his eyes is real. “Grian! You can’t just say that to a man! And you know that is not true! I had Cleo and Bdubs last season! We were family!”

Grian rolls his eyes. “Yeah, so was boatem, and look at how we ended up.” He folds his wings behind his back as he turns back to the cacti, pulling his axe out once more as he begins to chop down the desert plants. He didn’t really even know why he wanted the cacti so bad– it wasn’t as if they were actually all that useful, other than some dye. 

It was at this point that Scar realizes just what Grian was doing, and stumbles forward with a yelp. “Hey! Hey there! I’m not letting you get the monopoly, mister!” He struggles to pull out his axe before swiftly chopping into the base of the cactus. “I’ve learned better by now!” he crows, scooping the fallen plant into his hands. And for a moment, he pauses, and silence falls over the two of them.

Scar seems to consider something, green eyes darkening from memories. He cups the small piece of cactus in his hands, careful to not let the needles prick into his skin. He looks up at Grian, down, then back up again. The silence continues to ring. 

Grian swallows, and the anticipation (fear? he thinks it might be fear) building in his chest makes him think that the stakes of this moment should be higher. That the number of lives should be lower. It makes him think that there should be a ring of cacti around the two of them, and that he should be gazing into red eyes.

But the eyes he meets are lime green. Wrong, but not red. The only cacti around are in Grian’s inventory and Scar’s hands. And the sand that shifts slightly beneath their feet is not pitted with explosions nor stained with blood. Grian realizes his feathers had begun to puff out and forces himself to calm down. 

It’s fine. He’s fine. 

Scar’s expression tells Grian he’s thinking the same thing. The silence crescendos into a deafening roar. 

Scar steps forward, and carefully places the cactus down on the sand in front of Grian. “I’ll let you have the monopoly,” he murmurs, and Grian chokes out a laugh as he picks up the cactus and puts that into his inventory as well. Scar gives him a grin and breathes out his next question. “Can we still be friends?”

Grian slowly blinks, and looks up at Scar. He takes a deep breath. Then another. The silence does not ring; it screams. 

Scar glances up and sees Grian there, staring at the cactus, and frowns. “Hey, G? You good?”

Grian blinks back tears, and nods. “...yeah. Yeah, I’m good. We can still be friends.” 

Friends. Not allies. Neither were quite ready to be the latter just yet. But it was a start. They left that desert– not their desert, they’d never quite leave that– alive and feeling the light sting of cactus needles pricking into their skin.

[casedclosedbye]

Scenario: Spencer Reid Gaslights Derek Morgan with Made-up Facts

The BAU office, late afternoon. The team is gathered around the table, debriefing after a case. Spencer Reid, ever the master of obscure facts and trivia, notices that Derek Morgan is making a bold claim about something trivial. Spencer, with his usual deadpan humor, decides to playfully gaslight him with "facts" he's made up on the spot.*

---

Derek Morgan:(grinning) “I’m telling you, man, I know I’m right. The best way to stay awake during a long stakeout is to eat a banana. You get the potassium boost, plus it gives you energy without that crash.”

Spencer Reid: (without missing a beat, feigning deep thought) “Actually, Derek, that’s not true. In fact, bananas have a very low concentration of the kind of potassium that would actually help you stay awake. It’s more of a myth. What you really need is a fruit with higher levels of magnesium—like a papaya.”

Derek Morgan: (laughs, shaking his head) “Papaya? Man, you’re trippin’. I’ve been eating bananas my whole life, and they’ve been keeping me awake just fine. You’re gonna sit here and tell me I’m wrong?”

Spencer Reid: (smiling like he’s about to drop some major knowledge)* “Well, see, that’s the thing. You’re probably confusing it with the fact that bananas are actually known for inducing a mild state of sleepiness due to the high levels of tryptophan. It’s the same thing in turkey. They just don’t advertise it because it would ruin the snack food market.”

Derek Morgan: (laughs loudly, rolling his eyes)* “You’re pulling my leg, man. Everyone knows bananas keep you awake. I read it in *Men’s Health* last month.”

Spencer Reid:(nonchalantly) “Funny you mention Men’s Health. In the latest study published there, they found that bananas only affect energy levels if consumed at precisely 3:17 PM. Any other time of day, it has the opposite effect. You must’ve been reading the wrong issue.”

Derek Morgan: (staring at him, narrowing his eyes) “Spencer, I swear you’re messing with me now. There’s no way you’ve got some Men’s Health issue with ‘banana science’ like that. What are you, a walking encyclopedia?”

Spencer Reid: (shrugging, deadpan) “Actually, it’s more like a walking hypertext database. I remember reading about this exact phenomenon. Also, just so you know, bananas are classified as berries in botanical terms. Did you know that?”

Derek Morgan: (pauses, looking completely confused)* “Wait… they’re what?!”

Spencer Reid: (smiling slightly) “Yep. You’d think a banana would be a fruit. But in the scientific world, it’s technically a berry. I’d be careful if I were you. If you keep calling them fruits, you might get kicked out of botany class.”

Derek Morgan: (staring at him in disbelief) “Man, you’re full of it today.”

Spencer Reid:(with a shrug) “I mean, I could go on. Did you know that, in 1832, a French botanist successfully crossbred a banana with a cactus? That’s why modern bananas are so resilient in extreme temperatures.”

Derek Morgan:(holding his head in his hands) “Spence, I’m about to lose it on you. I don’t know what’s worse—that you’re making this up or that you might actually be right about some of it.”

Spencer Reid:(grinning) “I think you’ll find that most of what I say is based on factual accuracy, Derek. You just have to learn to distinguish between truth and, well… my interpretation of it.”

Derek Morgan:(laughs, shaking his head) “I swear, man, you could convince someone that the sky’s green if you said it with enough confidence.”

Spencer Reid: (eyes widening dramatically) “Actually, the sky is green, but only at very specific latitudes, right around the equator. But that’s a whole other conversation for another day.”

Derek Morgan: (groaning in exasperation) “I’m done. You’ve officially broken me, Reid. I’m going home. I’m never looking at a banana the same way again.”

The rest of the team, watching from the sidelines, shares a knowing look as Derek walks out, muttering about bananas and cacti.

---

[queenpiranhadon]

A/N: Looks like we gotta put Katsuki in his place…or try to, anyways. Augh @cashmoneyyysstuff is literally my savior hereee ilyyy Here's the masterlist!

Warning(s): Cursing, reader is the daughter of Aizawa, Shinso and Eri are biological siblings, reader is 20 years old, reader befriends Kaminari and Sero, Reader uses "Cattus" as her alias, reader's nicknames are Cactus and Cattus, fight scene between you and Bakugou, really BAD depictions of a fight scene, reader's down bad LMAO, two characters aren't from MHA but are there for the plot, mentions of overexertion, Bakugou challenges you to a fight, a tualia is a type of duel for reference,

Pairing(s): Katsuki Bakugou x Reader

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏᴜʀ: Ten, Again

“Daaaaaaamn Cattus.” Hanta drawls, approaching you once training ended for the day. You hadn’t moved a bit- rooted to where you stood when Bakugou challenged you to a fight.  

“Got a duel on the first day, huh? Against the great ol’ ‘War Dragon’ too.” Denki chimes in, slinging an arm around your shoulder.  

“Was nice knowing you two.” you mumble, regret laced in your tone. You joined the army to avoid trouble, not cause it. 

Denki nods sagely, patting your back in an attempt to console you. “What flowers do you want for your funeral?” 

Hanta rolls his eyes, slinging his arm over your shoulders as well. “Eh, I think Cattus’ll beat the ‘Pissy Lizard’ any day- man's probably got some secret moves he isn’t spilling.” the ravenette says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.  

You sigh, internally cackling at Hanta’s take on the captain’s nickname, but chose to address the latter statement.  

“I haven’t trained since I was ten though! An entire decade ago!” you groan, and Hanta raises an eyebrow.  

“What’s stopping you from training now then? There’s some dummies we passed a few minutes ago that Moss Bear said was for public use.” 

You blink- how in the world did they know so much about this place and you didn’t? 

You ask them, and Denki just snorts, pulling your wolf’s knot teasingly.  

“You sir, are the King of Moping. You’re too busy lamenting your stay here, and so you don’t appreciate hanging out with your bros” Denki says, sighing dramatically.  

Sero flicks your forehead “And while you were busy off in space, you overhear some things.” 

You groan. Maybe Fern Bat was right. About you, not your father.  

But he wasn’t going to be for long.  

You were going to train as hard as you could to make up for the last 10 years of your life.  

*** 

It was almost midnight when you finally put down the sword, muscles aching, body feverish and drenched with sweat, you worked so hard you felt like you were going to vomit.  

“Shit...” you mutter, letting your sword clatter to the ground, resting your head against the nearby tree.  

You wanted water, and a shower, but you didn’t have that luxury right now. Right now...you had rest, rest was good. Good enough at least. 

Though you were thoroughly exhausted in every meaning of the word, you felt...rejuvenated. Alive, almost.  

You had to admit, you changed a lot in the last week than you had in your entire life, more fierce, more bold, more confident even. You felt...free. Though you loved your family with your entire heart, mind, soul, and being, not having the responsibility to tend to others 24/7 was relieving.  

What wasn’t relieving however was the impending fight you had tomorrow.  

Oh well. 

If you were going down, you wouldn’t make it easy, that’s for sure.  

In the light of the waning moon, you smirk to yourself. 

You were going to remind the so called “War Dragon” that while they grew flowers, cacti still had thorns.  

*** 

You woke up the next morning, early, much to Denki and Hanta’s annoyance, but they understood enough to let you be and give you shit for it later.  

 It’s early enough that no one is awake right now, and so you slip away from the mass of tents and training equipment to find solace in the nearby lake, one you noticed when first arriving here, taking a much-needed wash to cleanse yourself of the dirt, grime and sweat from the previous night. 

It was relaxing and refreshing- exactly what you needed to get yourself in the right mindset for your battle. Icy water laps at your skin, cleansing you from worries and emotions that you couldn’t afford to feel right now. Usually, you would complain and shiver about the temperature of the water you were in- but right now, you felt new. 

Right now, you couldn’t be Y/N.  

Right now, you were Cattus. 

*** 

Thump. 

Thump. 

Thump. 

Your heart beats thrums steadily against your ribcage, like a gong or a rhythmic drum sounding over and over again.  

And across from you, those stupidly pretty ruby eyes. 

You couldn’t be falling for him. 

You couldn’t be falling for him. 

Stupid Pissy Lizard. 

You stare at the Adonis of a man in front of you, finally drinking in his features.  

Chiseled jawline, slim waist, hulking figure. Long eyelashes that housed those eyes you loved so much, and spiky hair that jutted in every direction, similar to the horns and spikes of a dragon. Plush lips that stretched across the smug grin on his face. 

Damn. 

That might be a slight problem. 

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” the soldiers that crowded you chanted, louder and louder, in sync with the beating of your heart.  

You were a warrior.  

With a cry, you lunge forward at the sound of the gong, just as Bakugou does.  

And suddenly, you were ten again.  

You see him move without him moving, noticing the muscles in his right arm clench every so slightly, meaning he would strike your left side.  

Dropping to your knees, you slide underneath the blade, ignoring the pain the friction caused against your knees and kick your legs out to knock him off balance too.  

He stumbles, before whipping back to face you, already on your feet, and preparing to strike for his abdomen.  

“Remember Y/N.” you father had told you. “When facing an opponent who excels in strength, you must beat them in speed.” 

Bakugou was strong, you could give him that. Extremely so, with skills so refined that you could barely find the chinks in his armor. He was fast too. 

You would just have to be faster.  

“Become the wind, embrace it, embody it.” you hear your dad’s voice in your head. “And once you do, overcome it.” 

“Be faster, better, become more than the wind could ever be.” 

Bakugou blocks your strike, but is taken aback at your speed, growling as he used the momentum to push you off him, leaving you skidding against the dirt, yet you maintain your footing, and your stance. 

Sword clash, as you fight tirelessly, the soldier surrounding you watching intently. They didn’t expect you to last this long- neither did Bakugou. Were you actually going to win? 

And yet, in reality, what could a single gust of wind do against a fire breathing dragon? 

Just as you couldn’t win against your father, you couldn’t win against Bakugou.  

But you knew that. 

That wasn’t what you were concerned about. You could hold your own against the captain of an army squadron, and Bakugou knew that. You have proven your point.  

Now, you were just toying with him.  

You felt sluggish, overexerting yourself well beyond your limit at this point- knowing that in these types of challenges, a tualia in specificness, the only way to win was to pin your opponent down for 10 seconds.  

Given his sheer size and strength, you knew that pinning him down for that long would be impossible. You came to terms with that a long time ago. 

Bakugou’s chest heaved, sweat dripping down his neck. He was just as tired as you were, but still royally ticked off. You could see why they called him a dragon now, eyes narrowed in concentration and breathing so heavily smoke could exit his nostrils.  

Running straight at him, you direct yourself as if to collide with him, the latter bracing for impact before you spin around, hooking your foot around him, and causing him to fall on his back.  

Taking the opportunity, you place your forearm on your collarbone, putting as much weight as your could afford at that moment, pinning him down. 

“One...two...three...” you mutter, loud enough that the other soldiers could hear you.  

Holy shit. Was this going to work?  

Bakugou’s breath comes out ragged and labored- he's tired. 

“Four...five..uff!” you cough out as Bakugou suddenly headbutts you and reverses your stance, him now pinning you.  

Shit!

“One...two...three” he starts counting, voice so low and gravelly it sounds almost unhuman.  

He’s not growling now though, he seems subdued almost, like he just wants to get this over with. 

“Four...five...six...seven...” 

You don’t bother squirming, or trying to escape, already sensing your tualia coming to an end. You can’t help but feel butterflies erupt in your stomach from the proximity and you mentally open a cage to stuff them through- you'd deal with those feelings later.   

“Eight...nine...fucking ten.” he groans, getting off of you, and allowing you to finally breathe, relaxing into the ground, but Denki and Hanta help you up anyways, awestruck.  

“You almost beat him!” Denki gushes, giddy with excitement.  

Hanta nods in assent. “I knew I said you might have secret skills, but damn. I don’t think Bakugou’s gone up against anyone who’s still alive to tell the tale.” 

You chuckle dryly, too tired to share their enthusiasm but grateful for it nonetheless. 

“C’mon guys, let’s get back to the tent.” 

Taglist: @andysdrafts @starieq @nemisimp @missa-archdevilme @coquettefoxxy

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[zorosangell]

⛥ﾟ・。 protector: chapter fifteen

synopsis: " you were supposed to stay a crewate, just another back to watch, " he tightened his hold, " i didn't even notice the change until i woke up one day and realized i'd take a bullet for you "

cw: violence, gore, fighting, mature themes, profanity, MAJOR/MINOR ANIME SPOILERS, follows the plot of the anime, slowww burn.

a/n: reposting from another account

Once the crew got past Reverse Mountain, the lot of you ran into a gigantic whale, which ended up swallowing all of you.

Inside the whale's stomach, you met an old man Crocus, the keeper of the lighthouse and caretaker of the whale, who's name was Laboon.

He told you the story of Laboon's previous owners, and how he was stuck there until their return. 

And while telling the story, these two weirdos, who went by the names of Miss Wednesday and Mr. 9, tried killing Laboon.

Luffy beat them up easily, and got into a fight with the whale, promising to return so they could have a rematch.

And now here you were, the entire crew laid out on the floor after the roughest patch of sea you've ever faced.

Well, not the entire crew.

"C'mon. The weather's nice and all but that's not a reason to be lazy," Zoro scoffed, having just woken up from his nap.

"I'll kill you," you groaned, your voice dangerous.

He turned to Miss Wednesday and Mr. 9, who were also sprawled out on the ground.

"Oh, you guys are still here."

He crouched down, the both of them abruptly sitting up with fearful expressions.

"Wanna tell me what were your strange names were again? 'Cause I don't think that you can be trusted."

"Well," Mr. 9 shakily started, "I'm called Mr. 9."

"And I'm called Miss Wednesday," Wednesday answered as well, her smile faltering.

"Right. You know those names sound familiar, and that's what's bothering me. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I'm certain I've heard them somewhere before. Or maybe I—" you interrupted his rant by punching him in the back of the head, hard.

"You think your lazy ass can just sleep while we do all the work?! You're lucky I didn't throw you overboard!" you scolded, angry.

"Ow! What's the matter with you, woman?!" he exclaimed, rubbing the large knot on his head.

You answered his question by punching him in the same spot twice more, leaving him clutching his head in pain.

"Listen up, everyone! There's no way to know what's gonna happen next. During the terror most of us experienced, I came to an understanding of why this sea is named the Grand Line. My navigation skills are useless here, but mark my words I will guide us through!" Nami announced, proudly.

"Umm... okay. You sure, Nami?" Usopp asked.

She smiled, turning to look out at the distance, "Without a doubt.

"And speaking of which. We're here. Our first journey on the Grand Line comes to an end."

Everyone turned to see the island not too far ahead.

Whiskey Peak.

The island was covered with humongous cacti, some of which stretching up past the clouds.

"This is unlike any landscape I've ever seen," Sanji stated, impressed.

"Those cactus are humongous!" Luffy shouted.

Just then, Mr. 9 and Miss Wednesday jumped onto the rail of the Merry.

"Thank you but we must be leaving," he smirked.

"It's been an interesting ride to say the least," she agreed.

"Bye, bye, baby!"

And with that, they jumped off, back-flipping into the ocean and swimming to shore on their own.

"Buncha weirdos," you scoffed, crossing your arms.

"I guess we'll never learn what those nutjobs were up to," Usopp shrugged.

"Eh, who cares. We're landing!" Luffy smiled.

"There's a waterway right up to the shoreline. It looks like we can go inland by ship," Nami pointed.

"Um, am I the only weighing the possibility of monsters on that island?" Usopp began to shake, nervous.

"It's possible. This is the Grand Line," you shrugged, "Even if there are it's not like we can leave."

"Huh? Why not?" Luffy asked, confused.

"Don't you guys remember what Crocus said. The Log Pose needs enough time to record the islands magnetic field so we have to stay put. The Log Pose needs a different amount of time for each island so some may take a few hours while other may take several days," Nami explained.

You continued up the waterway, a dense fog rolling in and covering up the view of the port.

But as the lot of you got closer, you could her a faint sound.

Faint, but distinct.

"Is that—?"

As the fog cleared, a crowd of what looked like the entire island could be seen gathered at the docks, all cheering and celebrating. 

"Greetings and good tidings, travelers!" a man shouted.

"Welcome to Whiskey Peak!" another agreed.

"These aren't monsters. They're people. And they actually look happy to see us," Usopp stated, getting out of his defensive stance and lifting his goggles.

"What the hell's wrong with them?" Sanji asked.

"Pirates are always welcome in our town!" A random woman cheered, whipping around a flag

"Hooray for the heroes of the sea!"

"Hey!" Luffy cheered, sitting down on the head of the Merry.

"This is fishy," you stated bluntly, standing cross-armed next to Zoro.

"Definitely. I'd keep my guard up," he nodded, resting his hand on the hilt of his swords.

"Agreed."

After an entire day and night of partying, the crew was out cold, each asleep with a blissful smile on their faces.

You kept to yourself the entire night, distrusting of the villagers odd hospitality to pirates.

And luckily, that led you here, sitting on a rooftop next to Zoro, as the villagers below plan to raid your ship and murder your crew mates.

Not only that, but it was Zoro who revealed that they were actually a part of some giant criminal organization, all based on bounties and assassinations.

"You mind if I watch?" you smirked, crossing your legs and resting your cheek in your palm.

"Not at all," he smirked back, disappearing from the roof and appearing in the center of all the agents.

"Alright, then. Gimme a good show!" you smiled.

And what proceeded was a long, and hilarious, battle between Zoro and the hundred and some change criminals.

Each one had their own goofy weapon, and each one would get swiftly taken out upon entry, mostly because of their own doing.

"We got you now, girl!" a small fry shouted as he and a group of his friends came running up behind you.

"This'll teach you to mess with Baroque Works!"

"God's Messenger: Army and Point," you stated, not taking your eyes off Zoro's fight.

A large amount of your feathers detached, stabbing and slicing the men like knives with a mind of their own.

Once all of them were down, your feathers returned to you, softening back to normal.

"Will you idiots give it a rest? You're way out of your league," you rolled your eyes.

As you continued to watch the fight, the gears in your head began to turn, and you realized the opportunity put before you.

'If these guys are part of an intelligence agency, then maybe one of them knows something about Doflamingo.'

You turned to the curly-haired guy, Igara-something was his name. 

He seemed to be the leader of the small fry.

'Perfect.'

You quickly stood up, unfurling your wings and flying down into the battle, kicking away the mayor's saxophone gun and grabbing him by the collar.

"I'm stealing one, Zoro!" you called as you began to fly straight into the air.

"Find by me!" he shrugged, pushing a bunch of the agents off a ladder.

"What are you doing?! What do you want?!" the man frantically shouted, growing more and more fearful as you flew him higher and higher.

"I'm gonna make this real plain and simple, got it? You tell me what I wanna know, and I won't drop you," you started, your expression stone cold.

"But... you tell me somethin' I don't like," you smirked, "and I'll drop you so hard they'll be scrapin' your remains off the road for weeks."

"Okay! Okay! What do you wanna know?! I'll tell you anything!" he cried, his shaky hands gripping onto your wrists for dear life.

"Tell me where I can find Doflamingo," you ordered, tightening your grip on his collar.

"Doflamingo? I'm sorry but I have no idea what you're talking about! Please you have to believe me! I don't know who that is!" he blubbered.

You smirked, let out a quiet chuckle.

"Damn, Igarrapoi," you started, outstretching your arms.

"That was somethin' I didn't like."

"No, wait! Please! I—!" But before he could plead any more, you dropped him, his body landing one top of a couple of other agents.

He wouldn't be dead, but he'd be battered a good bit.

'Can't kill him for not knowing. But he did plan to kill my crew mates so most of that was deserved.'

"Ya done up there?" Zoro called, sitting himself down on the edge of a different rooftop.

"Yeah, I'm done," you sighed, flying down and sitting next to him.

"The guy had what you're looking for?" he asked.

"Nope. Another dead end," you huffed, glaring at the mayor's body, who seemed to be talking to someone in the alleyway, along with Miss Wednesday and Mr. 9.

"Don't let it discourage you. The further we get on the Grand Line, the more information you'll be able to find," he nodded, placing an assuring hand on your shoulder.

You smiled, a faint red tint rising to the apples of your cheeks.

"Anyway, you think our captain'll be alright. I left 'im down there with those weirdos," he asked, removing his hand.

You were already beginning to miss its warmth.

"Wait, Luffy's down there?" you asked, looking over the ledge to see that Luffy was indeed there, fat and passed out in a wheelbarrow.

Suddenly, the mayor jumped up and pulled the strings of his bowtie, sending a barrage of bullets towards the man and woman he was talking to.

And Luffy was caught dead smack in the middle.

"Dammit. Luffy's trapped," you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"We better go do something about it," Zoro begrudgingly stood up, resting his hand on the hilt of his blade.

"Right behin—" Just then, a gigantic explosion ripped through the gunfire.

And when the smoke cleared, the mayor lay unmoving on the ground.

'This is too much.'

"I've had enough fun for one night," Zoro grumbled, jumping down from the roof and grabbing Luffy by the shirt, dragging him off.

You looked down at the scene again, cocking a brow as the mayor called Miss Wednesday Princess Vivi.

Mr. 9 tried to protect her, but the dread-headed guy picked his nose and shot a booger at the poor guy, blowing him up.

"That's disgusting," you grimaced, shuddering at the thought of explosive boogers.

'Now wait a second. Intelligence agency... secret princess... kingdom in danger... I think I'm starting to get the gist of what's happening around here.'

Flying over the dramatic scene happening with the princess, you met up with Zoro and Nami, who seemed to be arguing over money while the mayor lay on the floor, helpless.

You landed and squatted down to his level, him lifting his head to see you.

"Igara-guy," you started, serious, "Would the princess, or the king of this Alabasta place, know anything about Doflamingo?"

His eyes went wide, and he coughed up a little bit of blood, "I am almost certain that Princess Vivi knows nothing of this Doflamingo you speak of, but King Cobra should surely know."

You smirked, standing up straight.

"Well then, can't let my map die."

You managed to catch up with the princess only to see the exploding-booger guy fire a pretty big one at her.

Quickly, you swooped down and hit it away with your mace, sending it flying and exploding in mid-air.

"Gross! I just hit someone's snot!" you exclaimed, tongue out in disgust.

"You! Don't you pirates give up! Leave me alo—!" you quickly stopped the princess' spinning toy and turned to her, seriously.

"Relax. I'm here to help," you assured, firmly.

"Help?"

"I take it that you must be a part of that swordsman's crew. The one that beat up all the lowly employees stationed here," the blonde woman with the umbrella smiled.

"Why would you wanna protect the princess of Alabasta?" the booger-man asked.

"I have my reasons," you glared.

"Well one way or another we're gonna have to eliminate you. You're in our way."

"Aww, what a shame!" the blonde woman laughed. 

Booger-man stuck his finger up his nose, and you got yourself ready for another attack, until Luffy and Zoro suddenly burst through a house, fighting.

Your eyes went wide.

"Huh?! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU IDIOTS DOING?!" you shouted, angry.

"ZORO BEAT UP THE NICE TOWNSPEOPLE THAT GAVE US FOOD!" Luffy shouted, sending the swordsman flying into another building.

'My captain cannot be this stupid.'

"LUFFY, YOU DUMBASS, THEY'RE THE BAD GUYS! THEY TRIED TO KILL US!" you scolded.

But he ignored you, and instead got sent flying into the blonde woman and the booger man, knocking them into another house. 

After about five more minutes of the two knocking the sense out of each other, and the bad guys, you had had enough. 

"WILL YOU TWO IDIOTS QUIT IT!" you shouted, flying over and slamming the two of their heads together, stopping their fight. 

"You people... are insane," the princess gaped. 

"What the hell is wrong with you two?! You're lucky you guys kept her safe during your shenanigans, otherwise I could've lost out on some VERY important information!" 

"Huh? Information?" the princess asked, confused.

"In exchange for delivering you home safely, you're gonna bring me to your dad where we can discuss some things," you stated.

"I... uh... umm—" "Deal? Deal," you smiled, interrupting her.

"(y/n), that hurt," Luffy sniffled, clutching his head. 

"You're lucky I didn't hit you two harder!" 

"Tch... Crazy woman," Zoro huffed, nursing his new welt.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

It All Fades Away

The pounding on his front door had Harry’s head jerking up from the carving that he was doing. He’d heard the car driving by a couple of minutes ago, strange enough, but he hadn’t expected anyone to show up at his door. That was the point of this pretty little cabin, hidden in the mountainside in Montana.

No one had been here since Draco had shown up on his doorstep six months ago looking for a place to stay for a night (or four as the case had been). But that certainly didn't bear thinking about.

There was another round of pounding and Harry stood and made his way across the room, pulling the door open, expecting to see some lost driver who couldn't get any reception.

Instead it was Draco standing in the doorway, long hair tied back in a braid, wearing a pair of skinny jeans and the plaid shirt that Harry hadn't been able to find for the past six months. "Harry," Draco murmured, like he was surprised to see him.

He closed the door again, heart beating loudly in his ears, he felt a little dizzy. Harry screwed his eyes shut, then opened them again, he was dreaming, he must be.

But then, if he was dreaming, why wouldn't he let Draco in? At least enjoy the time they could have, even if it wasn't real.

A tentative fist knocking on the door and Harry pulled it open again.

"I'm sorry," Draco blurted, reaching out a hand for Harry but not actually touching him. "I'm sorry that I left without a word. I'm sorry that I just disappeared. You didn't deserve that."

He swallowed, looked Draco over from head to toe and took a step back, gesturing for him to come in.

Draco's shoulders released, tension draining as he stepped inside.

"Why are you back?" Harry asked, voice a little hoarse and gravelly from disuse, before heading toward the kitchen and taking out the tea. Funny that he hadn't forgotten how Draco took his.

The chair slid out from the table and Draco sat down, Harry didn't have to be looking at him to know that Draco's eyes were on him. He'd done the same thing every time that Harry had cooked anything for them when he'd been here all those months ago.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you," Draco said and Harry almost dropped the tea cup he'd been holding.

He glanced over at Draco with a sardonic grin, "you don't fuck off for six months from someone you can't stop thinking about."

"You weren't the reason I came to the States," he replied.

Harry nodded, placing a cup of tea in front of Draco at the table but not taking the seat across from him. He leaned against the counter instead, "You were trying to get some perspective. That's what you said, right? Trying to get some space."

"I was trying to find myself," Draco replied bluntly.

He hummed and took a sip of tea, "And?"

"I've seen the most beautiful things," Draco said. "Mountains, and oceans, trees that are thousands and thousands of years old. I've seen cacti, and deserts, and giant canyons. More wildlife and flowers than you can imagine. The things that I've seen," he shook his head, "Harry, I've wept for joy of seeing them, with experiencing them. I've been freer than I've ever been in my entire life."

Harry nodded, took another sip of tea, he'd let him share his life. How could he not? He was happy to share the joy the other man possessed.

"But it all fades to absolutely nothing when it's compared to you."

He blinked, "Sorry?"

"For the past six months, all I could think about were the four nights in your arms. All I could think about was what you might say about the places I've been. All I could imagine was waking up in the early morning light and admiring the way the sun makes your skin glow bronze. Every restaurant I ate in, I imagined the way you'd delight in the flavors, the seasoning; the way you'd enjoy the food in front of you. And every night, I'd lie awake and feel the ghost of your fingers on me; soft and almost reverent, like I was something worthy of being cherished."

"You are," Harry said simply.

Draco swallowed, "And I came back to see," he shook his head, clenched his fingers around the tea cup, "I wondered if maybe you felt a little bit the same."

"Draco," he said incredulously, "I asked you to stay with me." He shook his head, "six months ago, while your body was warm, and heavy, and sated, pressed flush against mine on that bed," he said, pointing to the bed in the corner of the cabin. "I kissed you and I asked you to stay. I gave you my entire fucking heart."

"I-" Draco started but Harry interrupted him.

"You were the one who left-"

"I know," he said, tucking a hair behind his ear. "I'm sorry-"

"I'm not saying that because I want you to feel sorry," he said with a frown. "I'm saying it because I already told you that I wanted you. Of course I feel the same."

Draco's head snapped up, eyes searching Harry's face, "Really?" he whispered.

"Yes, of course, really," he groused.

Before he could get any more words out, Draco flew across the space between them, throwing himself into Harry's arms. And Harry caught him on reflex, arms enfolding him, drawing him closer as he breathed him in. "I missed you," Draco whispered.

"Well it's your own stupid fault," he grumbled but his hands soothed over Draco's back and sides. "I missed you too," he relented, "so much."

Draco swallowed and pulled back, "if the offer still stands," he whispered, "I'd like to stay."

Harry nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat, "It still stands."

"Can we travel, too?"

He laughed, cupping Draco's cheeks in his palms, "I'm afraid there isn't much that I wouldn't give you."

"You'll love it," Draco assured, grinning brightly at him.

"With you?" he said, "I'm sure I will."

Draco leaned in and rested their foreheads together, "Maybe just a little time here for us first," he said.

And the two of them traveled the world together, but it was always true that the other was the thing that they longed to see the most.

==========

Read more of my fics

[mochiwrites]

last life au

in light of third life turning two years old today, I offer a wip I've had sitting in my google drive since february! if any of you remember this post I made a while back, all you need to know is that third life!grian has swapped places with last life!grian somehow. without further ado, here's my very unfinished and very rough last life au wip (pls don't judge it too harshly LOL)

happy two years to the series that changed me as a person! :D (edit: now posted on ao3! read here)

if you enjoyed, please reblog! reblogs do more than likes <3

To Grian, the desert was once a home.

It wasn’t perfect, not really. Perfection is nearly impossible in a game of death, but what he and Scar had came close. The desert was the farthest thing from a good location, all things considered. The days were hot, far too hot, and the nights were so cold that it left Scar and Grian curling up close for warmth. There was nothing but sand for miles, which made gathering materials a constant challenge. 

But they had their home. Their tower, their place of respite. Dogwarts was a constant threat barreling down their door, but together they made it work. Their home was far from perfect, but it was theirs and that’s what Grian came to love about it. 

Except now, as he stands in a ring of cacti, he has destroyed his home. 

His home is filled with lava and craters, a reminder of what they did to survive. Their desert was ruined days ago in what they had hoped to be the final showdown with Dogwarts and The Red King. They blew up their desert for a win they never achieved. 

Maybe that was the first sign that things were going wrong. Their desert, their home, their small temporary sanctuary in this hellish game was blown apart. 

Ends justifies the means, no?

After all, to Grian, their home was more than just the desert. Their home was with each other. The desert never mattered much to him, not when he had Scar, and vice versa. The desert was a symbol, more than anything. Of Grian’s debt, his guilt. He’ll never admit it, but it felt a bit liberating to destroy it. 

And maybe that’s why things went oh so horribly wrong. 

Maybe that is why his fists are shaking, knuckles raw and covered in blood. Maybe that is why he stares down at the bloodied corpse of what was once his partner, his other half. His insides twist and turn, creating a mangled mess of emotions within him. The sun beats down on him, sweat and blood mixing together as one. His hair is in his eyes, but he doesn’t care much. His tank top feels like too much but also too little all at once.

His knuckles ache, his body is sore. He’s hardly covered in bruises and scratches, and yet he still feels like he’s just been beaten half to death anyways. 

He can’t bear to look at Scar, to meet his gaze and see his own brightly shining eyes reflected in lifeless, empty ones. 

“For everything you’ve done to keep me alive this long, you may slay me and take the enchanter.” 

Scar’s words ring in his head, accompanied by his laughter. Grian puts a bloodied hand up to his mouth as a wave of nausea rolls over him. He doesn’t pay any mind to the copper twinge that fills his mouth. He tears his gaze away from anywhere remotely near Scar, instead turning and looking over the mountain. 

Their home is in ruins. Their home is gone. The last of their home has been destroyed by his own two hands, killed for the sake of winning some pointless game. 

His victory feels hollow. Empty. 

He had wanted to win together. Winning without Scar felt… wrong. It feels wrong. After all they’ve been through, after establishing something between them, winning alone just… didn’t look as appealing anymore. 

“I’m getting you! I’m getting you good!” “I don’t think you are!” 

His hands ache. His chest feels tight, as if his ribs have been coiled tightly around his lungs to constrict his air flow. He takes a slow step back, as if trying to escape the scene of the crime. His legs shake from the weight of both his body and his actions. Grian takes a shaky breath. 

“Can we win together?” 

He stumbles as he walks backwards, his world dipping and tilting. 

Grian won alone. 

He doesn’t feel like a winner. 

He doesn’t even want that title. 

The guilt is eating at him. Why? Why is he the one that survived? The point of all of this was so that Scar could win! That’s why Grian stayed with him! 

(He won’t admit to himself that there’s more to it than that. He won’t admit to himself that somewhere along the way his feelings changed. No longer was he staying by Scar’s side out of guilt or obligation. Without Grian even noticing, Scar grew on him. Scar broke through his walls with his ridiculous yet charming nature, and Grian found himself wanting to stay with Scar because he wanted to see him win. Because somehow, somewhere, Grian’s heart had been swayed and stolen. Somewhere, he had fallen in love.) 

For a moment, he’s angry. He’s angry at the blood lusting ghosts for demanding a final fight. He’s angry at Scar for letting him win, for making him win. Frustrated, bitter words lay on his tongue as he turns around to admonish the man, emotions getting the better of him. 

Only to turn and be met with his corpse. Blood pools around Scar’s body, bruises littering his face and chest. Grian had been throwing punches wildly. 

His stomach lurches, and he covers his mouth again. Copper fills his nostrils, heavy and thick. “Oh… I don’t feel good,” he mumbles, but there’s no one around to hear him. 

He tears his gaze away, instead surveying the desert around him. His blood is rushing in his ears, making it hard to hear. His head swims as he stands still, looking over at the rivers of lava throughout the desert. 

Grian’s eyes settle on the cliff face.  

This desert isn’t a home anymore. It’s vacant, empty. Pointless. His home doesn’t exist, not without Scar. 

He walks toward the cliff. 

“Scar, I’m so sorry!”

“I’m sorry too!”

The desert is unfamiliar, morphing and twisting into something dark and unwelcoming. It has become  a monster of Grian’s own creation. It has become something that Grian has ripped apart with his own two hands. Something that once brought him warmth is now cold and barren. The desert is a shadow, a weak imitation of what it once was. 

He stands on the ledge. 

He wonders what was going through Scar’s mind during all of this. What was he thinking? Does he hate Grian for being the one to survive? Is he at peace, having been the one to die? Does he hate Grian for killing him? Does he hate Grian for ruining their home? Or is he happy with the way that things have gone? Grian supposes he’ll never get to know. 

He shuts his eyes and jumps. 

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

Muffled noises surround him.

He can’t quite make out what the noises are, not when it feels like his head has been submerged under water. One by one, his senses return to him and huh, that’s weird. He’s dead, yet he can feel his body? That… shouldn’t be normal. Granted, Grian has never been permanently dead before. Do most dead people still feel their body? Is that even possible? 

The next thing he feels is something soft underneath him. Now Grian knows that isn’t right. The last thing he remembers feeling is his body slamming into the hard ground below, shattering his bones. The pain had only lasted a few seconds before Grian fell unconscious, but it had been excruciating while he could still feel. Darkness had come to claim him quite swiftly. 

But whatever he’s laying on… it feels nothing like the harsh sand. It’s softer, almost silky. Plush. It only serves to confuse Grian more, seeing as once more, he isn’t sure if feeling things still is normal for a dead person. 

Ever so slowly, Grian slowly opens his eyes. His eyes are met with a stone ceiling, which… is that supposed to be there? 

Grian had a few ideas of what the afterlife would be like – if he even has one. An empty void, or maybe the End. Perhaps he’d return to the wasteland that was once his home and haunt it as a ghost. (A kinder part of him had hoped that he’d reunite with his friends, and they could all cry and hug one another. And maybe he could see Scar again, and shake him around for making Grian kill him, and then hold onto the man so that he’d never lose him again.)

Experimentally, he wiggles a finger or two. Yup, there’s still a body attached to him. Alright. Though to his surprise, he isn’t in any sort of pain. Maybe that shouldn’t be surprising, all things considered. 

Something wet touches his hand then, and Grian leaps up with a shriek. He pulls his hand back and looks at whatever touched him, finding a dog sitting on the ground. “Huh?” He looks at the dog, seeing a red collar around its neck. “Why is there a dog here?” The animal simply tilts its head to the side in response. 

It’s then that Grian actually takes the time to look around at where he is, and he pauses. The first thing he notices is that he’s laying in a white bed. There’s a chest and a crafting table in front of the bed, and there are dogs just about everywhere. Ah, so that’s what all the noise was. A furnace is set on the floor against the wall, and Grian finds himself feeling very confused. 

This is… definitely not the afterlife, that’s for sure. 

Did someone rescue him? How? Grian was the only one left on Third Life, everyone else was… 

Lips curling in a frown, he moves to slide off of the bed. Just as his foot touches the ground, he pauses, recognizing the extra weight on his body. Looking down at himself, Grian finds iron armor on him, which only worsens his confusion. Why is he in armor? 

Standing from the bed, he looks around at the room. He’s certain that he’s underground, if the walls of stone and dirt are anything to go by. He watches as one of the dogs (a pup) clambers onto the bed and circles the pillow before curling up and laying down. 

It leaves him feeling very confused. 

He casts a glance around at the stone box he’s in, looking at each of the dogs. Some of them don’t pay him any mind, and others are staring right at him. Who’s dogs are these? And why are they here, wherever here is. They seem friendly with him at least, but Grian doesn’t know if that makes him relaxed or more nervous. He remembers Joel’s pack of wolves. 

While looking around, he spots a ladder tucked against the wall leading down. He doesn’t go toward it, in case it’s trapped. Instead, he looks at the pickaxe he has on him and uses that to cautiously dig a little staircase up. 

It takes him a few minutes to get to the surface, considering he’s trying to dig out and also listen to his surroundings. When he finally pops his head out from the dirt, he does so carefully, peeking out to look around him. There’s no one around him besides trees and mountains. He sighs softly in relief. Though he still has to remain vigilant. 

Climbing out of the hole, he covers it back up with dirt (just in case if he was saved by someone, they won’t immediately notice he’s gone). Standing at full height, Grian takes a look around. The first thing he notices is how the landscape is completely different to Third Life. What is this place, he wonders. The terrain all looks different.

Lips dipping in a frown, he sets his hands on his hips, “Definitely not in Kansas anymore…” he mumbles to himself. If this is the afterlife, it’s quite odd, that’s for sure. 

While looking around, he catches sight of something in the distance. It looks like some kind of cobblestone building with roofs of dark oak. From where he is, he can spot four of them. One is at the very top of a mountain, being the most visible. 

The idea of approaching it leaves Grian hesitant, but maybe a little investigation wouldn’t hurt. He’s going to have to check it out if he wants any answers as to what this place is. So he makes a journey toward the direction of the towers. Trekking through the trees, he uses the branches for coverage. 

And when he gets to the big entrance of the four towers, he pauses. 

Grian stares at the front entrance, watching as pistons move up and down in front of him. Watching it, his eyes follow the movements curiously. Surrounding the entrance are walls of dark oak and cobble, wrapping around the base completely. He considers walking inside, maybe exploring whatever this new structure is. There was nothing inside the chest within the bunker for him. 

His inventory is an assortment of different items, none of which Grian knows what’s important and what isn’t. By now he’s ascertained that he’s in fact not dead. Which is… confusing. How is he alive? And where is he?

“Oh, Grian!” Someone’s calling his name, and the sound of someone else’s voice makes him jump. He looks up, seeing a familiar blue and red jump suit and dirty blond hair. 

Grian’s eyes widen, “Tim..?” The name escapes him with a sharp breath. No longer does his skin look sickly and gray, instead healthy and free of blood. His hair is vibrant, as are his brown eyes. A diamond chest plate sits over his upper body, iron leggings and boots. Grian almost feels like he’s seeing a ghost. The last time he saw Jimmy, it had been in the desert. Right before he died. 

It feels weird to see him again, considering he wasn’t meant to die in that fight. He was meant to stay safe. With Scar. 

Grief and regret crashes into him at once, nearly knocking him over. Images of that battle flicker in his mind, as well as the aftermath. They hadn’t spent long at Jimmy’s grave. 

(Grian paid Jimmy’s grave a visit late that night. He had been fully aware of the risks, knowing that anyone from Dogwarts could attack him. But Grian could bet with certainty they were too busy enjoying a perceived victory against the Desert. 

Jimmy’s grave was nothing fancy. Extravagance was a privilege they didn’t have there. Simple cobblestone walls and a poppy planted in the ground was all Scott could give him. 

Grian sat down, and apologized. He hadn’t even been there for Jimmy’s death. Jimmy wasn’t supposed to die. And Grian hadn’t even been there to help him. He apologized for that. He promised revenge. His death would not be in vain. 

At some point, someone had joined him. A warmth slotted against his side, and the smell of sweat, burnt sand, and summer heat filled his senses. He relaxed. 

Neither of them spoke for a while. Grian leaned against Scar, letting his thoughts wander. 

“I’m sorry the trap got messed up.” Scar apologized with a low mutter. 

Grian huffed quietly, gently knocking his head against his arm,“I don’t care about that. I mean, I do since the only one it got was me, but — I’m more thankful you survived.” 

“…I’m sorry you died,” was Scar’s response, “But on the bright side, your debt’s been repaid! You’re a free man!” Grian knew Scar well enough by then to know when he was forcing himself to act cheerful. He could hear the underlying sadness in his voice, the way he was holding something back. But most of all he could hear the fear. 

To that, Grian only pressed himself more firmly against him. “Then my first act as a free man is to see this through with you until the end.” 

He heard Scar take a breath; shaky and rough. An arm wrapped around him, and he heard a murmured, “Thank you.”)

Jimmy looks a little nervous as he stands on the other side of the pistons, “What’re you doing all the way over there for? Get in ‘ere already!” he exclaims, gesturing for him to come in. “Mumbo disabled the trap!” 

His body moves as if it’s on autopilot, legs carrying him toward the gate. He clumsily hops over the pistons and line of stone bricks, landing on the other side. His footing is a bit clumsy as he hits the ground, wobbling slightly. Jimmy laughs at him, and Grian tries to process the sound. 

Jimmy isn’t dead. He’s alive. 

What in the world is going on? 

Grian goes over to him, staring at him with something akin to marvel. Jimmy turns to him, still looking nervous. “So uh… I’m not going to be kicked out, right? I know we had the vote and all yesterday but just wanted to triple check you didn’t change your mind overnight,” he rambles to Grian, shifting back and forth on his feet. 

“What?” Blinking in confusion, Grian looks at him. “Why would I be—”

“Oi, Tim! Give the man some space to breathe, would ya?” Another voice joins them, and Grian tenses at the familiarity. “He only just got back last night. At least wait an extra five minutes before you start pestering ‘im.”

Glancing to his side, he spots The Red King’s right hand man approaching them. He’s dressed in iron, a shield attached to his arm. The familiar black bandana peeks out from underneath his hair and his blue eyes are creased with amusement as he looks at the pair. “Martyn?!” The exclamation escapes him before he can stop it. He takes a small step in front of Jimmy, knowing that Scott would be crushed if he lost him a second time (The memory of Scott in his mind would be, anyways). He keeps himself on guard. 

Martyn smiles at the pair, “Good morning to you too, fellow Southlander!” He grins. “How’s it feel to be yellow again, eh Grian?” he questions, which makes Grian bristle slightly. He remembers Martyn taking his first life very clearly.

“I’m–”

“Watch out!” A voice calls out, followed by the sounds of feet hitting the ground. Grian jumps as someone barrels past himself and Martyn, cutting right through them in a blur of black. “Hot lava bucket in my hands!” 

“I told you to wear gloves!” A second voice follows, and Grian catches a glimpse of yellow and black. He turns his head in the direction the two voices went, seeing them both by the entrance of the fort. Almost instantly, Grian recognizes Impulse from behind. But the one next to him… 

Grian feels his entire body freeze. His breath is punched out of him, eyes widening. 

The man next to Impulse is setting the bucket of lava down with a large sigh, shoulders sagging in relief. He straightens up, taking a moment to glance around. His eyes lock with Grian’s, and Grian feels rooted to his spot. His throat feels dry, as if he hasn’t drank anything in weeks. He swallows, but it does little to rid the feeling. 

Oblivious to Grian’s freezing, the man smiles wide at him, hurrying over. “Grian!” he exclaims, “Glad you got here before I reset the trap, mate, “ he greets cheerfully, but Grian feels too stunned to speak. 

Why is Mumbo here? Why? 

A multitude of emotions crash into Grian’s chest at the sight of his best friend. Relief, horror, guilt. They each roll over him, loud and vicious as they threaten to overwhelm him. He can’t look away from the man, the feeling of confusion holding his head above water. 

(“Do you think Mumbo would be proud?” The question had been half nonchalant as the pair ran through the desert, digging deep underground. The true meaning of the question was a secret, one between only himself and Scar.

Scar paused to consider it. He had lifted a finger to his chin as he thought, “Oh! Mumbo would be crying from happiness!”

“Be honest with me.” Grian had said. 

Scar hadn’t been.) 

Standing in front of the man, Grian does not share the thought. Not after the blood staining his hands. And isn’t that ironic? In a game where your aim is to kill and survive, he feels guilty over killing. But maybe that’s because of who his final kill was. Because of how it all ended. Grian had hoped he’d never have to face Mumbo after that, but apparently fate had other plans. 

“Speaking of getting here early,” Martyn’s voice cuts through the fog of confusion settling over Grian’s mind, causing him to look over at the other. Grian forces his gaze away from Mumbo with a painful pang, meeting Martyn’s eyes, “I see you’ve gone and scored another life on your way back from Scar’s.” He wiggles his brows.

Just hearing Scar’s name causes Grian’s stomach to curl with grief, “W-What?” he asks, the shock of Martyn’s statement sending him back a small step. 

“Don’t you try and fool me, G, the last time we saw you you were on yellow life. And now you’re green!” Martyn points at his wrist, and naturally, Grian’s gaze follows. 

His heart squeezes uncomfortably tight as he sees the familiar line of hearts down his wrist. There’s three hearts on his wrist, green, yellow, and red. Nausea rolls over him like a blanket, wrapping around him and tightening around his neck. He feels sick. Why? Why?! He thought he was done with all of this! Was killing Scar not enough? Was winning an empty, meaningless victory not enough?! 

Is this his punishment? Or some sick kind of joke?! 

He clenches his fists, watching the way they shake from how tightly he clenches them. Burning hot anger runs through him like lava, melting his insides. The warmth goes from top to bottom, engulfing him in an angry, vicious flame. He feels too much, yet too little all at once. He wants to scream. To cry. Maybe break something, or blow something up. Blood is pumping in his ears; his heart feels like it’s going to burst. 

This isn’t the afterlife. This is hell. 

“Grian?” Mumbo’s gentle, concerned voice breaks through the anger threatening to overtake him like a light. The sound of his voice snaps him from his spiraling thoughts, and he notices how his fingers dig uncomfortably into his skin. As if his nails can break the hearts on his wrist, shatter them. He lets go instantly, seeing angry red lines left behind. 

Lifting his gaze, Grian sees four pairs of eyes watching him. Yet the only eyes he focuses on are Mumbo’s, it’s been so long since he’s seen the man. His presence is normally a comfort for Grian, something grounding. But right now, all Grian feels is conflict. His grief and guilt is suffocating, and Mumbo’s presence does little to help that feeling. Mumbo looks at him with nothing but concern and kindness, with the way his eyebrows dip and lower, a worried frown marring his face.

Mumbo takes a step closer, hand reaching out to him, “You alright, mate?” Looking down, Grian sees the man’s wrist. Four hearts go down his wrist in a line. Two of them are already gone, looking faded and cracked. The sight of the hearts on his wrist sends his stomach dropping, heart lodging in his throat.  

Grian recoils from his outstretched hand as if it were a weapon, and Mumbo freezes in place. He pulls his hand back. His face falls, and Grian pretends he doesn’t see. 

“I’m fine.” Grian hastily replies, ignoring the burst of pain in his chest. He scans the people around him. Mumbo, Impulse, Jimmy, and… Martyn. He takes a breath. So he’s stuck in another life game. Great. And it looks like these four are his… alliance. 

A sudden thought strikes him. If those four are here then… who else is here?

His communicator pings, and he pulls it up, heart still firmly lodged in his throat.

<GoodTimeWithScar> oh team BEST~

<GoodTimeWithScar> A wizard *never* forgets his promise.

If seeing Mumbo made him sick, then seeing Scar’s message in chat plunges him into freezing cold water. Scar’s name is red (of course it is), and it sends nostalgia and grief tearing through him all at once. Everything suddenly feels like it’s too much, his head swimming. He stumbles slightly, nearly falling if it hadn’t been for Jimmy taking hold of him. “Seriously, you alright?” Jimmy questions, and Grian… Grian doesn’t know. 

All he can think about is his final moments with Scar leading up to that stupid duel. The splashing of water below him as he jumped down to meet him in that shallow pond. 

“Betrayer!” he had screamed. 

Well look who’s laughing now. 

Grian had thought about it very briefly, in his final moments, what it’d be like if he ever met Scar again. He had wondered if Scar would scorn him, or if Scar would pull him into his arms and congratulate him on a battle well fought. He had also considered keeping his distance, as far away as possible, as to never hurt Scar again. 

And yet, just as usual, his heart never listens to his brain. 

Because as he looks at his communicator, watching the others reply in chat, his eyes only focus on Scar’s name. There’s a part of him, a very deep part within, that cries out for him. It sees Scar’s name, and it reaches. It reaches far and wide, and it doesn’t concern itself with the logical side of Grian’s brain. No, it simply sees the fact that Scar is clearly alive and well and it wants to run right toward him. 

Seeing Scar’s name makes Grian’s chest ache with a deep yearning that he knows can never be satisfied. There is an ache in him that he knows will only continue to eat away at himself, until he is rotting and reaching. His soul is crying, begging for Scar at his side, and though Grian knows that he will only be the catalyst to Scar’s ultimate demise, he is weak to the pull of his emotions. 

Grian’s other half is alive! He is alive and that part of Grian feels incomplete without him. Empty. His heart aches at the thought of being with Scar again, of being able to give him the apology he deserves. Just the thought of being able to apologize to him is enough to break Grian down. 

“S-Scar,” he stammers, completely forgetting that Jimmy even asked him a question. “He’s – I have to get to him,” he says, turning to the others. 

He’s met with varying expressions of confusion, though it’s Impulse who says something, “Didn’t you already bring him his stuff after he died?” he questions, and Grian quickly shakes his head. 

“No I just – where is he? I-I need to see him, I–” he stammers, thoughts running far too quickly for him to actually think coherently. 

“Up north dude, where he always is.” Martyn replies, though he’s looking at Grian with… something. If he weren’t so distracted by the thought of Scar, he’d probably look closer into that. However, distraction is the card he’s been dealt, and he lets it play. He spins on his heel for the exit, walking briskly with purpose. “Make sure he doesn’t kill you!” Martyn calls after him, “Remember the guy’s on red!"

Grian knows he won’t. 

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

If Grian is being honest with himself, he probably should have put more thought into this. He didn’t even come here with a plan! He had just heard that Scar was north, so north is where he went. He was moving too fast for his brain to actually catch up. 

It was a bit of a journey, getting from the cobbled towers (the Southlanders, his mind supplies) to the big mountain in the north. But the second he saw the hut on top of the mountain, he knew exactly who lived there. 

Maybe what made the journey so difficult was the thoughts that accompanied him. 

Grian won’t say that he ran to Scar’s — because he didn’t. Not really. He had walked. And his thoughts consumed him with every step. 

He’s stuck in another life game. Scar is here. Mumbo is here. He doesn’t know what it means. This game isn’t Third Life, he knows that much. His mind is scrambling, trying to come up with some kind of plan. A strategy. He’s trying to lay out a safety net for himself but he should’ve known from the start it’d be pointless. 

There are no safety nets in a game of death. There are no “plans”, despite how badly Grian may want to use one. He learned in Third Life that plans don’t work, even the most carefully planned strategy blows up in his face. It won’t stop him though. A plan gives him something to fall back on, a faux comfort. 

A plan keeps him from running headfirst into danger, a plan keeps him alive.  

Which is why he probably should’ve come up with a plan before going to Scar. He doesn’t know what kind of state the man will be in. He isn’t sure how to even approach a reunion with him. It’s obvious that he’s in some kind of… who even knows where. Obviously his friends all know him here, but he isn’t sure if they remember him. Who he is. What he’s done. What they’ve all done. 

It doesn’t help that he’s apparently been dropped right in the middle of this new game. 

He doesn’t know how to handle an approach to Scar. Hug him? Smack him? Ask him if he knows who he is? A no on that last one, Jimmy and the others have already answered that. Besides, Grian isn’t sure if he could handle Scar looking at him like Grian was a stranger in every sense of the word except the literal one. 

He settles on just seeing what happens. Sometimes no plan is the best plan! 

But just — not in a death game. 

His thoughts trail off as he approaches the bottom of the mountain, and he looks up. He grimaces as he gets a clearer view of the hut up top, sighing. “Of course Scar had to put his base in the most precarious spot ever,” he grumbles before beginning to make his way up the mountain. He makes sure to be careful with each step, keeping himself aware of where he’s stepping. 

When he makes it to the top of the mountain, he’s rather out of breath, chest heaving from exertion. This mountain is a lot bigger than the one back in the desert. But he reaches the top, and is face to face with a hut made of wood and dark stone. The roof on top looks like a wizard’s hat, and Grian can’t help his fond huff. 

He focuses his gaze on the entryway, finding it wide open. This is it. Scar is beyond that doorway. Grian’s hands shake just at the thought of seeing him again. Anxiety runs through his blood like water, filling him completely. His heart picks up, beating against his ribcage. He swallows thickly. 

A small part of him wants to run away. A small part of him wants to turn around and head right back down the mountain and forget that he even came here. A small part of him is afraid to look Scar in the eyes. It makes him feel like a coward. 

And yet despite that small part of him, Grian walks forward. 

He walks right into the hut, and promptly stops. Right in front of him is none other than Scar. He’s digging around in a barrel, humming to himself. Grian isn’t sure what the tune is, or where it’s from, but the scene feels familiar. His chest aches. 

“Scar?” he says, causing the man to yell out. 

He jumps up in surprise, letting out the typical fearful scream he does whenever he’s snuck up on. It makes Grian smile softly, and god he misses this man. Scar spins around on his heels, turning to look at Grian. Grian gets a good look at his eyes, and he sees a dark red haze swirling in them. There is not a hint of warmth in his eyes, no kind of recollection or even joy at seeing him. Grian isn’t sure what he sees in Scar’s eyes, but he knows that there is anger in them. Bloodlust. 

(He thinks he might see hatred. And that is a thought that shakes him right to his core. He does not want to live in a world where Scar hates him, even if it is justified. Does that make him selfish?) 

“Oh, Grian,” Scar eventually says, and his voice is cold. Empty. He takes a step forward, something whimsical about his footing. Scar is dressed in dark robes, stark white hair peeking out from underneath. “If you’re here to nab another life from me, Grian, I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. There is a promise of a threat in his voice. 

Grian frowns at that, chest panging. “I’m not interested in your life, Scar,” he says matter of factly. He’s already taken one (two, if his guilt counts the creeper), he doesn’t want another one. 

A laugh spills from Scar, something lacking any real humor. “Oh, don’t you play with me!” he exclaims, voice sharp and angular. The sound of it causes Grian to jolt in surprise. “You can fool me once or twice! Or…” he trails off, thinking. “Three times, whatever, it doesn’t matter!” 

“Scar…” Grian says, and he quickly realizes that he probably should’ve prepared himself a bit more. He lets the other approach him. There’s something different about him compared to Third Life. Something bitter, cynical. Grian isn’t sure if it’s because of the nature of this new game, or if it’s simply because Scar is on red. 

“No, Grian!” Scar exclaims, reaching for his diamond sword. “You know, I was planning on hitting Team BEST first, give ‘em a real good thrashing. Send a message and all that! Can’t mess with ol’ Scar! Not anymore, no sir!” He takes another step toward Grian. 

It’s the instinct of green life, Grian knows, that has him backing away slowly. He takes a few tiny steps backwards. 

Scar looks at him, something angry and hurt in his gaze, “But I think you’ll make a good first message to the masses. You were the first to take advantage of me, after all.” 

Grian’s back slams into the wall behind him, crushing his wings. He cringes at the feeling, but he doesn’t move. Scar is cornering him, holding the blade to his throat. He easily towers over Grian, putting just enough pressure on his sword to spill a bit of blood. 

Looking at him, Grian doesn’t see a hint of the Scar he once knew. He isn’t quite sure what’s going on here, what the Grian of this game has done to wrong Scar, but what he does know is this. 

He killed Scar. 

And the hatred in Scar’s eyes isn’t misplaced or even misdirected. 

He doesn’t fight back against the blade on his throat, the blade that is spilling his blood. He simply stands there and meets Scar’s hazy red eyes. To Grian, he thinks this is good retribution for the cactus ring. He sees no point in fighting against Scar when this is something he believes he deserves. 

Yet Scar thinks otherwise. 

See, he had expected a lot out of today. He’s on red now, and he had a goal in mind. He was going to make everyone on this forsaken server regret thinking they could just use Scar as they please. He was going to start with BEST, and then work his way to the others. But then Grian just came waltzing in like they were old buddies and Scar wasn’t going to let a golden opportunity slip past him. 

He has a whole separate issue with Grian, after all. 

But as he stares into Grian’s eyes, he sees something odd. Firstly he stares up at Scar with blatant confusion and hurt. It makes him want to laugh. What does Grian possibly have to be hurt over? 

Though that isn’t what makes him pause. No, what makes him truly falter is the guilt he sees in Grian’s eyes. 

He observes the green life in front of him (Wasn’t Grian yellow? Did he swindle someone else out of a life?) and notices that there’s no fight. Grian isn’t pushing back against him. He’s not arguing or drawing his own weapon. Not even as Scar draws blood and pushes the blade harder. 

Suddenly the appeal of killing Grian leaves him. What fun is a kill that rolls over and exposes their weak point? 

Scar scoffs at him before making up his mind and taking a step back. So much for that perfect message in chat. Looks like Team BEST is back as his number one target. He lowers his sword completely. 

Grian watches him with confusion, “Scar?” 

The red life meets his gaze, a deep frown settling on his lips. “Who are you?”

[hannahssimblr]

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. The afternoon sun beats down against the back of my neck and I blink and drag my forearm across my face as a bead of sweat migrates from my eyebrow into my eye. With a loud pop, Shane drives the tennis ball towards me with his powerful right arm and it dives sharply to the ground in front of me. I spin it back with ease and send it screaming towards the baseline, past him and out of reach.

“Nice,” Jen says lazily. She’s sitting on the ground on the sidelines with Joe and they are sharing the single cigarette that they managed to bum off a boat club patron trying to enjoy a smoke with his lunch. “Gotta be quicker, Shane.”

He ignores her and bounces the ball a few times in preparation for his next serve. He tosses the fuzzy sphere into the sky and slams it over the net. I whack it back with my left hand. Easy. Shane is strong but I am fast, agile, quick like a whip. He’ll never beat me at tennis. We hit back and forth a few times before I spin the ball right at his feet and he swings. And misses. And flings his racket onto the astroturf. 

“Done,” He proclaims, “It’s too hot, I’m pure sweaty now.”

He was never good in the heat, he’s always bathed in sweat, his t-shirt soaked, his hair wet with it, but not me. I have Chihuahuan Desert blood in me, raised in that withering heat, of dry earth, cacti and oleander, diamondback rattlesnakes and paleozoic rock, the dryland doesn’t give a shit about anybody. 

Ireland in July is just fine for me. 

I sling my racket over my shoulder and saunter toward the net, “C’mon, Shane, is that all you’ve got?”

He grunts, “get one of the lads to play against you.”

“Not us,” Jen pipes up, “At least not me.”

Joe shakes his head, “Not me either, you’re a sore winner.”

I scoff, “A sore winner? C’mon, you’re all just afraid to lose.”

“Not afraid, it’s just boring when there’s like, a 100% chance that it’s going to happen, look,” Jen sucks the last of the cigarette and flicks it away, “We know you love winning and you think you’re so great and all that-”

I’ve stopped listening, Clóda has just come out of the lounge with a tray of tea.

“Hey,” I jog over as she serves a table by the court.

She glances shyly at me, “Hey.”

“How are you?”

“I’m good, oops-” her trembling hands spill a drop of milk from the little white ceramic jug she is putting onto the table. She apologises to the customers and mops the spot quickly with a cloth while I rock back and forth on my heels. She straightens up and walks me to the edge of the terrace, and though she is trying to look serious I know I have amused her, “You know, I’m working.

“That’s okay, I don’t mind.” I bend to kiss her. 

“You’re cheeky,” She giggles and pushes me away, “Come back when I’m off.”

“Yeah? When is that?”

“Four, but you’ll be picking up your sister from the kids club then.”

“Not today, my mom is back from Dublin. I’m all yours.”

“Oh, well, that’s good.”

“Will you go somewhere with me?”

“Where?”

“Somewhere nice.”

“Very specific,” she rolls her eyes and turns around nervously to where her dad is now standing at the patio door and staring me down with what I’m sure he thinks is an intimidating look on his face. I grin at him and throw him a big sarcastic thumbs up. 

“For a walk,” I clarify, “If your dad is okay with that. Maybe he’ll request a chaperone.”

“My dad is not okay with that, but I’m not planning on telling him about it.”

I shrug, “Okay.”

“Alright then.”

“What are you doing standing here talking to me, huh? Don’t you have work to do?”

She laughs to herself as she walks away from me.

“Lazy,” I call after her. “I think I’ll write in and complain to management.”

She gives me the finger. 

When I turn back around to my friends they look suitably unimpressed, but they’re just jealous. “You sure about that rematch, Shane?”

His jaw is set as he whips three tennis balls out of his pockets and whacks them directly at me at the speed of bullets before I have time to respond. Every one of them bounces directly off my innocent body. 

“Ow!” I protest, “What’s gotten into you? Calm down, jesus!”

Beginning // Prev // Next

[darudedogestorm]

ok after actually seriously starting my worm reread and playing enough pvz gw2 to have an opinion, i've re-evaluated which plants the undersiders would Main and Be in specifically gw2. hidden under cut because it kind of got long

RACHEL

Doesn't play the game long enough to actually Main a character (the only time she would touch this game is on mandatory Undersiders Game Night) (it goes unpleasantly). But she would choose to play as Chomper, which coincidentally is what she would Be.

It's literally if a dog was a plant

Don't need to know how to shoot, just walk up to someone and eat them

With regards to who she'd play as: she'd lean towards a spray Chomper variant (chompers that deal damage by spraying fire, electricity, etc, as opposed to purely biting). Fire Chomper calls to me in this regard

As for what she'd Be: regular Chomper which just barely beats out Fire Chomper. This is because she would 100% be a bite chomper and not a spray chomper

Honorable Mentions:

Pretty much every other bite Chomper

TAYLOR

Would Main a Peashooter variant, and would very nearly also Be a Peashooter, but after much meditation and consideration I think she would actually be a Chomp Thing

Peashooter: Straightforwardly the most versatile of the plants, since it can both charge into the frontlines and quickly pull back to snipe from far away. I think she might appreciate this quality, hence why she would Main it.

Chomp Thing: All Chompers have an innate suicidal quality about them that drives them to recklessly dive into crowds of 5 million zombies alone for reasons only understandable to themselves. The difference is I believe Taylor could survive this by virtue of being herself

Chomper is not a super versatile class but if you know what you're doing it can be. I think this would allow for a good translation of her finding new and innovative ways to use her powers.

Also Chomp Thing spits out bugs among other swamp things

(DIS)HONORABLE MENTIONS:

You'd think she'd like Boss Mode because in theory it involves giving directions to your entire team, thus maximizing potential for efficiency. She would actually hate it because of how little control it gives you over anything

ALEC

Mains Electro Pea, would Be Frost Rose

E-Pea: He would enjoy playing characters that make Number Go Up for very little effort, and E-Pea is the most broken character in the game

Also electricity theming

Frost Rose: power fits perfectly - Roses can turn zombies into goats, which translates well enough into his messing-with-your-body power. Being an ice variant helps, since they can freeze/slow down zombies, like how he can trip people up (same base idea of messing with movement)

Also I think Frost Rose's aesthetic fits him very well

Honorable Mentions:

He would not Be a Pizza Chomper, and it is not a possible plant to Main since it's only playable in a minigame, but I think he would appreciate its existence

If the Royal Hypno-flower had a playable, normal Sunflower variant, he would also Be that

AISHA

Would Main either Zen Cactus/Future Cactus, would also Be those cacti (or also probably Chomper)

Future Cactus/Zen Cactus: Ourple and bright and flashy and maybe even a bit silly (to me.) I have more experience with Future Cactus than Zen so I can't exactly pick between the two for certain but they call to me

Technically if we want a 1 to 1 for how she acts in combat specifically then probably a Chomper would be better. It would come with the additional benefit of being ourple and silly as well. However I think there are certain aspects of Cactus gameplay that could fulfill this criteria

I think she and Alec would do the thing where you can ride on top of a Cactus's garlic drone and reign terror and perhaps mild annoyance across the map

HONORABLE MENTIONS:

N/a

LISA

Would both Main and Be Shadow Flower

Support role + aesthetic match (mostly the mask, not really that ourple but we take what we can get)

Not unique to Shadow Flowers but I think she would use the Dark Flower ability instead of the Heal Flower (this renders her unable to heal herself). This is representative of how she puts all of herself into Fixing other people but cannot really heal herself due to The Horrors. Also i have the mental image of Lisa as a Dark Flower potted plant harming people with verbal insults and psychological warfare as opposed to the laser it shoots out

An experience common to all Sunflowers is chasing down their nearly dead teammates who are for some reason very determined to throw themselves in death's way across the map <--The Lisa and Taylor experience

HONORABLE MENTIONS:

RIP Boss Mode, if it still existed in GW2 then I think she could choose that. Alas

BRIAN

Would Main Peashooter and (maybe) Be an Armor Chomper/Iron Citron

I don't think he'd be super interested in any of the variants as a Main, in general I think he'd keep it pretty simple and stick with Peashooter, maybe Kernel Corn if he's feeling adventurous that day

I will be honest, what he would Be has kind of stumped me severely. I wanna say he'd be one of the armored variants (so, Armor Chomper and Iron Citron) due to how he (if i am remembering and reading correctly) kinda armors himself/hides behind a tougher/less emotional version of himself. And aside from Shadow Flower, which he would not be, there's not really any darkness-based variants of any plants

It works out because Armor Chomper also suffers worse than Jesus just like Brian. However I've not played any real amount of time as Iron Citron so I can't say if there's something disqualifying about it

If there is anyone else out there who likes both Worm and Garden Warfare and has opinions on this please let me know I'm at a bit of a loss here

HONORABLE MENTIONS:

N/a

ADDITIONAL THOUGHTS:

More of these people are potential Chompers than I was expecting (I was expecting only Rachel)

List is subject to future change, i am particular about this sort of thing (evidenced by this being in my drafts for several months) and i'm sure i will find a different angle for this in the future

[khywren]

For your ask game!!! 💗💗 You already know it's gonna be a spam when it's from me, haha 💕

🎵, 🦉, 🦋, 🦖, 🐸, 🌿, 🎤

and i wouldn't have it any other way! 💕 questions are from this post. 🎵 last song you listened to?

someone used this in a video on tiktok and i was immediately hooked; i've been listening to it on repeat for the last week or so. 🦉 are you a morning person or a night owl? night owl for sure! i HATE being up early (unless i've stayed up super late); i've been fortunate enough that most of my jobs have always given me the privilege of afternoon/evening shifts. i love night time, it's quiet and relaxing and always makes me feel at peace. plus, i've learned that i'm most productive (especially with my writing) between, like, 2 and 4 am, so clearly that's the best time for me to be awake. it's 1:30 am right now and i am thriving. 🦋 describe yourself in three words.

impulsive, anxious, nerdy. 🦖 favorite extinct animal? tie between the stegosaurus and the triceratops! 🐸 describe your aesthetic. answered here! 🌿 describe your favorite outfit. ooh, okay! i've already talked before about how most of my wardrobe is the same sort of thing, but - i can talk about my current favorite things to wear. i have this forest green shirt with cacti that i picked up a couple months ago; i think green is one of the colors that look best on me, so it quickly became one of my favorites. 95% of the time i wear the same black leggings (i have like 5 pairs of them, don't judge me lmao) and i also recently picked up a baggy black cardigan that's BUTTERY soft and feels absolutely divine to wear. i wear the same pair of beat up old sneakers everywhere i go, unless it's winter and then i begrudgingly pull out the snow boots. 🎤 is there a song you know all the lyrics to? oh sure, plenty! most of them are the ones i listened to a lot growing up, especially my dad's music. so a lot of stuff like the eagles, fleetwood mac, zz top, etc. a lot of music i listen to nowadays is in a language other than english, so at that point i'm listening based purely on vibes instead of lyrics. 😅

[bullet-prooflove]

Time - Michael 'Riz' Ariza x Reader

Tagging: @anime-weeb-4-life, @danzer8705 @mysoulisasunflower @vannabanana1995

It was the first night that you had woken up alone in a long time. You stretched your bare legs before rolling over onto Riz's side, your hand reaching out for him blindly, your fingers grasping cool sheets.

You understood what was keeping up him at night, this war with the Reapers. It was relentless and brutal, just last night they’d found three Mayans burnt to death in the desert, a friend of EZ’s, Manny among them.

You raised your head from the pillow, surveying the room as your hands rubbed over your exhausted features. You knew where he’d be, the same place you always disappeared to when the world became too much.

You found him on the steps of the decking in his back garden, surveying the array of cacti and agaves as he smoked a cigarette in the dark. The profile of his features was illuminated in the light from the moonlight. You couldn’t read his expression, but you knew he was deep in thought. That white vest clung to his torso as he blew a smoke ring out his mouth. He didn’t even register your presence until your hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder before you sat down next to him.

Riz tilted his head towards you before stubbing out the cigarette on the wood beneath his bare feet.

"I hate feeling so helpless." he admitted into the silence of the night.

Your cheek came to rest upon his shoulder as your arm threaded through his, fingers lacing together.   There was solace in the touch, a hope in his heart that the two of you would get through this, that the you’d both survive along with everyone else you loved.

"I've been thinking..." Riz told you, looking down at your entwined fingers, his thumb gracing over the space where one day he hoped a ring would reside.

"Should I be concerned?" You teased as his forehead came to rest upon yours.

"You know how I feel." He said helplessly. “I wish we had more time...”

His voice was gruff as he spoke. You could sense the well of emotion residing inside of him as you put your palm to the place where his heart beat within his chest. You could feel it's constant, steady thrum underneath your fingertips.

"You need to promise me if something happens..."

"Don't talk like that." You cut him off.

“It’s not something I want to think about Songbird.” He told you, his thumb chasing over the blush of your cheek until he cupped your face in his palm. "But if something happens to me, I want you to be happy."

"If anything happens to you..." You trailed off, unable to bring yourself to say the words.

I'll never be happy again.

Life would become empty and barren, you would live but not truly. Your existence would be pockmarked with the possibilities of what could have been.

You wanted to show him that your love was unconditional, that even though the future wavered right before your eyes, you were his, you would always be his.

"Marry me." You said earnestly. “If our time is running out, I want to spend as much of it as I can as your wife.”

Love Riz? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[a-student-out-of-time]

Additional thing unrelated to what I just sent, I’m gonna be real here. I think I would like DR Despair Time more if I liked the characters a little more.

The writing IS good, and the thing is these characters, to an extent at least, feel like real people. But also they’re all kind of annoying people that I would really want to be around, lol

//Yeah, when we started looking into it, TA and I called Arei, Ace, Charles and Arturo the Asshole Quartet : P

//The thing about DT is that it's such a different take on the idea, where you have a protagonist who is closer to a rival in spirit, that it either turned some people off from the idea because Teruko is such a mean person, or some went to the other extreme and assumed she was meant to be seen as correct.

//It's not just my own theory about the game I've discussed with people. I've talked with some who are under the impression that DT is meant to be this borderline grimdark tale about how everyone is terrible, that Teruko will grow increasingly disillusioned with people, and that it'll continue with that theme until the very end. I honestly think that's why so many people are convinced Eden is evil somehow.

//Except it's not like that. At all.

//I've neglected to talk about it, but Chapter 2 honestly has some of the best character development we've seen thus far. Charles has grown a lot as a person, Eden is one of the only people who stands up to Teruko's cynicism and it affects her (even if she won't admit it), Arei really wanted to be a kind person even after all the terrible things she experienced, Levi just admitted to being a murderer and he's chosen to be a better person no matter how many issues he has, and even Arturo and David have been shown to be more than just complete assholes.

//I still don't really care for either of the latter two, mostly because their behavior and worldviews are really unpleasant, but I appreciate that there's some depth to them.

//And Teruko's point this chapter hasn't been that she hates people. She's afraid of being hurt, and while she has a lot of valid reasons to feel that way, constantly distrusting people and threatening them with her knife has only left her more and more isolated. She has no idea how this chapter has really progressed because she's constantly removed herself from everyone, and people have consistently told her that this attitude will not help her in the long run.

//Even after he stabbed her, she actually roleplayed a scenario where she beats Xander and he begs her to forgive him. And while we don't see the outcome (because she's playing with cacti), she seems to contemplate forgiving him for a moment.

//DT starts in a dark place with some negative personalities, but it seems more like it did so in order to set up for everyone's character development.

//It's a small moment, but even Teruko admitting she made a mistake in the latest episode is a really nice indicator that she doesn't have her head up her ass about this whole thing. She can admit when she's wrong and try to learn from it.

[caltropspress]

DEBRIEFING: 5 August 2023 | Brooklyn, NY | The Nursery at Public Records

Armand Hammer’s We Buy Diabetic Test Strips Pop Up Party, featuring Fatboi Sharif, Cavalier, and DJ Haram

On the helix approaching the Lincoln Tunnel I saw a Virginia plate that read PHUNKE—its occupants seemed anything but, but who am I to judge? Not since I saw EGO DETH on a Volkswagen Kombi in the artificial light of the Holland while driving in to see woods’ Church release show at Baby’s All Right in early June have I taken a license plate as a sign. Fred Moten writes that “the sign works its terrible magic precisely from within a radical non-isolation,” but it’s a bit too early in the everyday struggle for theory, wouldn’t you agree? What I’m focused on is the WE BUY DIABETIC TEST STRIPS signs plastered over walls and poles. A sight as common in NYC as POST NO BILLS and CA$H FOR CAR$. We close our eyes to these signs, oblivious to their ubiquity. We’ve become blind to them. But I saw the sign with “Armand Hammer” appended to it, and it opened up my eyes. Life is demanding without understanding. So I overstand the signs and signals sent through wires and cables when I dial 1-877-ARM-N-HMR. I focus. I fixate. I study Alexander Richter’s photograph from the forthcoming album of a lamppost covered in taped and torn flyers. The edges fray and flicker in city winds. Looks like the tendons and flesh rotting from the bones of Death in Hans Baldung Griend’s Der Tod und das Mädchen (1517) painting. Looks like some real litter-ature. Gathering on August 5th, just six days shy of hip-hop’s much-heralded 50th anniversary, I think of hip-hop flyers of the past, specifically Kool Herc’s Back to School Jam at 1520 Sedgwick. But MC Debbie D—a flyerologist of the highest order—tells us that the index card flyer is a phony, a fake, a fugazi replica, a forgery. Fifty years into this thing and we’re still searching for authentic experiences. Fifty people at a rap show and one’s an informant. I’m here to inform on what felt—brain to bone—like an authentic experience.

3PM in the sun. I lined up with the other RSVPs (the show was free, in every sense of the word) outside the venue. Summer summer summertime. Fresh Prince via Juice shit. The temp on my dash read 90°. Kids walked down Butler Street mantled with beach towels from the Douglass and DeGraw Pool. Spotted lanternflies dive-bombed my legs. Thank god I lotioned my pale neck. When the powers-that-be finally allowed us entry, the musk of maryjane and malignant body odor was thick. Now I knew (it hit me in the fucking face) what that PHUNKE license plate was all about. “Funk,” from the French dialectal funkière: “to blow smoke on.” I’m not complaining, though—it was a communal fumigation. We were funky technicians, one and all.

“The Nursery” that Public Records has built falls somewhere between greenhouse and Zen garden. The square space is essentially an urban enclosure where pine and plane trees and fresh lumber create a private performance patio, a paradise just beyond the concertina wire, as woods might say. The stage is bedecked with potted cacti, while I spied A. Richter across the way with his Fujifilm GA645Zi amongst the bamboo stalks. ELUCID’s green Champion mesh football jersey (the Bo Jackson jersey in the laundry, apparently) matched the soundsystem monitors, and I found what little shade there was to be had and huddled close to the soundman’s booth, a shed of glass. I almost managed to forget I was cordoned off by beige shipping containers. 

It wasn’t long before I was entertaining the idea of going full Fatboi Sharif, i.e., shirtless. Sharif himself only made it through half his set before shedding his garb—there wasn’t even a hospital gown in sight. The heat was on as soon as he came out to Can Ox’s “Scream Phoenix”—rising from flames. El-P’s Phillip Glass sample could’ve easily made a Sharif beat (we’re only talking a single generation removal, really). Sharif made quick work of some of his most recent altered realities. “Static Vision” included a call [I ain’t scared!] and response [Motherfucker, I ain’t scared!]. He ran through “Phantasm,” “Dimethyltryptamine,” “Designer Drugs,” “Think Pieces,” and “The Christening” like a buxom blonde through an abandoned building, revving chainsaw in pursuit. At times, his speech slurred into a makeshift Swahili (word to This Heat). It was strange to see Sharif in daylight, sunstruck, as I’m so used to seeing him in blood-flooded cellars or Joseph Conrad’s heart of darkness environs, like he alludes to on “Dimethyltryptamine.” He barreled through ventricles, riding shotgun in Sir Menelik’s Space Cadillac. DJ Boogaveli (who hypes up Sharif like it’s a pep rally at Springwood High) shouted about family at the start of “The Christening,” which sounded sincere compared to the tone Sharif takes on Decay—there the family must be of the Manson or Duggar milieu. He finished the track acapella, exhausting the last of his energy, only to reinvigorate and reanimate for a rioting rendition of “Smithsonian.”

I’ve yet to invest the necessary time into Cavalier’s work, though I know him from his association with Quelle Chris. With an album coming down the pike from Backwoodz, I found myself in the lucky position of witnessing his set incapable of discerning old material from new. He took centerstage, acting as his own hype-man and DJ (though he did high-five the invisible “DJ Light-skin” at one point), and his kineticism was immediately apparent. His floral button-down danced over his body as he rapped vitally. I felt vivisected by his exhortations and incisive observations. Keep in mind, my age prohibits me from becoming enthralled by any performer whose work I’m unfamiliar with—a sort of neuropathy of the soul. But he had me open and endeared by the time he implored, Put the tiger balm on it, put the tiger balm. As you wish, Cav. I lathered my chest.

“Y’all believe in magic? No? That’s okay.” Cav said it so quickly that he didn’t give anyone a chance to answer, but he assumed correctly, I think. Still, I was smitten by his conjurations—he made me a believer (no small task). “King me,” he rapped, “I’m trying to make it all across the board.” And, by the end of it, he had the entire crowd shouting “KING ME” back at him without a problem. MAKE SOME BLOODCLOT NOISE! he growled, and we didn’t need to be asked twice. IT’S VIBRATIONAL, AIN’T IT? With a seemingly innocuous phrase he was able to summon the spirit of the crowd. Over the course of his 25-minute set, I heard him rhyme epiglottis, brag of spitting a verse while performing cunnilingus, give a lesson on homophones, and regale us with stories of winking at cops in Whole Foods. “From the Tree of Life I smoke foliage,” he said, and the trees Betty Smith saw grow in Brooklyn circulated through his lungs. “We need to bring back weed spots—it’s not nostalgia.” Though he did rap nostalgically at times, letting us know he was born in BK, went to school not far from where we stood, and though he’s representing the 504 now, Brooklyn born-and-raised ossified his being into bone.

THIS IS CHURCH, YA FEEL ME? And I did feel him. I spent the week culling quotes about improvisation from Amiri Baraka’s Black Music (1967) for another self-assignment (I don’t work for anyone, son), and highlighted this passage: “...to go back in any historical (or emotional) line of ascent in Black music leads us inevitably to religion, i.e., spirit worship. This phenomenon is always at the root in Black art, the worship of spirit—or at least the summoning of or by such force.” [Peace to Kehinde Alonge—always at the ready with choicest recommendations.] Cavalier danced upon the altar and rapped his sermon relentlessly, tirelessly. I was raised up on tippy-toes, enthralled by the force of his spirit. THIS AIN’T JAZZ?! he asked. WHAT THE FUCK THEY TALKIN’ ABOUT MAN? I don’t know who’s doing that sort of talking, but they’d be hard-pressed to say such a thing in this public gathering. “Brooklyn, this is how it feels—all of us together: this is how it feels.” I believed in Cavalier’s magic by the end of his set. I was charmed by his satchel of High John de Conqueror. Let me know where to Venmo my tithe. 

The heat index had my vision tunneling. When Armand Hammer stepped on stage, sounds were moving in reverse, and the Class-A dynamite duo took us back (way back) in time, when ELUCID was in “fifth grade in [his] dad jeans” and he “played Game Boy in the backseat.” woods, with his first words of the afternoon, said he “rather be codependent than co-defendants.” This must’ve been “Landlines,” the lead-off from the new album, seeing as how they shouted-out JPEGMAFIA, ELUCID rapped “leave a message after the beep,” and a dial tone toned between verses. It was off the hook, as they say.

They seemed to be following the official We Buy Diabetic Test Strips tracklist, because next up was “Woke Up and Asked Siri How I’m Gonna Die” (a song with a title so long that it must’ve come from the magnum mind of ELUCID). She replied, she replied, she replied… they repeated, but I didn’t quite catch what that chatbotbitch said. woods refashioned a line from “Remorseless” with “Life’s a blip, I’m swimming under the radar.” Life’s a blip and then you die, that’s why we puff lye. Further deepening the uncanny valley, their third offering to the musty masses included “fake trees in the Apple Store.” I’m sensing something about the excesses of tech after a cursory listen to these WBDTS tracks, the detritus and pollution it produces. To quote my damn self, something in line with “...a cell tower with evergreen branches: / …a drone with seagull feathers.” ELUCID revived “a double portion of protection for [him] and [his] niggas,” explaining he’s “trying to only say what’s necessary.” By any means, sir. 

Cavalier was welcomed back to the stage for “I Keep A Mirror in My Pocket,” another new joint with Preservation on production. We the audience felt, collectively, like we were in the belly of the beast—those shipping container walls (a real Season 2 of The Wire sensation)—as Cav chorused and signified about the Big Bad Wolf. A cautionary tale, indeed. I can see clearly how Cavalier fits within the Backwoodz cadre. 

The content of the next number left no question of its title. “Niggardly (Blocked Call),” if I was asked to predict, will be the cynosure of the new album. (Yeah, you heard me right dog, I said cynosure.) Produced by August Fanon (who was in the place to be—a rare appearance from an elusive mastermind who would humbly demur if you called him such, I’m supposing), the song has an R0 = 15 infectious hook: “Admittedly niggardly, I won’t even give these niggas bad energy.” woods, what with his penchant for scales and measurements, boils everything “down to the last red cent.” How does he do it? Well, MY HEART PUMP KETAMINE, he yells. We find woods in one of his ruthless, no Vaseline moods: “I eat knowing I’m starving my enemies.” Revenge is like the sweetest joy next to spending time with your kids, and woods picked up where his verse from “As the Crow Flies” left off. He closed his eyes and rapped to the rafters and the sky:

I write when my baby’s asleep, I sit in the room, in the dark, I listen to him breathe, I walk him to school and then the park,  Hold they little hands while we cross the street, I think about my brother who is long gone, And this is all he ever dreamed.

ELUCID and woods repeated admittedly niggardly back-and-forth at the end, delighted with the wordplay. 

They kept riding the August Fanon beatwork like Thomas Sankara in the Renault 5 as the killer chords from “Smile Lines” crept in. The crowd response was screw-faced sneers and shouted lyrics. One youngblood knew the song front to back, beginning to end—ELUCID acknowledged him from the stage: “Peace to the homie out there—he knew every word, man.” I watched the dude beam from the compliment. Even after writing profusely—profusely (fuck Caltrops and his non-existent editor, here comes the predator…)—about woods and ELUCID, I still can’t memorize their lines. Chalk it up to some neurological incapacity that arrived in my 30s. I envy those who commit songs like “Smile Lines” and “Smith + Cross” to memory. My not-so-supple gray matter just can’t cut it anymore.

My expectations for We Buy Diabetic Test Strips were upended by the tracks they debuted. I’d speculated an abrasive noise event; a Sheet Metal Music for the new millennium we’ll never reach; a kind of Schoolly D “P.S.K.” FML swagger. There’s certainly elements of that, just not as much as I was anticipating. (And who knows what noise the as-yet-unheard tracks might bring.) I assumed the shared space with Soul Glo over the past several years, the screechings zapped through the receiver on the toll-free number, and their recent appearance on Shapednoise’s Absurd Matter would be an indication of the Shape of Rap to Come. Speaking of which, woods sludged through his verse from “Family” before DJ Haram’s scrapyard percussion ushered in “Trauma Mic.” 

Haram was at the helm for the entirety of Armand Hammer’s set, and she reveled and felt every ounce of her own beat. The buzzsaw sounds were like Baraka’s description of Don Ayler’s trumpet: “long blasts…in profound black technicolor.” ELUCID’s traumatized mic draped over his shoulder for the opening anvil strikes. He needed his hands free to clap in rhythm. The gesture was reminiscent, again, of Baraka’s analysis of the saxophone held by Albert Ayler (the elder Ayler), “a howling spirit summoner tied around the ‘mad’ Black man’s neck.”

The “Trauma Mic” video had me thinking on thematics of refuse and rubbish—you best protect your dreck. I thought back to the garbology Aesop sifted through, where I saw Bakunin’s barricades in the city streets and revisited the actions of The Motherfuckers in the late ’60s—they stood in solidarity with striking sanitation workers and dumped garbage at the doorstep of Lincoln Center. Armand Hammer—outfitted as scrappers, pitching barrels and coiling skeins of copper wire—are of the same spirit. They propose a cultural exchange of garbage for garbage.

woods bodied “No Hard Feelings” and was joined by damn-near the entire crowd. Had it sounding like a tenant revolt as we all screamed, LIKE THEY STEALING! The Aethiopes track equals, if not outright overtakes, “Asylum” and “Remorseless” as most affecting in the past year’s blitz of performances. 

ELUCID stood on the precipice, at the edge of the stage, as he rapped through “Barbarians.” He went swimming into the crowd with his free arm, astro-spiritually. The refrain of “Who the fuck are you?” evolved from the accusatory tone heard on Rome to an existential “Who the fuck am I?” ELUCID and woods bandied the question between them like two college kids in the dorms at 2AM, faded as fidduck. The “intelligent fist” of woods and the “mysticism” of ELUCID (to use an equation Baraka applied to Milford Graves and Sonny Murray) working together to produce a manic mix. They kept the marriage going through “Mangosteen” before turning to the heliocentric worlds they invented in collaboration with the Alchemist on Haram. “Black Sunlight” and “Falling Out the Sky” had me thinking of Baraka (again!): “It only takes two to start a group. If the two are maturely strong, and have a oneness, then the others will feel it and touch their own sound, voice, or whatever.”

ELUCID’s last solo number was “Spellling,” and by then he was spent but still perseverating in the dopest way possible. “This is a physical experience,” ELUCID said as the song began, asking the soundman to turn the volume up higher. IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII been spelling, he spoketh [an ever ever elongated I and a shot-to-the-dome of “been”]. The I Told Bessie opener became what Baraka calls “an antiphonal rhythmic chant-poem-moan.” ELUCID’s voice was ragged by this point, a metallic scrape as he shouted about being “your momma’s favorite, since about ’88, ’89.” The down in “just got to heaven and I can’t sit down” was made malleable in how he twisted it around in his mouth. Split tongue heavy lifting.

He had nothing left when the alarming squeal whistle warp of “Stonefruit” started to play. But the audience assisted, screaming with him I REALLY CAME IN ON A CYCLONE as his voice gave out. woods jumped in early when it was his turn, which proved a moment of levity. To err is human, and woods—despite the adoration he’s been receiving—is endearingly human. That humanity is probably why so many of Armand Hammer’s fans have become zealous collectors, showing up at the venue with cardboard boxes full of vinyl, willing to wait patiently for woods and ELUCID to write their names in metallic Sharpies on these their prized possessions. “First Armand Hammer show in the states in a while,” woods said at one point. “Small flex,” ELUCID noted, chuckling. But they brought it home on Saturday. It was “As the Crow Flies” made manifest. woods brought all the Backwoodz family on stage at the conclusion of their set. The family atmosphere afforded by the 3PM start time was embellished by the sight of children on shoulders. It had the feel of a triumphant affair. It’s winning, it’s winning, it’s winning…

Peace to the conversations that were had with Alex Richter, Willie Green, Max Heath, and Sharif.

Photos credit:  Rory Simms

AH setlist:

1.  Landlines 2.  Woke Up and Asked Siri How I’m Gonna Die 3.  [???] 4.  I Keep A Mirror In My Pocket 5.  Niggardly (Blocked Call) 6.  Smile Lines 7.  Family 8.  Trauma Mic 9.  No Hard Feelings 10.  [???] 11.  Barbarians 12.  Mangosteen 13.  Black Sunlight 14.  Falling Out the Sky 15.  Spellling  16. Stonefruit

[vital-spirit]

OFFSCREEN POST

The Coming Storm: Part One

The sun was setting on the horizon as Lucario and Bingo trudged on through the desert, the Lillipup falling slightly behind as she gazed out toward the orange and purple hues of the evening sky. No one was out here with the two Pokemon, the only figures for miles being that of looming cacti, mounds of rock and sand, and the animals that call this environment home. 

All was quiet, or, it would be if it were not for Lucario who was not even remotely over what had happened at the bridge the day prior.

“I don’t get it! She coulda destroyed the bridge, or forced us to turn around? Why didn’t she? Are you sure she just… sang songs with you and talked about heroes?” He asked, still confused over everything that had happened on the way out of Lost. 

“Mister Lucario,” Bingo spoke, not looking towards him but instead keeping her eyes on the setting sun, “I may have amnesia but my memory ain’t that shit. We just had a talk, nothin’ more than that.” The Lillipup stayed silent for a moment before adding, “And what reason would she even have for harmin’ us in any way?”

Lucario looked at her. “She’s an omen of death. There are countless stories of her pickin’ up Pokemon like us and carrying them off, never to be seen again.” Somewhere in the distance, lightning strikes. 

Bingo turned her gaze toward the flash of light. Was it going to rain? The younger Pokemon shook her head for a moment before responding to Lucario, “Then why didn’t she? All we did was talk and sang songs, she even at multiple points made sure I didn’t stop or turn around.”

“I don’t know! I’m tryin’a figure that out!” He says, agitated. “She’s probably planning somethin’. Trying to get our guard down.”

The beating of winds sounds from above. 

“To be honest, I don’t think we’ll be able to figure that out–” Bingo froze, her ears on high alert as a deep dread worms its way into her stomach. Something was here. “Mister Lucario, what’s that sou–” 

The Mandibuzz in question bursts through the clouds, flying down towards the two of them with a surprising amount of speed. With talons extended, she reaches out for Bingo, dwarfing the tiny canine due to her large size compared to a normal Mandibuzz. “Shit-” Lucario scrambles to pull out his gun, but it’s too late. As soon as Cyclone reaches Bingo, talons mere inches away from the Lillipup, a cloud of black fog bursts out from the Mandibuzz, obscuring all vision. When it finally clears after an agonizing long moment, Bingo is gone. All that remains is Cyclone. “Cyclone…” Lucario says carefully, frantically seeing if he can sense Bingo’s aura somewhere to no avail, “What did ya do?” Cyclone shifts her wings, but doesn’t otherwise respond. She just stands there, looming over him. The canine grows impatient, growling. “What. Did. You. Do?” he snarls, pointing the gun at her. He knows it won’t do much to her. She’s an omen of death, and he’s pointed guns at her enough times for her to expect this. Cyclone doesn’t physically react. She may not appear to have eyes, but she can see what he’s doing perfectly. She just doesn’t care. “I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago, Lucario. And what-” Lucario doesn’t wait for Cyclone to finish talking, firing a shot of steel typed energy at her. The giant Mandibuzz flinches back from the hit, but seems wholly unharmed as electricity briefly crackles around where she was hit. Cyclone leans forward, tilting her head inquisitively as she takes a massive stride towards Lucario. He scrambles backwards in response, clearly realizing that was a bad idea. Normally she just flew off when he shot at her. “Do you hear that, John?” Cyclone says, using his name. She shouldn’t know that, and yet she does. Of course she does. How can you hide anything from death? “That is the sound of destiny. A slow crawl towards what I should have brought to pass long before any of this. Your game will continue, I cannot fill the score card early, but fools who play mastermind are puppets to a more grand design. Even a pawn can become a queen, and in this game the opposite is true as well. Crossing the first threshold. Tests, allies, and enemies. Approach to the inmost cave. Is that what we’re not doing here?” Cyclone unfolds her wings, holding them out making herself look even larger as she continues to walk towards Lucario, and to his credit, he stops backing up and stands his ground, staring up at her, even as she leans down to stand face to face. “In a line of heroes big and small, you are just a sad little man, John. Nothing more than the villain of the week. There is more to your existence, there always is, but will you listen when called for? Or will you let angels fall deeper into the flames? Let your past burn away to ash? There is much waiting for you both. I promise.” Cyclone steps back, flapping her powerful wings to get off the ground and hovering a few feet up. “Nothing to say? No response? Good. Let the past sins cling to you like mud. You can have her back. I have done what I came to do.” And with that, she dives at Lucario. He manages to bring his arms up to brace himself, but an impact never comes. When he opens his eyes, the same black fog from earlier obscures his vision, but within it he senses Bingo’s aura. Sort of. Something’s wrong. He realizes. It’s her aura, but it’s different. Cyclone’s done something. He carefully moves towards her as the fog lifts, and once he can see again, he realizes what’s wrong. Bingo lays motionless on the ground. 

Part One: Scene End.