#aka fourteen years ago now

[katya-goncharov]

one thing about becoming an adult and more time passing since you left school is that you start making a really embarrassing amount of spelling mistakes

[cherryheairt]

Dragon Dreamer pt. XIV

chapter fourteen

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

After being 'haunted', as Cregan might have called it, Daenys was throughly disoriented throughout the rest of the night. Taken back to her chambers and held in Cregan's protective embrace, she told him of what she saw.

Frowning, he could only offer her words of his Northern wisdom. "Your brother wouldn't blame you for that. Nor the Princess or young Prince." He said, soothing a piece of hair behind her ear.

In the dim light, she looked up at his porcelain features. The white light of the moon made him look statuesque, with only small scars along his face disrupting the smoothness of his skin. The largest being the one across his chin, from the fall he took as a boy. Delicately, she traced over them, then to the faint freckles dotting the apples of his cheeks.

Finally, she nodded. "Mayhaps he would not. That doesn't change the fact that it is true. If I had flown down to Storm's End that night...Aemond wouldn't have killed Lucerys."

Cregan lifted a straight brow, "how could you know that? He might have simply taken you both, to spite the Queen by taking two of her children."

She shook her head, "I don't believe he killed Luke to spite my mother. He must have known Luke would be sent to the closest place to find an ally, just as he was. Years ago, when Luke took his eye, he became a completely different person. Because of Vhagar or his eye, I do not know." She sighed.

"Anyone with a dragon is dangerous—intentions be damned."

Daenys smiled shortly, huffing a laugh. "Am I so dangerous to you?"

Cregan matched her smile, running a thumb over her cheek. "Indeed, the fierce dragon of the South, who rides the Lightbringer. A fearsome sight." He paused, "I would hate for you to face Vhagar again. I have only heard tales of her size and ferocity, but I can only imagine given the sight of Caraxes and Morningstar."

Tensely, she nodded. "As big as Harrenhall itself, perhaps. Or Dragonstone, I do not quite know. If I had gone alone, I would not be here now."

"The same goes for the incident at Storm's End. You would have only suffered the same fate as Lucerys." It was a brutally honest thing to say, but perhaps it was what she needed to hear.

Daenys hesitated slightly, "I could have talked to my uncle. It was only the night before that he proposed to join our families in union. If I had offered him something greater than revenge..." She trailed off, looking away from his eyes.

"You're not a bartering object, Daenys. Even if you had offered your hand—you couldn't have wed in this time of war. He knows that. You'd be a prisoner under the Red Keep or dead below the depths of the sea." Cregan sternly told her.

"You asked for my hand in exchange for 4,000 fighting men. Is that not a barter?" She asked in a hushed whisper.

He stilled, shifting away slightly from her as if sobering up. His face changed between various expressions: confusion, guilt, and another she couldn't quite capture. "I am sorry for that." Cregan murmured. "It wasn't my intention to make you feel like an object, something to be coveted and traded. You are the furthest from it. I treasure you in my heart, and I always will." He took both of her hands in his, kissing her wrists in a display of apology.

"It is too late to recind our betrothal. The North does not forget. They would be furious with the Crown if I wed another. But—If you wish it, you can have your choice of lover after we are wed."

She tensed, brows furrowed together angrily. Does he not understand that is not possible for a woman? Men may do so as they please, fuck a million whores and father a hundred bastards with no consequence. She would be the one carrying the heirs to Winterfell, not him. Her mother did the very same thing, taking on a paramore for her marriage with Laenor. Rhaenyra suffered for it then, and has her claim to the throne weakened now because of it. For him to ask that of her, knowing it was impossible, was frustrating.

For him to doubt her loyalty was appalling.

"I would not." She grit out, pulling her wrists away. He was so intent on allowing her freedoms within their future marriage, without acknowleding that there was no freedom to be had in a marriage for her. An offer of peace, he intended, to soothe her fears and worries.

His words only served to complicate her feelings more. Daenys returned the sentiments he had spoken to her back on top of The Wall, some weeks ago.

Daenys forced the tense thought from her head. Cregan wasn't the target of her anger. He never was. Taking it out on him would be cruel.

She started, "I am not regretful of our engagement, Cregan." The honest truth. "I wish it had been in different circumstances, perhaps, but I..."

The hopeful look in his eyes returned, reminding Daenys of a kicked pup. "You...?" He trailed, offering her a start.

She shook her head, unable to find words to place her emotions. She never could, it seemed. Not in the way Cregan so easily could. No grand confessions of love and affection nor comfort could be provided from her. Her heart felt heavy at his downtrodded look as he nodded in acceptance.

Instead, he settled back into the sheets, allowing her space to do so too. Further apart now, the air felt tense with unspoken words and misunderstanding. Daenys wished to balm the wound she had given Cregan so cruelly, but found her throat tight and tongue unmoving.

Cregan, deep in his thoughts, could only think of the first day he had seen the dragon Princess. She had the exact look she wore now, filled with a sense of longing and loneliness.

🗡

Cregan, one and ten at the time, had been ecstatic at the offer his father gave him to visit King's Landing. As any important Lord, it was Rickon's duty to occasionally make appearances in formal events at least every few years. The last visit had been over ten years ago, when Rhaenyra Targaryen was named heir to the Iron Throne by the King Viserys.

The reason for celebration: Rhaenyra Targaryen's eldest daughter's nameday. Daenys Velayron, the young girl who had many rumors attached to her name. Some called her a dragon dreamer, like her ancestor Daenys Targaryen. Others called her mad, or a witch, telling of screams that kept the Red Keep awake for fortnites at a time. Cregan was intrigued by the girl, curious as to what or who she truly was. Perhaps she was like his father, who was able to warg into his companion falcon. Many in the Stark line could, Rickon had told him once, and perhaps more than just their line that they were unaware of. Thinking on it further, his father was never scared or in pain when he warged, so perhaps not.

Now, Rickon decided it was a fine time to head South once more to formally present his oldest son to court. And perhaps, to show the young man the true ways of the Southerners and the snake pit that was the Crownlands. Any Lord needed to know how to navigate such tidings, even if visits were few and far between.

It was months travel on the King's Road, though Cregan didn't mind. He enjoyed the ride on his horse, Red, an eighth nameday gift from his Lord father. He had heartily chuckled when Cregan told him the foal's name, commenting that if his son continued with such a simple name streak, his children might one day be called 'Boy' or 'Girl' to follow suit. Though Cregan blushed, he remained steadfast in his choice of name. To this day, Red remained a reliable steed.

Along the way, they had passed a massive stone structure with ornate pillars in the front.

Welcomed through King's Landing's gates, Cregan was in awe of the differences between the capitol and the Northern keeps. The architecture, the peoples' apparel, the accents. It was all so overwhelming for the young boy, who had never been so far from home.

The heat did not help. Cregan found himself sweating through his tunic, face shining with sweat that he was unused to dealing with besides in the training yard. Winterfell had its moments of warmth, during the peaks of summer moons, though it never got hot enough like King's Landing apparently did.

He had no clue how these citizens faired in such weather their entire lives. He wished for the coolness of a stone floor—or even a damp field of grass. Why couldn't the Princess have been born in winter? It was only spring, yet the sun shined as if it never turned from the Crownlands.

Turning to his father, Cregan asked. "Is that the Red Keep?" In a hushed tone.

Rickon laughed, shaking his head. "That is the Dragonpit. All of the Targaryens' dragons lie there now, in the depths."

Shivering at the thought, despite the warm weather, Cregan was both scared and intrigued at the thought of witnessing a real dragon.

Guided by the steady hand of his father, Cregan was led through crowds to the stairs of the onlooker stands of the arena.

They were able to sit beside many other high Lords and Ladies, none recognizable by Cregan. Rickon shared curtious greetings with a few before sitting by his son. The other side of the stands, past the dirt field that the joust would be held in, was filled with citizens of King's Landing.

Leaning forward on the edge of his seat, he glanced at the royal box. Shaded and decorated by many colorful flowers, servants rushed around before the event started to fill cups and ensure the comfort of the royal family.

He wriggled around in his seat, craning his neck to try and look past the rushing people. Was the Targaryens' hair truly silver, like people said? With eyes as purple as violets? Gasping, he caught a glimpse at a tall woman surrounded by two brown-haired boys fluttering about in front of her. The woman had shiny silver hair, like the tales said, and a flawless, smooth face like a statue.

The boys in front of her must be Jacaerys and Lucerys Velayron, her sons. The only two of the royal family to have brown hair. Rhaenyra Targaryen, he knew now. 'The Realm's Delight' she was named years ago, which Cregan thought did not do her enough justice for her great beauty.

Announcers called for the first joust to commence, great trumpets almost bursting his eardrums from how loud they were. Out, on a silver mare, rode a handsome man with tan skin and pure white hair. Glancing at the royal stand and guaging the cheers, he could attach the name Laenor Velayron to the man. Another one stood beside Rhaenyra, quietly clapping though not cheering like the boys were. Ser Laenor's competitor rode in on the opposite side, though he maid his name and House little mind.

The girl had silver hair and pale skin, an image of her mother. Daenys Velayron. The one who's nameday was being celebrated. She looked embarrassed to be standing and clapping, knowing hundreds if not thousands of eyes were right on her as she did.

The other tales must be true, too, Cregan grimaced. Bastard princes, the realm whispered when the two were born with curly locks of brown hair. Daenys, too, could hardly escape the allegations, looking too much like her mother and not anything like her father. He sympathized with their struggles, knowing how his sister Sara struggled with finding friends and allies in her own home beyond just her family.

Rickon nudged him to pay attention as the joust commenced, telling his son that it was rude to stare. He nodded eagarly, sitting up to watch the joust.

Though Ser Laenor had won, Cregan found himself bored immediately by the event. Throwing men from their horses with sticks, not the most appealing sport to a young boy who grew bored so easily. He slipped off, telling his father that he needed to relieve himself before running down the stairs.

Glancing at the royal box, he found that the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra was missing, though Rhaenyra didn't seem to have a worried expression at all, as if it were normal for the nameday girl to be missing at her own celebration. Shrugging it off, he continued on his way.

He wished to explore the Red Keep while he had the chance. From the arena, the great fabled Red Keep of King's Landing could be spotted. It was close, just a quick walk and he'd be back before his father could be suspicious.

Bumping into something, he immediately stammered out an apology to the offended person. Finding it to be a young lady, perhaps a few years his elder, he flushed in embarrassment. The girl was a picture of beauty, with tan skin and perfect curly black hair framing her brown eyes. She looked at Cregan with an annoyed but uninterested corner-eye glance, turning back to her two friends beside her.

"Oh! Are you okay, Lady Tyrell?" The red-headed one fussed, presumably her lady-in-waiting.

"I'm fine, Lyra." Lady Tyrell sighed before turning to Cregan with a spark in her eye.

He nearly flinched at the intensity, though he recovered quickly. "My apologies, my Lady. I did not mean to run into you like that." He bowed his head slightly in sincere apology. The last thing he intended was to offend a Lady.

Lady Tyrell giggled before covering her mouth quickly to cut herself off. She hummed, nodding along with a widened smile. "Pray tell, my Lord, where are you from? I've never heard such a unique accent." She said demurely, clasping her hands in front of her with her folded fan.

He glanced between them all, unaware of their shared looks. To him, she was the one with an accent. Though, not an unpleasant one. "The North, my Lady." He answered simply.

The blonde one next to the redhead giggled in turn. Whispering to the Tyrell in a not-so-hushed tone. "The Nawrth, my Lady." She repeated in her ear. Lady Tyrell quickly swatted her away, though bit the inside of her cheek to prevent a laugh.

"What's your name?" She asked, keen eyes watching like a hawk.

"Cregan Stark."

"Cruh-gun?" She awkwardly pronounced, looking to her entourage coyly. "I've never heard that. Must be a Northern name." Lady Tyrell pronounced the 'Northern' in her sentence the same way Cregan had previously, earning a sharp giggle from her friends.

He could only watch on, utterly bemused by the interaction. Did he say it wrong? Perhaps she did not hear his name right.

"So, you are a Stark, then? I've always heard they were tall. And pale. Long face, tall nose, and my, are you sick?" She asked, concern dripping in her honey-sweet tone as she leaned close to him and felt his cheeks and forehead with the back of her hand.

Confused, Cregan shook his head. "No? I feel just fine." He slightly leaned back, unused to a stranger in his space so carelessly.

Lady Tyrell tutted, shaking her head like a worn mother. "I think you are. Poor thing, all skin and bone forced to live in a desolate snowstorm like Winterfell. You must be sick, with that color missing from your skin, its all gone to your cheeks. My mother says that is what happens when one is sick." She nodded to herself, sure of her own words.

Cregan hesitated. He felt fine, of course. Perhaps Southern sickness had gotten to him in the days he had stayed in various inns. Were there different illnesses for different lands? True, he was thin and gangly now, growing much faster than other youth his age, but his father assured him that he was the same way as a boy, and he grew to fill out his frame naturally.

"I—Yes, thank you. I must be off now, my father is waiting for me." Flustered, he rushed off on his original path, hearing the unfiltered laughs fill the space behind him. Finally, he made it to the stairs of the Red Keep, surprisingly unguarded as the doors were left open so that servants could easily flit in and out of the courtyard and keep. Trays of food and caskets of wine filled busy hands that passed Cregan, none sparing him an eye as a feast was prepared for after the tourney.

Carefully, he slipped by each of them to not disturb their duties. The ceilings were hung high, Cregan having to turn his neck at an uncomfortable angle just to gawk at them. Pillars rose from floor to roof, and stone carried his feet as he walked to the throne room. The doors were wide open, and the Iron Throne stood menacing at the end of the room. His steps echoed as he strided in, though did not dare get too close. If anyone saw him, he may be accused of trying to sit the throne himself.

Cregan moved on fast, hoping that no one saw him. A long winding hall was his next curious trail, each passing window overlooking a new view. From the height of the castle, he could see crowds of people flocking below, noble and common alike. At the corner of a hall, a room opened up before the turn. Peeking his head in, he found it to be a small nooked library. Perhaps a lounge room, hence the pillows and low tables on the floor. On the windowsil, another cushion sat on a flat and long bar. The Princess, Daenys, sat atop it.

From afar, Cregan could not notice such details that Targaryens held. Now he could, with such a short distance between them. The silver hair was silky, yes, but also held a satisfying curl to it even though most of it was held in intricate braids. Pink pearls lined her braids, matching her pink dress and white lacing across the necklace and wrist cuffs. A soft blush held to her cheeks, perhaps natural or the work of rouge like his mother wore at fine occasions. Pretty, was his first thought. Normal, was his second. Daenys Velayron did not look crazy. She looked like a young girl locked away in a maddening castle. She did not whisper spells or curses towards the bystanders below, nor carry a crazed and vengeful look on her face.

As he was about to take a step forward to announce his presence, and perhaps make a friend of the girl, he stopped himself.

He paused, not taking another step further. She looked peaceful at first glance, but upon further inspection, Cregan found the look in her eyes told a different story. Deep, glossed violet eyes seemed to be longing to be part of the crowd. She hugged her knees to her chest as if she could shrink herself into the cushion. Small hands fiddled with each other, picking at any skin on the edge of her fingertips. He could spot traces of a bright red on some of her fingers, showing that she picked them raw and hardly even noticed. Similar to her posture in the royal box, where she seemed to want to disappear from view the entire time, she looked quite unlike her heiress mother. Though they shared all the right features, the younger was not the picture of confidence and regality as the elder. Many said that the heir had been a fiery and rebellious woman as a youth, only maturing and calming after her marriage to Ser Laenor. It seemed her daughter did not share such a boisterous disposition.

Daenys looked lonely, though he guessed people surrounded her all the time. King's Landing was never without eyes or ears.

Would he sound strange to her? Look sickly pale so she might think he would contaminate her with a foreign illness? Cregan thought long and hard, eventually backing away from the room and leaving the solemn princess in peace. None in the South could be his friend, only his ally.

Cregan went back to his father's side, disappointed at his own hesitance.

Years later, after nearly three years of his Lordship over Winterfell and the North, Daenys came to him in ask of fighting men. He thought her to be just as beautiful as she was upon first sight, only growing from her soft features that childhood gave her into sharper and more refined graces.

The look in her eyes stayed the same, too. Lonely and longing, though her own hesitation held her back from her wants.

He became determined not to back away this time.

🗡

Neither slept for the remainder of the night, only laid in a distant silence until the sun rose. Together, they dressed again. Routine had become their grounding, something to look forward to at the beginnings and endings of every day. When Cregan moved to fix his hair half-up as he usually did, Daenys stopped him. Guiding him to her vanity chair, Daenys started to gather strands of brown hair in her hands.

Confused, Cregan looked to his bethrothed but did not argue. The feeling of her hands carding through his hair left shivers down his spine. No one had done his hair for him—ever. Though he spent many hours with Sara's hair, trying whatever styles she wished, Sara had assumed he would hate styles in his own and consequently never offered.

Daenys braided his usually simple strands of hair back, tying them together with the black tie that blended to his hair well. When he was about to stand, she reached over his shoulder to grab the little grey pearl. Carefully, she used the loose ends of the braids to wrap around the pearl snug into the center of his hair.

"Cregan," she spoke up, wringing her hands nervously. Her cresent nails dug into her palms and wrist back and forth, alternating to keep her mind busy with the stimulation.

He craned his neck back, reaching to grab her hand and squeeze assuringly after he was sure she was finished. He waited for her to start, knowing not to interrupt her thoughts.

Cregan stood from the stool, comically small next to him, to properly face Daenys. He cradled her face in his ungloved hands, the warmth and roughness a familiar contrast to her skin. "I know." Was all he said, eyes warm and understanding.

"I'm not good with words. You know this." She glanced at his eyes through the mirror before moving her gaze back to their joined hands. "I don't know if I'll ever be, not like you are. But...I want you to know I have no regrets with anything concerning you."

It was no direct confession. No romantic display of true feelings like Cregan had done for her. Perhaps she could, one day, but not now. Not when death was looming at the steps of their door, waiting for them to take one clumsy step and fall into its arms.

When they had gotten ready, packing their things up, Cregan and Daenys went to the entrance of Harrenhall. There, Simon had been informed of their plans and met them to bid farewell.

Daenys bowed her head slightly, taking Ser Simon in a brief hug. "Thank you, Ser, for your kind accommodations. I know we haven't been the most discreet guests, but we are most appreciative."

The older man smiled, though not the placating and tense one he always wore around Daemon. This one was genuine and understanding as he nodded and waved the young girl off. "It was no trouble. There are worse guests to host here." They shared an amused smile, and Cregan and Daenys were off to Morningstar.

The young dragoness was lying in a field of damp grass when they came out, Daenys attaching their bags to her saddle bag once more. "Just a short flight, girl. I'll get you to the dragon keepers." She swore, petting the dragon's snout and earning a chuff in return.

Cregan settled behind her, slightly less tense than he was for his first flight. Still, he clutched her abdomen tight, ever cautious and expecting the worst.

Morningstar took off swiftly, swaying slightly as she found steady flow to her flight. The wound didn't seem to falter her much, Daenys noted gratefully.

It was a quick flight, only filled with anticipation in different manners from Daenys and Cregan.

Daenys, both excited to see her family and scared to see their reactions to Rhaenys' untimely death, was gripping the handlebars with whitened knuckles. Cregan was thinking of the Black Council and how he could fit himself into their already established motions. He wondered if the Queen would accept him, as young as he was compared to the rest of her advisors. His mind strayed to Dusk and his marching men, reminding himself to check in on their progress when he was alone.

When approaching the island, Cregan's brow furrowed. "I knew Dragonstone was a large castle, but it is much more daunting than I imagined. A...heavy presence to be sure."

Daenys nodded. "It is the home of the first Targaryens to grace Westeros. Many have lived and died here, and a certain presence of the people who lost themselves to fate has not left it's halls. Quite eerie, I prefer to spend my time on the beaches or in the dragonpit."

The dragonkeeper standing at the archway gaped at the sight. "Princess!" He shouted, bowing to the young princess. "We did not expect your arrival. The Queen is currently readying to hold council."

The landing was swift, if not slightly rough from Morningstar having to fold her wings to fit through the cave's mouth. Cregan seemed tense from the confinement, scanning the cave intently. The dragon landed at the perch, allowing the two riders to slip off without trouble from the cave's depth. Around them, rumbles could be heard from dragons waking at the sound of kin coming in. Vermithor, perhaps, or Syrax. Silverwing spent most of her time sleeping, having nothing to do but guard her clutch close to her. Daenys had been eager for the eggs to hatch, for Morningstar to have more young dragons to play with. The elders were busy slumbering most of the time, choosing to not be active anymore with no riders.

Tyraxes, Vermax, Arrax, and Moondancer were her main company. Now, perhaps it was only the three left to roughhouse with her in the skies as she liked. Though Syrax was closest to her size compared to her brothers' small dragons, the golden beast did not 'play' outside like they did, enjoying her nest with Caraxes. The white dragon would not have any dragons her size for a long while, with Vermax and Moondancer growing at a much slower pace than she was.

"Please take care of Morningstar for me. She has been wounded."

"Wounded, my Princess?" He asked, a heavy frown dragging his old face down.

Narrowing her eyes, she thought for a long moment. No ravens were sent informing Rhaenyra or anyone else at Dragonstone of Daenys' surpirse visit to Rook's Rest. Lord Staunton's keep was still under the Green's control, heavily guarded and watched. All they knew was that Rhaenys and Meleys were not coming back—dead.

"Claw marks, on her shoulder." She stated vaguely.

She passed the silent dragonkeeper on her way into the castle. He could only watch on as the mysterious man accompanying her followed suit close behind her heels, like a protective guard dog. The Princess had never taken a passenger on Morningstar before, save for her younger brothers, so the sight was jarring to the man who witnessed most of the girl's youthful years.

Daenys, in only a simpler Lady's gown, dained to dress herself properly in her own clothes before presenting herself to court. Cregan waited patiently outside her chambers as Franny attended to her Princess. While waiting, he uneasily scoped out the parts of the castle he could see. Though it was daytime, the halls still seemed dim and droll, echoing every step Cregan took on the way to her chambers.

A door a few yards down the hall creeked open, a deep sigh escaping the man exiting it. Taking a few steps, Cregan was swiftly noticed. The dark, curly hair revealed himself as Prince Jacaerys, if Cregan's memory served him well. He bowed politely, "My Prince."

Keen brown eyes narrowed in a way that contrasted Daenys' greatly. He was made of the sharp, polished features befitting of a Prince, though only lacked the Valyrion traits most people in his family shared. "Lord Stark." He spoke, a graveling and almost spiteful spit.

"What are you doing outside my sister's chambers?" He asked, resting his wrist upon his sword's pommel and standing up straight, sizing the man in front of him up.

Cregan was unmoving, though felt slightly scandalized by the unspoken allegations. "I am waiting for Daenys to finish getting ready." He answered, careful not to shift Ice at his shoulder to draw attention to the longsword. He was not to be made a threat in the Prince's own castle.

The Prince in front of him seethed, "Daenys? Is it common for Northerners to call a Princess by her given name? I was unaware of such...traditions."

"Of course not, my Prince. I apologize—" As he was attempting to balm the miscommunication, Daenys popped her head out from the chamber door. "Jace!" She said, rushing to hug her brother. Now, in more suited clothes, Daenys wore a deep crimson dress with embroidered golden laces on the corset and sleeves. Black dragons wrapped around her waist, a detail she must have done herself in passing time. Her sleeves reached down to taper at the wrist, covering the bite mark. Though her hair was tied back in a bundle of romantic tuck braids, leaving the scar on her neck for all eyes to see if they looked close enough. Cregan thought the powerful colors suited her, though the soft pastels of Harrenhall's dresses had given her a youthful and soft appearance that he admired too.

Though Jace easily accepted the hug, he glared daggers at Cregan still, only placeted when Daenys tore herself from him and guided him closer by the arm to her bethrothed. "Jace, this is Cregan." She introduced, squeezing his bicep when Jacaerys did not speak at first.

He sent a look to his elder sister, pursing his lips before nodding. "It is a pleasure to meet the Lord of Winterfell."

"And it is an honor to meet the Prince of Dragonstone." Cregan said, matching his tone cooly.

Daenys smiled, looking between the Prince and Lord. "Let's go to the council room. I'm sure they are impaitient to start." She said, urging Jacaerys on with still-interlocked arms. Passing Cregan, who fell in step with her, Daenys glanced up at her bethrothed with annoyed eyes, nonverbally apologizing for her younger brother's brashness. He stifled a smile, looking forward to center himself for the meeting.

Entering the room, Jacaerys and Daenys were formally announced. They matched a refned grace in their powerful strides down the steps and towards the glowing table, which Cregan took interest in. It was a mirror of the Targaryen legacy, painted in 'Fire and Blood' just as their namesake called for.

Daenys stepped slightly forward, clasping her hands together. "Your Grace." She first acknowledged, nodding to her mother. "This is Lord Cregan Stark, here to stand place as your Master of War in Ser Broome's place."

Lord Staunton's seat was empty, too, right next to the head of the table. The loss seemed heavy on the council's shoulders. The older men who knew the Lord well were saddened by his cruel death at the hands of the Greens. The Lord was one of the wiser amongst the members, and the Blacks had taken a heavy loss with his demise and Rook Rest's new occupation.

"You are welcomed to Dragonstone, my Lord, and to my council. I trust my daughter's opinions, and in lieu of that, I extend my trust in you. We are to be family soon, more than merely allies in a time of war or peace. I hope that the union of our two Houses can prove to be fruitful for all of us." She gestured towards the seat at the end of the side of the Painted table, only one space between where Rhaenys had sat only yesterday morning.

Daenys took an end table seat next to Jacaerys, and the freshly joined Baela, parallel to her mother. "He is still making progress with the liege House. Oscar Tully is still waiting for his grandsire's move to choose a standing. He expressed his wishes to join us but cannot act without being officially Lord Tully.

Rhaenyra swiftly moved on, discreetly nodding to her daughter to welcome her back, too. Though warmer greetings could be shared later in privacy. "I received a raven from Ser Simon Strong of your residence at Harrenhall, though still have received nothing from the King Consort. What is the progress of the Riverlands?" She asked, brushing her black dress down to take a seat.

The Blackwoods have sworn to us. Though, after the battle at Burning Mill, tensions are high between the Riverland houses. Those who have chosen their fealties are already eager to fight amongst each other before orders come from Your Grace." She finished, leaving out any unimportant details. Daemon's frustrating lack of communication was his own fault, not hers.

Rhaenyra nodded, taking in the information appreciatively before moving to question another. "What of Rook Rest's state?"

Lord Celtigar spoke up, "Lord Staunton has been executed in his home, leaving his daughter Lady Kalla to take his place, though she is held prisoner and at the mercy of the soilders watching over the castle. Duskendale, too, has been taken by Criston Cole. We still have no ground army but the one Daemon is in the midst of raising."

Cregan spoke up, "I have 4,000 men strong marching down as we speak. They will have neared the Twins by now, it is only a matter of time until they are in the South and ready to be stationed at the Queen's command."

"I am sure the Blackwoods will be sending a strong force to support your cause." Daenys said quickly after. "And, if we are lucky, the Tullys will decide soon enough that their rightful queen is to be supported. With the Tully's support, the whole of the Riverlands will shift to our side, surrounding the Crownlands and the Reach once the Northmen join them."

Rhaenyra nodded to Cregan and Daenys, grateful for the information. "I cannot afford to simply wait around for Lord Glover Tully to either choose a side or for the young heir to take his place. Send to Maidenpool and Crackclaw point. Let them man their garrisons and give them stores or weapons if they find them wanting."

"We must answer Rook's Rest, my Queen."

"They are lost already. But, Vhagar is depleted after such a hard fought battle between her and The Red Queen." Lord Celtigar spoke up, interrupting the knight in front of him.

"We will hear of Vhagar's state soon. Her return to King's Landing was said to be a clumsy one. I would wager that Rhaenys landed a few solid blows to the old beast."

Daenys looked between Cregan and Rhaenyra, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve as the men continued to interrupt and speak over each other. Cregan met her eyes, nodding encouragingly as he grasped her hand under the table.

"Vhagar and Sunfyre are injured." Daenys spoke up.

The council stilled, earning sharp and confused looks from different people. Rhaenyra, growing to a realization, asked. "Injured? How do you know of this?"

Jace looked to her, too, a concerned look gracing his face.

"Morningstar was able to bite off a good chunk of her tail, in the midst of battle. Though Meleys fell, Vhagar will be taking time to recover at King's Landing. Sunfyre, too, will not be defending anything with his injuries—his wings are burnt and torn. I doubt he will be able to fly again, if he and Aegon survived the fall and his injuries."

Silence met her words. The Lords and knights exchanced bemused glances, wondering how they were so unaware that the Princess had joined the fight. Jace was pale, though silent, too.

Rhaenyra spoke first. "You went to Rook's Rest. Alone—with two dragons." She rubbed her forehead, seemingly having aged ten years from the news her daughter gave her.

Sheepishly, Daenys nodded. "I..." She glanced around, aware of the outsiders listening carefully. "I heard news of Sunfyre and Vhagar on their way to Rook's Rest. I knew something was amiss, so I followed in hopes that they were not going directly to Dragonstone for an ambush."

Rhaenyra nodded, understanding her underlying meaning. "And Aegon joined this battle? How was his state?"

"I am unaware of it, I saw him and Sunfyre hit by Vhagar's flames and go down, but I don't know their status otherwise."

"Aemond struck down his own brother?" Ser Steffon asked, horrified by the Green's apparent infighting.

"I can go again." Daenys offered, glancing at her brother and cousin. "Perhaps with Vermax or Moondancer. We can easily take back Duskendale and Maidenpool with three dragons against a small force of men."

Rhaenyra thought for a moment, considering the proposal. She turned to Lord Celtigar next to her. "These two keeps are absolutely needed for our fleets, correct?"

The Lord nodded quickly. "If they have a standpoint so close to our waters, our ships could be burned down easily."

The Queen pursed her lips, solemnly conceding. "Very well. Moondancer will be sent to Duskendale, which is reported to have the least amount of men stationed to protect it. Vermax and Morningstar will go to Rook's Rest."

The three across from her glowed with acknowledgement, firmly nodded at the command.

"However—" She paused, lifting a hand.

"If there is a dragon still stationed at Rook's Rest, you will turn around."

Jacaerys and Daenys agreed, and the council was formally dismissed. Cregan squeezed Daenys' hand once again before standing, glancing at the Queen. "I will meet you by your chambers." He was beckoned out by Franny, who flitted to quickly show him his prepared guest chambers.

Daenys was left with only Jacaerys and Rhaenyra. They all stood to circle, exchanging tender hugs of greeting. When Rhaenyra pulled away and pushed a strand from her daughter's face, her dark eyes shot to her neck. "What is this?" She gasped, tracing the scar with a ghostly touch. Jace leaned in to see the fuss, glaring down at his sister for a proper answer to the new wound.

🗡

"It is old by now." Daenys sheepishly brushed her mother's hand away, attempting to quell their worries.

"Old? You did not have that before you went to fetch Lord Stark." Jacaerys said.

"I did." She stated firmly. "I got it on my trip to the Wall—"

Jace threw his hands up in frustration, pacing around a few feet from his mother and sister. "I told you, mother! Lord Stark can not possibly keep her safe in a place like the North. He took you to the Wall, alone?"

Daenys, as if realizing only now that her travels alone with Cregan were not a proper way of doing things—especially considering their stations—flushed. "He did protect me. This is simply a consequence of my own misjudgement. Which, I might add, I handled."

Rhaenyra pursed her lips, stepped back from Daenys. "It is too late to recind a bethrothal anyway. Daenys has stated her content with it, so I must trust that she is being truthful. You as well, Jace." She reminded her ornery son sharply.

"Now, about Rook's Rest..." Rhaenyra turned her intimidating ire to Daenys.

Jace shrugged when she glanced over her mother's shoulder in a desperate plea for help. There's no getting out of this.

Daenys sighed softly, avoiding her mother's intense gaze. "I saw Criston Cole's army marching in the cover of a forest. From Ser Simon's tellings, it was Rook's Rest they were approaching. They led scorpions and arches, I knew it was an ambush meant for a dragon. In a place so close to Dragonstone—I feared it might have been one of you they were intending on meeting." She said, eyes glossy from the memory of her grandmother.

Rhaenyra nodded sympathetically. "I am not happy with you running into battle with Vhagar like that, but I am sorry that you were alone when Rhaenys fell. Did she...?"

Daenys nodded solemnly. "Morningstar almost saved her, but she refused my hand when the time came. She knew her fate, I suppose." Though she wished to have her wise and sturdy grandmother still at her side, her one comfort was the acceptance on Rhaenys' face when she last saw it. "Aemond did not give chase, even when he had the opportunity to."

Rhaenyra nodded thoughtfully. "Even if he did, Morningstar could easily outfly him."

She shook her head, ashamed of her actions. She had only survived out of luck and not skill. "If he did, I would have put every resident in Harrenhall in danger—Cregan, Ser Strong, Alys. All the servants, too." She wrung her hands, letting a shaky breath fall from her lips. If Aemond wanted, he could've burned Harrenhall completely down with no issue.

"It didn't, sweet girl. That is what matters. You are alive, safe again at home." Her mother soothed, squeezing her hand. Behind, Jace nodded his agreement.

Rhaenyra faced him, gesturing for him to stand by Daenys, which he did smoothly. Together, the pair looked alike only in skin tone and clothes, though any could tell that they were siblings. Rhaenyra looked over them with clouded eyes, knowing that a third and fourth were missing from the picture. Little Joff, sent away to ward with strangers. Young Luke, taken by the salt and sea. They were only half of what they once were, though stood tall despite the absence weighing on their minds.

"When you go to Rook's Rest, I want you to do no more than I have asked. The sight of two dragons alone should be enough to send the men running, and even if it is not, they will be easily defeated. The matter of Lady Kalla and her younger brother, Kallus will be more difficult, I presume. They will be guarding inside, where your dragons cannot follow."

"We will simply drag them out." Jace said, determined as ever for the cause.

Rhaenyra eyed him, grateful for the eagerness yet worried for she knew his recklessness grew every day. "You have not fought real battle like these men have, Jace."

He scoffed, "what have they fought, a few battles along the Crownlands from House to House, outnumbering the Lords in their own homes? I reckon most have their swords unbloodied still."

He had a point. A time of peace had been carried since before Viserys' time. Most swords were unused beyond petty fighting between Houses, tourneys, and duels. Daenys had to wonder if the only ones in Westeros left with real experience were those up North guarding the South from Wildlings.

"We will take care of it when the moment arises, mother. We have no way of knowing until we get there." Daenys said calmly, looking between her mother and brother.

The Queen sighed and agreed. "I am putting my faith in you three to get the coast back from the Greens. I have no doubt that you will succeed, but promise me you will be safe."

Daenys and Jacaerys tensed at the words. The very same ones she had spoken to them and Luke before Lucerys had died. They all stayed true to their oath, indeed, but at the cost of Luke's life. They nodded together, no book to swear upon but their own hearts.

"We will."

🗡

Cregan had used the time in his guest chambers to warg into Dusk again. There, in his direwolf's body and mind, he had discovered the location and status of his bannermen. The greybeards were not far from The Twins, as he had expected, while the younger soldiers were only a few days behind and approaching steadily.

With his mind eased, Cregan allowed his bannermen to lead themselves once more. He grew antsy with all the sitting around he was confined to, though dared not complain. There was nothing he could do until his men made it deep into the Riverlands.

Outside of Daenys' chambers, Cregan found her waiting. "Apologies, Princess, I found myself held up."

Amused, she smiled and accepted the apology with ease. "I will leave with Jace and Baela soon. Hopefully, I will be back before the morrow."

Cregan felt his chest tighten at the words, though he already knew of her assignment. At the Painted Table he was unable to express his concern for her, but he knew it had to be done. Jacaerys would accompany her, which brought him comfort. He was unaware of the princeling's sword skills, but knew he had no experience besides training.

"Is there no way I could accompany you?" He asked, bringing her hands to his own and squeezing slightly.

Daenys squinted slightly, pondering his ask. "Perhaps...I could use you for ensuring Lady Kalla and her brother come out safely from the guards' watch. I don't know how they will respond to us at the gates, and we do not have time to starve them out."

He gave her control of the decision. "Whatever you choose, I will stand by it." He swore.

To clarify, he meant for her to be allowed to take a mistress/lover if she took moon tea or whatever so there wasn't bastards in their name yk

simon def thinks Daenys is his grandniece I can't lie

About Winterfell-I imagine it NOTHING like GOT shows it to be. It is unbelievably tiny in the show, with silly round roofs, short and thin walls, and a tiny Godswood. In the books' depictions, the walls are super thick and 80 feet high, the Godswood is acres long alone and so is the city, and the roofs are pointed to actually let snow slide off. Winter Town is just outside the walls, making it a more lively place than we see. In the show it always shows Winterfell being completely isolated in the middle of nowhere, which would be super inconvenient for its people.

was it casual when you were the first person to do my hair?

Had the Rook's Rest scene planned for a few chapters for I know the plot for it just haven't written it yet. Though, I don't know if I should bring Cregan or not. On one hand, he would sit useless at Dragonstone. On another, he might steal the spotlight from Daenys slightly if he did come. What do y'all think? The main plot of it wouldn't change anyway hehe

sorry for delay again, I CANNOT catch a break these past weeks. 🥹 action next chap finally, wanted to get this out.

[the-voldsoy]

Parallels/references/a couple theories about TMAGP EP1:

grouped in order of actual theories, vague things i noticed, and even vaguer comments! (using the same terminology as in TMA for ease)

HEAVY Spoilers !!

Stronger:

“Colin, mate, you know you’re never getting out of here” +won't leave until they figure out the errors “Or they finally kill me” → couldn't quit the Archives because they thought they just wanted to understand and know (but later found out they could only get out by dying or blinding)

Lena talks about cake → Mr Spider doesn't like cake + Elias seemed to love the stuff

pub called The Seward -> Peter Lukas vibes?

“There has to be a way to do this online” → haha ! you wish. (AKA supernatural interferes with internet so it cant be dont online)

“There's this box for a "Response 121" on the form.” → MAG121 is the episode Jon is woken from his coma/brought back to life by Oliver Banks

Talk about how there used to be a separate “Response” department → Elias tells Jon its their job to watch, not interfere (iirc)

Old as shit computer → old as shit tape recorders

AKA: the computer seems to be the only thing that can handle the supernatural

“ "Dolls comma watching" or "Dolls comma human skin" “ → violently Stranger and possibly Eye, has me in mind of MAG24 (the one the Calliope is first mentioned in, where the boyfriend is turned into a doll iirc) 

Barely understandable, long as shit file names →barely understandable, long as shit files names by Gertrude 

[in response to where the files go] “some long dead database that no one will ever look at or care about” → the Archives were unmanaged, decrepit and barely used by anyone outside of them

Work during the night - no sun, cut off from outside world → worked in a basement - no sun, cut off from outside world

Martin (and later Jon) taking the statements → did the same in TMA but in reverse (although I’d love to know if there's any reason behind them being called Chester and Norris, besides what's stated?)

Haha Martin and Jon (and Jonah) are now part of the World Wide Web → shit now they're part of the Web (just like with the tape recorders !!)

Someone talks about how they're sorry, they should've listened, couldn't face not hearing him again → martin @ jon and vice versa

Stranger statement with hints of the Dark → first TMA statement was a Stranger in the dark, and it does put me in mind of the Anglerfish tbh

Sorting system for the statements (although there's is a Lot more detailed and v different) → Smirke’s Fourteen

Gwen openly does not like Lena → literally anyone @ Elias

Asked if they were tricked into working here → well, we know the Archives and Elias

“The awful, terrible thing that landed you here?” → most of the Archives (excluding Sasha and maybe Martin) had something that made them Marked, that mostly led to them working there

Someone who's into spelunking listed the Institute as “cleared” → who could that be (if we know them at all)? Buried avatar, i'd guess, but we don't really know any of them

Photos of the Institute don't show up → photos of the supernatural don't work

The Institute was “weird”, made the subject paranoid → lingering Eye

Fire twenty years ago that burned the Institute → Like the fire at Hilltop Road? Or like that time Gertrude tried to burn down the Institute?

Third floor was the most burned → assuming that's the top floor (and correct me if i'm wrong), wasn’t Jonah in (and later killed) on the top floor?

“offices like little cells” → employees were certainly trapped ! also Millbank Prison

Worried non-existent doors were going to slam shut → the Distortion

Weren’t any papers → left behind before the Institute came to this Somewhere Else (assuming it's the same Institute)? (we need an actual name for the original universe and this Somewhere Else)

Suspicious stains on some floors → my darling, that is blood ! or possibly squished worms, or ink. or possibly something Else

“an old wooden thing with a bunch of similar symbols on” → genuinely unsure what this could be

Strange symbols → For all the Fears, or just the Eye, i wonder? I think i remember them saying something about an Eye symbol at this point, but now i can't find where

“you get a job, I get a fresh victim. It’s all in your contract.” → Elias @ his employees

 “To new beginnings, with old friends” → to a new beginning, with our old friends Jon, Martin and Jimmy Magma :)

“You’re not as clever as you think you are. You think you've got us all fooled, that no-one knows you're listening, But I do. I know. I’m going to find you and then…” → hi what did he mean by this

They (jon, martin & jonah) are Watching and Listening and following through technology→ just like Elias (Panopticon vibes tbh) and Sergey Ushanka

Vaguer (idk if theres anyhting here, but wanted to include it anyway):

Alice loves coffee -> Martin loved tea

Meeting in a cemetery → Sasha with Michael pre-prentiss attack, Naomi Herne 

Not wanting to stay at home because it's full of memories → Jon moving with Georgie, Martin moving to the Archives

Gwen Bouchard wants Lena’s job → Bouchard (appeared to) climb the job ladder quicker than he should have

Heh bug list → corruption

 “You don’t seem like the usual hopeless wasters Lena hires” “The awful, terrible thing that landed you here?” → okayy no need to be rude. But anyways the OG Archives crew were actually pretty disconnected from the rest of the world +were barely there by choice?

“freight cars near Brighton” → hey where did Melanie get her first Slaughter mark ?

“it’s not too awkward working with an ex?” → Georgie and Jon?

FR3-d1 -> i feel like there's something there, but i cannot figure it out

Just words that made me irrationally scared:

Stranger(‘s)

Distortion

Opposites:

Starts with a party for someone leaving → couldn't quit the archives

“ …you are perfectly within your rights to resign. No one is forcing you to stay here.”

please put any opinions/additions in the tags !!

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Hiiii 💕💕💕

For the wip game (the highlighted ones)

-❤️🪐

Hello!! For you since you’ve been interested in it for awhile and i promised you a scene ages ago and only just now finished it: big heart, I wanna let it bleed, aka buck joins the team younger fic! Here’s a complete drabble about them running into Phillip on a call…

They’re not in an enclosed space but, somehow, the kid’s laughter is still echoing around them. Bobby tries to bite down on his smile as he calls a vaguely warning “Buck,” though he’s not too worried about professionalism seeing as the surfer — who’s trunks are truly mystifyingly tangled on his board — is cracking up even harder. He’s sort of… hung up there, board stuck nose down in the sand, man dangling up on the back end of it. They seem too far up the beach for a wave to have done this, but what does Bobby know, he’s from a landlocked state.

“Sorry, Cap,” Buck wheezes. “Do we, uh… need the ladder?”

Bobby takes a measured inhale as he hears some kind of frantically smothered squeak sound coming from — is that Chimney? One of the paramedics, anyway — and shakes his head. “I think we can just lower the board down, if you’ll give me a hand. That sound alright to you, sir?”

The surfer gets through a few more wheezing chuckles before he can say “Yeah dude, lower away.”

They manage it pretty smoothly, with him and Buck on either side and Hen and Chim ready to catch the weight of the surfer. Hen starts off the next small round of laughter as she tries to de-tangle the swim trunks to move their vic, but everybody manages to calm down as they get to the actual medical examination.

As Hen and Chimney poke and prod, Buck chatters. “I learned to surf a few years ago, over in the Carolinas.”

“No shit?” The surfer grins. “Like Charleston? I gotta cousin over there.”

“Yeah, Folly Beach sometimes, but mostly went up to the Banks.”

“Sick.” The surfer gestures to where Hen’s wrapping some gauze around his bloodied elbow. “What’s your worst wipeout?”

Buck laughs again, a little delighted sound, always happy to be included. “Oh man- My first time out on the water, like the second wave I ever caught, just tossed me right off completely.” He tugs up his shirt before Bobby dawn shake his head not to, and twists around to show a jagged old scar on his lower back. “Landed on some rocks, needed fourteen stitches.”

The surfer whistles as Hen shakes her head. “I don’t think you’ll need any stitches for this one, but there’s enough debris in there I’m gonna recommend we take you to the hospital so they can get it all out.”

“Sure thing,” the guy says, looking more relaxed than Buck taking a nap on the couch after second helpings of mac and cheese. “Thanks man.”

“No problem,” Bobby says, definitely no trace of a chuckle in his voice no matter the delighted glances his team sends him.

The surfer tries to twist towards Buck once they get him on the gurney, winces, and then just turns his head. “You ever surf out here?”

“Have a few times, but I don't have a board or anything.”

“Man, you should come out and join us! We got a group most weekday mornings, I'm sure somebody could get you set up.”

Buck looks happy as a dog with a bone, glancing at Bobby with a mile wide grin. It's a familiar kind of look, though it takes until they're almost at the ambulance — Buck chatting away all the while — for him to place it, and it nearly makes him stumble when he does. Robert would give him that look when he made a new friend on the playground and got invited to hang out. Please, Dad, can I go? He's sure Buck didn't mean anything by it. Bobby doesn't have that authority in his life, nicknames and Springsteen concerts nothing that adds up to a tangible connection. And the kid- well, he's not a kid. 25 years old, can arrange his own playdates perfectly well. Still, Bobby feels a little off kilter as they load the ambulance.

“Rad, man, see you around.” The surfer is grinning at Buck, two happy little suns shining at each other. “Ask for Stevey,” he says, loosely pointing at himself. Steven Barney, he'd given as his name to dispatch.

Buck smiles, waves goodbye. “I'm-”

“Evan?”

Buck turns like a man in a haunted house, startled at an impossible sound with all the color draining out of him. The apparition takes the appearance of a white man a little older than Bobby, wearing neat, pale clothes and a sort of constipated, caught expression. They see that look on calls sometimes, with men who are going through an emergency with women who are not their wives and who are still trying to pretend they've done nothing at all untoward.

“D-” Buck blinks, a few times, hard. “Dad?”

Bobby can't help joining in Hen and Chin's shared oh shit look. There's not an overly familiar resemblance between the two — perhaps a shared stake in forehead real estate — but the man doesn't refute it. “I'll let you get back to work,” he says, glancing towards the sea, the ambulance, eyes landing briefly on Bobby before jumping away again, startled.

“Wait, wh-” Buck steps forward, hand wandering out in front of him before dropping back to his side. “What are you doing in LA? Did you have- a-a work trip?”

Buck's father clears his throat. “It's Brian’s birthday.”

“Oh,” Buck says, blinking again, rapidly this time, a fish thrown in new water. “He- he lives in California now?”

“No, no,” the man says dismissively, like he doesn't know why anyone on earth would choose to live in California. “He’s retiring early, wanted to make a weekend of it.”

“So-” Buck scrambles, visibly, and it makes Bobby aware of the small audience of first responders (and surfer), so he closes the ambulance door despite Hen and Chim’s wide eyes and shaking heads, and thumps the back so they pull away. Buck doesn’t seem to notice either way. “You’re- you’re here for a few days? We should- we could go get lunch? I-I have to work until tomorrow morning but-”

“It’s a busy weekend,” the man grumbles, doing a motion with his hands almost like he's patting himself down to make sure he has his wallet, the movements of someone making sure they're good to leave. “I won't have the time.”

Buck stands there, looking more wounded than any of the times he's been banged up on calls. “I- haven't seen you in- in like four years-”

“And who's fault is that?” His father laughs dismissively. “If you want to run off and throw your life away you can't complain about it later.”

“I-I didn't, I like what I- I have a job, I- I found…” Buck frowns, and Bobby worries for a moment he's going to cry out here in front of his father and colleagues and the beach goers of Santa Monica. He holds it together, though. “I like it here, and I like my job, and I'd like to tell you about it-”

“I won't have the time, Evan.” He doesn't even consider for a moment backing out of his obvious lie. “You can call next week if you want. Your mother will be glad to know you're in one piece.”

“Okay,” Buck says, shoulders sinking down and turning in. He goes from a 6’3” wall of muscle to a lost child right before Bobby’s eyes, hell of a magic trick. “Sorry,” Buck says, as Bobby does some math, works backwards a little. Fourteen stitches, definitely more recent than four years ago. He thinks about the laws of physics, or at least traffic, he’d break if he knew Robert was bleeding in an ocean somewhere in the world. “Sorry,” Buck says again — why, why should he be apologizing — and nods a few times. “I’ll- I’ll make sure to call.”

His father nods back. “We still work, so-”

“Yeah, after five, I know.”

“And your mother has book club on Tuesdays.”

“Okay.” Smaller, and smaller. Bobby remembers reading Alice in Wonderland to Brook, wonders how big Buck’s pool of tears is to shrink him so much. “I’ll just-” Buck clenches his fists, just for a moment, and then hides them in his pockets. “I’ll just try. If you’re busy you don’t have to pick up.”

Oh, God, give an inch and they’ll take a mile. Buck’s father looks visibly relieved at the offer of plausible deniability. “Alright.” He doesn’t move to hug his son, doesn’t even reach out for a handshake, staying a careful several feet away. “I’m sure you need to get back to your job,” he says, raising eyebrows in Bobby’s direction. It makes him bristle, he doesn’t want to be a forced coconspirator in judging Buck for something he hasn’t even done wrong. Buck wilts even further beside him. His father gives one final nod. “Goodbye, Evan.”

He’s already walking away by the time Buck says “Bye, Dad.”

And then they’re all just standing there. Hen and Chimney went off to the hospital, sure, but there’s still a handful of firefighters lingering around, either trying to make a lot of eye contact or no eye contact at all. Buck stares firmly at the ground. Bobby clears his throat.

“Alright, let's pack it up.” If they were operating under any other circumstance Bobby might compliment his crew for how quickly and quietly they get loaded into the trucks.

The ride back to the station is quiet, too, usual engine chit chat locked in everyone’s throats. Bobby’s pretty sure he sees Nichols subtly and somewhat frantically typing on his phone. Mostly, though, he watches Buck in the rearview. The kid is staring resolutely out the window, but Bobby would bet he’s not seeing a thing. His leg bounces on the seat, and Rodriguez doesn't even do the polite cut-it-out cough. Bobby wonders how many of Buck's stories he's overheard, if he's also now watching them tilt, shift, rearrange in his head. Dumb little boy stuff, skateboard-bike-motorcycle stunts, climbing up trees to fall out of them, all told with class clown energy, wasn't I stupid but wasn't it fun, wasn't it funny? Bobby got up to some shit when he was a kid, trailing after Charlie and taking any ill-advised dare the older kids tossed out to him, but he got hurt and he went home, his mom kissed his scrapes, even his dad would ruffle his hair and grab the first aid kit on his good days. Bobby looks at Buck looking out at nothing and tries to count the broken bones scattered between the big grins and his audience’s corresponding groans, tries to imagine Buck — all his silliness, all his sunshine — going home hurt to parents whose care comes with office hours.

When they pull into the station everyone flees the engine like there’d been a chemical spill, leaving Buck standing alone silhouetted against shiny scarlet paint. Bobby hesitates, one foot still up on the truck bed. He doesn’t want to overstep, but- he can’t stop thinking about how far away Buck’s father stood. The kid deserves someone to come closer. He only wished there was someone better than himself around to do it.

“Hey, kid-”

“I never knew what I did wrong.” Buck is frowning into middle distance, shoulders still tucked in around him. “I- I know I was stupid in- in high school, and college, but-” he looks right at Bobby, eyes wide, and he looks- oh, kid, come home. You’re hurting, come home, you’ll be taken care of, I got a first aid kid at least and I’ll learn to do better than that. “It was always like this- I-” Buck shrugs and here, finally, come the tears. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Bobby says, and it's only two steps over to him, and he’s never even casually side hugged this kid before but Buck sinks right into his arms.

“You can’t know that-”

“I can.” Buck’s so tall. Bobby’s not sure the last time he hugged somebody taller than him. He wonders how tall his dad was, looming so large in memory but an unknown in actual imperial measurement. He wonders how tall Robert would’ve gotten. “You were a kid. You were their kid. There’s nothing you could have done that was so bad they shouldn’t have loved you anyway.”

Buck shudders against him, and his shoulder is getting wet, and the ambulance will be back soon and there’s firefighters milling about and, always, work to do.

But they can take a little time here. Bobby’ll bend it around, if he has to. The laws of traffic, the laws of physics. It startles him, scares him a little, but- he’d break them for Buck, too.

[skyfallslayer]

The Daughter of The (Dare)Devil || Hiatus Recap

Please read my apology here if you haven't. It explain why I've been gone so long. And since it has been several months, I've decided to write a little recap. Feel free to read it before you move on to the new story, or not.

|| SEASON 1 ||

Set pre-canon by a several months, is story 1: 'Welcome Home The Blood and Bruises'. This story shows how Matt ends up screwing his "foolproof" plan of never-ever telling his daughter that he's a vigilante. The beginning scene shows Matt a little banged up while his daughter, Kaila (age 14), takes care of him. This causes a flashback to a year earlier where his plan falls apart. Matt arrives home in a bad state, causing him to faint and for his daughter to find her, thus revealing his secret. Eventually, realizing that's there's no way to stop this man, Kaila just accepts it and agrees to help patch him up.

Story 2: 'I'd Burn The World For You'. For some reason this is still one of my favorites that I've written despite the angst that I throw here and there. In this one, the story's set after DD Episode one, where Matt and his best friend, Foggy had just hired an assistant that so happen to be their first client, Karen. Now, remember, Kai's a bit skeptic in the beginning and Foggy's just hungry (lol). Meanwhile, being the curious person she was, Karen starts asking Matt about his past, like 'We're you married?' or 'Did you have a girlfriend?'. Which Matt encourages, and replies with the story of how his daughter came into his custody. Flashback to fourteen years ago, the best friends have graduated college and have passed their Bar exam. Matt's in his new apartment and telling Foggy about how his fling, Aka: Kai's Mother, who's name is Mary (Remember that people), is trying to contact him via phone call but he's ignoring. Foggy eventually slips out to get them lunch, and before you know it, Mary drops baby Kai off in front of the door. Matt manages to call and get Foggy to come back, dumbfounding his best friend which soon insist 'It's just a prank, bro'. Nerves are shooting through the roof as they get to the hospital to get a DNA test to find out of Matt's really this baby's father. Well... surprise, surprise, he is. Foggy, being the best damn friend is his, is discussing some options with the nurses since Matt's in his own head, and is soon pulled out of it when one of the nurses hands over baby Kai to him. Matt immediately becomes a girl dad, falling in love and swearing to the beyond that he'll love and protect this child for as long as he lives. Foggy's secretly happy when he hears Matt wants to keep her, and the flashback ends when him giving her the name: Kaila Jackie Murdock (Got to give his old man some love, am I right?). The story finishes with Karen almost in tears, but Matt reassures her that everything's okay. Especially now that he has the family he secretly always wanted.

Story 3: 'Crossing The Line'. Another personal fav of mine. So this is set in episode seven "Stick". A man named Wilson Fisk has entered the ring, and Matt has earned the nickname 'The Devil of Hell's Kitchen' - Foggy insist that this vigilante is up to no good, while Karen is the opposite - The story splits between Matt and his Mentor, Karen getting herself into trouble, and some Uncle/Niece bonding time.

1. Foggy owes Kaila another showing for the Hunger Games as they both ditch their plans to go find Karen. - They end of finding her, and she takes them to the person she was meeting up with. - Karen reveals that she's been working with Ben Urich to uncover the Union Allied Scandal. 2. Matt soon finds himself meeting Stick again, his asshole mentor who up and left him 20+ years ago. - They end up back in his apartment, where Stick is slowly figuring out that Matt's got someone living with him before asking for his help. The Blind lawyer agrees, which he regrets later on. - A Time skip later, Stick figures out about Kai and insults Matt which causes a massive fight. Matt ends up winning and threatens Stick to never come near his daughter, which ends in laughter and Matt being frustrated that his tainted past is starting to touch his kid.

Story 4: 'I've Got The Devil Inside Me'. Let's add more angst to the plate. The next morning Matt discovers that his partners are investigating Union Allied, much to his dismay, but he agree to help as long as they're "cautious" (Yeah, some big talk from a blind man who fights crime at night). This eventually leads to Matt and his daughter talking after she arrives to the apartment being destroyed, and encourages him to talk to her if something's up. The next day at school, Kaila witnesses Fisk's big speech on TV on how he's declared war on 'The Masked Man'. - This leads to Ben, and the gang trying to figure out what they can dig up to bring Fisk down (And it's certainly not a pretty road) - This also leads to the reveal that Fisk is doing business with a slumlord that's raising a client of theirs rent (Aka: Ms. Cardenas). Out of options, Matt decides to try to get inside the head of the woman Fisk loves the most, Vanessa. Kaila tags along as they try feeling her out at the art gallery she works out. However, Luck's not on their side when the Man of the hour himself arrives, planting himself inside the Murdocks' heads. When Kaila arrives home the next day from school, she finds her father staring at his suit, then engulfs her into a much needed hug. She encourages him to open up again, and he reveals that Ms. Cardenas was killed, and he was filling up with rage to the point he wants to kill the Kingpin. Eventually, she pulls him from those thoughts, and they parted ways as he heads out for the night. This story ends with Matt coming home in the worst state she's possibly seen him in, and just before she can figure out what to do, her Uncle arrives and discovers the family's dirty secret.

Story 5: 'The One Where The Uncle Finds Out'. One of my favorite, but most painful episode to watch. It opens up with Foggy's POV as he stumbles in all buzzed, and demanding they make Fisk pay for what he's done to their client. He gets more than what he bargain for, and it's a race through time for him and his Niece to get Matt stable. They eventually contact Claire who cleans him up. As soon as Matt's up, Foggy can't hold back and demands for answers. The argument starts, and in between that, Foggy makes a decision to lie to Karen that Matt's sick and he can handle it alone. Foggy also learns during their heated moment that his best friend can hear heartbeats, which shatters all the trust he has, and even questions if their friendship was even real. Eventually, while Kai tries to do her homework in the living room, they exploded at each other again. Foggy finally has the guts to ask Matt why he started all this, and his hesitant to spill while his daughter's in the room. Foggy pushes back, saying she has more rights than him to know what's going on, so... she stays as he spills the truth (Which it's more detailed than he initially told Kai). Foggy stares in disbelief when Matt reveals he doesn't want to stop crime fighting, no matter how hard it gets. Foggy tries to pull the "friendship card", which has no affect since this city "needs" the mask vigilante. This results in Foggy telling him to do whatever he wants, and if he gets killed in the process, he'll take Kaila under his wing -- but to remember that he's not her father, and that he'll feel guilty pretending to be. Foggy storms out of the apartment while saying "He would have told Matt he had a crime fighting life". The next few days were interesting - Karen came to visit him after his "car accident" - Claire ended any romance between them - Father Lantom told him that Devil inside him was an angel once, and applies towards him - It was all enough for him to realize he needs to stay alive for the ones he love. He wasn't expecting when he got home for his daughter to still be pissed at him, and leave to spend the night at Karen's for some space. The story ends with the young girl getting taken by Wesley.

Story 6: 'No Good Deed...' Goes unpunished they say. This story shows how much Kaila is like her Dad in a lot of ways. It opens up with Matt calling Karen, wondering if she made to her place since she hadn't texted him. Wesley is revealed to the one to kidnap her, and that she wasn't the originally target, but he was going to make do. He reveals that he's bitter that Karen is like a dog with a bone, and won't let what happen at Union Allied stop her from uncovering the truth. Amused, Kaila taunts, which is cut off quickly when he lays his gun onto the table. He rants on about Karen finding Fisk's mother, which is evidence she can use to bring him down on trial. Kaila then asks why he just doesn't kill her already, which he reveals would be troublesome if he did since she's a daughter of a well respect lawyer, and has ties to a police officer not under Fisk's thumb (Brett). He instead tells her she's offering her a job, a job where she'll convince everyone she knows that Fisk is not the "bad guy". Kaila bites back saying she would never, which Wesley threatens her that he'll kill her family before finishing her. But... something snaps inside her, and as Wesley went to answer his phone, she grabs a hold of the gun, aiming it at him. His poker face is incredible, and tries to play it off that it's unloaded, but she threatens him to stay away and let her leave. She doesn't get far before he tackles her, and proceeds to strangle her. They wrestle around, and fight for the gun which eventually goes off. To her horror she realizes she shot him point blank in the heart. His phone starts ringing again, and Kaila's on the verge of a nervous breakdown as she grabs her belongings and runs away. Kaila shocks Karen when she arrives at her apartment, and spews out what Wesley knew and wanted before revealing that she had killed him by accident. Karen, who seems way too calm for this, tells her she'll take care of it - she disposes the gun in the Hudson and calls Matt that everything's "okay". Karen patches the young girl up, and reveals her trouble past to the girl. They promise each other to keep this a secret from anyone, and Karen promises Kai that she'll be by her side whenever she needs it. The story ends with a guilt filled Kaila meeting a strange boy at a coffee shop, and Foggy rushing in that they found a way to stop Fisk once and for all.

Short Story 1: 'The New Suit'. Season One wraps up with Ben's Funeral, and the troublesome trio allowing Kaila to dip her toes into the dangerous waters that'll bring down Fisk. Eventually, the masked man gets a confession from Detective Hoffman that manages to get the Kingpin behind bars... or so they thought. Their celebration was cut short when Fisk escapes custody, and Matt rushes out to stop him. The story finishes with the lawyer coming home with a victory under his belt... and a new suit (One that Kaila approves). Matt promises he'll be a better father, and Kaila promises she'll open up more. *Foreshadowing Indeed On Both Counts*

|| SEASON 2 ||

I swear with each season there's always more and more angst.

Story 7: 'The Point of No Return (Murdock v Murdock)', Part one of the mini series. - Opens up with months passing after the Lawyers' victory of putting Fisk away. Kai has a job now, a new friend name Jayden, but is unfortunately showing signs of PTSD from the whole killing Wesley situation. Meanwhile, Nelson & Murdock is booming! But the euphoria they all feel ends soon when they're stuck with a strange client, Grotto, who soon gets attacked by the soon be dubbed 'Punisher'. Flash the next morning, Foggy's on his way to the hospital to meet Karen and Grotto, only to run into his niece who's looking for her dad. They soon put two-and-two together, and race across the rooftops to find Matt. They eventually find him disoriented from the gun shot he took to the head. - Later, he wakes up to Foggy scolding him and warning him not to orphan his kid before heading off. Short time after that, Matt goes temporarily deaf, scaring Kai but not really fazing him since he's still in "shape" to be DD tonight. Karen comes by telling them about Grotto and him being "bait" to lure out a big mob boss for the DA. Kaila and her eventually talk, the teenager's guilt about Wesley coming through while her father slips out to fix his suit. - Faking an emergency, Kai gets Matt to come home and this leads to an argument. Heated words are exchanged, and Matt ends up telling her that he wouldn't have to worry about his injures 'if she wasn't here'. Instant regret happens, but nothing more can be said except Kai's FU that ends the story.

Story 8: 'The Darkest Time With Our Thoughts (Murdock v The World)'; Part two of the mini series. Starts off with the house divided, Kai's angry and Matt's depressed (As they both should be). Nelson & Murdock (& Page) are about to head off with DA to watch their client be bait to a mob boss, but due to Matt's mind being elsewhere, Foggy urges him to go home and try to make it up with his kid (Spoiler: He puts the damn costume on instead). - Meanwhile. Kai wants to be left alone, yet life throws her a curveball when a clearly unwell man shows up at her door, asking for her father and Foggy. She soon finds herself fighting for her life, almost getting the upper hand before being taken away (Foggy ends up getting that dreadful call from Brett). Matt suddenly wakes up chained to the rooftop, face-to-face with the Punisher. Matt tries playing detective while Frank basically tells him to STFU. There's a brief heated exchange between them, then Frank gets ready to finish his mission, and was even nice enough to let Matt listen to the voicemails he has before he decides to finish him off. Matt tries to drown them out by moving the chains around to hid his secret ID, but that all changes when the last frantic message from Foggy reveals that someone took his daughter and he needs to get to the police station. The Murdock begs Frank to let him go, and he does. - The story ends with Matt falling apart.

Story 9: 'I'm Trembling, But I'll Protect You (Love v Death)'; Last part of the mini series. The story opens with Kaila having a very interesting dream (I highly suggest you guys at least read that part again, there's a lot of foreshadowing for future stories). She wakes up and is met with her capturer who tells her that he's the brother of Nelson & Murdock's first client, who they apparently failed (Remember this later, also). Meanwhile, the trio is racing through all the paperwork they have to find out who this client is. They three of them have a nice heartfelt talk that ends up striking an idea in Matt. Matt ends up figuring out their first 'official' client was 'John Healy', the man hired by Fisk to kill. Before anything could be done, Matt gets a call from Frank telling him to meet up; He does, surprised to find out that Frank knows where Kai is. This also leads to an early ID reveal with Karen. Matt has a standoff with the kidnapper, negotiating back and forth to by Frank some time to take the shot. Kai is rescued, and the Murdocks shared heartfelt speeches and hugs while Frank disappears into the mist. - Kai's taken to the hospital by Brett (Who unknowingly knows DD's ID) and treated for her leg injury. The story ends with Kai accepting why her father does this job and is happy to be home.

Story 10: 'A Glimmer Amongst The Sinners'. The story opens up with a flashback to 15 years ago, where a young Matt is trying to figure out how to be a father to a baby he can't see (while also trying to find her mother, Mary, for answers). He feels like he's falling off the deep end, but lucky Foggy is there by his side, helping him along the way, which he's forever grateful for. Flash forward to Matt listening to his daughter sleep, happy that she's home. Now, at lot of things happen - Kaila eggs her dad to ask Karen out; Karen digs around about Frank's Past; Frank gets abducted and Matt must find him; Foggy, Kai & Karen head to the Castle house for clues; Then Frank & Matt escape and have a heartfelt moment, leading up to Frank being arrested by Brett who gets a promotion by bringing him in. Oh... the story should end right here, right? Nope! More plot lines! We finally get a Karedevil kiss, which makes Matt get on cloud 9 until his old flame shows up in his apartment. Elektra tries to get Matt to be her lawyer to get her father's money back, which he strongly declines. She then tries pushing back before accidently meeting Kaila. Elektra acts all hurt and broken up when Matt throws her out. The next day goes smoothly in the office, Matt & Karen go on a date, while Foggy tries helping his niece with her friend Jayden who seems to be avoiding her since the kidnapping. Matt has a brief interaction with Elektra again on the phone during his date, he tells her to F off, and him and Karen head back to her place for some romance. The story finishes with Kai coming home to find Jayden ready to talk.

And that wraps this up! I'm finishing the next story as we speak. I'm aiming to release it either by the end of next week or the following. So sorry again this took so long, and thanks for sticking around! ❤️

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[mmmleckerlecker]

Snack Number Fourteen

Happy vore day 2023! Please enjoy this EXTREMELY self indulgent fic that’s been cooking in my brain for quite awhile now…

Summary: The predator had always prided himself on his self-control. And he really does like to make things last. Just another night with him and his (fourteenth) favorite snack.

Contents: m/m, cruel pred, willing pred, unwilling prey, non-fatal, pre-vore, partial digestion, post-vore (aka the main focus), regurgitation, I imagined a size-difference while writing but it’s never really specified

Wordcount: 5,301

* * * * * * * * * *

The predator came home that evening feeling exhausted. And absolutely starving.

He wished he could say that his work had ended once he’d left the office just a half hour ago, but he’d be lying. He knew very well that there was an extensive pile of paperwork just waiting for him on his desk at home. It really was going to be a long night.

Ah, well, no rest for the wicked and all that.

The predator did, fortunately, have at least one thing to look forward to that night, and he was very much looking forward to it. He could barely contain his excitement, nearly bouncing on his toes in a very un-predator-like fashion. But it had been so, so long. He could forgive himself this once for his lack of self-control.

And so the predator bounced his way upstairs, right to the locked doorway at the end of the hall. He pulled out a tiny silver key, slid it into the lock, and turned.

“Good evening, my little snack,” he said with a grin, flicking on the light of the now unlocked room. “You’re looking exceptionally… recovered tonight.”

The boy— fresh out of college, still so strong and vibrant— let out a groan.

“Please,” he begged as he squeezed himself into the farthest corner. “Not again. Please… just a little longer.”

The predator entered the room and smiled in a way which he considered warm and affectionate. Unfortunately, he must not have gotten it quite right because the closer he got, the more the boy only shrank and shivered away.

“Now, now,” the predator chided, crouching down in front of the boy. “It’s been weeks since last time. We’re more than overdue.” He reached out, ignoring the way his snack flinched away, and ran his fingers over the boy’s cheek. The flesh was riddled with burn scars but otherwise healthy. “See? You’ve already healed up.”

The boy didn’t answer. The predator tried smiling again, making sure to show all his teeth.

The boy had been living in this room for months now, which was a good deal longer than many of his predecessors. The predator had no inkling of the boy’s name, all he knew was that he was Number Fourteen. He didn’t really have any desire to learn the boy’s name either. To the predator, he was just another snack. The fourteenth snack, to be precise.

You see, the predator was a master of control, and whenever he found something he really liked, he liked to drag it out for as long as possible. When he was a boy, he once bought a lollipop that he enjoyed so much, he made it last for seven and one-quarter years. Every night like clockwork, he would take precisely one lick of the candy. No more, no less. Just enough to indulge in its sugary sweet flavor. And then he would carefully wrap it and put it away for the next day. He’d prided himself on his patience and pacing, even then.

Years later and the only thing that had changed were his tastes. Now his snacks were a bit more… complex.

“You’ll need to eat first, of course,” the predator continued to his snack. “And drink. We can’t have you getting de-hydrated now, can we?”

The boy was already shaking his head, but the predator didn’t pay him any mind. He knew what was best for his snack, what measures to take to make them last the longest. He’d gone through many trials and errors.

“Come now.”

The boy didn’t resist when the predator hoisted him to his feet. He’d given up fighting long ago. The predator led his snack down the hall, down the stairs, and into the dining room, where he bade him sit at the table. The boy obeyed, his scarred face looking utterly despondent.

“What do you say?” the predator asked as he opened one of the kitchen cabinets. “Beef stew for dinner? That is one of your favorites, isn’t it?”

This, of course, was a little inside joke between the two of them. Beef stew was the only thing the boy ever got for dinner. For some reason though, he didn’t seem to find this joke very funny. The predator let out a wistful sigh. Snack Number Thirteen would have laughed. Or at least offered one of the witheringly sarcastic remarks that he so loved. Even after all these months, the predator missed their heated banter.

The predator didn’t wait for an answer from his current snack before pulling one of the many cans of beef stew off the shelf. He poured it into a bowl, then very kindly heated it up in the microwave. He put the bowl and a cup of ice water on the table before the boy. The ice water was actually a special treat for tonight. Usually he only got room temperature water.

“Go on then,” the predator urged as he took the seat across from his snack. “Eat up!”

Ever so painfully slowly, the boy began to eat. The predator watched with keen interest. Every bite of food, every sip of water, every contraction of those beautiful throat muscles, just made him all the more hungry. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. Snack Number Fourteen shifted the spoon in his hand and cleared his throat.

“You don’t have to watch me eat,” he mumbled, eyes firmly locked on his half-empty bowl.

“Oh, but I very much do,” the predator told him, resting his chin in his hand. “I need to make sure you eat everything. And I need to know exactly when you’re done and ready. And besides that… I do enjoy watching my snacks feed themselves.”

The boy’s fingers squeezed at the handle of his spoon before he took one more deliberate bite.

Number Six had been a slow eater too. Even slower than Number Fourteen, surprisingly. She seemed to think she could put off the inevitable if she ate at the pace of a turtle in slow motion. The predator had always found that amusing. He had the patience of a saint, and a bowl of stew could only be stretched out for so long.

The predator smiled lazily at the memory. This seemed to unnerve his snack who happened to glance up at that moment. With a small intake of breath, the boy began scooping his stew with a bit more purpose than before.

In a few more minutes, the only thing he had left were a few last swallows of water. The predator watched, nearly quivering with anticipation. The last drops of water rolled so, so slowly past the boy’s lips. He swallowed. He set his glass down.

The predator lunged, unable to wait any longer. In the blink of an eye, he had the boy by his shirt and was yanking him across the table. Silverware, cup, and bowl were knocked carelessly to the side. The chair toppled backward as the boy kicked his feet, struggling fruitlessly as he was dragged across the table.

Snack Number Fourteen only managed a small cry of surprise before he was cut off by his head being shoved unceremoniously into the predator’s mouth.

The predator’s eyes fluttered shut and he let out a little moan of contentment. The first taste was always the best part, in his opinion. He took his first swallow, felt the way his throat stretched, and then had second thoughts on that opinion. Actually, he thought, it was the first swallow that was the best part. His fingers curled into the boy’s shirt, clinging to him and pulling him in further.

Ignoring the way his snack groped blinding at his face, the predator took another swallow. The boy’s shoulders stretched his throat even more and gave the added bonus on impeding his snack’s assault.

The predator considered the possibility of the second swallow being the best part.

He continued this reassessment after each greedy gulp. The third one began stretching his ribs apart in a sickeningly satisfying way. The fourth one saw him halfway through, right at the boy’s hips. It was at this point, Snack Number Fourteen’s head finally entered the predator’s stomach and the predator let out an involuntary shiver. He was sure now that the fourth swallow had to be the best part. Nothing could surpass this feeling.

But then he took his fifth swallow and he was forced to scoot his chair backwards, away from the table, to make room for his now rapidly expanding middle. His sixth swallow had his stomach stretching so much, he really didn’t think it could get any better than this, but then he was only at his snack’s knees! A seventh swallow and only the boy’s toes remained out in the open.

The predator touched a delicate hand to his throat so he could feel the last of his snack sliding down. He took his eighth swallow and closed his mouth as Snack Number Fourteen disappeared fully behind his lips. The last of the boy went smoothly down his throat, and the predator winced as his belly was stretched to maximum capacity. He even winced as it pressed painfully into the table he’d so politely just pushed himself away from.

Somewhat annoyed, he took another difficult scoot backwards, freeing himself from the confines of the table edge. Once a safe distance from the table, he allowed himself to relax in his chair. His eyes fell shut and his hands wandered quite greedily to the now healthy curve of his belly. A deep contentment spread through him as his fingers searched out the shape of his snack.

The boy, for his part, was shifting and stretching within, most likely trying to find the closest approximation to a comfortable position. Somehow the predator doubted there were many such positions in there, but really that was none of his concern. For his part, he was in heaven. And there was only one thing that could make it better.

With a dreamy sigh, he gave in and let his stomach come to life with the beginnings of digestion.

A wave of pleasure crashed over the predator, easing away the stress of his work day and making all that paperwork seem like a distant memory. If he could live in one moment forever, it would be this one. Full, warm, carefree. Even his snack could barely keep still. Although, it was doubtful from any kind of pleasure. More likely it would be the discomfort that came from slowly being digested alive.

He’d be perfectly safe however. Maybe a little worse for wear, but he’d come back up in one piece when the predator was through with him. Probably. You see, this is where the predator’s superior self control came in handy. His snacks were just too good to finish off altogether, so he’d learned just how much to slow his digestion and just how long they could last under those conditions. The boy was his lollipop, and once the predator had indulged in his single taste, he’d put him back in his wrapper for next time.

After several minutes of lounging comfortably and gently kneading his stomach into submission, the predator decided he’d stalled long enough. There was a pile of paperwork with his name on it just waiting for him.

But as he sat upright, the chair squeaking in protest, he realized just how sleepy his snack had made him. And though he fought so very valiantly to convince himself that work was more important, the need for sleep won out. He deserved a little nap, didn’t he? He’d been working terribly hard lately. Of course he deserved it.

So with the resolution that it would only be a very short nap, the predator hefted himself to his feet and slowly made his way to the bedroom. The journey was made somewhat difficult by the suddenly very lively weight in his middle, scrambling for purchase with each step, but the predator fought through such tribulations with barely a moan of protest.

The softness of his bed called to him and he fell into it without hesitation. He felt his snack pushing back as it was unceremoniously pinned between his weight and the bed, but the sleep now overtaking the predator left him quite unbothered by his snack’s inconvenient location.

As his eyes fell shut, the predator double checked that he had his stomach under control and promised himself once more that this nap would only last a short while.

And then he knew no more.

* * * * * * * * * *

When the predator awoke, he found himself unusually groggy. He blinked and yawned in the half-light of his room, wondering why he didn’t feel his usual peppy self after a good, hearty nap. It wasn’t until he tried to sit up and found himself impeded by the weight in his middle that he remembered what was going on.

He checked the time and was aghast at how late it was. Internally, he scolded himself for being so careless. Where was his usual sense of self control? Not only that, but he was further worried by how unusually still the weight in his stomach was.

He grimaced as he looked down at the curve of his belly. He liked to pretend his snacks were lollipops that would last ages if he was careful enough— one little taste at a time, but sometimes they felt more like a piece of gum— chew it up and spit it out ad nauseam, but grow too careless and you could swallow it, make it gone for good after just one tiny mistake.

If he wanted to get technical, he could say that this was how he’d lost most, or rather all, his previous snacks. He’d get distracted just one time for a little too long and his stomach had its way with them. Tragic, really. So many snacks gone too soon when they still had so much to offer.

“Hello, in there?” the predator called as he poked at his engorged tummy. He felt some small hope in finding whatever was inside to still be relatively solid. “Are you still kicking in there, Number Fourteen?”

The predator jumped in surprise when he received what felt like a kick to his stomach walls.

“Oh!” he said as a second kick (for good measure, he assumed) struck another uncomfortable blow. “I thought I’d finished you off in my sleep!” he told his snack in excitement. “But you’re doing surprisingly well in there, it seems. I think you could last for another few hours at most!”

There was a pause in which the predator was sure his snack was processing this exciting new opportunity, and then Number Fourteen went absolutely feral, struggling with a ferocity he’d seemingly given up on after the first five or six times he’d been been swallowed down. The predator was impressed. His current snack was now rivaling the persistence of Snack Number Four. That one never seemed to grow exhausted or give up.

“Yes, yes,” the predator offered his assurances as he kneaded his snack back into submission, “I know you’re just as elated as I am to spend more time together.”

Another kick.

The predator gave his belly a firm squeeze, coaxing the contents within to cooperate. “But you’ll need to try to contain yourself. Or would you rather continue acting up? It does get rather difficult to control my stomach when you’re moving so deliciously about.”

His snack went deathly still.

“Thought so.”

With only a negligible amount of difficulty, the predator pushed himself out of bed and stumbled out of the room. His snack came back to life as the movement jostled it about. The predator clutched at his belly as it cramped up. He never did like walking on a full stomach.

Finally, he reached his desk. His office chair sat invitingly before a not-so-inviting looking stack of papers. He frowned, still fighting off the grogginess from his earlier nap. Even with the comfort of a full belly and a reinvigorating nap, doing paperwork felt about as desirable as pulling teeth. His own teeth, of course. The predator had never pulled someone else’s teeth, but he thought it would likely be more interesting than paperwork.

The predator turned his thoughts over and over in his head, looking for something, anything that could make the task at hand even just a tad bit more enticing.

The predator snapped his fingers as his thoughts clicked into place.

“That’s it!” he exclaimed before heading back to the kitchen, still clutching his belly to keep the both of them steady.

Yes, he’d had one snack, but why not a second snack? And not a special snack like Number Fourteen. But just a normal snack, something to munch on. Oh, he did love to munch, and his snacks absolutely loathed sharing space with actual food. They always got disgruntled and squirmy, just enough so that the predator got a pleasant internal massage out of it.

The predator threw open his pantry with relish and began digging through the shelves for something of interest. This proved to be a more difficult task than usual as the weight in his middle continually threatened to throw him off balance whenever he leaned down for a closer look. Thankfully, the predator was never one for quitting and he fought valiantly not to fall flat on his face (an effort he was sure his snack appreciated as well). After an arduous battle with the pantry shelves and his own stomach, the predator emerged victorious with his prize in hand. A somewhat simple bag of potato chips, never before opened. Now this was sure to motivate him to his paperwork.

The predator was halfway back to his desk before he fully considered the consequences of choosing such a salty snack. Of course he’d need a beverage to wash it down with, it was only sensible. He turned on his heel, then nearly turned into a topple as he forgot he was quite belly-heavy at the moment. His non-potato chip snack braced itself awkwardly against his stomach walls while the predator readjusted himself.

Next thing, in a series of events much like in the pantry, the predator was rifling through the refrigerator. When he finally stepped away, he was carrying a bottle of only the finest of cherry colas and glad to be upright and well-balanced again.

With a certainty that he was finally prepared for that hateful pile of paperwork, the predator returned to his desk. He pulled out his chair and fell into it with a grateful sigh. It was always terribly tiresome carrying around so much extra weight. It took some adjusting, lowering his seat so there was room for his belly beneath the desk, and spreading his knees so the weight of his snack didn’t cut off his circulation, but finally the predator could comfortably rest his elbows on the desk and start writing.

With a very satisfying burst of salty scents, he tore open the bag of chips. He took a bite and gave an agreeable hum. Of course Snack Number Fourteen was his favored thing to eat, but they just didn’t provide the pleasurable crunch of a good potato chip.

The predator couldn’t suppress a small smile when he swallowed and felt the consequent twitch of surprise from Number Fourteen.

“Sorry about that,” he said, patting his stomach and hoping he was hitting somewhere close to his snack’s back. He wasn’t actually sorry. In fact, he quite liked the idea of all his favorite foods in one place, but it didn’t seem very politic to say so aloud.

He apologized and patted his stomach/maybe-Number-Fourteen’s-back again when he took a swig of soda for the first time. Number Fourteen gave a jab of annoyance and a very unsuccessful shifting of positions, but other than that the predator didn’t get any further protests from his snack.

“Right then,” the predator mumbled as he leafed through his papers, “I guess the only thing left to do is get started.”

And so he did. The next few hours were nothing but the scratching of his pen and the munching of his chips. His snack was restless for a great deal of it, particularly when the predator swallowed down some soda, but nothing too distracting. It probably helped that the chips and cola barely lasted through the first hour.

When his one hand was free, the predator would rest it distractedly on his middle, appreciating the warmth his slow digestion provided. He could feel, and occasionally hear, his stomach working ever so slowly over the contents within. It was all the same to his stomach— chips, soda, another living being. It plodded along relentlessly with its one job, contracted and breaking down whatever was put into it. It brought a certain kind of awe to the predator, and he loved to help it along with the occasional doting rub.

The predator didn’t notice it happening, but all of a sudden the hour was very late. He stared at the time for a few moments, not quite comprehending how so much of it had already passed. Come to think of it, he thought as he straightened out his now completed pile of paperwork, he hadn’t felt any movement from his snack in quite awhile.

“You still hanging on in there?” the predator asked, pressing his fingers into the curve of his belly. He couldn’t help but cringe as it felt like the form of his snack was much softer than it previously had been.

“Oh dear,” he said softly. And he really had been doing so well with this one.

He was just about to give up and go to bed so his stomach could finish up the job, when he felt the weakest of movement come from deep within his middle.

“Ah, so you are still alive in there!”

As if to exacerbate his point, his snack gave another commendable effort at moving.

“Right, just one moment then,” the predator said, clumsily pushing himself away from his desk and hoisting himself upright again. “Don’t want to dirty up my office, you understand.”

Number Fourteen gave a terrible shudder as the predator began his somewhat uncomfortable walk to the bathroom. The predator cringed again with each step. The contents of his stomach felt somewhat less… solid than when he’d made his earlier trip to the kitchen. He’d really goofed up this time, hadn’t he?

He hesitated once he made it to the bathtub. There was a fine line between lightly simmered in stomach acids but still salvageable versus broken down beyond repair yet still somehow clinging to life. The last thing he wanted was to deal with a quickly expiring snack in his bathtub. He really didn’t think he could manage swallowing them down again after that. Maybe it would be better for everyone if he gave up and just went to bed, letting his stomach finish off Number Fourteen.

The predator frowned as he stroked his hand in circles over the now softened surface of his belly.

Oh, but finding a new snack was so difficult. And he really did enjoy Number Fourteen, even if the boy sorely lacked a sense of humor.

“I really hope you’re not too far gone,” he told his snack with a new sense of resolve.

With a practiced contracting of muscles, the predator began the awfully distasteful process of bringing his snack back up. While he enjoyed keeping his snacks around for as long as possible, he couldn’t say that he quite enjoyed this part of the process. If he could simply make his snack re-appear outside of his stomach, he’d lead a much happier life. But alas. Such are the sacrifices he makes to get what he wants.

After much heaving and gagging, Snack Number Fourteen pushed its way back up the predator’s throat to land in a sloppy heap on the bathtub floor.

The boy groaned as the predator leaned down to inspect him.

“I thought you weren’t gonna let me out this time.” Snack Number Fourteen’s voice was hoarse and he wheezed with each breath.

The predator cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment. The boy really was in the worst shape he’d ever seen.

“Well,” the predator started, looking for the right words, “sorry about that.”

The boy gave him a blood-shot look of pure loathing.

“I really didn’t mean to go this far,” the predator continued, unabated. “I simply got so caught up in my work that I… forgot about you. You know how it is.”

“I really don’t,” the boy replied, sounding much like what the predator imagined sandpaper would sound like if it could speak.

The predator decided the best thing to do in this situation would be to pretend he hadn’t heard his snack. So instead, he grabbed the shower head and reached for the faucet. “Why don’t we get you washed up then?”

The snack let out a startled cry as the cold water washed over his angry, red skin. The predator quietly apologized again, but it was no matter. A minute later and his snack lay motionless, eyes fallen shut with exhaustion as he let the predator clean off all the wayward stomach acid from his skin. The predator was quite adept at this— starting at the top, where the more sensitive skin was, and working his way down. There was something very satisfying about starting the process of restoring his snack all over again. But even after the predator had finished, the boy lay sprawled on the bathtub floor, eyes closed, chest rising and falling.

The predator kept silent. He did feel a little guilty. Not only that, but also a little frustrated. With his snack in this state, it would take weeks for him to be strong enough for another round in his stomach. Perhaps it was karma for the predator’s own hubris. He prided himself on his self-control, but a momentary lapse in focus had left him with his prized Number Fourteen in this horrific state. Maybe it would have been easier if he’d just accepted his loss and gone to bed. At least he could start off with a new snack right away.

The predator gave a mental shrug.

Ah well, no use crying over spilled milk and all that.

“Why don’t we get some aloe on you?” he suggested once he could no longer stand waiting for his snack to come out of whatever state he was in. Patience was a virtue, of course, but it was getting very late and the predator needed his beauty sleep just as much as anyone.

The boy’s eyes flicked open and slid to look at him.

“Fine,” was his only word.

The boy pulled himself out of the tub and took a careful seat on the edge of the closed toilet. The predator did a thorough job slathering him in aloe, something the boy seemed to appreciate.

After a failed attempt at getting the boy to walk back to his room on his own, the predator was forced to carry him there. He wondered if the boy really was so weak from his injuries that he couldn’t stand or if he was only feigning weakness as a sort of punishment for the predator’s neglectfulness. The predator supposed, in a way, this arrangement wasn’t much different than earlier, except now he held his snack in his arms, not his belly.

“Home sweet home,” the predator commented as he pushed his way into Number Fourteen’s room.

The boy began squirming at the sight of it. He made a little sound, like a cross between a groan and a growl.

“I know you’re ecstatic to see it again,” the predator told him. “Especially since you almost didn’t make it back this time.”

The boy stopped squirming. The predator deposited him on the cot at the far end of the room.

“Wait there for a moment, please,” he told the boy before heading out of the room. The boy didn’t respond, he just laid very still on his tiny bed, staring at the ceiling. The predator made sure he locked the door behind him.

He headed to the pantry and pulled out two large plastic bottles of water and another bottle of sports drink for good measure. He was about to make a beeline back to his snack when he stopped. After a night like this, the predator usually waited until the next day to give his snack anymore food, but he had nearly digested the poor boy alive this time. He didn’t want to ruin the perfectly good rapport they had developed over these special months together.

He scanned the pantry shelves for something he could give the boy as an apology. Something that really said, “Sorry I got distracted and nearly sent you on a one-way trip to my bowels.” Even the predator grimaced at such a thought.

He took some time considering all his options, until he settled on what seemed the best one. A halfway finished jar of cocktail peanuts. The jar was halfway empty because they were quite good, and the predator picked it up with a sense of satisfaction, certain he’d made the best choice to demonstrate his deepest condolences.

When he re-entered the room, he found that the boy hadn’t moved from his frankly despondent state on the bed. The predator approached, keeping the peanuts hidden from view, and set one of the water bottles and the sports drink on the wobbly bedside table.

“Get up,” he commanded the boy, prodding him with the other water bottle. “You need to drink. Being burned can leave you very badly dehydrated.” And then he stopped and re-considered. “Or at least sunburns can. I’m not too sure about stomach acid burns as, well, you know, I’ve never had the privilege of being partly digested.”

These words roused the boy. With hiss of pain, he pushed himself into a sitting position and gave the predator one his favorite looks to give— a venomous stare.

He still took the bottle and began chugging the water, stray dribbles running down his cheeks and over his exposed throat.

“I do have something extra for you,” the predator told him, unable to hide his delight. “Something special.”

The boy stopped drink immediately. “What is it?” he asked, sounding almost excited for once.

“Here!” The predator said, unable to wait any longer. He shoved the jar of peanuts toward his snack.

The boy looked down at it and blinked.

“It’s an apology of sorts,” the predator explained. “You know, since I went a little too far this time. I honestly feared you wouldn’t make the night if I let you out, and I almost gave up on you. But look at you now! I’m sure you’ll be ready for another round in no time!”

The boy’s face fell and his eyes went cold and empty. “Thanks,” he said, the word devoid of any of his earlier excitement.

“Of course, my snack,” the predator told him as jovial as ever. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it then.”

Snack Number Fourteen didn’t answer. Only gave him a look of searing hatred, his blood-shot eyes somehow burning brighter than before.

The predator only gave him a reassuring smile as he closed the door.

“Goodnight, my snack. Until next time.”

He locked the door tight behind him.

And in just a few minutes, the predator had fallen into bed, finally letting a real, deep sleep overcome him. Despite a few bumps in the road, tonight had been a very fulfilling night. The only thing left empty now was his stomach, which grumbled quietly, eagerly awaiting the next time it would get to spend a few hours working over Snack Number Fourteen.

[takethistoyourstardust]

chosen one

a musing on riku’s status as the chosen one (aka i wrote this in an absolute fervor last night please be niceys)

—

you were five when the man handed you the big key. you barely remember what he said, let alone what he looked like. he seemed to think you were meant to be the “chosen one”.

you were fifteen when a somewhat familiar looking man ripped you away from your friends. he forced you to become a puppet to your own darkness. he seemed to think you were meant to be the “chosen one”.

you were fifteen when you hid your eyes to try and embrace the darkness. your best friend’s body forced you to embrace your darkness. he seemed to think you were meant to be the “chosen one”.

you were sixteen when your best friend fell to his knees and sobbed. he was just happy you were alive, even if you looked almost unrecognizable. he seemed to think you were meant to be the “chosen one”.

you were sixteen when you dove into your best friend’s dreams to keep him from forcibly becoming a puppet to his darkness. you were branded with the symbol of his protector. they all seemed to think you were meant to be the “chosen one”.

you were seventeen when you came to escort the blonde girl to the island. you were escorting her on behalf of the replica of you she created two years ago. she seemed to think you were meant to be the “chosen one”

you’re eighteen now. your best friend has been stolen away to a world beyond reality. you are the chosen one.

your best friend was four when the pretty woman told him to protect you if you ever strayed too far. you both saved her from the darkness twelve years later. he was never the chosen one.

your best friend was fourteen when he saved you from the darkness. you were on the other side of the door and he promised to find you. he was never the chosen one.

your best friend was fifteen when he finally found you again. he fought alongside you and was ready to stay in the darkness with you. he was never the chosen one.

your best friend was fifteen when he took the exam with you. his darkness was potent enough to be manipulated into near eternal slumber. he was never the chosen one.

your best friend was sixteen when he disappeared. he gave up literally everything to save everyone and destroy the man who lead you to darkness to begin with. he was never the chosen one.

your best friend is seventeen now. he’s trapped in a world of fiction. he was never the chosen one.

you’re eighteen now. you’re the chosen one.

your best friend is seventeen. he was never the chosen one.

your best friend is still out there. you’re willing to do almost anything to find him again. you say goodbye to your friend before chasing his heart to this unknown reality.

for the first time since you started this journey, you feel like the chosen one. you finally feel like you’re getting to choose this. and you’re making your best friend your mission.

your chosen one.

you’re choosing sora.

[badcaseofcasey]

one single thread of gold (tied me to you) | Part 4 aka: my Steddie soulmates au, Eddie's POV Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |Steve's POV

Eddie wasn’t sure how he thought Steve Harrington would end up coming back into his life - he wasn’t even sure Steve would come back into his life - but pinned against the wall of a boat shack at the end of a broken beer bottle was not it.

The past 24 hours of Eddie’s life had been something out of a horror movie. He wasn’t sure his heart rate had slowed down since he first saw Chrissy’s eyes glazed over in his trailer. And now, here comes his soulmate tagging along with the most unexpected combination of people he’s ever seen - including Dustin Henderson, one of newest recruits to Hellfire Club, and Max Mayfield, who moved into Forest Hills not that long ago.

He was reluctant to admit that his body instinctively knew to calm down once he realized his soulmate was there, instead choosing to believe it was down to the group of people who - against all odds - heard his story and believed him.

The next few days were… strange. Steve seemed intent not to mention their words at all, so Eddie followed his lead. There was a moment when Steve took off his sweater to dive into Lovers Lake where Eddie was able to see his words, clear as day. If he wasn’t convinced that Steve was his soulmate by then, that would have confirmed it.

Because much as Eddie hated to admit it, Steve had surprised him. Sure, Dustin and the others had spent the better part of the past six months trying to convince him that Steve was a good guy (no, really!), but he never expected it to actually be true. He said as much to Steve, and reveled briefly in Steve’s shy acceptance of the compliment. If it hadn’t been so dark in that godforsaken forest, he would’ve sworn Steve had blushed.

They had made it back topside and now he and Dustin were goofing around while the rest of the crew were setting up supplies and weapons. His eyes drifted briefly to where Robin and Steve were putting together molotov cocktails - a sentence he never would have even considered thinking before today. The distraction was long enough for Dustin to get a drop on him, knocking him to his knees. Eddie rolled sideways to avoid Dustin’s “spear,” laughing along with Dustin.

Dustin sat next to him. “All right, old man, catch your breath.”

Eddie gasped, pretending to be appalled. “Watch who you’re calling ‘old man,’ whippersnapper.”

Dustin looked out at the field and his hand drifted down to run his fingers up and down his forearm, where Eddie knew his soulmate’s words were. Eddie had learned all about Suzie within their first few sessions of Hellfire; it was a point of pride that Dustin got his words before any of the other members of the party did.

“Thinking about Suzie?” Eddie asked.

“Yeah,” Dustin answered, eyes still looking out into the distance. “I always worry when we’re about to do something like this. What if something… happens to me? We’ve kept Suzie out of this so far, so she has no idea that we’re facing off against literal monsters at least once a year at this point. If something happens to me, what will Suzie think?”

Eddie shook his head and sat up. “I hate that you’re having to worry about things like that. You’re only fourteen, man.”

“Yeah, but look at it this way,” Dustin said. “At least I know, for sure, that there’s someone out there for me. That no matter how bad things get, there’s something to look forward to. It gives me hope, and a reason to keep going when I think I can’t.”

Eddie smiled sadly. “That’s quite the bright side.”

“I try,” Dustin said. “What about you, do you have your words?”

Eddie weighed the options of lying to Dustin right now, but decided it wasn’t worth it. Besides, it felt like it would be a betrayal of the trust Dustin had clearly put in him. “Yeah, I do.”

“Really?” Dustin asked. “You never talk about them.”

“For good reason,” Eddie said, bumping his shoulders into Dustin’s. “Not all of us get our words from our adorable girlfriend from camp.”

“Well, whoever it is,” Dustin said, nudging Eddie back. “It can be a reason for you, too. You know, to keep going.”

“Hey, I already have enough of a reason,” Eddie stood and said, “‘86 is gonna be my year, right?”

Dustin smiled and accepted Eddie’s hand up.

“And Dustin,” Eddie said, seriously. “You know that one of us would take care of letting Suzie know. We know she’s important to you. She wouldn’t just be left in the dark.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” Dustin said. “You know, if you told me who your soulmate is, I could make the same promise.”

“Nice try,” Eddie said, ruffling the top of Dustin’s ghillie suit. “Come on, let’s go see if we’ve got our marching orders.” He slung an arm across Dustin’s shoulders as he steered them back towards the group.

Eddie couldn’t get Dustin’s words out of his head, even as they all made their way back into the Upside Down. Is that how Steve thought about him as he went through everything that Eddie gathered had happened over the past few years? Did Steve think about him at all?

The group was getting ready to split up, and Eddie was caught with a sudden need to talk to Steve. He called out his name as the group headed out towards the Creel House, then stopped when Steve turned to look at him.

There was so much to say, so much they had both left unsaid. Eddie didn’t know how he could possibly put all of what he was feeling in that moment into words, but here he was, about to watch Sir Steve walk away from him again, only this time, the dragons were so much more real. He just knew he couldn’t let Steve leave without saying… something.

“Make him pay.”

Shit. He probably could have done better than that.

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[blackfeatherdragon]

YGO Zexal Keyswap AU (AKA an excuse for me to engage in Aztecshipping) (I only thought this out through the WDC arc and even then there's still gaps-)(thanks to my friend usagi for helping me fill in some of these gaps)

(This is a long infodump, look out-)

-While looking for the interdimensional portal, but before adding Kazuma to the team, Byron and Faker made a trip out to a hypothetical location where they thought it would be. Faker didn't find what he was looking for, but Byron did get the Emperor's Key, so that's neat.

-Upon returning home briefly to see his younger sons, Byron gave the Key to Michael, figuring he'd love this kind of artifact.

-(Michael did in fact love it. Little nerd.)

-Byron then returned to his research, and then vanished. Michael and Thomas then end up in the orphanage, with Michael safeguarding what items he has left to remember his father (The Aztec Mask Golem card and the Key).

-Flash forward a few years, Michael is thirteen now, and due to a chain of events I have not worked out yet, the Key is activated and Michael meets Astral.

-(Michael is overjoyed at the interdimensional alien tied to the Key, if a bit annoyed that Astral's amnesiac state means he can't tell him much.)

-Michael also already knows how to play Duel Monsters already, but Astral still tries to backseat duel.

-Insert some Number hunting at the orphanage here. Michael's 'starter' Number is Chronomaly Machu Mech, and the first one he gets off someone else is Shark Drake.

-Eventually, when Michael is fourteen, Christopher/V finally comes back to collect Michael and Thomas from the orphanage. After everyone is reunited at Heartland, Tron performs the rituals to place the crests on Thomas and Michael, then requests that Michael return the Key to him.

-Michael refuses, not willing to sacrifice Astral, and Thomas, realizing that his baby brother and his invisible alien friend aren't safe in this situation, creates an opportunity for Michael to flee by picking a fight with V.

-Michael flees with the Key, only to end up breaking down later because he's now completely separated from his family, so soon after he'd thought he'd have them all back.

-Enter the Tsukumos, who let Michael stay with them for a while while he sorts himself out. He and Yuma start making friends.

-Michael is also encouraged to start attending school due to his age, and he tests into the first year of junior high despite being old enough for second year. This means he's now in the same year as Shark and Rio. This won't be awkward-

--Oh, wait, the whole situation with Shark, Rio, and IV happens. Things get awkward with Shark and Michael having to share a class, especially since Michael can't ask his brother what happened.

-Michael also continues Number hunting, though he's now racing his own brothers and Kaito for Numbers.

-Meanwhile, Yuma has also been getting inexplicably better at duelling? Despite not having Astral to help him? Odd, but okay.

-We finally catch up to where the series would have started. Michael is now fifteen and in second year of junior high, and Yuma has started at junior high as a first year. Finally, Michael and Yuma can be at the same school-

-Yuma also starts getting a bit concerned about the Key and Astral, but doesn't say much about why.

-Number hunting continues. Kaito has a WTF moment when he realizes that the guy scrambling for Numbers is Chris's younger brother

-WDC starts! Michael gets himself entered just fine, Yuma is also remarkably on the ball with entering!

-Michael and IV have at least one run in, then late on the second day Yuma and Michael witness V kidnapping Haruto. Michael only admits that the kidnapper was Christopher before he uses his crest to warp back to the Arclight family hideout in hopes of talking them down.

-But...Yuma is here. Wasn't he with Kaito a moment ago?

-Yeah. About that. Tron didn't like losing a pawn when Michael fled, and decided to just manipulate a new pawn instead of deal with an unwilling participant. And wouldn't you know it, Yuma happened to lose his father to Faker's betrayal, desperately wants to duel, and is kind of gullible, so Tron decided he'd make a good enough target, so long as he doesn't find out about the depths of the plan.

-Yuma got to learn to duel, is promised he'd find out more about what happened to his father, pretty much everything he wanted. Tron also convinces Yuma that the Key is influencing Michael like what the Numbers do to most people, so Yuma is convinced that he needs to help Michael by getting the Key.

-(The only thing keeping Yuma from just grabbing the Key sooner is the fact that Michael keeps it physically on his person as much as humanly possible, a habit picked up in the orphanage since leaving your stuff laying around there was a good way to get your stuff stolen.)

-How did Yuma get there before Michael did? Turns out, Tron decided to crest Yuma too, on the promise that it would let him control Numbers safely and protect him from having his soul taken by people like Kaito. Which was true, but conveniently left out what would happen if he lost while controlling a Number.

-In any case, Yuma, IV, and Michael all spend several minutes trying to convince each other to leave and back down before Kaito finally shows up via Orbital hangglider and forces a duel

-Insert Michael and Kaito VS IV and Yuma duel here. Yuma's signature Number is, of course, Hope.

-Duel ends, IV and Yuma flee, Haruto is returned with Yuma never being told what Tron wanted with Haruto in the first place. Tron claims his plan was simply to try and lure in Faker.

-Michael and Astral are horrified at finding out about Yuma, and end up sheltering with Shark for the night instead of returning to the Tsukumos. It's a good opportunity for Michael to talk to his classmate about what's happening/ask Shark about his interactions with IV and Yuma.

-(Shark got Leviathan Dragon instead of Shark Drake BTW. Michael still has Shark Drake, and IV was tasked with delivering Leviathan Dragon since Yuma wouldn't have wanted to hurt Shark.)

-The next day, Yuma contacts Michael and asks to talk. Talking turns into Yuma trying to get the Key in an attempt to save Michael from its assumed influence, which leads to a duel.

-Yuma finally tells Michael what Tron's been telling him and how he just wants to help/find out what happened to his father, Michael in turn tells Yuma the truth about what Tron wants/what the crest will do if Yuma loses while powerful Numbers are in play.

-They then find a way to loophole the duel's end so no one goes comatose, probably by having Yuma replace Hope with a Number not powerful enough to trip the crest.

-Flash forward a bit to the finals! Michael ends up having to face IV during the course of the finals, during which Tron taunts both of them at once. Michael wins, but is upset knowing his brother will go comatose.

-IV's last message to Michael before leaving is to tell him to keep going.

-IV: "Give Tron hell, Michael, Astral."

-Yuma saves Shark from Tron's influence as per canon, thus revealing that he's defected from Tron's side and knows what's truly up. (Tron's intention was for Shark to beat Yuma and let Yuma be cast aside once his role was done.)

-Michael and Yuma end up facing off one more time before the final. No playing around or loopholes this time, winner faces Tron and they both know it.

-Michael wins, and ends up crying as Yuma goes comatose as a result. However, Yuma does give Michael two new cards before slipping under: his signature monster, Hope, and Chronomaly Atlandis.

-Finally, Michael faces Tron and he's not happy. His brothers and Yuma are in comas, so many people have been hurt by Tron's scheming, and all Michael ever wanted was to have his family back.

-They duel. It's a mess, with Tron and Michael both giving their all, and culminates with Michael and Astral going Zexal.

-(Their Zexal form takes a lot of visual cues from Michael's gladiator outfit from the canon Yuma vs Michael duel, btw.)

-Michael wins, and when Faker takes all the Numbers, Michael attempts to save his father from being dragged in.

-Tron, realizing how far he's gone, releases all the affected souls and lets go of Michael, letting himself be dragged in to at least let Michael live.

-Seeing his father be taken away by Faker for a second time utterly breaks Michael. He decides to enact vengeance on Faker himself, storming off to the tower in a fit of rage, only to be intercepted by Yuma.

-After the breakdown plays out, the two decide to go in together to face Faker.

-Shark and Kaito end up turning up too, with the four all tag teaming against Faker.

-The gang wins, enter the second half of the series with the Barians. The only thing I have planned for the back half so far is Alito shows up and starts trying to flirt with Yuma, resulting in Michael getting jealous for 'some reason'. (He is oblivious to just how he feels about Yuma.)

[foxglovethicket]

Wild Things

Summary:

Some Nesta x Rhysand for day 7 of @sjmromanceweek !

Devour me, he used to urge her. Devour me, Nesta. 

I love you so.

Devour me.

She would nip at the tips of his fingers in play, pretending to be a little feral thing. And he would pretend not to see the wildness in her eyes and dripping from her hair and glinting off her canines when she smiled one of her rare open-mouthed smiles. 

(AKA, the toxic Nesta x Rhys fic that has been rattling around in my brain for months)

Chapters: 1/1

Read on AO3

November 11th. The first snow of the year numbs Velaris like novacane. 

White snow, white sky, white salt on the roads. Clean and blank and pure for a new year—her twenty-fourth, as of sometime mid-morning. Upon waking, shivering under her dove-grey duvet, Nesta thinks: twenty-four is the year of not fucking things up. 

The kitchen is the fire to her hearth. The spray of small yellow rosebuds in a vase on the island, Gwyn’s flame-lick of hair, Emerie’s embrace, the round smiles that fill their cheeks, the pastry waiting at her seat in a white bag, spots translucent with grease. It’s all warm. it all makes her blood move, down to her fingertips, where they prickle with feeling. 

***

Want is a funny thing. The question—what do you want?—I want, I want, I want, like a black hole eating the stars. Nesta wants a lot of things: to be warm, awake, clean and untouched like the snow on her bedroom windowsill. 

Emerie and Gwyn had asked her months ago what she wanted to do today—today, she has some extra measure of choice, today she’s allowed to want a little harder. 

Today, Nesta wants to read and she wants to dance. And she wants—

No. No. So they tuck their feet up on the couch and pile on the blankets and Emerie makes her hot chocolate just the way Nesta likes it and the next few hours are pages whispering as they are turned, steam rising from half-empty mugs, snow curling down outside the window. 

***

It had ended just how it had started: cold wind whipping off the Sidra to slice their cheeks wide open. The first time, it made their mouths split into smiles; the last, into trebuchets of hurt. Neither of them is good at pulling punches. His coat was on her shoulders. He said something, then she, and it was suddenly a vile thing on her skin; she ripped it away and threw it down onto the rain-soaked cobblestones. She didn’t throw it over the bridge, into the river, because that would have been irreversible, but now, now, she wishes she had. 

That was September, the last long day before time jumped back and the evenings stopped clinging to the sun. 

You’re fucking mine, Nesta. 

I’m fucking gone.

She doesn’t think about it. She ruined everything, and it didn’t matter, and she doesn’t think about it. 

***

Anyways, she’s good at being fine. She’s twenty-four now and she’s going to be fine forever, starting now. Gwyn has a carefully curated getting-ready playlist blasting from her speaker as she curls her hair. Emerie bites her lip as she draws eyeliner across her lid. Nesta sips from a wine bottle as she stares at her jewelry box: there are the little pearl-drop earrings he gave her when they went to Adriata for a weekend in August. I know you already have a favorite pair of earrings, but I thought these could be nice for the Patron’s Gala, maybe. If you like them. 

Nesta fishes them out of the drawer and puts them in. She looks at herself in the mirror until her eyes turn red, and then she drops them back in the jewelry box, and stabs large silver hoops through her ears instead. 

She turns off the light in her room and goes to the kitchen. Carefully, she pours the rest of the bottle of wine into a plastic Mountain Dew bottle, sucking the spilled drops from her fingers like it’s precious, and not a fourteen-dollar bottle. She plucks her coat off the hook and her keys from the dish by the door. 

The three of them are laughing and chattering as they leave the apartment; Gwyn threatens to buy her a birthday girl sash, Emerie says, I think it’s too late for that, Gwyn says, The party store on East 12th is open until 11, I checked. Nesta says, I will strangle you with your own sash if you even think about it. They only laugh at her threat, and she can’t keep her face from smiling, and it doesn’t even bother her when the snow at the curb smears over her boots. She’s untouched. She’s new. She’s only started learning how to live. 

***

It doesn’t really matter how it ended. There one minute and gone the next. He was there and gone, there and gone, like seasons, like purity, like the flash of a camera imprinted on the back of your retinas, there, and there, and there, and gone. 

So he’s gone. And good riddance. 

She used to like to hold his hand. Liked the strong, slim bones of his fingers, the veins that crawled up the back of his hand; liked running her fingers over the scar on the knuckle of his ring finger. He had a freckle on the inside of his left wrist, too, one she liked to press her lips to. I love you so, she would whisper. I’ll eat you whole. 

Devour me, he used to urge her. Devour me, Nesta. 

I love you so.

Devour me.

She would nip at the tips of his fingers in play, pretending to be a little feral thing. And he would pretend not to see the wildness in her eyes and dripping from her hair and glinting off her canines when she smiled one of her rare open-mouthed smiles. 

***

They step inside the club and check in their coats and the music is so heavy she can feel it pressing right through her muscles and into her bones. She tips her head back. Her spine is one long bass note. Yes, yes, yes. 

Bodies shift around her, swaying like stalks of kelp in a western current, and she, an otter twisting among them as she dances. Sleek and warm and with only one wild and carnal drive: hunger. 

She wants to devour this scene. The red lights. The upward-reaching limbs. The abandon. The singing mouths, the smell of vodka, the smell of perfume and cologne that surges  when pressed too closely among the others. 

“11:11,” says Gwyn, not long after they arrive. “Make a wish.” 

You already know what she wishes for. 

Emerie hands her a shot instead of a birthday candle. It sears her throat and then lights her aflame and she throws herself back into dancing and dancing and oh, when she tilts her head back like this, baring her throat, she feels knifelike and untouchable and violent, like she could strangle the whole world in her fists. 

She imagines it. Sinking her teeth in. Getting the snow banks messy. Starting everything over so she doesn’t have to make so many mistakes this time. Sometimes, when Nesta buys a new book, she’ll bring it on the train and accidentally bend a corner when she goes to shove it in her bag in her haste to get off at her stop. Later, she’ll look at the crease, run her finger over it as if she can smooth it away, and fight the urge to buy a whole new copy—one she hasn’t irrevocably marred. She never does buy a new one; she knows, on some level, that it’s ridiculous to even consider it. 

No creases this year, she reminds herself. She’s drunk now. Half of her blood is vodka. The music goes even louder, like a reminder or a threat. Emerie is grinding up against a striking blonde girl now; Gwyn is making eyes at someone across the room, sweeping her hair off her collarbones like a challenge; Nesta feels a drop of sweat run down her temples and sucks more swollen air into her lungs, her body greedy for it in the club’s heat. 

All the lights go gas-flame blue, and that’s when she sees him. 

***

So it ended. Fine. But it had started once, too. 

Nesta had been in ballet as a child—no surprise, considering her family: upper class in a pearl-necklaces-and-endive-salads way. Everything was satin slippers and hair slicked back too tightly into unforgiving buns, until her mother died when she was fifteen and her father didn’t care enough to make her continue taking classes. It left her with a lithe body, a hatred of the Nutcracker, and a severe case of perfectionism. 

Her favorite show to dance had been Sleeping Beauty, so last winter, when she heard the Velaris Ballet was showing it, she went to see it twice. Once, with Gwyn and Emerie, and again with Elain, except Elain canceled last-minute and Nesta thought about canceling both their tickets and staying home, but didn’t. 

So, of course. He picked up Elain’s ticket. 

During the show, she could drink up the colorful dresses, the masterful dancing, the beautiful shapes the dancers’ bodies made as they moved gently across the stage. When intermission came, she had no such distraction. There was only the stranger sitting next to her in his night-black suit, and of course he was devastatingly beautiful, how could she not notice? Admiring him was inexorable. 

She caught him admiring her right back—those dark blue eyes making a steady, unapologetic map of her face. 

It happened in textbook steps, alarming in its simplicity, really: He introduced himself. They talked throughout the rest of intermission. At some point during the third act, his knee made its way to press against hers, and he didn’t pull it away, and she didn’t pull away, either. When the lights flooded back on, the spell broke, or maybe it was cast?, and he asked her if she’d like to see the Balanchine performance with him the following week, and she wrote her number on the back of his hand with a sharpie she’d found in her purse. He had beautiful hands, like a piano player, and she asked if he played, and he said Tchaikovsky was his favorite to play, it was why he liked coming to the ballet. 

Several weeks later, she would lie with her head in his lap, those nimble fingers combing through her hair, and ask, Play for me?, and he would, and it would become her favorite sound. And after that, she would sometimes sit on the edge of the bench, or kneel beside it, or stand behind him as he played, and close her eyes and imagine herself moving to the sound. Pas de bourré, pirouette. 

But not yet. That would come later. 

***

She sees him and the world keeps moving, even though she feels like it shouldn’t. She sees him and the world doesn’t end. It should. It doesn’t. 

A current of blue bodies around her. He swims right through them. She doesn’t look at Gwyn or Emerie when he reaches her because she doesn’t have to see their faces to know their reproach.

She’s been locked into those stunning eyes since she first caught them; in this blue light, they are so, so dark, like midnight, and just as devastating. And they devastate her, they do. 

Nesta thinks, You can’t unruin this. She thinks it so loudly that there’s no way he doesn’t hear it. But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at her, and she just looks at him, and, light with drink, she sways with the other kelp, sways right into him. 

She can smell the alcohol on his breath. He’s holding a drink—a gin and tonic. He always liked gin. Elderflower gin, something that sounded fairy-like and ancient, something that smelled divine and didn’t hurt going down. She takes the cup from his hand and downs half. It’s cheap; burns like hell. He takes it back. Holds her stare as he drinks down the rest and drops the cup on the nearest flat surface. 

He’s already drunk; she can tell because his face is a little too devastated when he looks at her. 

His hands on her waist. Her waist in his hands. His hips pressed to her stomach. Her stomach burning gas-flame blue. 

Nesta, he mouths. His eyes drop to her lips. His forehead drops to touch her own, as if he could press a feeling straight from his mind into hers. 

Don’t, she says. Or maybe she thinks it.

He kisses her. 

She kisses him back. 

It’s inevitable, after that. 

Gwyn and Emerie don’t even bother to stop her. They know better. He leads her downstairs, to the front of the club. She collects her coat. She follows him out onto the snow-driven street. A fresh coat has fallen since she and her friends went inside those few hours ago. It makes her think of new slates and starting over. 

It makes her think of the way her boots crush the powdery snowflakes to grey slush. 

You can’t unruin this. 

He lives close—close enough that they can’t justify anything other than walking. She doesn’t look over at him and he doesn’t take her hand as they walk, and it’s almost as if they’re colleagues, with this space between them. Space enough for her ghosting breaths to dissipate entirely before they could ever reach his face. 

And then—the bridge. The quay. Inevitable, she knew it, knew they’d have to cross the slushy Sidra, but. But. 

She can feel him looking at her. 

They reach the middle of the bridge, and she can’t keep going anymore. She’s shaking, knees knocking together embarrassingly, like a child. Nesta stops and she turns and she looks at the snow on the bridge and hates it for how serene it seems. 

“I missed you, Nesta,” he says. 

Past tense. He doesn’t anymore. He has her now, is what he means. He won't let go again, not like last time. 

“Are you cold?” he asks. “Do you want my coat?”

She bites her lip and shakes her head, still looking down at the snow. His shoes scuff the snow as he steps closer. He takes her in his arms and he is just as warm and comforting and safe as he ever was, and it makes her want to cry, but she doesn’t. She does let him hold her. Even though it makes everything worse. 

Rhys tilts up her chin and she keeps her eyes closed. He kisses her, so gently at first that she shudders, and then her mouth opens to him like a rose, and she presses harder into him, and he isn’t gentle anymore. 

Her lips, cracked from the cold, split and bleed when he bites into them, and their kisses change to copper. 

***

Nesta threw up before their first date. She stood in front of her mirror, trying to like the grey dress she was wearing, but she started thinking that maybe a dress was too much, and then she envisioned herself sitting stiffly next to the man—Rhysand—for the whole two and a half hours, not looking at him, and the thought—the thought of the awkwardness made her physically ill. He wouldn’t like her anymore, and then she would never be able to go to the ballet again, and and and—

She threw up neatly into the toilet, flushed it, brushed her teeth, and left. 

By the time she was walking up the steps to the theater, she was trembling like a fawn, but she needn’t have worried. He was charming—his hand holding the door for her, his hand steering her respectfully from the small of her back, his hand alighting on her knee during intermission and lingering there, light and steady, until the lights began to dim again and he pulled it away. 

The second half of the performance, she watched him. The way his breath caught at the crescendo of a number. The way his fingers tapped on his thighs in time with the notes. The way the bare light that reached them from the stage cast a glowing outline around the beautiful parts of his face, which seemed to be all of them. 

The ballet ended, and he invited her to get a late-night coffee; he knew a cafe, one run by real Italians, so she should know it was good. By midnight, she’d made him laugh so hard he’d choked on a sip of his cappuccino, and he had made her feel coltish and new and brilliant, and finally, entirely at ease.

He was always very good with prey. 

***

Nesta isn’t prey. She has a mouth full of teeth and she uses them. He’d do well to remember that, for fuck’s sake. 

She bites down too hard and Rhys makes a noise in his throat. She pushes him away and they stand there, panting, staring at each other. 

“Nesta,” he says. 

They stand on the bridge. The snow numbs sound, numbs hurt, numbs everything. 

“Come home with me, Nesta,” he says. 

She goes home with him. 

***

He loved her too hard. Maybe that was the problem. 

Rhys wasn’t clingy, desperate—nothing so plebian as that. It was more authoritative. More intense, like a bruise. He always, always wanted her. Sex, of course, but more than that. 

When it was sex, it was hungry. It was always too much, and it was never enough. It hurt every time, but it was never painful. There was sweat and tangled hair and open mouths and tenderness, always, and gentleness, only sometimes, only after. His hands were always tight around some part of her flesh, as if he were afraid she’d disappear the moment he let go, as if he could have more of her if he held more tightly. 

She could never stop herself from sinking her teeth in, anyways. His shoulder, his neck, his arms, his side. She’d never made a habit of it before. It was something primal only he could bring out in her. 

When it wasn’t sex, it was a different kind of want. Uncontainable, devastating. He wanted her like it hurt him. Sometimes she wasn’t even sure if he liked her. He just wanted her. 

One hot day that summer: billowing, gauzy curtains, Nesta in those lavender sleep shorts he liked so much, the hair around Rhys’s temples curling with sweat. Still, he held her close against him as they lay on the couch, her stomach to his stomach, her chest to his chest, her chin tucked against his shoulder. 

Nesta asked, “Why did you ask me out that day at the ballet?”

His arm banded around her more tightly. He said, “I liked the way you watched them. Hungrily. I wanted to make you look at me like that.” 

***

They step inside Rhys’s townhouse and the familiar smell hits her like a truck. It’s just the smell of a home—a home he’s lived in. Recently, without her. She wonders if his coffee machine still refuses to work unless he thumps the side of it as it gets going. She wonders if he ever got around to replacing the batteries in his TV remote. She wonders how many other women he’s brought here since everything ended. Maybe he fucks them in their own houses. Maybe he brings them here, has them on the couch, pushes the dove-grey pillows to the floor to make room for their bodies. She can’t imagine him fucking them in his bed, or she’ll throw up right here on his doormat. 

The door clicks behind her, shutting out the cold. The air inside is warm and still, waiting for something. His hand touches her waist, moves her until her back is against the wall, and she thinks this is it, this is the part where he kisses her and takes her apart—but not yet. 

Rhys kneels on the floor, takes her calf in his hands and slips off her boots, one by one, setting her feet down gently as if she were a child, or a queen. Something precious and vulnerable. 

His soft fingers, piano-player’s fingers, trail up her body as he rises, hitching her dress up with them. She knows how this ends and it hurts. He kisses her wet cheekbones, one and the other. 

“Nesta,” he says. He kisses her lips and she tastes salt. 

She sinks her hands into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulls him closer. 

Their kisses get harder, serious. She hitches her leg around his hips, presses into him—his beautiful fingers are everywhere. They tangle in her hair and pull her head back so he can better lick her throat. They count her ribs, looking for a way in. They move over her hips, down, cleverly stroking the wet seam of her underwear, starting out gentle, just how he knows she likes it. 

She reaches for his belt. She wonders, where will he have her? Will he bring her to the couch? Will he have her right here, against the wall? Will he take her back to his bed, or would that mean to much? 

Rhys shudders into her touch, eyes rolling back. His mouth is saying things like Fuck, Nesta, I missed you, yes, harder, more, Nesta, Nesta, Nesta—

He chokes on his own breaths and pulls her hands away. With a few tugs, her dress is over her head, and he sinks to his knees again. She looks off to the side, towards the door, not wanting to face the way he looks up at her. Devotion poisoned by possession. His hands are hot on the backs of her thighs. 

“Look at me, Nesta,” he orders. He pulls her underwear away—embarrassingly wet. The expression that flits across his face then—it’s a bit too relieved to be a smirk, but close. 

She puts her hands into the silky onyx strands before her. 

“Eat, then,” she says, unkindly. 

He does. Like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do. Like he’s afraid she’ll stop him, take it away from him. She wishes she would, but she doesn’t. She’s too weak to give up something this good. Something that feels so inevitable—what’s the use?

Nesta comes right there, silently, except for one gasping breath that she immediately stifles. It’s horrible, it’s so, so horrible, how badly she misses him in that moment. It hits her, a pain so sharp she nearly flinches. It’s so horrible. So obvious, how he’s ruined her. 

A tug on the backs of her knees, and her body falls obediently to straddle him where he kneels on the floor, her lips coming to meet his, hungrily taking the taste of herself from his tongue. He pulls her back, back, until he’s lying flat on the floor of the hallway, and she’s sitting over him, fumbling to yank off his shirt, to shove down his pants. Her body remembers how to move with him, remembers the steps to this. It remembers, even if her mind feels heavy and watered-down. 

There is a bright spark of pain as she sinks down onto him. Rhys looks up at her from the floor. His eyes glint like a country sky at night, his sin-dark hair splays across the floor like a sunburst, his mouth parts like submission. 

Nesta takes his throat in her hands and squeezes. “I hate you,” she tells him, and he lets her. Her knees press into the hardwood. He jerks his hips up with a groan. She says, “I hate you, Rhys.” 

She feels a tightness in her throat that means tears. She won’t cry. She lets go of his neck and bites into her palm to hold them at bay. She won’t cry, she won’t cry. Her fingerprints fade whitely from his skin. 

Rhys flips them over and settles his body over hers, between her knees. He fits in her body like he’s made for her. Her head fits just so in the space between his neck and his shoulder. She breathes him in through her nose, out through her mouth, as he begins to fuck her. He had always smelled so good, like something she shouldn’t eat. Sweet and rich, with some kind of spicy undertone, like pepper or ginger. Achingly sweet with a stinger. 

Rhys takes her hand away from her mouth and pulls her wrists over her head. 

“You love me, Nesta, you love me so,” he says. He threads his fingers in between hers. “You love me so.” 

***

Nesta closes her eyes as he washes her hair in the shower. 

“Nesta,” he says, smoothing soap away from her brow. “Stay.” 

She tilts her head up, but doesn’t open her eyes. “You keep saying my name,” she says.

She can feel the sigh come out of his chest. He says, “I’m afraid I’ll forget how it sounds.”

In spite of her will, her body begins to tremble. Anger and fear and rage and desperation all well up at once, and her eyes fly open, lashes dripping under the stream of the shower, and she means to say a hundred things—a hundred accusations and castigations—but only a single word comes out, choked in steam. “Please.” 

His face changes into a shape she doesn’t know well. “Nesta,” he breathes, pulling her body into his. 

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, she thinks. But she lets him towel her dry and brush out her hair and braid it down her back with his nimble fingers, the way she taught him, once. He pulls one of his t-shirts over her head—her favorite one, god, she hates that she has a favorite—and tucks her close to him under the covers. His sheets smell like his detergent and him, and it’s miserable, knowing he’s letting her go after this, even though that’s what she wanted in the first place. Catch and release. You can’t uncrease a paperback cover. You can only buy a whole new book. 

God. Twenty-four hours as a twenty-four year old and she’s already fucked everything up. She’s already let him ruin her. 

They lie there in his bed in his sheets in his townhouse on the river. She’s still drunk. She’s still here. His heart is still beating just a few ribs away from hers. She counts those beats, those bloodier sheep. One-one. One-one. One-one. One-one. 

She’s not entirely sure if she’s dreaming when he says it. She hopes she is. She wishes so badly that she is. 

I won’t go, he promises into the dark, into the sweet warmth. Just eat me whole. 

***

Snow falls overnight. 

In the morning, when Nesta looks out Rhys’s window, her eyes hurt to touch anything at all, it’s so bright. 

He is behind her, suddenly. His arms come around her, his chest pressing to her back. He fits. It is suddenly, terrifyingly, as if she never left. 

“Nesta,” he says, one last time. 

She turns in his arms, fitting herself into the crooks of his body. She is real, she is new, she is blinding like the pure fallen snow. 

Nesta makes a decision. 

“Rhys,” she answers, speaking against his heartbeat. 

When she smiles up at him, secretive and small, her ribcage opens up and curls around him like the legs of a spider.

[romanscool]

here's me dropping a very very (very) small thingy I wrote in about 5 secs two months ago and forgot to continue,,,

so here goes nothing I guess:

Keep it kinky (but I come first!):

Max hates sex. 

It’s weird. It’s uncomfortable. It’s too wet. Max doesn’t like it and he doesn’t think he will any time soon. 

It hasn’t always been this way. He used to somewhat enjoy sex when it eating out a gay girl when he wasn’t really sure what he really was yet or give a quick handy to a guy who he knows won’t want to reciprocate. It was good like this. He could label himself as a stone top and people would let him touch them without expecting to touch him after. 

It’s changed now. He’s on hormones, has been for the last couple of years, and it’s fucking hard to not want to be touched anymore. His sex drive is through the roof, even worse than what it used to be when he was fourteen and sleeping with a pillow between his legs to get some relief without actually addressing whatever was down there. It’s worse than fucking puberty and even the slightest touch gets him off. It’s crazy. He feels like a fucking perv every time someone taps his shoulder after a good race, because his body acknowledges the touch as sexual even though it isn’t. Max knows it isn’t. His libido likes to disagrees. 

------ aka a trans!Max very small thingy (kinda wanted it to be inspired by JOYRIDE by KESHA) that I'd like to continue one day maybe,,,

[theuniversetraveler]

So I've been working on the TOME RPG AU and decided to make some quick character doodles of the Universe Travelers guild. (Of course these were supposed to be quick, but it took me three weeks to make these...)

Anyways, this is the guild that Dusty and some of friends made. The core group is these four, and there are some other friends that sometimes join them and rotate in and out of the party from time to time. We'll get into them later, but for now we're just gonna focus on these four.

Mightydust aka Dusty - A fourteen year old boy that lives with his mom, his dad having passed away a while ago. He's an optimistic, headstrong, and kindhearted kid, whose enthusiasm for the game (and life in general) is a beacon for the team. He was the first to join the guild after it was formed by Chris and Sara. (This old post is still pretty accurate, with a few tweaks)

Sparks aka Chris - A twenty-eight year old man and one of the founding members of the Universe Travelers guild. He's an unassuming quiet guy irl, and kind of a loner. Online, however, his true colors show, being a kind, thoughtful individual with a sarcastic edge. He's kind of the older brother to Dusty and Tenchi (another younger player), and often times gives them advice and lends an ear for when they need it. Fun Fact: Sparks is Chris' second character, the first being a technical weaonary human named The Universe Traveler.

UnivrsTrvlr aka Sara - A twenty-six year old woman and the other founding member of the Universe Travelers guild. One of Chris' only irl friends, she's an extrovert with the patience of a saint. The two of them have been friends for a long time (since they were young teens), and created their characters for the game together. She took the UnivrsTrvlr name when Chris made Sparks and he left his old character so no one would use it.

ActionBolt aka Mason - A fourteen year old boy that is an irl friend of Dusty's. He's an astute kid with a positive attitude that's always willing to help. He goes to a private school for gifted kids, and he and Dusty met when both their schools held a joint event as a fundraiser. The two bonded over TOME, and eventually Mason made Bolt and joined the guild.

There we have it! Happy to revisit TOME!Dusty and Bolt. I haven't drawn him in forever. Sara is a character that I haven't drawn at all, and I'm kinda taking this as an experiment to see what I want to do with her actual design going forward.

Gonna try and do the other characters (quicker next time, hehe) of the other guild soon. Also shout out to @d-buggers-org for the emblems from the game. Hope you don't mind I borrow them for these.

[anexperimentallife]

Help a Filipino family with a newborn to avoid homelessness

EDIT: PLEASE SEE UPDATED POST!

Some of you remember Jhane (aka @geniussheepworld), who moved in a while back to help Zoey (aka @thesurestthing) take care of the baby and me when I was hooked up to an oxygen machine. (I'm posting this to my blog instead of her posting it to hers because she's fairly new to Tumblr, and we didn't want her to get mistaken for part of the bot/scammer infestation.)

Jhane's family needs help to keep their house!

Jhane's father works as a taxi driver, earning less than 10,000 pesos (about 200 USD) per month. But even so, twenty years ago, the Tolentinos managed to build a house on land that the title-holder promised they could occupy forever, as long as they took care of the land--which they've done.

That title-holder passed away, though, and his heir is demanding they pay him 19,000 pesos (about 380 USD) immediately, and 19,000 more every six month, or he will throw them out of the house they built. (They've already been through the courts trying to fight it; the previous owner hadn't taken steps to ensure his heir would honor his promise.)

The Tolentinos have a newborn baby, a five-year-old, a fourteen-year-old, and a sixteen-year-old living at home. As I said, Jhane is living with us now, but we can't afford (and don't have room) to take in the entire family.

380 USD now and 380 more in six months might not sound like much to a lot of Westerners, but 380 dollars is two month's salary for the Tolentinos. 380 now would buy them time for six more months, and double that (about 760 USD) would give them a year to find another source of income.

As I said, Jhane has already moved back in with us, which will hopefully make things easier financially for the rest of the family. We'd like to do more to help, but we're still swimming in debt from the whole drama with our daughter's paperwork snafu and all our medical bills from the past couple of years. (We appreciate everyone's help with that, too!) And while we can eventually pay that off, we don't have any extra money right now to give Jhane's family.

So if you can help them, please do. Jhane's link is below. And thank you.

Paypal Donation Link

And here's a picture of a grateful Jhane:

[fearlessinger]

Time to address the Halcyon Green-shaped elephant in the room aka let me explain to you why I think it’s canon even though it seems like it should not be aka another installment of Tinfoilhatting With Fsinger

I’m really sorry I could not think of a better title. Hope you’re intrigued enough to follow me in this journey anyway. 

So. The thing is. 

The Halcyon story, taken as it is, does not gel with TOA at all. 

And not because it’s OOC for Apollo to have done what Halcyon says he’s done to him… Although I think it is. I think an argument can and should be made – and has been made by @flightfoot before – that this story, taken as it is, is essentially… incompatible with Apollo’s characterization in every other scrap of the RRverse he appears in. (This story, and also the Harpocrates story, which I won’t examine here because it deserves its own post. For now I’ll just say it’s interesting to note that it’s the two additions to Apollo’s background that Rick invented out of whole cloth that share this peculiarity, and I don’t think it’s by mistake). 

But whether the Halcyon story breaks the internal consistency of Apollo’s characterization or not is a matter of secondary importance in the face of the fact that the Halcyon story breaks the internal consistency of the TOA narrative as a whole. 

Take this excerpt from The Diary Of Luke Castellan:

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

Halcyon shrugged listlessly. The monster spoke for him: “I have lost count. Decades? Because my father is the god of oracles, I was born with the curse of seeing the future. Apollo warned me to keep quiet. He told me I should never share what I saw because it would anger the gods. But many years ago…I simply had to speak. I met a young girl who was destined to die in an accident. I saved her life by telling her the future.”

I tried to focus on the old man, but it was hard not to look at the monster’s mouth—those black lips, the slavering bone-plated jaws.

“I don’t get it…” I forced myself to meet Halcyon’s eyes. “You did something good. Why would that anger the gods?”

“They don’t like mortals meddling with fate,” the leucrota said. “My father cursed me. He forced me to wear these clothes, the skin of Python, who once guarded the Oracle of Delphi, as a reminder that I was not an oracle. He took away my voice and locked me in this mansion, my boyhood home. Then the gods set the leucrotae to guard me. Normally, leucrotae only mimic human speech, but these are linked to my thoughts. They speak for me. They keep me alive as bait, to lure other demigods. It was Apollo’s way of reminding me, forever, that my voice would only lead others to their doom.”

An angry coppery taste filled my mouth. I already knew the gods could be cruel. My deadbeat dad had ignored me for fourteen years. But Halcyon Green’s curse was just plain wrong. It was evil.

Now think back on all the times Apollo compares Nero to Zeus or even Kronos, and all the times he does not include himself too as a term of comparison.

Remember how Apollo equated Nero warning Meg her disobedience would “make him unleash the Beast” to Zeus warning his children to not “get on the wrong side of my lightning bolts”, rightfully recognizing that they are the exact same kind of manipulative abdication to personal responsibility + shifting of the blame onto the injured party that’s a staple of the classic abuser’s playbook? Well, at the same time as he noted that, he was omitting to add that he himself had threatened Halcyon in an almost identical manner, telling his son that to disobey him would “anger the gods”. 

And not only was Apollo omitting that, he was explicitly equating himself to Lu instead. Lu, who, yes, was a cog in the abusive machine that kept Meg trapped, but was so against her own wishes, because she really had no other choice, no better options. Lu, who only ever tried to help Meg survive. Who jumped at the chance to help set Meg free as soon as it was offered to her, even knowing that Meg’s freedom would likely come at the cost of her own life. 

Remember how Apollo mentally tuned out Nero’s villain monologue right in the middle of the ‘Top 100 Times Apollo Has Failed As A Parent’ section, ensuring that we, the readers, would not risk learning about Halcyon even in this manner?

Because Apollo is the narrator of TOA. He’s the one who chooses what to let us know, and what information he wants to withhold from us. 

Bearing this in mind, doesn’t the thought that he’d purposely choose to bury the Halcyon story fill you with rage? It sure has that effect on me! :))) (Yes, those are angry smiles in case you couldn’t tell.)

It’s painfully clear, right from the very beginning of THO, that Apollo’s not oblivious to the nature and mechanics of abuse. Especially abuse perpetrated by parents on their children. He knows exactly what that is and how it works. He calls it by name. He explains it to us and to Meg, repeatedly. He points fingers. At several people. 

Never at himself.

Oh, he easily admits to being a “terrible father”. He expresses regret and apologizes for it multiple times. But the implication, all through the 5 books that make up the TOA series, is that he’s guilty of neglect, not of active abuse. 

And we know, even though Apollo never even tries to defend himself, that the neglect is not really a free choice on his part. He DOES want to be there for his children. But he can’t. He’s not allowed to. The laws of non interference forbid it, and the consequences of disobeying Olympus’s laws… well the whole series is an example of how dire they can be. 

‘Hey, if we don’t get out of this –’

‘None of that talk,’ I chided.

‘Yeah, but I wanted to tell you, I’m glad we had some time together. Like … time time.’

His words warmed me even more than Paul Blofis’s lasagne.

I knew what he meant. While I’d been Lester Papadopoulos, I hadn’t spent much time with Austin, or any of the people I’d stayed with, really, but it had been more than we’d ever spent together when I was a god. [...]

I was tempted to promise we’d do this more often if we survived, but I’d learned that promises are precious. If you’re not absolutely sure you can keep them, you should never make them [...].

So despite how much he wants to – and we know how much he wants to because he tells us, because by the end of the series he’s not hiding it anymore – Apollo can’t promise Austin that they’ll spend more time together, even if they both survive. The uncertainty has nothing to do with the fact that they are currently facing death. Apollo makes it crystal clear.

Right after his triumphant return on Olympus, where he’s welcomed with full honors, he still doesn’t dare state plainly his desire to go back to visit his children and all the mortals who have helped him along the way. “I’ll visit some old friends,” he says, fully knowing how that will be interpreted, and silently accepts Dionysus’ contribution in muddying the waters even further.

I don’t say this to absolve him. It’s right of Apollo to acknowledge that he’s failed his children. That he should have tried more, and harder, to be there for them anyway. That he must try more and harder NOW. And he does. 

But none of the above addresses the Halcyon situation at all. The Halcyon situation is simply not the same. 

The closest the TOA narrative ever gets to forcing Apollo to tackle a comparable sort of issue is when it introduces Trophonius, the only other son of Apollo whom we see harbor any kind of resentment toward his father… but even in Trophonius’ case, Apollo is guilty of inaction, not of taking active, violent action against his son. 

Granted, there’s good reason to suspect that in Trophonius’s time the rules against divine intervention weren’t yet as strict as they are in the modern age, so Apollo does not have that excuse for his inaction there. And Apollo himself admits there was some sort of punitive intent on his part: he felt Trophonius “deserved to face the consequences” of his bad choices. But even considering all this… the Trophonius situation and the Halcyon situation are still light years apart in their substance.

Trophonius used the talent and the opportunities to make it shine that he’d gotten from his father (we can certainly add nepotism to the list of Apollo’s crimes) to fraud and rob his clients, and was left to deal on his own with the fallout of being discovered.

Halcyon was admonished by Apollo to never use the talent he’d inherited, and chose to disregard that admonition to save the life of a little girl. Something which by the way had zero negative consequences that we know of. For this, Apollo personally took it upon himself to actively punish him, by walling him up in his own house and cursing him to become the twisted instrument of death of countless innocent children for the rest of his days. 

The two above things… are not the same. 

One might even say the two above things stand in contradiction one with the other, but again that’s not the argument I’m making right now. My point is Apollo’s regret for refusing to help Trophonius and Agamethus can’t even begin to cover what Apollo did to Halcyon.

There is nothing in the whole of TOA that can be construed as even just… a viable proxy to at the very least obliquely address the Halcyon story, and what it implies about Apollo as a god, as a person, and as a parent.

And no, Apollo’s memory problems aren’t a good enough excuse for sidestepping this reckoning, because

that only works if we assume the Halcyon story is a single isolated incident and not representative of a pattern of behavior on Apollo’s part… which brings us right back to the idea that it’s actually OOC for Apollo to have done what Halcyon says he’s done to him. And

at the end of the series Apollo gets all of his godly brain power back. And what happens then? He condemns one final, definitive time Zeus’s and Nero’s treatment of their children without even so much as hinting that he himself has been guilty of exactly the same behavior in the past. Not even the distant past, but a few decades ago at most! 

Again I ask: doesn’t that fill you with rage? :))

And yet the narrative contract here explicitly requires us to buy into Apollo’s honesty of intentions. No, there is no guarantee that he will manage to keep his promises. There is no guarantee that from now on he will do everything right either. But we are supposed to at least believe that he WANTS to. At the end of the series, Apollo literally asks us to put our faith and trust in him. 

But how can we do that in the face of him choosing to never come clean about the Halcyon thing? 

We can’t.

So. Where am I going with this? Am I arguing that the novella should be expunged from canon after all? 

No, as stated in the title, I am not. There is a very simple way to reconcile the Halcyon novella with the story that is told in TOA, the Apollo that we hear about in the Halcyon novella with the Apollo we got to know in the 5 books that star him as both protagonist and narrator. All we need to do is let ourselves consider the possibility that Halcyon's punishment… was not Apollo's choice. 

Yes, Apollo was the one to enact it, there’s no doubt about that. But he wasn’t the one who came up with it. He wasn’t the one who wanted it.

And the clues are there.

All throughout the series, there is one character who is particularly fearful of prophecies. Who condemned Apollo to his own punishment at the end of HOO by citing as a reason that he'd been too quick to name a new Pythia who could speak the future into existence. Who could plausibly have taken issue with Halcyon’s one single act of interference specifically, because it might not look like it but Halcyon saving that little girl's life is the first domino falling in the long chain that will lead to Luke allying with Kronos, the second Titanomachy, and Olympus' stability being threatened thrice in less than a decade. The character whose personal symbols pop up in key moments of the story: the goat Amalthea, the aegis replica destined to Thalia, his own daughter. 

“Prophecies,” Apollo tells Meg in THO, rather vehemently, “are the catalysts for every important event—every quest or battle, disaster or miracle, birth or death. Prophecies don’t simply foretell the future. They shape it! They allow the future to happen.” 

Zeus takes this to mean that if he can just stop prophecies from being uttered he can prevent any problem from materializing. 

Frank looked at Zeus. ‘Um, sir, Your Majesty, can’t you gods just pop over there with us? You’ve got the chariots and the magic powers and whatnot.’

‘Yes!’ Hazel said. ‘We defeated the giants together in two seconds. Let’s all go –’

‘No,’ Zeus said flatly.

‘No?’ Jason asked. ‘But, Father –’

Zeus’s eyes sparked with power, and Jason realized he’d pushed his dad as far as he could for today … and maybe for the next few centuries.

‘That’s the problem with prophecies,’ Zeus growled. ‘When Apollo allowed the Prophecy of Seven to be spoken, and when Hera took it upon herself to interpret the words, the Fates wove the future in such a way that it had only so many possible outcomes, so many solutions. You seven, the demigods, are destined to defeat Gaia. We, the gods, cannot.’

According to Zeus, prophecies constrain the future. They lock people into a predetermined course of action, a predetermined outcome. They take away people’s ability to choose.

There’s a whole debate to be had on whether Zeus is right or not to think so – and a whole other debate to be had on top of that one on whether Zeus truly believes this is the case or just chooses to delude himself that it is because doing so absolves him of responsibility – but for the moment what matters is that Apollo disagrees with him. 

‘Zeus was already angry with me for appointing that new girl, Rachel Dare, as my Oracle. Zeus seems to think I hastened the war with Gaia by doing so, since Rachel issued the Prophecy of Seven as soon as I blessed her. But prophecy doesn’t work that way! [...]’

Apollo thinks of prophecy as a guide, not a prison. Ultimately, it’s still up to each individual to make their own choices:

“The only other person I’ve ever known to have this, er, firewood problem, back in the old days, was this prince named Meleager. His mom got the same kind of prophecy when he was a baby. But she never even told Meleager about the firewood. She just hid it and let him live his life. He grew up to be kind of a privileged, arrogant brat.”

Hazel held Frank’s hand with both of hers. “Frank could never be like that.”

“I know,” I said. “Anyway, Meleager ended up killing a bunch of his relatives. His mom was horrified. She went and found the piece of firewood and threw it in the fire. Boom. End of story.”

Hazel shuddered. “That’s horrible.”

“The point is, Frank’s family was honest with him. His grandmother told him the story of Juno’s visit. She let him carry his own lifeline. She didn’t try to protect him from the hard truth. That shaped who he is. [...] By burning his own tinder, he kind of…I don’t know, started a new fire with it. He’s in charge of his own destiny now. Well, as much as any of us are.

Apollo really believes in people’s right to make their own choices. He believes in people’s right to take responsibility for those choices too. But to be able to do that, people need to be informed. 

“Die,” I repeated.

“Yeah.”

“Not disappear, not wouldn’t come back, not suffer defeat.”

“Nope. Die. Or more accurately, three letters, starts with D.”

“Not dad, then,” I suggested. “Or dog.”

One fine blond eyebrow crept above the rim of his glasses. “If you seek out the emperor, one of you will dog? No, Apollo, the word was die.”

“Still, that could mean many things. It could mean a trip to the Underworld. It could mean a death such as Leo suffered, where you pop right back to life. It could mean—” 

“Now you’re being evasive,” [...] Jason’s stare was unrelenting. I suspected that in the weeks since his talk with Herophile, he had run every scenario. He was well past the bargaining stage in dealing with this prophecy. He had accepted that death meant death, the way Piper McLean had accepted that Oklahoma meant Oklahoma. I didn’t like that.

“Let’s assume you’re correct,” I said. “You didn’t tell Piper the truth because—?”

“You know what happened to her dad.” [...]

“Yes, but you can’t know how the prophecy will unfold.” [...]

Jason shrugged. “[...] I knew you’d be coming to find me. Herophile said so. If you’d just waited another week—”

“Then what?” I demanded. “You would’ve let us lead you cheerily off to your death? How would that have affected Piper’s peace of mind, once she found out?”

Jason’s ears reddened. It struck me just how young he was—no more than seventeen. [...] Despite all his experiences, was it fair of me to expect him to think logically, and consider everyone else’s feelings with perfect clarity, while pondering his own death? 

I tried to soften my tone. “You don’t want Piper to die. I understand that. She wouldn’t want you to die. But avoiding prophecies never works. And keeping secrets from friends, especially deadly secrets…that really never works. It’ll be our job to face Caligula together, steal that homicidal maniac’s shoes, and get away without any five-letter words that start with D.”

The scar ticked at the corner of Jason’s mouth. “Donut?”

It’s hard to say for sure how big a part did Jason’s resignation play in sealing his fate. This is not the time for that discussion anyway, but I think it’s important to make note of the fact that Apollo really, really did not like it. That Jason’s resignation is in fact what scared Apollo the most. 

I quoted the above passage almost in full because I think it exemplifies and summarizes better than almost anything Apollo’s views on prophecy.

Apollo thinks of prophecy as a beacon in the darkness. It spurs people into action. It lights up their way and pushes them forward, far from the safe stagnancy whose ultimate and truer expression is death (or immortality. But that too is a digression for another time). It doesn’t take away people’s choices: it gives them new ones.

It’s easy to forget, but Apollo is not just the god of prophecy; he is the god of knowledge and truth too. As much as he’s guilty of doing it himself, he does not actually believe in sticking your head in the sand. 

"I warned you," a new voice said. [...]

"You dare come here?" Hades growled. "I should blast you to dust!"

"You cannot," the girl said. "The power of Delphi protects me." [...]

"You've killed the woman I loved!" Hades roared. "Your prophecy brought us to this.'" He loomed over the girl, but she didn't flinch. 

"Zeus ordained the explosion to destroy the children," she said, "because you defied his will. I had nothing to do with it. And I did warn you to hide them sooner." [...]

"Perhaps I cannot bring back Maria. Nor can I bring you to an early death. But your soul is still mortal, and I can curse you."

All through the course of PJO, HOO and TOA we see Apollo’s oracle – his oracles plural, in fact: the Sibyl of Cumae and the Sibyl of Erythrae too in addition to the Pythia – share everything they know punctually and without fail. It’s their job to warn people about the future on Apollo’s behalf, despite the unwarranted backlash they get for it. Apollo himself is heavily implied to be the one who’s sending demigods their convenient prophetic dreams. And who else but Apollo could be the source of Octavian’s confidence that the Sibylline books had survived the fall of Rome, well before Percy, Hazel and Frank met Ella the harpy? 

In TOA, we see Apollo share all that he learns as soon as he learns it, with each and every one of the people he can count on his side. Even when he thinks it will be detrimental, even when he fears their reaction. He still tells them.

The only times we see Apollo be anything less than forthcoming, it’s to cover up the fact that he legitimately does not have the answer. This became extremely clear in TOA, but Percy, who’s much more intuitive than a lot of people give him credit for, had figured it out already in TTC:

"But it's your Oracle," I protested. "Can't you tell us what the prophecy means?" 

Apollo sighed. "You might as well ask an artist to explain his art, or ask a poet to explain his poem. It defeats the purpose. The meaning is only clear through the search." 

"In other words, you don't know."

Apollo checked his watch. "Ah, look at the time! I have to run. [...]"

So, here’s the million dollar question: why would Apollo be opposed to Hal doing the same thing he himself always does? Sharing Knowledge? Giving a little girl a choice, a chance to save herself? 

He wouldn’t. He is not the one who was against it. He is certainly not the one who wanted to see Hal punished for it.

This recontextualizes Halcyon’s words that “Apollo warned me to keep quiet,” because to speak about the future “would anger the gods.” This phrasing is not an indication of Apollo trying to shirk responsibility for the punishment he was threatening his son with. It’s the literal truth. Halcyon putting his powers to good use would anger the gods – not Apollo himself. Gods like Hades who cursed Apollo’s oracle for trying to warn him of imminent danger, or Zeus who stripped Apollo of his immortality for revealing a prophecy “prematurely”. Gods who should very much not be named lest they turn their attention to Apollo and his son.

In this light, I feel it’s pretty illuminating to look back on this line from THO, right out of Apollo’s own mouth:

How could I have been so foolish? Whenever I angered the other gods, those closest to me were struck down.

Of course, Zeus would have been perfectly capable of enacting the punishment himself, much like he'd done with Asclepius, but… with everything we know about Zeus’ parenting and ruling style after TOA… it’s not that hard to imagine he might have wanted to make a point here. It’s not hard to imagine that having to personally deliver the punishment to his own son might have been Apollo’s own punishment for his son’s transgression. 

Remember how many times Apollo likens Zeus to Nero? Wouldn’t it make a scary amount of sense for this to be a “Cassius, I’m rewarding you by letting you cut Luguselwa's hands” move on Zeus’ part?

Apollo, in my generosity, I allow you to give your son the horrible news yourself. 

And of course Apollo would have taken the offer. Of course he’d have accepted to take part in this sick game. What other choice did he have? Defying his father? Declaring war on the king of the gods? Should he have murdered some of Zeus’ favorite servants again? He’d done it for Asclepius, and still had not been able to win him a better deal than forever jail. Which, granted, would still have been a better deal than the one Halcyon got… provided that Apollo could achieve that kind of victory again. 

Something else to consider: Halcyon almost certainly wasn’t Apollo’s only child at the time. And if Apollo had more children, then those children undoubtedly would have become more targets for Zeus’ anger, had their father dared provoke it any further. 

Perhaps Apollo should have taken the risk. Perhaps Apollo chose wrong. But there was no path for him to choose that would not lead to the slaughter of innocents. 

At least, this way, Apollo could see and speak to Hal one last time. This way, he could leave his son with a promise that his punishment would come to an end. 

Because it’s obvious, from Halcyon’s account of his father’s words and actions, that Apollo had foreseen that Luke and Thalia would be the ones to break the curse, and that Hal would be able to escape his misery by dying to save the life of Zeus’ daughter, and therefore had taken care to set up the means for that potential future to be realized. 

The book containing the recipe for greek fire, that Hal was strangely confident they would find on his bookshelves. 

The safe containing the aegis replica, an item befitting Zeus’ progeny, that only a son of Hermes could successfully open, and that Hal remembers Apollo telling him “was sealed since before [Hal] was born”. Who could have done that, and why, if not Apollo so that Thalia could eventually take rightful ownership of it? 

I’d dare suggest, even, that Apollo might have been the one who sent the goat, with the precise intention of luring Thalia and Luke into the trap, knowing that they would make it out thanks to Hal’s sacrifice, with a gift such to ensure that Thalia’s divine father would have no reason to object to the final outcome of Apollo's gamble, and every incentive to overlook how it had been orchestrated. 

But of course Apollo would never tell his son “I had no choice” because WHEN DOES HE EVER. Five books and WE are the only souls he’s actually confessed being an abuse victim to, and even to us he’s given zero details. He never makes excuses for himself. He doesn’t think it matters that he could. He holds himself responsible anyway. 

He believes that he must, because his father never does.

‘I know you think your punishment was harsh, Apollo.’

I did not answer. I tried my best to keep my expression polite and neutral.

‘But you must understand,’ Zeus continued, ‘only you could have overthrown Python. Only you could have freed the Oracles. And you did it, as I expected. The suffering, the pain along the way… regrettable, but necessary [...].’

I had no choice, is Zeus’ constant refrain. I can’t help you, he tells the demigods. “You did not ask for this,” he tells Jason. “I did not want it.” And yet who could have forced the hand of the king of the gods?

He tells his son “I can’t praise you.” He tells him “I can’t give you credit.” He says “someone must take the blame.” He says “it’s the lightning bolt that hurt you.” He says “you must understand. It was necessary. I had no choice.” 

So Apollo refuses to claim the words for himself, even if they are true.

It’s very noble, but also incredibly misguided. It’s the root of all the communication problems he has with his children. The reason why he can’t bring himself to answer Will, and Kayla, and Austin, when they try to tell him that they want him in their lives, not just once or twice, but always, every day. Even they, who know they are loved, have absolutely no idea how much. 

“Maybe Apollo meant we’re going to rescue you,” Thalia said.

Hal typed a new sentence: Or maybe I die today.

“Thank you, Mr. Cheerful,” I said. “I thought you could tell the future. You don’t know what will happen?”

Hal typed: I can’t look. It’s too dangerous. You can see what happened to me last time I tried to use my powers.

“Sure,” I grumbled. “Don’t take the risk. You might mess up this nice life you’ve got here.”

I knew that was mean. But the old man’s cowardice annoyed me. He’d let the gods use him as a punching bag for too long. It was time he fought back, preferably before Thalia and I became the leucrotae’s next meal.

Hal lowered his head. His chest was shaking, and I realized he was crying silently.

When Luke and Thalia meet him at the beginning of the tale, Halcyon is resigned to his fate, and terrified that if he tries to fight it he'll be punished even worse, somehow. He's lost all faith in his father's judgment, and, if he ever had any, in his father's promise of freedom too. He's surrendered to utter despair. He resists Luke's demands that he do something, anything, to help both them and himself. 

Then Luke manages to open the safe, and Hal begins to realize that… maybe… just maybe... there’s a possibility that his father had not lied to him. 

Hal showed us the short novel he’d written: You’re the ones!! You actually got the treasure!! I can’t believe it!! That safe has been sealed since before I was born!! Apollo told me my curse would end when the owner of the treasure claimed it!! If you’re the owner—

He's still terrified. He struggles to let himself dare hope. But eventually he finds the courage to do the right thing once again: use his talent to save the life of these kids who don't deserve to die. 

He reads Thalia's future. 

And then he reads Luke's.

I could feel Hal’s pulse in my fingers—one, two, three.

His eyes flew open. He yanked his hands away and stared at me in terror.

“Okay,” I said. My tongue felt like sandpaper. “I’m guessing you didn’t see anything good.”

It’s in that moment, as he finds himself in the exact same position his father Apollo had once been, seeing the terrible tragedy in this child’s future that he knows, in spite of his best efforts, he won’t be able to avert… It’s in that moment that Hal finally understands. 

Hal picked up his green leather diary. He gestured for me to follow him. We walked to the closet doorway, where Hal took a pen from his jacket and flipped through the book. I saw pages and pages of neat, cramped handwriting. Finally Hal found an empty page and scribbled something.

He handed the book to me.

The note read, Luke, I want you to take this diary. It has my predictions, my notes about the future, my thoughts about where I went wrong. I think it might help you.

I shook my head. “Hal, this is yours. Keep it.”

He took back the book and wrote, You have an important future. Your choices will change the world. You can learn from my mistakes, continue the diary. It might help you with your decisions.

“What decisions?” I asked. “What did you see that scared you so badly?”

His pen hovered over the page for a long time. I think I finally understand why I was cursed, he wrote. Apollo was right. Sometimes the future really is better left a mystery.

“Hal, your father was a jerk. You didn’t deserve—”

Hal tapped the page insistently. 

We are not made privy to Hal’s thought processes in detail. Apollo was right, he writes, and he bristles when Luke tries to protest that notion. He taps the page insistently. What is he trying to communicate? Surely he can’t think that Apollo was right to warn him off of trying to use his gift to save people? 

Especially because… Halcyon is at this very moment once again defying fate to try and save someone. He is at this very moment trying to save Luke from the terrible future he’s seen. 

He knows he doesn’t know enough. He knows he can’t tell Luke what to do. Luke will have to make his own choices. But Hal can make sure those choices will be as informed as possible. Hal wants to give him a chance. He wants to give him hope, something to hang onto when he will be tried. He wants to give Luke what his father had given him. 

Because Hal understands now. Not everything, of course, no. He, and Luke and Thalia too, are still missing the most important pieces of the puzzle. But, clearly, Hal understands enough. Enough to make peace in his heart with his father. Enough to trust that he will get the release his father had promised him in death. Enough to die with a prayer in honor of his father on his lips, quite literally dedicating his heroic sacrifice to him. 

I heard Halcyon Green, shouting a battle cry: “For Apollo!” 

We have no idea what kind of relationship Hal and Apollo had once upon a time. We don’t know what the tone of Hal and Apollo’s last conversation was. Did Apollo allow his heartbreak to show on his face? Did he tell Hal how sorry he was? 

Certainly, he would not have blamed Zeus, and he would not have tried to exculpate himself. Which is why Halcyon still ultimately thinks this was Apollo's decision. 

And yet, something peculiar happens when Hal narrates his conversations with Apollo. "My father warned me," he says, "my father cursed me". But in between those we get "then the gods set the leucrotae to guard me". The gods. There’s that phrasing again. And it does make me wonder... is this how Apollo presented the whole thing to Hal? Are these Apollo’s own words? 

I have to say, I really can see it. This is the will of the gods, Apollo would have said, and just... never specified but NOT MINE. Because he felt that he had no right to Hal’s understanding, let alone Hal’s forgiveness. 

Did Hal pick up on that subconsciously anyway?

We don’t know what kind of relationship Hal and Apollo had once upon a time. We know, because Hal tells us, that Hal had faithfully heeded his father’s warning, until the day he met that little girl, and found that his conscience would not allow him to let her die. We know that in the end Hal forgave his father. That Hal, in his last seconds of life, took comfort in his father’s name.

Why would Hal do such a 180 on Apollo in such a short amount of time? Just based on the realization that Apollo had indeed foreseen all this, and prepared accordingly? Because of what he’d seen when he looked into Luke’s future? It’s a hell of a leap from “Apollo can’t punish me any worse than he already has” to “Apollo was right”, and one that really there’s no way to make logical sense of… unless Hal had just been waiting for an excuse, any excuse, to reconcile himself with the memory of his father. Unless, all this time, Hal had wished nothing more than to be able to believe in his father again.

We don’t know what kind of relationship Hal and Apollo had once upon a time. But Hal’s change of heart, and his behavior leading up to his end, would seem to suggest rather a good one. Not too dissimilar, perhaps, from the one Apollo shares with his kids in the present.

Or perhaps Hal was just scared and desperate as he readied himself to die, and grasping for straws because straws were all he got. For all we know, that’s possible too.

But that is not how Hal appears to Luke in his last moments. 

He met my eyes, and I finally understood what he was planning. “Don’t,” I said. “We can all make it out.” Hal pursed his lips. He wrote, We both know that’s impossible. I can communicate with the leucrotae. I am the logical choice for bait. You and Thalia wait in the closet. I’ll lure the monsters into the bathroom. I’ll buy you a few seconds to reach the exit panel before I set off the explosion. It’s the only way you’ll have time.

“No,” I said.

But his expression was grim and determined. He didn’t look like a cowardly old man anymore. He looked like a demigod, ready to go out fighting.

I couldn’t believe he was offering to sacrifice his life for two kids he’d just met, especially after he’d suffered for so many years. And yet, I didn’t need pen and paper to see what he was thinking. This was his chance at redemption. He would do one last heroic thing, and his curse would end today, just as Apollo had foreseen.

He scribbled something and handed me the diary. The last word read: Promise.

I took a deep breath, and closed the book. “Yeah. I promise.”

In his last moments, Hal is full of dignity and hope. He finally finds the courage to stand up tall and proud of himself again. I feel it would be doing Hal a disservice to assume that, in those last moments, his renewed faith in his father was grounded in delusion rather than truth.

What was he trying to communicate to Luke in their last exchange? What did he think Luke could learn from his diary? What is the promise that he asked Luke to make? We’ll never know. Luke chooses to not tell us. 

Luke chooses to erase Hal’s last words to him from the narrative, and substitute his own. 

I couldn’t shake my grief.

Promise, Halcyon Green had written.

I promise, Hal, I thought. I will learn from your mistakes. If the gods ever treat me that badly, I will fight back.

There’s a lot to be said about the way Halcyon and Luke influence each other in opposite directions. About the way Halcyon’s death and Luke’s death mirror each other. About the way Halcyon’s relationship with Apollo mirrors Luke’s relationship with Hermes. I know @tsarinatorment has excellent thoughts re: this, and not only this, that I hope she will share.

But for now this is already long enough, and so to bring us back to my original point… No, the Halcyon story, taken as it is, does not gel with TOA at all. But once you dig just a little deeper under the surface of it… I’d dare say it becomes impossible to rule it out of canon, because it fits too well within canon. It fills in the narrative blanks left by Apollo, who never tells us the details of Zeus’ abuse, and therefore… never tells us about Hal. 

To tell us about Hal would require Apollo to admit that he had no choice. No good ones at least. It would require Apollo to admit that he’s not at fault. 

But how can he not be at fault? He literally did do this. It was his words that cursed his son. His hands that delivered the instruments of torture.

So Apollo doesn’t talk about Halcyon. But when he calls himself a terrible father, when he berates himself for his failures as a parent, as a person, as a god, you bet he’s holding himself responsible for Halcyon too.

And in this light it’s interesting, I think, to note that despite how Apollo feels re: prophecy there are no known present day children of Apollo who possess the power to look into the future. There’s only Octavian, who is a legacy, and whose gift is implied to have been passed down his family line, and perhaps Georgina, who is in all likelihood a legacy too, possibly even descended from a different branch of Octavian’s family.

We know from Hephaestus that sometimes gods can choose to suppress the transmission of a specific ability to their children. Hephaestus did it with fire, and I don’t think it’s farfetched to imagine Apollo would have chosen to do it with prophecy after Halcyon. Again I know Tsari has given this far more thought than I have, so I pass the metaphorical mic to her.

Finally, I want to talk about how this whole novella is basically a concentrated allegory of TOA, featuring Halcyon as a stand-in for Apollo himself. Forever trapped in his childhood home full of monsters who have stolen and perverted his voice, and that he can never escape because they are inextricably tied to him, and him to them. Punished for the crime of having a functioning moral compass and having chosen to follow it, and after years of death & tragedy that are framed as a direct result of that choice... he has almost completely internalized the idea that he might actually have been in the wrong. He's surrendered. He’s not only accepted the slaughter but has even become complicit in it. He’s become a monster himself.

And then we get Thalia & Luke who are a stand in for all the people Apollo bonds with on his journey, who give him hope again, who reaffirm his conviction that there IS, there HAS TO BE a better way, and reignite his will to fight. After all, he realizes, what does he have left to lose?

I turned my face to the sky. “If you want to punish me, Father, be my guest, but have the courage to hurt me directly, not my mortal companion. BE A MAN!”

To me this novella absolutely reads like a first outline of the TOA series that Rick might have later decided to flesh out and expand upon. The core themes, the central ideas are all in there.

But Halcyon can only find redemption through death. The narrative denies him the chance to survive and do better. He’s only a man, and for him the odds are impossible. He dies thinking that on some level he deserves it – he brought this on himself. He dies still thinking that maybe he was wrong to save that little girl's life.

I wonder if in the first draft of TOA Apollo was meant to die at the end like Halcyon did. In a way he did die, in fact. But he’s a god, and for a god no odds are impossible. So Apollo is reborn through the power that he finally allowed himself to reclaim, because he finally has learned to believe that he was right to want to use it. He was right to want to help people. He was right. He learns the lesson that Halcyon never could. He is afforded the opportunity to keep trying. 

[kitkatt0430]

My progress may be slowed by carpal tunnel but not stopped!

Anyway, here's some stuff I've been working on lately.

“And in other news, the illegal broadcast known as The Genocide Report has once again spread lies about the Empire. It’s latest slanderous allegations blame Imperial forces for the Caamas Firestorm that led to the eradication of all life on the Caamasi home world, a terrible natural disaster that occurred approximately fourteen years ago…” “Turn that off.” Alex looked over at Captain Zataire, who’d voiced the command. Hiram Zataire, who had a son with known rebel sympathies. The question was, of course, did Zataire share his son’s loyalties. As a storm trooper rushed to turn off the Imperial News broadcast, bringing the ship’s bridge into silence once more, it didn’t exactly seem unlikely.

From the Genocide Report fic idea that I couldn't resist turning into an actual fic series, this is from the very first scene of the fic. Alexsandr Kallus, ISB Agent, has just arrived on a Star Destroyer over Lothal. A place far away from Coruscant where he'd much rather be digging for information on the Jedi massacre from the end of the Clone Wars. He figures that eventually being 1/2 of the Genocide Report team is gonna get him killed, so he'd like very much to get that information disseminated before he gets executed for treason. instead he's been sent to Lothal to root out sympathizers - funny, he is one - and the local rebel cell - that he's hoping to make go quiet long enough that he can get a better assignment.

Of course, Kallus is about to meet the cell and get the shock of his life when he realizes that one of them is a Lasat. And then he has to figure out what to do with 'Jabba' aka Ezra Bridger. So many headaches headed his way and that's before he finds out that the former bartender in the rebel cell is actually a not so former Jedi too.

He couldn’t talk to Cisco and Caitlin about what was going on because they had no idea who he was. They’d been Barry’s best friends and now they were strangers. Barry’s speed was gone and the only way to get it back was to let a tragedy happen. Which wasn’t acceptable, but how could Barry stop the accelerator? It wasn’t something he could go to Joe about. After all, Joe was back to believing Henry Allen was guilty of Nora Allen’s death and that Barry had lied to himself about what happened that night for so long that he was little delusional about the whole thing. Iris might believe him, but confessing his feelings to her had put distance between them that would take time to fade. Now was not the time to be going to her with a story about time travel.

From a slowly moving wip sequel to my Hartley, Roderick, and Barry accidentally did mental time travel from the sonic powers/lightning clash at the dam. Barry won't admit it, but learning that Hartley and Roderick are also looking for legal ways to stop the accelerator in time is a relief to him, even if he doesn't want to believe that Wells is involved with the Reverse Flash.

Of course Barry took the opportunity to confess his feelings to Iris before she ever even meets Eddie and... strikes out. Because Iris loves him here, but she's not in love with him. And Barry's finally going to have to accept that.

I'm still tentatively plotting for this series to be endgame Barry/Hartley/Roderick but there's a lot of time before that could conceivably happen that I might decide it'll work better going in a different direction. *shrug*

[ashleyh713fanfics]

Dazai X Odasaku’s Little Sister Ch3 and Ch4

Double Post:

Chapter 3

"So You Can Make Those Expressions.."

Chapter 4

"Makes Me Wanna Play Around With You"

Summary: Dazai has always been incapable to care about what happens to others. But will that change when he agrees to fight Odasaku's precious little sister? Aka his girlfriend?

Warning: Dazai is a meany to Aku, Odasaku death mentions, violence, manipulative behavior from both sides. I gave Oda's sister a name but you can imagine it as y/n.

(This is chapter three and four of my fanfic "Timeless" which is now on A03. It carries on from the three part intro I posted a couple days ago. I'll link it below to fully understand the story. Asagao's ability is to stop time for up to six seconds.)

Three Part Intro Here: (just cause the first chapter is so long)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

A03 Version Here:

Word count: 12k

Feeling as every single muscle ceased to move, Asagao’s vacant and distant eyes focused in and out of unconsciousness as she just barely felt the warm pool of red liquid coating her entire body ever so slowly. 

And though she was merely six years old, the child seemed to be fully aware of what was happening, whether she wanted to or not. 

How did it get like this? Oh right, she had failed again. She wasn’t able to predict that last planned attack in time and they had punished her for it. How disgraceful. But did that mean she was gonna die this time? No, she didn't want that. 

And as the seconds moved by, her tiny body grew more and more numb with the effects of blood loss in order for past orders and demands to flood her mind over and over again like her life was being replayed in a sickening loop. 

“You worthless little brat, that’s not good enough!” 

No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t good enough, It wasn’t ever good enough. She always made them mad. She had disappointed everyone. What would her brother say? Would he also be disgusted by it? The little girl couldn’t bear the answer. 

“Look harder, predict better, stop slacking off and do it properly!”

She didn’t mean to, she wasn’t trying to slack off. She was just so tired, so very tired. They had her training for three days straight without food and water. Her focus was off, her brain was overloaded, everything felt like it was underwater. She just couldn’t do it anymore. She couldn’t think. 

“Excuse excuse excuse. That’s all I’m hearing! Didn’t you say you wanted to be useful? I bet a lot on you kid and if you can’t even do this then you’re just better off dead!” 

Ah, that’s right. She was better off dead. Then she’d be able to breathe, then the pounding madness inside her head would finally go away. 

But try as she may, the six year old child felt tears work their way into her slowly failing eyes with unexplainable fear. No, she didn't want that. She was scared, she didn’t want to die. 

Just then, she felt her body shift only for the scenery to change in order for the girl to catch a very familiar blur of red as his hands shook under her hold. “A-Asa? No, please no..” 

Wait, she knew that voice anywhere. “B-Brother?” 

Sakunosuke only nodded though, trying to hold himself together as he brushed a bloody piece of hair from her face. “Y-Yeah, it’s me. It’s your big brother. Don’t worry Asa, it’s going to be okay. I’m gonna get you out of here.” 

But as she felt her brother’s hands keeping her together, Asagao felt even more tears reach her eyes in order to weakly clutch onto his jacket with a sad pathetic plea. “Saku, I don’t wanna be special anymore. I don’t wanna see. It hurts..I don’t want it to hurt..” 

She then heard what sounded like a suppressed sob, the fourteen year old Oda pushing his lips together as they quivered before holding his little sister close to his chest with a cry. “I know..I know..don’t worry you won’t have to do that again. I just need you to stay awake though, okay? You can’t go to sleep yet.” 

Asa felt her eyelets quickly betray his order though, her hand falling from his jacket as she whispered hoarsely. “But I’m so tired..” 

Quickly shaking her back awake, Sakunosuke gave a rushed reply, laced with a desperation she couldn’t place. “I know but do this for me, okay? Do it for your big brother.” 

But her eyes were so heavy, wouldn’t it be nice to just rest them for a minute, the little girl humming as she felt her body give into the idea. “I can’t feel anything…I’m scared..so many bad things happened. I’m sorry..” 

Yet that’s when she felt her brother shake her awake once more, his fingers slapping her face lightly before she vaguely saw his terrified eyes. “Hey, I know. Let’s play a game, okay? Instead of thinking about all the bad things l want you to think about the good ones. Can you do that? Just think about the good, okay? 

Forcing her lips into a grimace, Asagao frowned. “Will that make you happy again?” 

Her brother then nodded weakly, ignoring the feeling of his little sister's blood on his fingers as he choked out a reply. “Y-Yeah, it will. Just as long as you try your best. You gotta promise me that you’ll try your best to think about the good. No more bad.” 

And that was enough for her to nod her head, the feeling like lead. Anything to make her Saku not sad anymore. “Mmmkay. I’ll try.” 

She said that, but the idea was far harder than it appeared, the little girl feeling her head fall against her brother's warm embrace as she vaguely heard his rushed breathing, like the boy was running for his life through some sort of corridor. 

Then she heard his voice, the sound underwater as his shaking fingers clutched onto his little sister for dear life. “I promise, I promise that when you wake up you won’t be hurt ever again. It doesn’t matter what I have to do in return. I’ll take your place if I have to, I’ll be their assassin, I’ll be their favorite toy. Just as long as you're safe, I don’t care what happens to me.” 

And though she couldn’t register the weight of the words, Asagao used her last bit of strength to whisper back a reply, her words barely audible.  “D-Don't be sad Saku..I love you..” 

Then she felt herself betray her big brother’s wishes, the pull too strong as the six year old child gave into its call finally. 

Yet just before she drifted off, she heard another voice. Except this one sounded just like her, terrified, like she was watching the entire scene before her as she screamed into her own mind over and over again as the darkness covered Asa's vision without permission.  

No, don’t close your eyes. Don’t pass out. When you wake up it will be in a hospital bed alone and you’ll never see him again. You’ll never get to know him. Please, don’t lose him again! He’s right there, don’t let him go, don’t let him die, please..!” 

----

“No!”

Gasping loudly, Asagao’s body lurched forward, her hand reaching out to an invisible force in order to plead out through the darkness only to catch air. Gone was the cold empty room of her childhood, replaced by the familiar walls and tatami mats of her brother’s old apartment. 

She then registered the reality before slowly dropping her hands down onto the mattress with a sad thud, her eyes turning down before she fell backwards with a shaky breath. The last memory she had of Oda, why did it have to play tonight? 

Asagao frowned at the memory before looking at the clock that read 3AM in mocking reply causing the girl to grimace. She couldn’t even get one good night's sleep. 

Turning her head to the side, Asagao then caught the familiar large circular glasses by her bedside before a sick sense of deja vu flooded into her without permission. 

The girl could remember it so incredibly clearly, even today. The feeling of her six year old body waking up alone in a room she didn’t recognize with only a pair of glasses and a letter by her bedside. It was the last time she ever saw her brother. 

Asa then frowned again before lifting her hands up in order to push them on top of her eyes with suppressed sob. If only she didn’t pass out that time, if only she kept him from leaving her then things would’ve been different. Then maybe he wouldn’t have died.

Just then, a voice appeared in the back of her mind, cold and cruel.

He died because he took your place.

 It’s your fault. 

Yet just as quickly as that feeling appeared, the girl forced herself to wash it away, her body forcing itself upwards again in order to carefully grab her glasses and place them back on her face. 

Then she took a deep breath before recalling the mantra in her head, the last remaining request from her big brother that she always went back to when the world looked a little too dark. 

That’s right, think of the good, not the bad. 

And just like that, a small smile took its place as Asagao pushed her feet off the bed in order to turn the light on and start the day, her mind stewing the possibilities of what the world could offer her today. 

Humming to herself, she then heard the front door bell only before she rushed happily to the surface and threw it open and found a very familiar bandaged boy before her. “Asa-chann! There you are! I just remembered another detail about my last story. It was really great, Odasaku said the best thing! I can’t believe I forgot about it till now!” 

Asa couldn’t help but blink in surprise though, not expecting Osamu at all today. It was the middle of the night after all. She thought he’d be sleeping by now. 

Not that she minded though, the girl already feeling her lips curve upwards at his boy-ish and childlike greeting. “Oh really? Well then, you better hurry up and tell me.” 

Dazai then beamed before happily shoving himself past her in order to throw his arms upwards in a giddy shout. “I knew you’d be excited! And after I’m done you’ll give me another letter, right?” 

Nodding her head, Asagao then closed the front door before pointing to her bedroom with another small smile. “Of course, let me go get the box and then you can tell me.” 

Already sitting himself at his usual spot, the boy then gave her an excited cheer. “Yay! You’re the best Asa-chan!” 

This was the extent of their relationship now, no more and no less. It had been about three weeks since their partnership and though the two were friendly with each other it was always surface level at best. 

Dazai would come over and eagerly give his half of the deal, sharing story after story of Odasaku and in return Asagao would give him one of her brother's letters to read. 

And then that was it, once everything was done the boy would leave and the cycle would repeat. They weren’t friends, they weren’t even close. The two just used each other and then went on their way, keeping a sort of distance between each other at all times. 

It was like they were both each other’s own special drug, indulging in the intoxicating high but still cautious on not getting addicted to the substance. And though it was a different form of partnership, the two kids kept their boundaries.

Asagao didn’t mind though, knowing that she was already asking for so much. Dazai on the other hand was grateful for the distance, careful not to get too comfortable in fear of getting attached and losing something precious again. 

No, the young executive knew he wouldn’t have been able to handle that again. So he just teased her and went on his way. Asa never seemed to mind though, considering she knew about his twisted plan from the very beginning. It made everything so much easier and less stressful in the long run. 

And when he saw her reappear with a familiar brown colored shoe box, the boy couldn’t help but perk up even more, knowing that there were unsaid words from Odasaku just inches away from him. He was desperate, hungry for them in every possible way. 

Asagao knew this as well, her fingers tapping on the box before taking a seat across from him with a hum. “Alright, you have my undivided attention! I’m ready..” 

Perking up immediately, the boy then slipped into his tale, giving Asagao every single detail about his story as she gave that same wonder filled expression she always did when he talked about Odasaku. 

Then once he was done, the girl simply reached her hand into the box before pulling out a small white colored letter in order to slide it over to the boy before he practically tore it off the table in desperation. 

Then he read each word carefully, mulling over the ink like it was the most treasured thing in the world to him. 

Hey little sis, how is everything going? 

I saw some morning glories on my way to work today and they made me think of you. You were named after such pretty flowers. Is purple still your favorite color? 

 Things have been hectic here as usual. Dazai stayed over last night after refusing to take a bath, but he smelled so bad I bribed him with whiskey to finally get him in the tub. It’s never a dull moment with him, that’s for sure. When he wakes up I’m gonna see if I can get him to change those bandages of his also. I’ll let you know how it goes. Wish me luck. 

Feeling his lips curve upwards at Odasaku’s writing, Dazai felt that same low pain inside his chest. He remembered that night like it was yesterday. How he raced around Oda’s apartment while the man waved a bar of soap in his direction with rushed pleas and bribes. 

 Oh how he wished for such mundane things back. He really did take them for granted. 

Although that’s when the boy realized something else, his fingers dropping from the letter only to whine in her direction. “You know, this isn’t really fair, Asa-chan. You already know so much about me but haven’t said anything about yourself yet. That’s really sneaky you know..” 

And that was true, considering Oda spilled so much of his life to his little sister. And it wasn’t like it bothered Dazai but the scales were very noticeably uneven.

 It made him feel a loss of control, and that was something the executive hated more than anything. 

Asagao only turned her head though, not seeing the issue. “Is it? I thought the only thing that would’ve mattered to you is that I’m Oda’s sister. What more do you want to know?” 

Dazai mulled the words over in his head. Yes, she was right in a sense. He did only care because she was Odasaku’s sister but he always prided himself on being the smartest man in the room, and right now that was undetermined. 

Placing the letter onto the table with extreme care, he shrugged. “I’m just saying we aren’t evenly matched right now. Aren’t boyfriend’s supposed to know about their girlfriend’s?” 

The word felt strange on his tongue, never having used them in his life. Sure, he was just trying to manipulate her with them but somehow they still seemed wrong. They weren’t anything like a traditional boyfriend and girlfriend, in any sense.

Asagao didn’t seem to mind though, her fingers reaching forward in order to hook them under her chin and lean forward in interest. “Ah, okay then. Well, go ahead boyfriend. Analyze and impress me.” 

Already feeling his eyes sharpen with cruel possibilities, Dazai mimicked her movements, placing his own fingers under his chin before replying dangerously. “Be careful what you ask for, darling. I might make you cry pretty little tears.” 

Asa only smiled though, completely unbothered. “I'm sure I’ll be fine.” 

Humming to himself, Dazai then narrowed his eyes before his lips curved upwards in challenge. “Prove it then. Take your glasses off.” 

Then all at once, he saw Asagao falter, her fingers falling immediately before leaning back with tense shoulders. “W-What, why?” 

The boy was quick to respond though, his finger moving to point at the physical barrier in front of her eyes.“Cause if I’m gonna analyze you, I deserve to see those hollow eyes of yours.”

Dazai recalled the sight immediately, remembering the mirror-like qualities the two shared. He only saw them for a second but he could already tell that the deep hollow gaze she wore was a result of the life she lived. She just didn’t want to admit it. 

Just like how she didn’t want to admit that there was no possibility of life having meaning. She forced herself into this delusional state on purpose.

Moving her eyes away from his, Asagao then nervously pushed her fingers up to her glasses before playing with the lenses in question. He had a point, but that still didn't make it less scary. “Oh…uhh well..” 

Dazai only mocked back though, his words laced with humor for the stuttering innocence she was displaying. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Where’s that confidence gone?”

Pushing her lips together, Asa frowned, fully aware of her pathetic demeanor. “It’s just..things don’t usually go well without my glasses. I don’t like to show people..” 

She then clutched her skirt between her fingers in anxiety. She wore the glasses for a reason, it wasn’t just because. It slowed her down, it stopped her from being called a freak and a monstrosity. It made everyone tolerate her. 

And although Dazai and her weren’t friends by any means, she still was hesitant to completely be herself. Sure she could see without the glasses but it was also revealing and strange. What if he was like the others? What if Oda’s letter were wrong and he rejected her like everyone else? 

She had just started getting used to someone wanting to stick around. 

 Snapping her out of her own thoughts, Dazai then leaned forward in question. “You showed them to me before though, when you took care of those stupidity boring thugs you brought onto my doorstep. Why is this any different?” 

Asagao then remembered his words before cringing to herself. Yes, she did all of that but things were different in that situation. “Well that’s because it was dark and we were at a distance. If you get any closer it could..” 

The boy then chuckled to himself, cutting off her in order to reach his fingers forward and push a strand of hair behind her ear with slow intent. “What, scare me? Sweetheart, I’m a port mafia executive with thousands of crimes to my name and countless lives on my hands. I’m far more of a monster then you’ll ever be.” 

Asagao still wasn’t convinced though, her eyes moving down in conflict only to feel Dazai’s hot breath in her ear, his words coaxing her all at once. “Perhaps you just need some help, hmm?” 

Frowning at his sudden closeness, Asagao spoke. “I don’t think..”

Yet before she could finish her sentence, Dazai’s fingers latched onto the ends of her glasses before ripping them off her face with a joy-ish chuckle of victory. “Oop, got 'em!”

Asagao then audibly gasped, her hands reaching out to the boy immediately,“O-Osamu!” 

Lifting his hand up in the air in a makeshift prison, the boy then beamed before turning back to her to see her entire face. “There we go now let’s see how..”

Although that moment his gaze turned back to hers, Dazai fell silent as that same hollow icy blue expression stared back at him. And though he had seen it before, it was just as enticing and memorizing as the last time. 

And now that he was closer he couldn’t help but notice flecks of teal in her iris’s along with the familiar Odasaku blue he had come to know. She looked like a completely different person like this and Dazai wondered why she would’ve ever covered up such a sight with the mask of normalcy?

Just then, he watched as Asagao’s cavern-like expression shifted before a slight hue of pink covered her cheeks in order to mutter under her breath. “Stop staring at me like that, I know what you’re thinking..”

It was the thing that everyone said. Asagao knew it was. He thought she was inhuman, a freak, a social outcast. That’s why he was quiet, it’s because he had rejected her like all the rest. She could hear the insults now, her ears waiting to be bombarded with the familiar hate she had come to know.

Yet that’s when Dazai smirked in pure interest, his fingers tracing the light pink spot of embarrassment on her cheeks. “So you can make those kinds of expressions after all..” 

Feeling her eyes widen all at once, Asagao felt her lips open with pure shock  “H-Huh?”. 

What did he just say? He wasn’t staring at her eyes? He was looking at her blush? That’s what he was fixated on this whole time?

Then before she could question, Dazai then pushed the glasses back down from his self made prison in order to throw them into her hands with a joyful clap. “Alright, I have what I need!”

Quickly catching the objects, Asa then shoved the objects back onto her face in order to hear Dazai’s plain voice in her ears. “Asa-chan, you’re so easy to read. You’re like an open book. Given your analytical eyes and ability it’s obvious you were trained to be an assassin like Odasaku was. He probably saw that and knew what path you were going to go down and send you away to avoid that. That’s why he told you to stay out of Yokohama in the first place.” 

Not bothering to give her a response, the boy then continued in a cocky manner. “You call your brother by his last name because you don’t feel close to him but you refer to me by my first name because you believe that we have a closer connection because of Odasaku’s letters even though we are also complete strangers, but that feeds into your attitude to look for something positive even when there isn’t anything there...”

It was something Dazai had picked up on since their first meeting. At first he thought she used his first name because of her cultural differences but now the boy knew that wasn’t the case. 

That didn’t make sense after all. She always referred to her brother as Oda, not Sakunosuke and yet Dazai always got special treatment? There had to be only one answer to that. 

And that was that she was doing it on purpose this entire time.

 She truly believed that she was closer to Dazai than Odasaku. Well, either that or she was deluding herself into wishing for that outcome. Either way, it was just another way to show how Asagao felt separated from her own brother. 

Carrying on, Dazai then pointed to her glasses.“And speaking of your attitude, you act like nothing affects you but you just shove it down in order not to feel crushed by the negativity. That's how you got your delusional idea that the world could be beautiful. It’s because you need to believe that otherwise it will destroy you. There is no other option than to believe in the good.” 

Then the boy shrugged his shoulders before finishing plainly. “To put it simply, you’re a bleeding heart that’s been alone for your entire life, doomed to search for something you’ll probably never find.” 

He lay into her cruelly and concisely, not pulling any punches before proudly resting his hands behind him in contentment. She asked for it after all. He tried to warn her that his analysis wouldn’t be pretty but she didn’t listen. 

Yet as he snapped his head up to see her expression, Dazai only found the girl absolutely frozen to her spot, like she hadn’t heard a single word he had said. Well that was odd, usually people would’ve been crying or screaming at him by now. 

So much so, the boy frowned before moving up to her with a wave of his hand in order to whistle her back to life. “Hellooo? Earth to Asa-channn. Are you in there? Was my analysis too scary for you to handle?” 

What Dazai didn’t know was that Asa was still lost in her own mind, still thinking about the strange response to her freakish eyes. He wasn’t bothered. He didn’t reject me. He didn’t care about them. Oda was right. He accepted me. 

Just the idea made her want to cry in joy, the girl shoving the emotion down before clutching onto her skirt as she brokenly whispered back. “Wow..that was..” 

Then before Dazai could speak Asagao’s head snapped up, her lips beaming in a bright smile in order to clap her hands like she had just witnessed the best performance of her life  “.. absolutely amazing! I knew you’d impress me, Osu. You really dug into me there. Didn’t hold back at all. I admire that about you.” 

And to be honest, the port mafia executive couldn’t help but feel whiplashed by her sudden joy, his eyes turning in amusement. He had just insulted her with that speech and she was applauding him?

Leaning forward, Dazai replied plainly. “You know, most people would be offended by all that..” 

Asagao only looked at him dumbfounded though, like she didn’t understand the concept. “Would they? I don’t see why though. You were really accurate.” 

Nodding to herself, the girl then lifted her hands up in order to throw a fake playful punch into the air. “I was trained to be an assassin and I was a pretty good one if I do say so myself. The people Oda and I worked for said I had “ great potential ” and everything! That’s how I got so good at analyzing things and people..” 

The girl then smiled to herself before her eyes couldn’t help but shift to the clock in the corner of the room only for her lips to fall slightly. After this Osamu would probably leave. He had no reason to stay now that he had finished his story. Just this conversation was already farther than they had ever gotten before.

But even so, Asagao felt an uncomfortable anxiety at the inevitable conclusion. Once he was gone would be back to being alone with nightmares and memories she didn’t want to face. 

No, she needed to use him more, to distract her from everything. Even though it was more than they had agreed on she had to try. She had to get him to give into her selfish desire to keep the monsters away just a little longer.

Perking back up a millisecond later, Asa gasped. “Oh, I know! Since you’re here and we have some time, let’s fight!” 

Dazai couldn’t help but turn his head in confusion at that, his eyes playing in plain amusement for what she was suggesting. “You want to fight?” 

Oda’s sister only nodded though, a new fire in her eyes as she leaned forward excitedly. “Yeah! I haven’t had a good challenge in a while, and I already know you’re a worthy opponent. I mean, who wouldn’t wanna fight a famous port mafia executive?” 

Dazai felt himself chuckle under his breath at her naive thinking immediately. “Any sane person, love.” 

 This girl really had no sense of danger. Usually people pleaded for the demon prodigy to let them go, usually they avoided facing him knowing it was always a lost cause.

No one wanted to stand on the other side of him, no one wanted to be his enemy. 

Yet Asagao was just suggesting it like nothing, like he couldn’t break her emotionally and physically with the snap of his fingers. 

The girl only laughed away his answer though, her hand moving back and forth before beaming proudly. “Well, we’ve already established that’s not me so it’s no problem!”

Dazai was still hesitant though, knowing that Odasaku wouldn’t have approved. He couldn’t be gentle after all. He couldn’t hold back and the last thing he wanted was to permanently scar her, even if she was stupidly asking for it. 

Because of that, the boy hummed.  “Shouldn’t princesses like you be asleep by now?” 

Although that’s when he watched Asa’s confident facade falter just slightly before she replied hastily. “Come on, Osu..you said you wanted to know about me, this is the best chance! Let me impress you.”

And perhaps to anyone else it was nothing, but Dazai knew better than anyone what that small change meant. She was avoiding something, he was sure of it. The girl was purposely trying to drag their meeting on longer in order to postpone an inevitability. 

She thought she was so sneaky, but the boy read her like a book. 

Lowering his eyes with knowing intent, Dazai then lifted his hands up lazily, purposely hiding the fact that he knew her game. “That’s a tall order, darling. You sure you’re up for that?”

Asagao only smiled though, the girl batting her eyes in innocence. “I’ve done it before, haven’t I?”

And she had. She had impressed the executive before. She impressed him immediately when she had sensed them being followed only for her to actively sell him out in order to show off her ability. 

It was a feat of its own for sure, so much so that his twisted little brain couldn’t help but wonder what other things she could surprise him with? It was tempting, enticing and such a dangerous notion. 

But perhaps that’s what she wanted, perhaps Asagao knew that Dazai would be drawn in by the offer to play around with her some more. She knew he thrived on the abnormalities. 

Oh that sneaky little girl, she knew how much he couldn’t resist an amusing show. 

So much so, the boy couldn’t help but close his eyes with clear respect in order to mark a tally inside his head. He thought he had won by figuring out why she wanted this strange request but it looks like she beat him on resisting it. 

 Dazai Osamu: 1 Oda Asagao: 1

Lifting his eyes up a moment later, Dazai then pushed his hands up in order to stand before towering over the girl, his unbandaged eye looking down at her with a teasing smile. 

Perhaps tonight wouldn’t be so boring after all. 

“Well when you put it like that darling, how could I resist?” 

----

CH4

Six Months Before Odasaku’s Death

Carefully stepping through the darkness, Dazai looked down in disappointment at the broken and faltering boy in front of him, coughing and wheezing as even more blood poured from his lips “D-Dazai..” 

The port mafia executive didn’t want to hear it, his cruel and dull stare towering over his useless subordinate with a heavy sigh, in order to shake out his last punch. 

It had been only about a month since he had picked up the young Akutagawa from the slums and brought him into the twisted underground of the port mafia. 

But even still, the boy was lacking the skills he needed to impress Dazai. Sure, he had the passion and the drive but his movements were sloppy and uncoordinated. If he went like this then he’d surely be dead before his first mission. 

And perhaps it was an oversight, to see the potential that Akutagawa had. Perhaps the kid was truly useless. And here Dazai thought he could form him into a new generation, a new “double black” as it were. 

Pushing his fingers into the ground in order to lift his head up, he then physically flitched as Dazai’s cruel words cut into him like venom. “That’s not good enough. You will never survive the port mafia with that weak attack.” 

Akutagawa only dipped his head down though, the shame pouring through every one of his muscles before he tried to get his overspent and overused body to move once more. “I..”

Dazai didn’t care though, he didn’t have the capacity to. This was how he was taught, how he was brought up. It only made sense to pass what he learned onto Akutagawa as well. 

Violence, bloodshed, cruelty, those were the building blocks in which he thrived and succeeded. They were what kept him alive, regretfully. 

And soon they would be essential for Akutagawa as well. 

Taking out his gun from the hollister, the executive then scoffed before pointing the barrel straight into the child’s head, his voice void of any emotion. “Maybe I should just throw you back into the slums where you belong? It would be a lot less work.” 

 His subordinate then gasped in pure fear before his shaky fingers made their way towards Dazai’s feet, the boy crying out in order to beg like the pathetic dog he was. “N-No! Please, I’ll be better. I promise!” 

The mafioso only narrowed his eyes though, only feeling annoyed by his little act. If he thought Dazai was going to let up or feel pity for such a worthless display then he was sorely mistaken. 

 No, right now the kid just looked like every other sorry soul that crossed him. They all did the same thing, begging and pleading and crying. It was so boring. He was so boring for showing those wasteful tears. 

Closing his eyes, Dazai then frowned before kicking his foot straight into the kid’s ribs, his body crumbling immediately with a gasp before the demon stood over him with command. 

“Show me.”

He then watched as Akutagawa held his side before immediately complying in order for Rashomon to materialize and head straight for the bandaged man with a screaming cry of pain. 

But like Dazai had said before, his moves were sloppy, the black being disappearing the moment it touched the mafioso's skin in order for him to scoff at the pathetic attempt. “Pathetic.” 

Then before the kid could process it, his master’s hand was around his throat, squeezing his airways as he looked up at the demon with a choke gasp. “D-Daz..”

Dazai only cut him off though, his hold tightening before speaking plainly. “Your face shows fear, weakness, failure. All the qualities I have no need for.” 

Slamming the boy into the ground, Akutagawa’s body screamed in pain only for the executive to look at the scared child with disdain.“You’re going to have to try harder than that to impress me, Akutagawa.” 

He then let go of his throat before turning away completely in order to hear the boy cough and surface more air into his lungs before he passed out completely. Dazai didn’t bat an eye though, his hands falling into his pockets with silence. 

The way of his training wasn’t right, he knew that. Dazai knew that he was twisting and turning this young boy into a mirror image of himself. He knew that he was abusing and hitting him in order to make a monster. 

The truth was, if the kid wanted to survive in this world, then this was the only way to do it. That’s what the mafioso truly believed. It didn’t matter how many times Akutagawa was shattered, as long as Dazai could put him back together in an image of his own design it was fine. 

Besides, the boy had said before that Dazai was his reason to live. He had pleaded with the executive to have a purpose. He had asked for this, the boy was just fulfilling his promise. 

His theory was confirmed a moment later when the stuttering child spoke it out through the darkness, his voice just as desperate and dependent as Dazai wanted it to be  “I-I will…I will impress you. Let me try again. I’ll do it right this time.” 

And though that was highly doubtful, Dazai humored him, his entire body turning around in order to face his trained dog with a cruel and unfeeling smile. 

Yes, that’s right. The demon prodigy would use him until he broke. And he would break, they always did. 

Care was irrelevant, feelings were insignificant. 

The only thing that mattered was the product. 

“That’s more like it.” 

--------

Present Day

Standing in the all too familiar port mafia owned warehouse, Dazai and Asagao stood in the middle of the space only for the bandaged boy to narrow his eyes and recall his past lessons with Akutagawa over the last couple months, imagining the blood that once painted the floors in an instant. 

This was the only place Dazai knew was secluded enough, given that any port mafia underling didn’t dare to step foot while he occupied the space. They knew how brutal and unforgiving he was whenever he got rudely interrupted. 

But that little detail proved to be useful tonight as he watched Odasaku’s sister look around the empty and open area before Dazai couldn't help but mock through the echo. “Asa-chan, you always seem to pick the strangest spots for our dates.” 

And whether she had meant to or not it seemed like Asagao had quite the talent for making the usual rather..unusual. Hell, the last “date” they had consisted of her luring those rival thugs to his doorstep only for her to manipulate them into her own twisted whims. 

If this was anything like that then Dazai knew he was in for something especially entertaining tonight as well. 

Although, the bandaged boy couldn’t help but shove his hands into his pocket with a strange sense of conflict, already feeling the lingering blood that once graced his knuckles. He didn’t know how to hold back or be gentle so he wasn’t sure why Asagao had asked for such a crazy request in the first place. 

Or why he had ever agreed to it.

He was supposed to be a good man now, and although Dazai was new to the concept he was pretty sure that beating up his best friend’s sister for fun wasn’t really what Oda meant in any sense. 

And yet his black soul couldn’t help but be curious, to see just how she planned to impress the impassable demon. He should’ve walked away, but Dazai was never the kind to give mercy to his opponents.  

Although that’s when the boy realized he never received a response, Dazai’s eyes moved back towards the girl in question only to watch her shift nervously, her feet moving side to side in clear anxiety. 

Aw, how cute. She was nervous now. Ah, well he supposed that confidence of hers could only last so long. He should’ve guessed. 

Lifting his hand up, the boy then placed a mocking hand on her head in order to speak a round of fake sympathy “What’s wrong? Is the princess getting scared after coming all the way out here? Having second thoughts?”

Asa only frowned though, his voice coming out small. “No, it’s not that. It’s just..” 

She then stopped herself before sighing heavily in order to turn towards Dazai with clear uncertainty. “I know you said you wanted to know more about me and that you weren’t bothered by my eyes but this could get..intense..”

At that, Dazai couldn’t help but laugh under his breath. 

Intense? Well that was an understatement. Was she just figuring that out? That maybe fighting a port mafia executive wasn’t the smartest idea in the world? Poor baby, she must’ve been shaking right now after facing the reality of her stupid decisions. 

It’s about time she realized it. Better sooner than later though he supposed.

Pouting his lips in mocking vigor, Dazai then leaned down to her eye level before placing her hands on her shoulders in order to turn the poor girl towards the doors all at once. “Aww don’t worry, sweetheart. If you think it’s gonna be too much for you, we can turn back now.” 

Yet that's when her next words made the boy pause. “I didn’t mean intense for me.” 

Feeling his fingers fall from her shoulders, Dazai then blinked in amusement for her warning before shaking his head. What was she talking about? She was worried about him, not herself? That’s why she was having second thoughts, to protect him of all people? Who did she think he was? Some sort of weak nobody? 

The bandaged kid then took a step back before his lips twisted up in a confused reply. “I think you got it backwards, darling. I’m the mafia executive, not you, remember?”

If anything, she was one that should’ve been backing out of this. Why instead did it seem like she was trying to do the same to him? Didn’t she know he was the monster in this situation? He was one that could hurt her, not the other way around. 

 Asagao didn’t seem overly convinced though, the girl silent for a moment before lifting her fingers up to her glasses with a hidden plea. “Just..don’t let me get carried away..especially if it freaks you out...”

The idea was laughable though, Dazai’s head turning in reply. “Love, Who do you think you’re talking to?” 

Almost immediately the red haired girl froze before processing his words all at once. 

Then he watched her lips curved up into a small relieved smile in order to drop her hand with a chuckle and whisper mostly to herself. “That’s right, what are you worried about? It’s just Osamu..” 

Dazai couldn't help but frown though. She had such faith in him. She was treating him like some sort of savior, like she was glad he was an opponent. How broken could her brain possibly be to be relieved for this type of situation? 

Poor Asa-chan, she’d regret that viewpoint soon enough when she was crying and pleading at his hand like all his other victims that stood in the same exact place. 

So much so, the mafioso smirked in reply before reaching into his jacket in order to pull out his gun just slightly with silent threat  “I don’t think you should be saying my name that sweetly when you know what’s happening next.” 

The sight didn’t cause Asa to falter though, her head nodding in confirmation before turning around in order to gain some distance from Dazai. “Yeah, I guess I’ve stalled long enough. Alright, let’s do it.” 

She then counted her steps, watching her feet as she did so in order to close her eyes in silent wait before holding her ever beating heart. Dazai’s reaction tonight to her strange and abnormal gaze had given her hope, encouragement she had never felt before. 

Perhaps Oda was right. Perhaps he wouldn’t be digusted by her true self.  

Either way, it was better to find out sooner rather than later, before she got carried away like always. Your letters had so much faith in him, big brother. Can I also have that same faith?

Lifting her fingers up, Dazai then watched her slowly take off the large circular frames in order to place them in her pocket before snapping back up to stare at him with that familiar dead eyed, lifeless stare he knew all too well. 

And then she spoke, her voice gaining a new type of excitement for what was about to transpire. “I hope you’re ready, Mr. Executive. I can’t wait to see how you tick.” 

Then before he could even blink, Asagao was gone from her spot, causing Dazai’s awareness to immediately spike with adrenaline in order to just barely feel his cheek being brushed by a hand that was not his own. 

Like lighting, the man then narrowed his eyes before stepping back in an instant, causing the girl to hit only air as her ability was deactivated by his touch. Foolish girl, didn’t she know she couldn’t hit him while using her skill? That was a pointless strategy. 

This would be over before he knew it. 

Dazai then let out an uninterested sigh in order to dodge every one of her sloppy and uncoordinated attacks with ease. Sure, she was fast, moving in and out of reality and his vision in a millisecond but her hits were always halted by his ability in the end. 

Mocking out into the air, the boy then chuckled and ducked as her leg tried to make contact to no avail before reaching forward and grabbing onto her arm in order to dip her back on unsteady feet. 

He then pushed his hands to her waist before smiling in victory for how easy he manhandled the supposedly scary girl. “I thought you said you were gonna impress me, Asa-chan? All I see is a pathetic attempt so far. Gonna have to try harder than that, love.” 

The girl only remained still though, her calculating and hollow gaze moving back to his before he watched Asa’s lips curve upwards into a proud smirk, almost like she had already won. “Got you.” 

Ramming her foot into his knee, Dazai’s body then caved for a millisecond in order to allow his grip to loosen and Asagao to break free. And then she was gone from his sight again, causing the man to sigh. Didn’t she know she wasn’t going to win like that?

Asa appeared a moment later, a little further away this time, just out of reach as she turned her head before adding. “You see a pathetic attempt but I was simply just warming up. Analyzing, watching and waiting. It’s what I do, you let me see into you and now I’ve figured it out.” 

Dazai couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity for her words though. Those sloppy and baseless attacks were on purpose? Just so she could see how he fought? My, maybe he underestimated the little princess a little too quickly. Now things were getting interesting. 

Genuinely curious for her response, he hummed. “And what have you found out?” 

She disappeared a moment later, Dazai’s eyes narrowing before just barely missing a punch in order for her to answer casually. “You see, I vaguely knew about your ability from Oda’s letter and I’ve always wondered how it would match up against me. I wanted to see you use it in person and now that I have, I know all about you.” 

What Dazai didn’t know was that Asagao’s body was practically shaking with excitement, her brain going haywire as he watched and cataloged every action by her opponent while she was being “sloppy.” 

A puzzle, a question, an enigma. That’s what he was to her. He was a challenge that she took pride in solving as precisely as possible. It was thrilling, like an addiction she couldn’t help but feed the more she watched and observed.

And without the blurry wall of her glasses, Asagao saw everything, her gaze clear and concise as a twisted smile couldn’t help but grace her lips as everything in her body urged her to pick him apart. God, how she missed this feeling. 

Thoughts of her nightmares, thoughts of her brother, they were all replaced by the inescapable high of her own sadistic mind, Asagao unable to think about anything else except the bandaged boy in front of her very eyes. 

Reappearing a moment later, she watched Dazai dodge her punch only for her to cruelly mock in his direction. “It’s in the way you move, it’s in the way you counter. It’s in every single choice you make like a baring red flag and you can’t even see it.” 

And it was, it really was. She had suspected he was like that but after seeing his fighting style there was no doubt in her mind. “Oh Osamu, you’re so cocky, aren’t you? You don’t take anything serious and it shows in your fighting. You’ve become dependent on your ability, simply because no one has ever managed to beat it. You’ve gotten lazy, love.” 

Dazai then paused only for his lips to twist upwards at the mocking use of his own pet name used against him. Love , huh? 

She was making fun of him. How interesting, he didn’t know she had it in her. 

And the mafioso couldn’t help but realize that she was right. He had gotten lazy in his fighting style, simply because no one had ever bothered to show him a real show. No one had ever caused him to have to try before. 

Akutagawa, his subordinates, they were all idiots that he used to his advantage. Hell, the minute anyone of his enemies tried to attack they were always halted by his ability. 

It was boring, they were all boring, every single confrontation was boring.

He had to admit, her pretty little eyes really were impressive. Barely any of his enemies had managed to get that far in figuring him out. And those that tried never did anything successful with the information. 

Reaching his arm forward, Dazai’s fingers then wrapped around her outstretched arm before pulling it towards him in order lift it up in the air and spin her around until they were chest to chest. 

He then tightened his hold on her wrist before leaning closer until they were just mere inches apart before speaking with clear amusement. “And you think you can beat it? You think you will be the expectation to my ability?” 

Now who was the cocky one? Now who was saying utter nonsense? Because Dazai knew damn well that Asagao wasn’t capable of such a feat. He knew that she wouldn’t be able to counter his ability. She would fail like all the others. 

Asagao only shook her head though, her eyes never leaving his before smiling towards his lips. “No, but I can give you the show you want.” 

Reaching her free hand forward, the girl then reached into Dazai’s jacket pocket before pulling out his hidden gun in order to point the barrel just to the left of his head and let off a shot. 

The sound and sheer force of the bullet then caused the mafioso to loosen his hold and lean backwards in order to feel his bandaged eye start to bleed in an angry red line. No, that wasn’t an accident, she grazed him on purpose so he would release his hold. Huh, good girl.

Placing his fingers to the wound, Dazai then smirked before watching her take three steps back from him. “And how are you going to do that, darling?” 

And he half expected her to shoot him again, the gun silently resting in the palm of her hands as she stood and stared. That would’ve been the easiest decision but also the most boring. 

Although that’s when Asagao simply shrugged before flipping the gun over in order to offer the handle back to the executive with a knowing look. “Stop playing around and I’ll show you.” 

Feigning innocence, the boy simply put his hands up, knowing fully well it was a bold face lie. “I don’t know what you mean, Asa-chan. I would never play.”

The truth was that Dazai hadn’t countered back for one specific reason, and that was that he simply didn’t see the need to.

She hadn’t given him any reason to get serious yet, which the boy was internally thankful for, knowing he wouldn’t have been able to hold himself back and act dismissive if she really did give him a real fight. 

Asagao didn’t blink though, her outstretched hand falling before she tossed the gun onto the ground between them with a heavy sigh of rejection. “Obviously you’re not looking at me like a threat yet. Guess I’ll have to use your weakness after all.”

At that, Dazai couldn’t help but turn his head in amusement. What a bold statement she just made. She was walking on such dangerous territory now. “Weakness? And do pray tell me what that is, love?”

She disappeared a moment later, causing the boy’s eyes to sharpen before he heard her voice behind him. “It took me a while to figure it out. What could the great port mafia executive Dazai Osamu be afraid of? Death? No. The darkness? Definitely not. No, it’s simpler than that isn’t it? It’s so incredibly simple. What scares you the most is really..” 

Just then, the boy froze as Asagao suddenly materialized in front of him, placing her fingers onto his cheek with so much care and softness that it made his shoulders tense up all at once. “A gentle human touch.” 

And all at once, Dazai felt his entire body reject the feeling, hating the vulnerability and weakness it brought to him only for his muscles to react without thinking in order to punch Asagao straight across the face with widened horrified eyes. 

Then she watched as the girl stumbled backwards immediately, her hair falling in front of her face before three drops of blood fell onto the ground in front of his eyes. 

He had just struck her, he had just hurt Odasaku’s little sister with his own hands. 

Just like Akutagawa, just like everyone else that crossed his path.

But to be honest, the bandaged boy could hardly focus on that, his adrenaline spiking only to hear Asagao’s muffled chuckles of sadistic joy as she turned up to look at him. 

And when she did, her lips were turned upwards in a bloodthirsty smirk as she shouted excitedly. “Ah, that’s the look I want! Show me more, Mr. Executive! Show me how scary that demon you talk about really is. Let me see it!” 

Blinking in surprise, the boy then felt himself pause, feeling the blood on his knuckles turn numb in order to take in the rapid and crazed look from Asagao. 

She looked like a completely different person entirely, her body shaking not from fear but rather pure and raw adrenaline mixed with fire. Her hollow gaze pierced his, revealing so much sadistic joy as she touched the blood that ran from her nose to her twisted and almost psychotic grin. 

Oh, so this is what she meant by things getting “intense.” 

He had never seen anyone with that kind of face before. Sure, Chuuya loved a good fight but this was something entirely different. It’s like Asagao was losing herself to the idea of it. Like she was high on a drug he couldn’t even comprehend. 

In all his years underground, Dazai had never seen such a look before, especially from an assassin. It’s like she was a mad crazed dog, thriving off the thrill and possibility of the fight she would receive from her next prey.

And for most, the sight would've been terrifying, enough to turn even the toughest enemies around. But for Dazai, he felt something different entirely. No, the boy wasn’t scared, not even a little bit. 

He was enamored . 

 Then, like a switch in his mind, Dazai felt himself darken in his own sick joy, enjoying her positive reaction to his hit. Oh, she had been waiting for this, hadn't she? She wanted to see how scary he was? Fine. He’d gladly make her regret that decision for riling him up like this. 

And just like that,the already fragile string in the back of his mind had snapped, giving into the impulse he had felt since stepping into this empty abandoned warehouse.

 And that was to make her regret ever asking him to be here in the first place. 

She wanted to see the demon prodigy, she wanted to face the port mafia executive? 

Then so be it. 

He’d make her cry, scream and plead like all the others. He would grab onto her fragile perfect scalp, make her get on her pretty little knees and apologize for ever wanting to be his enemy in the first place. Then she’d understand, then she’d finally get why Oda didn’t want her near him. 

Asagao then disappeared a moment later, causing the demon to chuckle with silent wait before turning around in order to push his fist into the empty space just as the girl rematerialized in front of his eyes. 

Yet he only hit air, the girl smirking before ducking under his hand and pushing her leg underneath him to uneven his balance in order to lift her hand towards his chest with ease.

Dazai felt himself fall backwards immediately though, his eyes narrowing with intrigue before racing forward and grasping onto her arm in order to ground himself, pulling her forward and reversing the intent so that she would be off center instead. 

Feeling her lungs cave with pain, Asagao then lifted her wavering foot up to his stomach before kicking the mafia executive with so much force that Dazai had no choice but to loosen his hold with a sharp gasp of surprise. 

He then held the area before smiling sadistically  to dodge another one of her attacks in order for his fingers to reach towards her scalp and roughly grab onto the strands before pulling her towards him once more. 

Then before she could process it, the boy had kicked her legs out from under her, only for her to roughly crash towards the hard warehouse floor, his voice dripping with venom as he slammed her head into the surface with a deep chuckle. “Ah, Asa-chan. You’re really making me work for this, aren’t you? Makes me wanna play around with you some more.” 

Yet he only heard her laugh from underneath his hand, the girl lifting her eyes up as Dazai caught a long line of blood appearing from the crown of her head. “Funny, I was gonna say the same thing about you.” 

And with that, it seemed like her bloodthirsty and waiting smile had grown tenfold, her body showing no sign of fear even though she was being gripped so roughly by her hair. 

The very sight then caused Dazai’s dark and twisted soul to clutch harder with pure amusement. God, the way she was looking at him was so addicting. She looked so gorgeous like this, smiling between his fingers while blood ran down those pretty pink cheeks of hers. 

What a fearless little rabbit she turned out to be. 

Pushing her lips together, Asagao then spit straight into the mafioso's face, using the leverage from the move in order to fully slip from his grip and disappear from his sight once more. 

Dazai’s hands then moved towards the gun by his side in order to automatically pick up the object and aim it towards the empty open space in order to let off five shots that he knew she would soon occupy. 

And he was right, Asagao reappearing only for her body to immediately shift in order to avoid the rain of bullets he had brought her way.

 But because there were so many and so expectedly, one of them managed to clip against her arm, grazing the surface as she gasped out in order to find the injury. 

Dazai’s hand was fast, using the blood dripping from her forearm to his advantage as it reached out for her only for Asa to narrow her eyes and just barely miss his touch only for the executive to change his intent and aim for somewhere else. 

Barreling his fist into her ribs, Asagao then slumped backwards in order to clutch onto the area before she quickly countered in order to reach her hand forward and reach his face. 

Then before Dazai could realize what she was doing, the girl had grasped onto his bandaged eye in order to pull the wrappings loose as the boy couldn’t help but widen his eyes at the vulnerable attack. 

No one had ever tried to aim for that before, mostly because no one knew how badly it could shake him. But Asagao did, she knew everything about him. 

His surprise was just enough time for Asagao to smirk before barreling her own fist straight into the executives face a second later, her knuckles painting with blood as Dazai felt himself stumble backwards with pain only for the boy to place a disbelieving finger to the sight. 

And before the white gauze had to change to hit the ground, Dazai’s fingers reacted absentmindedly, his hand reaching out before wrapping them around Asa’s slim neck in order to bring her to the ground with pure and unriddled force. 

Her body hit the floor a second later, gasping as her fingers tried to claw for release only for his other hand to quickly grab her wrists and pin them above her head in a makeshift prison of his own design. 

He felt the madness, the sadistic joy overtake him as he squeezed her airways with no mercy, wanting nothing more than to make her pay for such a dirty and successful tactic she had orchestrated. 

And yet, the face she made underneath him still showed no sign of fear or weakness. She wasn’t like Akutagawa at all. Even though he could end her life and snap her neck at any moment, the way she looked at him was firm, almost like she was coaxing him to do it. 

That same addicting feeling soon washed over him, as he felt his fingers grip even tighter without permission. Suddenly it all made sense, why she was supposed to stay out of Yokohama.

 It was because she was the embodiment of a perfect tool. Any one that had an assassin like her in their hands would surely succeed in the underworld. 

Oh, Mori would’ve killed to have her between his fingers. He just knew it. If he knew that something like her existed then he was sure that the boss would have stopped at nothing to obtain it. 

And for a moment, Dazai’s mind went there as well, knowing that she would make a far more promising subordinate than Akutagawa. He could just imagine it, bending her into his own image and using her to take control of the port mafia. Him and his bloodthirsty attack dog, how they could bring a new era to the this fucked up pointless little world. 

Yet that’s when Odasaku’s voice shattered everything. 

“Be a good man”

Gasping back into reality, Dazai’s eyes then filled with realization for his dark twisted thoughts in order to immediately loosen his grip on Oda’s sister’s neck only to hear her gasp out a struggling breath.

Wait, what was he doing, what was he thinking just now? 

Asagao then used his brief moment of weakness to completely slip from his grasp only to disappear before Dazai saw her leg approach his face a millisecond later, and this time he didn’t try to stop it. 

The force of the hit sounded throughout the warehouse a moment later as Dazai felt his entire body fall backwards onto the ground, his head spinning and throbbing by the sheer power only for him to place his hands onto the ground on all fours. 

But the pain in his head was nothing compared to the utter shame and guilt he felt for disobeying his best friend's wish. He got too carried away and Asagao paid the price for it. 

So much so, Dazai then closed his eyes before placing a dramatic hand towards his cheek in order to look back towards Asa and cry pathetically.  “Owieee! Asa-chann, you know I don’t like pain. Why did you do that? It hurts!” 

Asa then blinked in surprise, her feet unmoving as she took in the strange new tone from the boy. It seemed like the air had shifted as well. “Osu..”

Then all at once, the red haired girl then looked down at her feet before leaning down in order to pick up the discarded bandage and hand them out of the boy with a guilty smile. “Sorry. Guess I got carried away again.” 

Looking down at the white colored gauze, Dazai then lowered his eyes before carefully taking them back before he took in her response. What did she have to be guilty about? He was the one that had taken things too far and hurt her. 

Dazai then watched the girl play with her fingers, ignoring the blood cascading down her face in order to look up at him with anxious hope. “So uhh..did I win? Did I impress the great mafia executive? 

At that, he couldn’t help but blink before his own lips curved into a small genuine smile without his permission in order to reach his fingers and touch the blood by her eye. 

Even though things got out of hand, even though he should’ve stopped them, he still couldn’t lie to her, even if he so desperately wanted to. “You did.” 

And the pure happiness that appeared from those two simple words made his heart twist and turn in every single unpleasant direction he could ever imagine.

-----

The two returned to Oda’s apartment just as the sun began to rise, only for Asagao to immediately grab the first aid kit so that they could patch themselves up from the previous fight. 

Pulling the white colored bandages around her arms silently, the kids didn’t ask each other for help, simply completing their own work in utter silence as Dazai couldn’t help but stare at her with a heavy sigh. 

She was wearing her glasses again, yet the girl’s careful fingers seemed to know exactly what she was doing, almost like she had patched herself up a million times before. He wouldn’t have been surprised though if that was the case. She was obviously experienced. 

Yet that’s when Asa let out a sigh on her own before looking towards the boy in question with a teasing smirk in order to show him her arms. “Hey, Osu! Look, I’m you now.” 

The girl then leapt to her feet before placing her fingers under her chin with a fake deep mocking voice. “I’m Dazai Osamu and you better be careful darling, cause I might make you cry pretty little tears.” 

At that, Dazai couldn’t help but raise an eye, the boy snorting in reply. “Is that your impression of me?”

Asa only nodded though, beaming in joy. “Mhmm! Pretty good, right?” 

The boy then shook his head before crawling over to the girl with a devious smile of challenge.“Alright then, two can play that game..” 

Then he reached his fingers out in order to grasp onto Asa’s glasses, taking them off her face before putting them on his instead. 

Laughing to himself, Dazai then let out a girliest response he could muster. “I’m Oda Asagao and..oh no! Who put that railing there, am I right? Oh, I’m so clumsy and silly all the time, I can’t even see where I’m going!” 

He then let out another mocking giggle only for Asagao to blink in surprise before covering her eyes with her hands with an embarrassing groan. “Aw man, do I really sound like that?” 

Dazai only nodded though, pushing his fingers towards the frames. “All the time, love.” 

The boy then leaned forward into her personal bubble before humming with pure interest in order to pry her fingers from her eyes. “Aww look at you, all shy now without your glasses. How cute.”

And when his fingers finally revealed her face, Dazai couldn’t help but smirk at the very familiar blush painting her cheeks as she looked anywhere but the man in question. 

How funny, just hours ago she was looking at him with such a bloodthirsty and calculating stare and now she couldn’t even meet his eyes without her glasses. 

He wanted to tease her some more but no matter what he tried she still didn’t budge, causing the boy to sigh before removing the large round frames and plopping them back onto her eyes as Asa muttered back softly. “I’ll work on it. I’m just not used to them off.”

The room turned quiet then only for Asagao to speak first, her voice just barely above a whisper. “Hey, Osamu..”

Dazai then turned his head in reply only for Oda’s sister to give a heavy weighted sigh in his direction.  “Were you being serious before? Are you really not..scared of me..?” 

And to be honest, the girl could hardly believe his last words at the warehouse. She had shown him such a twisted side of herself, anyone would’ve been pissed off or horrified. She had even used Dazai’s weakness of physical touch against him so that he would hit her. 

She had manipulated him and the girl wouldn’t blame him if he never wanted to see her again. That’s usually how things went anyways. She was a lot to handle for anybody. 

The boy could only scoff at her question though, knowing that she had everything backwards. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that question?” 

He had soiled Odasaku’s honor after all, he had let his dark port mafia soul take over and hurt his best friend’s precious little sister. He didn’t hold back and he wasn’t kind. 

Yet that’s when Asagao only turned her head, like the answer was obvious. 

“You’re not scary..you’re just Osu..” 

The voice she used was so sickeningly sweet, so pure and passionate that Dazai couldn’t help but feel his heart drop straight into his chest. She didn’t actually believe that, right? 

Did she not see what happened tonight, did she not hear his deprived and horrible thoughts about wanting to chain her to him as his subordinate? Did she not feel the lingering effects of blood on her skin? Or did she simply not care?

Just then, Dazai caught sight of the bandages around her neck, knowing damn well what kind of injury lay beneath. He could almost see them, the lingering effects of his fingertips on her throat. 

The boy then saddened at the clear sign of his failure before lifting his hand up in order to run two fingers across the bandages in a defeated line. 

 And for the first time, Dazai cared . 

Noticing his silence, Asagao then frowned in concern before reaching her fingers forward with worry for his strange reaction. “Osamu, what’s wrong?” 

But her voice was so kind that Dazai felt himself immediately curl inside himself, his entire body flinching and growing tense at the sight of her gentle soft fingers in his line of sight.

 No, she couldn’t touch him, she’d be tainted like him.

Swallowing to himself, the boy then watched Asa’s touch freeze at his obviously uncomfortable reply before he covered it up with a forced chuckle. “Why would anything be wrong?” 

But it was bullshit, everything he said was bullshit, and it seemed like Asagao knew that as well, her eyes softening at the state of his vulnerable, weak and ever telling body language. 

It was obvious to tell that he was running away from something, like something was haunting him. But he was recoiling from those feelings, not allowing her to see the softness he was so desperately trying to hide. 

Just the very sight made Asagao crumble just slightly. He didn’t trust her, it was obvious. 

And why should he? The two weren’t friends, they were practically strangers. 

And Dazai hated it, he hated how she looked at him, like she could read his mind. It was too close, too personal. It made him uncomfortable and uneasy. 

Yet that’s when Asagao simply smiled softly in his direction before allowing her hand to fall onto her lap without another word. 

The mafia executive couldn’t help but blink though, not believing what he was seeing. She didn’t push it, she didn’t make fun of his inability to be touched. She simply let it be. 

Just then, the doorbell began to ring only for Asagao to quickly stand up with a joyful clap of her hands in order to break the tension. “Oh! Don’t worry, I’ll get it! That must be the delivery we ordered!” 

Dazai then watched as the red haired girl moved towards the door only for his fingers to reach out desperately and catch her hand before it left his sight completely. “Asagao.” 

Asa froze at the sound immediately. He had just called her by her full name, he had never done that before. 

The girl then paused only for Dazai to squeeze onto the surface with so many unspoken words. But could he say? He didn’t have the right to ask her anything. 

He had never felt like this before, he had never felt such regret and concern after a fight. The sensation was strange and he didn’t like it. 

 And as horrible as it was, Dazai had enjoyed their match tonight. He liked having a challenge and he loved the reactions she gave him. It was enticing, addicting but somehow it still all felt wrong. 

  How could he regret something so clearly and yet want to relive it at the same time? 

But like a prayer, she did so for him, her hand moving as she smiled in his direction. “Osu, after we eat, let's plan our next fight, okay?” 

 She was telling him not to worry about it, that she wasn’t bothered by the way things played out tonight. 

 And the way she wore Odasaku’s face, it was like the very sight was tricking him into believing he hadn’t made a horrible mistake towards his friend's wish. 

 So much so, the boy gave into the delusions, letting Asagao go from his grasp with a small bitter smile. Was it wrong to admit that tonight was enjoyable? That he wanted to do it again? 

He didn’t dare speak that out into the air though, afraid of what it would bring. 

-----

After slipping out from Osamu’s grip, Asagao then disappeared towards the front door only to throw the object open with a goofy grin, expecting to see the delivery driver that she had been waiting for.

Only it wasn’t the delivery man at all. 

In fact, it was probably the worst possible person she could imagine. 

And almost instantly her expression began to fall with anxiety as she looked into the eyes of a very familiar, very angry face staring back at her, accompanied by over a dozen government officials. 

Obviously he didn’t think her little “running away” joke was very funny three weeks ago.

Yet even so, his name couldn’t help but run into her mind at the sight, internally groaning at the man in question. 

Ango.