#the colors on this one are based on a vague memory I have of a silkwing I once drew that was purple and gold

[peregrinethegryphon]

Beetlewing Headcanon & Design

Bio: Beetlewings lived in the forests on the south end of Pyrrhia. They had four wings, a large horn on their heads, and came in all kinds of colors with iridescent scales. They had venom in their tails and fangs. They could produce silk from their wrists. They did not possess firebreath, but Flamesilk was a unique trait amongst some individuals. They were primarily frugivores but would supplement their diet with meat. Fencing with their horns was a common sport amongst dragonets.

History: Hundreds of years after the Scorching, a large group of Beetlewings and Leafwings would flee Pyrrhia to escape a war over territory perpetrated by neighboring firebreather tribes. The few that stayed on Pyrrhia were either killed in the conflict or found refuge in neutral tribes where they integrated but were eventually bred out of existence.

The species remained virtually unchanged until a few hundred years after Clearsight arrived in Pantala, when a fraction of the tribe split off from the rest over ideological and cultural disagreements regarding Clearsight. The now split population eventually became the Hivewings, deliberately breeding for strong venom users, while the original population, trending more towards pacifism, lost the use of their venom and became the Silkwings.

Base Free to Use

(Quick disclaimer; While a large part of making this involved free hand, a larger part of it involved editing and tracing, so it's going under my art tag but it's not signed. Original art is Joy Ang's.)

[unintentionalseductress]

When The Snow Melts

Warnings: MDNI, soft sex, virginity loss, angst, and some spoilers for those who aren't familiar with Zayne's lore. A/n: Curiosity got the best of me. I wasn't playing LaDS when the Master of Fate card came out so I went to YouTube and immediately regretted it. Like can this man not catch a break? He sacrifices himself again? I couldn't leave it, so this me, correcting the wrong. A fix-it fic if you will. Because I need Zayne to win, at least once. Also, since Zayne appears according to how MC perceives him, I do believe he will have aged exactly as she has.

The night is bright, and the small cobbled lane you walk on is lit with lamps. The streets are bustling with life. The feeling of excitement, togetherness, and aromatic food graces the air as you wander closer to the town square. Another festival, similar, yet not similar, to the countless ones you’ve seen with your keen eyes. 

You’d wanted to be in company, maybe see the world when you were young, and the curse that was also a blessing was granted. Your body, now wispy and weathered from the years spent wandering cannot move as quickly as you used to, the ever-reminding aches in your joints, the beginning of arthritis weighing down in your bones. Yet you still had a zest for life. Because what else could you do but seek, and take in everything that life had to offer? How could you not? Because it was the grace of the god that allowed it and the terrible price that was paid for you to experience it.

It had been decades since you had last seen the god. You had traversed as far as you could, carrying your umbrella with the everlasting snow coating it like wool on a freshly birthed lamb. The things you had witnessed! Ships with sails as tall as oak trees, strangely flavored meats and delectable sweets, festivals where people had danced, music from instruments brought in from faraway strange lands. You had eaten, traveled, danced, and sung, picking up small jobs to afford simple pleasures. You were a quick learner. Once you were a seamstress helping a small garment shop, another time a jewel polisher. You had even worked as an errand maid for an elderly couple who were profuse with their thanks and offered you a roof over your head for a short while. But staying in one place wasn’t an option. You had to keep looking after all. How else would you find him again?

As your feet carried you into the square, a burst of light and color filled your vision. It’s so lively, as the people flock to the different food carts, admiring the small handicraft booths, and singing folk songs well known to all those who grew up in this region. Children joyfully chased each other, dressed warmly in bright clothes. A hint of winter was already in the air. Based on what you had observed, this festival was celebrating the end of the harvest season, probably one of the last for this year until the harsh snowfall of winter faded. The breeze, not quite chilly enough to make you shiver, felt comforting on your face. 

You supposed you could work as a midwife again. Midwifery was good work, reliable since winter did not stop the delivery of children into the world. It could also guarantee a place to stay if you played your cards right, though you hated staying in one place. The nomadic lifestyle you had adopted suited you. And the winters made you nostalgic. 

It made you long for those days before you had picked up this umbrella and set off to see the world. Of amber eyes flecked with green, like the jars of whiskey at the inns when the early morning sunlight brushes against them, bringing forth colors hidden in the dark glass. Or of soft hands, covered in scars, and whispers in your ear of sleep, of priestesses calling gods down to earth to make love to them. Sometimes the memories consume you to the point of anger.  How dare he leave you? With no explanation as to what his blessing was. 

You vaguely recall those days, back when your fingers weren’t gnarled and wrinkled, your face unblemished by the years in the sun. All spells have limitations, he had said. But he also said he had taken care to make the spell extra strong since you were particularly clumsy. The snow had to melt sometime…didn’t it?

A drum begins to pound in the distance, and the crowd gathers around the stage that had been set up at the far end of the square. You halt at one of the carts to buy some fried chicken skewers. The vendor looks curiously at your umbrella, something you have grown accustomed to over the years. After all, snow that doesn’t melt was bound to bring questions. You had woven a different story for each city you had passed through, sometimes recycling them when you didn’t have the creativity to spin a new one. Initially hesitant to reveal how the umbrella with the everlasting snow had come into your possession, you had tried to pass it off as a novelty accessory, crafting tales of snowy mountains and how it was all the rage in those areas.

As the years passed by, your tongue had loosened. Or perhaps the indignation of him disappearing had made you reckless. Although you still hadn’t said the full story, you’d managed to finally say it was a blessing from a god, shocking the non-believers by letting them touch the snow, their gasps of awe as the cold, wet, powder clung to their fingers falling satisfyingly on your ears. Tonight, however, you were in no mood to entertain strangers. You smile politely as you hand over your coins to the vendor, take the food, and walk away towards the stage. 

The sounds of a flute and an erhu accompany the drum. Elaborately dressed dancers are swirling in coordinated grace on the stage, enacting a scene from an old tale; the common man sending off the goddess of harvest, thanking her for her blessings that year, and praying to the god of winter, that he be merciful to them and allow them to live to see another spring.

You were skeptical if these rituals really worked. The first autumn after you had been gifted the umbrella when the air started to show signs of change, you had danced, danced amongst the trees that were close to shedding their vividly colored leaves of red, mustard, and yellow. You had prayed your heart out, prayed so hard, danced so long that the soles of your shoes had almost worn out. You had danced till you had collapsed with exhaustion, falling asleep on the leafy floor. You had been so sure that it would work, that he would show himself, and when you awoke, it was with a heartrending pang that you realized you were alone. It hadn’t worked. Wherever he was, the god of the snow wasn’t visible to your eyes. It was the first time you had allowed yourself to cry in all those months. Had he really believed this was the better choice? That to leave you behind without telling you what was going to happen to him would make you happier? That was the worst part; not knowing if he was alive, existing somewhere you couldn’t journey to, or if he had given all his power into making the snow that had fueled your existence, and lost himself with it. 

The music becomes faster and the dancers move until the stage is a blur of color. The audience claps as their movements become sharp, with an artistic precision that only years of practice could hone. The last note quavers from the flute and rises into the night air. Cheers and whistles erupt all around you. It was a beautiful performance no doubt, but despite finding it captivating, it also left you feeling hollow. Finishing the last of your fried chicken, you begin to wander amongst the townspeople, enquiring about work that could be had for the winter.

By the time the square had cleared up, and the last of the festival-goers had returned home, you had secured a job; a bakery was in desperate need of an extra set of hands. The pay wasn’t much but the woman had offered food and board and you had accepted graciously. As you sit on the stone steps of your latest lodgings, you gaze at the moon. 

You want to not blame him, to not feel this heavy weight that you’ve carried inside your chest. You know you should be grateful for his sacrifice which enabled you to see so much of the world, and at the least, you weren’t alone. The incident with the people in your village was a distant memory, replaced with so many more pleasant rememberings. Plucking apples from an orchard with trees growing as far as the eyes could see. The feeling of a newborn baby, screaming with the rage of life and the mother wiping tears of joy while offering you her thanks. The herbalist with his toothless smile as he showed you which plants were medicinal and which were poison as you plucked various flowers and leaves and dug the earth for rhizomes of turmeric and ginger. 

You were a well-traveled woman, knowledgeable in all aspects, a rare luxury during this time, you knew. Yet for each memory that stayed clearly in your mind, there was a sense of loss. Everything tied back to him, and you couldn’t bring yourself to forget him, even in your old age, and even with the passage of time. 

The spicy bun the baker had offered you was good. You savored its flavor on your tongue, naming the constellations visible in the sky as you did so, the short astronomy lesson from a young scholar in some past time proving useful. It must be close to midnight based on how still the night is, the whispering rustle of dead leaves as they skitter across the ground audible in the background. With a sigh, you carefully get to your feet, your joints creaking as you rise. As you reach for your umbrella, you pause, fingertips hovering over the handle.

Surely you were imagining it? It must be a trick of the moonlight. The last of the lamps were dying, the faint light casting shadows across the walls of the dwellings. Yet your aged eyes couldn’t shake off the feeling. You stare intently at the umbrella, more so, at the snow perched on its upper slope. A fine sheen of condensation coated the umbrella, surrounding the powdery snow. Had you somehow gotten the umbrella wet? You kneel, observing with fascination as some of the condensation gathers, becoming fat droplets of precipitation, and rolling off the sides.

You’re awestruck. In all your years, the snow had never melted. It had never lessened nor increased but always stayed the same. But now you can see how the powder was turning watery, steadily dripping down into the cold ground. You trace a fingertip on the trails of moisture along the sides of the umbrella, and that’s when you hear it; the unmistakable twang of a guqin. 

You had never encountered a guqin again, not since the night he had played one while you danced for him. The unmistakable notes now begin to form a melody. You look out into the empty street and see nothing. But the song was filling your body like the warmth of a fireplace. Your limbs involuntarily stretch out as your eyes close, remembering the movements you had learned so long ago and sworn to never repeat after the failed attempt to call down the god. Your legs feel unsteady, your hands clumsy, a far cry from the controlled accuracy of the stage dancers. Your joints begin to sear as you move, unable to stop the actions. Oh how sweetly the instrument sang to you!

There’s a sharp pain in your heart, not from the ache of moving your tired extremities, but from the grief bottled up, adding on year after year. There’s resentment, but underneath it all, there’s a strong yearning you’re unable to put into words. How do you describe it? The loss of the only person who seemed to understand you, who helped you control your power?

You knew he did something when he placed his spell because, since that day, you hadn’t been able to harness your powers ever again. He had ensured you could live your life as a normal human being. Before knowing him you would have done anything to not have the power. But the cost that came with it was too much to bear. You weren’t alone, yet you were alone. So of all the days, why was the guqin playing now?

Tears roll down your cheeks as you dance, letting loose your sorrow to the crisp night breeze. You feel like each nerve in your body is frayed, all consumed with the bits of memories you had of him. It takes you a moment to realize you’re not dancing anymore. The guqin has stopped playing. You’re standing in a pose, your head lowered, facing the steps you had been sitting on, and the umbrella leaning against them. Shock passes through you. 

The umbrella was completely devoid of snow. The only evidence it was there was the puddle of water that had gathered beneath it, muddying the grass. 

“Why are you so surprised?”

Your heart skips a beat, then begins to hammer in your chest like a frantic bird trapped in a cage. The deep baritone voice tinged with a hint of sarcasm calls out to you gently. You can’t seem to be able to move. 

“It can’t be.” You murmur, gripping your elbows, trying to calm yourself. “It can’t be. I’m dreaming.”

“What are dreams if not another reality?”

It takes all the effort in your body to not collapse to the ground as a sobbing mess. You turn slowly, as though giving the voice a chance to admit it was a figment of your imagination but it doesn’t happen. Your breath catches in your throat as you see him, at last.

His dark hair has tinges of gray in it, and crow’s feet are visible near the corners of his eyes, but the gentle upwards curve of his lips, the broad shoulders, and his pointed chin are all recognizably familiar. 

“Zayne?” You let his name fall from your lips, sounding like a strange word, lost to your vocabulary from the years of disuse. 

He nods, then stretches out a hand to you. At first, you’re at a loss about what you should do, then, with as much speed as your wizened knees allow, you run to him. He’s solid and grounding, his arms wrapping around you tightly. A brief lick of rage crosses through you, but when you open your mouth to let loose your diatribe, all that comes out is a sob. Your tears flow freely, staining his robes, and you feel his gloved hands gently combing through your hair.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, his chin resting on top of your head.

“Why not tell me?” Your words are choked, your body shivering as you cry. 

Zayne leads you to the steps and helps you sit before occupying the space next to you. He leans you against him, your head resting comfortably on his shoulder as he takes one of your hands between both of his. He sighs deeply and his voice, though calm, is filled with regret as he speaks. 

“How could I tell you? What would I have said? How do you tell someone special to you that their life was in danger?”

You blink back tears. “Danger?”

“There was a powerful entity after you. I did what I needed to do to protect you.”

“Why was it after me?”

Zayne pauses, as though considering how to word his response. “It was convinced you would bring about a cataclysm, and the only way to prevent it was to take your life.”

“But… I don’t understand. How did your spell prevent this? Now that it’s worn off, won’t it come after me again?”

“No.” Zayne wraps his arms around you, his body bringing warmth into yours. “Even cataclysms go away if given enough time. But the harder part was figuring out how to suppress your abilities until that time passed.” He sighs deeply, gathering you close. “The spell on the umbrella was the only solution I could think of, without restricting your freedom. Regrettably, sealing your power meant taking away your ability to perceive me. I never intended to make it permanent.”

“Why not tell me?” You repeat the question. Zayne raises an eyebrow.

“If I had told you the spell would wear off, would you have left the mountain?” He brushes your cheek with his thumb as he takes in your face, his eyes softening as he looks at you. “I know you. You would have spent all these years in isolation, waiting for me. I didn’t want you to miss the opportunity to live. A normal life seemed like the best option I could give you until enough time had passed.”

You’re silent as you let his words sink into you. After a gap, you whisper, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” His thumb caresses each of your fingertips in turn. “But know that I watched over you every day. I saw the world through your eyes and felt your sense of wonderment in my heart. The day you danced so hard for me that you almost fainted from exhaustion-” Zayne draws in a breath and his voice quivers as he continues. “I was in tears. I wanted nothing more than to reach out and comfort you. I was there, separated by a veil, but I felt your pain.”

“That was the year the frost came early.” You recall the memory. 

“Indeed. I couldn’t control my grief. I didn’t know how else to let you know I was there, except to cover the world with snow.”

You glance over at the umbrella. “Will you disappear again?”

“Not unless you want me to.” One of his large hands rests on your knee. “I understand I’ve angered you by acting without telling you everything. Is it enough that you don’t want me around?”

You shake your head no. Your momentary anger with him had faded, like the night giving way to the sunrise. “There’s nothing that could keep me from wanting you. I made many acquaintances throughout my life, but the one person’s companionship I yearned for was yours.”

“My beloved snowflake.” Zayne embraces you tenderly. “It was fate that led you to me on the mountain that day. And It was fate that finally broke the spell. We’re all bound by it, even me.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. Otherwise, do you think I would have kept you sealed for so long? Even gods must play by fate’s rules.”

Silence falls between you both,  the breeze ruffling your clothes. You become acutely aware that he’s gazing at you, and when you turn to look at him, there’s such tenderness in his eyes that it makes you blush, even at this age. 

“You’re beautiful,” he utters, tucking strands of stray hair behind your ears. The amber in his eyes glows as you stare back, captivated by how handsome he is. Your memory didn’t do him justice. You cup his cheek. 

“Is this our happily ever after?”

“It can be if we choose it to be.”

“I do. Wholeheartedly.”

Sparks fly between you and almost as if the both of you are following a rhythm, your lips find each other in the darkness. It’s odd because, in the passing years, you hadn’t imagined what his lips would feel like against yours. You had fantasized about lying next to him, listening to his heartbeat, about taking long, leisurely strolls while holding hands, and about the possibility of letting him rest on your lap while you played with his thick locks of hair.

Now you’re glad you hadn’t tried to imagine it because the reality was sweeter than any dream you could have conjured, the warmth and softness of his mouth, the taste of his tongue as it slips past your lips, the possessiveness in his grip as he molds your body against his, as though silently claiming you. There wasn’t an inch of you that didn’t ache for him. When he pulls away, there’s desire flickering in the depths of his eyes.

Wordlessly, you take his hands and get to your feet, quietly pulling him inside your new quarters. You’re careful to not wake the baker; it was quite improper to invite a man into your room, but you didn’t care. You lock the door and allow Zayne to sweep you away.

Clothes slide to the floor, a whisper lost to the dark. There’s no shame as you reach for each other, hands relishing the feeling of skin, enjoying the contact between your bodies as he gently pulls you onto the bed. His lips leave trailing kisses on your skin, no longer supple like the young woman you once were, but worthy of being worshipped irrespective. You wonder if this moment would have felt different if you had consummated this relationship when you were younger but realized you had little choice in it. If the Master of Fate couldn’t control when things happened, then what good was it to think about what could have been?

Instead, you focus on him, on his skin flushed with vitality as you nibble his ear, shyly running your tongue down his neck. He suckles at your nipple, and pleasure, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced radiates into every part of your being. You feel his erection graze your belly as he patiently kisses you, moaning into his mouth as his fingers stroke your sex, finding the little knot of nerves that makes you close your eyes in ecstasy.

It’s all slow and unhurried, and when you finally gasp out your climax, he eases his body into yours. There’s pain, but only for the briefest moment, then as your body stretches around him, you feel a powerful sense of intimacy as he thrusts, his movements passionate and loving. He gathers you tightly against him whispering the same thing over and over as he empties himself. 

“I love you. I love you I love you I love you.”

A weak ray of sunlight peeks through the window when you wake up, and you panic for a moment when you see the bed is empty. 

“I’m here my love.” Zayne’s voice immediately reassures you and you see him stoking the fireplace. The small flames crackle merrily as he makes his way back to bed, pulling you against him and stroking your skin. It had snowed overnight, and the landscape was now unrecognizable, covered in a fresh coat of it. 

“It appears grief isn’t the only thing that can cause the god of winter to make it snow,” you tease and Zayne good-naturedly smirks at you. 

“Indeed. All thanks to you.” 

You giggle, a soft sound that fills him with joy. 

“I suppose we’re stuck in this village until winter ends. Makes no sense to wander for now.”

“Agreed. I suppose I can set up shop as a fortune-teller, or maybe as a herbalist.”

“We’ll decide what to do when spring comes.” You settle against his chest, finding comfort in the scent of his skin. 

“The snow has to melt sometime. But we’ll survive. Together.”

“Together.” You agree, and lay your lips over his. 

© unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating support banner by @/ cafekitsune

@theimmortalbuns @otomegamesforlife @sweets-kozume @supernaturalbaesduh @ladyparamount

[grapejuicestyless]

Paper Crowns

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Summery: After finally having some down time after a hectic few weeks, you and Harry finally get around to decorating for the holidays.

“What do you think?”

My gaze was drawn to the thick, red and green stockings hung over the mantle, embroidered with the first initials of our respective names. Along the brick hung thick ropes of tinsel spread through the deep green garland with pops of red cranberries scattered throughout.

But the real show stopper hadn’t been the festive rugs, or the seasonal mugs, or the extravagant lights Harry and I had woken up bright and early to hang all across the roof and the gutters, but the tall tree that sat squished in the corner of the living room, a small blanket wrapped around the base of the tree and a thick pine-y smell wafting through the house.

It was decorated with a mixture of ornaments and garlands that shouldn’t have mixed, but due to the extreme randomness of the assortment, it felt all too perfect. Each ornament was a souvenir of a shared experience or memory that tied to places that expanded down the Western and Eastern coasts of the United States all the way to the beach-y shores of Australia. Some were collected from our families, old art projects from our early school days, or framed family photos that we used to find embarrassing as children.

There was crumpled up tinsel in all different colors and red and silver and blue and yellow ribbons swirling around the branches. But right on top, sat a beautiful, golden star that shined so brightly, it put all the other sparkling things to shame. And it felt so much like home, I felt like the grinch. My heart had grown three sizes bigger.

“It’s perfect, Har.” I complemented, vaguely aware of the comforting of his hand resting against my hip, pulling me closer to him as we shared a small space in the center of the room.

He smelled of shaving cream and vanilla, and he was as warm as the crackling fire by our feet. We’d spent so much time together, running around in private so that one day, we could both return to the spotlight. Harry now adorned a scruffy mustache, one I was familiar with, and one he had previously grown out during the lockdown a few years back. In this light, one could forget that he was Harry Styles, because under our shared roof, he was simply Harry. Nothing more, nothing less.

“M’glad we found time to do this together this year.” I spoke softly, my eyes flickering from the shiny decorations to the deep greens of his eyes. Only to find that the entire time, he hadn’t been admiring our work the same way I had, but rather he hadn’t been stuck looking only at me.

“Me too.”

In previous years, though Harry and I were both granted a few days off from our hectic work schedules to enjoy the holidays with family, the weeks leading up to it never seemed to synchronize. But, a bare home is a sad one, so when eventually, snow began to turn into slush and our house looked eerily dark compared to the other houses around the block, one of us would end up setting up the house in the quiet, letting the moon be our company while the other was far away attending to their own problems.

This year was different. Harry wasn’t touring, and the album had been finalized a long time ago. As for me, I had finished press for all my movies, and the premieres had come and gone. I could spend my days laying at home now, tucked beneath a blanket with the satisfaction that it had all washed over, and I had the pleasure to bask in the glory, not in Time Square or the heart of Los Angeles, but beneath the covers with my head pressed against my lovers chest, sighing out in total bliss.

“Theres only one more thing for us to do.” Harry smiled, leading me across the cold wooden floors to the dining room, which had been pre-set with all the plates and cutlery for our eventual guests that would roll in on Christmas morning.

Next to each plate lay a large paper tube shaped in something close to the appearance of a bow. Christmas Crackers, is what Harry called them. Cardboard-like things that were meant to be pulled apart like a wishbone, a harmless game where the winner of the larger half would win a small prize.

I smiled, leaning my hip against the table and watched as he leaned across the table cloth to grab one of the spare crackers that sat in the center of the table next to the stacks of candles.

“What do I win if I get it?” I asked softly, grabbing the end of the game firmly between my fingers.

“Is the prize not enough?” Harry laughed, his eyes crinkling happily as he bared all his teeth in his smile.

“How about a kiss. Just to satisfy my cold heart.” I teased, and he didn’t argue. We both knew that despite the result, I’d get what I wanted either way. It was Christmas time after all.

“What if I win?” He raised a brow. “What do I get?”

I hummed, watching his grip tighten around the other end, his fingers flexing under the strength of it.

“Anything you want, my love.” I promised him softly, blush rising on both of our warm cheeks at the open promise.

Harry simply nodded with a teasing smirk, counting down softly under his breath, but skipping the two and jumping to three like he often did before his songs.

There was a short battle before a loud pop sounded, and as we looked down at our hands, I was surprised to find the larger half attached to where I held on.

Inside there was a bottle opener shaped like a reindeer. It was dull and already rusting, but it wasn’t really the prize I cared about, not when Harry was already wrapping his arms around me with a loving grin, drunken in his gaze as his eyes locked onto mine.

There was a paper crown too, purple and delicate. His fingers fiddled with the material before slotting it on my head, and pressing his palms against my cheeks.

When he kissed me, I felt warmth expanding in my chest down to my cold feet, and I swore his lips were meant for mine because they fit so damn perfectly against mine every single time.

When he pulled back, it was with a shaky laugh, and a touch of his mouth to the tip of my nose. The moment felt golden, like something I’d stolen from the world, and I was happy to have gotten away with it.

“Merry Christmas, Harry.” I couldn’t help but giggle at the sappiness of it all. The giddy feelings had me reeling, making me forget for a moment that I wasn’t a young girl in love anymore, but the woman that had proudly grown beside him.

“Merry Christmas, love.”

[inesbaby21]

can u do a fic on cheerleader!r getting hurt mid game and azzi dropping everything to go help her even if it’s in the middle of a game

1st Person P.O.V

Me and a few of the girls on the cheer team were practicing, and getting ready for halftime. It was o our last halftime performance before nationals and tension was high to say the least.

Girls having open disputes about things as simple as lipstick, some crying because of hair- and bases with sweaty hands failing to catch their flyers. The entire day had been a hot mess, but the only thing that gave me a slim chance of home was that Azzi (and the girls) were aloud to watch us perform today!

It was something that was rare, but always extremely special to the both of us- as she always wanted to watch me do what I love and on her favorite spot in the world, the court.

I sit myself down on the floor beginning to tie my shoes as it's almost half time. Most of the other girls are doing stretches- or doing some last minute touch up's on that god awful red lipstick.

"Y/N/NNNN" I heard a voice drag out as i look up my eyes meet with Azzi's

"What's wrong?" Azzi says concerned- eyebrows furrowed as she tried to read my face. "S' nothing much baby, i'm just really stressed out about this routine" I say viability upset.

Usually I love flying, and doing stunts, or even tumbling but something about today just felt wrong- like I couldn't shake the feeling no matter how hard I tried.

"You're gonna do great my love, and I'll be there cheering you on- and supporting you the whole way through just like you're always doing for me" Azzi says leaning down to kiss me ultimately getting the bright red lipstick on her lips and giggling as she walks back to the bench with the disgusting color still visible on them.

"Places ladies places" I yelled looking at the clock- My coach looked at me nodding at she played a split second of the music to make sure all sound checks were cleared. Just standing in place, knowing that essentially if anything were to go wrong I was in charge was not a good feeling to have.

As the music played everyone ran to their spots, doing the elaborate dance/routine until the hard part came- I looked over to my three bases and jogged lightly to my spot.

The three girls silently counted off and very quickly got my into the air. I was in my natural habitat- this is where I never fail to deliver. I did all kinds of stunts, and kept myself upright until my bases began to walk with me. As they walked, It was choreographed that i continued to stunt.

I felt it, I heard my stunt group arguing quietly beneath the music- having had problems all week I was almost sure they were going to be at each others throats tonight.

"Ella move your fucking hand off of her right leg" Kamryn quietly yelled to the tan girl as they stopped mid step to get back to the almost muscle memory argument that had occurred since the 4 girls were placed with one another. I listened to them bicker as I continued to stunt, I couldn't stop mid leap. Unbeknownst to the arguing girls, they had lost their once strong grip on me- and almost immediately I came falling down to the ground.

As I came down, I heard Kamryn and Ella mutter a "shit"- as they heard my harsh impact with the ground and the stomach churning scream I let out as I heard something snap that Honestly wasn't supposed to.

"Oh my god" I heard my mom (and coach) yell as my vision and hearing began to fade in and out ever so slightly.

"Fuck" I heard Azzi yell as she ran over to me and my mom- watching as my body began to shake, my head almost immediately colliding with the floor as my body began to convulse. And with that ladies and gentlemen, I began to seize. Almost immediately medics came to assist the situation, and no sooner I was taken to the Hospital. I vaguely remember Ella, and Kamryn getting yelled at by my backspot, mom, and then a sobbing Azzi as they stood there still in shock.

"How could you two be so irresponsible?" My mother shouted "You had one job ladies and that was to support her- You two are done for the week ladies go home and figure out your mess come back when your ready to actually work and not waste my time." she shouted dismissing the two girls as she and Azzi followed the medics to the ambulance.

"I love you Az" I weakly said about to drift off into a meditation induced sleep. Leaning in to kiss her lips one last time for the night.

"I love you too Y/N/N- get some rest baby" she said noticing me drifting and I did just that.

this was actually kinda butt yall and i have like 5 more requests to do omg.

[sewerpalette]

My Human AL-AN redesign!! The video is still a WIP because I got sick haha, but yk.

At first I was scared I wouldn’t see a lot of visual Improvement, since the video is only 7 months old, but I compared the two and wow, there is a huge difference and I’m very happy with it.

Also this isn’t really much of an AU(?) it’s kinda hard to explain but it’s basically just the alien designs replaced with humanoids for my personal convenience (can’t draw em very well), with some minor story altercation that doesn’t really affect the plot. I think with AL this is easier to explain as they canonically have the ability to cause visual hallucinations, so this design would probably just be an extension of that, not really how he looks. I always liked the idea of the architects being a little eldritch that way, they have a true form but it’s unphysical, the human mind can’t make it up so the individual simply chooses what to present itself as: at least that’s my personal interpretation/headcanon.

As I’ve said before in the first post about the concept design where I further explain my decisions -

, I gave him a burn scar over his face from the disease research facility incident wich I imagine stuck with him in a way it, in one way or another, burns itself through every body he possesses aslong as the transfer doesn’t go wrong and he remains with the memory (also obviously to resemble his face screen).

His attire is based off of those the alterrans scientists wear, the pattern is a mix of precursor architecture textures and shapes mimicking those on his body, the logo on the lab coat is inspired by the architect statues from BZ, wich i reaaaally loved.

Hair/face shaped to vaguely resemble his face plate thingy and horns.

Also gave them a bag in wich I imagine carries all the different tools that are built into their arms in the game, because I’d rather die than draw those again beyond blocking in rough shapes haha, bag coincidentally ended up having a sea dragon color palette wich I initially wanted to change but ended up really loving because it kinda symbolises his guilt haunting him a little. it’s also stacked to the brim with enzyme 42 for obvious reasons.

I also still stand by the idea that the architects would look a little uncanny when trying to resemble humans, they can mimic them to near perfection, but something is just off, the body ratio looks strange, neck a few centimetres too long, shoulders a tad bit too low, lower legs too long, face moving too monotonely, small things like that yk.

Had to rerender this because I started drawing at like 6am at wich point my brain was rotting so hard I completely forgot what brushes I use, but that doesn’t really matter since I love to render so yk lol.

I made a poll on Instagram asking wether or not people liked the glasses, because on one hand I felt it made the colors more even whilst directing attention at and lighting the face nicely, but on the other I don’t really wanna make every „smart“ character have glasses, so I decided that these are reading glasses, wich means he does have them but he can also go without.

here is the alternative without:

[littledead-ridinghood]

sorry if this is a weird question to drop on you you were just the first person I thought of who might know but do you know if it's canon/canonically-based evidence that jason is physically stronger than other bats because I always see people say jason is the one with "brute strength" and I can't remember if that's based on anything besides people saying that as a nicer way to call him a brute(maybe it was on lobdells stuff? but I wiped most of those out of my memory)

You thought of me first? <333333 I'm blushing. And it's not weird at all! Even if it was, I love answering weird shit.

Anyway:

So part of Jason being considered "the muscle" of the bats comes from the fact that Jason's currently the biggest of the robins. (Adult!Damian is usually drawn as the tallest of the kids when all is said n' done (that's vague for "age")).

Well, how big then?

I always go with this chart which was released while UtRH was being released:

(I Love this! I wish DC still did little info things like this within their comics. Or maybe they do and I'm just blind. But Look! Canonical Information!)

So canonically speaking, at least when running around pre-crisis, Jason is 6 feet tall and 180 pounds. (Also note criminal mastermind and put a pin in it)

But you've probably heard 200 & 220 thrown around a lot. Those numbers are specifically pulled from two different DC character encyclopedia books which I don't trust at all because there notoriously filled with false information and are dubbed as not canon all the time.

Personally, I use the 6', 180-195 pound range which estimates for fluctuating weight, the passage of time, muscle mass, and minimum bulk & cutting (which I assume is part of most superheroes' training to stay in fighting form, but please recognize that vigilantes are more athlete than bodybuilder) because it's from a canon source (Canon is "king" and all that). No shame to people who use the other numbers or even headcanon something completely different, but again, vigilantes are predominantly running all over cities day after day, not stagnant weight lifters. Cardio vs weights body compositions are quite different even if both are healthy. (And it's not all "swimmer's body illusion" either (they have that body because they swim? No, they swim because they have that body.)

How much muscle mass a person can maximally obtain is up to your genetics. But that max only comes with constant maintainment. It's not feasible for Jason to be doing all that cardio and also have that much muscle mass and fat. Cardio burns "fat" (calories), weights build muscle. We constantly see the former and former-adjacent workouts more than the latter with him. Jason is running across rooftops, flipping off them before falling into a shoulder roll onto the next roof over chasing after bad guys every night. The number of calories he'd have to eat and time put into lifting weights (too many reps a week lead to damage, not growth) to maintain his max (max being what a lot of weights category athletes try to achieve which Jason just hasn't been shown to be (except in his jailbird phase where he could literally only lift weights, read, and avoid being killed to pass the time)) isn't possible.

Using comic art to "prove" how much he weighs doesn't work either. Firstly, because everyone wears weight differently. Two people can be the same height, weight, and sex and look completely different. This is due to different body types, composition, genetics, diet, (what kind of) exercise, and many other factors. Assuming someone thinner is automatically "super light" doesn't factor in different body compositions (fat, muscle, bone percentages). (yes, I know it's stupid to apply science to comics. There's my digression. let me live). Secondly, Jason (just like everything else about him) isn't drawn consistently at all. Sometimes he's pretty damn massive, but we also have Twink and Twunk Jason (DC can't even decide on hair color? Do you think they're gonna decide on his body?).

So, comic book art isn't super reliable as evidence unless we want to theorize if, how, and why he seems to fluctuate between weights all the time (<- Which I have a whole headcanon about if anyone's curious), especially in comparison to the others because, seriously, it's totally a Jason thing. Most characters are pretty consistent in body type. Anyway, someone could argue "See! he is 210!" but it's also not for a long enough period to stick around :/ Again, hard to consistently maintain that much weight as a 6-foot-tall, cardio-based athlete.

Also note: DC is horrible when it comes to weight-to-height lineups. A woman hero can be ~5'7'' and then we're told she's 110 lbs which Fact 1. is considered underweight for this kind of height-to-sex ratio, Fact 2. probably isn't factoring in the fact that muscle is heavier than fat, she just "looks thin", and 3. Usually, totally, absolutely is just blatant sexism.

Really, the numbers don't seriously mean anything of actual substance because their comics, are unreliable, and also usually just...scientifically wrong. But Jason's perception on page, as well as the information we've been told, is one reason he's considered "brute strength first and foremost."

Furthermore, Jason has been shown repeatedly to be on par with Bruce (even when Jason, most of the time, plays defense in their physical fights) but many people chalk this up to him and Bruce having similar physiques making it "easier". Again, counter-productive argument because Bruce and Jason have been drawn very similarly before in stories as well as completely different from each other in others. Also, this purposefully, blatantly ignores Jason's actual skills. No one chalks Dick Grayson or Cassandra Cain beating Bruce up to their body types. Moreover, when Bruce and Jason are drawn similarly in body, no one refers to Bruce as "Brute Strength" either. Bruce gets to be tactical, strategic, clever. (Also Also: In Pre-Crisis, Bruce, Dick, and Jason are deliberately drawn to look similar (height, mass, looks, etc.) to get that Brothers in Blood effect. Still, No one chalks the formers up to all strength. Just Jason)

And that brings us to your question, Anon: Is there canonical evidence for Jason being stronger than the other Bats?

Remember how I told you to put a pin in that "Occupation: Criminal Mastermind" note? Well, first off, Jason creating jobs for his community. Go off, king. Second off, and more importantly so, "Mastermind": a person who supplies the directing or creative intelligence for a project (Merriam-Webster).

When Jason was first re-introduced, what made Jason dangerous was that he was highly skilled and smart. He was playing with both Black Mask and Batman like a cat batting a toy mouse. He orchestrated an entire "slow-growing" takeover of Gotham's underworld (he was actually very quick about it). Jason controlled the situation and planned so well that he had the villains and heroes who were both after him fighting each other so he could slip away and do what he actually needed to do.

Throughout Jason's history, he's always had tools with him when he fights. To the point that Bruce says to Jaybin "You won't always have this" cutting his utility belt, insinuating he relies too much on it, which Jason returns the favor to on his return and fights B hand to hand <3 Love a cocky callback. Furthering this, he knows many, many different fighting styles and techniques both from life experience and from extensive training. Jason's a quick learner by nature and is incredibly adaptive. Guns; knives; swords; pens; sets bombs to specifically implode, not explode; makeshift gadgets; a baseball bat just laying around; a tire jack that one time; brains. I could go on. Jason doesn't just hit things. He uses what he has as a means to an end. He's canonically known as one of the best strategists in-universe and is incredibly creative with his surroundings. Jason isn't just great at extensive, long-term planning either. Bruce himself has remarked on the fact that Jason thinks incredibly quickly on his feet, he's really good at improvisation. Concisely, he has plans A-G and if all those fail, he can pull something out of nothing. Contrast this with Bruce who needs to have a plan for everything. Even if it doesn't look like he's following a plan, Bruce is. Opposed to Jason who can go with the flow and figure it out along the way.

Jason even said this in present-era in TFZ:

And that's the whole point, isn't it? Jason is strong. Incredibly so. He's big and tall and has gorgeous thighs. Not to mention, has a mean right hook. But just because Jason's strong doesn't mean he isn't a bat first and foremost who relies on his brain before anything else. He died 4'6 (on his death certificate, his height varies depending on what source you pull) and famously had to defend himself his entire life ever before being Robin. Being young and small and forced to survive shaped Jason into a quick thinker who could either get away or take enemies 10x his size down. Nowadays, he just has a longer reach.

In Event Levithan when Damian says: "Jason Todd is one of the Great Master fighters of all time" He doesn't say strongest because Damian doesn't mean strongest. Damian means adaptable, smart, capable, and well-rounded in skill.

While I don't doubt that Jason is most definitely one of the strongest Bats due to his size, what makes Jason dangerous is not his body, but the fact that he knows how to use it. It's not "Brute Strength" as many people like to say, it's Strategic Strength. He knows just because he's stronger than someone doesn't mean he'll always win. A la see panels above. Jason knows throwing his body around won't do anything of real, long-term substance. That it's just blindsided and stupid.

I'm sure if I looked I could pull panels where other bats and/or vigilantes refer to Jason as the muscle, brute (strength), all brawn (no brain), other such implications, etc, but whenever people do, it's always to undermine Jason's skill. Because it's not actually about his strength. Jason, with his taller, more built form, makes walking quiet seem easy. And it looks easy because he's good. Jason himself knows his skill set, it's everyone else that undermines him time and time and time again. (Again, Event Levithan, Bruce doesn't agree with Damian's statement even though Jason just outsmarted the six or so people who all just tried to take him down (for something Jason didn't even do, mind you))

But, again from Damian, Jason's not known as "the muscle," he's "the emotional one" also usually used to...degrade Ja--We can't have anything nice apparently is what I'm saying. But yes, when people refer to Jason as "Brute Strength" it's usually them trying to find a nicer way of saying Brute or "thinks with his fists" or "Jason hits first, asks questions later." It's in the same vein as when people say "Jason likes books" as short-hand for "see, he's smart at something" rather than acknowledging that Jason achieved a degree's worth of knowledge in comp-sci by age 13.

Anyway Smart and Strong Jason, my beloved. I wish DC & others loved you as much as Rosenburg and the teams of artists he's been working with do.

[mufos-photo-album]

The Spearmaster, dressed up as his primary design inspirations

If you like reading, I've included commentary about the Spearmaster's inspirations below the cut.

I don't have as much to say about the Spearmaster's design compared to the Swordmaster, since his design doesn't stray that far from Piripu's base design. The biggest departure is the mane the Spearmaster has, which is directly inspired by Goku's (of Dragon Ball, if I needed to tell you) Super Saiyan 3 design. The thing is, I never referenced the SS3 design at all when first drawing the Spearmaster, so his hairstyle is moreso based on my vague memory of what super saiyans with long hair look like. As a result, the Spearmaster's hair looks a lot softer than Goku's, which is so spiky. Not something I'm upset about, but I do find it very funny.

Ah right, there's also the second guy in the drawing — Bobby from the Deadcells animated trailers. He's technically called the Beheaded but Bobby is the named used for the guy in the trailers. From the start I knew I wanted the Spearmaster to be cool, but I also wanted him to be charming (an aspect which may not carry visually all the time but one I try to keep in mind while writing). In the animated trailers, Bobby depicted equal parts cool and equal parts silly. Can hold himself up in a fight, but no doubt has an arrogant/cocky side that leads him to, for lack of better words, eat shit. I think there's also something somewhere about Bobby having a flair for the dramatic. Some of these aspects are reflected in how I see the Spearmaster. Goku also has some charming aspects about him but I can only describe them in vaguer terms. Like, look at the reference photo I put in the image above. Doesn't his smile scream "It's me, Goku!"?

These characters have more to do with how I see the Spearmaster carrying himself in battle as opposed to more mundane situations.

Kyoko Sakura, from Puella Magi Madoka Magica: Probably the character that solidified my choice in making Piripu the Spearmaster after realizing Sayaka was an inspiration for the Swordmaster. Kyoko has a specific lunging attack she does which I often imagine the Spearmaster doing as well.

Morganite, from Land of the Lustrous: When thinking about how the Spear/Swordmaster fight, there was this one video I'd watch a lot as reference. It mainly features Morganite fighting alongside their partner Goshanite. Aside from the swaggy animation, I'll point out that the dialogue between Morganite and Goshanite is very similar to how I see an exchange between the Sword/Spearmaster going. Morga/Gosha even have vaguely similar color schemes to the Spear/Swordmaster!

Bort, also from Land of the Lustrous: As you might see from the reference photo of them I used, Bort's hair lends itself to making very unique shapes while Bort is in action. I forget where in the manga this scene appears, but there's a moment where Bort is depicted descending upon an enemy, but its shot from afar. Despite the distance, you can still tell its them from the abstract shape of their hair. This aspect is something I'd like to tap into if I drew the Spearmaster in action.

[contemplatingoutlander]

In the 1920s, a series of greed-based, racially charged murders of members of the oil-wealthy Osage Nation occurred in Oklahoma. (The linked article is a gift 🎁 link, so anyone can read the entire article, even if they do not subscribe to The New York Times.)

The article's authors, Jim Gray and David Grann, also point out how legislatures in red states like Oklahoma have created laws that are being used to prevent the teaching of significant racist incidents in American history for fear that it could be implied that students are being taught that they "'should feel discomfort, guilt, anguish or any other form of psychological distress' on account of their race or sex." Consequently, teaching about the Reign of Terror against the Osage Nation is being stifled in some Oklahoma schools.

Here is a video about the murders.

.Below are some excerpts from the article:

During the early 20th century, members of the Osage Nation in Oklahoma were systematically murdered by white settlers. Yet outside the Osage Nation, the history of this racial injustice — one of the worst in American history — was distorted and then largely erased from memory. “Killers of the Flower Moon,” a film directed by Martin Scorsese, shines an extraordinary light on these events and provides a long overdue opportunity to restore them in our consciousness. But ironically, at the same time that the film is being released, there is a new attempt to suppress the teaching of this very history in the state where it took place. In 2021 the Oklahoma Legislature passed a bill prohibiting teachers in public school from instructing several concepts, including that “any individual should feel discomfort, guilt, anguish or any other form of psychological distress” on account of their race or sex. The vagueness of the law has caused teachers to censor themselves, for fear of losing their licenses or their school’s accreditation. In a high school classroom in Dewey, Okla., copies of “Killers of the Flower Moon,” the nonfiction book behind the film, were left unread because the teacher worried about running afoul of the law. Another teacher confessed that she was uncertain if she could refer to the settlers who murdered the Osage as white. At stake in these fights is not only factual accuracy. It is also how new generations will be taught to record and remember the past — both the good and the bad — so that they can learn to make their own history. The story of what’s now called the Osage Reign of Terror is essential to understanding America’s past. After vast oil deposits were discovered under their lands, the Osage were suddenly, by the 1920s, among the wealthiest people per capita in the world. In the year 1923 alone, the roughly 2,000 Osage on the tribal roll received a total of more than $30 million, the equivalent today of more than $400 million. As their wealth increased, though, it unleashed an insidious backlash across the country. The U.S. government passed legislation requiring many Osage to have white guardians to manage their fortunes — a system that was both abhorrently racist and widely corrupt. Then the Osage began to die under mysterious circumstances: There were shootings, poisonings and even a bombing. [color emphasis added]

I encourage you to read the entire article. It is tragic that red states are so afraid of their racist past that they are making it extremely difficult for children in those states to learn about the racist underbelly of American history, and how that history continues to reverberate in our society.

_______________ Video source for gif (before edits/caption) Originally posted 10.21.23; last edited 01.20.24

[agent-cupcake]

Flashbang

Chapter 1 - Puppet Loosely Strung

Spotify Playlist / All Chapters / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 /Chapter 7/ Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 pt.1 / Chapter 9 pt.2 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12

Pairing: One Piece Live Action Buggy x f! Reader

Synopsis: Running away to join the circus doesn’t go exactly as you hoped it would.

Warnings: Mentions of past abuse, murder, generally dark content

Word Count: 13.9k

Disclaimer: I don’t read the manga or watch the anime. This is based solely on OPLA Buggy because Jeff Ward.

Some quick notes before we start: This is what I've been working on this since October. Originally it was going to be one really big one-shot posted at the same time, but it's big enough that I can justify posting it as a series. I'll add warnings as I go, but this is not a happy story and there will be explicit content later on. The reader character might not be somebody you see yourself in, I had a very specific image of what character I had in mind while writing. To me, reader fic is more of a sort of play acting rather than "oh that's literally me" but I know that's not everybody's cup of tea. A lot of this is cope fic and it shows. When times get rough the porn gets rougher, right?

I had help writing this from an individual who is very dear to me. Flashbang wouldn't exist without her, especially since she was the one who gave me the clown brain rot. And then there has been the hours of brainstorming and spitballing and watching Jeff Ward shows/movies as she continued to feed my addiction. Thank you, my love, and also damn you because this wasn't what I needed.

New chapter every Sunday. Enjoy~

.

“Let me put myself in your shoes

As a puppet loosely strung

Around you, they were so confused

That a faulty man could have so much fun”

.

All it took was a little doubt. Through logic or confusion or wishful thinking, you could be convinced that the insignificant person who had parasitically driven you around for the past however many years was a stranger, and now they were gone. Everything that had ever happened fell into incomprehensible dust, and every thought you ever had belonged to somebody else. A cycle of a million memories you didn’t recognize spun through this foggy place, none of them real, none of them familiar. 

Logic, confusion, wishful thinking, or unconsciousness. An endless dream of nothing at all. But as soon as you became aware, it was awareness that those thoughts happened in the past tense, crushed inward by the unrelenting force of existence, and you were shoved back into a body. You—not the real you, the stranger you, the one made of heat and fury and pain, the one you couldn’t recognize—were gasping and thrashing in ignorant confusion, coughing out the sickening taste of blood in your throat. 

Everything, all of it, hurt. And that was all that existed. 

Until it wasn’t. 

Your panicked thrashing made you realize that you were upright, your body straining painfully against the various chains keeping you pinned against the wall in an X. The position put nearly all of your weight on your shoulders and left your head to sag heavily to the side, making the terrible, dizzying headache that much worse. Having suffered more than your fair share of them, you knew that this headache was from more than an uncomfortable position or your old injury. A hot throbbing pain radiated out from the back of your head, shooting little sparks down your spine. It hurt bad enough that nausea formed a tight, heavy ball in your stomach. Gritting your teeth, you forced your eye open, fighting the urge to cringe away from the light as it rolled this way and that. Colors and lights were nothing more than a nauseating smear, but at least you could see. 

Little by little, you became aware of yourself. From far away, you had a vague recollection of leaving, of nerves, excitement, and then of danger. But… no, why weren’t you at home? Doom settled in its rightful place as you realized exactly how little you remembered or knew, slotting into the spot of coherence and reason. Despite the pain, you fought against the shackles holding you in the uncomfortable position, irrationally desperate to be free of them. 

“There she is! Finally,” somebody said from your left. His voice hit like a hammer to the back of your aching head. You strained to look at the speaker, he sounded close, but you couldn’t turn your head far enough to make up for your limited vision. 

Luckily, he didn’t stay out of sight for long. The man’s boots were loud and deliberate as he slowly moved out of your literal blind spot. To your ill-adjusting eye, he was not much more than a blur of white and red and blue, his big smile smudged as you rapidly blinked to focus. A little shock of meaningless recognition in your brain saw the makeup and red nose and said ‘clown’, but the sheer ridiculousness of that made you even more sure that this wasn’t real. 

“Not a fun way to wake up, is it?” he asked. “Keep breathing, let it drain back and cough it out. Trust me, it’s over quicker that way.”

The question you tried to form was, “Who are you?” but all you could manage was a heavy groan followed by a fit of painful coughs, wheezing raggedly in between. Each desperate convulsion rattled the chains and caused the wood to creak, but did nothing to free your bound limbs. The man seemed bored by it, annoyed he had to wait for you to get ahold of yourself. 

Since he hadn’t immediately helped you down, you could only assume that he was the one who shackled you in the first place. Strung you up against a wooden board of some kind in a room you didn’t know. Cramped and windowless, it reeked of paint and sweat and sawdust and sweet salty rot—a unique smell that didn’t help your nausea. Clutter stacked up against the walls. Dense, humid air pressed against you like a heavy coat, paradoxically chilling. Probably because of the fever burning beneath your skin, slicking you up with sweat, soaking into your clothes and the bandana you kept wrapped around your head over the left eye.

Breathe. You focused on your breathing. Panic wouldn’t help you. 

“You done?” he asked. Without any other choices, you turned your head to shamefully wipe your face off on your sleeve before nodding. “Great. Well, now that you’re awake… Welcome!” He threw out his arms with the flamboyant manner of a showman with the greeting, but they wilted right after, his big smile dropping a bit. “Or, at least, that’s what I would say if you hadn’t let yourself in and stolen the opportunity from me.” 

That was bad. Very, very bad. You jerked in an awkward, uncoordinated burst, physically reacting to the danger he presented. 

“No, no, don’t leave on my account,” he said, waving his hands and getting closer as if to stop you. “Oh wait, you can’t! Hah! Yeah, ‘cause of the chains.” He smiled affably, like it was a harmless joke, standing close enough for his gloved fingers to skim along the chain wrapped around your neck. “I guess you’re not going anywhere, huh?” 

You didn’t respond, barely daring to breathe when he was so close. Smiles and melodrama aside, his blue eyes were oddly dead, fixed on you without the slightest bit of humor. And then it finally came back to you, the vital thing that you should have known, that you would have known if you weren’t strung up and suffering such a crippling headache. The makeup, the nose, the hat—

“You’re,” you began to say, but your voice was hoarse and weak, you could barely get it out when he was looking at you so closely, so intently. You cleared your throat, wincing at the metallic taste. “You’re the-that pirate captain Buggy, like on the-the poster?” Right! The clown guy, the red-nosed pirate. You were looking for him. So this was… good, wasn’t it? 

He gave you a flat look, clearly not sharing your weak enthusiasm. “Yes. I am that pirate captain. Buggy, the Genius Jester? The most feared pirate captain in all the East Blue?” He turned with a dramatic flick of his coat, messing with something that had to flash silver before you realized it was a knife. “The man destined to find the One Piece and become King of the Pirates. Yes. I am that pirate captain. And,” he paused, checking to make sure you were paying attention, “a very busy, very important man. I’ve got, oh, ten minutes or so for you to decide how this is gonna go. So let’s get straight to it.” He turned back, pointing the knife at you. “Who are you, and what are you after?”

The accusatory tone of his voice took you aback. “Nothing… I’m not anybody,” you stammered out. “And this… this isn’t what it looks like, I swear.”

Buggy, to your surprise, relented after a second of considering your appeal, nodding understandingly. 

There was no transition from his look of sympathy to raising the knife and aiming it at you. By the time you realized he meant to throw it, you barely had a chance to yelp. The blade took a loud, thumping bite into the wood beside you. On your left side, of course. Where you couldn’t see it. You could feel it, though. The air displacement ruffled the fine hairs around your ear. If you had flinched in that direction, it probably would be in your skull. With your dizzy head aching and confused, you had no regulation to your fear or discomfort, your breathing dangerously unsteady and tears pricking the corner of your eyes. 

“Let me try a different question,” Buggy said before you could collect yourself, pulling out another knife. “Who else knows about this place?”  

“Nobody! I swear, nobody else. I was just…” You didn’t know what to say. It was all you could do to breathe the thick, heavy air and fight down the tide of nausea.  

“Just what?” Buggy asked, leaning in with raised eyebrows to show that he was listening intently. You opened and closed your mouth, unable to come up with the right words. Thoughts churned through the thick sludge in your head, getting stuck or lost or confused. 

“I’m so sorry,” you said, the stumbling apology coming out more naturally than anything else, an attempt to buy time while you organized your thoughts. “Please doh-don’t…. I’m so ss-sorry.” 

Buggy sighed, standing up straight and raising his hand to aim. 

“Nonono, please d-” You yelped louder this time, flinching away as the knife streaked through the air and stuck not even an inch away from your right cheek. You exhaled a pathetic little sob, whatever you were bound to shaking with your body. 

“Listen, honey buns,” Buggy said. “Drop the act. Stop the whining. I caught you, red handed, sneaking into my lair.” He pulled something out of his pocket. Not another knife, but a piece of paper which he unfolded, holding it up for you to see. His wanted poster, creased into sixths from the way you folded it to keep it close, to keep it hidden. “I found this in your bag. You know who I am, and you know where you are. You have to, so let’s do away with all the theatrics, okay?” 

You swallowed hard, nodding quickly in the hope that it would appease him. 

“Right now, this is a conversation,” Buggy said, gesturing between the two of you. “A light interrogation, really. But if you keep being uncooperative and wasting my time, it’s gonna go from being interrogate-y to being torture-y real quick. You don’t want that, right?” Although he was unmistakably threatening you, Buggy’s tone was more natural than before. There was a bluntness to it, an honesty. Men like him didn’t idly use words like torture. 

You sniffed, trying very hard to calm yourself down. This was a misunderstanding, so you just had to convince him. Simple as that. He would understand. You would make him understand.

“Right,” you agreed. 

“Fantastic. So,” he loudly clapped his hands together, “who else knows about this place?”

“Nobody, I promise… I’m really sorry I broke in,” you told him, speaking slowly so your words didn’t catch. “I just wanted to meet with you.” 

Buggy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, the hair hanging out from the sides of his hat swaying as his head tilted curiously. “You’re a fan?” he clarified. “That explains why you’re so pathetic. Well I hate to break it to you, but there’s a reason I only hold meet and greets after shows.” 

“No, that’s not why! I-I want to join your crew,” you said. “I came to ask you to let me join your crew.” 

He blinked twice, staring at you with obvious disbelief. “Excuse me, what?” 

“I want to be a pirate,” you told him, louder. “Please. Please let me join your crew.”

Buggy’s expression didn’t change, but you could see the rippling shift of incredulity, befuddlement, skepticism, and then amusement in his eyes. That emotion burst outward into a loud laugh, making you flinch. “That’s the best you can do?” he asked. “Ask to join my crew?” He looked at you again, laughing even harder. “I don’t know what’s funnier—that anybody would send you to spy on me, or that you’d think I would consider hiring you.” 

“I mean it!” you argued, humiliation and desperation seeping into the thousand other discomforts of your position. This wasn’t at all how you wanted this to go.

“Sweetheart,” Buggy said condescendingly, “even assuming I believe you, this is a pirate crew, not an afterschool club.”

“I know. I know what pirates do, I know what you do,” you told him. “I’ll do anything, whatever you want. Please, please, just give me a chance.”

He nodded, turning to pace as he thought about it. 

“Okay, let’s say that I buy this… this act of yours,” Buggy said. “Do you have any experience? Maintaining ships, reading maps, loading cannons. You know, basic stuff.”

There was a line you had prepared to answer this question, one that would paint you in the most charitable light. You remembered that, but you couldn’t remember the line. All you could give was the truth. “A little.”

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Thought so. What about specialties? Unique skills? Any sort of talent that I can use in my show—anything at all. I mean other than,” he gestured vaguely in your direction, “that. We don’t need another one eyed midget. They’re surprisingly common.” 

“I’m not a midget,” you told him, nerves fading to incredulity. 

Buggy stepped back to size you up before seemingly conceding the point with a shrug. “And the eye?” He covered his left eye to illustrate. “Is that for a bit or something?” 

Your stomach twisted with a familiar lurch. Disgust. Shame. Phantom light in the dark. “It’s not.” 

“How’d you lose it?” 

“I didn’t… lose it.” 

“It’s still in there?” he asked excitedly, stepping forward and reaching to remove the bandana. “I have got to see this.” 

“No, please—please don’t,” you begged, trying to wriggle away from his hand. Pinned to the board with your hands bound above your head, there was nowhere to go. “Please don’t, please-” 

“Come on,” Buggy said, indifferent to your pleas as he pulled the sweat soaked fabric off of your left eye. “How bad could it be—AH!” He yelled in horror, jumping away as if you’d bitten him. 

The bandana hit the floor, leaving your ruined eye and its jagged scar exposed. You couldn’t hide. All you could do was flinch back, turning your head away. “I’m sorry,” you said, ready to continue apologizing before you realized that his shock had immediately dissolved into raucous laughter. “Why are you… why are you laughing?” you asked, pulling desperately against the chains. 

“I got you good,” Buggy said, his laughter subsiding. “The way you reacted, I thought that you’d be completely deformed. A real sideshow. But this…” He grabbed your chin, forcing it to the side so he could get a better look. “I couldn’t charge for this.”

“Please stop,” you begged, shaking off his grip and staring hard at his shoulder. 

“Ohhh. You’re really embarrassed about it.”

You didn’t say anything, focusing mostly on fighting the tears. 

“Okay, alright, yeah,” Buggy said, stepping back. “I think I’m starting to get why you would risk life and limb to beg me for a job. You grew up as a cute girl in a shithole town like this. A big fish in a little pond, as they say. Then, suddenly, BAM, you’re deformed, and, sure, they all say that it was tragic, but the truth is that they can’t stand to look at you. Even the people who loved you, the people you trusted, think you’re a freak. They abandoned you. So, without any other options, you come to me, pleading for me to give you a place amidst your fellow freaks. That about it?”

You didn’t say anything—what could you say to that?— which Buggy seemed to take as confirmation, nodding thoughtfully. 

“Well, go big or go home, right? As far as a starlet’s breakout role, you couldn’t go any bigger. Thing is, I’m not really looking for new acts. Not to mention your abysmal audition.” He sucked in a breath through his teeth, looking you up and down again. 

You could feel your chance slipping away. Just like that. Go big or go home, that’s what he said. 

“Please, Captain Buggy,” you begged, staring him in the eye despite how disquieting it was, despite how your skin crawled from exposing your left eye to somebody. Addressing him properly, at the very least, got his attention. “I promise that you won’t regret it. I’ll learn, I want to learn how to be a pirate, how to perform, all of it, everything. And if I can’t, I’ll do laundry and clean and cook, I have lots of experience with that. I don’t care what you ask me to do, if you let me join your crew, I’ll happily serve you for the rest of my life.”

Buggy didn’t respond right away. You thought—hoped—that it meant he understood how serious you were, but his expression gave you nothing. There wasn’t much light in the room in the first place, but somehow he found enough to shine unnervingly in his pale blue eyes. Somebody with a bright red clown nose shouldn’t have been able to look so intimidating, but the way he studied you burned with an uncomfortable intensity. It had been a while since anybody looked at you so frankly, so openly, without disgust or pity. 

“Why?” he finally asked. 

“Why…?” you repeated, confused.

“I get that you want to leave this place, and I even buy into your whole wanting to be a pirate thing, but, you know, aside from the obvious,” he gestured to himself, “why should I believe that you really want to serve me? You’re young and cute…ish, don’t you want freedom and empowerment and all those other things girls go on and on about?” 

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Why would I?” 

A moment of quiet that wasn’t quite silence but twice as heavy passed before a slow smile began to spread over Buggy’s face, and then—of all the bizarre, uncomfortable responses he could have—he laughed. “Oh, you’re broken, aren’t you?” he asked, clearly overjoyed by the revelation. “Well, I’m sold. I’ll have to start you on probation just in case you’re secretly up to no good. But, after that, you can audition for real. I’m sure I can find something you’ll be useful for.” 

His reaction gave you whiplash. The word ‘broken’ was obviously bad, but everything else was good. You had succeeded. Only, you didn’t know why. You were still trying to decide if being called cute-ish was a compliment or not. 

“Hey, just one more thing, okay?” Buggy asked, tapping your cheek. Standing mere inches away, he smiled a rictus grin. It wrinkled his eyes, but they were without life or pity or mercy. “If you’re lying to me about anything, I’ll carve some symmetry into your cute little face. You’ll thank me for it too. You won’t want to see what the guys will do to you after I toss you out there.”

“I’m not lying,” you said softly, shrinking back. “I promise.” 

“Great!” Buggy said, his demeanor immediately cheering up. “Let’s get you down.” He walked behind the board you were strung up on, and you let out a shaky exhale. “Brace yourself,” he called. You had no idea what that meant, or how you were supposed to brace yourself when there was nothing for you to brace yourself on. “Three… two…” 

He undid the lock, and the chains keeping you bound to the board went slack. You dropped hard, your limbs as heavy as lead. Luckily, your head was too light to feel anything when you hit the ground with a dull thump and the loud cacophony of rattling chains, spinning and blank and utterly empty. There was a suspended moment of floating, lighter than air itself. And then you were blinking rapidly and nauseous, pain shooting up your arms and knees. 

Buggy dropped a key in front of you, metal bouncing on the old concrete. 

“Unfortunately we didn’t bring any real props with us, so I had to improvise,” he said. With numb fingers, you grabbed the key and worked it into the locked cuff around your wrist. “You lucked out, if this were the real Wheel of Death, you’d be blowing chunks!” He paused, looking down at you. “Can you hurry this up?”

“Sorry,” you said. Your shaking hands kept missing the keyholes, but you finally got the last lock on your ankle open. The cuffs hadn’t broken skin, but your wrists and ankles were rubbed raw, ugly bruises already developing. You’d had worse.

“Alright, upsy daisy,” Buggy said, crouching down to take the key away and grab the only chain you hadn’t gotten out of—the one around your neck. 

It acted as a noose, giving you no other choice but to lurch upward with an unappealing choking sound, your head spinning all over again, the weightless itch tingling all the way down to the base of your spine. You stumbled forward, unintentionally falling against him. 

“Holy shit,” Buggy exclaimed, helping you stand up straight with a hand on your shoulder. “I didn’t know girls came in fun size. Legally, at least. Are you sure you’re not just like… the maxiest midget?” 

“‘m dizzy,” you muttered, swaying despite his support. 

“That’s not really… Ah, whatever. Hey, at least if you fall, you don’t have that far to go.”

“I’m… I’m okay,” you finally said, which was mostly true. Breathing slow, steady breaths helped, and then you shook your head a little. The bump on the back of it throbbed painfully, and you’d have bruises on your knees the size of apples, but you would survive. You were still trying to get control over your body. It was heavy and unwieldy, although part of that must have been the exhaustion. 

“If you need to vomit, make sure to aim away from me,” he said. That was about all the warning you got before he decided it was time to go, dragging you along behind him like a dog on a leash. 

You realized you were leaving your bandana behind, your left eye uncovered, and reared back, trying to stop him. “Wait, I have to grab my-” 

“No time,” he said, talking over you and tugging again at the chain. 

There was nothing you could do but stumble over your own feet to keep up with him as he led you through the cluttered and dark storage area. You felt a tiny bit of relief that you were still in the familiar decaying buildings northside. The old warehouses were dark, dank, and dingy. Easily defended and difficult to navigate, perfect for criminals to hide out in. You knew them very well, and that helped orient you.  

"As I’m sure you noticed, I’m running a bit of a skeleton crew here. The rest aren’t coming ‘til the grand finale,” Buggy said, leading you into the main warehouse space by the chain around your neck like it was completely normal. The awful smell of rot and decay was only compounded by a sickly sweet, chalky scent you didn’t recognize. Gray sunshine flooded in through the broken windows around the high ceilings, piercingly bright. “And after that, we’re gonna blow this town.”

You didn’t respond, growing even more skittish. The two of you drew the attention of the people scattered around. Some were lounging, others were training. All of them turned to look at you, watching with the dark, focused stare of hungry dogs. Colorfully dressed, very dangerous dogs. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have an introduction to make!” Buggy called in a loud enough voice to fill the large space. “Crew, new girl. New girl, crew. Make sure to give her a nice, warm welcome." None of them spoke or reacted, watching you with varying degrees of hostility. Buggy pulled you forward a few steps so he could whisper to you. “See that guy?” he asked, pointing to a bald man with square features and an especially dark glare. “That’s Ivo. He was the one who caught you. To be completely honest, I think he’s still a little angry that he didn't get to keep you. If I were you, I’d try to stay on his good side.”

“How?” you asked, your uneasy stomach sinking further, but Buggy was already preoccupied with something else. 

“Oh, hey-” he called, flagging down a woman who was leaning against one of the steel supports. You stumbled behind him, holding the chain around your neck to ease the pressure. “Crina, I have got a very important job for you.” 

The woman slowly looked from Buggy to you, giving you a weighty once-over with dark, kohl-lined eyes. Her clothes were different from the rest, draped with beads and loose and layered in shades of purple. Beneath the mystique, however, you felt the same hardness you recognized in all the pirate’s faces. “You want me to look after the little rat,” she said with an accent you didn’t recognize.

"God, it’s like you can read minds or something,” Buggy said, laughing. “Anyway, yes. Make sure she doesn’t get up to anything naughty while I’m gone. In fact, don’t let her out of your sight.” 

“With all due respect,” Crina said, “why not just kill her?” 

“Because I don’t want her dead,” Buggy snapped, suddenly irritated. If Crina was surprised or off put by the abrupt change of his mood, she didn’t show it. 

“Of course, captain.”  

“I thought I saw some cages over there,” Buggy said, gesturing vaguely and forcing the chain into Crina’s hand. “Stick her in one of those. In the back, away from any prying eyes.”  

“A cage?” you asked.

“As fun as it is to see you all chained up,” Buggy said. “I worry that it might send the wrong message. Out of sight, out of mind—I don’t need you distracting my crew. They’re planning a very big surprise party. If you behave, I might be able to find some time for you later. Sound good?” 

You nodded, almost surprised by how good that sounded. He ruffled your hair before turning away, barking orders to some of the men. 

“Let’s go,” Crina said, pulling your attention back to her. “We have our orders.”

The cage Crina put you in, one out of several bolted to the floor in the corner out of the way from the main space, had just enough room for you to sit slouched, or lay curled on your side, meant for big dogs or small humans. There was a market for both, and you knew that this warehouse had likely housed both. 

The old, dilapidated buildings had been out of use for a long time, as long as you could remember. Barley Village had been originally built to be close to the mineral deposits, but as those dried up and industry trended towards the water, southward expansion left all of the old buildings empty and rotting. There was always talk about tearing them down, but it was only ever talk. One time you were told that some people wanted to keep the buildings available to people who wished for some privacy. But when you asked your dad if that was true, he got angry, telling you that was a lie, that he would never let that happen. He said it would just be too expensive to take them down, and that there was really no point in it.

But he also told you to never, ever spend time northside. Of all of the rules he gave you, that was the only one you ever truly disobeyed. You had no idea how many times you had gotten in trouble for playing here, climbing up rusted stairs and crossing the support beams up by the ceiling, using rocks to knock out the jagged edges of broken glass from the windows so you could go onto the rooftops. Your health problems made it difficult, and sometimes impossible, but you were patient. Plus, that had been before the accident, when your coordination was still good.

Back then, you didn’t worry about the many dangers that lurked here, and you certainly didn’t believe you could be hurt. You were too entranced by the world you created for yourself. The only thing you worried about was the beatings you earned when you got caught. Dad used to tell you that if you kept disobeying him by going northside, you’d wind up locked in one of these cages—or worse. It took you a while to think of the word, because it wasn’t funny, but it also was. Ironic. It was ironic.

You couldn’t even imagine what kind of reaction he would have to what you had done now, what punishment you would earn. It would be bad. You knew it would be very bad. 

Better not to think about it. Falling unconscious after being hit on the head was the most you had slept for the previous two days. It was the level of exhaustion that you could be staring down the business end of a sword with indifferent, sleepy eyes. Being locked up was bad, very bad, but you were content to lay listlessly on your side.

At some point, you must have fallen asleep because you weren’t entirely conscious when somebody kicked the front of your cage. “Hey, wake up.” Your physical response was to startle, jolting you awake enough to flinch away from the violence. But it was only Crina who crouched in front of the cage. “I have food for you. And medicine for the headache. I’m going let you out, and I suggest you don’t try to run. If the guys get a hold of you, I won’t stop them.”

“I won’t run,” you told her, your voice hoarse, your eyes fixed on what she had brought. A bowl of something that looked like stew and a bottle. More than food, you wanted water. Crina undid the lock and you shuffled out of the cage. Your head spun just as badly as it had when you dropped onto the floor earlier, your vision crawling with darkness and stomach heaving unhappily. She was right about the headache. It wasn’t a pain you ever got used to, no matter how many days you spent laid out from one. After an uneasy moment, you sat on the floor, grabbing the water and eagerly uncapping it. 

“Hand,” Crina said, holding out a glass bottle. You allowed her to shake two capsules into your palm, tossing them into your mouth before taking in a blessedly wet mouthful of water. It soothed your tongue and throat like a salve, although you knew your stomach wouldn’t be quite so happy to receive anything. The stew’s scent alone made your stomach clench and churn with equal parts hunger and nausea. Slow. You had to take it slow. 

“Thank you,” you told her, picking up the bowl. She’d brought a wrapped sailor’s biscuit to eat it with. Not very appetizing, but you hadn’t eaten much more than you slept. It could have been saw dust and you would have been grateful. 

“I have your bag,” she said to fill the silence as you ate, pushing the limp canvas towards you. “They took anything that looked valuable, but your clothes are all there. They need to be washed. I’ll lend you something to wear in the meantime.”

Since your mouth was full, you nodded your thanks.

“While you eat, I’m going to talk. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” Crina said. “You don’t strike me as the talkative type.”

She didn’t say that in an accusatory tone, but it still caused your heart to skip with anxiety. The fear had to be irrational, it wasn’t as if you had lied to Captain Buggy, so what did you have to worry about? Besides, only the guilty feared scrutiny, that was a favored line of your dad’s. 

“There’s a man in town asking if anyone has seen a girl. Petite. Missing an eye. Mentally unwell. He’s concerned that she might have gotten lost somewhere,” Crina told you. “From what I gather, her father is a pillar of the community. They’re all very worried.” 

You averted your gaze, anxiously pulling your hair to cover your left eye. Of course Randall would be looking for you, although you had hoped you would have more time before he noticed your absence. It didn’t matter that you left in such a way to raise as little suspicion as possible, or that you were an adult, or that you didn’t want to be found. Your dad asked him to be your keeper while he was gone, and Randall did as your father said. Everybody did. 

“Finish your food,” Crina prompted. “It’s worse when it’s cold.” 

Right. You started eating again, your movements mechanical. She said nothing, and you had nothing to say. 

“Everybody has their reasons for turning to piracy, and they’re not always pleasant,” Crina suddenly said. “Unless it interferes with my own business, I don’t care about who you were and why you ran away. It was a stupid choice, I think you know that. I won’t try and convince you to leave. Buggy seems to like you, so you wouldn’t be able to go anyway. But you need to understand that there will be consequences. The life you had before, no matter how terrible, did not prepare you for the life you’ve thrown yourself into.”

You stared hard at the bowl, thinking about that. It was true, you had to accept that you had blindly stumbled into a world you knew nothing about. But what choice did you have? The things that led you to this point were arranged like the rusty, creaky rungs of a ladder scaling the side of a building. Climbing up had always been the easy part, it was the inevitable descent that gave you trouble. You had to go slow, one rung at a time, blindly feeling with your toes, holding on with sweaty fingers, not looking up and not looking down because once you were on the ladder, you could only keep going. The first rung was spotting the Buggy Pirates, which you only did because you were sulking around the docks after seeing your father off on his trip. You only recognized the crew because your dad kept track of pirate captains with significant bounties. You only had the courage to sneak away from your house because dad was too far away to stop you. You only had the ability to scope out Buggy’s temporary hideout because of how much time you spent northside when you were younger. Those things all connected and followed so naturally and you didn’t know if fate existed, but you knew for a fact that you wouldn’t have wound up here on your own volition. It wasn’t a choice you made, it was the only way to get down from the roof that you had been stranded on for so long.

“I’ll give you some advice,” Crina continued, her tone lighter, “and I suggest you listen. You’re young and pretty, and you wouldn’t be the first to try and use that to get an advantage. It might work for a while, but men will get bored and your looks will fade. Before long you’ll be spat out into a cheap whorehouse with a couple of children you can’t afford and a hell of a rash.” 

The whiplash from your thoughts to the conclusion she had drawn made your stomach twist with disgust. “No,” you said. Was that what she thought of you? Even if the idea was utterly ridiculous, shame rolled uncomfortable through you. “I would never—I could never ever do that.” 

“Don’t be naive,” Crina said, rolling her eyes. “The boys you’re used to are disgusted by that scar, but the kind of men you’ll meet from now on won’t be. If your low self-esteem dictates who you let between your legs, you’ll find yourself in the gutter. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t sleep with men to get an advantage if that’s an option, only that you must be smart about it.” 

You pulled your hair forward again, shaking your head clear of what she was saying. She didn’t understand. It wasn’t the assumption that men would be repulsed by your scar—which they would be, you knew that—but that you didn’t have it in you to invite or manipulate male attention. In so many ways you were already ruined, but to stoop down to letting other men touch you would be too far, it would destroy you.

“Assuming you live past tomorrow night,” Crina continued, “get a knife and figure out how to use it. The men aren’t going to accept you as a member of the crew until you prove yourself. So if anybody gets too close, you prove yourself with blood.” 

“Do you think they’ll try to hurt me?” 

“I think you look like an easy target,” she said. “And I know you have no concept of self preservation or defense.”

“Yes, I do,” you said, frowning. You had made it this far, after all. That was more than anybody would have thought of you. 

“You don’t,” she said plainly. “The tablets I gave you are for treating pain, but imagine if they weren’t. You didn’t so much as ask me to clarify what they were.” 

You opened your mouth to argue, and closed it, shame squeezing your throat. You hadn’t even thought about that.

“It might not matter anyway,” she said, “depending on Buggy’s reasons for keeping you.”

“What do you mean?” 

Crina gave you a long, pitying look and you could tell there was something she wanted to say, something she was holding back. Eventually she shrugged. “That is between the two of you.”

You wanted to push for more, confused by the cryptic answer, but you didn’t. You could tell by the hard look on her face that she wouldn’t tell you anyway. 

“One more thing. The most important thing,” Crina told you, leaning close so she could whisper. “Never, ever mention the captain’s nose. In fact, never mention noses at all.” 

“His nose?” you repeated softly. “Is it… is it real?” 

“What did I just say?” she asked sharply. “He killed a few of the last new recruits for saying something that sounded like nose while he was in a bad mood.”

“He… killed them?” you asked. 

“Buggy is a very temperamental man,” she said, leaning back. “Try not to get on his bad side.”

“It sounds like you don’t like him.” 

“I do, actually. God knows why. Are you finished?” 

“Yes, thank you.” 

“Come on then,” Crina told you, getting to her feet and dusting herself off. “There’s running water on the other side. I’ll keep watch so you can clean up.”   

Although birds called and the breeze carried all sorts of noises from Barley Village, none of it really reached the northside. A solemn graveyard hush settled heavy between the wreckage of ruined buildings, drafty even in broad daylight. No ghosts hid in the shadows, no historical tragedy marred its name, but there remained the haunted imprint of people who were no longer around. 

Before setting you on your task of the day, Crina had given you a dress of hers to wear while your own clothes dried in the sun. You swam in it, but a sash at the waist made the fit look somewhat intentional and the long sleeves hid the ugly bruises cuffing your wrists. That, combined with having slept the previous night and most of the day, left you feeling oddly refreshed. Sure, all of the sleep had been in a cage and the only ‘bath’ you had was a couple of minutes alone with a spout that spat freezing water and a washcloth, but it was better than yesterday. Better than the day before that too, save for the bruises and big goose egg bump on the back of your head.  

Despite the headache, you were glad to be given something to do. The task wasn’t difficult. Busywork that kept you out of the way. Checking to ensure that everything which would be loaded on the ship was documented, organized, and ready for transport. It wasn’t entirely unlike what you had done in the past and, you imagined, would be doing in the future. It was, however, the opposite way around. The goods were obviously looted, you were creating a list to know exactly what and how much of it had been stolen. 

Vinegar, oil, wax.

You used the end of the pen to scratch beneath your bandana, which Crina had kindly retrieved for you. Sometimes the scar got itchy, like it had when it was healing. 

Twine, needles, thread. 

There was a particular smell to supply crates like these. Something to do with the place they were stored, or where they were made. Even now, years since you had been on a ship, it was overwhelmingly familiar. It made your stomach ache and chest clench, although you weren’t sure which quality of the scent was so unsettling. 

You scratched the scar again.

Vinegar, oil- 

Wait, you had already done that. Annoyed, you crossed out those words and crouched down to get into the next crate. Rope. It was coiled in tight loops like a huge snake, coarse beneath your fingers. Anything that was strong enough to endure the fury of the sea had to be coarse. Good rope was vital on a ship, you knew that even with your limited experience. Touching it reminded you of the time your dad tried to show you how to tie knots, and then subsequently had to treat your rope burn.

What would he think when he returned? Retired Marine or not, he was deeply involved with northside business and law. Missing supplies, missing daughter. Sometimes you felt an acidic sort of pleasure when imagining his reaction to your absence, but usually it was just dread.

Or worse. Prickling paranoia. You could run, for a time. But that was all it was. Running. He used to be a Marine, it wouldn’t be difficult for him to find you. When you were younger, the thought gave you comfort. 

But you didn’t want to think about that. Not at all. Not ever again. You stared very hard at the rope, desperate to put those thoughts out of your mind. 

You stared and stared and stared and-

Somebody grabbed you around the bicep, dragging you to your feet and forcing you back to reality. Yelping in fear, you were nearly knocked back down from the bloodrush dizziness of standing up too fast, saved only by the crates. 

“Good god, girl,” the unfamiliar man said, taking a step back, clearly put off by your reaction. “Are you deaf or something? I hollered at you three or four times. Were you sleeping?” 

Putting a hand to your racing heart, you looked from him to the still open crate and the notepad you had abandoned mid-task. You had no idea how long you had been sitting there. Long enough for your foot to go numb, prickling with pins and needles now that you were standing up. 

“I’m sorry,” you told him.

“The captain wants to see you. It’s urgent,” he said. When you didn’t immediately respond, still orienting yourself, he sighed impatiently and grabbed your elbow, physically dragging you away. You stumbled to keep up, trying very hard to avoid falling. “If Buggy asks why you took so long, you better tell him it was your fault.”

“I will,” you said to appease him, attempting to shake off his hand before realizing that it was pointless. “Please slow down.” 

“Not my fault you’ve got stumpy legs,” he said. “Keep up.” 

The unfairness of that stung, but you didn’t have much choice. You had a feeling that he’d keep on pulling you along even if it meant dragging you across the ground. 

“Where are we going?” you asked, embarrassingly out of breath. 

“There,” he said, nodding to one of the waterfront buildings. At least it was close. You never strayed so close to the water, the buildings were too squat to make for fun exploration and too exposed to give cover. 

The pirate released you when you got to the door, leaving you winded and scared. You adjusted your bandana and tried to catch your breath. “Don’t forget to tell him it was your fault it took so long, not mine,” he said, opening the door.

“I won’t,” you promised, the words papery thin on your dry tongue.  

You were in trouble. You had no idea what you might have done, but there had to be something. Why would you be summoned like this otherwise? A very bad feeling pressed against your sternum, but you forced yourself to walk forward. The door shut behind you. Inside, the air was dark and cool and wet, sending a little shiver down your spine. 

Buggy stood in the middle of the room, the only place where the sun found its way between the mangled teeth of glass and steel that used to be windows, his own little spotlight amidst the ruins. There were three other men on the edges of the light, their backs to you. One of them was bound. You did not like this. 

“There she is!” Buggy exclaimed, inviting you forward with his arms spread wide. “Come on, don’t be shy. Especially not after keeping us waiting so long. Your friend over here could hardly handle the suspense. 

Rocks and broken glass crunched beneath your feet as you approached them. Once you got close enough, finally, you could see the faces of the other men. One was the square-featured, angry man Buggy called Ivo. Another, a man you didn’t know. And the third, the one bound with a busted lip and developing black eye—

Randall called your name, trying to escape and rush to your side. Ivo grabbed him, pressing the blade of his knife against his throat.

“See, I told you, they’re working together,” Ivo said, glaring at you. “She tipped him off. No doubt this place will be swarming with the law before long.”

You stood completely still, staring at Randall with the steadily rising tide of panic sloshing in your stomach. After everything you had done to misdirect him, the note you left to beg he didn’t follow, the trouble you had put yourself through to keep from being seen, he was still here. 

“Are you okay?” Randall asked, looking you up and down frantically, concerned in a way he never had looked before. “Did they hurt you?” 

“I told you, she’s fine,” Buggy said with a grin. “I mean, yeah, Ivo over there did give her a little knock on the ole noggin—a love tap, really—but the eye was already like that when we found her.” 

“I wasn’t asking you,” Randall said, glaring at Buggy. 

“Shut up,” Ivo said, pressing the knife close enough to Randall’s throat that it broke skin. 

“No, no, let him go,” Buggy ordered casually, waving his hand. “He’s not gonna do anything stupid.” He threw an arm around your shoulder. “Not when I’ve got her.” 

Ivo reluctantly complied, releasing Randall. He watched you intently, and you knew what he was thinking. How could he save you?  

“Ivo over there thinks that the two of you are working together,” Buggy told you, smiling. His arm was heavy around your shoulders, oppressively so. “He thinks that we should kill you both.” 

“I’m not—I wouldn’t,” you told him. 

“And see, I wanna believe you. I really do. But he’s not talking, and,” Buggy ran his finger over your right cheek, reminding you of his threat from yesterday, “I’m starting to worry you’ve been lying to me.”

“I’m not,” you said, ice cold dread dripping into your veins a drop at a time. You fought your discomfort and forced yourself to meet his eyes, hoping he could see your sincerity. “I promise I’m not.” 

“Then how did he find this place?” 

“I don’t… I don’t know…”

“She used to hide here when we were kids,” Randall answered. “I thought she ran away, not that you freaks had kidnapped her. If I had known I’d find pirates here, I would have come armed.”

“Is that true?” Buggy asked you, pulling you even closer. Close enough to be embarrassing, to give the wrong impression, especially when he was stroking your cheek with a sort of affection that didn’t mesh with the danger in his blue eyes.

“I told you it is. Let her go, clown!” Randall shouted. His voice was loud enough to echo, and harsh enough to make you wince. That sort of rage wasn’t one you expected from him, but it was familiar all the same. 

“Oh, wow,” Buggy said with a laugh, looking up at him. “Is that jealousy I hear? She didn’t tell me she was leaving behind a boyfriend.” 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you said softly, your insides twisting at the thought. 

“Really?” Buggy asked. He shrugged, and looked at Randall. “If you’re not doing this because you want to have sex with her, why are you here?” 

“I am a dear friend—both to her and her dad,” Randall answered. “He asked me to look after her because she… She’s not in a sound state of mind. And she’s the only family he has left. Without her, he’ll have nothing.” He grit his teeth. “Take me, kill me if you’re that thirsty for blood, but let her go. Please.”

“You’re a real knight in shining armor. Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but she came here all on her own,” Buggy said, releasing you to approach him instead. “She begged to join my crew, got down on her knees and told me that she would be happy to serve me for the rest of her life. It was the most adorable thing.”

“No,” Randall said, his face twisting with disgust. “You’re lying. She wouldn’t do that.”

“Ask her yourself,” Buggy invited, stepping aside and sweeping out his arm. All eyes landed on you like a spotlight. Blood rushed in your ears, and you felt dizzy with it, ready to pass out on the spot. When you looked at Buggy, he smiled and nodded encouragingly. 

“It’s true,” you said.

“No. That is impossible,” Randall said. “This is insane. You are mad, you cannot make decisions like this for yourself.” You stared at his feet, your hands balled into fists. You were not crazy. You were not. That had to be true. “Whatever hysterics brought you here, give it up. These are pirates.”

“I’m a pirate too,” you declared, your hands forming fists at your sides. You weren’t crazy, or mad. You were thinking very clearly, more than you had in a while. 

“No, you are your father’s daughter,” Randall insisted, loud enough to make you flinch. “Can you imagine the agony he would feel hearing you say that?”

Your breathing was too fast, rapid enough to make your head spin. You kept shaking your head, tears flying off of your cheek, but you couldn’t recall when you had begun to cry. “I don’t care.” 

“Don’t care…? This bastard has already gotten into your head,” Randall said. “He has poisoned your broken mind with his lies and manipulations, please don’t let this go any further.”

You shook your head again, but there was nothing you could think of to say. You didn’t want to talk anymore, you just wanted this to be over. 

“Believe me, as much as I would love to claim otherwise, I had nothing to do with this,” Buggy said, raising his hands innocently. “You’ve got no one to blame but yourself. Think about what would drive a girl like this into the arms of a pirate. A broken heart, maybe? Was that your doing, lover boy? Did you break her heart? Make her feel like she wasn’t good enough?” 

“Keep your big goddamned nose out of our business, clown,” Randall said. 

The other pirates audibly gasped, and you could feel the sudden zap of tension in the air. Buggy’s taunting smile froze in place, his posture icing over like a statue. And then, a second later, he was rushing at Randall, burying his fist in the other man’s stomach. Randall crumpled onto his knees with a heavy grunt and you waited for something else, something worse. Crina said that Buggy had killed over jokes about his nose, and, right then, you believed it.

Nothing happened. You watched, frozen, as Buggy breathed in deeply, his shoulders rising and falling with it, and then he raised a hand.  

“New girl,” he called, snapping to beckon you closer. You obliged, rushing to his side. He didn’t look angry, not like you feared he would. Instead, he smiled. It was a mean smile, a frightening one. But a smile all the same. “Are you ready for your big moment?”   

“What?” 

“Your audition! I thought of the perfect act for you. Kill him.” 

You looked down at Randall, he was clearly still in pain, his eyes watering as he looked up at you. “I can’t,” you whispered, shaking your head again.  

“You can and will. Assuming you want to remain on my crew. Otherwise I’ll kill him and you’ll have to explain to daddy why prince charming was here in the first place.” He held out his hand towards Ivo. “Knife.” When he got it, Buggy flipped the knife handle first, holding it to you with a flourish. “You’re up, babydoll.”

“She won’t do it, clown,” Randall said through grit teeth. 

“Of course she will,” Buggy said. “For me.” 

As if moving through the dusky haze of a dream, you took the knife, wrapping your sweaty hand around the grip. The way Buggy smiled in response made your heart flutter, something to cling to amidst the horror and disgust. It didn’t feel real anymore. How could it be real? 

“I don’t know what to do.” Were those your words? Your voice?

Buggy laughed. “Of course you don’t,” he said, circling behind Randall. “C’mere, I’ll help you.” 

Randall was shouting and pleading, but Buggy had grabbed a fistfull of his hair to keep him from escaping. 

“You’ve gotta hold him still,” Buggy told you. “Like this, see?”  

“-don’t do this, please. You can’t… I love you!” 

You got a fistful of Randall’s hair, making him cry out in pain. There was no pleasure in the sound, only a roiling sense of disgust. It would be better when he was dead, and then he wouldn’t be in pain. 

“God you’re short,” Buggy said as he adjusted you into place, right between him and Randall. “You’ll be better off going for their ankles.” He wrapped his hand around yours, getting a good grip on the knife and holding it still. 

“-when he gets bored of fucking you. That’s all pirates do, rape and murder. You’ll never be one of them, you’ll just-”

“Start on one side and move to the other, easy as that,” Buggy said comfortingly, resting his chin against the side of your head. 

“-he doesn’t kill you, your dad will. Do you really think you’ll ever be able to hide from him?” 

Moving slowly, through a dream, you put the knife on the left side of Randall’s neck. It was no different from what a butcher did, really. 

Breath in. Pull. You instinctively locked up at the sound of Randall’s screams and the resistance of his flesh, but Buggy forced your hand, pulling the blade deep into his neck and then fast to the side. The knife got caught part way through, stuck in something hard. You tried to saw through it and Randall made an inhuman noise of agony. Buggy had to help you unstick it, to follow through until the knife slashed that horrifying scream short and then there was just a sort of gurgling sound and you didn’t know if it was because he was still alive or if it was an automatic process. 

There was so much blood, and it was hot, burning you. For some reason, you hadn’t anticipated the messy scarlet spray. From the deep slice came more blood. More, and more still. Randall’s heavy, limp body dropped onto the floor into a puddle of it, although you weren’t sure when you let go of his hair. Buggy released your hand, but you didn’t drop the knife, holding it in a death grip as blood streamed like red veins down your hand and wrist, down the blade and all the way to its tip before dripping to the dirty floor. The tang of iron filled your lungs. You shook all over, all the way down inside, your bones and organs shivering. It was your heart. It pounded frantically, like butterfly wings. And your breathing. Wheezing, gasping, gurgling like Randall’s had before he fell.

Your mouth opened to exhale, but there was nothing there. No air, no words. Nothing. Your cold gaze turned to look at Buggy, confused as to what you were supposed to do next. He had led you this far, but now you were lost. He smiled, and laughed, and took the knife away from you, tossing it to the side where it clanged and slid away. 

And then he folded you into his arms, your head pressed against his chest. His heartbeat was firm and steady, and he was so warm. He smelled of gunpowder and salty sea air and greasepaint and the natural warm scent of his skin. You clung to that, breathing in deep to excise the scent of blood. 

“Congratulations, babydoll,” Buggy told you. “Looks like you just got the part.” 

The first firecracker went off not long after the sun had gone down, kicking off the surprise party with an especially loud zip and then a bang and a bursting sizzle. “It’s a surprise party,” Buggy told you, his face illuminated by the flash of red. “As in, the people who live here are going to be so surprised by the party I’m throwing for my crew. Get it?” 

A chain of firecrackers followed the first, a show that the pirates set off amidst a barrage of explosions, lighting up the sky with brilliant colors and smoke, making the earth tremble beneath your feet. They acted as distraction and lure, drawing people further into the town and inviting the ship that had been lurking nearby to enter the harbor. 

And after that came the chaos. 

Many things happened that you were aware of, if only passively. Leaving the northside and then Barley Village, waiting at the dock, and then boarding the ship as men and women in colorful attire flooded the yard, overtaking the few armed guards. You were told to sit on the deck and wait, so you did. Aware of it all—noxious sulfur and smoke filling the air, thunderous claps of explosives, popping gunshots, screaming voices, roaring fires—but uninvolved. There was a sense of great quiet. Not outside where things were loud and violent and scary, but inside. You were very quiet on the inside. Far away from everything and everyone else. 

Blood flaked off of your skin, caking beneath the nails when you scratched your arm. It would have been nice to wash it off, but you didn’t know where you would go for that, and you didn’t want to get up.

“Yoo-hoo, is anybody in there?” 

A gloved hand waved in front of your face. 

You let out a hoarse scream, nearly tipping backwards from how violently you startled. It didn’t take long for you to realize how overblown the reaction was, Buggy’s laughter made the point quite clearly. 

“What was that?” he asked, almost laughing too hard to get the words out. He stood above you without his coat and hat, although he kept the striped headscarf, and a bottle tucked under his arm. 

“You scared me,” you told him, a hand on your racing heart.

“That noise you just made though,” he said, still laughing. “It sounded like one of those scream-y fireworks.”

“I didn’t know you were there.”

“Your fault, not mine. I was trying to talk to you, but you just sat there. I thought it was your eye that didn’t work, not your ears.”

“I guess I… zoned out a little.” 

“No shit. Ah, that was good,” Buggy said as his laughter subsided. “I had no idea human beings could even make sounds like that.” Letting out a big breath to settle himself, he sat down next to you. Very close, far closer than you would have, almost touching. “Kinda makes me wonder what other kinds of sounds you can make.” 

“I know, it’s annoying,” you said, staring hard at the deck. “I’m sorry.” 

Buggy laughed at that too, shaking his head. “You really have no clue, do you?” he asked. “Is it weird that I’m into it?” 

“Into what?” you asked. “I’m sorry, I… don’t understand.” 

“I know you don’t, and that’s okay,” he said with a mocking sort of indulgence, patting your head. “Anyway, I had a little business in town and snagged this from some rich guy’s house.” He held up a bottle by the neck and swished its contents a little for effect. “We’re going to celebrate.” 

“Wouldn’t you rather be out there?” you asked, the first coherent question that came to your mind as it scrambled to make sense of what he had just said. 

“Between you and me, this,” Buggy said with a confidential hush, gesturing to your burning town, “isn’t my thing. It’s a reward for my freaks, gives ‘em an outlet to express themselves artistically. I prefer a more… performative platform. True art deserves a spotlight and an audience.” He waved that away, smiling. “But this isn’t about me, it’s about you.” 

“Me?”

“You really impressed me earlier. I mean, yeah, your technique needs polish, and you’ve got no stage presence to speak of, but you displayed raw talent. I really think you have a shot at success, sweetheart. Stick with me, and I’ll make something out of you yet.” 

“Thank you,” you said softly, shying away from thinking about earlier. The praise though, that was heady. That made you feel warm. 

Buggy popped the cork off the bottle, taking a drink straight from it and smacking his lips appreciatively. “You like sweet things, right?” 

“I-” 

“You’ll love this then. Here, try it.” 

You eyed the bottle he was proffering to you warily. Alcohol was something you were familiar with, but you could count on your fingers the number of times you had actually tasted it. “I don’t know…” you said, trying to think of ways to reject drinking without seeming ungrateful.   

“You’re a pirate now, so you’ve gotta learn to drink like one,” Buggy told you, pushing it into your hand. “What’s the worst that could happen?” 

You sniffed the open lip, surprised by the sweetness. It didn’t smell as strongly of alcohol as you feared. Not like what your father drank. Maybe it would be okay. Trying to avoid embarrassing yourself, you tipped the bottle back just like he had. That was a mistake. It didn’t smell like alcohol, but you could taste it—feel it, even. Panicked by your body’s natural response to expel it, you swallowed as much as you could, coughing out the rest. Red liquid drooled down your chin, staining the dress that was already ruined with dried blood. Buggy laughed. A little at first, and then a lot. 

Flushing, you wiped your mouth.

“Oh, don’t be like that. That was hilarious,” Buggy told you. You looked away, even more embarrassed. “Your face was priceless. You threw that back with the confidence of a real fire-hazard, saggy skinned, dead eyed alcoholic. You were so serious about it too, and then… Good lord.”

“I didn’t know!” you said, trying and failing not to sound shrill. 

“It’s okay, you’ve got me to help you now. Try it again, but don’t be so greedy. Baby sips.” 

“No, thank you,” you said, holding the bottle back to him. 

“Drink. That’s an order,” he said, pushing it back to you. 

That gave you pause. “Do you mean that?” you asked. 

He nodded, urging you on. 

Your shoulders drooped in defeat. Trepidatiously, you took a small sip. At least you didn’t hack it back up this time. While the taste was sweet, the burn was not. It rose up like smoke into your head, you could feel it.  

“What if I get drunk?” you asked. 

“Oh, you’re going to get drunk, captain’s orders,” Buggy said with a grin. “I can’t stand watching you sit around moping about killing that guy. Besides, you’re a pirate now.”

The little ball of anxiety deep in your gut doubled. This was wrong, you knew it was. Or maybe you were wrong, and Buggy was right. You didn’t know. 

“I don’t want to embarrass myself,” you muttered.

“As long as you don’t jump into the water or shit yourself, you’ll be fine…” You looked at him, horrified. “Joking! C’mon, I’ve taken good care of you so far, haven’t I? You’ll be fine.”

The way he laughed made you want to believe him. He was your captain now. You nodded seriously and, steeling yourself, took another drink. And another. 

“See? It’s good, right?” Buggy asked, holding out his hand for the bottle. 

You licked your lips, cleaning up the lingering sweetness. “It is. Thank you,” you said, unable to keep yourself from admiring the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the view unfortunately obscured by his cravat. 

The perverse thought took you by surprise. Was it the alcohol? Already, your head was spinning, your thoughts a little more disorganized. It wasn’t like the quiet, empty feeling of before. It was warm and distant, it made your shoulders relax, the anxiety and uncertainty of before fading. This was a good idea, you already felt so much better. When he passed the bottle back, you didn’t have to be prompted to imbibe, chasing that feeling.   

“I don’t mean to pry, but when that guy back there mentioned your dad, it really seemed to get to you,” Buggy said. “What, did daddy not love you? Or maybe he loved you a little too much.”

You didn’t want to talk about that. You didn’t want to think about it. You took another big drink. 

On the horizon, the town was utterly ablaze. As the night grew darker, the flames rose higher. Which building was burning so brightly? It belched thick, black smoke into the night sky. Who was in it? Anybody you knew?

“Don’t wanna talk about it, hm? That’s fine,” Buggy said, stealing the bottle back. “With any luck, my freaks’ll kill him tonight, eh? Then you’ll really be free.” 

“He’s gone right now,” you said, your words soft and slurring together. “Out of town.” What would he think of the smoldering ashes? Would he believe you had perished in the flame? Somehow, you doubted that. He would know what you had done. There was no chance of freedom, not for you. 

“That’s even better,” Buggy said.  

Your eyebrows furrowed as you turned to him, both in confusion and disbelief. “How?” 

“Because, babydoll,” Buggy told you, shaking your shoulder to make sure you were paying attention. “It’s good to have somebody to hate—somebody to prove wrong. He tried to convince you that you’re crazy, he tried to keep you from ever being yourself. That pain and anger made you weak. But you’re not weak anymore. Tonight, I showed you how to be strong. It’s not enough to tell those assholes that they’re wrong, you have to prove it to them. That’s what tonight was about, right? You proved to your dad, to everybody, that you’re stronger than they thought. And, hey, you proved it to me, too. I wasn’t sure about you at first, but I changed my mind.” He threw an arm around you, pulling you close. “I like you, kiddo. A lot.” 

“I like you too,” you said, relaxing into the little side hug, very aware of every place his bare arm met your bare shoulders and neck. The alcohol had stoked a nice blaze in your stomach and chest, making your head spin in a way you didn’t mind that much. Smoothing the colors, softening the air, making you want to lean into his touch, made you crave more of it. 

Buggy pulled away, leaving the bottle in your hands. You felt a little cold without him.  

“You know,” he said, smiling at you. The far off flames glinted mischievously in his eyes. The flaring reds and oranges highlighted his cheekbones too, defined the sharpness of his jaw. You were caught off guard by how viscerally you reacted to the thought that he was handsome, your filterless mind caught in an endless loop of focusing on the fact. “Burning down this shithole is nothing compared to what I will do. The towns I’ll raze to the ground, the treasure I’ll steal, the shows I’ll put on. Now that I’ve got a crew, I’m gonna put on a show like nobody’s ever seen. The biggest, flashiest, greatest show ever. Everybody will be screaming my name, recognize my face. I’ll shine so bright that they’ll have no choice but to love me. ” 

Buggy’s intensity made you smile, you couldn’t help it. Alcohol had created a cloudy burst of affection within you, or maybe it was just the floodgates of tension finally collapsing, letting out something that would have otherwise been smothered. Either way, it was as intoxicating as the drink itself. 

“Are you laughing at me?” Buggy asked, his tone filled with steel. You looked to see his dark expression, his narrowed eyes. 

“I’m not,” you said, confused by his rapid shift in demeanor. “I’m… I’m happy. I’ll do anything to help you.” 

He relaxed. “Well, you’d better start working on your act.” 

That made you laugh, a dizzy, bubbly sound. “I can’t do an act. I wouldn’t know what to do.” 

“There has to be something. Let me think… Can you sing?”

“I used to, a little. But not for a really long time.” 

“Come on, let me hear it.”

You were drunk, you knew that for a fact because in no state of sobriety would you offer to sing in front of another person. But, right then, bubbling with alcohol and protected by the darkness of the smoky night sky, you felt invincible. 

“Oh, what do you do with a drunken sailor? What do you do with a drunken sailor? What do you do with a drunken sailor, early in the morning? Slash his…um… something, something, captain’s daughter. Toss him in… to… the dirty water…” Whatever coherence you held onto unraveled into a fit of drunken laughter at the awful rhyme. “I’m sorry, I think… I think I forgot some of the words.”  

“Seems like you forgot the tune too,” Buggy said, wincing dramatically. All that did was make you laugh harder. “Hold on a second, let me wipe the blood out of my ears.” 

You swatted his shoulder, although your attempted indignance probably wasn’t very convincing when you were still smiling. “Don’t be mean!”

“That’s a bold way to treat your captain,” he told you, but he was smiling too. 

“Please don’t be mean to me, Captain Buggy,” you said, speaking slowly to emphasize how serious you were. 

“Beg me again.” 

You blinked. “What?” 

“Nothing,” he said, waving it off in a way that made you think he was making fun of you. “Anyway, I’m being nice right now, especially after that performance. The critics would eat you alive for that one. So, singing is out. Clearly. What else have you got?”

“Oh! I know a, um, a rhyme. A joke.” 

He looked at you skeptically. “Really?” 

“What is that s’posed to mean?” you asked.

“You don’t strike me as somebody with… How should I put this… A sense of humor?” 

You frowned. 

“Alright, alright, quit pouting and tell me,” Buggy said impatiently, waving you to continue. 

You cleared your throat very theatrically, sitting up as straight as you could manage. 

“There was a young lass who thought

Very little but thought it a lot.

Then at long last she knew

What she wanted to do,

But before she could start, she forgot.”

Deflating, you laughed, surprised at how clearly you had delivered the words. Especially considering how long it had been since you heard them. 

Buggy didn’t look nearly as impressed. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a clean limerick before,” he said. “And now I know why. I mean, what’s the point of limerick without the ick.”

You blew a raspberry at him. “Fine, you do one.”

“Okay, but you have to prepare yourself,” Buggy said. You nodded encouragingly.

“There was a young plumber named Lee

Who was plumbing his girl by the sea.

She said, ‘Stop your plumbing,

There's somebody coming’

Said the plumber, still plumbing, ‘It's me.’"

Belatedly, you gasped, your hands covering your mouth. That shock dissolved into giggles. “That’s, oh, that’s… that’s dirty.”

“Aw, was it too much for your delicate sensibilities? Now that you’re a pirate, you’re gonna hear a lot worse than that. A looooooooot worse. I hope your unspoiled ears can handle it.”  

“I can!” you insisted, taking a big drink to steel yourself before setting the bottle aside. If you were going to be a pirate, you had to stop getting so flustered. “More. Please.” 

“Okay, okay…” Buggy cleared his throat. “A hooker roaming the East Blue, 

Once filled her vagina with glue, 

She said, with a grin, ‘Well, they paid to get in, 

And they’ll damn sure pay to get out, too.’”

You laughed loudly, as much at the joke as the taboo nature of it. You laughed, and then giggled in a bubbly, drunken way that you knew was too loud and embarrassing. “That is icky,” you told him. “Jeez, that’s…” Your faux seriousness dissolved into a fit of giggles again and you leaned against him for stability. “What would you even do?” 

“Yeah, I don’t know. It sounds like a sticky situation,” he said, nudging you with his elbow. That, of course, sent you into another fit of giggles. 

“I’m sorry, I’m…” you said. “I think I’m drunk.” You looked behind yourself at the town, the glittery haze of joy buzzing in your head fading at the sight. It was horrific, wasn’t it? And here you were, laughing like a fool. You couldn’t really comprehend the magnitude of it all, even if you could acknowledge that it was terrible. “Is it okay?” you asked, looking back at him imploringly. “Everything that happened tonight… I thought I would feel very different after, but I don’t. It almost feels like it’s not even real. You ever get that? When things happen but they feel so impossible that you get confused?”

“If you can think that clearly,” Buggy said, “then you’re not drunk enough. Bottoms up, babydoll.” You smiled at his use of the pet name and the fluttery feeling it gave you. What else could you do but oblige, tipping the bottle back like before. Only, unlike before, you kept it all down. There wasn’t any real burn, just more sweetness, more warmth. 

And then there was nothing left. 

“Woah,” you said, lowering the empty bottle and wiping your mouth. “‘s all gone.”

“And how do you feel?” he asked. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but all that came out was a dizzy sort of laugh. “I dunno…” you said, closing your eye, trying to collect your thoughts. “I’m…” Already things were getting even more fuzzy and foggy. Fabric stuck to your flushed skin, the salty air drying across your chest and cheeks. “I feel… very…”

Making an upset noise in the back of your throat, you pushed your hair back, catching the bandana and pulling it off so you could feel the breeze on your whole face. That helped. Drawing in a deep breath, you looked at him, trying to focus. Only, the second you saw him, all you could do was smile. His eyes were greedy about the light, sparkling with it. Even with the nose, Buggy was handsome. That was not something you could tell him though, not at all ever. Unfortunately you had forgotten what you were saying in the first place. 

“Very… what?” Buggy asked. “‘Cause if you keep trying to be a buzzkill, I’ll give you something to laugh about.”

Were you a buzzkill? You couldn’t remember what you had said or done to earn that title. It was hard enough to comprehend what was happening in the moment. “Like what?” you asked.

“Like… this!” Buggy said, using the sash around your waist to pull you closer so he could tickle your sides. You jumped and squealed, the bottle rolling out of your hands as you tried to fight him off. 

“No no no, don’t,” you cried, trying to escape. You were being too loud, moving too much, acting like an idiot, but you didn’t have enough control to stop. 

“Why not?” he asked. “You’re laughing, aren’t you?” 

It was true, you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing, letting it out in panicked little bursts. Time had a bizarre elasticity to it, everything hitting you at once and fading just as fast. Laughing, sobbing, begging him to stop. It was easy to catch and hold onto one of his hands, but that left the other one free. And if you tried to catch that one instead, you had to release the first. There must have been a better way to do it, but you felt as if, bit by bit, particle by particle, the world was separating, the hot and humid air splitting, your limbs becoming loose, your capacity for rational thought dissipating like mist. 

Lacking any sort of control and with a completely undeserved sense of invulnerability, you tackled him. Buggy let it happen, still laughing. At least he had stopped. 

“God, it’s like being attacked by a drunk, one-eyed toddler,” he said. “What are you gonna do, whine me into submission?” 

“Don’t be mean,” you said seriously, your words ruined by something wavering between a laugh and a sob, or maybe it was just the drunken slur. 

“You attacked me. If anything, I'm the victim here.” 

“No! You started it!” 

“Hold on, are you… crying?” Buggy asked incredulously. “Aw, you poor thing. I mean, you were laughing so much, how could I have known you didn’t like it?” 

“I don’t!” you insisted. 

“To be clear,” he said. “You don’t like this?” He attacked your sides, not tickling so much as just teasing, but to the same effect. You yelped and sat up squirm away, swatting at his hands. 

Rather than laugh like before, Buggy groaned, his hips bucking up against you. A loud, harsh gasp left your mouth, your entire body going rigid from the liquid heat of friction, your thighs squeezing around him. At some point, your skirt had ridden up, your panties being the only barrier left. You didn’t think you had ever been as acutely aware of how achingly empty, electrically tingly, as you were right then. 

Bad. Very bad.

“Oh, there’s another fun noise,” Buggy said, laughing as he propped himself upright with his arms. “I can’t believe that got you.” 

“No,” you said quickly, dizzy from the intensity of your reaction and how close the two of you were. You could smell him, the sweat, the musk, the salt, the greasepaint, the gunpowder. You could see the glitter in his makeup, the fire catching in his eyes. “It jus’... surprised me.” 

“Is that why you’re shaking?” Buggy asked, rubbing your exposed thigh, the fabric of his glove catching the sensitive skin. 

“I’m… um…” Your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to organize the drunken slush of your brain. Being so close to him, feeling his body against yours, sent deviously tantalizing tingling sparks through you. And guilt. It was wrong, he wasn’t doing anything to invite those feelings, you were just being weird and drunk and embarrassing and you couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss him. You’d have to tilt your head a lot, although the stubble would be more hazardous than his nose. The last time you kissed someone, you were both young enough that you didn’t have to navigate facial hair. And then there was the matter of the makeup. You tried to imagine what you might look like after, the slash of red and imprint of white. Maybe they’d mix into pink. You tried to force yourself to focus on something else, but you couldn’t meet his eyes either. Nervous and confused and filled with a million different feelings you had no name for, you squirmed again, thoughtlessly adding to the anxious feedback loop of heat and need and intoxicated emptiness. 

“You know, sweetheart, this reminds me,” Buggy said, “there’s still the matter of your physical. It’s standard procedure for new crew. We could get that over and done with while you’re… lubricated.”

“What’re you… talking about?”  

“I’ve gotta make sure you’re fit, healthy… Clean of anything you could pass on to the forty or so people you’re gonna be stuck with in an enclosed space for weeks at a time.”

“How d’you do that?” 

“You’ve been to a doctor, right? It’s kinda like that. I know it can feel a little invasive, so it might be better to do it while you’re drunk.”

“What…” you started to ask, but then Buggy shifted, his hips pushing up against you. The fresh wash of warmth it sent into your core scattered your mind, and you lost the already tenuous thread of thought. Your eyelashes fluttered, although you weren’t sure when you had closed your eye. “Umm…”

“Well, first,” he said, answering the question you hadn’t asked, “you’d have to take off your clothes. Then relax while I have a little look-see. It’s important that you stay as still as possible. I’ll have a hard time finishing if you can’t stop squirming around the whole time.” 

“Do you really have to?” you asked, your brow furrowing. It sounded embarrassing. But maybe if it was him, you didn’t mind? Your dad did all of your past medical check-ups so it wasn’t inherently wrong. But the thought of Buggy seeing you without clothes wasn’t exactly nice, you could only imagine his disgust. That was bad. 

“Depends on if you’re serious about being a pirate or not,” Buggy said.   

“I am serious!” you exclaimed. Your hands went to the sash around your waist to pull the bow free. If you did it quickly, you wouldn’t be as embarrassed. 

“Woah, wait. Holy shit,” Buggy said, “are you seriously—” He cracked up laughing, making you freeze. “I didn’t think you’d actually fall for that.”

“You’re… laughing,” you said, your fingers falling with the slow sink of humiliation. 

“You really were going to strip for me, out in the open and everything.” Buggy laughed harder, rocking forward. “I didn’t expect you to be so eager. Hey, if you really wanna get naked, I’m not going to stop you.” 

“I don’t, I just… I thought…” you said, pulling away from him and trying to get onto your feet to get away, embarrassment lighting the worst sort of fire within you.  

“Woah, calm down, it was just a joke,” Buggy said, his laughter fading. “You’re absolutely plastered, if you stand up, you’re gonna fall right back down.” You didn’t stop, resolute to get onto your feet and put some distance between you and him. “I won’t catch you.” 

“’m fine,” you told him. 

You finally got your footing and braced against your knee to lurch upright. For a second, you were standing up and weightless. And then you were nothing.

[floef-likes-minecraft]

Enamoured

Wordcount: 927 Summary: Pearl finds Joel at his base, looking at a somewhat familiar sight.

Pearl had come to Joels base to return the purpur, of course. Well, she wouldn’t just yet because she had to think of a clever way to present it to him first. She had toyed with the idea of building one of his famous skyscrapers out of it, but that would take her days. While she loved that idea, she didn’t think she could finish it before Joel would discover it. She could just cover one of his buildings in it, but that seemed unoriginal as she had already done so with Etho’s unfinished roof.

As she wandered through the base, she found herself drawn to a street with strange lighting. Given how hidden away it was, it should be nearly pitch black here but from the back a bright light flooded in. It was slightly pinkish and blue and almost seemed to move. Pearl stopped for a moment, wondered if it was safe for her to continue and then decided that she was willing to take the risk.

Pearl didn’t find anything dangerous. She didn’t find anything that wanted or could kill her. Instead, she found one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. The street turned and leaded onto a bridge suspended high above the city, between two tall buildings. The bright lights came from the biggest billboard known to man, casting light and shadow over the colorful buildings. Because she was standing so close it took her a moment to fully see the moving hologram of a beautiful woman in deep blues and pinks and she looked vaguely familiar. Before Pearl could put her finger on who she was, she noticed Joel, who was standing in the dead center of the bridge, looking up to the billboard much like she was. He looked just as enamored as herself.

Instantly, Pearl had forgotten what she had come here to do. Joel seemed almost sad looking up at the light, high mouth slightly opened and barely blinking. It was as if he’d seen it for the first time, just like Pearl, despite this being his base. Pearl set her feet in motion, walking up to Joel silently.

“Who is she?” she asked in a whisper. Joel flinched and looked to his side. He blinked hard and swallowed before he answered. Pearl swore she noticed a tear in his eye, but she was smart enough not to mention it.

“I – I have no idea,” he said eventually. “I designed this billboard in a bit of a trance, I needed something to go up here. Then… I just created this.”

He gestured at the billboard vaguely and the lights almost seemed to reach out for his hand.

“She’s beautiful,” Pearl said.

“She is,” Joel confirmed and they stood in silence for a couple of moments, just enjoying the lights in front of them. Pearl had known Joel from before he joined this Server, they had been on some more Servers before and they had a lot of mutual friends. Joel was always the abrasive one, the loudest in the group and he didn’t shy away from a prank or comment that went over the line. But Pearl was observant and had always noticed the few dips in that energetic façade. He cared deeply for his friends and creations and there had always been moments where he had struggled with is memory. He played all of that off, however, just to not be perceived as weak or lesser than anybody else. Pearl didn’t know what background Joel came from, but there was no need for him to feel that way.

“Eh, what was it you came for?” Joel eventually asked, tearing his eyes away from the billboard.

“I… I forgot,” Pearl lied. Joel didn’t need to know about her purpur ploy. Not yet, at least. Joel snickered, the confidence that Pearl was used from him flowing back.

“Well, do I know that feeling Pearl,” he joked. “But you can just confess if you’ve gone on to long without seeing my beautiful face.”

“Oh, you wish,” Pearl said and she rolled her eyes. “I would’ve just gone to Bdubs’ and looked at that horrifying sign you made there.”

“It’s an expression of my emotions, thank you very much,” Joel defended himself. Pearl didn’t know what Joel had against horses, but he took every opportunity he could to rub in it Bdubs’ face, who loved the animals. Wars had started over less on this Server, Pearl knew, so she was curious where this would end.

If they even could, because rumors of another, actual war brewing outside this Server had started spreading.

“But, once you’re already here, can I ask you for some advice?” Joel started to walk along the bridge, away from the billboard Pearl didn’t really want to leave behind. “I have a couple of color palette’s I need help with, they just aren’t doing it for me.”

“Sure, I’ll take a look,” Pearl followed Joel, happy to help. Before she turned to corner she looked at the billboard once more. Now she saw the glittering background, which didn’t pop as bright as the hologram of the giant woman herself. It rolled over the screen, depicting a large white tower with a pink roof and several purple and green hot air balloons. It was to specific of a background to just be random. There must be some purpose to it and Pearl felt like she knew what it was. It was on the edge of her mind, but she just couldn’t touch it.

It probably wasn’t important.

Thanks for reading! This is a part of a fic/AU I'm writing which is very much not as peaceful as this. But I know myself by now and I might never actually finish a full story lmao. So, have this, as I'm pretty happy with this.

[apheliia]

HYDRANGEAS, CH. 3. — Tokito [Name] receives their blade and completes their first mission.

— series synopsis. Hydrangeas, in some cultures, have been known to symbolize apology. The Hashira Tokito [Name] has many things to apologize for, indeed.

— trigger and content warnings. canon-typical violence, blood, death, crying, friends fighting, etc etc.

— author's thoughts. hydrangeas is also on ao3!

        Again, there was widespread hesitance among the crowd.

        Some hesitated for trivial reasons—such as the fact that their crows had yet to settle down, nipping at their flesh and pecking at their hair meanly (they were immensely grateful that their crow was nothing like that; having such a peaceful crow would surely make their missions to come far more tolerable). Others, however, still seemed to be reeling from learning of Sabito's death and could not yet bring themselves to move forward and select their ores, knowing that once they did, they would be leaving him behind forever, that he would never stride forward with them.

        Sabito would forever remain in the past, a memory of what once and what could have been, had the night ended better.

        A glance around the crowd revealed that none were quite ready to step up.

        Therefore, with a gentle sigh, they stepped forward, delicately approaching the table next to Amane. They were indeed hesitant, but—unlike their peers—they did not allow that to stop them.

        Their eyes scanned the table. Ores of various sizes and shapes were neatly laid out. There were even minor color variations among them. Some were solid grey, while others seemed to shimmer and gleam in the light with multiple monochrome shades. Gingerly, they ran their fingers along the surfaces of one or two, before looking over to the white-haired woman for guidance. "How..." They paused. "How do I know which one is right?"

        "There are no right or wrong selections," she answered smoothly, her eyes flicking across their features, analyzing even the slightest twitches in their expression. She knew something was wrong—that much was more than clear to them, based on the way her face seemed to soften compassionately when she stared at them. "No one ore is more advantageous over the others, so please do not let it weigh on your mind too deeply."

        A nod was the only response they could muster as they turned back to the table in front of them. A moment passed with no movement from them, and then another.

        And then, finally, they picked up an ore. Its weight in their hands was grounding in a way, staving off the grief-stricken mist slowly settling in their brain—not quite heavy enough that they had to put any real exertion behind holding and carrying it, but heavy enough to be sink comfortably into their hand. It would make a fine blade, indeed.

        Feathers rustled, ghosting against their cheek. They took that as Fuyuki's sign to hand the ore over to Amane, and quietly turned their body to her, holding the ore out to her. She removed it from their outstretched hand with all the gentleness she had always displayed towards them; when her fingers brushed against theirs, they almost felt as if she was caressing their hand in a subtle, silent gesture of reassurance that whatever happened on that mountain was not a reflection upon them as a person.

        Silence persisted for a brief moment more. Amane was the one to disrupt it, though she had quieted her voice noticeably; it was more than clear that her words were only for them, and the other slayers most certainly did not miss her cue, for when she began whispering to them, soft chatter brewed among the group behind them as they all got engaged with their own conversations to avoid unintentional eavesdropping.

        "You may wait for me off to the side, young one."

        Their confusion must have shown through on their face, because she cracked a small, vaguely amused smile at them.

        "We will be making the journey back to headquarters together."

        "Oh." Something warm and comforted stirred in their chest. "Okay, Lady Amane. I will wait for you."

        "Good. Rest for now, child." She leaned down, her hand reaching for their cheek. "It will take me some time to finish up with the rest of your group."

        Amane's palm was so, so unbearably soft and tender when it held their face. Involuntary tears pricked at their eyelashes, but they did their best to blink them away, to not be overcome by how much Amane reminded them of their mother in that moment, to not be overwhelmed by her kindness towards them, to not completely and utterly shatter under her gaze.

        Despite how hard they tried to prevent it, their voice quivered when they responded to her:

        "Yes, Lady Amane."

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

        It didn't take quite as long as they might have anticipated for Amane to finish up with their fellow Demon Slayers to-be—perhaps two hours longer at most. Sunlight, earlier only daring to peek above the horizon in a slow greeting, now bathed their face in its full warmth, though it did nothing to comfort them. A deep, slow ache had settled in their chest in the time that they had been sitting off to the side. A haze had gotten similarly comfortable within their skull.

        It was due to no physically tangible injury. That much, they were sure of.

        (The strongest slayer on the mountain naturally would not endure any significant bodily injury. They knew that their pain was not the consequence of a neglected internal wound.)

        Eventually, after the last slayer thanked her and disappeared from view down the stairs, Amane approached them.

        "Are you ready to leave, child?"

        They blinked slowly, dazed. A wordless nod, then, and they stood up.

        Their lack of enthusiasm—the enthusiasm she had grown so used to and so fond of as she adjusted to their presence in her home—did not go unnoticed, but the woman said nothing quite yet, and just gently ghosted a soft hand along the dip in their back, leading them along. Subconsciously, they pressed closer to her.

        "I..."

        "Hm?"

        "I should be the one leading you along, Lady Amane," they giggled shyly, a shaky smile gracing their features as they glanced back and up at her briefly, before turning their attention back to the steep downhill stairs to ensure that they did not trip and fall. "I feel like it's improper for you to extend so much effort on my behalf..."

        Amane chuckled.

        "Perhaps," she mused airily. "I believe some children of the Corps may see it that way, yes, but I do not."

        "No?"

        "No, not in the slightest."

        The silence returned, heavy with the weight of loss, though it was not necessarily uncomfortable or unpleasant. It endured for a while longer, until they and Amane were down the mountain and a bit less than an hour into the walk to their destination.

        It was then that something in the air shifted, and Amane's hand squeezed their shoulder in a wordless gesture to get them to stop walking. They did, turning to face her.

        "Do you want to talk about what happened on the mountain?"

        They hesitated for a moment, but then nodded.

        "Tomioka came with another boy, Sabito. Everything was fine at first," they admitted quietly, gaze shifting away from her face. They could not bear to look her in the eyes. Amane kneaded their shoulder kindly, encouraging them to go on. "I thought it was going to end fine, that nobody was going to die, but then Sabito, he..."

        Tears stung the corners of their eyes, and they tried to blink them away to no avail.

        "I failed him, Lady Amane."

        "You did not fail that boy, [Name]," she murmured, gingerly bending down until she was eye-to-eye with them. Her hands caressed their face, holding them as if they were the most delicate and precious thing in the world, thumbs rubbing back and forth across their cheekbones. "You cannot save everybody. It is simply not feasible, especially not by only one child such as yourself."

        "But— But I have to try."

        The woman smiled sadly, slender fingers brushing the hair from their face—to get a better look at their face or to simply soothe them, they did not know.

        "You do," she agreed, "but you also have to be able to forgive yourself when you cannot manage to do so. Can you do that for me?"

        A tear slid down their cheek. Doubt swirled in their chest. How could they forgive themselves? How could they show themselves kindness when they didn't deserve it in the slightest bit? What forgiveness did they possibly deserve after failing to protect Sabito, despite certainly being the strongest trainee on the mountain that night? "I don't know."

        "Can you try?"

        Hesitance. Then, they nodded, eyelids fluttering shut when she leaned forward, pressing her forehead to theirs. Trembling, smaller hands reached up to clasp over her somewhat larger ones.

        "Good," she whispered. "Good."

        Her gaze flicked off to the side, and she hummed thoughtfully, withdrawing from them after a brief moment. Their eyes followed hers. A wisteria house stood in the near distance. It was only upon noticing it that their mind properly registered the faint scent originating from it. They wordlessly looked back to the white-haired woman, tilting their head slightly to the side, as if to ask what she was thinking.

        Then, like she could read their mind, she answered their unspoken question:

        "Do you want to visit Tomioka before we return home?"

        They hesitated, looking down. Some of their hair became displaced, despite the woman fixing it mere moments before, falling back into their face.

        "Will he even want to see me?"

        "Well," she mused, a hand reaching towards them again to gently, patiently brush back a few strands of hair; she did not mind doing it a million times over as long as it offered even the smallest shred of comfort to them, and based on the way they leaned slightly into her hand, it did, "you will never know for certain if you don't visit."

        "...What if he doesn't want to see me?"

        "And if he does?"

        They didn't respond, and Amane's lips tilted upwards slightly. The air around her was so impossibly thick with bittersweet melancholy, as if she had seen their story play out a million times before with different people. Different slayers. It made them halfheartedly wonder how long Amane had been with the Corps—surely not too long, but... they somehow did not doubt that she had seen their very tragedy happen over and over and over again.

        "If he doesn't want to see you, then you may leave and give him space," she finally said, fingertips brushing gingerly and reassuringly along their cheek before withdrawing. "But know this: he is grieving, and if he doesn't want to see you, it is not your fault, alright?"

        Again, they hesitated, nibbling on the inside of their cheek thoughtfully. Then, they nodded. "Okay."

        Her smile lightened. The air did not feel so suffocatingly sad any longer. "Very well, then. Shall we get going?"

        Another nod, and Amane's hand returned to its place on their back as the two began to walk in the direction of the wisteria house.

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

        "Wisteria houses belong to families who are closely affiliated with the Corps," Amane mused, her eyes shifting upwards towards a bundle of flowers hanging particularly close to face-level. She smiled, delicately plucking it from its branch and leaning down to tuck it behind their ear. "They are places where our slayers can safely rest and recover in between missions, free of charge."

        Their eyes widened. Heat rushed to their cheeks, but they smiled, reaching up to brush their fingers against the soft petals tickling their hairline. "For free?"

        "But of course," an unfamiliar voice answered as the large gate, engraved with a wisteria crest, opened. An elderly woman stood there, serene smile on her face. Her eyes crinkled with fond recognition at the sight of Amane. Then, her gaze shifted towards them. "It is the least we could do for the organization that saved our ancestors' lives."

        "I see," they murmured in reply. "Th— thank you for what you and your family do, then, miss!"

        "Oh, aren't you just the sweetest thing?" the woman gushed, reaching out to pinch their cheeks. "You mustn't thank us! As I said, it is the very least we could do." She then pulled away, a knowing smile on her face as she turned and began to walk into the safe barriers of her home with... surprising swiftness for a woman of her age. "Now, then, come in. What may I do for you?"

       ��"We are here to visit someone," the lady of the Corps explained calmly, following after her. One of their hands raised to shut the gate. However, the gate somehow shut itself—it left them astonished, and the hand that they had raised to shut it with slowly fell to their side. Was that the work of the wind, or was the house simply designed that way? A slight breeze did brush over their skin quite a few times during their walk so far, but it was hardly enough to shut such a hefty wooden gate on its own, and how could the house possibly be designed to shut its own door? They rushed to catch up to the two older women, pushing the thoughts to the back of their mind for the time being. "A young boy by the name of Tomioka Giyu was brought to your home very recently."

        "Ah, yes, Tomioka!" she exclaimed, nodding fervently. "Yes, he was brought to me just a few hours ago. He suffered only minimal injuries and has a mild concussion, but is well beyond that."

        "Oh, that's good," they said. A weight was lifted off of their chest at that, and they could breathe just a bit more easily now that they knew how Giyu was. "I thought he... I thought he was way more injured."

        "Not at all," the woman replied, shaking her head. "Though... we have been having a difficult time getting him to eat, unfortunately. He refuses everything we give him."

        Within their chest, their heart seemed to leap nervously at the thought that popped into their mind when she had said that—nevertheless, they spoke up before Amane could, voice wavering somewhat:

        "Can I try bringing something to him?"

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

        'Hold the tray carefully now, little one!' the woman had instructed them just a few moments prior. 'It can be quite heavy.'

        Heavy was a strong word—difficult to balance might have been a better way to describe it. With the plate holding egg rolls on one end, the bowl filled with soup on the other, and a cup containing a drink mixed with crushed up medication on one of the corners, they had to be especially careful not to waver and lose balance. If they did, everything would fall.

        Honestly, they weren't sure if they could handle the embarrassment of making such a huge mess in such a kind old woman's home, so they did their very best to focus as they walked towards the room where Giyu was said to be.

        It was as they approached their destination that fresh anxiety began to brew in their chest. Once they reached the door, they stopped in front of it, heart pounding furiously against the confines of their chest. A shaky breath left their nose as they tried to calm down.

        'If he doesn't want to see you, then you may leave and give him space.'

        Right. That was what Amane had told them. It was that simple.

        Besides, they couldn't possibly back out now—his food would get cold if they did, and then that would just be a terrible waste of that lovely woman's effort. No, they could not back out.

        They breathed in, then out.

        Carefully, they shifted, adjusting the tray so that it was perfectly balanced on their one forearm. With the other, they knocked twice on the door. No response came—there was only total silence from within. Then, they slid the door open, having no other choice but to enter.

        "Tomioka?" they called out, squinting as their eyes adapted to the darkness of the room. "Are you in here?"

        Wide, surprised blue eyes—blue eye, more accurately, because the other was wrapped in a bandage—stared back at them. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but closed it just as fast, staring at them in quiet shock that they had come to see him.

        "Um, hi," they greeted, desperately trying to swallow down all their nervousness. A cautious hand reached back to slide the door shut again; then, they quickly readjusted the tray again so that they could hold it more securely with both hands. They walked to the middle of the room before kneeling at his bedside. "Hi, Tomioka."

        "...Why are you here?"

        His words were distant. Detached, in a way. It made them wince somewhat.

        "I wanted to check on you," they admitted, setting the tray down next to him. "How are you feeling? Does your head still hurt?"

        "It's fine," he mumbled, withdrawing from them when they reached out to gingerly touch his head. Wordlessly, they pulled their hand back towards their body, gaze shifting downward.

        Tension weighed heavily on their shoulders.

        "Um... you should eat," they suggested. "You'll heal faster that way, and—"

        "You should have left me to die."

        Ice replaced their blood in that moment, and their face fell. Their heart stuttered in their chest as they searched for the right words. "...What? No, Tomioka, I—"

        He glared at them. In the dim lighting, they could almost make out the sheen of unshed tears glistening in his one exposed eye. "Why didn't you save him?"

        A knife twisted its way into their chest, and they gasped, rushing to defend themselves.

        "I— I couldn't! He wanted me to save you!"

        He scoffed, turning away from them. A trembling hand reached out towards his shoulder.

        "Tomioka—"

        They hardly even registered how it had happened—all they registered was the aching sting in their wrist. Giyu's hand was raised, and theirs was throbbing.

        "Get out."

        "Tomioka, please—"

        "Get out!"

        Tears welled up in the corners of their eyes, but they obliged, rising to their feet and rushing out of the door. They did not stop once they were beyond the threshold of the room, however; they darted all the way back to where Amane and the elderly woman were talking together. When the white-haired lady heard them coming, her attention became directed towards them. Whatever greeting had sat on her tongue vanished in an instant as her brows furrowed with worry.

        "What happened, [Name]?"

        "Can—" they gasped, rubbing furiously at their eyes in an attempt to dry the tears threatening to fall. "Can we go home now, please, Lady Amane?"

        Her face softened immeasurably. She nodded. "We may."

        "I'll give that boy hell for making such a pleasant child cry," the elderly woman muttered, to which they could only silently shake their head as their breath hitched pitifully. "Be safe on your way, Lady Amane, little one."

        "Thank you for your hospitality," the lady of the Corps said. "We will be on our way, now. May your home remain forever safe."

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

        By the time they and Amane had finally reached the Ubuyashiki estate, the sun had just dipped below the horizon.

        'Just in time,' they thought, eyes flicking up towards the sky, a beautiful gradient of light blues and pinks to dark blues and purples. It almost felt like a scene from a painting with the wave of utter relief that washed over their chest. A tired smile, though a smile nevertheless and the first true one Amane had caught from them all day, graced their features, newly tainted by newfound wisdom unbefitting of someone as youthful as them. It was wrong, cruel, that whatever remained of their childish innocence had been snatched straight from their chest prematurely...

        ...But that was the inevitable nature of the path they had chosen to traverse.

        As always, the Kakushi were busy scrambling around the estate, each completing their own set of tasks—some rushing off of estate grounds with bags full of medical supplies, and others working on far more menial tasks confined to the estate's land. All tasks, save for those that were actively involved in preparing for medical assistance, came to a screeching halt, however, when they and the estate's lady were noticed.

        Dead silence permeated the air, all eyes locked on them and Amane, but only for a very brief moment.

        Then, excited shouts and greetings all overlapping one another and thus becoming barely distinguishable were shot their way in rapid succession:

        "The kid's back!"

        "Someone go inform the Master!"

        "Welcome back, [Name]!"

        "Congrats!"

        Hands belonging to a variety of people—some they knew better than others—patted all along their body, checking frantically and chaotically for any wounds of significance. None were ever discovered, but the very moment one member of the Kakushi backed off, satisfied with the lack of discoveries, another was on them in an instant to verify for themselves whether or not it was true that the young slayer was completely unharmed.

        "You all should be careful not to overwhelm them, now," a familiarly calming voice chided lightly, amusement evident in the rhythmic tones of his voice. It was only then that they registered Amane's absence at their side; she was at his, instead. Much to their delight, another familiar figure donned with red prayer beads as always was at the boy's other side. "They have only just returned. Please give them some space."

        "Of course, Master!"

        "Our apologies!"

        "Sorry, [Name]!"

        In an instant, their little audience dispersed, all scurrying away to return to their tasks.

        Their head spun, and they chuckled, slightly dazed from what had just happened.

        "Hi," they managed through their daze, an uncontrollable grin breaking out on their face as they happily approached the three. "I'm back."

        "So you are," Kagaya replied, gaze flicking across their body briefly before meeting their eyes—changed and more like his now, notably less bright and forever tainted by the horrible reality of what demons really were and what they did to people—again. "And unharmed, by the looks of it?"

        "Yes, that's right. I didn't suffer any serious injury."

        "That's wonderful, then. Come inside. Some of the Kakushi insisted on cooking a meal in anticipation of your return."

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

        A few days came and went... relatively quietly.

        The first night back at the Master's estate was chaotic in a good way—their return was being celebrated by every Kakushi they saw, each one overwhelmingly enthusiastic that they had not only returned alive, but uninjured. All of them insisted that it was worth celebrating. The shower of flowers and gifts seemed endless that night. Some of the flowers were planted around Kagaya's estate so that they did not go to waste. At some point, in all the chaos, the wisteria that Amane had put in their hair was lost.

        It slowed down after that, thankfully, though as the news inevitably spread, more of their acquaintances came to congratulate them.

        Then, for a few days, it was even quieter.

        ...Until Kyojuro got word of their survival, of course.

        Despite passing the Final Selection and being encouraged to rest and recover—even though they had not been injured, they had still exerted their body significantly, so rest was still necessary; that was what some of the Kakushi had been insisting over and over—they still maintained a regular training schedule. Surviving was no excuse for slacking off, after all. If they wanted to maintain their strength, they had to put the work in. Their power would only lessen the more they refrained from training.

        Once they received their blade, who knew how soon afterwards they'd be assigned their first mission? Thus, it did not make sense to wait until then to continue training.

        While their arms used to throb and ache when they'd swing their blade for too long, that was hardly the case now—they only now, over an hour into their practice swings, felt a vague burn beginning to nip at their arm and back muscles. As they lowered their blade once more, a shout of their name immediately caught their attention.

        "[Name]!"

        "Kyojuro!" they called back. At one point, they might have needed to look up and see his face to know it was him. Now, however, that was not the case. They knew in an instant who it was based on the sound of his voice alone. When they did look up, though, they were greeted with a delightful sight. "And Obanai, hello!"

        "Hello," the dark haired boy replied, and their face brightened even more than it already had.

        The two boys made their way over to them, and they laughed, setting the wooden sword off to the side before wiping a bit of sweat from their brow. Kyojuro was quick to wrap them in a tight hug, and they reciprocated tenfold, patting his back fondly before separating from him. Obanai offered a wave. That was more than enough for them—he wasn't fond of being touched, anyway, so they would never dare force him to do something like hug them. "It's good to see you two!"

        "Congratulations!" Kyojuro exclaimed. "You survived the Final Selection, and did so unhurt!"

        "Yes." They nodded. "Thank you."

        "It must have been difficult," Obanai mused, multicolored eyes meeting theirs. "Was it?"

        "Well... I don't know. I didn't think so," they admitted, smile turning a bit shier now. "When I was in control of what was happening, at least, it wasn't."

        The boy huffed, musing, "We never have full control over what's happening when there are demons around."

        "...Yeah. You're right. I guess it really wasn't as easy as I thought."

        "That is why we fight," Kyojuro cut in, expression unusually serious. "We fight so everyone can take back control of their lives. So that we can all live without fear of something so unnatural."

        His words offered reassurance, a spark of hope in a world shrouded in midnight darkness. It was a stark contrast to the more pessimistic nature of Obanai's words, though truthfully, they believed both of their friends' perspectives were of great value; Obanai's served to keep them grounded and aware, while Kyojuro's kept them from losing hope.

        "That's true," they agreed, nodding. "...Do you guys want to go on a run? Like how we used to."

        The mood shifted in a quick instant, and Kyojuro's face brightened immediately. "I thought you'd never ask!"

        As they and their friends jogged towards the borders of the estate, the group passed by Shinjuro; they offered a very brief, though nevertheless enthusiastic 'Good morning, Lord Rengoku!' as they passed him. His piercingly flame-like eyes only observed as the small group passed by, brows furrowing and lips tilting downwards in subtle displeasure.

        He did not return their greeting in any form.

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

        "Young one, your swordsmith is here."

        Days were quick to turn into weeks, especially after the day that their friends visited. About two weeks, to be exact, based on what Gyomei had called out to them; the haze of their grief surely did not make it any easier for them to perceive the passage of time correctly, but they did know that it took about two weeks for new slayers to receive their blades.

        (What was the 'correct' way to perceive the passage of time, anyway? They're not certain that it's so simple, so easily divided into 'correct' and 'incorrect,' but that did not change the fact that mourning Sabito was making their days pass unusually rapidly with them helpless to slow it down, like sand slipping through their fingers. They had no power to stop it—all they could do was hold onto the few grains that clung to their skin. All they could do was ground themselves for a few passing moments every now and then and look back upon those moments later when time continued its unstoppable race.)

        "Excuse me, Lady Amane," they said in apology, placing the cloth in their hands down. She nodded.

        "Go ahead, child. We can continue this another time."

        They nodded back at her with a smile.

        "Coming," they called back to Gyomei, quick to rush outside from their place situated beside Amane within the estate. She had been teaching them how to repair clothes easily, since they had ripped a small tear into theirs a few days prior. Though it could be easily replaced, and they had plenty of spares to use instead, she insisted it was worth knowing how to repair. It was a valuable skill that she had picked up from her time as a priestess, she had told them, when they asked how she learned to do something like that.

        Swift hands opened the sliding door to let themselves out and closed it behind them once they were. Just as they stepped out onto the engawa, an unfamiliar man sporting a hat with melodious windchimes attached to it was stepping onto it. Draped over his body was a haori patterned prettily with sunflower designs. A mask sat securely from his face, obscuring it from view and effectively disguising it. Perhaps that was the intention—to keep his identity somewhat secret.

        They didn't even have time to settle beside Gyomei before the man began to speak. Hell, he hadn't even settled before he had began speaking.

        "My name is Haganezuka," he stated, though it was clear his attention was hardly focused on introducing himself as he kneeled, taking what they assumed was their blade wrapped in a protective cloth off of his back. "I am here to deliver Tokito [Name]'s sword, which I have forged."

        "That would be me." A nervous smile graced their features; they were rendered somewhat bewildered by the way he seemed hyper-focused on the blade he created, though they supposed that could just be attributed to an artisan's love of their craft. They tucked their legs neatly beneath their body as they settled beside Gyomei. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Hagane—"

        "This," Haganezuka interrupted, clutching the wrapped blade with all the adoration a father might show his newborn child, "is the nichirin sword that I forged."

        "I... I see. Thank you very much for your efforts. Would you like te—"

        "The materials required for such a sword can be obtained from the tallest mountain reaching closest to the sun. Scarlet Crimson Iron Sand and Scarlet Crimson Ore. Together, these produce a steel capable of absorbing sunlight."

        "How very interesting," they mused, head tilting to the side. They quietly gazed up towards Gyomei, beyond confused as their swordsmith continued to go on in the background. Though the man felt their gaze on him, he could do naught to enlighten them or free them of their confusion—he was just as bewildered, though Gyomei admittedly concealed it far better than they did.

        "Mount Yoko is bathed in sunlight all day long, you see. There is never a cloud in the sky nor is there any rain—"

        "Now, now, Haganezuka," a soft voice came. Kagaya stepped out onto the engawa of his home where everyone else was. "Let's not give [Name] a difficult time. They've only just joined the Corps—save this for when they break their blade for the first time, yes?"

        Suddenly, a bone-chilling glare was sent their way from behind the swordsmith's mask, and they squeaked, huddling closer to Gyomei, who was more than happy to allow it and serve as their human shield for the time being. A large hand patted their back soothingly.

        "Fine, then," he muttered, "but if they know what's good for them, they wouldn't dare break it."

        "Accidents happen," Kagaya chuckled smoothly. "Come inside. We've prepared tea."

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

        In their hand rested the sheathed, wrapped blade. Gyomei sat by their side; though his enthusiasm was not particularly evident, he was overjoyed for them and their achievement. Amane and Kagaya sat next to one another off to the side, while Haganezuka sat directly across from them. In the middle of the group sat a short table. upon which everyone's steaming tea cups rested.

        Wiggling his arms weirdly, he said, "Come on. Hurry up and draw it. I didn't spend two weeks forging it to wait two weeks to see its color, you know."

        "Sorry, I'll draw it now. I'm nervous," they admitted, but nodded nevertheless and gingerly began to unwrap the cloth from the blade. One of Gyomei's heavy hands patted their shoulder in reassurance, and they smiled to themselves. Once it was off, they set it neatly down on the table, admiring the craftsmanship of the scabbard alone. It was beautifully sleek and tough, surely to last through the many battles to come in their new career... of sorts.

        Finally, with slightly trembling fingers, they pulled their new blade from its sheath. As a safety precaution, they held it away from the others, even though they knew very well how to properly handle the blade. As Kagaya had said, accidents do happen, and they would hate for such an accident to occur in his house that involved—God forbid—him or Amane or Gyomei.

        From where the habaki met the blade, a glossy white slowly dyed the cool steel, shimmering beautifully in the lighting.

        "White?" Haganezuka groaned, crossing his arms disappointedly. His dismay rolled off of him in waves. It was impossible to not know how he was feeling in that moment, but honestly, they couldn't relate to him at all; the shade of their sword had them completely enamored as they ran their fingers against the dull side of it. "What a boring color. I guess it isn't common, at the very least, but it could've been more interesting..."

        "You are a Mist Breather, so this comes as no surprise," Kagaya commented, observing the pearly coloration and the way it glittered when the blade dipped into any of the beams of sunlight seeping into his home with a smile, "but it is nevertheless a wonderful thing to witness. Congratulations, child."

        Heat flooded their cheeks, and they grinned giddily. "Thank you, Master." Their eyes shifted to the sulking Haganezuka as they gently set the blade on top of the cloth that they'd rested on the table earlier. "Sorry. I guess swordsmiths probably see all the colors all the time, so it's not very interesting for you."

        "We see some colors all the time," he scoffed. "Blue, mostly, so at least it's not that one... but there are more coveted colors I have yet to see."

        "Is that so?"

        "Yes."

        He did not elaborate further. He was still sulking.

        "Well, I hope you get to see the colors you want to see one day."

        A despondent grumble was the only response they got, and they giggled amusedly. Kagaya's attention shifted fully to them.

        "Are you prepared for your first mission, young one?"

        "Already?!"

        "Indeed," the boy said, smiling at their reaction. "Your crow should arrive shortly."

        He must have assigned the mission as soon as he knew their swordsmith would be arriving—they knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was the one generally responsible for assigning Demon Slayers their missions. That was one of the many things they had picked up regarding the inner workings of the Corps in their time living with him.

        As the leader of the Corps had said, their crow arrived, gliding in through a small crack in the door. Fuyuki perched on their shoulder, feathers ruffling as it tried to get comfortable.

        "Tokito [Name]," it called. "Head southeast. Meet up with Tomioka Giyu. Men young and old have been going missing night after night."

        Terror struck their chest. Giyu? Kagaya had assigned them a mission with him? Guilt swirled in their chest at the thought alone of the boy. Why hadn't they saved Sabito? Why did they fail? They should have done something more to at least attempt to preserve that poor boy's life, but they didn't, and Giyu pointing that fact out was only comparable to someone ripping their heart right out of their chest where it belonged.

        ...There was no way that he could have possibly known what had occurred between them, so maybe he didn't do it on purpose. They did not even tell Amane, let alone Kagaya, the master of the Corps.

        Yet, the knowing smile he gave them said otherwise.

        If it was the Master's will, then they didn't really have a choice.

        A steadying breath later, and they nodded firmly. "I will get ready to go, then."

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

        Kagaya's garden was quite possibly one of their favorite places in all the time that they had lived with him.

        They had gotten to know it quite well by this point—the stones were familiar under their shoes, digging into the soles and wishing them a kind goodbye, and even the lone tree's leaves seemed to dip lower than usual to say their own goodbye to the young slayer who had spent hours training in the garden, through blood and tears, through wind and rain.

        Demon Slayers always adorned a particular uniform, with minor alterations one from to the next to ensure that it suited its bearer best. Theirs was everything but form fitting in every area besides their wrists and calves—loose and flowy enough to obscure the twitches of their muscles, concealing any indicator of what their next move might have been, though they did opt out of having bell sleeves or pants. They worried that the excess fabric might get in the way. It was more impractical than it was beneficial for them.

        On their hip rested their sheathed blade, secured tightly to their belt by a cord. Instinctively, their hand came to rest on the handle, thumb tapping on it in what could be regarded as an anxious fidget.

        Amane and Kagaya stood before them. In the former's hands, a beautifully intricate piece of clothing in swirling shades of white and purple was folded neatly.

        "Gyomei left a short while ago. He wished to communicate his deepest regrets for being unable to see you off today," the leader of the Corps said. "He, unfortunately, had an urgent mission to attend to quite a far distance away."

        It was a bit disappointing that the man who contributed so much to their success was not able to send them off, but that was hardly something they would ever hold against him or the Master. Demons would never stop unless they were stopped; they would certainly not stop for something as sappy and emotional as a man seeing his student off on their first mission. Gyomei was immensely powerful, so it came as no surprise to them that he was busy.

        "I understand."

        "Before you set off," the man continued, motioning to his wife with a kindly smile, "we have prepared a gift for you."

        At that, Amane approached them until she was stood perfectly in front of their body. Their gaze shifted up towards her. She smiled at them, hands shifting to clasp the clothing item by its shoulder seams. A gentle wave or two to force any wrinkles to disperse, and she held it still for them to inspect.

        "Do you like it, little one?"

        "It's..." they gasped, fingers softly brushing along the fabric. "It's so beautiful, Lady Amane. I can't possibly take it."

        "Nonsense," Kagaya cut in, walking to the woman's side. She passed the haori to him. "Turn around. We must see whether or not it fits you."

        Dazed and overwhelmed by a fuzzy warmth building up in their veins, they obliged, quietly turning around and holding their arms slightly out. A gentle hum, a few careful manipulations of their limbs, and tender hands brushing away invisible dirt from their back... then, they were instructed to turn around again. They did.

        Amane nodded, content with the way it fit over their form. "It fits you well."

        "Indeed, and in more ways than one," her husband mused, taking the collar of their uniform in his hands and adjusting it to his liking. When his knuckles brushed their jawline ever so slightly, they instinctively tilted their chin upwards, offering him more room to work. The silver buttons were cool under his fingers as he made some final corrections to their uniform before backing off. "These colors suit you."

        A sting, one they tried as hard as possible to ignore, poked at their eyes. When ignoring it failed, they attempted to blink it away. A shy chuckle slipped from their lips.

        "T... Thank you, both of you..."

        "Within our home, there will always remain a space for you," the dark-haired boy stated calmly, evident fondness twinkling in his expression. "Do not hesitate to come here, should you ever need a place to stay, [Name]."

        The overwhelm quickly spiraled and became too much. In an instant, they were bent at the waist level, hoping and praying to whatever God was willing to listen that they did not burst into tears right then and there.

        "Thank you so much for everything you two have done for me thus far."

        "Of course," Amane murmured, one of her hands coming up to caress the top of their head for a brief moment before withdrawing. Fuyuki was circling closely above; the lady of the Corps did not fail to notice this. "Now, go on. Your mission awaits you."

        Rising from their position, they nodded, newfound determination lighting up their face.

        With that, they were off.

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

        Truthfully, there was very little about their first mission that they were looking forward to, but something about the guarantee of seeing Giyu again was especially nerve-wracking.

        Sure, they were going to fight and kill their first demon...

        (Fourth or fifth, actually, if they were to count the demons that they slayed on Mount Fujikasane the week of their Final Selection, but they felt like their first mission was going to be far more intense than that.)

        ...But somehow, the thought of seeing Giyu was even scarier! How could they face him after what had happened?

        Well, they supposed it didn't really matter how they would face him. Regardless, they would have to; it was an inevitable, unavoidable fact. Whether or not they particularly liked it, they would come face-to-face with Tomioka Giyu again, and they would stay with him until the mission was successfully concluded.

        Warm sunlight bathed their face. Fuyuki had been leading them along for what they estimated to be two hours of walking, and a village finally came into view.

        Many small homes with steep, thatched roofs were all packed tightly together in neat rows. Little stalls—vendors selling anything and everything from food to hairpins to clothing items—lined the roads paved with gravel and stones. It seemed like it should have been such a lively little town, bustling with activity from carefree children running around to their adults talking happily at the stalls, but there was none of that. It was dull and dreary, the occasional shopper hurrying along with buying their groceries before rushing home again.

        As little activity as there was, there was still some... albeit not very excited activity.

        Young children wore scared, downcast expressions, while their parents—frighteningly few of which were men—nervously tried to reassure them, wavering smiles pulling at their lips and threatening to give way to anxious frowns at any moment. Little boys clung especially close to their parents, and their parents dared not let them stray any further than an inch away.

        Their lips curled into a slight frown at the sight.

        A distant and faint feeling of relief swirled in their chest. Thankfully, their family lived nowhere near this place.

        ...But that was all the more reason to put an end to the demon's nonsense. They could feel a fraction of what the families residing in this village were, and that was a powerful motivator.

        Out of the corner of their eye, they caught a brief glimpse of a haori draped over a boy's shoulders, solid red on one side and shades of yellow and green in geometric shapes on the other. Their heart leapt in their chest.

        Giyu, and with half of Sabito's haori, no less.

        He met their gaze before they could even approach him. He must have healed well, they thought, because his eye that was previously wrapped in bandages didn't even look wounded in the slightest. They would have never known his eye had gotten hurt at all, had they not seen him when he was being treated.

        ...

        Silence.

        Then, they willed themselves to move, taking a deep but trembling breath as they walked up to him. The silence remained for a few moments more after they reached his side. He didn't dare meet their eyes any longer.

        Just as they opened their mouth to begin speaking...

        "I'm sorry," Giyu blurted out, turning his body slightly away from them. "Sorry. It wasn't your fault. I didn't mean to say that."

        Shock washed over their expression, but it didn't last long; it was quick to melt away into a gentle smile. With renewed confidence, they reached out towards his shoulder. This time, he did not slap them away.

        "I forgive you," they replied. "It's... okay. Let's move on from that."

        'It's okay.' That's what they said to Giyu. Maybe it was for the best that they told him that it was fine. He didn't need to know how terribly his rejection stung. It was fine. It was fine.

        They were uncertain if they were telling Giyu or themselves that.

        "...Do you still want to be my friend?"

        "When did I say I didn't?" they wondered, genuine confusion brewing in their eyes as they tilted their head somewhat. "I mean, it's normal for friends to fight sometimes, so I wouldn't hold that against you. We're okay."

        Silence settled again, but only for a quick moment. Giyu turned his body back towards them, and nodded.

        "Okay."

        They grinned. "Right, okay, onto the mission then. Did I keep you waiting too long?"

        He shook his head. "I got here a little before you."

        "Oh, that's good. Do you think we should ask around about the disappearances?" they inquired. "It's probably the best way to get information."

        "Sure. We can do that while we wait for the sun to set."

        Their smile widened and grew confident with determination. The hand that was resting on his shoulder slid downwards, and they hovered their hand over his. He didn't flinch or withdraw, so they took that as their sign to clasp his hand in theirs.

        Though his eyes did widen a small fraction at their motion, he didn't pull away, and merely permitted them to lead him along into the deserted streets of the village.

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

        As much hope as they did hold that this mission would go well...

        ...So far, it was going anything but.

        The sun had hardly creeped any further up into the sky. It wasn't even noon, but exhaustion already permeated their bones; it wasn't due to physical exertion, but rather mental exertion. All the effort they had put into interrogating people and they didn't know anything more than what their crow had told them back at the Ubuyashiki estate. Tired and in desperate need of a moment to recuperate, they and Giyu trekked back to the outskirts on the town and into the edge of a nearby forest to rest.

        "This sucks," they sighed, sitting down beside their friend and offering him a rice ball one of the stall's owners had frantically shoved at them in an attempt to get them to go away. Fuyuki glided down to settle on its master. "No-one will tell us anything."

        "Get the hell out of here!" the woman shrieked, though she wasn't angry. She was frantic, if anything at all, as she handed them the food she was selling without even asking for any kind of payment. "Look, kid, I have to go home and check on my son, so just take the rest of my stock and get out of here already!"

        The ocean-eyed boy took it from them with a quiet 'thanks,' and they hummed in response. They nibbled a bit on their own rice ball, but they weren't really all that hungry.

        "They're afraid," Giyu commented.

        "I guess I can understand, though," they admitted, breaking off a bit of rice and offering it to their crow, who was perched on their thigh. The crow let out a soft, content caw, beginning to eat from their open palm while being careful not to peck their skin too hard. Wistful eyes shifted up towards the sky as they went on, "I wouldn't really want to talk about it to two random kids, either. I mean, I don't know what I'd do if my brothers lived here."

        "You have brothers?"

        "Yeah, two. Twins."

        Giyu nodded, following their gaze up towards the clouds and the blue sky. "Do you miss them?"

        "Obviously," they chuckled, "but part of why I'm doing this is for them. I can deal with a little homesickness in exchange for the strength to protect them."

        He did not say anything in return. He simply allowed a silence to envelop the two of them once again. This time, however, there was a complete and total lack of tension; it was comfortable, simply sitting by their side and basking in their presence.

        They sighed. "So, what should we do?"

        "Wait until nighttime. We'll just find the demon ourselves."

        "Yeah, that's probably best." Bright blues glared down at them. "...It may be quite some time."

        Giyu hummed, finishing up the last bit of rice. Then, he rose to his feet, looking down at them.

        "You said you wanted to learn Water Breathing, right?"

        Their eyes lit up.

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

        Night was far quicker to come when they actually had something engaging to do to pass the time.

        For the remaining hours of the day, Giyu taught them the basics of Water Breathing that his trainer had taught him. The sun had finally dipped behind the horizon and out of view and took the blue sky with it, making way for the moon to rise and for the deep, inky sky to follow close behind it. Twinkling clusters of stars shimmered prettily against the infinite darkness as they gazed upwards, wiping away a small bit of sweat that had gathered on their forehead.

        "You're a quick learner," Giyu said, slight astonishment swirling in the waves of his eyes. "I don't think there's really too much that I even need to teach you."

        A grin was shot his way. "Thanks, Tomioka."

        "Giyu."

        They blinked. "Huh?"

        "Giyu is fine."

        "Then..." they began. "Then [Name] is fine, too. I—"

        A shrill shriek interrupted them before they could finish. It was silenced just as quickly at it had begun, but that mattered not—both of the young slayers still heard it and registered what direction it had come from. A brief glance, and they both took off towards the village.

        It was evident that they were far faster than he was. He fell behind somewhat, but only waved his hand for them to keep going when their head turned back to look for him.

        The very second they arrived at the house where they were certain the scream had originated from, they slammed the door open with such frantic strength that the wood splintered ever so slightly. A gag was torn from their throat at the scent that emanated from the room and at the sight in front of them.

        A boy's body—who looked to be barely any younger than they were—was mangled almost beyond recognition. His legs and arms were twisted grotesquely in unnatural ways that no human's limbs should go. His eyes were open wide, expression forever frozen in terror. With how much of his blood was splattered across the walls, they might have thought that the walls were supposed to be crimson red. A demon hovered over his lifeless body, slicing through his flesh with her claws and snapping at his insides with her jaw, tearing him apart with all the grace of a feral animal who hadn't so much as smelled food in weeks.

        A woman cowered in the corner, hand clasped immovably over her ears and eyes screwed shut. Sobs wracked her trembling body. Her chest heaved with the weight of her cries, and it took every ounce of strength within them to keep tears from blurring their vision.

        She was probably that poor boy's mother, if they had to make a guess.

        Their intrusion into the home was by no means quiet, so it wasn't a shock that the demon turned her attention to them just a few short moments after they entered. Her tongue slipped from between her lips, lapping away at the blood staining her face. "A Demon Slayer?" she wondered, precise slitted eyes snapping behind them. Giyu had arrived. "Oh, another one. Hmm... he would make a fine meal."

        Disgust contorted their features at her statement, and an arm immediately shot out protectively in front of their companion while the other haphazardly unsheathed their glimmering blade.

        "Aw, is he your little friend? Don't worry, I'll treat him much more kindly than this"—a clawed hand motioned to the dead body beneath her—"one. He wasn't even that good, anyway."

        The woman in the corner wept harder.

        "You are foul," they commented, shooting her a nasty glare.

        Giyu delivered a soft pat to their arm, wordlessly telling them to lower it. They did, albeit with great hesitance. The boy then raised his own blade.

        "You two are going to be so terribly defiant, then?" the demon sighed despondently, flicking small pieces of flesh from beneath her nails. "I see, I see. I'll just have to kill you both, in that case. It is such a tragedy."

        While she was lamenting about something they could not possibly be bothered to care about, the two Demon Slayers shared a look. Giyu gave them a firm nod, and they knew what he meant to say. Their gaze flicked down as they quickly adjusted their footing, lowering their body as they did. The boy next to them was making his own quick preparations while the demon was distracted, lost in her thoughts, but they paid him little mind.

        Giyu could defend himself fine. What they needed to focus on was landing this strike.

        'Mist Breathing, Fourth Form: Shifting Flow Slash.'

        The demon's head toppled off in an instant. Her body faded into little more than ash that would be swept away by morning.

        "That was... easy," they murmured to themselves, brows creasing somewhat in confusion as they quietly slid their blade back into its sheath. Giyu did the same, gazing around the room, unsure of how to proceed from here.

        ...Well, then, they would take the initiative.

        They gingerly walked towards the boy's mother, kneeling a few feet in front of her. She wearily glanced at them, eyes red from how hard she had been crying.

        "Hi," they whispered."

        "Hello," she managed to rasp back, voice hoarse. She peeked behind them. "...Is she gone?"

        "Yes."

        "Is... Is my boy gone as well?"

        "I am afraid so," they murmured to her, watching as her face twisted in agony. She sniffled. "Would it be okay with you if we proceeded with a burial for him?"

        She hesitated for a moment. Then, she nodded a wordless approval.

        Before they could rise, however, she stopped them.

        "What is it?"

        "I want to help."

        They winced, glancing behind themselves to see Giyu doing his best to make her son look a little more... human. Intact. "Are you sure?"

        "Yes. He was my child. I should be the one to bury him... I shouldn't put that on you kids," she said softly, standing up and brushing away whatever dirt she could manage to get off of her clothes. "Thank you for getting rid of the demon."

        "That's our job, miss," they replied.

        "Yes, well..." she trailed off, eyes lingering on her son's body, void of even the slightest trace of life. Fresh tears clouded her vision. "I will go prepare a place for him to be buried. Please take your time with him. Treat him gently."

        "Of course," they whispered. "We would never think of doing otherwise."

        She nodded gratefully. Then, she quickly rushed out of her home, suffocated in the scent of iron and death. They hardly blamed her for being so quick to leave; the house was utterly and completely drowning in the stench, and she probably couldn't bear to look at his body for even a second longer.

        They shifted their attention to Giyu, going over to kneel on the opposite side of the victim's body.

        "What should we do?"

        "Close his wounds as best as we can," he replied, though uncertainty was evident in his tone. A wordless nod was all they could manage as they pulled up their sleeves and reached down, beginning their hopeless work of putting the child back together. Giyu shut his eyelids, and they wiped away some of the blood obscuring his features from view with a piece of his clothing that the demon had carelessly shredded.

        Forty-five minutes in, his mother returned.

        "I have prepared a place for him," she said.

        They paused, eyes flicking between her and the boy below them. His torso was still torn apart and open for the entire world to see; no matter how hard they and Giyu tried to get his skin to cover it up, it was fruitless. "I... I'm sorry, miss. We tried to close his wounds."

        "You did your best. At least..." She approached the two of them and knelt down, a shaking hand coming up to cup her son's cold face. All the warmth of a mother swirled in her eyes as she stared down at him. "At least I can see his beautiful face now. Thank you."

        She stood up, wiping her eyes. It seemed that no matter how much she wept for her child, the tears never ended, and would continue to fall at even the slightest of reminders. "Come with me."

        The two Demon Slayers nodded.

        "Grab his legs," Giyu told them, hooking his hands under the boy's shoulders. "I'll get his arms."

        "Got it," they murmured, securing his ankles in their hands. A quiet count of 'three, two, one,' and the duo both rose to their feet, taking the boy's body with them. His broken chest fell mostly against Giyu's torso, but the boy made no move to complain. The victim's mother began walking out of the house, into the cold night, and towards the edge of town. They and Giyu followed. Goosebumps rose on their skin at the bite in the air—they had yet to roll their sleeves back down, so their arms were exposed, but they dared not say anything of it.

        The cold they were enduring was such a minimal struggle in comparison to the things the woman they were trailing behind had endured in the past hour or so. Hell, Giyu had it worse than they did right now. With the young boy's torn open chest to near to his face, they didn't doubt he was overwhelmed by uncomfortable smells and sensations.

        (...Did Giyu insist on taking his arms intentionally to spare them further exposure to the gore?)

        Minutes passed. Upon arriving at her chosen location, a riverside patch of grass with white flowers that seemed to glow underneath the moonlight's touch blooming all around, the two young slayers cautiously lowered his body into the ground.

        "Thank you two for helping. I'll take it from here."

        "Okay," they replied to the woman, treading over to the river and dousing their crimson red arms in its cold water. With a bit of scrubbing, they were able to rid themselves of a fair amount of grime. Giyu did the same. "May he rest in peace."

        She nodded. Perhaps, at that point, there was little more that she could say. Her silence was their sign to depart.

        A freshly clean hand reached out to the dark-haired Demon Slayer.

        Giyu took their outstretched hand, and the two left.

reblogs with comments or tags > likes. tags: @soleillunne @aviiarie <3

[anthurak]

Theory: Penny the Great and Powerful

A while back, I did a post theorizing on how Penny could return another time, specifically due to having essentially ‘piggybacked’ her consciousness onto the Winter Maiden powers before they transferred to Winter, likely with the hope that she could be extracted from Winter at a later date.

And ever since I made that post, I’ve only become more convinced that this IS indeed where the story is going. For one, looking back at Penny’s final moments, I think it’s clear that SOMETHING is being set up for later. I mean just look at Penny’s final words to Jaune:

“Trust me.”

This wasn’t some apology, a call to action or some last goodbye. Penny had a PLAN.

Then of course there’s her final words to Winter: “I won’t be gone. I’ll be a part of you.”

Now sure, at the time we were all thinking the same thing as Winter, that this was Penny echoing Winter’s own figurative words when Fria passed the powers to her at the end of the last volume.

Buuuuttt… what if Penny was speaking LITERALLY? I mean, speaking literally while everyone else is speaking figuratively/metaphorically IS kinda Penny’s thing.

And on top of all this, Penny attaching herself to the Maiden powers frankly makes perfect sense when we consider just where the powers came from.

I think at this point it’s safe to assume that the ‘Maiden Transference’ is really just the Oz Reincarnation Cycle at work. I mean think about it; upon the death of the holder, the Maiden Powers jump to a new host that fits a certain set of criteria, just like Oz does.

When Oz split his powers among the four original Maidens, I imagine they ALSO got the reincarnation protocol. However, because the reincarnation program was made specifically for Ozma, this meant that the consciousness/memories of Maidens didn’t transfer. Instead, it’s just been the raw magic alone that’s been reincarnating into new hosts.

I imagine that this is likely due to Oz’s own lack of knowledge/understanding of both his magic and the reincarnation cycle. He may have believed that simply giving these girls the magic would allow them to start reincarnating just he like does, not knowing or understanding that additional steps needed to be taken in order to ‘key’ their own spirits to the magic in place of his own. Or perhaps Oz simply didn’t expect the reincarnation magic to transfer at all.

Incidentally, this would also explain why the Maiden transference can seem to be so random. Oz’s reincarnation protocol is keyed specifically to HIS consciousness, and thus has very specific criteria to look for when selecting a new host, a ‘like-minded soul’ as various people have put it. Whereas because the Maiden Powers aren’t transferring a consciousness/spirit, their criteria for selecting a new host is likely as basic and general as possible. Heck, the age-range criteria may have been a built-in base-criteria, given how Oz also always seems to transfer into young men/boys, meaning that literally the only new criteria for the Maiden Powers’ reincarnation protocol was ‘girl/woman’. Which in turn explains the whole ‘goes to whoever’s in the host’s final thoughts’ thing. The criteria for the next host are SO general/nebulous/vague that the previous host can actually influence/guide where the powers are going to go.

Basically, the Maiden Powers have been reincarnating into new hosts just like Oz has, just simply absent of any conscious spirit attached to them.

Until now.

THIS is the bit I’ve gotten particularly interested in just now.

What if Penny was able to figure out HOW the Maiden Transference/Reincarnation Cycle worked and in turn was able to key her own consciousness/spirit to the reincarnation program just as Oz was?

Which in turn, would effectively make Penny another Oz-spirit.

I mean, they ARE both associated with the color green…

Now I know that everyone reading this is probably immediately thinking about the unsettling implications this could have for Winter, ie; does this mean Penny’s consciousness is going to overtake and merge with Winter’s just like Oz does with his hosts?

But let’s not forget a KEY aspect of RWBY’s character dynamics is contrast. Meaning that Penny becoming another reincarnating spirit like Oz means that she would end up representing a FOIL to him. Which would mean that Penny’s situation would be decidedly DIFFERENT.

What if everyone is at first terrified that Penny and Winter are going to merge just like Oz has with all of his hosts, but after a while it becomes clear that the merging… isn’t happening.

What if Penny has wound up gaining a far greater knowledge and understanding of the reincarnation cycle/protocol, and has figured how to simply STOP the merging process from happening. Something that Oz never could do himself.

Or perhaps, something that Oz never TRIED to do himself.

I think it’s all too likely that Oz has always simply assumed that there was nothing that could be done to stop his spirit from merging with those of his hosts. After all, this reincarnation cycle was created by the God of Light, the all-powerful creator of the world. How could he, a mere mortal, possibly hope to stop, alter or even understand such a power?

While Penny is under NO such compulsion and could have spent a LOT of time poking around in the metaphysical program files of her new maiden powers to figure out how they worked. Possibly even getting some ideas of how to extract herself from Winter, with or without the Maiden Powers. She may even have some ideas of how to extract Oz himself…

And of course, this would all thematically tie in PERFECTLY with the whole ‘actually the gods aren’t so all-powerful’ revelations that Team RWBY will be bringing.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Knight of Dreams.

He pledged to see his father off with a smile. That last wish, he could not fulfill.

This isn’t the happy ending he wanted—open your eyes.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

He wakes to the woods.

Silver automatically recognizes his surroundings. He'd laid out at the base of a great oak, planted right in the center of a lush forest glen. Sunlight filters through the leaves, granting the place an ethereal glow.

A stream threads around a cottage with a roof of straw, shuttered windows open and smiling at him. Where the water rounds at a bend, there's an arched bridge that leads to a path winding up to the cottage. It's picturesque and cozy, an illustration right out of a fairy tale.

It's home.

Silver rubs at his eyes, dispelling the remaining shreds of his drowsiness.

I must have dozed off again. Father must be worried.

He stands, dusting himself off. There's a few blades of grass clinging to his clothes, some petals coming loose. As he runs his hands over fabric, they snag upon something small and hard in the pocket of his pants.

"Huh? What is this...?"

Silver's voice trails off as he fishes out the object. It's a chunky ring in the shape of a crown, which hangs off of a golden chain. Embedded into the ring are many small, clear jewels. In the center is a large gemstone--and when it catches the sunlight, it refracts the colors of the rainbow.

A dull pain starts in the back of his head. He frowns, gently rubbing at the spot to soothe it.

Strange. I don't recall owning something like this. Did I find it lost in the forest?

For reasons unknown to him, the vague image of a smiling man is conjured. The owner? He gropes around in his foggy memories, but comes up with no answer.

Even so, his fingers close protectively around the bauble.

"Silver!"

He looks up, finding his father in the doorway. Lilia wears a shamelessly frilled apron, KISS THE COOK emblazoned upon his chest. The fae happily waves for his son to approach, and his heart melts.

Silver jogs up the path, barely breaking a sweat when he arrives on the porch. "Father."

"Silly boy, you're going to be late for your own birthday party," Lilia teases, lightly booping him on the nose. "Well, come on in! Everything's just about ready."

Silver curiously peers inside. The cottage is clean and neat--a rarity when left alone with his father, though Silver suspects he must have enchanted a broom to do the tidying.

It seems that his father has been hard at work in the kitchen, whipping up many of his... signature dishes which radiate a noxious aura. The most edible looking thing on their tiny dining table is a tiered vanilla cake with 18 candles stabbed into it. It's leaning over, blue frosting dribbling down its sides.

Tucked in one corner of the room is a fine suit on a mannequin, stitched together in shades of pink, blue, and green. Silver raises a brow at his father, who shrugs.

"I couldn't decide on just one color!" Lilia admits.

"You didn't have to go out of your way for all of this."

"Oh, but I wanted to," his father insists, giving him a quick hug. He pulls back, but keeps his hands on Silver's shoulders. "After all, this birthday is a very special one: you're finally considered an adult."

An... adult?

There it is again, that throbbing pain. It comes stronger this time, blinking in and out like a warning light.

Silver grimaces, bringing a hand to his forehead.

Lilia frowns. "Oh dear, are you still half asleep? Maybe you ought to sit down. We can't have you feeling unwell, especially before Malleus and Sebek get here."

"Yes, I think I'll do that," Silver agrees. "I apologize for the trouble. I feel like I haven't been myself lately. Like something is... wrong."

"I didn't realize you were so anxious about aging!" Lilia jokes, steering him over to an open chair. As soon as Silver is safely seated, Lilia goes in for an aggressive ruffle of his hair. "Chin up, m'boy! There is no shame in maturing. Why, I've raised you to be an upstanding young man if I do say so myself! You've got nothing to worry about."

Silver attempts a smile. "Of course."

His clutch on the ring and its chain instinctively tightens.

Lilia notices. "What's that you've got there? You're clenching your fist rather hard."

"Oh, this..." Silver unfurls his fingers. As soon as Lilia lays his eyes upon the piece of jewelry, a shadow passes over his expression, clouding it.

"Where did you find that?" he asks softly. Lilia leans over, a hand hovering, as if preparing to snatch it up. "You weren't supposed to receive this yet. Here, give it back to--"

"NO!!"

Silver says it louder than he means to, startling his father. His body turns from him and toward the ring, intent on guarding it. He doesn't know why--but everything in him is screaming that he must not let it be taken away.

Lilia stops, then shakes his head. "... It's fine. You were going to be gifted it sooner or later."

"You know what it is?" Silver remains alert, still shielding the ring.

"It's your birthday present, from me to you. I've been saving up for quite a while to afford it for you--I wanted it to be a big surprise," Lilia pouts. "Ah, but in the end... I suppose it doesn't matter what the method of delivery is, so long as you're still happy with it."

Silver's brows crease. Something about the comfortable narrative does not quite roll of the tongue smoothly.

A present from his father...

He stares down at the large gem laid in the center of the ring. It's facets twinkle, pink and blue and purple. Just like his eyes.

My... eyes?

A buzzing sound rings in his ears. His father's deep voice rises up through the white noise.

"It must be what your parents wished for. That their child's eyes may remain like this jewel, clear and unclouded... It suits you, Silver."

That is...

Silver sits up straight.

All at once, everything looks different. The world, shifted, and the glowing filter over his lens, gone. This house is not his home, and this man is not his father.

"Hm? Why are you staring at me like that, Silver?" Lilia giggles. "Don't tell me you're daydreaming again."

"... No. No, it's not that."

Silver's eyes flick to the door. It seems so far away.

"I... just remembered something. I forgot to greet the bluebirds." His stomach sinks as he speaks the lie into existence.

"Oh? That's not like you. You're becoming forgetful at age 18!"

Silver nods. "I won't have the time to speak with them once the party begins. May I quickly go to them?"

"Oh my, you're heading out already? So eager to leave the nest."

"... Yes. But please don't worry about me." Silver closes a hand around Lilia's and squeezes. Even if this is all fake, a facsimile, it's still very much the face of his father he is gazing into. He offers reassurance. "I'll be back soon."

"Kufufu. Alright." Lilia squeezes in return. "I'll be waiting then. Don't be late now."

Silver heads for the door.

At the threshold, he looks back one last time. At this, the happy ending crafted for him. A quaint little cottage in the woods, where he would spend the rest of his days with his beloved family.

But it's not what Lilia would have wanted for him. For everyone.

Silver painfully looks away. "Farewell, father. I promise... I will see you again."

Out there. In the real world.

He shuts the door, putting the dream behind him. Silver takes a deep breath.

"Those I've met and will someday... Meet in a Dream."

And then he is gone.

[b4ts1e]

Hi- I have returned with a tiny revelation and it has given me ideas (ideas will remain a secret for now, tiny spoiler at the end).

Take a look at the following CGs (that I totally didn't grab off of Google cause I'm away from my laptop atm /sarcasm):

The cul-de-sac, a very familiar CG if you've played the game or have seen it be played. From this we can see the front of house windows and some side ones. Based off of bedroom CGs we have from the demo and from teasers- we can make a pretty solid estimate of where the main cast's bedrooms are!

From these two images we can see the window placements for both Tamarack and MC's rooms, as well as a peek outside.

Based off of MC's room, we can see very little sky, and the trees in from the forest behind the houses- because we have a chimey in the house and no vent beam running through the room (that we can see) we can make a pretty solid guess to where their room is exactly.

Tamarack's was a bit more tricky, at first I assumed her room would face the forest since it's kind of her domain BUT the CG proved that wrong by having her window show primarily sky rather than the forest trees. From that we can safely assume the two windows at the front of the house are hers!

We do not have a teaser of Autumn's room yet, or at least I don't think- so my guess it kind of based on my personal preference and a vague memory (not reliable) of either GBPatch or Qiu saying something about the house's tower.

So from that we have this:

My usual color coordinating applies here- Purple for MC, Pink for Tama, and Orange for Autumn.

From here I give a slight idea/future writing spoiler- late night window knocking. See you all again soon! <3 /p

[vodika-vibes]

Congrats on another follower event!!! Could I please request and Crosshair x GN! Reader Beauty and the Beast AU?

Not A Monster

Summary: Your father was a monster, his death was the best thing that ever happened to the stretch of land your family ruled. As it happened, though, the people your family was responsible for decided that they were done with your family as a whole. You’re not sure that you deserved to be cursed for your family’s crimes, though.

Pairing: Pre-Crosshair x GN!Reader

Word Count: 2018

Prompt: Beauty and the Beast AU

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly

A/N: So I kind of really love this idea, but I didn't want it to be too long, so I stopped after they meet. I hope you like it!

You were about five years old when the curse took hold of your family and the people who worked for your family. Too young for you to understand why your father was a bad man.

Too young to understand what was happening to you.

Honestly, you don’t remember your father at all. Outside of some vague memories of a deep voice and a massive red beard. And you barely remember your mother. You have some vague recollection of a soft voice singing a lullaby but that’s it.

You haven’t seen your mother since the curse took hold.

According to the employees, your mother has confined herself to her tower and refuses to come out until the curse is broken. You wonder how she expects the curse to break if she’s hiding away, but when you voice that to your nanny, you get swatted and shushed.

You have caught a glimpse of your mother’s new form, though no one knows that except you. Easily the size of a bear, with some kind of black ooze that drips from her body, claws the length of a small child, and acid dripping from a mouthful of fangs.

Her appearance triggered some kind of instinctual terror inside you, and you haven’t tried to even speak to her in a couple of years.

You’re lucky that your new appearance isn’t half as monstrous.

Oh, you’re clearly something other than human. Your skin, hair, and horns are the color of ash, you have a long prehensile tail that you use to hang from the rafters when you want to play. Your hands and feet have sharp, strong, claws that allow you to climb effortlessly. Your eyes are a luminous yellow, allowing you to see very well at night, but you’re practically blind during the daylight hours.

You’re also a bit small, standing at your full height you’re almost 5 feet tall. According to the manor doctor (who was turned into a bull), tells you that you should be at least 7 inches taller, based on your mother and father, so your height has to be a side effect of the curse.

Your nanny, who was changed to look like a sheepdog due to the curse, tells you that you look like a little imp.

The chef, who somehow turned into over two dozen mice, likes to say that you’re lucky that you’re still mostly bipedal. 

The gardener has turned into a large polar bear, so you spend much time helping him in the garden. Your claws appear to have been designed for climbing rather than digging, but you’re good enough at it that you haven’t been shooed away.

But, in full honesty, you look almost human. Human enough that, with long enough robes and head coverings, and with the able guidance of your nanny, you’re able to go down to the market and buy food for the people who live in the manor.

So far as the people in town are aware, you’re nearly blind and have a skin condition that is made worse by exposure to sunlight. And, for the most part, people are accepting of it. They avert their eyes, and chide their children if they stare too long, and leave you and nanny alone to do your shopping.

In the, almost, 100 years since your family was cursed, you’ve watched the small town grow into an active, and bustling city. Your full body covering is no longer seen as something strange, as several religious women in town dress very similarly to you.

Of course, this leads people to believe that you’re also a religious woman. Luckily, you don’t care enough to correct them of their confusion. If people want to think that you’re religious, and if that belief causes them to not question you too much, you’re happy to let them have their beliefs.

On this particular shopping day, it’s bright and hot. You’re barely able to see when it’s sunny outside as it is, but today it’s just miserable. And not only because it’s bright enough that it hurts.

But also because it’s hot enough that your robe is sticking to your skin.

“This is the worst day ever, Nan.” You announce to the panting sheepdog lying in the fountain next to you.

I did tell you we should have come yesterday. Nan replies as she rolls around in the cool water, It’s only going to get hotter as the day goes on. We should hurry.

“You smell like a wet dog.”

I am a wet dog. What’s your excuse?

You huff out a laugh and open your notebook that carries the list of everything that you need to buy for the next week. You’re unable to read what is written on the page, stupid sun, but the librarian made sure that the list was also written in braille.

You slide your finger across the raised letters, swiftly reading the list.

It’s a standard list, there’s nothing there that isn’t normal.

Good, it means that you don’t have to deal with anyone new. “Come on, Nan. Let’s get this done and go home.” You stand from where you were sitting on the edge of the fountain and walk several feet away.

You hear Nan jump out of the water, and then there are squeals of laughter from a handful of children as she shakes the water out of her fur. She hurries to your side and you lightly grab the harness as she presses her wet body against your leg.

“Awful,”

Suck it up. Grocery store?

“Grocery store.” You agree, allowing the large dog to guide you through the busy streets to the store.

It takes you and Nan several hours to finish your shopping, and the shopkeepers are nice enough to load up your cart for you while you run through the list to make sure that you’re not missing anything.

Once you’re sure that you didn’t miss anything, you clamber up on the cart and are about to give the order to the horse (who is actually the steward of the manor) to bring you and Nan home, when someone stops next to the cart.

“Excuse me,”

You turn and squint at the man speaking to you, you’re pretty sure he has silver hair, but that’s about the only detail you can make out, “Yes?”

“I’m looking for an inn or someplace like that.” He says, “Can you point me in the right way?”

“The only Inn was the Starlight Inn…but it burned down two months ago. Got struck by lightning.”

He’s quiet for a moment, “Please tell me you’re joking,”

“Fraid not. It’s still being rebuilt. But we had a wet spring, and it’s slowed work.”

“So there’s nowhere to stay?”

“You can reach out to the church?” You offer, “Or…” You hesitate, “Never mind. The church is probably your best bet.”

“You sounded like you were going to give a second option,” The man says.

“Well, my place has plenty of free space, but,” You shrug, “You’re not going to want to stay there.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’ll take ‘it’s complicated’ over a church any day of the week.” The man replies dryly.

You tilt your head and stare at him for a long moment, and then you nod, “Alright. Hop up.” You motion for Nan to hop into the back of the cart, which she does with a huff, and the man settles on the bench next to you. Then, with a smile he can’t see, you introduce yourself.

“Crosshair,” He replies, “Are you able to actually steer this thing?”

“No need. Jace, we’re going home.” You call to the stallion, who releases a noise and starts on the path home. You don’t even bother to pick up the reins, and instead lean back against the cart.

It takes about 30 minutes for the cart to turn down the gravel, and heavily shaded, path that leads back to the manor, and it’s about that time that Nan pops up from the back. You should warn him.

You hum your agreement, and sit up, “So, about the it’s complicated.” You say as you get your first proper look at him. Dark skin, dark eyes, silver hair, and a crosshair tattooed around one of his eyes. He’s handsome, you think absently.

“Yeah?”

“About 100 years ago, my father was cursed.” You explain, “Unfortunately, he had the poor manners to die before the curse set in fully, so all of the people who lived in his home were cursed instead, including myself, my mother, and our employees.”

“Cursed?”

“Yeah,” You tug your hood off, and blink at him, “See.”

Crosshair stares at you, his gaze lingering on your grey skin, and then sliding up to your horns (they’re not very long, kind of stubby, actually). “Huh.”

That…was not the reaction you were expecting.

“I even have a tail,” You offer helpfully.

Crosshair’s gaze focuses back on your eyes, “I bet you don’t see during the day very well.”

At his comment, you cross your arms and pout, “No. But my night vision is unmatched. And I can climb better than anyone, and can hang from my tail.”

“You almost look like a gargoyle.” 

Your jaw drops, and you puff up to your full height, which isn’t a lot, “I am not a gargoyle!”

“I didn’t say that you were, just that you looked like one.” He has a small smirk on his lips, “Anyway, does everyone else look like you, imp?”

You glare at him, “No. The employees were turned into animals,” At that you point to Nan, “She was my nanny, and he,” You point at the stallion, “Is the manor’s steward. Our chef turned into 24 mice.”

“Ah, and your mother?”

“Ah, well,” You shiver, even under the heat of the day, “Mother looks like a monster. But you won’t have to worry about that. Mother never leaves her tower.”

The cart comes to a stop in front of the manor, and you hop off the bench. You squirm and shimmy out of the robes, leaving you clad in the tank top and biking shorts that you much prefer (because you can cut a tail hole in them without ruining the stability of the shorts) and you swiftly unhook Jace from the cart.

Crosshair stares at you for a moment, “You don’t look like a monster, imp.” He says as he climbs down, grabs a handful of bags, and then, bemusedly, gives them to Jace. “In fact, you’re kind of cute.”

You blink at him, stunned, and then clamp your hands over your burning face, “You can’t just say things like that!”

“Why not? It’s true.” His smirk widens when he sees just how flustered you are, “Don’t tell me no one’s told you that you’re cute before?”

“Of course not! No one’s seen me since I was human!”

“Well then, lucky me. I get you all to myself.”

You stare at him, genuinely at a loss for words, and Crosshair winks at you, and grabs another bag, “Where am I bringing this?”

Nan, having decided that Crosshair needs to stay, bounds over to him. Follow me, young man. I’ll show you to the kitchen and then your room.

Crosshair blinks at her, and then nods, “Alright. Thank you, Nan.”

Jace chortles from where you’re loading him up with bags, Well now, He says, If that’s not a chance to break the curse, then I don’t know what is.

Your face heats, “Hush, you. You’re putting the cart before the horse. For all you know, he’ll only stay for a couple of nights, and then he’ll move on.”

Is there any harm in hoping, boss? Jace asks as he nudges you with his nose, I know we told you that hoping was foolish…but that was wrong of us.

You sigh and shake your head, “Come on, Jace. Let’s get everything inside.”

As you follow Jace into the kitchen you see Crosshair talking to Chef, and you can’t help the small smile that crosses your face.

Maybe, just maybe, a little hope wouldn’t be too bad.

[meanbossart]

A long over-due ask compilation (Art & Music)

It's vaguely based on a short story from the book "The Consumer" by Michael Gira, specifically "The Boss". I think it came up in conversation with a friend or something when I was picking a new username, so that's how we arrived at it - this was almost a decade ago so, my memory on it is a little hazy!

{MORE UNDER THE CUT]

HAHA thank you so much!!! Glad you enjoy what I do 😎🍻

I BELIEVE this little guide I put together over here might be helpful to you, also! I touched on pretty much everything you brought up.

As for reference material when it comes to facial expressions, I have a mirror next to my desk which I glance at often and make weird faces at LOL and for consistency, it's really a matter of learning to dissect and remember facial structure. It's just something you end up developing an eye for when you've done it for long enough! Naturally, if we're talking about drawing existing characters, it's always helpful to just look at some pictures of their mugs and take a minute to define what features about them make their faces recognizable - I touch on this at the link above as well!

I do plan on making a "drowstarion" (love that, by the way LOL) playlist eventually, life's just been kicking my ass and I hardly have the time 😭and when I do, I just wanna draw.

Otherwise I don't have any other playlists floating around at the moment, BUT the one my boyfriend made for his Vellioth comic can be found here, and it might scratch a similar itch!

Thank you! I believe this was in reference to this post. Something like that takes me about... An hour??? If we're talking just the colors, at least. Though that's a really rough estimate because I take a lot of breaks, so my sense of time when I work ends up pretty skewed. Even if the application of the colors themselves took less than 20 minutes I probably spent 2 hours just staring at it LOL.

My friend, I have no idea. I'm in a constant battle between "I want to draw more realistically" and "I want to simplify my art so I can draw more/faster". What you see is the result of that ongoing brain-tug-of-war.

Also, just the way I assume everyone else develops theirs - they see stuff they like and emulate it until their art is Frankensteinish enough to be it's own unique thing!

I'm far from a Type O Negative buff, BUT I'm happy to share some of my favorites with you! They're quite scattered across a couple of their albums so I'm not sure I have a favorite, but I would say October Rust is a good starting point.

In no particular order, these are my most listened tracks of theirs: -Love You to Death -Black N.01 -Haunted -She Burned Me Down -Can't Lose You -I Don't Wanna Be Me -Be My Druidess -September Sun -Tripping A Blind Man

Alas, I was one of those people who was already drawing in kindergarten 😅 though I would say I only started taking it seriously when I was around 15-16 years old. As someone who has tried their hand at several other hobbies since reaching adulthood, I get what you're saying that it can kinda feel like... You missed the wagon? I've felt that way about all kind of things lol

That said, I've seen adults managing to develop their art skills extremely fast and effectively before. Understanding where and how you need to improve, and how to follow lessons/guides best is something that is vastly improved by maturity and knowing how to best hone your time, attention, and resources - and those are skills we completely lack as children. So, I sincerely believe that as long as you commit yourself, you can definitely get to a point that you're happy with in a couple of years if not less.

JUST DO IT BUDDY we are all just people looking through a screen and you won't ever see, talk, or meet 99% of the folks who ever clap eyes on what you post. Whenever you start getting nervous about sharing something, take a minute to ask yourself why you're nervous, and if none of the reasons have any genuine substance besides being afraid of what people "might think", just go ahead and post it. You're no mind-reader after all, and if you are, I doubt you can hear what a guy from Argentina or wherever is thinking about the art you made.

Point is, nobody online can touch you 🤷and if someone doesn't like what you do, they can simply choose to not interact with it, and if they do you can block and move on. There are zero reasons for you to feel "bad" about putting up a doodle when our experiences on the web are so easily curated nowadays.