Smoke billows from the crash. It’s small now, but in another ten minutes, anyone who looks this way will see the rising black plume. But, in another ten minutes, it won’t matter who sees it.

The rider’s dead .The passenger is still alive, and as Guts approaches, he instinctively turns his head towards the sound of footsteps. He’s been mangled. Panic sets in and he struggles, as if he has any chance of escaping.

His eyes are huge and he screams, just the once, just before Guts brings his bat down on the man’s head. Then he’s quiet. Guts eyes it up, and gives him one more strike, to make sure it looks like his head caved in from the crash.

Then he leaves with what he came for, walking up the slope and back to his bike. It’s quiet at this time of night, so dark that you can’t see anything unless your headlights illuminate it. He likes nights like this. It feels like he’s entirely alone in the world, like everyone stepped out for a smoke and never came back. 

Sometimes, he finds himself half-hoping that he’ll turn the corner and the cities and towns will all be gone, all quiet and empty and abandoned, and he’ll finally be alone, and safe. 

Tonight, he doesn’t mind the glow of lights as he approaches the campground’s outskirts. It’s late and there’s only a few lights on still. He kills his engine on the road leading in and walks his bike the rest of the way back. It’s a heavy machine but he’s gotten used to it. There are very, very few things Guts hasn’t gotten used to. 

One of those mysteries is waiting for him. 

Griffith is awake, of course. He’s seated in front of a tree, the light from his tablet illuminating his face. He looks like… like… 

Words fail Guts. He’s never been good with them, and he’s never been good with figuring out how to describe someone like Griffith. Guts is fluent in violence and all but mute when it comes to poetic things. Casca always has the words, and though she drives him insane, he’s a little relieved that she’s here to say them for him and to talk about how he’s a flame in the darkness, or whatever it is that she says. 

Griffith looks up when Guts approaches and watches as he settles on the ground nearby, sighing some. He doesn’t ask how it went. Griffith knows already, because Guts wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t finished the job. He just gives Guts a one of those rare, genuine smiles - the ones that make him look human instead of untouchable. 

Guts doesn’t need to ask what Griffith is doing. It’s important and it’s things that Guts finds so boring that he’d rather blow his brains out than compose emails. That’s all that matters. And, he doesn’t need to report back other than what he’s already done so…

So for a moment, he enjoys the peace and quiet, and getting to just exist in Griffith’s presence without the camp clambering for his attention or favours.

It doesn’t last. He scowls when he hears footsteps approaching but he gets ready to leave. He grabs his bat and goes to stand up, when a small hand falls on his shoulders. 

It’s Casca. And for once, she doesn’t have a lecture for him. Instead, she sets a water bottle in his lap. He frowns at her and she frowns right back. “What?”

“I don’t need this.” Guts says and she just sighs with frustration. He didn’t ask for water. He’s fine. 

“You could just try thanking someone for trying to help you. For once in your life, just say ‘thanks Casca’ instead of consonantly acting like someone trying to do something nice for you is an inconvenience for you.” She retorts and when his face twists up, hers does too. “You just came sneaking back into camp in the middle of the night, without telling anyone where you were going so we could look for you if you didn’t make it back, and who knows where you were out there doing. Getting drunk, probably.”

“I wasn’t sneaking.” He says but it doesn’t matter, she’s on a roll now and when Guts openly rolls his eyes at her, she gets angrier.

“That’s the only thing you got out of all of that? You’re really unbelievable.” Casca shakes her head at him, and he takes back everything nice he thought about her before. She has another bottle in her hands and she sets it beside Griffith. “Here, Griffith.”

“Thank you Casca.” Griffith says. He seems amused by it all, smiling as he goes back to pecking at the screen. 

Guts has wandered off, again. This isn’t the first time. She knows in her heart that it won’t be the last time. But the panic she feels each time is the same, as raw and fresh as the first time she found him missing. 

Thankfully, Casca knows where to look these days. She sets her hand on the hilt of her sword and she listens carefully. Her feet move even before her ears register what she’s heard, her body seeking out the sound in an instant. Guts always seeks out two things when left alone, and there are no monsters here. 

There are children, and that’s where she finds him, sitting on the grass and smiling as a little girl shows him her doll. 

Casca approaches slowly, trying not to scare either of them. The girl doesn’t seem to even notice Casca, too caught up in telling Guts about her doll. She prattles in the familiar way that children do, rushing through her sentences excitedly, “-and she um, she’s, she’s got a horse and a dog and um, and um, she’s- she! She’s got dresses and they’re white and green-” 

Guts looks so happy like this. She can’t remember if he ever smiled that before. He was always so guarded. But there are no guard anymore. He feels wholeheartedly now, everything shining through him like sunlight through an open window. In moments like this, it’s a blessing… 

Casca’s boot kicks a pebble as she walks. Guts and the little girl both look up. Guts stops smiling. So does the little girl. Casca’s used to it by now. 

“Guts, we need to go.” Casca tells him. He fixes her with an unhappy expression and then gets to his feet, walking off again. The little girl stares at Casca, clutching her doll close. Casca knows there are no words she can say to make her less frightened, so she just passes her by, following after Guts. 

Guts still walks faster than she does and he uses those long strides to put space between them. She used to be angrier about this. There was a time when Casca would chase after him and yell, to try make him see reason… 

But she’s learned better than that. Instead, she just follows him until he comes to a stop, and she approaches him carefully as he gives her a sullen look. Casca rests her hands behind her back. “Everyone’s waiting on us. We need to go.”

He doesn’t stop glaring at her. But at least when she walks back towards the market, he follows her. That’s better than a few years ago. It’s getting better every day, bit by bit. At least, that’s what she tells herself, and it has to be true. It has to be. 

The others are waiting with the donkey. As soon as Jill sees them, she smiles and waves to Guts. He picks up the pace, heading past Casca straight to Jill to see what little treasures she’s gotten her hands on in town. Jerome’s checking their supplies. Pepe’s not smiling for once, and soon as Casca’s in earshot, she leans forward and tells her the news. “Wyndham’s fallen.” 

Casca feels a surge of emotions: sorrow, resentment, anger, and… and a tinge of vicious spite. It isn’t good that Wyndham has fallen. But after what that city did to her, to Guts, to the Band… She knows who’s really to blame for everything that happened, but she holds them accountable for their portion. 

“Then we should leave immediately, before the ports end up closed off.” War is ugly enough when the Kingdom capital still stands. It’ll get worse without it. 

“What about-” Jerome starts to ask and pauses, his eyes going over to Guts before he rephrases his question, “What about Rickert and Erica? Should we try meet up with them?” 

“No. It’s likely they’ve already left. We know where to meet up.” Casca can’t think about them, not right now. But she trusts Rickert to do what he thinks is best. If the situation has gotten dangerous, he’ll take Erica and- and the baby and leave. If it’s safe, he’ll stay there. She trusts him. 

Jerome makes a face, but he knows better than to challenge her judgement. He carries on. “Some of the locals mentioned a way around the blockades. If we head north, there’s a road that leads straight to the sea. We can get a ship along there.” 

A road directly to a port might have been better, but this is safer than any other choice, and there’s sure to be a ship somewhere, so long as there’s sea. “Let’s go.” 

They get moving. Casca waits until they’re out of sight of the city, and until her leg is aching, before she finally gives in and climbs on the donkey. She won’t take off the prosthetic until they make camp, but at least this way she can rest a little bit. 

Pepe and Jerome chat some as they walk, each sharing the different gossip they heard while getting supplies. Jill holds onto Guts’ hand and just walks with him, keeping him moving forward. He still scans the horizon, still looking for threats. Her brand isn’t burning, so she knows they’re safe… at least, for now. At least while the sun is high. 

The night is always a different story. It’s always a struggle, but… less of one now that she no longer spends it alone, or trying to stop Guts from charging off to fight anything that feels like a threat… or trying to find his way back to Godot’s home. 

She sneaks a look at Guts. He always smiles so openly at Jill and the others. It makes her heart ache. He used to look at her that way… Now all he knows is that she’s the one who won’t let him be near the baby… be near their baby.

But at this point, the baby isn’t a baby anymore. He must be a child, three years old. Though she tries not to think about it, her mind sometimes wonders what he must look like. His hair was dark when he was a baby, but his skin was lighter, pale like Guts. Did he have her eyes or his? Her nose or his? Did he-

Casca stops her thoughts from going any further. It’s pointless. Her child is safe, and that’s all that matters. The rest is inconsequential. One day, Guts will understand that they left to keep him safe. She’s given up on hoping he forgives her, but if he can understand, then that will be enough. 

There’s a gentle jingling from her bag as Puck emerges. He yawns and stretches, twisting around in the air before he comes to a stop in front of her face. “Did we get there yet?” 

“We did, and we just left.” Casca snorts and gently flicks his head to spin him right-side up. “You slept through it all.” 

“Again.” Jerome rolls his eyes. “So much for Puck the grand guide.” 

“We’re going in the right direction. I’ll tell you when we’re not.” The elf flutters over to bother Jerome a little while. Casca rubs her calf idly as she joins Guts in scanning the horizon. The only thing of any interest is the forest, and the land rising steadily upwards. They’ll probably hit the forest before dark, so they’ll need to stop and building a camp. Of course, they’ll also have to prepare. The forest always seems to hold something worth worrying about, some dark secrets or-

Guts laughs and shakes her out of her thoughts. For a moment, she forgets everything else except the sound he’s making, so joyful and open. He sounds so happy.

What you wish for, may not be what he wishes for. 

Maybe. Maybe that’s true. But she knows that whatever happens after this, it’s only right that Guts has his mind back. It’s only right that he has a chance to decide for himself if he’ll return to the child she forced him to leave, or follow her when she goes after Griffith. 

No one tells the cuckoo what he is. He simply knows from the moment he hatches that he is not like the rest. The cuckoo knows instinctively that his nestmates are his enemies, and that his survival depends on their failure. No one teaches the cuckoo how to recognize their own; they simply know, the same way that they know they must feed and grow and never falter.

And so, when Dio beholds Griffith, and Griffith beholds Dio, they both know each other in a moment. Cuckoos always know one another on sight.

There is silence as they evaluate one another, each rapidly shifting through and discarding approaches. Charm will not work here. Hollow flattery will fail. Violence is expected, predicted, and for the first time in a while, the outcome is uncertain. Neither of them consider fleeing. Running away shows weakness that is inexcusable. 

In the end, they exhaust all possibilities in the space of thirty long seconds, until there is only one option left. 

They don’t have anything left to bury, so they just put JoJo’s favorite jacket in a casket and bury that beside his father. Robert is inconsolable. Erina, who has buried three Joestar men now, can only clutch the arms of her wheelchair. She has no more tears left to cry. When she was young, she hated Dio for stealing Jonathan from her in the spring of her life.

Now, older, she wonders why the world detests the Joestars so much that it would kill them all. 

Lisa Lisa has not come, but not from a lack of wanting. She called the other day. She’s in Mexico now, hunting down the pillarman that killed Joseph. Loggins and Messina are with her. If she can, she’ll hold him and interrogate him, discover how many others there are - and what they might do, now that they’ve been woken by Nazi meddling. 

The day is clear and sunny and Erina has nowhere else to be. She will sit here with Robert, the two of them mourning their only grandchild. Once, Erina had dreamed of being surrounded by children. Then, she had dreamed of being surrounded by grandchildren.

Now she is surrounded by graves. 

“Erina.” Robert’s hand rests on her shoulder. She was told he was dead, but he was not. His hair has been cut even shorter since he was taken captive. Year after year, he has cut it back from the long, unruly mess she remembers from when they were both young. By the time he dies, there will be nothing left at all, except perhaps the slightest fuzz. Robert squeezes her shoulder. “We should go back.”

“Not yet.” Erina rests her hands on her knees. She isn’t ready to leave her men yet. Three empty coffins. Why won’t this world let her have their bodies to lie to rest? Why does this world hate the Joestars so much that it will not even let them having a resting place? 

She no longer has the energy to be angry. But bitter? Oh, Erina has oceans of bitterness left in her. 

And she has a question. Erina reaches up to set a hand on Robert’s hand, giving him some comfort… and keeping him near as she meets his eyes. “Robert, tell me how JoJo died.” 

There it is again: the expression of fear. Robert told her nothing when he arrived from South America, only that JoJo had rescued him, and that he had died trying to stop a monster unlike any they’d ever seen before. He had slowed him long enough to let Robert escape with some others, but the last Robert had seen, he was being devoured by the creature. 

Yet, despite this, Robert had been very careful, skittering around the details. His eyes quickly look away from Erina. “He fought the pillarman and… died-” 

“Robert.” Her tone is sharp. Her hand squeezes his. “What did JoJo do?” 

Robert won’t even look at her. He’s-

… is he blushing?

“Robert-” Erina says and Robert lets out a pained moan. “Robert!” 

“I can’t!” He clutches Erina’s chair with his free hand. 

“You will.” She insists and he quakes, he trembles, he agonizes in ways that she hasn’t seen in hears. Erina’s eyebrows are both raised up high now and she insists once more, “Robert, what did JoJo do?” 

Speedwagon tells her, though he’s in agony all the while, hands squeezing tight as he blurts out the hideous truth. When the words leave, Speedwagon drops to his knees, clutching at her chair. 

Erina stares at the gravestones. She sighs and covers her eyes. Oh JoJo… 

Guts hates to be touched. He reminds Griffith of the alley dogs he often saw when he was a child, mangy and slinking about. They always made themselves so big, all that bristling fur and those sharp teeth on display. They tried so hard to look big and dangerous, but Griffith could see how their ribs pressed against their skin and the way they limped when they thought they weren’t being watched. 

Griffith had enjoyed putting his hands those filthy beasts, just to watch their false bravado give way to fear, and then to a terrified acceptance. They were so used to being beaten that they couldn’t understand what a soft touch meant. Those dogs were always waiting for the moment when the softness would give way to sharp pain and the world would make sense to them once again. 

Guts often has that same look in his eyes when Griffith sets a hand on his shoulder, the spark of fear that gives way to confusion. Griffith enjoys it as much now as he did then. 

He thinks now and then about what the future will hold. Since he was a child, he has dreamed of Wyndham. Give him a paper and quill, and he could draw the shape of it - the vast walls and the spires and towers within, the winding stone buildings that build towards the palace. He has known since he was ten what changes he would make to the defenses; since fifteen, he’s known what changes he would make to the royal court; since twenty, he has understood how he would secure Midland and bring it into a new golden age. 

The people within his dreams have often shifted. He understands that everyone is disposable. Everyone is mortal. Soldiers die and alliances shift in the blink of an eye. The only person Griffith can be absolutely certain of is himself. 

And yet, lately, he finds himself thinking of particular names when he considers the future. He has placed names in his plans before of course, but always with caveats. If Casca survives, he will likely place her as captain of his personal guard. If Judeau survives, he could be put to good use along the borders. If Pippin survives, if Corkus survives, if if if, and so on. 

There is no ‘if’ when he thinks of Guts. There is only ‘when’. 

When Griffith has his crown, he will keep Guts close to him. When it comes time to pick a champion to fight, it will be Guts. When it comes time go into battle once more, Guts will be at his side. 

The thoughts are harmless of course. Griffith knows how quickly a ‘when’ can become an ‘if’ or a ‘never’. Guts may be a favored possession of his, but he is simply a possession, nothing more.

There were always a dozen alley dogs. Some of them might have been bigger than the others, and some might have been smarter, and some might have been more loyal. But they were always just dogs. They were all the same, snarling and snapping, living and dying without ever understanding why. 

Guts may be the biggest, the smartest, the most loyal of the dogs that Griffith has put his hands on, but he is still just an alley dog. His teeth snap at shadows and his eyes fill with fear. It’s a pleasure to see him torn between his desires to remain loyal and his terror that the hand that touches him so gently will be used to hurt him, as every other hand has. 

There will come a day whenGriffith needs to replace him, and on that day, he will. 

IT’S FINE I LOVE THEM ALL!!! and I love you too! <3

50) Smut! It’s already my wheelhouse and there’s so many possible ways to write smut, from straight up hardcore fucking with conventional parts and positions, to the strictly unconventional, to more cerebral or metaphorical sex, and right back around to the kind of smut where nobody is technically having sex but the story is all about it anyway (over the phone, masturbation, etcetc). 

39) Third person POV limited! First person can be interesting but I prefer it for novels rather than fanfic, especially since I’m really really picky about narrators getting characters to actually sound/think in character. Burn second person to the ground. 

41) Does Yes Man! His dialogue has such a precise syntax to it and was incredibly fun to mimic, and he’s such a passive-aggressive fucker and that’s always fun in a story. 

43) I’m pretty sure both my betas have guess it when I’ve been in the middle of writing! But honestly, that’s usually a good thing, because it means that I’m properly setting up my story that their brains also come to the same conclusion of “haha wouldn’t it be great if X?” 

27) I’d say it’s 70% going with the flow : 30% making an outline. Sometimes, if there are particular beats I really want to keep in mind, I put a little list at the top of the document with the approximate order of events, and then do my best to hit those beats. But I’ll always throw out any outline if I think I’ve found something better or more compelling. 

48) Answering this one again to say.... bad ladies. I love fucking love ladies. I love every fucking trope that involves woman. And I especially love taking the trope of ‘bad’ women and reveling in them. Mean gossipy girls. Rude girls. Cruel girls. Women who know they’re better than you. Women who are apologetically self-serving and conniving. Our stories are always so fucking shitty towards women who are less than perfect. So I love getting a chance to lean in hard and say yeah whatever man, I fucking love mean, ambitious girls. 

49) WWF Mary Sue fanfic. She was some kind of dark magic lady that Kane was obviously in love with, while she was using her dark powers for? Something? I later recycled it into an absolutely massive story which I thankfully scanned and have on hand. 

12) At the moment, Pucci. I fucking love writing characters who feel like they’re the most logical, justified person in the world, and having a narration where you can see the fucking missing stairs in their arguments that they just keep hopping over with ease, completely blind to them. 

“They met again last night, about you.” 

“Good morning to you too, Derroll,” Sewell says by way of greeting, and by way of reminding Derroll that he is not above acknowledging a person before launching into doomsaying.

“This is the third meeting in a month, and you laugh it off.” It seems Derroll will not be dissuaded this morning. No greeting and no waiting for an invitation either as he simply steps into Sewell’s laboratory. 

“Am I laughing?” He is in the middle of something, but it seems it will not wait. Sewell carefully picks up his rat and moves him to his cage, giving the small creature an extra tidbit of meat for his corporation. “I hear you old friend-”

“And yet you show no concern! You haven’t packed and you’ve made no preparations to leave!” Derroll shouts and that’s what makes Sewell stop and look directly at him.

His friend is trembling and pale. Oh, Derroll... That’s right. He was driven away before. He fears it will happen again. Sewell sighs and puts aside his own feelings, focusing on his friend’s lingering fears. 

“I haven’t, because I will be going to speak with them tonight. They’ve asked me to come to them, and- Derroll, I shall. They’re afraid because they don’t understand my work. That’s all. They worry for their families and children.” He sets a hand on Derroll‘s arm, giving it a gentle pat. “All they need is to see that I plan on hiding nothing from them. They are free to visit anytime they wish, and to watch my work.” 

“Do you think they’ll understand? They, who cling to spirits and prayers?” Derroll is shaking still, but it lessens under Sewell’s touch. He has always been prone to panic, but he is an enlightened man, and he can be calmed just as easily with quiet talk. 

“I think once the mystery has been revealed to them, they will find my work quite boring.” Sewell is under no illusions as to the majesty of what he does. It is boring, and it is plain, and once understood, it is also understood that it is work, same as tilling the fields and grinding the grain. “It won’t be like last time. I promise you.” 

Derroll shakes his head, but he does not fight Sewell. He simply says, “You should pack your things.” 

“I have a bag packed.” He promises him, and Sewell does, though he doubts he will ever need it. Derroll will see.