#*shuffles through notebooks and documents*

[ssreeder]

yooooo. queer-ie: i love your work and would die for it (this is the queer part) and i just know there’s gotta be scenes that have been deleted. could you possibly tell us about some of those (this is the -ie part)? no pressure tho!! i’ll be hopelessly devoted to you either way.

eyyyyyy-o.

sorry Ive sat on this ask for a while but it tuurns I doooooo have like 4k of of outtakes from RIA & ITF lol.

so here are a few, i’m not sure if this is what you wanted from this ask lol im doing my best. (also none of these are edited or proof read and im sorry about mistakes and grammar and tense and all that other jaz because these were seriously like - ‘i don’t know if im going to trash this orrrrr…..’ then it never made it in & might not even be applicable to the current story.)

im such a good author I know so many details ummmm here is an insert from some point in RIA (I think this was going to be a POV from Hakoda and his men talking and I decided it was a waste of word count. sorry hakoda)

- - -

“I say we kill him.”

“Don’t you think that is a little… <i>extreme</i> Gilak?”

“Not as extreme as the <i>son</i> of the Fire Lord living and breathing in our camp!”

Hakoda felt the specific vein in his forehead thumping against his wrinkled skin that was trying its best to keep it contained. He could feel a headache coming forward the longer they discussed what to do about the situation that Sokka brought to his attention… and so far, they had not one tangible idea.

“Gilak, I have already told you, we can not kill him.”

“I know sir, your son is buddies with him, and we can’t upset Sokka.”

Hakoda shot the larger man a stern look, and he quickly retracted his words.

“I know why we can’t kill him. I just think it would be the simplest solution in this situation.”

Bato jumped to Hakoda’s defense, like he always did.

“This is not a simple situation, so it will not have a simple solution. I think we should speak to Morrak and see what he learned about the boy before we make any decisions. If we kill the Prince of the Fire Nation while he is severely injured and being non threatening we will look like the savages the rest of the world calls us. We have to handle this delicately, like Hakoda said, Sokka trusted us enough to tell us who he is when he could have easily lied. Which means we need to respect that trust and handle it delicately.”

Hakoda cleared his throat, earning the attention from both his men.

“So it is decided. I will talk to Morrak and once I get more information, I will meet back with you both and we can discuss our options at that point.”

“Yes sir.”

“Yes Chief.”

Hakoda was happy when they left his tent, freeing up the stifled air that seemed to stop moving the moment the conversation began. Hakoda felt an intense guilt building from betraying his son’s trust and sharing his friend's identity with the other men… Haoda knew it was the wisest decision for him to make as the Chief of the Southern Water Tribe, but it wasn’t helping him be the best dad to his son… Something he was still struggling with every passing moment.

Even now… Hakoda left his son alone in the healer’s tent with the boy he just recently discovered was the Prince of the Fire Nation… A boy bred into fire and violence. Sokka seemed to trust him, which gave Hakoda a tiny bit of hope that maybe there was something good in this boy… But that tiny feeling was smothered by the rest of the overwhelming amount of mistrust and worry he had when he looked at the golden eyed boy who glared at him from the moment he opened his eyes.

Hakoda rubbed his forehead, digging his thumb into his temple in an attempt to push back the stress vein. He needed to speak to Morrak, and after that… He would make a decision on what was the best next step he could make. He needed to protect his tribe and his son, that was his main concern right now… and right now… Sokka was tied to this fire bender in a way that made Hakoda nervous.

Turning towards the entrance of his tent, Hakoda decided not to overthink this situation a minute longer and go find Morrak so they could talk…

Each time Hakoda thought about all the things he didn’t know, or wasn’t understanding, he felt the weight of his decision growing heavier and heavier. If Hakoda didn’t figure out what to do soon, he was going to be crushed and then Sokka would be on his own…

Hakoda couldn’t fail his son again, he had to make the right decision

- -

Ok so this one is right before Zuko gave himself up in RIA. I don’t remember how the final scene went down but we all know how it ended :) <3

Psst… Dad.”

Hakoda frowned in his sleep, caught in the middle of a dream and the reality that awaited him on the other side.

“Dad… Wake up.”

Hakoda opened his eyes and saw Sokka staring down at him.

“Son? What are you doing in my tent in the middle of the night? Are you ok?”

Hakoda sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to see through the darkness he was startled when a tiny flame broke through the void and gave clarity to the room.

Zuko was standing behind Sokka who was kneeling next to Hakoda’s bed, and the Water Tribe man felt a mixture of conflicted feelings. He was instantly happy that Zuko had come back for Sokka, but the dred that followed swallowed any joy he had…. Zuko couldn’t be here. If Quon found him… They would all be in trouble.

“I’m fine… Zuko came back. He… We… Ummm… We are leaving.”

Hakoda thought he would be devastated the day his son told him he was leaving again, so sure that his world would bottom out and Hakoda would feel like he was falling into despair. But when he looked at Sokka, and he thought back to the talk they had about his feelings for the fire bender, Hakoda knew that there was nothing he could say to change his son’s decision.

Just like Hakoda had allowed Katara to leave, he had to do the same with Sokka. His children didn’t belong to him anymore, they were grown and they were bonded to people who they were loyal to… And Hakoda was proud of them. It was a monumental thing to find someone you loved, and staying loyal to them was what kept that relationship strong…. Even if Hakoda didn’t love the idea of Sokka choosing a fire bending boy, he wouldn’t stop him from being loyal to his love.

“I understand, son. Allow me to put on my pants and I will help you two escape.”

Zuko spoke up, “I don’t think that will be necessary. The uhh… The helping us… Not the uhh… The pants.”

Hakoda smirked and Sokka smacked his own forehead. No wonder the boy refrained from using words.

“I would like to make sure you two make it out ok. Is that a problem?”

Zuko seemed to dislike the idea, but Sokka gave him a pleading look that had a splash of assertiveness, which seemed to be their typical dynamic. Now that Hakoda was aware of the romantic nature between the boys it was easier to disfer their interactions.

Hakoda slipped on his pants and slid on his boots, making sure he secured his hunting knife inside. He couldn’t grab any other weapons just in case they were caught, Hakoda couldn’t risk looking like he was prepared for a fight. If they were caught, they would need to make sure that whatever words made up their excuse were good enough to fool whoever found them.

As long as it wasn’t Quon, they might have a chance

- -

RIP Shen, I never realized how fucking funny you and Zuko were until you died. I think this was when they were all sharing intel idk… but Zukos an asshole and I love it. (he and Sokka were sooooo hostile during the SWT arc)

“Nothing… Just…. Fucking drop it. How about Zuko and I switch seats and I will come over and help you with the Fire Nation cruiser information. Bato and Zuko can, I don’t know… Play their tile game or whatever.”

“Fine with me. I fucking love games.” Zuko mumbled as he stood up.

Shen watched with wide eyes, not saying a word, and Hakoda could honestly say he had no words to add to the tension either.

“Good!” Sokka stood up as well and made sure to bump his friend’s shoulder as they switched seats. The fire bender glanced back and Hakoda wondered if he was going to shove Sokka in the back but he didn’t reciprocate the hostile gesture and instead he flopped down next to Bato and crossed his arms with his brow narrowed deep into the center of his face.

Shen leaned back when Sokka came to sit down next to him, and Sokka glanced over at him and scoffed.

“Don’t be dramatic. Let’s just get this thing fucking over with so we can be done here.”

“Whatever you say.” Shen replied as Sokka aggressively organized the parchment and prepared to draw out Shen’s cruiser.

Hakoda watched as Sokka’s anger melted when Shen began to explain what it was like being a soldier stationed on Fire Nation cruiser. He told them about -

- -

TA DAAAAAA idk if this is what you wanted…. but here it is. I don’t have anything from the first book, and only a bit from ITF but I do have more RIA. I rambled a lot in the second book ha but yeah idk what else to say! Thanks for the ask.

[ms-demeanor]

Due to some stuff brought up in recent posts I believe it is time to once again extol the virtues of Ms-Demeanor's Patented Where Did I Put That Fucking Paper Organizational Binder.

Hello! I am a disorganized adult! This is the system by which I manage my important shit like pink slips for my car and medical records and tax information.

You're going to need:

A 3-Ring Binder

Transparent Sheet Protectors

Notebook dividers (optional but VERY useful)

A backpack (optional)

So the way this system works is you put the sheet protectors into the binder. You can either use the dividers to divide the binder into sections or you can label some of the sheet protectors to make different sections but what you are generally going to do is make sections of the binder labeled things like "taxes" or "vet" or "doctor" and put a few sheet protectors in each section.

Then all of your papers with important information get crammed in that folder. You don't organize them, you don't sort them by date, you don't alphabetize. You put things vaguely relating to taxes into the sheet protectors in the taxes section. You put things relating to cars in the cars section. You don't even attempt to make this readable - you're not using sheet protectors so that you can read each page and keep it legible, you're using sheet protectors because it's a cheap plastic bag that will sit nicely in a binder.

You CAN put stuff into the individual sheet protectors when you get it, but let's be realistic you probably WON'T do that, so just tuck individual papers into the front of the binder until you get to a critical mass of paperwork then take an hour to sit down and sort into categories and put it in the binder once every six months to three years (depending on how frequently you get paperwork). Sometimes these sections will outgrow their original allotted space - since my spouse had a transplant surgery the medical section has had to become its own folder - and that's okay. If you end up with multiple folders just keep them together (this is why the backpack is an option, and one I strongly recommend).

Because yeah, if my organization system relies on opening up a drawer and putting something where it belongs as soon as I get the paper, I will simply not be organized. It's not going to happen. But I can handle a messy stack of paper that sits in one place and grows until it is time to shove it into a binder. I can't organize things for thirty seconds a day every day but I can organize things for an hour once every year or so (maybe two hours every five years when I sort out stuff I don't need like copies of warranties for parts on a car I don't own anymore).

When my mom died she had about fifty pounds of paper files in her office that were neatly organized in a system that didn't make any sense to my dad, my sister, and I. I ended up sorting through those files for twenty hours, tossing out copies of paid invoices from ten years ago and student handbooks from my junior high school. I reduced one filing cabinet, two desk file drawers, and a foot-high stack to a six inch binder that I gave to my dad. My mom died five years ago; two months ago my dad asked me about a medical document and I was able to tell him to go look for it in the medical section of the binder. It was there, because ALL IMPORTANT SHIT GOES IN THE BINDER.

Where is my birth certificate? In the binder. Where is my tax return from 2017? In the binder. Where is the record of my dog's last rabies shot? In the binder. Where are the records for my life insurance? In the binder.

A lot of what people consider "being organized" breaks down to whether or not you can find the specific things that you're looking for. Does my binder look nice? Is it aesthetic? Does it have color-coded tabs and papers all laid out neatly? Absolutely fucking not. But if you ask me where to find a paper I know that I can do so within about five minutes of shuffling through the pile of letter-folded sheets that I pulled out of the appropriate section of the binder.

I've discussed the Where Did I Put that Fucking Paper Binder before, but now it is time to expand that concept to the Backpack of Important Shit.

You likely have Important Shit that does not fit in a binder. Some of my Important Shit that does not fit in a binder is stuff like jewelry and the spare key for my car. Other stuff - the reason I decided to bring this up at all - includes my backup hard drive and packaging (including product key codes) for pretty much all of the software that I own. This is also where I store printed out copies of the recovery codes for most of the online accounts that I have.

There's a lot of weird fiddly shit that we have to have that we might not access all that often. This is the kind of stuff that might end up in junk drawers or under sinks or in disused laptop bags or kicking around under a bunch of papers in a desk drawer.

It doesn't matter so much when that weird fiddly shit is a set of hex keys or a utility knife or a protractor or a copy of a student handbook but it DOES matter when it's something that you might need to put your hands on in a hurry. If your computer crashes, you're not going to want to track down the software in the back of a filing cabinet and the backup drive from somewhere in the bowels of your desk. If you lock your keys in your car you are not going to want to figure out if your spare is in a junk drawer or the old purse where you keep semi-important stuff or the tin on your desk that has buttons and pins and headphone covers. Just put it in the Backpack of Important Shit and when you need it you know where to look.

So anyway, if you are a person who is a minor disaster who has trouble finding important things when you need them please don't think that you have to get your life together and have a nice organized filing cabinet or clear plastic bins full of documents or a neatly divided storage closet where everything from board games to backup drives has its own neatly labeled place. Just assign ONE LOCATION for important shit and start putting the important shit there. It doesn't matter if you have a filing cabinet where you keep old copies of homework and printouts of online orders and family history records - you do not need to keep everything that is file-able in one place and depending on what level of catastrophe you are it might be detrimental to you if you try to do that. It doesn't matter if you have a jewelry box where you keep your collection of gauges and wrist cuffs; if you are going to stress out about where grandma's ring is when you're digging through your collection of cheap earrings and silver pendants then *do not keep grandma's ring or any other Important, Vital, Cannot Be Lost jewelry in with your day-to-day wear*.

I live someplace that has fires. My binder got upgraded to my Backpack of Important Shit when the fires were getting uncomfortably close to the house I was living in and I wanted to have one bag to grab if we had to get out fast. Once I did that, I never took the binder out of the backpack and the backpack has now made three moves with me and has meant that I've had my birth certificate handy when I needed it in the middle of a move between two states, I was able to provide a history of my cholesterol panel going back six years to a visiting nurse, and I was able to give the exact names and contact info of my spouse's previous surgeon to the hospital when I had unexpectedly moved to a new state with three bags and my work computer at the beginning of the pandemic.

Get yourself a backpack of important shit and a folder of where the fuck did i put that paper. It is so much easier to search a backpack for important shit than to go through an entire house and it is so much easier to flip through a binder than it is to dig through a filing cabinet.

Anyway good luck and happy adulting.

[m4iya]

Scrambling to the deadline

Kenma Kozume

Light from your laptop reflected all over your face, coating the corners of your dark room. The windows were sealed shut, though your curtains were wide open. You watched all the people having fun outside while you were stuck in here, working on an assessment. You felt like that one Squidward meme of him sadly looking outside the window of his room.

Cupping your hands in your face, you groaned. How on earth were you meant to get this done tonight? An essay that you finished half of, a reflection you hadn’t even started, a documentation of your progress… you gave up counting right there. Your fingers flickered across the mousepad, bringing you back to the task notification document. Eyes scanning the page, you began to understand why they had given the students 3 weeks to complete everything.

It was 8:00pm, the task was due at 12:00am. You never slept this early, but you felt like you could barely keep your eyes open. Each sentence you typed, the imaginary word bank filled of phrases to increase your word count shrank.

‘In order to…’, ‘According to…’, …because of the fact that…’

Maybe someone could help you out a little. Someone who was probably free right now. Opening your phone, you made a quick call.

You could hear him grumbling alongside the shuffling of his feet even before he entered your dorm room. ‘why did I even call him..’ you wondered to yourself.

Suddenly, the door creaked open and soon after, was slowly shut as he walked in already complaining. “What do you want..” He muttered, his Nintendo switch in hand, and his backpack slouched over his back. It seemed like he was already glued to it before he walked in.

“Kenma… I’m gonna fail College”

“Me too”

“You’re supposed to tell me I won’t!”

Dropping the bag onto the floor, he slides off his slippers and lazily slumps over your bed, still focused on his game. You turn back to your laptop, your back beginning to hurt you from the way you were arched.

You continued working on whatever you could, background music and clicking in the background, providing a sort of ambience.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, you rubbed your eyes and sat up each time your head dipped into a short nap. This cycle continued for a few minutes before Kenma took notice.

“Here” His voice shook you awake, immediately turning your head to face him. He was offering you a can of energy drink. You had been in such a trance that you failed to even notice him slide off the bed and open the bag he was lugging around.

“Oh.. Thank you so much” Grabbing it from his hand, the cool exterior coated your fingertips. Taking a big sip, you felt the cool drink trail down the inside of your body, finally feeling somewhat rejuvenated.

Cracking open the can he bought for himself; he sat on the foot of your bed.

“So, what’s this about?” He asked, taking a gulp. You were surprised that he seemed to have turned off his game, but he even went the extra mile to ask about your work? You explained the task you had to complete, and briefly outlined the topic, watching as a disinterested scowl formed on his face. ‘Ah, there it is’, you thought to yourself.

He seemed surprised when you told him how much you had left, as though he was wondering why you were so stressed.

“That’s all?”

“What do you mean, ‘that’s all!?’”

Sliding off the foot of the bed, he stood at your side, crouching down so your desk was at eye level.

“Can I get a paper?”

“Sure..” You replied, ripping a piece of paper from your notebook as he picked up the pen which was holding your textbook open.

“What was it you said you had?” “This essay, a reflection, a documentation of my progress, and a reference list”.

“And what have you started?”

“Well, I’m about halfway through the essay. And I’ve been working on the documentation”

He wrote down a short list of what you had completed and what you needed to do.

“How long is your reflection supposed to be?” He muttered, tapping the pen on his head.

“100 words”

“And the reference list?”

“I’ll use a website to do it for me”

Falling back onto his butt, he sighed loudly. “Why are you stressing so much..? You’re practically finished..”

Once he said that, you began to actually consider the amount of work you had done, suddenly regaining some motivation to continue under the precedent that you might actually finish on time. Maybe you really were stressing too much.

Behind you, Kenma pulled his laptop out from his bag. “I’ll make the reference list for you” he offered.

“You don’t have to..” This was pretty out of character for him. You wondered why he was so eager to help out today.

“I have nothing else to do..” he muttered, hiding the fact that he had finished all his games and was currently too broke to buy anything new.

He opened up a text document, and began filling the reference list with websites he saw opened on your laptop.

The quiet warmth budding between the two of you filled the small room. You found yourself concentrating more than before, flying through paragraphs as all the words seemed to come to you in an instant. Suddenly, the sounds of others having fun outside became white noise to you; you were comfortable here, in the quiet atmosphere of your dorm room.

Resting your fingers for a brief moment, you slouched back in your chair, shutting your eyes and inhaling deeply, allowing the sound of Kenma’s typing away to fill your ears.

Sure, you were inside your small, cramped dorm room. Yes, it was a little suffocating and was starting to smell like energy drinks, and yeah, your neck was kinda hurting too. But you had him beside you, keeping you company. And he wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

[cherryheairt]

Dragon Dreamer pt. XV

previous chapter- fourteen

masterlist

tags: @beebeechaos @r-3dlips @emery-aka-emmy @watermel0nsugarhigh @delaynew @moonymoo1 @purple-1995 @littleblackcatinwonderland @fall-winter-heart97 @mandeepandee1997 @pedro-pascal-love @thelastemzy @reyndaisy @saintkittykat @theadharablack @thatkindofgurl @alexandra-001 @itsaslaminak @iv7867

gosh this one took forever. I was scared I got into a rut for inspiration but I think I'm just burnt out from life, not from writing. On a positive note, since this took so long and I had so much time to think about the story, I have gained A LOT of ideas for future chaps.

In the early hours of the morning, while Franny dressed Daenys in her protective riding gear, the Princess was given time to think over the choice at hand. Bring Cregan along to Rook's Rest for him to lead the royal siblings through the keep as protection, or leave him here to sit and await her return.

They had decided to delay the flight to Duskendale and Rook's rest another day due to Morningstar sleeping heavily in her nest. Rhaenyra had allowed it, secretly relieved to have her children safe within the castle walls another night. Daenys slept a few hours in a dreamless sleep, discomforted by the thought of Cregan being in his guest chambers halls away.

Part of her was rational, weighing pros and cons of the situations.

Another part of her, nagging at the back of her mind, thought herself to be swayed by her wants. Had she grown too dependent on the Northern Lord over the past weeks? Perhaps she was. Whether it was a good or a bad thing was still to be decided.

Daenys glanced longingly at the notebooks left neatly on her desk. She had not used them since before she departed for Winterfell. Perhaps the need to write and draw out every dream she had dwindled down like a neglected hearth. Or, perhaps it was the positive outside influence that kept her from such maddening behaviors. Those notebooks consumed her day and night. There hadn't been a day where she missed an entry, whether it lasted one word or one thousand. Black tendrils of flame or a simple budding rose.

She felt an almost urging call to continue them, to build off from where she had left. It might be good for her to document such things, like the accuracies of Lucerys' and Jaehaerys' deaths.

There was no time now, anyway.

Daenys thanked Franny as the young girl left the chambers, allowing Cregan to enter now that she was decent.

At her belt, which had been black steel molded into two intertwining dragons, Daenys fiddled with the gifted knife fretfully. Cregan's entrance had not shifted her thoughts away from the dilemma at hand, though his warmth filled the room like a breath of dragonflame. He curiously scanned the room, taking in all the personality it had collected through the years. His eyes caught the brown pelts lying on her bed, turning a curious and playful look to the Princess.

Blushing, Daenys didn't meet his eye, still turning the dagger in her nimble hands. "It got cold."

He huffed a laugh, "I'm sure it did. Weeks spent in tents in the snow, and you are felled by your own familar quarters."

She quickly changed topics, feeling embarrassed, though Cregan was more prideful than judging. "This is for you." She shealthed her own dagger again, admiring the cold black handle against the white of her armor. Shuffling through a drawer, Daenys found exactly what she was searching for. Revealing her grand find like a dragon showing off its glinting hoard of treasure, she presented a dragonglass dagger to Cregan. "To replace the one you gave away." The dragonglass had originally been a nameday present from Daemon years ago, something that she appreciated greatly but never found a use for in her peaceful days on dragonstone. It would carry a greater purpose in Cregan's hands, anyway. The tip of the handle was formed like a dragon's head, as was Daenys' dagger, a silver direwolf. Switching sigils, the two were marked by each other in all ways but physical.

Cregan took it from her hands tentatively, turning and admiring it in his hold. With the faintest prick to his fingertip, an angry red dot shot up. "Damn," he whispered, unexpecting the precise sharpness of the blade. Daenys stifled a giggle, turning to grab a cloth to clot up the small wound.

"Silly Stark." She murmured between them, smiling when he lifted his other hand to tilt her chin up.

"I suppose I need my smart Velayron to make sure I don't do silly things like that, hm?" He pondered, looking between her light eyes in wonder.

She met his grey eyes with a similarly affectionate gaze. Lifting the cloth from his finger, she placed a lingering kiss on where the wound was now no more than a darkened prick. "I should be inclined to agree. I have no clue how you have lived so long without my wise council." She said seriously, then broke into laughter as he took her by the waist and slightly lifted her off the floor to move her in front of the vanity.

Thoughtlessly, Cregan began to tie her hair up into tight braids that would stay out of her face for the duration of the flight and fight that would be expected at Rook's Rest. "I can not say, either, Princess." He said lightly, a small smile brightening his stern features.

Daenys took a moment to clear her mind, a few deep breaths while she was able to sit idly in her cushioned seat. "I want you to come with me." She spoke.

Cregan met her eyes through the reflection. "You're sure?" He asked hopefully.

Daenys nodded firmly, confirming her final decision. Glancing at her own reflection a final time, she felt tension stiffen her body. Her armor was a pristine white, not yet touched by blood or scratched by weapons. Fire would not burn her armor, for it was made from Morningstar's own shedded dragonscales. She would not burn, either, though the thought of keeping her clothes untouched if she did encounter flames was comforting. Sword wouldn't easily breach the scales, nor would arrows, though she still had to be careful to protect her face and hands.

Daenys began fitting the white gloves on to her hands, grimacing at the reminder of Lucerys. Though the gloves were a quality white leather, the backs of them were protected by small groups of more dragonscales. Though, these ones belonged to Arrax. His first big shed had come when the boy and dragon were both nine namedays of age, and Luke's first thought had been to create fine gifts for his family.

Jacaerys received a white leather dagger sheathe with scales lining it. The same sheathe he always keeps at his belt opposite of his sword.

Rhaenyra received a charming satin choker with scales studding along it, though she only wears it on Luke's nameday celebrations in fear of ruining it.

Daenys received the gloves, which she wears mostly when out riding with her family. The palms were well-worn but still upkept regularly by her. Luke always seemed to gleam with pride whenever she dorned her hands with them, so she made a point to do that often even though she hated to see the gift get so worn. She supposed that was the price of love. It wouldn't be fair to not use them out of fear.

Cregan took her hand to guide her out of the chair and to her feet, which were covered by firm and quite uncomfortable boots.

"This suits you well, Princess." He murmured softly, admiring his bethrothed in the warm light shining through her windows. "Like Queen Visenya reborn."

"Visenya was a battle-worn diplomat, I'm afraid there's a lot to live up to in terms of my ancestors." She sighed, though not ill-naturedly. She saw more of herself in Queen Rhaenys, the gentle ruler who was seen as generous and kind by the people and had a love for the arts and spent more time with her dragon than even her siblings did.

He smiled knowingly, eyes slightly crinkling at the sides. "I haven't seen these before, either." He mentioned, running a finger over the protruding scales of her gloves.

"A gift, from Lucerys, a long time ago." She told him, squeezing her hand and hearing that satisfying 'crrk' of leather crushing together. A habit she often did to stimulate her mind and keep it on the texture and sound of the gloves rather than her quickly-moving thoughts.

"A fine gift."

They exited the room once deeming themselves ready, both armed and prepared to leave the castle though their stay had been so short.

She sighed, looking to the doors that now covered only empty rooms. Four, in a perfect line with plentiful space between. It was not long ago that all six children's rooms had been lived in and filled with ruckus. Daenys held her chamber rooms at the end, enjoying her space as the eldest who got to choose the rooms first. Luke had opted to stay in the chambers right next to hers, with Jace conceding to his brother's whims and taking the next in line. Little Joff, Viserys, and Aegon were now gone, leaving even more silence and stillness in the castle. She could hardly bear to look at the rooms, for they reminded her so much of what had been lost.

"I wish you could have met my youngest brothers before their departure. You would like them." Daenys smiled sadly, thinking of how Joffrey would immediately ask to see Ice up close and how Aegon and Viserys would hide behind her skirts until Cregan knelt to their level, showing them he was a friend, not foe.

"They will return soon," he comforted, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. "This is but a temporary change. I'll meet them after we reclaim the Iron Throne for your mother." He promised.

Stiffly, she nodded. It was hard to believe that it was only herself and Jacaerys left. Even if it was only temporary, who knows how long this war would last? In the history books, some wars went years without any signs of peace. Would her brothers be grown before they came back? Would they even remember her? Remember Luke?

Turning away from the scene, Daenys and Cregan made their way to the dragonpit. There, Jacaerys and Baela were whispering together in hushed voices. They both donned similar armor to Daenys', though in the colors of their dragons and Houses alike. They looked a fine pair, already matching as if they'd been wed for years. Upon spotting the Princess and Lord approaching, Baela cleared her throat.

"Lord Stark, it is a pleasure to formally meet you. I'm glad to hear of your bethrothal to my cousin. I'm sure a fruitful partnership will be upon us soon." She smiled diplomatically, as if she had practiced the words in her head before saying them. Daenys stifled a laugh as her eyes met Baela's warm, dark purple eyes, the knowing look shared between them always making her cave into girlish whims.

The Lady was a stark contrast to her own bethrothed beside her, who scowled and pouted like a boy left out of a game to attend his studies. "Lord Cregan." He stiffly bowed his head in greeted and said no more.

"Lady Baela, it pleases me to meet any kin of Princess Daenys. I wish you a safe journey to you and a swift victory at Duskendale." Cregan said smoothly, dipping his head in respect to the woman.

Daenys reached Baela, pulling her in for a hug and whispering, "see you soon, sister. We will both bring back good news." Baela nodded her confident agreement, saying her 'goodbyes' to Jace before mounting her striped dragon and beginning her short flight.

Jacaerys seemed to flounder in the absence of his bethrothed, now able to speak more freely without any scolding looks from Baela (she and Daemon shared a fierce stern face that always shut Jace up swiftly, much to Daenys' amusement). "I was not expecting him to come along." He said, looking directly at Cregan but speaking past him.

"Of course he's coming, brother. I need a skilled swordsman at my side." She said lightly, approaching the perch just past him to scritch at Vermax's chin, who had climbed slightly up to meet the one who had not visited for quite some time. The yellow eyes of the dragon seemed to follow Cregan closely, a dangerous mirror of his rider.

"Am I not a skilled swordsman?" He asked, turning to face her with a hand resting on his sword's pommel.

You're a swordsman.

She refrained herself from quipping so meanly in front of Cregan, knowing Jacaerys would be embarrassing and offended rather than play along with her teasings as he usually did. "Of course you are." She soothed. "But who knows how many men will be stationed in the keep? I want to ensure there are no slip-ups or chances for a sneak attack."

Reluctantly, he backed down. With a brief touch to her arm, Jacaerys bid Daenys a safe flight. "Do not land until it is clear." He advised, earning an annoyed glare from his sister.

"I fear that I am now the more experienced fighter here, Jace." She said, raising a light brow. He rolled his dark eyes, stepping off the platform and situating himself on Vermax's dark red saddle. With a shout, the green dragon was out of sight past the mouth of the cave.

Cregan took a gloved hand in his, squeezing twice in a supporting reminder. "Best we don't let him get too far ahead. Or else the whole keep might just be burned down."

"Vermax and Jace have quite the fiery temperments." Daenys stated. "Morningstar, are you awake?" She called into the darkness.

Hearing a clicking response from the dragoness, Daenys felt her shoulders relax from the tension they had carried all night. The white dragon appeared from the depths, showing her bright violet gaze set straight on the two as she swaggered towards them. Glancing to her shoulders, Daenys gingerly reached out to glide a hand near the wound. It looked significantly better now that a balm had been applied and the wound properly cleaned. Instead of the angry red that it had been, the claw marks were now a dark pink color that mostly showed irritation rather than blood. The wounds were not as deep as she originally feared. "My brave girl. Are you ready to fly again?"

Morningstar trilled as if to wholeheartedly agree. Her wings fluttered as she met Daenys' hand with her large muzzle, a purr escaping her throat. "Let us go, then." She told Cregan, whose storm-grey eyes had never quite left her.

Together, they mounted the dragoness and left the cave with a joyful roar from Morningstar.

It was not long before they caught up with Vermax, who trilled when he saw his kin flying next to him. It had been many weeks since their last joint flight. Jace smiled warmly at his older sister, and they both almost forgot that their destination was to fight a battle in the war for their family's throne.

They crossed the sea within minutes, Daenys forcing herself to have a clear mind as they approached the stone walls. The once-green fields were now brown and charred, still filled with the hundreds of dead men who lost their lives, either fighting or to Meleys' and Morningstar's dragonfire. It was all too easy to be in the air and kill men by the multitudes, too easy to take lives. It didn't even quite feel like murder due to the disconnection provided by the catalyst that Morningstar was. That didn't make the swelling guilt disappear, however.

Morningstar swopped down from the cloudline quickly, taking the command Daenys shouted to her and not allowing the men in the fields to escape indoors. Her grip on the saddle's handlebars was tight and blistering, but she could not waver now. The men who were dragging their dead fellow soldiers had now joined them, black and unrecognizable. The unmistakable smell of burning human flesh had filled her senses, making her dizzy and unfocused once again. Cregan's deep voice filled her ears, placing a hand over hers on the handle to gather her attention. "You must stay focused, Daenys." He said as gently as he could over the raging roars and flames of the two dragons. She nodded quickly, forcing the bile down her throat. There was no room for weakness now.

It was over as quickly as it started, with Vermax and Morningstar circling the keep before landing in front of it.

Directly under the shade of the keep's entrance was Sunfyre. Worn and tired, the dragon still managed a ferocious and warning roar to scare his kin away.

It was not effective, though Daenys felt a pang of sympathy for the abandoned dragon. He was left behind while Aegon and Aemond went back to King's Landing, as if he were a mere guard dog posted to a station. Daenys dismounted, earning a concerned shout from Jacaerys atop of Vermax.

She slowly approached The Golden, allowing her hands to rest low and away from her body, the white scales glimmering in the sunlight the same way his did. He rose his neck high, though his wings were lifting up and down from the floor as if it hurt to put too much weight on them. She grimaced, knowing that was her own fault. The dragons suffered, too, in the battles they had fought, and they didn't even know why. Dragons didn't care for a throne or crown, but solely for their riders and kin.

"Daenys!" Jace shouted again, jumping from Vermax's saddle and following Cregan who had immediately trailed after Daenys. Cregan had stopped yards away, standing tensely and with calculating eyes but not trying to stop her. He had seen what she had done previously, and trusted her judgement. She would not approach a hostile dragon mindlessly.

"My Prince," he stopped Jacaerys with a firm hand to his chest, earning a furious glare from the Velayron.

She took a few steps closer, holding a hand out for Sunfyre for sniff. If she lost it, so be it. If he tried to burn her, no harm would be done. Daenys held back a flinch as he did just what she hoped, pressed his sharp snout into her palm.

A sudden vision filled her mind, painful like a sharp and drilling migraine. Aegon, unburnt or harmed, dressed in his finest drapes and wearing Aegon the Conquerer's grey crown. He held a goblet high in the air, surrounded by many peasent and knighted men and servant girls. "To my brother, who has slain the whore of Dragonstone's bastard son!"

Cheers erupted from all corners of the large and echoing hall. Goblets raised and wine and ale alike spilled all over men and tables. Aegon chugged down his bittersweet wine, presenting an empty goblet for the hall to see and a young maid to refill. "To Aemond! The true Blood of the Dragon!"

Next to 'The King' sat the very brother in question. Aemond Targaryen did not hold any glasses of wine or even a grin atop his sharp features. He simply leaned back into his chair, stiff as a flagpole and face blank and unreadable.

Daenys was drawn out as quickly as she was drawn in. What was that? A vision in broad daylight had never happened before. Could she see the past as well as the future? She could not dwell on it now, but upon her return home, such matters could be explored in the privacy and safety of her room.

Glancing up briefly, Daenys' sharp gaze caught sight of a man ducking behind the castle's wall on the tower's roof. Though they had not made their entrance discreet, Daenys had still hoped to catch a few more by surprise than she did. There was no way of knowing just how many soldiers lay in the safety of the keep.

Sunfyre almost whined at the touch, yearning for attention in the past few days. Daenys knew that Aegon rarely visited the dragonpit even when Sunfyre was readily available, too deep in his whores and cups. The poor thing was so deeply loyal, but so lonely despite his devotion. "There's a good boy, Sunfyre." She spoke softly in the same voice she used for her youngest brothers. He hung his head, allowing his exhaustion to finally show in the face of trust. Glancing back at the two men behind her, she sucked in a harsh breath to prepare herself for what was inside. "Go along, to Morningstar." She whispered to the dragon, watching him painfully carry himself towards the others. He submissively lowered his neck to Morningstar as the larger dragon sniffed cautiously at him, and after some time of reunion she allowed Sunfyre to lie at her side, curling up and finally letting himself rest. He'd been guarding Rook's Rest for days. Daenys would not consider herself too far off in assuming that he'd been given no food or water. What fool would approach a fire-breathing dragon, anyway?

Cregan smiled proudly, nodding to Daenys and striding towards her to meet her while Jace gaped at the sight and glanced between the dragons and his sister. "You made Sunfyre listen to you?" He asked, approaching them too.

"He's not an enemy." She vaguely said. "But, we could use him."

"Use Sunfyre? He would take no other rider? And...I doubt he'd fly again." Cregan said awkwardly, gesturing towards the torn wings.

"If we keep him on Dragonstone, Aegon cannot say he has three grown dragons any longer." Daenys said, lifting her chin. "The realm would not know how incompacitated he is—but they will know that Sunfyre turned sides against his own bonded rider. If that's not a sign from the 'Gods', what is?"

Jacaerys hummed thoughtfully, though he seemed to agree. "And what of Tessarion, the Blue Queen? And Jaehaera and Jaehaerys must have dragons—had dragons." He whispered after.

"The children's dragons are no older than seven, brother." Daenys said. Though, she was unclear on where Jaehaerys' dragon would be now that the boy was dead. Perhaps in the dragonpits still, forced to wait for a new Targaryen to bond with. Morghul and Glaeson, two black dragons with strong Valyrion names.

"And as for Daeron—" Daenys started, rolling her eyes at Jacaerys' sour look. "The boy is only ten years of age. What does that say about the Greens if they force him to war? Though, I would not be surprised given their desperation for dragons. I do hope the young ones do not have to grow up living in a time of war." She sighed, thinking of her youngest brothers, Jaehaera, and even Daeron, whom she had only known as the smallest of babes before he left to ward in Old Town.

Jace was stunned to silence for a few moments before laughing brightly. "When did you get so cunning?" He asked, looking to Cregan as if the man could answer his rhetorical question for her.

"It is a good plan, Princess." Cregan nodded, ignoring Jacaerys' look. "How do you plan on getting him across the sea?"

"Boat." She shrugged, "I will arrange for one to be sent from Dragonstone as soon as we reclaim the castle."

The Stark nodded his agreement with her idea, unsheathing Ice from his shoulder as Jace followed his actions, wielding Sea Tamer in his hands. "At your command, Princess." Cregan said. Jacaerys opened his mouth to make a remark at his sister's previous words about her experience, but shut it as he decided against any smart words.

"Sister," he nodded.

Daenys, only wielding her direwolf dagger in hand, slowly crept open the massive wooden doors. No one had stayed to guard the very front of the halls, knowing that a dragon could still reach its ire in the shallow depths. Instead of creeping through the halls like invaders attempting their luck at a sneak attack, the trio of three barged into the castle, rearing to fight. This was their claim, and they would not let it go again.

Jacaerys and Cregan led the way in front of Daenys with their swords in front of them, brows set and eyes sharp. A split in the hall came quickly, to the annoyance of them all. "It will take forever to flush them all out." Jacaerys commented.

"I need to find Kalla and Kallus. They will be held at knifepoint first to make us surrender." Daenys said seriously, glancing down each hall and mapping doors in her mind. One must lead to the kitchens and dining hall, and the other must lead to important chamber rooms and studies. Which would the Green men hold their hostages in?

Cregan looked down at her, seeing the wheels turning in her mind. "Which hall, Daenys?"

She stilled her heart and breath, closing her eyes to focus. Even as she focused, she could not summon the same visions as before. Trying not to let frustration well up in her, Daenys instead chose the most instinctive choice. "I should think the dining hall. Hard to be cornered with so many exits."

They toed down the hallway towards the open archway to the dining hall. It was a spacious room, good for balls or feasts or celebrations of the Lord's choosing. Instead of a grand feast being presented to them, the Velayrons and Stark were instead faced with the young Lord and Lady Saunton held by the necks. Three Green soliders held them still, long swords awkwardly at their throats and ready to move.

The young Kalla was nothing like her Lord Father, who was executed the day Daenys fought over his castle. In her early 20's, with bright red hair and deep blue eyes, the Lady clearly trembled in the hold of the older soldier's arms but held a steely and defiant look in her eyes.

Her younger brother, no older than six or seven, could not hold back his whimpers of fear. With black hair like his father, Kallus was next in line to be Lord, though that would not happen for many years. Or, if he died today. The siblings looked scruffed up and dirtied by the events that held them trapped in their own home. Hair messy and face smeared with blood from the soldier's hands and dirt from the floor, eyes red and puffy from their loss, and worried lines of stress on their foreheads. Daenys did not know if they would recover emotionally from this—even after years of peace.

"Surrender now and put down your weapons!" A scrawny young soldier yelled at them. "Or we'll kill them."

"If a single hair on their heads is out of place, we have two dragons standing outside on the ready to sear you to ash." Jacaerys bit sharply, unyielding.

"Three." Daenys added, glancing around the room between Cregan and Jacaerys. There was a single door behind the soldiers, possibly leading to the kitchens. Another much larger door stood parallel to all of them, the barricaded exit to the courtyard of Rook's Rest's castle. The sunlight poured in warmly from the windows in the room, leaving the room in a golden glow. If she moved the wooden panels holding the door, perhaps Vermax could fit through the opening and finish the job for them. Though, it would put the bystanders at too much of a risk.

"Yes, I saw that." The older soldier who held Kalla sniffed harshly. "The Witch of Dragonstone has enchanted the King's own dragon. Dragons can't help you in here." He sneered.

"And what will you do when we are all surrendered?" Cregan spoke up. "Take us out of the castle to the capitol? The dragons can wait for years. This Keep's food supply can not."

The two soldiers shared knowing glances. They were not stupid. They knew they had little options in Rook's Rest now that they were surrounded by dragons indoors and outside.

The younger man shouted something that Daenys did not quite catch in her surprise. Following his command, a few more soldiers flooded into the room from the archway that they entered from. Daenys shared a glance with Cregan, cursing herself for not deciding to clear the halls before going for Kalla and Kallus. She had figured to grab the hostages and rush outside to draw them out with promise of mercy, but now that idea was drifting further from the forefront of her mind. She shuffled closer to her bethrothed, clutching the dagger tight by her side.

Four behind, two in front. The numbers were not too far against them, she supposed, considering Cregan and Jacaerys' experience and skill most likely outdid that of these greener hedge knights. Jace may not have real battle experience like Cregan did against wildlings, but he did gain his knowledge of fighting during his time as a squire for Ser Steffon Darklyn. Daenys was quite unsure of her own capabilities in a fight against swords, seeing as she had none of her own and never cared to learn the art.

This had to be all of them. Daenys hoped that thought ran through her companion's minds, too. The rest were dead and burned out in the black fields.

"Would the dragons be so willing to burn us if we had their riders in hand?" The elder scowled again. The younger straightened up, nodding proudly like he had won.

"Want to find out?" Daenys asked, looking him straight in the eye unflinching.

This seemed to give them pause, hesitant glances between the men. One spoke up from behind, clearly itching to fight. "Just kill the little bastards and get it over with. There's no use in keeping them alive, Oskar."

This seemed to have been a recurring argument amongst the stationed soldiers. "What did Cole say, remind me of it, Bennard?" The eldest asked, exasperated at the eager soldier's impaitience.

"What does it matter what that Dornishman said? The king is dead, and we have this castle all to ourselves!"

"The King is not dead, you treasonous fool!" The younger yelled back to him, shifting and loosening his hold on Kallus.

Noting the loose grip, Daenys glanced briefly towards the boy before taking a chance to look over her shoulder. None of the soldiers had prepared for this raid, apparently. All still in regular tunics and breeches, no armor was dorned at all.

"The Usurper is not dead." Daenys said, though she was still unsure of that herself. "But he did abandon your little troupe here, did he not? To gain no glory in battle or seize any land. Old and sick dogs protecting a worn and empty home." She shared an amused glance with Jacaerys for show.

"I'd imagine no one would bother to reclaim Rook's Rest a second time, given all the trouble it took to get it in the first place." Jace added. "Criston Cole wouldn't bother giving this place a second glance."

Oskar and the younger shared a look of grievance. They shared those thoughts before, too.

"They would not know if you died for this place or simply abandoned it." She concluded, gentler this time. "We will allow you to live the rest of your traitorous lives in peace, for the return of Lord Staunton's children. Or, you can share the fate of those men outside. I'm sure you heard what their end sounded like." A grim sentiment, but necessary.

Cregan eyed her from her side, though he did not speak. Wielding Ice at waist level, towering above all the men in the room, the Northerner almost made the Southern-blooded men seem dwarved. He was not here to negotiate, but carry out his Princess and Prince's command. Daenys proudly noted the glances they had all been warily giving Cregan since he walked into the hall.

Oskar, standing straight and boring dark eyes down at Daenys, spoke up first. "It would be treason." He said darkly.

"Treason to your pretender?" She snarked. "They are much too busy holing up in their Holdfast to chase after and execute every man who deserted their cause."

"I think we should take the chance while we've got it, Oskar." The younger whispered, not very quietly. His gaze grew worried as he shifted on his feet. "I want to go home. It's been moons. Me mum must be thinking I'm dead by now."

Daenys felt pity for the group. Especially the youngest, who had his whole life left to live. The elder, who might be around Daemon's age, must have a wife and children back at his home, wherever that might be.

With a sigh, Oskar nodded. Preparing to speak a truce, but was interrupted by a frustrated yell from behind. "I'm sick of this talk! The Witch will not cast any more spells on you soft lot!" A man from behind shouted, charging immediately for Daenys. She could only turn on her heel in time to catch his arm, bringing them both down to the floor in a tumble. Though she saw Cregan and Jace swiftly move to defend her, the other men that once flanked him moved in to attack them, too.

Wearing a distasteful yellow that could only be the house colors of the Baratheons, the older man grunted as he struggled to pin Daenys to the stone floor and grab the sword that fell from his grip at the same time. With her steel dagger in hand, she writhed to get the arm out from under his heavy form.

Gasping at the wind being taken from her chest at the sudden fall and weight, it was not an easy task. "Bastard witch..." he grunted out, finally grasping his sword by the sharp sides. Uncaring that it cut through the thin skin of his fingers, he pulled it closer and sat up, finally allowing her to breathe and clutch her dagger to her bossum. Both of them heaved with effort, but the wild look in his eyes frightened her to no end. The look reminded her of Seamus, who sought revenge through the wrong person. "You and your whore mother will never lead the realm, lest it be brought to ruin." He snarled out, spit wetting his thin lips. The sounds of steel clashing rung like bells around the room, impossible to keep track of as movement and shouts sounded from all sides.

As he raised the sword over his head, the yellow-dressed soldier was bumped to the ground, groaning at the impact. On his side, the companion soldier who brought him down in the first place lie died and unmoving, like he had been thrown. Daenys did not waste time to allow him to think, twisting to her front to sit on her knees as if in prayer. With a swift movement, Daenys jabbed the dagger downwards into the side of Bennard's neck. As she tore it out just as fast, hot blood shot out immediately in response to the wound, even while the man was gasping and grabbing at his neck, covering the empty slit. Blood pooled around him as he eventually gave in to the Stranger, life leaving his fury-filled eyes.

Daenys wildly sprung to her feet, taking ragged steps back from the two corpses. She tripped backward over a third, though was caught by the waist and forearm by Cregan. Panting, she clutched at his arms with bloody hands. "Cregan?" She asked, disbelieving the situation. Yes, she had entered Rook's Rest knowing she'd most likely have to kill a man, but physically doing it was a whole different feeling. Seamus burned on top of her for what felt like days, and hundreds were felled to her Dragon's blue fire weeks later. But she had never dug her steel into a breathing man's skin, never watched the light leave his eyes of the last breath leave his lungs.

"I'm here." He said steadily, showing no signs of panic or change like she did. Behind Cregan's broad shoulders, she could see Jacaerys push the final man from his sword's shaft by kicking him off of it. Turning to face the remaining two men, who had stayed with the fallen Lord's children, Daenys saw the hopelessness in both of their eyes. She righted herself quickly, nodding her thanks to Cregan before stepping over the other bodies. In front of the four remaining people, Daenys saw a comforted knowledge in both Kallus and Kalla, knowing that they were safe now as they were released from the holds.

Oskar and the younger held their hands up in surrender. "I did not wish for that to happen, Princess." He swore solemnly. "Please, spare us still. We swear to leave Rook's Rest and return home, we will never speak of this to anyone."

Daenys glanced at Jace, who had a hardened look in his eyes. He, too, had killed his first man by his own hands. Her younger brother, who she had wished to keep his innocence for as long as possible, was a boy no longer. She swallowed harshly. "Let this be a lesson of mercy from Queen Rhaenyra." Were her final words to the two, who gratefully bowed and scurried out from the room.

Free now, the two siblings released heavy sobs from deep in their chests and hugged each other tightly. Daenys smiled faintly at the sight, relieved to see both unharmed. Kalla looked up from her kneeling position, tearfully grinning. "Thank you, Princess." She said through her sobs. Kallus shook in her hold, the built-up tension from the past days finally showing itself. He could be a boy again, not a hostage doomed for death.

Daenys approached carefully, kneeling to each of their levels. "Are you two unharmed?" She asked, glancing over them.

Kalla took a moment to hold Kallus back at an arms' length while she inspected him. With a courageous sniffle, the boy nodded and mumbled something Daenys could not hear.

"We are fine." Kalla said, weakly smiling as she stood straight and brushed off her dirty skirts. "May we...freshen ourselves up? We have not been able to since our father was taken."

"Taken?" Daenys sniffed.

Kalla nodded discreetly towards Kallus, who busied himself in looking entranced by Daenys' dragonscale armor. Daenys made an 'o' shape with her mouth, forgetting the implication that the two had not personally seen the execution of their father. "Yes. Go on, we will wait for you." Daenys said. She was glad that at least they were not forced to witness the murder, but instead, Cole allowed the young boy to keep his innocence and believe his father was simply taken away.

Perhaps the one favor he did the realm.

Turning to Jace and Cregan, after the brother and sister left to their chamber rooms, she sighed. "Are you two okay?" She asked, quieter now. The room was filled with empty silence now that everyone else had either died or left. The bodies at their feet were still and growing cold, though would soon start to stink if they did not get removed. Daenys wanted no part in that process.

"Are you?" Cregan asked instead, stepping forward to hold her hand in his. His grey eyes held a slight apprehension from the way he had been unable to fully protect her—again. Daenys could not and would not fault him, for two men had attacked him. Behind, Jace shuffled uncomfortably. He had been deathly still, too, a pale look on his face.

"I'm fine, just got winded." She said shortly, nodding affirmingly. Looking to Jace, she asked again. "Do you want to step out?"

Nodding quickly and covering his mouth, Jacaerys quietly excused himself from the room to rush out the way that they had come. Daenys knew the feeling. Even now, it was hard not to spill her guts after the heavy guilt pressed on her conscience.

"I should go check on him." She offered, looking up through her lashes to Cregan, who had been staring at her the entire time. "If you can—"

"I will take care of them." He hummed, gesturing towards the door. "Go see if your brother is well."

"Thank you." She said gratefully, squeezing his hand before making her way after her brother.

Outside, barely having made it to the grass instead of the cobble, Jacaerys was hunched over and heaving. Daenys sympathized greatly, slowly rubbing her hand up and down his back in the same way their mother had often done for them. "Let it all out, Jace." She said.

"I'm not a child." He said, defensively as he stood to full height.

"I know that." She whispered, squinting against the sunlight. "But you just killed a man—no one is prepared for that."

"Lord Stark was." He scoffed, wiping at his mouth and groaning in disgust but not shoving away her comforting hand.

"Cregan has experienced battle more than we have. He fights against the Wildlings in the North—he's no stranger to death."

He groaned again, this time not so much in disgust as it was simply petulance. Daenys bit her cheek, keeping herself from smiling at the childish behavior. "He's just perfect at everything, isn't he?"

"He's three years your elder, Jace." She reminded him. "And had to be Warden of the entire North at only eight and ten. Of course he's more experienced."

"I am a Prince." Jacaerys said, defeated.

"You are." She responded, questioning his sudden statement.

"I should be like that—not throwing up my breakfast at the first sight of blood. What kind of Prince can't defend his people?" He asked, slumping down against the wall.

She sat with him. "You are young, Jace. No one expects you to be perfect right away. We've only just now been thrust into a war when there's been none since before our grandsire's time."

"They do expect it." He mumbled, looking to the three dragons in the field. "Mother has set our expectations quite high."

"She's not so perfect." Daenys said. Once, only a few weeks ago, she would have agreed. That Rhaenyra was a being of perfect grace and poise, not to be touched by the bad of the world. Now, she wasn't so inclined. Rhaenyra was her mother, and she loved her dearly, but she was still a liar. Daenys had once dreaded to leave Dragonstone, but these days, she felt more eager to move on to her martial home with Cregan and be free of the people who allowed her to feel insane. Being able to come and go as she pleased to visit seemed like a distant dream.

🗡

Jacaerys whipped his head to her, dark brows knitted together as he huffed a short laugh. "You always say that, Dae. That mother is near perfect." His words were confused, almost disbelieving.

Daenys pursed her lips, nodding. Should she tell him the truth? If she allowed him to believe Laenor was still dead, she was no better than the three of them. But the cluelessness brought him peace. He was able to mourn their father in a healthy way over time, in every way she could not. He did not blame himself like she did. "I don't think anyone is." She said finally. Now was not the correct time, anyway, when he was so lost in his conflicted mind too.

Laenor, Rhaenyra, Ser Harwin. Those who she idolized for years. She felt a deep betrayal when the two men who raised her left—a hole not able to be filled. Rhaenyra was not perfect, though her children all thought her to be. Their eyes were bright and hoping, and of course, their mother was the guiding beacon that brought the light. Adults don't share the same sentiments as their child selves did. It was inevitable to change. Daenys was at least grateful to be able to trust her mind again. Though, she was unsure if it was due to her own independent growth in the North or because of her mother sharing the truth.

She hoped it was because of herself. Just one thing, attributed to her.

Jacaerys eyed her a moment longer before giving in and nodding. Clearly, he could tell there was more to it but would not pry. Perhaps he suspected Daenys was resentful for Rhaenyra discreetly suggesting to offer herself for the Northmen. "Well..." He started, standing and offering her a hand.

"Let's check on the children." Daenys finished, standing too with his aid.

He snorted, leading the way inside. "The girl is older than you."

She narrowed her eyes playfully, shaking her head. "I am taller."

"Does that make me your elder?"

"Never."

They shared a warm and amused smile.

In the dining hall, the bodies were gone. The board covering the courtyard exit was removed, too, and the doors were wide open. The fresh air was pleasant to feel in the stuffy room. At the table, Cregan sat in front of an unmannered sibling duo. The two were working on their simple plates of food, scarfing it all down like rabid animals. She couldn't blame them, the poor things were likely starved.

They met eyes quickly, Cregan standing to guide her to a seat at the bench next to him. Jace rolled his eyes again at the effort, grossed out by the affection. He slumped down next to Daenys, folding his hands in front of them and sipping at a wine poured in front of him. The staff were floundering about, looking in good spirits. She guessed they were used as personal servents to the soldiers—none of the hedge knights having been used to such grand luxury. Daenys briefly thanked the young man pouring her wine, but gently refused an offer for bread or stew.

"Lady Kalla. Is the Maester still around?" She asked tentatively, politely sipping at her wine instead of staring at the young lady.

She nodded, swallowing a chunk of rabbit. "Yes, your highness. He is still here, only confined to his rooms."

"Still? Has he not been let out?" Jacaerys asked.

Kalla smiled girlishly, bashful at the handsome princes' attention on her. "No, he simply always stays in there. Bad knees." She giggled softly, to ease the slight tension.

They nodded in turn. "So there are still ravens in the tower then, yes?" She asked.

Kalla hesitated before slowly nodding. "There should be. I think the soldiers used them to communicate with the King."

Daenys raised a brow, nonverbally waiting for her to correct herself.

She blushed again, apologizing quickly. "My mistake, Princess. They said 'My King' so many times that the words have ingrained themselves. To the Pretender." She fixed. "If you wish, I could send a raven to wherever you wish."

"Thank you, Lady Kalla." She smiled. "I can do that myself. Though, you should get to Lord Staunton's solar and begin familiarizing yourself."

She straightened, looking confused. "Familiarize?"

"You are the head of House Staunton, now. You will be expected to host any Black forces on your land as well as our naval forces. I hope this is not too overwhelming, but there really is not other choice."

"But—Kallus is the heir." She said in a hushed tone.

Glancing at Kallus, the young boy now done with his food and swishing the sauce in the bowl back and forth with his fork, and tensely sighed. "He may be the heir when Lord Staunton was here, but it will be over a decade before he is ready for the role. You must lead, as Lady." She said firmly. "The Queen will make the change in leadership official."

Lady Kalla froze, uneasily fiddling with her sleeve. "I have not been prepared for this."

Neither was the Queen herself. The men of the realm never seem to prepare their daughters for the world, even when they are grown and alone.

"I know." Daenys said, reaching for her hand. "But you must. For your father. And him." She nodded towards Kallus, who curiously met her eyes. Kalla looked down at her brother before turning back to Daenys, firmly nodded.

"I will try, Princess." She spoke.

"That is all I ask." Daenys said, standing from her seat. "I will begin my letter to The Queen. Jace?" She asked, gesturing for him to follow.

He did, hot on her heels as they went down a winding hall to an old hallway that led to the raven tower. In it, the birds squaked endlessly at the intrusion. "What is it?" Jacaerys asked, leaning on the table that Daenys sat herself at.

"Will you join me on the boat back to Dragonstone?" She asked.

He tensed, folding his arms over each other. "I was hoping to fly out to the Twins, while mother allows me to be out. I will not have another chance under her guard."

"I know." Daenys said, scribbling away. "I think you should—the Twins are vital for Cregan's men to travel to the Riverlands."

Jacaerys nodded severely. "What if they ask for a dragon?" He pondered. "Lady Jeyne already has, no doubt other houses bending their knees to us will get greedy."

"We cannot spare the adults." Daenys said flatly. "The babes were a means to placate Jeyne's worries. The Freys are too far North to need such protection, I think."

"Not too far for Vhagar." Jace reminded her.

"She will not be willing to fly so far. She's old, and injured. Her balance will be horrible, only good for short and predictable flights. Tell them that." She nodded to herself, mumbling the words she wrote out slightly to focus.

"Right." He trailed, taking the words in. Leaning over her shoulder, he read the words aloud to affirm.

"Dear Queen Rhaenyra, Rook's Rest has been reclaimed. Lady Kalla and young Kallus are alive and well, and I have named Kalla Lady of House Staunton. Please send a spacious barge to to docks here, with a small crew of trusted men. Perhaps Lord Corlys could make the journey personally, and I believe that Eveningstar would be well-suited for the trip. She has not seen open waters since father last sailed out.

Sunfyre will be making the journey on this ship. Do not send any men who are easily panicked. The dragon is injured, but I believe keeping him on Dragonstone's fields is a good defense and show of our strength. Well wishes, Daenys Velayron."

He sat back, humming in thought. "You really think Sunfyre will take a boat back to Dragonstone?"

"It is a short trip." She shrugged. "If I can make him obey out there, I can convince him to get on a boat."

Jacaerys smiled nostalgically. "I don't understand how you did that. Even Vermax wouldn't heed your command, and he adores you."

Daenys looked out the window, past the sleek black head of a raven. "I couldn't say, brother. But I do know that it is my fault that he will never fly again, so it's my responsibility to take care of him now."

Jacaerys nodded. Looking out at the three dragons cuddled up together (though Vermax was on Morningstar's flank opposite of Sunfyre, eyeing the golden one mistrustfully), he held his hand heavily on his pommel. "I will leave now. With luck, I think I'll make it back home before you do."

"Not luck, Jace." She chuckled. "Mother will tear open a new one for you—and I won't be there to mediate."

He paled, groaning in realization. "I'll take the boat back with you, then."

"Too late." She stood, rolling up the scroll and sending it off with no wax stamped onto it. "You should go before those old Freys take their afternoon nap."

Jacaerys scoffed, kissing his sister's temple 'goodbye' before leaving the room with a swish of his half-cape.

Daenys looked out of the empty windowsil, watching Jace mount the emerald dragon before leaving as fast as he came. They had been lucky today, perhaps too lucky for her ease of mind. Something was surelt brewing on the horizon. Shaking the thought from her mind, she found Cregan at the bottom of the steps.

"Daenys." He greeted with a soft smile. "Lady Kalla and her brother have retreated to their rooms."

"Good." She rolled her shoulder slightly, wishing to get out of this dusty place and stretch her legs. "Would you join me?"

"Anywhere, Princess."

"I wish to hunt for Sunfyre. He's probably starved after all these days out here."

Cregan nodded, taking her hand into the crook of his arms. "Like old times, then."

She laughed, "that was hardly in the past. I expect it will become tradition for us in Winterfell."

His eyes lit up at the thought. "You wish to continue camping around the wilderness, even after your residence in Winterfell?"

"A dragon gets restless easily."

It was his turn to laugh lightly. "Indeed, she does."

The Jacegon onesided beef continues (like Aegon and Daenys)

Thinking of dragon parentage again-how Morningstar is Silverwing's egg for sure but unsure about the father and if there even is one for dragons. But continuing off that—Sunfyre. He is theoried to be either Dreamfyre's or Silverwing's egg, with Vermithor as a possible sire. I for one think his show face shape is kind of similar to Silverwing's show face shape.

Morningstar and Sunfyre from the same clutch? Though hatching in different years as some eggs do. They both have tremendous and unique bonds with their riders, and are around the same age.

aging Daeron down because i dont know his full lore and have no interest in adding him to the Dance at all. Technically he does have Tessarion still but she's about the size of Tyraxes.

wanted to name a sword and Sea Tamer just sounded badass so

Aemond sending children and their dragons off to war core. Those memes always send me, he'd do it too if he could

[raineandsky]

#130

The civilian’s house used to be the one place she could get away from work—relaxing, peaceful, safely removed from the pains of her job. It’s taken two weeks for her job to decide it wants to live here, actually, and has taken over her little safe haven and her mind.

She gets back from a day of journalistic interviews and writing articles, and makes just enough time for dinner before leaping head-first into the piles of paper she’s slowly accumulating around her house.

She’s one shopping trip away from investing in some red string—conspiracies and suspects connected in her mind, pieces of paper and theories lumped together. All of it begs the question, drags her back to the reason she’s doing this—

Where has the hero gone?

The civilian goes over her notes. They were last seen leaving the agency a month ago. The news stopped reporting on it after five days. The agency made one hell of a show of looking for them before it all seemingly went quiet. She’s seen the hero’s successor about town, and the reactions he’s garnered—distaste, anger. The agency made a move to replace the hero too fast, and everyone’s seen it. Everyone is suspicious.

She can’t let that get in the way of her little investigation, though. The agency has certainly been weird about it, but that feels too obvious. She can imagine the real perpetrator is rubbing their hands with glee knowing that everyone has their eyes elsewhere.

The villain association. An undeservedly professional name, considering the business villains like to conduct, but that’s besides the point. Villains—a villain, perhaps—would be the obvious choice. Maybe the hero got too close to something, acted too much like an irritating fly that needed to be swatted. Then again, villains love bragging, and having a hero in their possession would undoubtedly send them into a self-absorbed frenzy. They’ve been even quieter on this than the agency has.

The civilian flips through some of the papers in the pile closest to her. Half of these are documents she’s loaned from the library—she’s already maxed out her extension, and they’re due back next week. She doesn’t have them for long. She needs to figure this out soon.

She’s in the midst of poring over some of her paperwork with a highlighter—nothing from the library, she doesn’t need a vandalism fine on top of all this—when there’s a noise at her front door that she instantly recognises. Something, rather hurriedly, being shoved through her letterbox.

It’s too late to be getting post now. The civilian rushes for the door just in time to see the little envelope drop from the hole and onto her mat.

She snatches it up and rips it open without a thought, letting her eyes graze over the words of the letter inside. Then she looks a little more carefully. Then a third time, because there’s no way.

It’s been interesting to watch you play, Ma’am, but I suggest you keep yourself out of business that isn’t yours.

She tears the door open but she already knows she’s too late. Whoever left this for her is long gone.

She makes doubly sure to lock her door has she closes it behind her, her gaze back on the letter. If she can even call it that—it looks more like it was torn out of a notebook and scribbled on the way here.

A warning. She shuffles back into her kitchen, where the papers she was looking at are now toppled all over the floor. She carefully sets them back on the table, and after a moment of deliberation lays the letter on top of them.

Journalists like her don’t tend to take warnings.

After all, new evidence just fell into her lap.

[dawneternal]

Part 2

⊹ A modern Gwynriel College AU

⊹ Summary: Nesta has been trying to throw Azriel and Gwyn together for a while now. When a group project comes along, Nesta snags Az for their group so the pair are finally forced to interact.

To make matters more complicated, Gwyn accidentally sends the wrong document to the group, replacing the writing assignment with a smutty chapter of fanfiction.

Things only bloom from there, forcing Gwyn to either let down her walls or lose a friendship that has become important to her.

Prepare for fluff, angst, classic college tropes, and some cheesiness

⊹ Notes: Sorry this one is pretty short. But don't worry, the next chapter is like triple the length.

⊹ Warnings: Gwyn has a panic attack

⊹ Word Count: 1k

⊹ AO3 Link

Gwyn woke to no new notifications on her phone. That unsettled her more than any teasing responses would have. She wanted to stay in bed and hide from the world until the pain of her mistake faded. And avoid any inevitable interactions that would come from it. But she willed herself to get up and change, braid her hair, and head to her favorite campus cafe for breakfast. 

They only served their giant cinnamon rolls on Friday mornings and there was not many things that could keep her from getting one. This was her Friday ritual - spending a couple hours with whatever book she was obsessed with and one of her worn notebooks, complete with a hot mocha latte and a cinnamon roll. 

As she settled into her booth, she let out a happy sigh, glad she went out after all. It was chilly, overcast, and rainy. Perfect for a cozy breakfast and an afternoon nap. The fireplace in the far corner crackled, soft music playing throughout the room.

All of this pleasantness was interrupted by a booming voice calling her name.

“Berdara!” Connor called from across the cafe, “What the fuck was that email? You'll never hear the end of this!”

He was laughing hard at his own cleverness, at this gift that would supply him with months of material. He turned back to his friends, most likely explaining the joke, as they turned toward her a moment later and howled with laughter. The cashier snapped something in their direction and the group of them shuffled out into the cold. 

Gwyn sat still, frozen. This was exactly what she didn't want. Connor would make good on his promise and she knew it. Boys like him were not easily deterred, only spurred on by protests. She had handed him an opportunity on a silver platter and there was no way he wouldn't take it. 

This was feeling too familiar. This was feeling very, very bad.

“Hey,” A softer voice met her ears. Gwyn turned and found herself looking up into kind hazel eyes. 

“You saw that?” She asked, a lump forming in her throat. She willed herself to keep it together, but her body did not seem to be listening. Her heart hammered, fingers numbing as reality drifted away.

“Yeah, I thought I would check on you,” Azriel said, smile fading as he watched her struggle to get enough air. In spite of herself and her pleading, Gwyn's face crumpled.

“Oh, no, hey hey hey,” Azriel swiveled, dumping his things on the table. He gently picked up one of her hands and guided her from the seat. Then he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and led her out the side door of the cafe. 

Gwyn could barely see through the blur of tears, but she found herself sitting beside Azriel on a bench in some shaded corner. The world seemed a little bit quieter, here, and she could finally take a deep enough breath. 

“Don't listen to him,” Azriel said, his voice low and soft, “He's an idiot.”

“I'm guessing you opened the document,” Gwyn said between sniffles, keeping her gaze on the grass. Though when a tanned hand entered her field of vision holding a tissue, she took it. 

“I will say you had me hooked with that subject line,” Gwyn could hear the laughter in his voice, “I was curious. But I figured it out pretty fast and stopped reading.”

Gwyn groaned and buried her head in her hands. At least he didn't bring up any details. Like how the character she had written about was tall and muscled with dark curly hair.

“Hey, it's okay,” He said, so kindly it made her chest ache. “We've all done stuff like that before.”

She looked up to give him an incredulous look, and for a moment Azriel's breath caught in his throat. He was not often the sole subject of her gaze but it left him speechless every time. Even if she was scolding him with her teal eyes, telling him she didn't believe him. He blinked a few times and tried to pull himself back together.

“Seriously,” His lips spread into a crooked grin, “Once Cassian sent a nude to his aunt.”

“Oh,” Gwyn smiled at her lap, “Okay, that's pretty bad.”

“What if I do something embarrassing to make you feel better? Then it'll be even between us.”

Gwyn tilted her head at him, studying his face for any teasing, any spark of something non genuine. But his face was open and honest. And far more alluring than she wanted to admit. Perhaps that's why she pushed away the thoughts of wondering why he would bother to do that for her. It didn't matter why. She wanted to take the opportunity anyway. 

“This is worth more than one embarrassing thing. A hundred, maybe.” She shook her head, biting back a smile and trying to look solemn. It almost startled her how easy he was to talk to. This was not a trait she encountered often.

“What about three?” He said, matching her solemnity, gaze burning into her.

“You actually mean it?” 

“Of course I do,” He grinned, and Gwyn noticed his dimples for the first time. Of course he had dimples.

She thought for a moment, wondering what thing she could propose first that might make him squirm. 

“For the first one, can I put eyeliner on you before class?” She squinted, waiting to see if he'd scoff and protest. His grin only spread. 

“Sure,” He chuckled. “You intend to take my offer, then?”

“We'll see how the first one goes.”

She looked away, needing a break from the intensity of his stare. She had definitely not suggested eyeliner just to see if it would make his golden eyes pop even more. Certainly not. 

Instead of looking back at him and risking a blush, she took in the little corner he had brought her to, behind the cafe. They sat side by side on a worn wooden bench, facing the lawn that stretched between the cafe and the library. No sidewalk passed through here, shielding the spot from foot traffic. Two trees intertwined above them, showering the pair in jewel-toned foliage with every breeze. 

“How'd you know about this spot?” Gwyn asked. 

“I know all the best spots on campus to have panic attacks,” Azriel said, smiling softly. 

“You showed up at a good time.”

“You have Friday morning cinnamon rolls to thank for that.”

[songmingisthighs]

Ignominy

introduction pt. i | pt. ii | pt. iii

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ch. xxx - working from home

hybrid!san × human!reader

buy me coffee ?

warning : mdni, explicit sex, piv, unrpotected sex, creampie

everyone wants to belong, it's basic human need to connect with people around them. what happens when you're responsible for someone who belongs to two worlds but at the same time belongs to neither ? worst part is, what happens when it's your ex ?

The elevator let out a 'ding' sound and soon door opened and San casually stepped out as he browse through his mail. It was the firat time you stepped into his condo- well, it was the first time you stepped into a housing unit that is directly connected to a private elevator- and you were amazed. The foyer itself was amazing and the guest slippers felt like clouds on your feet.

Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the city and the fact that the place was two stories high, a modern chandelier that looked so intricate it must be obnoxiously expensive, and tasteful artworks decorating the walls. Those were only some of the things you could point out because your eyes immediately zeroed in on the owner of the condo, tossing his mail carelessly on the kitchen island before pushing what seemed like a marble wall only to unveil what you would later discover is one of his fridges to pour himself a glass of cold water. The kitchen counter was of course white marble with black and gold patterns and bar stools on the other side, facing the fridges.

Noticing you were still standing near the entrance of his condo, San raised an eyebrow at you curiously, "Aren't you gonna come in?" He asked.

Embarrassedly, you shuffled off your shoes, set them aside and joined him where he was situated, standing across him on the kitchen counter, near the stools. It was bad enough that you were in your boss's place where he look so damn cute and comfortable, he HAD to catch you ogling at the freaking furniture. "So," you coughed out, throat suddenly very dry, "I got all the things you asked for," you said as you lift his laptop bag and another bag with several brown files filled with different documents and his work notebook. "Where do you want me to put it?" As you asked, you couldn't help but let your eyes wander around, wondering where he would usually work on when he's working from home. San took a sip of his water before nodding to the vacant spot on the counter near you, "Just put them there," he casually pointed out.

You began carefully placing each items out on the cold surface, mimicking how they would be situated on his office as San was quite particular in his placement. Meanwhile, San was looking at you with his sharp eyes, analyzing every move you made whilst thinking of your outing with his friends just the night before.

"Did you have fun?" the sound of his voice resonated, surprising you to the point that you almost let his note book fell to the floor. San surprised himself too by asking you that question, he wanted to not sound like he was paying attention to you. Not that much anyways, but just enough to think that he was being nonchalant. But he said it and the worst thing he could do was pretending as if he didn't just ask what he had asked. So he feigned a confident posture; wide shoulders back with his chin up and hands in his pocket, he casually walked to the side so he was parallel with you, "Did you have fun last night with my friends?" he asked again, this time sounding even more sure and clear.

Confused, you didn't know why he would care as to how you were feeling especially around his friends. But since he asked anyways, you didn't think it would be harmful to actually answer. "It was... Good..." you shrugged, eyes dropping to the bag in your hands as you continued taking his things out and placing them in front of you. "Define good," he demanded to you, genuinely wanting to know but his voice made him seem... cold. You looked up briefly at him, thinking of a more professional way to say "I had a blast shit talking you with your buddies and drinking our stress away from having to deal with your demanding ass" without risking your job. "It was... Eventful, we shared stories," embarrassing ones of you, "Shared out mutual understandings," how we think your mood swings higher and quicker than Jekyll and Hyde and that might have been due to the fact that he's your ex and he's being pissy because he's butthurt, "And even bonded over our interests," forgetting that we're working with a jackass using alcohol.

San nodded in understanding, but he kept going with his questions, "Were any of them about me?" all of them, "Some, maybe," you shrugged, plastering a fake smile in hopes he'd drop the topic. But of course, he didn't. "Well you sure seemed to bond well with them considering the photos you guys took and the jokes you all shared," he stated. You mistook his words as him not liking you being so close to his friends so you sighed and crossed your arms, "Look, if you didn't want me to hang out with your friends, who are coincidentally my coworkers, you should just say so instead of asking me questions like this, okay? And besides, I thought you were going with us too last night. Wooyoung said that Yeosang tried asking you to come but you shot him down rather harshly," you huffed as you folded the bag after the contents were all laid out on the table. San's eyebrows furrowed as he didn't know why you'd be all huffy and annoyed, but his eyebrows relaxed when he noticed what you said to him. "You wanted me to come with you?" he asked, the corner of his lips curling into a knowing smirk. Your body froze and your hand floated mid-air, realizing the connotation of the words you used. Shit, how do you cover your tracks?

Your silence conveyed thousands of words to him and despite understanding that it was a slip, it meant that it was what you felt deep down.

As you scrambled to finish up your task, San sneakily moved to trap you between his kitchen counter and his body. "You wanted me to be there with you last night?" he teased, voice appearing next to your ear that made your spine shoot up. "I thought you had fun with my friend, though. I saw the tweet Mingi made about your tits," his hands crept up your body from the sides of your hips up to your waist and then it found its home on the base of your neck and on your left thigh, dangerously close to where you have begun leaking. "If only he knew how supple and pretty your tits are," he said as he pressed his body onto yours, making you gasp as you felt the familiar twitch of his cock in his pants against your ass. "But nothing could compare to your sweet cunt," he said as he suddenly cups your mound over your pants, putting pressure on your clit over the fabric that made your muscles tense and legs snap shut, effectively trapping San's hand between them. "It was a good thing I wasn't there last night because I would've fucked you in front of them to show who you belong to," he stated, finger moving deftly against your clit.

Hearing his words, your head cleared up for a moment and you spat out the first thing that popped into your head, "But I'm not yours, I'm your ex." San raised an eyebrow at that, surprised that you talked back to him after being so obedient. He turned your body around and pressed onto you so hard that you had no choice but to lift yourself on your tippy toes and rest your ass on the countertop and San pushed himself to situate you further in. His hands trapped your body and his face got so close to yours, "But even that still has a possessive connotation," he smirked, pecking your lips once, "you're MY ex," another peck, "MY former lover," another peck, "MY first," another peck followed by him tugging your bottom lip from between his teeth, "and now you're MY assistant who's supposed to listen to my every word and fulfil my needs." And with that, his lips melded with yours in a steamy kiss.

You hated how right he was. No matter how much you wanted to deny it, even as his ex you were still somewhat his. No matter what you'll be, you'll always be his. But you couldn't complain when he was taking you so roughly like this, it even made the situation slightly better.

San had slowly taken your pants and panties off, pulling them and throwing them away somewhere you couldn't care much as he trailed kisses down the side of your neck. Your hands move to unbutton three of your buttons, successfully revealing your bra-clad tits to him. San pulled away slightly to admire the pretty lace decorating your chest, the pretty colour and pattern made you seem way softer to him. "Look at you being so obedient for me," he grinned, fingers caressing your slit gently, giving you the littlest stimulation that brought you a lot of pleasure, "And so, so wet," he stated, lifting his hand from between your legs to show you the arousal he gathered from your pussy. Your eyes widened when you saw him licking all of it slowly, making a show with his tongue and him shoving his digits into his mouth, obnoxiously sucking to the point that his fingers were covered with his spit. When San shoved his fingers in you, he made a demand, "Play with your tits." Your head was hazy with pleasure but his words still affected you, forcing you to be obedient and followed his orders.

The hand between your legs only increase its pressure and movement once you pull your bra down to expose your tits, deciding that taking off your shirt would be too much of a hassle. "If only Mingi could see you, he wouldn't know what to do with a slut like you," San chuckled, plunging his fingers harshly into your hole once while your fingers tweaked both of your nipples, successfully eliciting a moan from your lips. "You really wanna know what Mingi would do to me? He's a phone call away and he always answers me," you pointed out challengingly. San didn't like the sound of that, he didn't like the image of you being with one of his friends. With a growl, San pushed your body so your back was flushed against the cold surface and he climbed on top of you, not even caring that there was a chance that his laptop would fall off let alone the documents and his notebook that you had placed so carefully. San has your chin in one hand as his other was supporting his body while his bare cock (that he had somehow let out of his pants) was flush against your bare cunt. "You talk a lot for an ex that kept coming back for my dick," he chuckled darkly, grinding forward powerfully so that his tip bumped your clit harshly, "You're all talk but we both know the only person who can fuck you right is me," he said as he suddenly pushed himself in you in one swift thrust. It was a good thing that you were on your back and trapped by San or else you would've definitely been sent reeling over and possibly fall. "You're such a slut for my cock," San's hips bucked at the feeling of his cock being enveloped in your warmth, teeth sinking into his bottom lip from how good it felt, "I love it."

San began thrusting inside you without letting you adjust to his size first like before. You were surprised at how pleasurable the burn from his cock moving at a fast pace was, the drag of his cock against your walls sending your eyes backwards into your socket. The familiarity of the feeling of him being inside you was what you were addicted to. No matter how harsh he was, you could only find pleasure in his treatment because for some reason you felt safe, you felt like you were taken care of. It was an odd feeling to have whilst you were fucking your ex, but damn if it wasn't thrilling.

Each thrust of San's hips was precise and powerful. Some were just enough to have you sliding slightly from the surface and some made your back arch. San took this as an opportunity to have your tits in his mouth. The hand that was on your chin dropped to grip your right boob as his mouth enveloped the left. It was as if he was trying to prove something, his movements were possessive and erratic. Your jaw slackened at the feeling of San's teeth grazing against your pebbled nipples followed by a harsh suck. The overwhelming stimulation on your chest caused your pussy to clench on San's dick, pausing the movement of his hips momentarily as his cock twitched inside you. San moaned into your breast from the feeling of your cunt hugging him so tight. His body was right on yours and you could feel the vibration of his voice on your lower tummy, you swore it made you feel tingly inside and maybe even slightly ticklish.

"San," you moaned out, hips bucking into his and legs locking behind him, just under his ass to make him continue his abuse of your pussy, "Please make me cum," you begged. San let go of your slobbered flesh from his mouth, the air on the wet surface causing goosebumps to rise, he looked at you and pressed his lips on the corner of your mouth, dragging them slowly as he spoke into the skin, "Say it, say only I can make you cum." His voice was low, nothing but above a whisper but it was loud and clear in your ear. You even had to admit that he sounded slightly emotional, like as if he wanted to convey something.

The lack of answer from you made San reach down to smack your ass, forcing a yelp out of you from the sudden impact. He pulled away, eyes staring menacingly down at you. In this close distance, you could see his beautiful eyes, the little flecks of darker and lighter shade brown decorating them which made him look more intense. But even his intensity couldn't cover the emotion that was seemingly locked inside him, not even the beauty of his eyes could distract you from feeling that San had something to say. But you know he couldn't say it then. So rather than saying what you wanted to say, you say what he wanted to hear.

"You're the only one who can make me cum, San. I need your cock," you said through ragged breath.

The moment the last word left your lips, San connected both of your lips again in a searing kiss as his hips restarted their abuse on yours. His lips were doing an amazing job of covering your voice. Not that it mattered anyways since San has the whole floor to himself and if anyone even heard you, no one would say anything or complain to him.

Had it not been for the fact that San was on top of you, you were sure that would be a writhing mess. His cock felt too good inside you, each movement managed to hit your g-spot just right that it brought you to your climax quicker than you expected. Your thighs clamped on his tiny, slim waist and your hips stuttered as you came hard on his cock. San detached his mouth from yours so he could hear you moan loudly in pleasure, chest rising with the arch of your back as your body tensed. But San didn't stop his own movements when you came, he too was determined to follow suit. The overstimulation San was giving as he chased his own high made you whimper and grip his shirt tightly.

Under him, you were a mess and San loved it. He loved the idea of making such a big mess out of you and he seek his pleasure from it. From the overstimulation San was giving you, your second climax came barreling down, making you even more of a mess especially when your arousal spurted out of you and wet both your thighs and San's hips. The warmth of your juices was what pushed San over the edge, cumming with his face buried in your neck to muffle his scream of pleasure but also so he could be surrounded by the smell of you whilst his head was swimming in post-climax.

San lifted his body off of you, pulling his cock out before sitting back to enjoy the view of your sweat-slicked body and flushed skin as you tried to catch your breath. Your tits were still hanging out of your bra and the buttons of your shirt held onto dear life from being scuffled and pulled, almost to the point of being mangled. But even in such a messy state, San couldn't help but saw how absolutely ethereal you looked. The beauty was truly beyond compare and knowing that he got you to that state made his chest swell with pleasure.

"Name one other person who could turn you into this much of a mess I dare you," San smugly said with a smirk on his face.

As much as you would've liked to knock him off a peg or two, you know you couldn't. And that's both well-deserved on his part and annoying.

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[magnolia-pollen]

Once, in a dry season, I wrote in large letters across two pages of a notebook that innocence ends when one is stripped of the delusion that one likes oneself. Although now, some years later, I marvel that a mind on the outs with itself should have nonetheless made painstaking record of its every tremor, I recall with embarrassing clarity the flavor of those particular ashes. It was a matter of misplaced self-respect.

I had not been elected to Phi Beta Kappa. This failure could scarcely have been more predictable or less ambiguous (I simply did not have the grades), but I was unnerved by it; I had somehow thought myself a kind of academic Raskolnikov, curiously exempt from the cause-effect relationships that hampered others. Although the situation must have had even then the approximate tragic stature of Scott Fitzgerald's failure to become president of the Princeton Triangle Club, the day that I did not make Phi Beta Kappa nevertheless marked the end of something, and innocence may well be the word for it. I lost the conviction that lights would always turn green for me, the pleasant certainty that those rather passive virtues which had won me approval as a child automatically guaranteed me not only Phi Beta Kappa keys but happiness, honour, and the love of a good man (preferably a cross between Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca and one of the Murchisons in a proxy fight); lost a certain touching faith in the totem power of good manners, clean hair, and proven competence on the Stanford-Binet scale. To such doubtful amulets had my self-respect been pinned, and I faced myself that day with the nonplussed wonder of someone who has come across a vampire and found no garlands of garlic at hand.

Although to be driven back upon oneself is an uneasy affair at best, rather like trying to cross a border with borrowed credentials, it seems to me now the one condition necessary to the beginnings of real self-respect. Most of our platitudes notwithstanding, self-deception remains the most difficult deception. The charms that work on others count for nothing in that devastatingly well-lit back alley where one keeps assignations with oneself: no winning smiles will do here, no prettily drawn lists of good intentions. With the desperate agility of a crooked faro dealer who spots Bat Masterson about to cut himself into the game, one shuffles flashily but in vain through one's marked cards—the kindness done for the wrong reason, the apparent triumph which had involved no real effort, the seemingly heroic act into which one had been shamed. The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others—who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation—which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O'Hara, is something that people with courage can do without.

To do without self-respect, on the other hand, is to be an unwilling audience of one to an interminable home movie that documents one's failings, both real and imagined, with fresh footage spliced in for each screening. There’s the glass you broke in anger, there's the hurt on X's face; watch now, this next scene, the night Y came back from Houston, see how you muff this one. To live without self-respect is to lie awake some night, beyond the reach of warm milk, phenobarbital, and the sleeping hand on the coverlet, counting up the sins of commission and omission, the trusts betrayed, the promises subtly broken, the gifts irrevocably wasted through sloth or cowardice or carelessness. However long we postpone it, we eventually lie down alone in that notoriously un- comfortable bed, the one we make ourselves. Whether or not we sleep in it depends, of course, on whether or not we respect ourselves.

To protest that some fairly improbable people, some people who could not possibly respect themselves, seem to sleep easily enough is to miss the point entirely, as surely as those people miss it who think that self-respect has necessarily to do with not having safety pins in one's underwear. There is a common superstition that "self-respect" is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general. It does not at all. It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation. Although the careless, suicidal Julian English in Appointment in Samarra and the careless, incurably dishonest Jordan Baker in The Great Gatsby seem equally improbable candidates for self-respect, Jordan Baker had it, Julian English did not. With that genius for accommodation more often seen in women than in men, Jordan took her own measure, made her own peace, avoided threats to that peace: "I hate careless people," she told Nick Carraway. "It takes two to make an accident."

Like Jordan Baker, people with self-respect have the courage of their mistakes. They know the price of things. If they choose to commit adultery, they do not then go running, in an access of bad conscience, to receive absolution from the wronged parties; nor do they complain unduly of the unfairness, the undeserved embarrassment, of being named corespondent. If they choose to forego their work—say it is screenwriting—in favor of sitting around the Algonquin bar, they do not then wonder bitterly why the Hacketts, and not they, did Anne Frank.

In brief, people with self-respect exhibit a certain toughness, a kind of moral nerve; they display what was once called character, a quality which, although approved in the abstract, sometimes loses ground to other, more instantly negotiable virtues. The measure of its slipping prestige is that one tends to think of it only in connection with homely children and with United States senators who have been defeated, preferably in the primary, for re-election. Nonetheless, character—the willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life—is the source from which self-respect springs.

Self-respect is something that our grandparents, whether or not they had it, knew all about. They had instilled in them, young, a certain discipline, the sense that one lives by doing things one does not particularly want to do, by putting fears and doubts to one side, by weighing immediate comforts against the possibility of larger, even intangible, comforts. It seemed to the nineteenth century admirable, but not remarkable, that Chinese Gordon put on a clean white suit and held Khartoum against the Mahdi; it did not seem unjust that the way to free land in California involved death and difficulty and dirt. In a diary kept during the winter of 1846, an emigrating twelve-year-old named Narcissa Cornwall noted coolly: "Father was busy reading and did not notice that the house was being filled with strange Indians until Mother spoke about it." Even lacking any clue as to what Mother said, one can scarcely fail to be impressed by the entire incident: the father reading, the Indians filing in, the mother choosing the words that would not alarm, the child duly recording the event and noting further that those particular Indians were not, "fortunately for us," hostile. Indians were simply part of the donnée.

In one guise or another, Indians always are. Again, it is a question of recognizing that anything worth having has its price. People who respect themselves are willing to accept the risk that the Indians will be hostile, that the venture will go bankrupt, that the liaison may not turn out to be one in which every day is a holiday because you’re married to me. They are willing to invest something of themselves; they may not play at all, but when they do play, they know the odds.

That kind of self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth. It was once suggested to me that, as an antidote to crying, I put my head in a paper bag. As it happens, there is a sound physiological reason, something to do with oxygen, for doing exactly that, but the psychological effect alone is incalculable: it is difficult in the extreme to continue fancying oneself Cathy in Wuthering Heights with one's head in a Food Fair bag. There is a similar case for all the small disciplines, unimportant in themselves; imagine maintaining any kind of swoon, commiserative or carnal, in a cold shower.

But those small disciplines are valuable only insofar as they represent larger ones. To say that Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton is not to say that Napoleon might have been saved by a crash program in cricket; to give formal dinners in the rain forest would be pointless did not the candlelight flickering on the liana call forth deeper, stronger disciplines, values instilled long before. It is a kind of ritual, helping us to remember who and what we are. In order to remember it, one must have known it.

To have that sense of one's intrinsic worth which, for better or for worse, constitutes self-respect, is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference. If we do not respect ourselves, we are on the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses. On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live out—since our self-image is untenable—their false notions of us. We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gift for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give. Of course we will play Francesca to Paolo, Brett Ashley to Jake, Helen Keller to anyone's Annie Sullivan: no expectation is too misplaced, no rôle too ludicrous. At the mercy of those we can not but hold in contempt, we play rôles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the necessity of divining and meeting the next demand made upon us.

It is the phenomenon sometimes called alienation from self. In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the spectre of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that one's sanity becomes an object of speculation among one's acquaintances. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves—there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

[medusanova]

Andylind + Portrait drawing aka Roz's hobby

His hands shook as they sifted through the papers on her desk, the creased pages sticking to his fingers as he shuffled through them. Documents, statements, proof. Anything that might indicate where she might’ve gone. Why she might’ve gone.

What’s that in your hands, General? 

What did I tell you about prying?

He’d known something was coming for weeks now. Something big. 

It was obvious in the way her militant, unyielding directives turned into loud, erratic outbursts. In the way she became almost neurotic about the battalion’s preparation for combat. In the way her fierce, confident appearance became slightly disheveled, as intense and shocking to him as an arrow to the chest, if not to everyone else. 

When’re you going to tell me what you’re writing in there? 

The day you decide you’d like to be a soldier who can obey commands and mind his own business. 

He picked up another pile of correspondence, skimming through her bold yet decidedly feminine scrawl. He felt a swelling ache fill the space behind his ribs as his eyes traced the soft lines on the paper, a stark contrast to the sharp edges she carved into the world.

Nothing. Fucking nothing. He added the letters to the growing stack on the chair behind him.

Increasingly desperate for some kind of answer — for some explanation as to why he walked into her tent this morning and saw an empty bedroll stamped in footprints of dirt and blood — he turned back to the pile on the desk and continued rifling through more bloody documents. He heard his breaths become more labored, the beats of his heart make their way up to his throat as he neared the end.

As he came upon the last few pages something fell out, tumbling back onto the scuffed desk and opening face down. He stilled as he stared at the all-too-familiar brown leather. 

The notebook. 

Why do you keep staring at me like that? 

Just wondering if I should demote you for that embarrassing display of combat skills yesterday. 

C’mon, General. It was me against three Burned Ones. 

Precisely. 

Slowly extending his hand toward it, he glanced around. As if she’d somehow appear to reprimand him for his curiosity. As if she might waltz in and distract him with her hands and mouth like she had every other time the notebook had been within his reach.

Cursing his sentimentality as he stroked the soft cover, he picked it up, leather crackling as he flipped it over to see the page it had fallen open to. 

Andreas’ breath caught as he stared at the unexpected sight before him. A mirror image of himself gazing sharply back at him, the corner of his brow quirked upwards, the scruff of his beard traced in grays and blacks, his mouth tilted up in a knowing smile that hid a secret. That hid their secret.

This, whatever it is, doesn’t leave this tent.

You embarrassed, General?

…I want to keep it for myself.

And his eyes. They held a little too much honesty, too much vulnerability. Too much love. And it made him question just how much of his heart was stitched onto his sleeve.

He flipped through, page after page sketched with some version of him — training, thinking, winking, smirking, sleeping — his paper twin, made of ink instead of flesh and bone.

Andreas took a steadying breath as he closed the notebook, allowing his lungs a moment to consume his surge of emotion once more before he brushed the spine of the book, tucked it into the pocket by his chest, and stormed out of the tent.

Strides purposeful, jaw set in determination, and eyes blazing with unspoken commands for the soldiers around him, he only thought one thing.

I’m coming for you.

[mortemoppetere]

TIMING: before mob money mob problems. PARTIES: @stainedglasstruth & @mortemoppetere SUMMARY: emilio needs some help researching a few things for a case. unluckily for arden, he knows where she lives. CONTENT WARNINGS: none.

There were always some aspects of detective work that Emilio just couldn’t get right. He was great at the basics, good at the old fashioned style… but the world wasn’t exactly old fashioned anymore. And for all the things his mother had taught him, modern technology certainly hadn’t made the list.

So, when a case required a little bit of technical know-how, there were times where Emilio just… faltered, a bit. He wasn’t sure how to continue, wasn’t sure what to do. Most of the time, he’d just stubbornly find another way. It’d take longer, make the case not quite worth the money he was being paid for it, but it was better than admitting he couldn’t do something. He was tempted to do that now, too, until he remembered he’d made a deal. 

Arden said she’d help him out if he helped her out. And he was helping her out. So it wasn’t like he was asking for charity, right? He might as well cash in on his side of things. He didn’t even have to go particularly far for it. He slipped out of his apartment, shutting Perro inside to keep the dog from trotting along behind him and making his way down the hall, rapping his knuckles against the door. When it opened, he offered her a nod. “I, uh… I think I could use a hand with something.”

–

Arden was still getting used to her new living arrangements. She supposed she had been spoiled previously, having been able to afford living on her own. Her new roommates– or “wormmates” as their group chat had been dubbed– were nice, at least. The apartment was big, too, bigger than she’d imagined, especially after finding out she would be living in the same building as Axis Investigations and one Emilio Cortez.

It was a lot, though, being around others in her free time, having to be “on” even more frequently. It made her that much more grateful for days like these where she found herself truly alone in the apartment. She was curled up on one of the kitchen chairs, sitting in a manner that screamed ‘this person is queer.’ Her laptop was set on the table in front of her, music drifting through the speakers as she typed away into a text document. Her notebook was right next to it, sat on top of a book she’d borrowed from Leah, and open to a poem she had messily scribbled down in the middle of the night. She had coffee, Hobbes was sprawled across the chair next to her, and she was feeling pretty good.

So, Arden was a little startled when she heard a knock at the door. “One sec!” she called, making sure to save her progress before making her way over. Had someone ordered something? Or maybe one of the worms had forgotten their keys? Looking through the peephole, she was incredibly surprised to see it was Emilio at her door. She opened it, and, yup, that was him alright. “Hi?” she greeted, confusion evident. She hadn’t been expecting anyone, but, despite the fact that they were neighbors, Emilio was one of the last people she would’ve expected to pay her a visit. She wondered if she should be concerned. 

At least he seemed to feel as awkward as she did. “Oh, sure.” She opened the door, inviting him inside. “Uhh, would you like some coffee?” 

She closed the door behind him, frowning down at herself as she took notice of what she was wearing. Had she been known she would be having company, she definitely would’ve changed out of the baggy sweater and leggings she was currently wearing. She quickly pulled her hair down and back into a slightly neater ponytail. God, she hated being caught off guard. 

–

Emilio shuffled into the apartment, tilting his head just a little to listen as he entered. There were no sounds inside to indicate that anyone else was home and he felt a small sense of relief at that. He liked Arden’s roommates — the ones he’d met, at least — but asking for help already felt shameful enough as it was. He didn’t need more people to be aware of his inability to handle something so simple on his own. 

He glanced around the room, taking stock instinctively. No weaponry lying out, though he hadn’t suspected there would be. Nothing that looked dangerous. Nothing that didn’t seem to belong. Something bumped against his leg, and his eyes darted down to see a cat staring up at him. Absently, he leaned down, ignoring the pain the motion caused his bad leg, and scratched the cat behind the ear.

“Coffee would be good,” he nodded, straightening back up and turning back to Arden. “Black’s fine. The hotter the better, though.” Caffeine would help kick him into gear, he figured. Not one to beat around the bush, he inclined his head towards the laptop open on the table. “You know about computers, right?”

—

Arden made her way back over to her laptop, quickly pausing her playlist and closing out the document. Grabbing her mug, she leaned back against the counter, eyes trained on the man as he surveyed the apartment. That familiar anxious energy was starting to course through her. It was the kind that stuck with her– only running or sleeping seemed to help rid her of that buzz. Maybe she should cut back on the coffee…

She took a sip, though, to hide her smile as Emilio knelt down to pet her cat. “Careful,” she smirked, “Hobbes is an attention whore. He will harrass you for pets, and then probably bite you when you least expect it.” 

Arden nodded, not exactly surprised to hear he took his coffee black. “Feel free to take a seat, by the way,” she threw over her shoulder because that was a thing people said to visitors, right? Having people over at her place really wasn’t a common occurrence for her, even before she started living in a shared space. 

She was grateful to have something to do with her hands, at least. She went about filling the machine with water and grinds, only pausing to look at him when he spoke again. “Yeah?” She replied, tilting her head to the side in confusion. “I mean, I couldn’t write up some code and make you a website or something, but I use it for work and research and whatnot.”

–

“Ah, he can bite me if he wants to,” Emilio replied dismissively, offering the cat a faint smile. The cat certainly wouldn’t be the last thing to ever bite him… or the worst. The stitches Teddy had put into his arm to stop the qutrub bite from bleeding out had long since been removed by Emilio’s impatient frustration, but the scar would serve as one hell of a reminder to the events. 

He nodded as Arden told him to take a seat, settling into one of the chairs at the table. It was a little uncomfortable, but he figured he was in no place to complain. Arden was just about the only person who hadn’t commented on the furniture in his office upon first entry, so he probably owed her a little for that. 

Watching as she prepared the coffee, he tapped his fingers against the table absently. He’d never been particularly good at this. At any of this. Sitting still while someone else worked, asking for help, existing in a space where existence was all that was expected of him. He was never quite sure how to hold himself.

It was a relief when she began speaking again, allowing him to focus on the task at hand instead of the chair beneath him or the table in front of him. “I don’t need a website. It’s for a case. I, um… I’m having trouble getting what I need from my usual sources, and I could use some help. With the computer research. I don’t really… use them. A lot.”

—

He can bite me if he wants to. Arden restrained herself from blurting the out of pocket joke that her brain immediately jumped to, rolling her eyes at herself. 

It made her smile, though, witnessing the gruff man being so gentle with Hobbes. She vaguely recalled seeing some posts about him having a dog, too. Someone who treated animals with kindness had to have a good heart, right? It was winning him some points in her book. 

She pulled another mug out of one of the cupboards before settling back into her seat, leaving the coffee maker to do its thing. She picked up her notebook and the book, intending on moving it to the side, but she paused for a moment as she realized, yup, that was a tome on the supernatural just under her notebook, lying out in the open for him to see. While it might not be odd for someone in Wicked’s Rest to be reading about such topics, even if they didn’t know, she didn’t want to push her luck. She couldn’t tell how much he knew about what was really going on in town.

As inconspicuously as possible, Arden moved the book aside, making sure the spine was facing away from the man. For good measure, she opened her notebook before placing it back on top, trying to cover it as much as possible. If that meant the man saw her terrible poetry, she supposed she could live with never being able to look him in the eye again. Better that than a repeat of what happened with Jo. One page was covered in half-asleep scribbles, anyway, so he’d have to decipher that first, and good luck. 

Glancing at Emilio, he looked a little out of his element just sitting there in her kitchen. She offered him what she hoped was a comforting and entirely casual smile, listening as he began to speak. 

“Oh,” she nodded, “I can definitely help with that, or show you if you’d like?” Shifting into a more comfortable position, sitting cross-legged on the chair, she pushed up her sleeves and pulled her laptop a little closer. “What do you need to look into?”

–

There was no turning off the paranoid thought process that haunted his mind. As much as he’d like to say it was a newer addition, brought on with the massacre that left him more alone than anyone ever ought to be, he knew that wasn’t entirely true. His family’s deaths might have made it worse, but Emilio had always been a little paranoid. He’d always had a voice in his head that whispered warnings that made little sense.

It was whispering even now, as Arden shifted things on her desk around in a way that was subtle but undeniable. She was trying to make sure he didn’t see certain things, and while there were plenty of innocent reasons as to why that might be, Emilio’s mind went to less explainable things without his permission.

Biting his tongue, he shook the thoughts from his head. He wasn’t sure he trusted Arden just yet, but they had a deal and he did trust that she’d honor that. He scratched her back, she’d scratch his. They didn’t have to be entirely open with one another for that to work. It wasn’t as if Emilio was entirely honest with her, either. (It wasn’t as if Emilio was entirely honest with anyone, these days.)

Forcing his eyes away from the things she’d moved and back up to her face, he nodded. “Showing me would be great.” Just because they were helping each other out didn’t mean he wanted to have to come down here every time he needed to google something. Especially not if he didn’t trust her entirely.

“Looking into a guy. He’s got a bank account under another name, and my buddy was able to get me a list of charges he makes to it. Same charge every month, same amount, but the business name it’s made out to isn’t one I can find anywhere. Some kind of shorthand, maybe. Think you can help me figure out what it is?”

–

For a moment, their eyes locked, and Arden’s stomach churned, worried he’d caught sight of the title. So when he just asked her to show him, even though she suspected trying to teach Emilio might be a pain in the ass, she nodded, relieved. She had offered to show him, she had just said it without thinking it through. 

Between his own admission and the fact that he'd even come to ask her for help in the first place, she had a feeling he was kind of clueless when it came to technology. From everything she knew about him, she suspected he wouldn’t have asked unless he had exhausted every other option on his own. And, she’d also seen him refer to an app as an 'apt' online the other day.

She was kind of impressed, though. He was an asshole who was bad with people, but he did get the job done. And he did it all the old-fashioned way. It undoubtedly made his work more difficult than it needed to be, but it was still impressive. 

"Probably," she shrugged, not wanting to make any promises she wouldn't be able to keep. It sounded shady– secret bank account and maybe some kind of shell corporation– so if they were really covering their tracks well, Arden might not be able to help him much. Maybe she could help point him in the right direction at least? "What's the name of the business?" 

–

Emilio had never been a particularly quick learner. It was something his mother had berated him about constantly, always complaining when he took longer than she thought he ought to to pick up whatever new skill she was teaching. Back then, it had led Emilio to have more extensive training lessons more often than his siblings. His mother had quickly learned that he was far better at physical things than mental, that his inability to sit still might make research more difficult but came in handy in a fight. And she’d used that. Emilio was never the one to be given the less physically taxing jobs; he was the one locked in rooms with hungry vampires to put his restlessness to use. 

Of course, things were different now. While his brother had been a great help in Mexico when it came to matters of research, Edgar was no longer alive to call upon now. Emilio was on his own here, and there continued to be some problems that couldn’t be solved with a knife or a swift kick. If he wanted to continue his business and be successful in his quest for vengeance, he was going to need to learn how to be a little bit better at finding information through the internet instead of through his more old-fashioned, hands-on methods.

Luckily, Arden was willing to teach him. He wasn’t sure who else he could have gone to. It felt wrong to go to a kid for help, and he was sure most of them would probably make fun of him for his lack of knowledge, anyway. He didn’t think Arden would. Not when she wanted his help, too. Leverage was a decent thing to have, in situations like this one.

“I can work with probably,” he decided with a nod. If nothing else, she could help with this case. If he needed more instruction before he could do it on his own, that was fine, too. “All that shows up on the bank records are the initials. WRSF. Guessing the WR is for Wicked’s Rest, but I don’t know about the rest. And my English is bad, sometimes. Makes it harder to make guesses.” 

–

“WRSF,” Arden echoed, brows furrowing. The letters faintly rang a bell, but the thought danced just out of reach. Absentmindedly, she reached up, fingers tangling around the golden chain around her neck as she thought. After a moment, she frowned. It wasn’t coming to her, and trying to force it wouldn’t work. 

“Okay.” Start small. She pulled up two tabs: one the town site, and the other, Google. Then, laptop in hands, she stood, putting the laptop in front of Emilio and moving her seat closer to his. They would likely both hate it, but, hey, he wanted to learn. “Let’s give it a cursory Google. It’s frankly upsetting how much you can find with just that if you know how to look for it.” She tried to give him a quick run down on how to search for specific terms and on a specific website.

She was slightly interrupted when she heard a thump from behind her and swirled around to see Hobbes inching toward the mugs on the counter. “Hey,” she shot out of her seat, “don’t even think about it, you bastard.” Scooping the cat up in her arms, she quickly dropped him back down onto the floor. He gave her an innocent look before creeping over to bother their guest. “Fucker,” she muttered. 

She took a peek to make sure the man wasn’t looking through her shit or majorly fucking up somehow, then turned her focus back to the coffee maker to see how that was coming along. Eh, it was good enough. 

Grabbing the pitcher, Arden shoved her mug in its place to catch the last of it while she poured a cup for Emilio. She set the mug down next to him before refilling her own. WRSF… “State forest?” Maybe, but that wasn’t what she had been looking for. She mulled it over as she added a bit of sugar to her drink and took a sip. 

Then it hit her. “Oh!” Duh. They were literally in the neighborhood. “Do you think it might have to do with Serpent’s Flat?”

–

The computer was set in front of him, and Emilio squinted at the webpage dubiously. It felt strange, the amount of information you could gather online now. Wrong, almost. It left a strange sort of taste in his mouth, though not something he knew how to put words to. Part of him was tempted, just a little, to search for something else. Something utterly unrelated to the case they were working. If he typed out San Agustín Etla, Mexico, what would he find? What story had someone invented to explain the massacre that happened there? How close was it to the truth, what names were listed among the dead?

Something bumped against his leg, pulling him from his trance and drawing his attention down to the floor. Arden’s cat was rubbing against him, looking up expectantly. Right. She’d warned him that the cat was likely to harass him for attention if he gave it the time of day. Absently, he bent down to scratch its ears, glancing over to see what Arden was doing.

Right. The coffee. He took the mug she set beside him with a grateful nod, taking a sip of the too-hot liquid and letting the effects of the caffeine wash over him as he stared at the screen. There were plenty of things the letters might mean; it was hard to narrow it down.

When Arden mentioned Serpent’s Flat, Emilio grunted thoughtfully. “Could be,” he replied, nodding his head. “But what are the charges for? The viewing stations?” Did they take credit cards? Or maybe a gift shop. But why the secrecy? There must have been something odd behind it, if it had anything to do with Serpent’s Flat at all. 

—

After years of raiding the Scribes archive and looking into the supernatural– especially WIcked’s Rest particular brand of supernatural– of course that’s where Arden’s brain went. He was right, though, what would the charges be for? There were merch stands, but that didn’t seem to fit the situation. Unless, maybe, it was going toward researching the Flat?

She voiced the thought, but shrugged. “It’s just an idea. That or ‘state forest’ are all that I can think of that SF could stand for. Though, I guess that might be a little too straightforward if this person’s trying to cover their tracks.” Brow raised, she looked over at Emilio. “Is there anything else that might help narrow things down a little? Like, what’s your take on the situation? Is this guy paying someone off or something?”

Armed with more coffee, Arden tried her best to walk the man through her research process– first, some useless Google searches, then, switching over to the town website and looking through the Chamber of Commerce business directory. It was a slow process that, at times, made her rethink this entire partnership thing they had going. 

It also made her kinda want to strangle the stupid, handsome PI, but there was no way in hell she would win that fight. And, even if she did somehow manage, she would be stuck with a dead body, and she wasn’t close enough to the wormmates yet that they would help her deal with it. Okay, who was she kidding, Sully and Wynne were way too good for that, she couldn’t in good conscience even ask them. Zack, though…

Arden was startled out of her idiotic musings when Hobbes jumped into her lap, curling up and, trapping her in her seat. She looked down at the cat, an exasperated yet fond expression on her face. “Yeah, okay. Hi, bud,” she smiled, giving him scritches. 

–

Sometimes, in this line of work, it was good to have someone to bounce ideas off of. If Emilio were a little less terrible with people, he might have looked for a partner for his business ventures, but he had a hard time imagining himself letting someone else into his home now. Perro was a decent enough listener, but he didn’t exactly offer ideas of his own or ask questions to drive the conversation. Arden, though… She was good to have around.

“Honestly? Hard to say. When I took on the case, he seemed a little boring. It was a surprise to find the bank account.” He’d figured this job would be an easy one; get dirt on Tobias Greene, deliver it to Alan for whatever blackmail scheme he had in mind, and get paid a little extra for his trouble. If he’d known it would evolve into something this complicated, he would have complained a little more at the initial meeting. 

Still would have taken the case, though. He couldn’t really afford to turn anyone away.

He settled next to Arden, watching intently as she searched. The sites she clicked, the ones she avoided, the one she turned to when the search engine seemed to have exhausted all its useful options. It was all good information to know, all something to learn. Next time, he might be able to do this without barging into someone else’s apartment and suffering the wrath of their playful cat. Old dogs could learn new tricks with the right kind of motivation driving them.

His gaze was perhaps a little too intense as she scrolled through businesses on the website, eyes sharp as he looked for anything that might be useful. When he saw it, he reached out, pointing to the screen. “There,” he said, tapping the monitor. “Wicked’s Rest Storage Facility. Seems like a good bet, no? If he’s storing something he doesn’t want anyone else knowing about…” 

—

Alright, so there wouldn’t be anything that could help narrow things down more. She hadn’t been banking on it, but she had hoped there might be a small detail that he either hadn’t thought to or wanted to share with her. It was fine, they had enough to at least give her an idea of where to look. 

Okay, maybe she had overexaggerated a little with the murder fantasies. Emilio certainly wasn’t the worst person she’d had to try to teach. That title went to Susan from Biddeford who had seen young intern Arden and decided that she would be her personal IT guide. 

It had been slow, but Emilio did genuinely seem to want to learn. He paid attention and even asked some questions, but best of all, he kept quiet for the most part, and they sat in what wasn’t exactly a comfortable silence, but close. That was infinitely more than she could say about Susan. 

After scrolling through most of the businesses beginning with the letter S, Emilio pointed to the screen just as she had caught sight of it. “It would certainly fit, what with the monthly payments.” 

It could just be storage, but if someone had paid the PI to look into the guy it was likely because they thought he was doing something shady. Also, it was Wicked’s Rest they were talking about, the one place that the Occam’s Razor principle was rarely applicable and could even be deadly. Preparing for the worst was helpful in this town. 

Arden clicked on it the name– not a very original owner, she assumed– bringing up the address and phone number along with an embedded map. “And it’s right here in Worm’s Row. Convenient.” She turned to look at Emilio, a small smile on her face. “Well, that wasn’t too bad. Though finding the right storage unit might be a pain in the ass… I’m not sure I can help you with that one.” 

She wondered if she could give the place a call to find out somehow, though, she wasn’t sure what lie she would need to tell to gain that information. It also seemed like a conversation that would work better in-person. Then again, if the man was going to break into the storage unit, someone asking questions about that exact one beforehand would be suspicious as fuck. 

–

The storage facility seemed like a good fit. Arden was right — monthly payments of the same amount seemed to suggest something like this, and having a second bank account for it seemed to lend some weight to the idea that it might be something worth knowing about. Maybe not what Alan had expected when he’d walked through Axis’s door, but hopefully something he could still use. Emilio was kind of banking on the realtor’s promise to pay him a bonus if he was successful with this job.

“Worm’s Row,” he repeated, raising a brow. “Kind of makes it feel sketchier.” Big words, coming from a man who also ran a business out of Worm’s Row, but true all the same. This was the part of town where people went when they didn’t want anyone to know what they were up to, after all.

Glancing to Arden, Emilio flashed her a grin. “That part, I’m good at.” He knew what Greene looked like well enough; he could stake out the storage facility and wait for him to show up, then trail him to his container and come back again later when he wasn’t there. He’d been to enough facilities like this one to know that the lock on the container would be an easy pick, so he shouldn’t need to deal with Greene at all. He’d go in, get some photos of whatever he was hiding in there, and get out. Simple stuff, really.

“Appreciate your help with this. I don’t think I could have figured this out on my own.” He could have followed Greene until he went to the facility, sure, but it would have been a lot more complicated, and harder to glean that that was where his mysterious monthly payments were going. This way, he had a starting point. It would definitely save him time, get him back to Alan with the information quickly. 

–

Kind of makes it feel sketchier, said the man living in and running a business out of Worm’s Row. While standing in her apartment in Worm’s Row. He wasn’t exactly wrong, though. 

Arden returned the smile, but had to wonder what Emilio’s plan was. Maybe, if this partnership continued, she could ask him to run her through his process. She wasn’t hopeless without the internet, she knew her way around a library or a hall of records, and her charm could get her pretty far, but she did rely on technology pretty heavily for this kind of thing. It was hard to imagine him trying to teach, though, and she’d probably annoy the fuck out of him with a million questions. 

She deposited Hobbes onto the floor, stretching as she stood. “Yeah, of course, I’m happy to help.” Researching was something she kind of enjoyed, though that felt way too dorky to admit. Plus, while it had somewhat tested her patience, his company hadn’t been unpleasant. Arden hadn’t really had house guests since leaving Wicked’s Rest. Hell, she barely had anyone over save for a fling and the massive failure that was her last relationship. “If it turns out to be a bust or if you need anything else, just let me know. You know where I live,” she smirked. 

–

Despite his initial apprehension regarding Arden’s proposal of a partnership between the two, Emilio couldn’t deny that this session had been helpful. He was good at what he did. Investigation carried enough of the same principles as hunting that it came fairly naturally to him, allowed him to use his childhood experiences to support himself now that he was alone. He knew he was a decent detective, even if he wasn’t good at much else. But there were still some things that alluded him, some things he hadn’t learned when his mother put a knife in his hand and never let him put it down to try holding something else instead. If Arden could help him fill those gaps, why shouldn’t he take her up on the offer to do so? And if he could help her with anything she might need assistance on in return, it was all the better. You didn’t have to bleed out at someone’s feet to help them out. Emilio was learning that.

Following her lead, Emilio got to his feet, wincing slightly as the weight went to his bad knee. It was lucky that Arden’s place was so close to his — walking was always a little harder after a long period of sitting down. “I’m sure I’ll take you up on that soon. And I’ll let you know how the case goes, you know, once it’s all over.” She was like him, he could tell — she’d want to know how it ended.

[kintatsujo]

It's interesting to me how different types of lists and notes help my different problems and how I like, have to identify those issues as separate sometimes in order to solve them

Keeping a to do list on my phone doesn't work because the transient and impermanent nature of digital storage ironically often means it sits in there for a bazillion years and nothing actually gets done, because I both have very little sense of when it got put on the list and staring at a habit app slowly go from green to red just stresses me out.

Keeping a day to day work journal, on the other hand, means that I can add things I DID do so that if I didn't do something on that day's list I often don't feel as bad about having to move it forward.

It also means that I can flip back and check when I did things like paying bills, and it's helpful to keep things like what I got in the mail and what we had for dinner in that journal. I dedicate one page of the journal to a single day and this keeps me from overloading myself (more recently I've been using the backs of pages for notes when people tell me shit instead of using it for another day and that's also helpful to be able to check back on.)

But it doesn't work for tracking the state of perishables in my fridge because I apparently need that info out where I can see it all the time and usually it's fine for things like paid bills to be out of sight out of mind. I can't put the perishables in an archive because that's a continuous Now concern.

Likewise it DOES help to keep my running grocery list on my phone because I can forget about getting light bulbs once I've got them in the house. It also helps to keep permanent lists of people's restaurant preferences on my phone so I do that too. (I have backups elsewhere but keeping it on my phone means I have it on hand whenever.)

But none of this works for longterm projects (such as home improvement or art projects).

For longterm projects, I don't always know when I'm going to be able to work on them on a particular day, and tracking progress on them would get lost in the shuffle if the only place I kept track of it was in my usual daily journal.

So I have my big ass portfolio binder and I keep track of longterm life stuff in there (there are also folders specifically to keep bills, checks deposited through mobile, and documentation I need to have on hand for a while). And the portfolio binder comes with me to both work and to people's houses, it lives in my work bag and I use it to plan everything before that stuff gets filtered out to the places it has to go.

I ALSO keep a yearly planner in that binder and use it to further keep track of the bills, my schedule at work, and my period, because it's easier to see what my body is doing if I can look at it on the yearly overview pages.

And on top of that there's a handful of lists in there to pull from if I'm having a "what the fuck IS the routine supposed to look like" day at work; procedures and things that I'd forget if I let them fade into monotony written in the back of the planner notes.

My webcomic has its own portfolio and different projects get dedicated notebooks (but not sketchbooks which is why having a copier is so essential)

Also I make worksheets for art work now lol

I should probably be on adhd medication tbh bc when I lay it all out like this it's sort of a full time job just keeping my own head on straight.

[jdeanmorgan]

LAST — the most recently written two sentences of my current project

oooh lemme go look at my document.

this is a scene between buck and his lawyer in prison fic

She shuffles through some papers, grabs her notebook and pen. Leans back in her seat. "Now tell me everything that happened in your own words. I'll deal with the police."

no excuses writing meme

[moonchild-things]

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Tsundere Business Woman! Miku Watanabe

Summary: Being a psychic is not an ideal life, at least for Saiki Kusuo. Didn’t you read/watch The Disastrous Life of Saiki K to know that? Still, this isn’t about him, not really. Instead, let’s focus on his one and only friend, Akari Watanabe, who is also quite abnormal. You might not believe that Saiki would actually have a friend, but that’s what fanfictions are about, right?  

Word Count: 2041

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---

THE CLICK OF HIGH HEELS ECHOED THROUGH the pristine corridor of the RedFox Enterprise building. To every employee of the prestigious company, the sound was more than recognizable. Some of them feared the sound of those expensive high heels, and braced for whatever storm was coming along with them. Whether they fear them or not they knew to prepare for the woman who was wearing them.

Watanabe Miku, the CEO of the wealthy enterprise strutted down the corridor with the familiar air of superiority swarming around her. She is the end all be all here at RedFox Enterprise, so it’s warranted. After all, she grew this enterprise from the ground up all on her own. She is quite the impressive person thanks to her accomplishments, which also makes her intimidating.

Scurrying besides the accomplished CEO is her personal assistant. A meek, brown-haired man who was in his mid-twenties, was doing his best to keep up with her strides. Tamaki Ōmune had been working there for about six months, the newest replacement for the last assistant who just couldn’t handle Miku’s personality. So far, he was doing his best. Though most of the other employees had a bet going that he wasn’t going to last another two months. He seems to be the assistant that was going to last the longest. Really it’s surprising to just about everyone who worked at Redfox Enterprise that he lasted even four months! Though even if he was slightly scared of her, he liked the job… at least liked it enough to stick around.

Shuffling through some documents in her hands, Miku asked, “Have the investors agreed to a meeting tomorrow afternoon?”

Tamaki jumped at the question, “Oh uh-”

“Well?” Her harsh interjection had caused the poor man to start shaking like a leaf. The poor guy looked like a frightened gazelle staring at a lioness.

He gulped loudly, “Mr. Sato has said he cannot attend due to other commitments.” He shut his eyes in preparation for the annoyance that would be aimed towards him now. Miku never got angry, not in a loud sort of way, but she certainly became terrifying when business like this didn't go her way.

Miku didn’t even pause as she just ordered him, “Call him again and reiterate how important this meeting is. If we do not all have an understanding of the opportunity of these new partners in the US. I don’t care what these other commitments are, you tell him that if he still wishes to hold stock in this company then he should attend the meeting.” Miku is a very no nonsense person, and just about always puts her work first. Yes, from time to time there are some things that she placed above it, though that was somewhat rare. So when someone else doesn’t seemingly do the same, she finds them inferior to an extent.

Her assistant jumped at her harsh tone, “Y-Yes, ma’am.” He instantly started to write down the reminder to do that in his own notebook as the pair approached Miku’s office. Opening up the large doors of her office on the top floor of the Redfox Enterprise building, she made swift work of sitting at her expansive desk to look over some paperwork. She had to make sure that everything was all set in place for the very important meeting tomorrow. Shifting from foot to foot at the door, Tamaki cleared his throat, “Um, Mrs. Watanabe… have you been taking breaks off work?”

She didn’t even look up from her work, “I cannot take breaks when we have important matters to attend to.”

“Ma’am, I know it’s not necessarily my place to say,” He started, “but I know you have been working yourself too hard these past few days. Perhaps a day off is warranted.” Miku is the definition of a workaholic, that’s something everyone knows. Though there were times where she took it a little too far. Working for days on end, only ever going home for a few hours of sleep to just end up back at the office, not even having a proper conversation with her family, just a few traits of hers. People would say it’s an issue, perhaps even an addiction of hers, but she would just say she’s driven.

“A day off will come perhaps when we get the matter with the Americans finalized.”

“I’m sure you can squeeze in a short break at least-”

Miku finally paused in her work and turned her steely expression up to the man, “Tamaki.”

“Y-y-yes, ma’am,” he squeaked out before scurrying to his desk right outside the door.

Miku sighed heavily. She certainly didn’t need anyone to remind her to take breaks, she 

She picked up the phone, “Watanabe Miku.”

“My love!” A joyous voice exclaimed from the other end.

“Good afternoon, Yamato.” The ghost of a smile graced her face, but it disappeared even if there was no one around to see it. The steely tone to her voice completely gone as she spoke to her husband. “How are you today?”

Her husband started to retell his day, “Oh, you know, made the kids breakfast, cleaned the house a bit, some shopping. Same old, same old.” Yamato has to be the definition of a house-husband. He loves the job that he had taken up as a stay-at-home father since he loves his children and caring for them everyday. Though now that they were old enough to more or less take care of themselves, he had quite a bit of downtime for himself. “Oh, a little birdy told me though that you are in need of a break.”

Miku glowered at the closed doors of her office. On the other side, Tamaki shuttered, a strong feeling of foreboding taking over his nerves. “I don’t need a break, Yamato.” She tried to insist. Oh, like that’s going to actually work, Miku. You know what your husband is like.

He wasn’t hearing any of it, “Nuh uh,” he said, “you have a big meeting tomorrow, which means you should take a moment to relax. You should take a short break to make sure that you’ll be calm and collected for tomorrow.” He sounded so sure in his reasoning and felt like is was airtight.

“I don’t need a break to know-”

He cut her off, “Ah ah ah, you need a break. Now I’ve been working on making us lunch today, and it would be a shame to see it go to waste.” Well, you can’t argue with that. Free food, I mean come on! “It won’t be too long either!”

Miku sighed heavily, “I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

That certainly caused Yamato to light up, “Woohoo! I’ll see you when you come home, my dear, love you!” Despite how Miku may have not wanted to do this, she couldn’t help herself but feel a bit elated at the fact that Yamato was giddy over this. She could picture the blinding smile on his face as he shouted into the phone.

“I love you too.” Miku said before hanging up the phone. She hung up the call and pinched her nose. Let it be known, the only person who could really get her to do whatever they want is Yamato. She has always had a soft spot for him when they first met as children in middle school. There was no way that she could say no to him and his puppy dog eyes. 

So with plans for lunch now, Miku grabbed her briefcase and any other necessities that she needed and headed out. On her way, she glared lightly at the birdy at his desk and said, “I’ll be having lunch with my husband. I’ll be gone for thirty minutes tops.” She didn’t see how Tamaki sighed in relief as her heels clicked away.

When Miku walks through the door, she can smell the alluring aroma of the meal that Yamato had made. It didn’t matter what he had made, she knew that it was going to be delicious. He is a worldstar chef after all, every meal he makes his top tier. Geez, imagine having a husband like that, Miku really hit the jackpot! MJ write me to have a husband like that, pleeeeease?

Setting her belongings down and taking her shoes out, she walked towards the kitchen and found her husband finishing up. He was setting up some flowers on the table and seemingly making sure that everything was perfect. After all, it’s not everyday that Miku took time out of her day to come have lunch at home.

Catching sight of her, Yamato’s face split in half with a wide smile. He bounced himself over to her and enveloped her in a tight bear hug. “Oh, my dear wife! I’m so glad you came home.” Which he certainly was from the way he was bouncing in place once he let her go. He took her hand and led her to the kitchen table. As the gentleman he is, Yamato pulled out her chair for her to sit. He made quick work of grabbing the plates of food for them and presenting them. 

It wasn’t anything too extravagant for lunch today. Yamato knew that he wouldn’t impress her with flashy food, so he kept it simple and just made some katsudon, her favorite. It was more behind the feeling and love that he put into the food than the technique or talent. He had every thought about her when making the lunch, which made it far more meaningful in his eyes. Seeing her favorite meal now in front of her, Miku smiled lightly, “Oh, this is amazing, sweetheart.”

At the name of endearment, Yamato seemed to melt. He is well aware that his wife isn’t one to show emotion. So when she did something like this, he just seemed to swoon for her and fall even deeper in love. Honestly he’s like a teenager everytime his heart beated quickly when she does something like this. So the small smile and light in her eye as she looked over at him just about but Yamato under. He was reminded just why he desperately loves his wife.

So the couple munched on their lunch and talked. Yamato was animatedly retelling Miku about something that their children had done the night before as she listened intently. Even if she wasn’t around the home all that much, she desperately loves hearing about Akari and Rikuto. Her work took her away from her family and there are times she wishes it doesn’t. Though that didn’t mean that she was missing out on important milestones. You know that she was at the sports festival from a few chapters back. Though she wouldn’t just miss anything else or achievement that either of her children had gotten. She’s not an absent mother, not in the slightest, her work just kept her. Though she would place family above her work when it called for it.

The sky started to darken ever so slightly as the couple enjoyed their meal and company. More than thirty minutes had definitely passed. Eventually, Yamato took the dishes to the sink which is when Miku finally looked at her watch. She nearly balked at seeing that it had been two hours since she had left work. Why hadn't she noticed?! She had plenty of things to do and she had to prepare for the meeting tomorrow. Oh, how could she let this happen.

Though as she thought of her work, she let her gaze drift over to her husband. The man was whistling a soft tone to himself as he started to wash the dishes. He was dancing around lightly while washing the dirty dishes, quite a dork in Miku’s eyes. Though that’s her dork. Miku pursed her lips. If she had missed a bit of work, well, she guessed there wasn’t too much to worry about. Especially when she got to see her husband so happy like this. So maybe staying home for a bit longer would be fine. Maybe even staying until the kids got home from school and actually catching up with them would be okay. Yea, Miku thought, that would be perfectly fine for the time being.

---

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[maple-writes]

Questionable late night quality scene that I thought up in the shower the other night between Indigo and Richard before he broke free of the organization that made him. It's fun playing around with how different Indigo acts in the different areas of her life, and the difference between her cold cruelty in Umbra Ursa and more compassionate and fair side working with her research subjects and handling Richard as a weapon.

---

“Well done, Trout.” Indigo stood with an approving smile as the cyborg returned to the airship, bleeding from a limp arm but otherwise intact. She beckoned him closer, turning him when he stood before her to see his arm, gently palpating for breaks and noting where he winced. “On a scale of one to ten, how bad does it hurt?”

He thought, eyes flicking to the wound a moment. “Five or six, keeping still.”

Likely only flesh deep then, nothing that had to be fixed immediately. “Noted.” She flipped through her notebook and jotted down his response. “I’ll see if I can arrange for painkillers until we can get that looked at. In the meantime we are about an hour out from home.” She put her book away into her back and drew out a puzzle toy and a small packet of strawberry licorice, holding them out to him. “You did well today, keep it up.”

He took them, careful to keep his razor-sharp claws from grazing her skin, and Indigo returned to her table and reports. The chair creaked and echoed in the near-empty cargo bay as she returned to her papers, reading and marking changes to documents and reports from her team. At the edge of her vision PSH-1 settled down, sitting cross legged with a strip of licorice in his mouth as he worked at the puzzle. She grinned as she focused back on her work. According to the others on her team he chose to sit so close to them on the returns home. She had a feeling he listened better to her too.

--

The ship rumbled, docking, and Indigo shuffled her documents back into their folder. She stood and without having to be told PSH-1 did too, watching her attentively. He followed her quietly when the cargo door opened and she led the way from the tarmac back into the facility. In the late light his shadow towered over hers, though, it wasn’t as if he didn’t tower over her already. She slowed, beckoning with a wave of her hand for him to walk beside her. He slipped in step beside her like a dog at perfect heel.

He glanced down at her, the one mechanical eye glowing faintly in the dim evening. “Are you staying the night?”

“Likely.” There was a laundry list of things she needed to check up on in her lab, things to follow up on and reports and papers to write. It was easier here than back home. “You are welcome to join me once your arm is addressed.”

He nodded and for a moment the faintest hint of a smile crossed his face, so subtle anyone else would have missed it but Indigo knew what she saw. She spent more time with him than any of his other handlers cared to. He kept quiet the rest of the walk through the facility and when she dropped him off for medical attention. At this time of night there would have only been one or maybe two staff to see him. It could be awhile until the post-assignment evaluation was complete.

“Dr. Carmine, can I talk to you for a moment?”

She paused as a Allan called from behind her in the hallway. One of the others tasked with overseeing and handling Trout, he had been a part of the initiative just longer than she had and had grown closer than she liked with the founder.

“What about?” She turned, frowning. No one asked to talk like that about something good.

He caught up with her and kept walking in the direction of his office. “It’s about you and PSH-1.”

Her frown deepened. “What about us?”

Allan opened the door to his office and held the door for her. He stepped in after her, taking a seat at his desk. Indigo stood where she’d entered. She didn’t intend to stay longer than she had to so saw no point in sitting down or getting comfortable.

“Well, I and some of my other colleagues have been talking about you and your methods.” He folded his hands on the desk with propped up elbows, resting his chin on his knuckles. “You spoil him, and it’s showing when he has to go out with others.”

Indigo crossed her arms, tucking her folder in one hand. “How so?” She had a feeling she knew what he was going to say but she wanted to hear him say it.

“He doesn’t respond as quickly to the others. He’s distant, as if he expects a reward for doing what he’s told.”

“But he does listen to them, correct?”

Allan sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Well, yes. He does as he’s ordered but—”

“Then what exactly is the problem?” Indigo tilted her head, meeting his eyes with her stare, silently demanding a response.

“You coddle him, that’s the problem. He is a weapon to be used, not a pet. He shouldn’t be treated for doing what he is supposed to be doing.” His shoulders hunched as he crossed his arms to mirror her posture. “He can’t expect to be babied every time he comes back from a mission.”

Indigo bristled. “I think he knows full well he’s not going to get a damn thing from you when he comes back. He’s smart enough to know who rewards him and who doesn’t. And let me reiterate what you just told me: he still listens to you. I fail to see how this is a problem and I fail to see how this is my problem.” She jutted her chin out, letting a hint of sharpness into her voice. “If I didn’t know any better I would say you were envious that he is willing to do more for me and I can tell you why he doesn’t. Tell me Allan, would you jump higher to please a boss who recognizes your work or one who treats you like a machine?”

“He is a machine! He should be reliable to anyone handling him, Indigo.” He leaned forward again, pointing at her across the table. “We can’t be giving him reason to play favourites. It’s no secret you invite him to linger around you when you work and talk with him and share lunch with him. It’s unprofessional for you to baby him like that.”

Her jaw clenched and her stare hardened. She uncrossed her arms and stood before his desk. “First of all he is a cyborg, not a machine. His brain chemistry is regulated to be pliable and obedient, but he is not a robot without thought and association. Have you ever thought that maybe the reason that he prefers working with me, and why he gets better results with me, is that I have taken the time and put the effort into gaining his trust? Into becoming someone he wants to work with and wants to please instead of someone he has to listen to just because he’s conditioned to obey? That he works harder for me because he knows he will be rewarded for it?” She growled. “I put in the work to build a bond with him and that is why he works harder for me than he does for you.”

Allan scowled, glaring. “You treat him like a pet Indigo! Hell, I’d even say you treat him like a son the way you spoil him with toys and treats and attention. You—”

Indigo slammed her hands on the table, leaning over to Allan with venom in her eyes. “Did you forget where his base genetics came from? Who’s ovum was used as the framework from which he was engineered? He would not exist without me.” She snarled. “And how dare you insinuate that treating him worse than the mice in my lab is by any means proper as a way to deflect from your own poor performance.”

She pushed off from his desk and snatched her folder. “Why don’t you learn to handle him better yourself before coming to me and demand I lower my standards to make you look better.”

Before he could argue she turned and left, slamming the door behind her. It echoed in the quiet hallway as she simmered with every step towards her lab. As if she didn’t already know that the others thought she was too soft, too permissive, but it didn’t take a genius to look at the data and how her methods were working and they just couldn’t be bothered to see him as anything other than a barely sentient weapon.

As she unlocked the door to her lab though unease crawled through her stomach. She had nothing concrete, but it wouldn’t be a stretch to suspect they would find a way to retaliate. Find a way to frame her as too soft, too permissive, to maternal to continue to handle PSH-1. She’s already heard whispers about her alluding to her being too emotional, too driven by feelings in the way she handled her lab. How she insisted on the highest standards for her lab animals, her mandating their wellbeing in her studies, as evidence she lacked the objective authority the job demanded. That she was too attached.

It didn’t matter that her studies came out clearer, more accurate, and more consistent with her subjects happy and relaxed. It didn’t matter that PSH-1 was more regulated, calmer, ever since she started spending time with him. If she stopped now she could almost promise that he would go back to stereotypic behaviors, the pacing, the clawing at his own skin, the yelling and tearing at his hair and on and on and on. But that didn’t matter to them. To them he was nothing more than a tool so what did his wellness matter?

Maybe they’d start caring once it hampered his performance but it was doubtful they’d connect the dots on why.

She set her file down and sank into her computer chair, not bothering to turn the lights on. There was enough soft glow from the computer screen and the safety lights scattered around equipment anyway. She leaned back, closing her eyes and draping her arm over her forehead.

“Dr. Carmine?”

She startled at Trout’s voice beside her, almost jumping from her chair before recognizing him. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” He walked as close to silently as a human-shaped being could, and probably didn’t realize it.

He stepped back a little. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She turned in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Make yourself comfortable just don’t touch anything without asking.”

He nodded, and slipped into his usual spot under the corner desk beside her. He’d made a near-nest over the last few months with a blanket he might have swiped from one of the common areas but she didn’t feel like taking back, and a few of the puzzles she’d given him to keep himself busy. He tucked himself into the corner and picked up one of the puzzles that he had been working on for the last week or so, eyes focusing and adjusting as he manipulated the shapes to try and solve it. Some days if she had more math or statistics to go through than she wanted to deal with she would pass it along to him to figure out and he seemed to enjoy it but tonight there was nothing she needed done, and had a feeling he would be asleep within an hour anyway. He usually didn’t stay up long after he came back from a mission.

Just as predicted, he put the puzzle down not long after she logged onto her computer and started typing in the dim light, lulled by the tapping of the keys and the humming of the desktop as it worked.

[stingslikeabee]

Osamu took Melissa by the hand. The youngest of the Addams children was practically buzzing, like one of his mother's beloved bees ; clearly, whatever he intended to show her had the young man very excited. He walked them back to his "study," a makeshift library and archive in one of their family home's unused rooms. The desk was covered with an array of old documents and notebook pages scribbled with Osamu's conclusions.

"I have so much to tell you," he said first, lacing his fingers together and stretching them behind his head as he regarded the papers in front of him. Osamu soon brought them to his hips. "Do you remember, Mother ― I said I was going to look at your family history before the Addams one? I thought it might be good practice since Grandmama has it so well - plotted?"

Osamu pointed to a familiar scroll amid the well - organized chaos : a black parchment with the Frump family laid out in detail across it. "It's very good. Except. This mark off on the edge ― that we thought was always ash from a spell or something? I tried to clean it up, and it's intentional. Three generations ago, someone removed a part of the tree. I asked Grandmama ; she didn't know anything. Which leads me to . . . " He waved a hand across the desk and chuckled.

"The condensed version of the story is that a witch left your family, Mother. I was able to get enough of her name : it was Natalia. From there, I started looking for her. She changed her name twice on me, but I eventually found her. ― living a normal life, of all things. I asked Hikari and Yayoi to help me commune with her, and we discovered that she gave up magic entirely. I carried on with her son then ; inevitably, I landed on Grandmama's generation. A woman named Madeline was the last completely legal connection I could find."

Osamu shuffled through his work with unbridled enthusiasm. "She had a daughter in New York, but the baby was given up to the state. Unfortunately, Madeline is still alive ― so I couldn't reach out to her like Natalia. But I was able to follow her baby, who was adopted by a man from Japan of all things. Thank Hecate we've studied Japanese with Father . . . and I may have borrowed his name and some money to get copies of the sealed paperwork."

The young man took a deep breath then and beamed at his mother. "Here's the best part : Madeline's daughter, Guinevere, also changed her name a few times. The longest one to last was AZUMI OKAMURA. Mother, it's Aunt Azumi ― well, Azumi Akiyama. I haven't told her yet ; I thought you might like to be with me. She's actually related to you, Aunt Morticia . . . everyone." Osamu grasped for Melissa's hands again, squeezing them with excitement. "Aunt Azumi is a Frump ; she may even be a witch, too."

unscripted asks . always accepting

The fact that her youngest was beyond excited was palpable - the very air seemed to vibrate around him, and Melissa happily set her embroidery work aside to accompany Osamu to wherever he needed her, although the destination became quite clear: the boy seldom left his study these days. Osamu’s thirst for knowledge was unquenchable and he had been obviously devoted to his latest self-assigned mission.

“What is it, my little black cloud?” the witch queried with an attentive look, and then made herself comfortable on the edge of the desk - just the single spot not conquered by the myriad of paper and documents Osamu had laid there, the black fringes of her grown dripping towards the floor as if they were tentacles reaching from beyond the veil. At the moment that her youngest started explaining, the witch nodded - her own mother was a living vault of Frump history and having daughters able to converse with the departed helped, but... Well, a bit of additional documentation and organization never hurt anyone. 

Besides, Osamu was just so good at these things - it filled her heart with motherly pride to see him working like a diligent bee towards a family goal. That burst of affection alone made her reach out, smoothing his hair out of reflex but not doing anything to stop the flow of excited words that the boy seemed incapable of stopping.

But as Osamu summarized his findings and got to the end, Melissa’s hand ended up atop of her son’s head, the weight of her limb no longer as soft as it had originally been with her nurturing caresses. Azumi? An actual relative? The woman’s body turned forward, her curiosity completely sequestered by the revelations brought to light by her youngest - and soon enough the brunette left her previous seat to take a standing position, even if her digits never really left the nest among Osamu’s locks.

“My darling... These are incredible news indeed,” the woman murmured, her own eyes taking the path through the different documents as the boy had indicated, nodding softly to herself as the bits of information clicked in her mind and also seemed perfectly supported by the documents laid out over the desk. Melissa moved some of the papers around, then felt the excitement of her child doubling as he beamed with her compliments and took her hands into his, evidently exhilarated with the findings.

“Oh, my love - she is a witch,” Melissa grinned then, and it was almost mischievous; the sort of expression that took over when the witch was fundamentally sure of some secret that most of mankind ignored thanks to their special connections to other planes, “You have found the undeniable evidence of Hecate’s plans. Your aunt was meant to target your father when we visited Tokyo together to fetch your uncle; we were destined to bring her home and get her back to the family she didn’t know she had. Azumi has felt like she belonged the minute she met maman - no wonder; we’re related, and not only by spirit.”

Melissa laughed then - freely and with the same joy that had been beaming off Osamu, and bent down to hug her youngest; if she had the physical strength of his father, the brunette would have raised the boy and twirled him around, but he had grown enough over the last years to prevent that from happening. “You are the genius in this family, Osamu. Oh, I hope your children dissect this brain of yours one day - you deserve only the highest honors.”

[avocodedigital]

Rediscovering Tradition - The Old-Fashioned Approach

Join the newsletter: https://avocode.digital/newsletter/ In today's fast-paced digital world, where automation and technology dominate almost every aspect of our lives, there is a growing movement embracing a return to traditional methods. This shift focuses on valuing simplicity, authenticity, and the tactile experiences that come with analog tools and practices. In this exploration of the old-fashioned approach, we’ll unravel the reasons behind this trend and how it resonates in our contemporary work environments.

The Charm of Tradition in a Digital Age

The modern workplace is often characterized by sleek computers, instant messaging, and cloud storage. However, there is an undeniable allure to the old-fashioned methods. **Why is that?** Let's delve deeper into the reasons why so many are turning back the clock.

A Desire for Tangibility

There’s something intrinsically satisfying about physical interaction with workplace tools:

**Paper and Ink:** The act of writing with a pen — especially a fountain pen — can make note-taking a more thoughtful and deliberate process. It creates a sense of permanence that typing into a digital device often lacks.

**Physical Files:** Sorting through paper files, rather than shuffling virtual folders, can make information feel more manageable and meaningful.

**Typewriters:** The click-clack of typewriter keys is not just noise; it’s the sound of progress, encouraging thoughtfulness in the writing process.

The Appeal of Simplicity and Focus

One of the main drawbacks of digital tools is the potential for distraction. Notifications, emails, and chats compete for our attention, reducing our ability to focus on tasks at hand.

**Reduced Interruptions:** Analog tools don’t have notifications. A rotary phone won’t ping unexpectedly. This absence can foster a more focused work environment.

**Single-tasking:** Traditional methods often require focusing on a single task. This can improve concentration and productivity, as multitasking has been shown to reduce efficiency.

Benefits of the Old-Fashioned Work Ethic

While adopting traditional methods may seem like swimming against the tide, many have found significant gains in doing so.

Fostering Creativity

Analog tools often enhance creative processes.

**Doodle and Design:** Jotting down ideas or sketching in a notebook without digital constraints encourages out-of-the-box thinking and creative brainstorming.

**The Elegance of Error:** Mistakes made on paper are opportunities for creativity that digital auto-correct can stifle. Cross-outs and margin notes can inspire new ideas.

Enhancing Memory and Comprehension

The act of writing or handling physical documents can create stronger memory connections than typing.

**Active Engagement:** Writing by hand or organizing papers involves more cognitive engagement, which can lead to better information retention.

**Chronology and Context:** Physical documents often contain cues, like coffee stains or handwritten notes, that provide contextual memory and help recall details.

Creating Personal Connections

In a world where communication is largely virtual, people crave personal connections.

**Human Interaction:** Face-to-face meetings and voice calls can nurture relationships in ways that virtual communication cannot, enhancing bonds and trust.

**Personal Touch:** Handwritten notes or physical memos carry a personal touch that emails often lack, demonstrating thoughtfulness and care.

Implementing a Traditional Approach in Modern Workplaces

Making room for old-fashioned practices in today’s workplaces doesn’t mean abandoning technology altogether; rather, it’s about integrating practices that foster balance and efficiency.

Balancing Act

Adopt a hybrid approach that combines the best of both worlds.

**Analog Breaks:** Encourage stepping away from screens periodically to engage in offline activities like writing or reading physical material.

**Dedicated Spaces:** Designate areas for digital and analog work. A space set aside for paper-based tasks can mentally separate digital distractions.

Nurturing Office Culture

Foster a company culture that appreciates and respects traditional practices.

**Artifacts of Tradition:** Incorporate items like typewriters or rotary phones in the office for their aesthetic and nostalgic values. They can serve as conversation starters and inspire a slower pace.

**Workshops and Events:** Host workshops that teach traditional skills, like calligraphy or letter-writing. These can enhance employee creativity and camaraderie.

The Future of Work: A Blend of Old and New

As we move forward in this ever-advancing digital age, the allure of tradition remains strong. The key to success lies in finding a harmonious blend of old-fashioned methods and modern technology. This approach can help us harness the benefits of both, leading to a more fulfilling, connected, and productive work life. Returning to tradition isn’t about rejecting progress; it’s about enriching our work and personal lives by embracing simplicity and authenticity. By doing so, we not only preserve the charms of the past but enhance our ability to focus, connect, and create in our rapidly changing world. Whether you're picking up a pen or using a typewriter, remember that sometimes, the old ways are the best ways. Want more? Join the newsletter: https://avocode.digital/newsletter/