#mori can fucking die but he’s mori. he doesn’t count

[rainswept]

so ur a chuuya AND dazai fan….youre a lost cause my guy 💔💔💔 /j

WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT HATING DAZAI !!!!! (more photos fall)

[mania-sama]

rule #21 - momento mori

Rule #21 - Momento Mori - Fish in a Birdcage

➼ information ❧ Voltron ❧ Character: Keith ❧ Tags: insomnia, insomniac! keith, character study, no dialogue, angst, bom! keith ❧ Summary: Memento Mori - Thou shalt remember to die. ❧ Word Count: 782 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own ❧ Original post date: 2 October 2023

➼ whumptober 2023 ❧ Day 2: Insomnia | Exhausted ❧ Previous Day ❧ Next Day ❧ Masterlist

Keith shifts in his sheets. He closes his eyes and twitches everywhere from his fingers to his toes. He shifts again, curling into a ball and shoving his face into his pillow. He tries to keep his posture relaxed but his body burns with the need to change position and his mind slugs through endless repetitions of the same old shit — missions, losses, people, Voltron, the Galra, and more. It doesn’t end. It never does.

Sometimes, he thinks the only time he ever gets sleep is when he passes out after a mission. If he doesn’t have to pilot the cruiser or give an immediate report, he usually collapses cold on the ground until they’ve reached safety. Then it’s the same routine he deals with every “night”, or rather the automated circadian cycle the ship runs on to keep her inhabitants physiologically stable. The permanent void he floats in does not contain a sun that rises and sets every twenty-four hours that his body can naturally respond to.

Not that he’s ever been good at following that rhythm.

Keith guesses he’s sleeping troubles started when his father died. He was a restless kid back then, too, and like any other child, he hated naps and set bedtimes. Now, all he wants is to have that back. He wants to be able to lay his head on his pillow and let his mind process the information and his body release all of its tension.

Frustrated tears prickle at his eyes when he flips over and presses his stomach flat against the bed. He’s tired. He’s so fucking tired that he wants to break a bottle over his own neck just to make his brain go quiet. He needs to sleep. He knows that; he always has. When he lived on his own in that little shake just beyond the Garrison, he stayed awake so he could track the strange signals he was receiving. He trained his body to peak condition in order to steal food when needed, sneak around government facilities, and occasionally hunt live prey. Every time something in the shake broke or decayed, he had to fix it himself. Money was tight when all he had was his dead father’s trust fund and no job to speak of.

Even though it sucked and he was always miserable, he had to stay awake for his survival. He’d gotten sleep when he knew he needed it. In the Blade of Marmora, however, the exact opposite is true: losing sleep may cause him to lose his life.

Keith is slowing down. When he’s fighting, he can no longer run and swing his blade at the same time. It feels too heavy in his hands and his feet drag behind him like they can’t be picked up. He has to put his energy into one or the other, not both. His vision swarms with a combination of sweat and exhaustion. He runs into walls and other members, and one time he even stepped into a trap that was so obvious a skittish rabbit could’ve avoided it.

He’s making mistakes more than the average blade does. Mistakes will lead to his death. He knows this. He’s trying. He’s trying so hard to just sleep but despite the deep exhaustion that aches and wares down his body, he can’t find the sweet solace that he’s looking for. His eyes can barely stay open for crying out loud. They cry in relief when he allows them to shut, but the rest of him just won’t comply.

It’s not like the others haven’t noticed. He’s been banned from going outside of his room past what’s meant to be 2000 on Earth. If he’s caught one more time, they threatened to kick him out of the Blade for good. Their look and tone indicated that they were a hundred percent serious. His life as well as the entire organization depended on him not drastically messing up. If he were to get captured before he could escape or end his own life, the Blade of Marmora could crumble apart.

He thinks about all of this instead of sleeping. Because he can’t. He can’t recall the last time he actually slept more than a few minutes at a time. Insomnia forces his tears out of his eyes, and his sobs nearly take more energy than already has. He can’t keep going like this. His “nights” consist of him staring at his ceiling and muffling the sound of his cries through his pillow or arm. He pulls at his hair and silently begs for God to have mercy on him.

Keith can’t help but think death will be the answer to his prayers.

[thedeadhandofseldon]

The Anti-Mercer Effect

On the Accessibility of D&D, Why Unprepared Casters is so Fun, and Why Haley Whipjack is possibly the greatest DM of our generation.

(Apologies to my mutuals who aren’t in this fandom for the length of this, but as you all know I have never in my life shut up about anything so… we’ll call it even for the number of posts about Destiel I see every day.

To fellow UC fans - I haven’t listened to arc 4 yet, I started drafting this in early August, and I promise I will write a nice post about how great Gus the Bard is once I get the chance to listen to more of his DMing).

Structure - Or, “This is not the finale, there will be more podding cast”

So, first of all, let’s just talk about how Unprepared Casters works. Because it’s kind of unusual! Most of the other big-name D&D podcasts favor this long, grand arcs; UC has about 10 hours of podcast per each arc. And that’s a major strength in a lot of ways: it makes it really accessible to new listeners, because you can just start with the current arc and understand what’s going on!

And by starting new arcs every six or seven episodes, they can explore lots of ways to play D&D! Classic dungeon delve arc! Heist arc! Epic heroes save the world arc! Sportsball arc! They can touch on all sorts of things!

And while I’m talking about that: Dragons in Dungeons, the first arc, makes it incredibly accessible as a show - because it lets the unfamiliar listener get a sense of what D&D actually is. (It’s about telling stories and making your friends feel heroic and laugh and cry, for the record). If I had to pick a way to introduce someone to the game without actually playing it with them, that arc would definitely be it.

And I’d be remise not to note one very important thing: Haley Whipjack and Gus the Bard are just very funny, very charismatic people. Look. Episode 0s tend to be about 50%(?) those two just talking to each other about their own podcast. It shouldn’t work. And yet it DOES, its one of my favorite parts, because Haley and Gus are just cool.

And a side note that doesn’t fit anywhere else: I throw my soul at him! I throw a scone at him - that’s it, that’s the vibe. The whole podcast alternates between laughing with your friends and brooding alone in a dark tavern corner - but the laughs never forced and the dark corner is never too dark for too long.

Whipjack the Great - Or, the DM is Also a Player!

I think Haley Whipjack is one of the greatest Dungeon Masters alive. The plots and characters! The mechanical shenanigans! The descriptions!

Actually, let’s start there: with the descriptions. (Both Haley and Gus do this really fucking well). As we know, Episode 0 of each arc sees the DM reading a description - of a small town, or the Up North, or the recent history of a great party. And Haley always strikes this tricky balance - one I think a lot of us who DM struggle with - between giving too much description and  worldbuilding, and not telling us anything at all. She describes people and events in just enough detail to imagine them, but never so much they seem static and unreal - just clear enough to envision, but with enough vagueness left to let your imagination begin to run wild.

While I’m thinking about arc 3’s party, let’s talk about a really bold move she made in that arc: letting the players have ongoing control of their history. Loser Lars! She didn’t try to spell out every detail of this high-level party’s history, or restrict their past to only what she decided to allow - she gave them the broad outlines, and let them embellish it. And that made for a much more alive story than any attempt to create it by herself would have - but I think it takes a lot of courage to let your players have that agency. Most Dungeon Masters (myself included) tend to struggle with being control freaks.

And the plots! Yeah, arc one is built of classic tropes - but she actually uses them, she doesn’t get caught up in subverting everything or laughing at the cliches. And it’s fun! In arc 3, there really isn’t a straight line for the players to follow, either - which makes the game much more interesting and much trickier to run. And her NPCs are fantastic and I will talk about them in the next section.

Above all, though, I think what is really impressive is how Haley balances mechanics, and rules as written, with the narrative and rule of cool - and puts both rules and story in the service of playing a fun game. And the secret to that? She’s the DM, but the DM is a player, and the DM is clearly having fun. Hope Lovejoy mechanically shouldn’t get that spellslot back, but she does, and it’s fun. The changeling merchant in Thymore doesn’t really make some Grand Artistic Narrative better, but wow is it fun. And she never tries to force it one way or the other - the story might be more dramatic if Annie didn’t manage to banish the demon from the vault, but it’s a lot cooler and a lot more fun for the players if Annie gets to be a badass instead - and the rules and the dice say that Annie managed it.

Settings feel like places, NPCs feel like people, and the narrative plot feels like a real villainous plot.

Anyway. I could go on about the various ways in which Whipjack is awesome for quite a while - she’s right, first place in D&D is when your friends laugh and super first place is when they cry - but I’m going to stop here and just. Make another post about it some other time. For now, for the record I hold her opinions about the game in higher esteem than I do several official sourcebooks; that is all.

Characters - Or, Bombyx Mori Is Not an Asshole, And That Matters

Okay, I said I would talk about characters! And I will!

Just a general place to start: the party! All of the first three parties are interesting to me, because they all care about each other. Not even necessarily in a Found Family Trope sort of way, though often that too. But they generally aren’t assholes to each other. The players create characters that actually work together, that are interesting; even when there’s internal divisions like SK-73 v. Sir Mr. Person, they aren’t just unpleasant and antagonistic all the time. Listening to the podcast, we’re “with” these people for a couple hours - and it isn’t unpleasant. That matters a lot. (To take a counter-example: I love Critical Role, but the episode when Vox Machina pranked Scanlan after he died and was resurrected wasn’t fun to listen to, it was just uncomfortable and angering and vaguely cruel).

All of the PCs are amazing, and the players in each arc did a great job. If you disagree with me about that, well, you have the right to be incorrect and I am sorry for your loss. Annie Wintersummer, for one example: tragic and sad and I want to give her a hug, but also Fuck Yeah Wintersummer, and also her familiar Charles the Owl is the cutest and funniest and I love him. And we understand what’s going on with Annie, she isn’t some infinite pool of hidden depths because this arc is 7 episodes and we don’t have time for that, but she also has enough complexity to be interesting. Same with Fey Moss: yeah, a lot of her is a silly pun about fame that carries into how she behaves, but a lot of how she behaves is also down to some good classic half-elven angst about parenthood and wanting to be known and seen and important. (Side note: if your half-elf character doesn’t have angst, well, that’s impressive and also I don’t think I believe you).

There are multiple lesbian cat-people in a 4-person party and they both have requited romantic interests who aren’t each other. This is the future liberals want and I am glad for it.

Sir Mister Person, the human fighter! Thavius, the edge lord! Even when a character is “simple,” they’re interesting, because of how they’re played as people and not action-figures. And that matters a lot.

In the same way: the NPCs. There really aren’t a lot of them! And some of them come from Patreon submissions, so uh good work gang, you’re part of the awesomeness and I’m proud of you! The point being, the NPCs work because enough of them are interesting to matter. It’s not just a servant who opens Count Michael’s door, it’s a character with a name (Oleandra!) and a personality and history. They’re interesting. Penny Lovejoy didn’t need to be interesting, the merchant outside the Laughing Mausoleum didn’t need to be interesting, but they ARE! And Haley and Gus EXCEL at making the NPCs matter, not just to the story but to us as viewers. I agree with Sir Mister Person, actually, I would die for the princesses of the kingdom. I actually care about Gem Lovejoy of all people - that wouldn’t happen in an ordinary campaign! That’s the thing that makes Unprepared Casters spectacular - and, frankly, it’s especially impressive because D&D does not tend to be good at making a lot of interesting compared to a lot of other sorts of stories.

And, just as an exemplar of all this: Bombyx Mori. Immortal, reincarnating(?), and described as the incarnation of the player’s ADHD. I expected to hate Bombyx, because as the mom friend both in and out of my friend-group’s campaigns, the chaos-causer is always exhausting to me. And yeah, Bombyx causes problems on purpose! But! She is not an asshole.

And that’s important. Bombyx goes and sits with the queen and comforts her. Bombyx gives Annie emotional support. Bombyx isn’t just a vehicle to jerk around the DM and other players; Bombyx really is a character we can care about. To compare with another case - in the first couple episodes of The Adventure Zone, the PCs are just dicks. Funny, but dicks. Bombyx holds out an arm “covered in larva” to shake with a count, and robs him of magical items, but she also cares about her friends and other people! She uses a powerful magical gem to save her fertilizer guy from death! Yeah, Bombyx is ridiculous, but she’s not just an asshole the party has to keep around for plot reasons; you can see why her party would keep her around. And one layer of meta up, she’s the perfect example of how to make a chaotic character like that while still being fun for everyone you’re playing with, which is often not the case. And I love her.

The Anti-Mercer Effect - Or, “I think we proved it can be fun, you can have a good time with your friends. And it doesn’t have to be scary, you can just work with what you know”

The Mercer Effect basically constitutes this: Matthew Mercer, Dungeon Master of Critical Role, is incredible (as are all of his players). They’re all professional story-tellers in a way, remember, and so Critical Role treats D&D like a narrative art-form, and it’s inspiring. Seeing that on Critical Role sets impossible standards - and people go into their own home games imagining that their campaigns will be like Critical Role, and the burden of that expectation tends to fall disproportionately on the DM. And the end result, I think, of the Mercer Effect is that we get discouraged or intimidated, because our game isn’t “as good as” theirs. (And I should note - Matt certainly doesn’t want that to be our reaction).

So the Anti-Mercer Effect is two things: it’s D&D treated like a game, and it’s inspiring but not intimidating. And Unprepared Casters manages both of those really freaking well. Because they play it like a game! A UC arc looks just like a good campaign in anyone’s home game. They have the vibes of 20-somethings and college students playing D&D for fun because that’s who they are (as a 20-something college student who plays a lot of D&D, watching it felt like watching my friends play an especially good campaign). They’re trying to tell a good story, sure, and they always do. But first and foremost, they’re trying to have fun, and it shows, and I love the UC cast for it.

And that’s the other half of it: it’s inspiring! It’s approachable; you can see that Haley and Gus put plenty of work into preparing the game but it also doesn’t make you feel like you need hundreds of pages of worldbuilding to run a game. Sometimes a cleric makes Haley cry and she gives them back a spell-slot from their deity! That’s fantastic! It’s just inspiring - listening to this over the summer, when my last campaign had fallen apart under the strain of graduation, is why I decided to plan and run my new one!

That quote from Haley Whipjack that I used as the title for this section? That’s the whole core of this idea, and really, I think, the core of the podcast.

The Mercer Effect is when you go “that’s really cool, I could never do that.” But Unprepared Casters makes you look at D&D and go “wow, that looks really fun. I bet I can do that!” And I love the show for it.

And I bet a lot of you do too.

[xo-cuteplosion-xo]

Party with the PM/ADA HC

Party with the PM/ADA HC

Tis a lazy day- so a lazy post T_T (still not feeling 100% better T_T)

At first, there really isn’t anybody too happy about this little “bonding” exercise.

It was organized by both Mori and Fukuzawa since there were so many temporary alliances lately. That and they both wanted a little amusement.

Almost everybody didn’t mind.

Ranpo, Kunikida, Tanizaki, and almost everybody but Dazai and Atsushi were fine with it when it came to the agency.

Then the only people against the little slumber party in the mafia were Chuuya and Akutagawa.

It was relatively easy to get Akutagawa to go. A simple, “Dazai will be there I'm sure you’ll impress him in some way.”

Chuuya… you had to drag him to the location. Of course, this is no easy task because he is the port mafia’s executive gravity manipulator. He’ll go from making himself too heavy to move, to pinning you down, to shoving you into walls.

It takes threatening to get Mori and using slight manipulation. His sense of loyalty is both his greatest strength and weakness. With a simple, “well this is something from Mori, so refusing to go is refusing an order so it’s kind of disloyal?”

He was glaring and grumbling curses, but he was about to go. “I swear if I have to deal with that mongrel I’ll crush you.” he’d probably repeat something like that over and over again.

When you actually get there you're surprised how well set up everything is.

There is karaoke, various forms of liquor, tables, sleeping bags, beanbags, lots of snacks, there were even a few people already here.

You decided to help set up anything that still needed setting up.

You ended up talking to Atsushi a bit, he did find it rather unbelievable he was talking to one of the more feared members of the mafia.

While you could be ruthless, cold, and cruel, you were a kind person underneath all of it.

Dazai showed up before Chuuya, which was unexpected.

No Chuuya means nobody to annoy the living hell out of.

It was either Kunikida or you. Of course, he picked the rarer occasion.

“Will you commit a double suicide with me?” “Such a flower.” “What are you up to.” “Whaaaa you're ignoring meeeee?” he could be quite the pester.

Unlike Chuuya though, you kept yourself level-headed.

“Sorry but I plan on living Dazai.'' Kunikida was amazed at how easily you could hold together. To the mafia this was normal but to the agency, they were all shocked you could deal with Dazai's behavior.

You liked this sort of peace. Even Akutagawa, who was basking alone eating pocky, was gradually interacting with Atsushi. He was nervous and kept a large distance but it wasn’t too bad.

Chuuya was the last to get there, and he was already holding a bottle of wine. He sat down and finished it. If you give him the stink eye, he'll glare. “Just don’t, if I have to deal with this, I'm going to be drunk.” that would earn a chuckle as Dazai starts to purposely anger the ginger.

Eventually, you pulled them apart before they started throwing fists.

“How drunk do you think Chuuya has to be for karaoke?”

“Drunk enough to be on the verge of passing out.” why Dazai knows this is unknown.

When people moved to start karaoke it was mostly those who had already had a bit much to drink.

Despite being waisted, it was still hard to get Chuuya to go up with you. Before you realized it, Dazai was there to shove you to the middle. It was like old times for a moment. The three of you had been close if you could count your partnership as close. Always stepping to break the boys from their fights. Joining in, at times, drinking together after a successful mission. Falling asleep on each other's shoulders.

This felt like those times and for a moment it was as if you weren't on separate sides. “Chuuya’s just scared (y/n) likes me more!” Dazai snickered, pulling you towards him.

Teasing drunk Chuuya was always a big laugh for the two of you. “No! they like me more! I’m not the one always touching them weirdly!” he pulled you back and you sighed.

This was going to be a long night. “How about more wine Chu?” you hummed grabbing your own glass as Dazai snickered.

“Drinking contest!” he hummed.

“Pft, but Chu’s already wasted Daz!”

“You're not though~”

“I don’t drink…”

“Yes, you do!”

“Do not”

“Do to”

“No”

“Yes”

“No”

“Yes”

“Shut up before I squash you both.” he went ignored.

“No”

“Yes”

“Fuck you.”

“Gladly.”

“Perverted ass”

“You said it first~”

“Chuuya, kill him.”

“Gladly!”

“How cruel” cue the dramatic hand placement over his eyes and the hand over his heart. “The princess sent the brute after the prince.

“You're not a prince.”

“More like a slimy mackerel.”

“Ouch”

“Serves you right mackerel.”

“The princess has started using the brute's names!”

“Wait- why am I the princess? (princess here simply implies the one who needs saving, not implying female gender)

“Because I need to save you?”

“They don’t need to be saved”

“Just kill him, Chu. Or I’ll do it first.”

“Eh, actually! I think that would be a pleasant way to die! Kill me already dearest, just do it painlessly”

“Fucking creep!”

And cue both Chuuya and yourself racing to attack Dazai.

And at that point, the dad’s leaders step in and separate their children subordinates…

Crossing your arms like children and glaring you three huff and pout.

“They lasted a whole hour before they started trying to murder one another.” Mori pinched the brim of his nose sufficiently entertained.

Kouyou scolded the drunk Chuuya who decided to pass out finally.

Atsushi is just confused. “Are they always like this?”

Akutagawa nodded scowling. “When Dazai-san was in the mafia he tormented them like this daily. They were destructive and feared. Even if double black was more prominent in the pairing and (y/n)-san did more missions on their own, when they work together… it’s impossible to survive.”

Atsushi shivered. “And now?”

Akutagawa raised a brow. (his almost-non existent ones XD). “I mean Chuuya-san and (y/n)-san do a ton of stuff together. (y/n) gets along with anybody as long as they don't screw up…” if Akutagawa shivered at that then Atsushi was most definitely terrified.

“Their ability?”

“... scary”

“... what is it?”

“Scary.”

“... Akutagawa that doesn't..”

“Weapons never miss a target… never. They can create them out of anything.”

“Even…”

“Even bodies.”

“... scary”

“Mhm”

At least the two of them were getting along… kinda?

[bi-writes]

notorious: reboot — chapter three mori quam foedari

You haven’t seen anything yet; you have no idea what I will sacrifice to get to where I need to be.

type: series, alternate universe detail: mob!tom word count: 6.4k warnings: mature language and themes, some nsfw content and nsfw innuendos series masterlist

There were webs in your dreams. Spiders, with plump, dark bodies that crawled all over your skin. You could feel them inside of your mouth, coming out from between your teeth, burrowing into the softness of your hair. You itched, squirmed, and cried, but nothing stopped them. Piling on top of each other, weaving their silk around your neck, pulling tighter and tighter until you couldn’t breathe. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, but you could still feel them crawling inside of you. And then you felt a warm hand on your neck, breaking the webs in half, blowing fire onto your skin that burned their fat bodies into nothingness. You opened your eyes, and it was Tom, leaning over you, talking but you couldn’t hear what was coming out of his mouth. Then you screamed.

You jolted awake, sitting up abruptly, looking around your bedroom. The other side of the bed was still made up and empty like always, and the sun was just coming up over the horizon. You sighed deeply, putting your hand on your chest. Tom was in your dreams. He was in your dreams, and he was leaning over you, talking to you, helping you, saving you. The feeling was foreign. You always did things on your own. Your own ambition and determination had gotten you this far, and it was the only thing that was going to carry you through these next long months. Relying on someone else wasn’t in your agenda. No one except your mother had ever looked out for you, and she had been gone a long time, and while you loved Mariposa dearly, she had her flaws, and you always made sure to have a Plan B when it came to her.  

Independence was all you had ever known. You ran your fingers over your neck, which you had just imagined tightened and hung around spiderwebs. You were helpless, and he had to come save you. You had tried so hard in your life to never be in that position, to always have a way out, to always have a way to get yourself out of sticky situations, and that was why you always trained, always kept learning, never stopped trying to get better and better at being yourself.  

You hoped it wasn’t a vision of what was to come. If you had to rely on Tom, if you had to truly lean on him for help, you had to have been out of your mind. You couldn’t think about it anymore. You just couldn’t.

You slid out of bed, padding into the kitchen. Mariposa was sitting there, at the breakfast counter, sipping some coffee. She turned to look at you. Her curls were combed out nicely, and you figured she had been awake for a little while already.

“What are you doing up?” She asked, and you shrugged. You wanted to forget the dream you had been having for the last few nights, so you gave her a short, vague answer.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you said, and she nodded. You went to the coffee pot and poured yourself a cup, joining her at the counter. Mariposa had partly moved into the spare bedroom in your apartment for the time being. She kept some things here for herself, but she stayed some nights back at her apartment and some nights with you. You did like when she was here. It was nice to have company on mornings like this.

“Me neither,” she said softly, looking down at her cup. She found comfort in the warmth of it. “I’m nervous.”

“For?”

“For tonight,” she answered honestly, tracing the rim of her mug. “I’ve never…I’ve never been a part of an…initiation. I mean…I know my dad has said things about your father and some of his men, doing things to join, but I sort of thought it was a myth.”

It was true. Your father was very insistent on all his lackeys being present at a ceremonial initiation. You thought it had been myth, too, but then you overheard your father on the phone one day talking about such matters. Your father’s initiations involved burning pictures of your younger self, bleeding over their ashes, and getting a certain Latin phrase tattooed behind your ear. Your father ran his business the way his Italian predecessors had, and he was adamant on keeping those traditions.  

Mori quam foedari, was the Latin phrase, meaning death before dishonor. Your father expected his men to live up to his name, to their own names, and once you were in the family, the only way out was death. You had heard rumors that men that had wronged your father were expected to die, and upon their deaths, your father had their tattoos blacked out before they were dumped in the Colorado River. They didn’t deserve to wear the phrase, especially in death.

You sighed, thinking too much, brushing your hair back and running your fingers through it. “Don’t worry about anything, Ri. I’m going to be there. We’re going together. I’ve got your back, and you’ve got mine. Yeah?” You turned to look at her, and she nodded slowly. She was staring off distantly.

“W-Who’s going to be there?” She wondered, her thoughts roaming to the sweet blue-eyed Englishman she had been talking to much too often.

“I’m not sure, Ri. But…we should be ready for anything.”

“Like…if it’s all made up? If…it’s a trap?” Mariposa asked this because she thought that she should, but she was convinced it couldn’t be. Harrison wouldn’t be okay with having her walk into a trap, would he? Surely, he cared for her enough that he wouldn’t want her to get hurt, not anymore.  

“Yes, Ri. That’s what I mean.” You stared up at the ceiling for a moment, sighing. “But I don’t think he’ll do that.”

Mariposa took a long sip of coffee, frowning a bit. She had her reasons for believing that, but she was curious about yours. “Why is that?”

You shrugged, leaning back in the chair. “When I saw him the other night, we…I don’t even know how to explain it,” you laughed a bit, shaking your head. “We were close to each other, you know…flirting and…I don’t know.”

You thought about your legs on either side of Tom’s waist, your lips brushing against his, your hands on his chest. You thought about his gaze, his dark eyes that lit your insides on fire, made you feel warm from the tips of your fingers all the way to your toes. You thought about threatening to shoot him with a gun, and how he had smiled at that. You thought about how good he had looked in that suit, and how all you had wanted to do was run your fingers through his curls and kiss the smirk off his face. You weren’t sure what you were feeling; lust, want, desire, need, romance, it could’ve been a lot of things, but you couldn’t deny that there were thoughts in your head that your father wouldn’t approve of.  

Jesus, y/n…get your shit together.

“Trying to figure each other out, I’m sure,” Mariposa raised an eyebrow at you. “Both of you are the most mysterious, secluded individuals on this planet. You keep everything inside. Maybe that’s why you’re both like that together. You know each other more than you think.”

You pursed your lips, “Ri, we’re strangers to each other.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she countered. “You don’t have to know someone to know what they’re thinking, to…to figure out why they are the way they are. I don’t…I can’t figure Tom out when I look at him. I never can. It’s like he’s got…a barrier around him all the time. A barrier made of iron.”

You tapped your fingers against the kitchen counter. That wasn’t what you felt, and somehow it made your heart beat a little faster, knowing you saw more than others did. You saw complexity in his eyes, not darkness, not iron. You saw warmth wanting to crawl out between the dark covers of his walls, despite his venomous words, and you liked knowing that no one else could sense that. It was like you knew secrets about him that no one else did, not even Harrison.  

Picking him apart, little by little, piece by piece, until he’s nothing but mine.

“How was Harrison? I never…I never asked,” you said, changing the subject, clearing your throat. “Everything went alright?”

She nodded, “uh…yeah. I was in and out.”

You watched as she shifted in her seat, taking a long sip of her coffee. She didn’t meet your eyes, and you narrowed them at her. Mariposa was a romantic. Everything was theatrical and poetic to her, and sending her out on a job, you expected her to tell you how exciting and how easy it had been, how she outshined men and how she was so good at what she did. But her account was short and to the point, and it made you suspicious.  

There could only be a few reasons why she wouldn’t give you details. Either her father had said something, but he was in Los Angeles helping yours, so that couldn’t be it. She could have screwed up the job, but you knew that was impossible, because Tom had already replied to your message. It was something else, and she was avoiding your eyes.  

God, fuck, of course this would happen.

“You saw him,” you said finally. “You spoke to him.”

Mariposa hesitated, and you leaned forward. She hated disappointing you, almost as much as she hated disappointing her father.  

“Ri, tell me what happened. Tell me,” you coaxed her gently. “I’m not upset. Just tell me the truth.”

She swallowed hard as she put her curls behind her shoulders, “we…it didn’t start out intimate or…or romantic or anything. But we were in his office, and it just…it just happened. We kissed.”

She looked at you, waiting for your reaction. She thought you might scold her about getting involved with him. She thought you might yell at her for compromising the plan, the mission, business itself. But her heart was full of love, and Harrison’s eyes had reflected the same. He was soft when he looked at her, and she ached to be looked at like that, to be understood. How could she not kiss him?

You blinked for a moment, thinking.  

“You kissed him, or did he kiss you?” You asked finally.

“y/n—”

“Ri, just answer the fucking question.”

“I…it was me. I kissed him,” she admitted, and you took a deep breath.  

“Good,” you said, turning back to face your coffee.

“Good?” She stuttered, and you nodded, watching as the light in the room changed as the sun rose up higher.

It was different when it was the woman that kissed her man, especially a man like Harrison. Harrison was a sight for sore eyes, you could admit that. He had a body he worked hard for, dressed expensive and like a man of authority, and he had a handsome face, especially with those killer blue eyes. Harrison was a man that had had many a woman, and he was used to them melting at his touch. He had no trouble drawing them in, and he had no trouble making them fall for him. This time, Harrison had reeled in a woman that wasn’t afraid to fight back, and you knew Mariposa’s loyalty lied with you, even if she did kiss him of her own volition.

Mariposa had kissed him first, and because of it, he would believe he had the upper hand between them, that he could play her like an instrument he had known his entire life. But Mariposa was your wild card, and Harrison could play her all he like, but he would never be able to play the music right. You would make sure of that.  

Use him, abuse him, lose him.

“Good,” you repeated. “Because now he thinks he holds something over you. And we’re going to use it against him.”

You didn’t recognize the face you saw in the mirror, not entirely. You were seated in front of your vanity, and Mariposa stood behind you, braiding your hair back. She was doing one single braid, tight and intricate. When she was finished, she pulled a few stray hairs out to frame your face. You looked sweet, innocent. The white dress you were wearing didn’t help convey that message any less. It was strapless and stark white, a blinding color on you that you didn’t wear often. You couldn’t blend in wearing white.

Mariposa finished with your hair, stepping out to the side to look at you and her side by side in the mirror. You were matching, wearing the same dress, but she had her effortless box braids in again. Both of you wore barely any makeup, but Mariposa couldn’t help herself and put a pair of lashes on and some lip gloss. Her bare skin glowed, and you were a little jealous at how put together she still looked even without her makeup caked on perfectly.  

“Are you ready?” You asked her, but it was more of a formality than actually wanting to know if she was prepared for the night. She hiked her dress up, showing you the gun strapped to her thigh. You pulled up your own dress, showing her your own firearm, and you both smiled at each other in the mirror. You took her hand in yours, and you both squeezed at the same time.

“Remember the plan?” You asked, and she nodded, taking a deep breath.  

“Get him alone,” she repeated. “Get him to talk about everything and nothing. Make an excuse to seem vulnerable, and let…let him take care of me.”

You met her eyes in the mirror, and she seemed unsure of herself.

“Harrison is…tender-hearted,” you said gently. “He wants someone to take care of, Ri. So…let him take care of you. In any way that you need.”

She nodded, closing her eyes for a moment to think. You knew she would take those orders to heart, and you didn’t blame her. Mariposa was sweet inside, and maybe she did need to be taken care of. You couldn’t hold that against her. She needed touch, affection, words as sweet as she looked being whispered in her ear. Maybe when this was all over, you would let her be with someone tender-hearted without rules. But for now, you both had a job to do, and she needed to remember that before she allowed herself to get carried away with it all.  

Death before dishonor.

When she opened her eyes again, you could tell by the look in her eyes that she was ready to go. Steeling herself inside like the good soldier she was, she followed you out the door.  

When you both emerged outside, there was a car waiting for you. Tom had sent a car, and he didn’t disappoint. A sleek four door luxury vehicle, all pretty and perfect for you. The driver got out and opened the backseat door for you both, but then he handed you both black cloth blindfolds.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

“Boss’s orders,” is all he said, and you both got settled in the car before tying the blindfolds on yourselves. When he was satisfied, he got into the drivers’ seat again and started the car, pulling away quickly. Tom never liked to be kept waiting. You weren’t to be late, not even by a second.

You held Mariposa’s hand as the car drove, and you both leaned against each other. You counted the minutes, and by the time you counted almost forty-five minutes, you wondered if Tom really had just sent you both to your deaths as easily as that.

He wouldn’t do that. Not yet, at least. Not until he gets what he wants from you.

When the car finally stopped, you were allowed to take off the blindfolds. You both undid them, pulling them off slowly, and you both looked ahead at the house in front of you. You weren’t in the city anymore, no, you were somewhere else.  

The car had driven up a long, winding gravel driveway, protected by a large gate with a few men hanging around the entrance. The driveway circled back towards another gate, and in the middle of it all was a fountain made of limestone and marble. The driveway was lit up beautifully with small lights, and the entrance of the grand house was lit up as well, with double doors at least ten feet tall made of dark oak wood.

You and Mariposa linked arms as you stepped onto the gravel in your heels, holding onto each other for balance as you followed a few more men as they walked away from the entrance to the house. You weren’t allowed in there, not yet.

You were led around the back of the house. The grounds were beautiful, a large two-story mansion that must’ve been thousands of square footages of old American wood and all its charm. The backyard was made up of an acre of greenspace that led to a dock, a lake that other large houses shared. Behind the house, the cellar doors were closed, but a few men already standing there opened them up for you, showing you the staircase that led downwards towards the basement.  

“After you, ladies,” one of them said lowly. You went in first, holding onto the railing and stepping down sideways to not lose balance in your heels. When you got to the end of the stairs, there were a few lackeys waiting for you both, offering you their hands to help you down. You and Mariposa took their hands gratefully, and then they let you go as soon as you were on your feet steadily. The lackeys stood in a circle around a dimly lit table in the middle of the space. The circle opened up to invite both you and Mariposa in, and beside the table were Tom and Harrison and a few others who you noted were family. A few younger suited fellows who shared Tom’s curls stood behind them, and you noticed everyone in the circle was wearing black besides you and Mariposa.

It was symbolic. Two birds in white, about to join the family of Tom’s pack. This wasn’t ordinary, and this hadn’t been done before, not with women, and you could see that the whole room was feeling something new and foreign about the ceremony about to take place.

Would your white dress turn black from fire? Or red from blood?

“y/n y/l/n,” Tom said your name, so that everyone could hear it. You looked around the room a bit. His men towered over you and Mariposa, all from different parts but united in this one circle. They had different faces, different pasts, but in this one ceremony, they were one, and it was the first time you understood why men like your father and Tom did these things. It was to make you belong, and to make others feel like you belonged. Sharing in one ceremony would make you family, and it meant something more than coworker and coworker. You would be their sister, they would be your brothers, and there was nothing purer than a bond like that. Not romantic, but loving, and it would mean that even in death, you would be one.

You sucked in a breath, hating the feeling in your chest. All you ever wanted was to belong, and you tried so hard to belong to your father, to be one with his men, and they refused you because your father refused you. You needed brothers, wanted brothers, but your father shut the doors in your face more times than you could count.  

Tom didn’t hesitate. You had only known him personally for a few weeks, and here you were, standing in the basement on his country American mansion, and you belonged. He was making his brothers your brothers, bringing you into a sacred circle of family, love, sacrifice, and blood, and he didn’t hesitate once to invite you into it. You were a woman, you were, and Mariposa was a woman, but he didn’t care. He knew what you were, he knew what Mariposa was, and making you belong seemed like the natural thing to do.  

Why does it feel like I belong here more than I belong with my own family?

“Mariposa Muñoz,” Harrison said her name, nodding at her, and she tried not to smile at him. She couldn’t let you see this side of her, she refused. She simply nodded back, but their eyes danced in the presence of each other.  

I am yours, and you are mine.

“I’ve written up a contract for you both to sign,” Tom said, passing over two thick papers in front of you on the table. “For eighteen months, you’ll stay here in New York. And when I call, it means I have a job for you. You’re both to do it, and in exchange, this family will help you sort your business in Brooklyn and in Queens, so as long as you don’t bring that business to Manhattan.”  

You and Mariposa looked at each other briefly before turning back to him. You just needed to get her simple okay, even though you had spoken of this before. Her eyes told you she was ready as long as you were.

“Deal,” you said simply, and Tom produced a pocketknife from his jacket, pulling the blade out and passing it to you both. Then he put down a single white feather onto the table.

Two little birds, my little birds, signing it away.

You picked up the knife and met Tom’s eyes as you dragged it across your palm. You scrunched your nose a bit as you cut it, turning your hand over and letting the blood drip onto the table. You gave the knife to Mariposa before you picked up the feather, dipped the tip into the blood you dripped onto the metal surface, and signed your name at the bottom of the paper. Mariposa followed suit, making a whimpering sound as she cut herself. She signed her name at the bottom of the other paper, and you both stepped back, your palms dripping blood onto the floor. Tom looked around the room at all the lackeys, especially longer at the ones who stared at the both of you straight on.

He couldn’t blame them. Both you and Mariposa were wearing beautiful white matching dresses, but it was a sign he needed to speak.

I am yours, and you are mine.

“No one is to touch either of them,” Tom said darkly, turning his head. He wanted to meet each one of his lackeys in the eyes, so they knew how serious it was. Even looking Tom in the eyes was a privilege. “They aren’t here for your enjoyment. You will only address them by their last names, and you will call them nothing else. You are only to speak to them if it’s necessary for the responsibilities given to them, and for no other reason. If they speak to you, you answer, otherwise, you don’t say a fucking word to them. If you can’t follow these rules, either of them has my permission to blow your thick heads off. Is that understood?”

Strings of “yes, Mr. Holland,” and “yes, sir,” sounded around the room, echoing between each of them.  

Harrison came towards Mariposa, and you were surprised when he put a finger under her chin and gave her lips a single kiss, then both of her cheeks. Then he stepped to the side, looking down at you with his baby blues, and he lifted your chin and gave you a kiss, then kissed both of your cheeks. You watched as Tom repeated the same with Mariposa, kissing her lips and her cheeks, and when he came to you, you both stared up at each other momentarily before he leaned down and kissed both of your cheeks first. He gripped your chin a bit tighter as he leaned down to kiss your lips.

But it was a real kiss. Not a peck that the rest had been, but a kiss, and you closed your eyes to reciprocate it. Tom tilted his head to the side as you kissed, and when he pulled away, you realized he wasn’t just lingering on you, but he was silently saying something to the rest of the room.

She’s mine.

If it had been any other setting, if it was anyone else doing this to you, you would’ve clenched your fist and punched him right across his handsome face. But you had to take a deep breath and take it, because this was Tom Holland, and he was playing you. You had to be smarter, you had to be better, and pretending to go along with everything he planned would keep his guard down. You let him silently claim you with a hot kiss.

“Miss y/l/n, Miss Muñoz, these are your brothers. Like you, they bled on contracts written up by me, and like you, they were kissed by monsters. This is your family, and should you dishonor that fact, you’ll die by my hand or by the hand of whomever you wronged.”

Tom allowed his men to get a good look at the two of you before he dismissed the room.

“Harrison,” Tom called his name. “Take the girls to get cleaned up.”

“You go, Ri,” you said darkly, standing there still. “I need to have a word with Mr. Holland.”

Harrison put a hand behind Mariposa’s back, guiding her back up the stairs, out of the basement. As soon as you were alone, you grabbed the chain around Tom’s neck and yanked him towards you, your touch cold and hard.

The kiss had thrown you off your balance a bit. He kissed you like it mattered, like he was talking to his men, and you hated feeling like less than you really were.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” You demanded, the blood still leaking from your palm staining the front of his shirt. He narrowed his eyes a bit, unprepared for your hard attitude.  

“What are you fucking doing?” He shoved you off of him a bit, and you jabbed a finger into his chest.

“No,” you shook your head, “this wasn’t…inviting us into your family. This was branding us as one of your…lackeys. This was…inducting us as your girls. You kept your end, Tom, but you’re a bastard. If you think for one fucking second that I don’t see through whatever the hell this was, then you’re as dumb as you look.”

You grabbed him by the chin, blood on his face now. Tom hadn’t had blood on his face in a long time, not since he was running with the lackeys himself. Now it was apparent against his soft cheeks, his hard jaw. They brought out the darkness in his eyes. It belonged there.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Tom,” you said venomously, “Yes, I’ll come when you call. Yes, I’ll do the things you need me to do, and yes, I’ll be doing it well. But don’t you ever, for one fucking second, think that I’m one of your girls. Are we clear?”

He clenched his jaw, “y/n, I didn’t—”

“That stunt you pulled?” You interrupted him, and you could see he was searing with anger now. He hated being interrupted, so much. “Kissing me like that, in front of your crew? You’re pathetic. And if you think you can lay a claim on me, I dare you, Tom. I dare you to try.”

You gasped as he grabbed you by the back of the neck, forcing the distance between you to close. You stumbled backwards as he brought you in for a kiss, forced to sit on the table in the middle of the basement. Tom made his way between your legs, pulling you as close as possible. You let yourself enjoy the kiss for a few minutes. There was a stinging pain in your palm from the cut the blade had made, but you couldn’t be bothered as Tom Holland was kissing you, and he was kissing you purposefully. Not drunk, not high, not completely shitfaced, but Tom Holland was kissing you because he wanted to. You closed your eyes as you brought your arms around his neck, blood staining his creamy skin, but neither of you could be bothered as you kissed hotly.

His hands slipped down your sides, gripping your hips firmly, drawing your hips against his own. Your dress slid up your thighs, and you felt his calloused palms against the bare skin. You dragged your hand down his chest a bit, tilting your head to the side as you kissed, rolling your hips against his gently. The way his hands gripped you tighter told you he enjoyed it, and you let out a breathless sigh as you rolled your hips against his again, letting yourself draw pleasure from the feeling it gave you.

Death before dishonor. But you have never been daddy’s good girl.

You pulled away slowly, and you both exchanged warm breaths as you sat there, panting and breathless from the passionate kiss. You let yourselves enjoy the closeness for a moment, your lips brushing against one another gently, before you brought your elbow up, knocking him back right in his ribs.

What are you thinking? That one kiss is going to change the way things are?

“Jesus, fuck!” Tom cried out, stumbling back away from you, and you wiped your mouth as you got back onto your feet. You pushed your dress back down your thighs, fixing the neckline of your dress. “What the fuck is the matter with you?!”

It was good. Too good. And I hate how much you’re making me feel.

You made your way to the staircase, letting out a deep breath. Intimacy was a luxury. You were not Mariposa. You didn’t need love, affection, or touch to feel whole. You could feel whole all on your own, and you didn’t need a man nor a woman to do things for you. Tom caught you off guard, that was for sure, and you allowed yourself to indulge just for the sake of your own pleasure. But you couldn’t forget who the face was behind those kisses, who the man underneath those touches was. It was Tom Holland, and he used women. You were his…little bird. How could you be anything else to him? How could he be anything else to you?

Making me feel like I belong. Like I matter. You don’t mean it.

“The don’t fucking touch me rule applies to everyone, Tom. Including you,” you scoffed. “What did I say last time you touched me without my permission?”

He clenched his jaw, “you’d blow my dick off, darling.”

“Yeah, I did, so don’t test my limits, Tom. You’re pissing me off,” you started to climb the steps, and Tom came towards you, cautiously taking your hand to help you up. You let him lead you, as you were afraid of falling over in the heels Mariposa lent you, and you made your way into the house. Your heels clicked, echoing around the marbled floors and walls. Your eyes darted around the lavish living room full of lackeys, looking for Mariposa and Harrison, but you couldn’t see her anywhere. You turned back to Tom.

“Does Harrison have…an office or something?” You asked, and Tom nodded.

“Aye,” he answered, going into the kitchen for some bandages and supplies. “Upstairs, beside mine. Come here, we got to get your hand done up, darling.”

Atta girl, Ri. Make him swoon, make him feel important. Make him feel as if he’s got everything in the world at his fingertips, but never let him know that you’ve got his limbs on strings, and you’ve never been better at making him dance.

You came towards the kitchen, and he motioned for you to sip on the marble countertop. With your good hand, you tried to get up, but Tom eventually put his hands on your hips and lifted you up onto it. He took some antiseptic spray and went over the cut on your palm, and you gritted your teeth, watching the liquid foam. He wiped it away after a few moments, taking a bandage and starting to wrap your palm.

“That was stupid of you,” you said finally, looking at him curiously. “Kissing me like that.”

He chuckled a bit, “if you’re looking for an apology, you won’t receive one. I’m not bloody sorry I did it.”

You rolled your eyes, “of course you aren’t. You’re a man.”

He glanced at you for a moment, “don’t give me that, love,” he muttered, pulling tight on the bandages, making you gasp a bit. “You fuckin’ liked it.”

Of course I fucking did.

You met his eyes after he finished, dropping your hand. You stared off as he came close, close enough to touch his lips to your earlobe.

“Can almost smell you from here, darling,” he whispered lowly, and you shivered a bit. “So you can say whatever you want about…touch and permission and your dignity…”

You stiffened, ready to slap him across the face, but then he kissed the skin under your ear, drawing a long sigh from you.

“…but I know what it is you really want. And when you finally get your pretty head out of the fuckin’ clouds, I’ll be waiting.”

Fuck you.

“You’ll be waiting until you’re dead then,” you snapped, and he chuckled darkly, shaking his head, and you closed your eyes as he kissed under your ear again.

“No, baby, you know how I know that?” He brushed a few strands of hair away from your eyes, taking a whiff of your perfume as he studied the way you shivered for him. He knew you were tense all over, he could feel the heat coming off of you. “Because you’re a fuckin’ queen. And you’re too fuckin’ beautiful to lay with anyone less than a king. And that’s me, love, and whether you want to admit it or not, you and I are one and the same. Two sides of the same fuckin’ coin, and when you finally realize that, you won’t be able to stop what happens between us.”

You think you’re so fucking smart. You think you’ve got me all figured out. But your walls are falling, Tom, with every word out of your mouth, and I will not stop until they’re gone.

He watched your reaction from the side, touching the back of your ear. He noticed a small, faint tattoo there, but he waited for your response. You kept silent, your eyes dark and lips pursed.

Tom reached up and touched your bottom lip with his thumb, feeling the softness of it.

“Mori quam foedari?” He asked, and you kept your eyes away from his.

“Death before dishonor,” you explained, looking down, laughing bitterly. “Family motto.”

Family.

All anyone wanted in their life was to have family. People to look up to, people to rely on, people to turn to when things went awry, people that would be proud of what you had become. You hadn’t felt that in a long time, and you doubted you would ever truly feel it again. You only get one family in your life; besides your mother, you had gotten a pretty shitty one when it came to love and affection.

Tom could sense the distance in your eyes, like you were thinking about a future that had been stolen from you. Family was your weakness, because you were robbed of one.

“You were wrong, y/n. You are a part of my family now. For eighteen months, aye, but as long as you’re here, you’re a part of this family. And maybe you don’t want to hear this,” you rolled your eyes at that, “but I’ll protect you. Because you signed your name, you gave me something precious, and I’ll protect you as long as you stay.”

I am yours, and you are mine. But it’s not true. It’s all a lie. It has to be. Making me feel like I belong. Like I matter. You don’t mean it.

You turned your head finally, looking at him straight on. You looked into his eyes, watching as that hard exterior, those iron walls, rusted just the slightest bit. You took his wrist, lifting his hand so his palm came up to cup one side of your face.

Maybe Tom was more tender-hearted than he let on.

“I don’t need your protection, Tom.”

“No,” he shook his head. “But you have it.”

You scoffed, “why should I believe you? When you’ve done nothing but patronize me, threaten me, and objectify me since I met you? You underestimate me, Tom, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being anything less than what I am, and if you can’t understand how much I bring to the table, then you’re not worth the trouble. Because I’ve fought my entire fucking life to get to where I am, and something tells me you might just push me all the way back to where I started.”

He tilted his head to the side, “what does that mean?”

“It means that I fought my father for a long time to get him to trust me, to even look at me like I was worth something. And you give me the same looks, and if you keep doing it, Tom, if you keep acting like I’m not as good as you or any of your men here, then I’m wasting my time,” you said sincerely. “I’m a woman of many talents, Tom, and you’re fucking lucky I’ve agreed to work for you for this long. Because your business is going to change with me in it, for the better, and when I’m gone…” You leaned forward, “you’re going to feel it. And I want you to remember that.”

“Then why would I let you go?”

“Because,” you stared at his lips again, but then forced your eyes to return to his own. Tom licked his lips as you came close, your breath grazing the skin of his ear, making him relax, making him breathe harder. “I’m a y/l/n. And while its nice here in your kingdom…it’s not nearly as big as mine.”

And I’d die before I let you take it from me.

read chapter four

[just-incorrect-bnha]

BnHA Fic Recs (Part 2)

again, all of these are on ao3. please make sure you read the warnings and check the ratings before you read them. this list was made march 2020 so some of the word counts and dates might not be accurate for long

the first part can be found here

rule 02: stay by bonnia

Bakugou centric, Todobaku, Vampire/werewolf AU

Status: One shot/completed

Words: 23.5k

The vampire leans in close, expression utterly business-like in its seriousness.

And the last thing Katsuki remembers is the feeling of a tongue touching the bleeding wound at the juncture of his throat, the feeling of inexplicable anger, the fleeting thought of — this guy is so fucking dead — and then, nothing.

(or: katsuki is a vampire hunter who, thanks to a series of misfortunate circumstances and his potent werewolf's blood, somehow ends up striking a deal with the most aggravating vampire in existence)

Quirky Vampires by sexierthanthetardis

Todoroki centric, Tododeku, Vampire Midoriya

Status: Updated 2019-02-21

Words: 17k+

In which Midoriya is a vampire and Todoroki has to learn to deal with that.

Half-Cold, Half-Warm Bodies by beachbby

Midoriya centric, Quirkless Midoriya, Zombie apocalypse AU, Tododeku, Zombie Todoroki

Status: Updated 2020-02-22

Words: 59.9k+

Though it's the apocalypse, Izuku still can't help but take notes on whatever he can. Except now instead of documenting quirks, he analyzes the undead that he finds wandering the city streets. When he chances upon a roamer that's more docile and behaves in ways he's never seen before, he can't help but be curious as to why it does so.

Especially when it has such a striking appearance, heterochromatic eyes and hair can't be common amongst the general population.

Determined to find out what makes it different from the others, he's continuously surprised at just how human the undead boy seems.

He doesn't know if he can manage it, but he also hopes to find the family or friends that the boy had, hopefully to at least give them closure and to try and assure them that there's still a human spark somewhere in those dead eyes.

every siren is a symphony, every tear's a waterfall by poppyrainstorm

Midoriya centric, Tododeku, AU

Status: Completed

Words: 6.6k

Izuku first meets the boy through a glass pane when he’s five years old.

The other boy is short, and he’s silent. He looks scared and worried, and he keeps looking behind him as a man with a scowl and dark red hair ushers him into the room.

“You’ll be safe here,” The man says. The boy looks at him, eyes huge and anxious. Izuku notices that they’re two different colors-one is a dark grey, and the other is blue. His hair is two different colors, too-the left side is red, like the tall man’s, and the other is pure white.

This is the first time Izuku has ever seen a person that is not a scientist, Yagi Toshinori, or his mother.

Two people, really.

Soon, the man leaves, and the other boy is all alone. Izuku runs over to the desk that’s pushed against the glass wall, and clambers up on top of it, opening a drawer accidentally, and not caring.

“Hello!” He says, and the other boy spins around, eyes huge.

Cat's Cradle by stresselephant

Midoriya centric, Vigilante Midoriya, Dadzawa, Quirk Midoriya

Status: Updated 2020-02-16

Words: 38.7k+

If someone asked Aizawa why he hadn't just arrested the kid when he'd first met him, he'd tell them this:

It wasn't his damn fault most hero schools let incompetent idiots graduate with a license. He'd assumed they were just a new underground hero; sure their fighting technique could use some improvement, but overall they handled themselves well. Which is more than he could say for some of the new heroes these days. And to be fair, he'd never met a vigilante who actively avoided killing people.

So when he stumbled across a perfectly capable, newly graduated hero taking down a drug deal, he shrugged and let it go. They needed more people doing underground work, anyway.

Looking back, he wasn't sure it was a blessing or a curse that he hadn't checked to see if they had a hero license. If he did, maybe they wouldn't have ended up here. He'd sooner kill himself then admit it out loud, but a very selfish part of him couldn't be anything but grateful.

U.A.'s Resident Ghost by BeyondTheClouds777

Midoriya centric, Ghost Midoriya, Quirk Midoriya, Dadzawa

Status: Updated 2019-12-31

Words: 41k+

There is a ghost at U.A. Not haunting U.A. Not even hanging out at U.A.

There is a ghost. Enrolled. As a student of U.A.

And it's just Shouta's luck that he has everything to do with it.

You'd Be Surprised by snazzysnaz

Midoriya centric, Bakugou centric, Midoriya & Bakugou, Quirk Midoriya, Time travel

Status: Updated 2018-03-27

Words: 35.7k+

Midoriya Izuku was born with a quirk that lets him see the future. Or at least, that what he would tell anyone that asks.

(AKA, Izuku has a quirk that let's him rewind time for 15 seconds. Also some other stuff.)

Luck, a Fool's Hope, and a Bit of Love by PitViperOfDoom

Midoriya centric, Todoroki centric, Tododeku, Fantasy AU

Status: Completed

Words: 27.1k

The years that Izuku spent as a prisoner of the fair folk have left him wary of them, always afraid that they may return to disrupt his peaceful life and drag him back into servitude. But when he sees a young man fleeing from them one evening, he throws his fears aside to help. It's a good thing he does; it's difficult to make close friends these days, and Shouto seems to understand him in ways that few others do.

Shouto knows he can't keep his secret forever; Izuku is clever, and Shouto's Archfey father is relentless. If the truth is revealed, he has everything to lose: both his freedom, and his one chance at happiness.

Quirk Type: Memento Mori by RoseJennison

Midoriya centric, Shindeku, Quirk Midoriya

Status: Updated 2020-01-21

Words: 60.5k+

zuku wasn't sure what his quirk type would be called. He'd never heard of anyone else having a quirk like this, so it would probably have a category all to itself. 'Memento Mori' seems like a fitting type name. 'Remember Death'. With his quirk, it's important to remember that all things must die.

Because if one individual denies death for too long, another must take their place.

Pushing Daisies AU- in which Izuku has a quirk that allows him to bring dead things to life with a touch. The catch is that they will go back to being dead if he ever touches them again. Plus, if he keeps them alive for too long, another similar life will be taken in their place.

Bad Apple by takamicchi

Midoriya centric, Time travel, Quirk Midoriya, Villain Midoriya

Status: Part 1 completed (and can be read stand alone), part 2 updated 2018-11-06

Words: 24.2k+

The first day of U.A. starts on April 8th.

It is a day that is forever burned into Izuku's mind.

Because he will always return to that day whenever he dies.

Quantum Displacement by ChiwiTheKiwi

Midoriya centric, Time travel

Status: Updated 2019-09-19

Words: 23.5k+

“What is your name?”

The man gingerly raises his head, enough so that now Naomasa at least has view of his eyes past the green curls that hang down over his forehead. He repeatedly opens his mouth as if to respond, though no words come forth. Eventually, he simply closes his eyes for a solid minute before reopening them. They land on him first, then move to contemplate the handcuffs that still restrain his wrists to the table. Finally, both of them lock eyes, and Naomasa can see the newly found sense of composure. His lips part, and he speaks.

“My name is Midoriya Izuku.”

A wallflower's thorns by A_ToastToTheOutcasts

Midoriya centric, Quirk Midoriya, Tododeku

Status: Updated 2020-03-16

Words: 77.1k+

Maybe one day he'd be unafraid to tell people that he existed. Stand tall and announce that he was, in fact, there. For now though, he was more than content going day to day, weaving past his classmates and having them none the wiser.

(Aka where Izuku does, in fact, have a Quirk, it's just that no one notices)

From Muddy Waters by HLine

Midoriya centric, Quirk Midoriya, All for One is Hisashi 

Status: Updated 2020-03-26

Words: 149k+

- but the sleeve of his tracksuit was bulging, tearing and ripping and a mass of twisted flesh, nearly as big as the boy himself and nauseatingly familiar (the arm of the man that had torn a hole in his side with a grin and left him a frail shadow of himself) swung forward and slammed into the flat face of the giant robot.

Izuku wants to be a hero more than anything.

journey to the past by aloneintherain

Midoriya centric, Midoriya & Class 1-A, Time travel

Status: Completed

Words: 44.8k

Izuku is five years old the first time he's saved by heroes. He's an instant fan of the woman in pink with her cheerful smile and the man with his ice powers and fine-boned features, even if they both refuse to tell him their names.

For most of his life, Izuku has been the centre of villain attacks, but he has never been injured. Every time, he's saved by bright, unknown heroes—heroes who smile at Izuku, and ruffle his hair or ply him with hugs, and seem mesmerised by how small he is.

Heroes that the rest of the world doesn't believe exists. 

(Time-travelling Class 1-A AU)

A Single Reason by TheDeepSeaWitch

Midoriya centric, Shinosu centric, Yaoyorozu centric, Dad Might, Past villain AU

Status: Updated 2019-04-14

Words: 126k+

Training begins the next day, and doesn’t stop for any reason. They wait for heroes, then for police, then for anyone to save them, but nobody comes.

It’s only a month before Izuku forgets their names. It’s a year before he forgets his own.

It’s only a chance meeting with an impassioned soul eight long, painful years later that saves them.

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

They thought they were lost forever, that there was no future out there for them with their scars so visible and the blood on their hands still pungent and red. But if they have the strength to try, then perhaps, one day, they may yet find their forgiveness, and rediscover themselves along the way.

The Reforming Villains AU nobody asked for.

Yesterday Upon The Stair by PitViperOfDoom

Midoriya centric, Quirk Midoriya, Ghosts, Dad Might

Status: Completed

Words: 424k

Midoriya Izuku has always been written off as weird. As if it's not bad enough to be the quirkless weakling, he has to be the weird quirkless weakling on top of it.

But truthfully, the "weird" part is the only part that's accurate. He's determined not to be a weakling, and in spite of what it says on paper, he's not actually quirkless. Even before meeting All-Might and taking on the power of One For All, Izuku isn't quirkless.

Not that anyone would believe it if he told them.

Daymare by IntrospectiveInquisitor

Midoriya centric, Quirk Midoriya, Monster Midoriya, Midoriya & Kirishima, Horror

Status: Updated 2020-01-12

Words: 279k+

Izuku Midoriya has endured a decade of abuse, ridicule, and social ostracization due to his status as 'Quirkless'. Even his childhood friend, Katsuki Bakugou, has tossed him aside and made it a mission to drill his uselessness home. But despite his obstacles and the derision of his peers, Izuku will never give up on his dream of being a hero, and will never feel shame for being called Quirkless.

Because it's easier than acknowledging that he has a Quirk at all.

Hero Class Civil Warfare by RogueDruid (Icarius51)

Midoriya centric, Villain Midoriya (kinda)

Status: Completed

Words: 85.7k

Heroes lead by Bakugo.

Villains lead by Midoriya.

Seven days prep time.

Three days for Izuku Midoriya to show why they should be glad he's not a real villain.

Black Fox by A_ToastToTheOutcasts

Midoriya centric, Vigilante Midoriya, Quirkless Midoriya

Status: Updated 2020-03-01

Words: 140k+

The beauty of the era of quirks wasn't the amazing abilities; it was that nobody sane would even entertain the thought that Kuroko, the most wanted vigilante in all of Japan, was Quirkless.

Leviathan by rest_in_rip

Midoriya centric, Quirk Midoriya, Monster Midoriya

Status: Updated 2019-12-28

Words: 139k+

Izuku's only truly used his quirk once. He was four years old.

He took thirty-two lives that day.

Now, he's sworn never to let that power possess him again. Hiding the true nature of his quirk from everyone, he hides behind the thin facade of a useless, showy quirk, refusing any and all connection to the mysterious creature recognized in a few sparse news reports as the Leviathan.

Lies don't last forever, however, and one day or another, his world will have to come crashing down.

Something Borrowed by ThisCat

Midoriya centric, Quirk Midoriya

Status: Updated 2019-02-08

Words: 129k+

Izuku wants to be a hero.

No matter what anyone says, his teachers, his classmates, or even Kacchan, he wants to be a hero.

It shouldn't matter that no one thinks he can. It shouldn't matter what people think, or say, because the only thing that matters is if he can, and he's at least going to try. He'll find a way. Even if his quirk is what it is, he'll find a way to be a hero without pushing anyone else down.

...but who has ever heard of a hero who needs to borrow other people's quirks just to fight?

His Father's Son by Pipefoxesonthemoon

Midoriya centric, Quirk Midoriya, Angels and Demons AU, Monster Midoriya

Status: Updated 2020-03-18

Words: 279k+

Izuku Midoriya doesn't have a quirk. Quirks are things of wonder and awe, destined to make great heroes out of those who master them. Izuku has a curse. A thing. A horror that burnt his skin, ruined his life and filled his head with monsters. His only chance at normality was to suppress the darkness with self-hatred, silence the demons with medication, and focus everything left on the singular goal of maybe one day turning his curse into a force for good.

But can such horror, such darkness, ever be used for good? Or will he eventually fall to shadow and flame?

After all, Izuku is his father's son.

Embers by PaintTheWorldMad

Midoriya centric, Quirk Midoriya

Status: Updated 2019-11-21

Words: 120k+

Midoriya Izuku was the only person who could get close to him.

Katsuki hated that.

 Or, Midoriya Izuku is a normal boy born with a perfect combination of his parents' quirks and he'll be damned if that stops him from becoming a hero. Given that he has literally the most impractical fire quirk in existence (probably), that might be a little tricky.

Ticked Off by Xenolis

Midoriya centric, Dadzawa, Time travel

Status: Updated 2020-02-14

Words: 182k+

Midoriya Izuku attracted trouble. It was just a fact of life – the sky was blue, the grass was green, and Izuku constantly found himself in an absurd number of deadly situations.

He was okay with that. Mortal peril was an average Tuesday afternoon for a Pro Hero like him. Being kidnapped was practically a holiday. Saving civilians as a building collapsed around him was easier than facing his worried mum afterwards. He had dealt with All Might's disappointed dad stare and only cried for two hours afterwards.

A serial killing villain with an unknown Quirk would be no problem!

...but even Izuku had to admit that being sent back in time to his first day at UA wasn't on the agenda. Still, there was no-one more spitefully determined than him – he was going to make the most of it.

Yeah, good luck, heroes and villains alike! Deku was here to cause mischief and love his friends!

Clockwise by Xenolis

Midoriya centric, Dadzawa, Vigilante Midoriya, Time Travel

Shouta just wants a nap. He deserves a nap.

First his class becomes a target for the newly-formed League of Villains, then a new, frighteningly capable vigilante emerges from nowhere to do his job better than him with more Quirks than any one person needs. Between handling frequent villain attacks, trying to keep a bunch of inexperienced kids alive, and attempting to wrangle a talented problem child with glass bones and a heart of gold, it promised to be an exciting year with Class 1-A.

Shouta should've expelled them all then when he had the chance.

~

[Not really necessary to read Ticked Off before this! It's the same time travel circumstances, but an alternate plot.]

Subject: A Comprehensive Report by BonesOfBirdWings

Midoriya centric, Quirkless Midoriya, Analyst Midoriya, Midoriya & Nighteye, Dadzawa

Status: 2019-11-08

Words: 77.7k+

Izuku decides early on that heroics is not the only path to heroism.

[dweetwise]

A cute Ace x fem reader where they play hide and seek during a trial

i don’t think i’ve ever written a request this fast but hey, strike while the iron is hot and all that! it’s a little dumb and a whole lot of fluff but i hope you enjoy <3 (disclaimer: i don’t actually play immersed in dbd pls don’t mori me)

word count: 2543

Ace X f!reader: Hide and Seek

“You want to do it now?”

You glance up from rummaging through your offerings to look at Ace. He's smiling wide and there's a mischievous glint in his eyes, kind of like whenever he tries to get one of the others to play poker with him—oh, right. You’d made a bet a few days ago. 

“The killers are so blind!” Ace had laughed when you both managed to escape another trial, you without even taking a hit. The others sometimes made jokes about your sneakiness, claiming your ‘blending’ abilities were rivaled only by Claudette. This particular trial, the Pig had been visibly annoyed, completely ignoring Ace after the last gen got done and only focused on finding you, muttering something about ‘losing her fourth stack’. “I run into you several times each trial. You’re not that hard to find,” Ace continued, taking a good-natured jab at your skill to stay out of sight. “Because I don't actually try to hide from you?” you argued, raising an eyebrow. “Wouldn't find me if I did,” you added, challenging. And you should have known Ace never backed down from a challenge. “Wanna bet?” the man grinned. “You manage to avoid me an entire trial, you win." “Oh, you're on.”

It took a while for the opportunity to present itself, as you'd been thrown into trials either separately or with some of your more serious teammates. You're pretty sure Laurie would have kicked your asses for slacking off, and you didn't want to set a bad example for the new girl, Cheryl.

But now, you're waiting by the pre-trial campfire for the Entity to pick which killer it wants to torture you with, taking in the sight of a yawning Quentin and a grinning Nea loading her flashlight with batteries like it was a lethal weapon. You figure this opportunity is as good as any.

“Hey, guys,” you start, getting the duo’s attention. “You mind if we fuck—" ‘Around this trial’ would have been the rest of your sentence, but Nea interrupts you by bursting into laughter and Quentin makes a disgusted face. "Oh my fucking god,” Quentin visibly cringes, glaring at Ace. “Keep it in your pants, dude.” “If you would let the lovely lady finish,” Ace starts with a smirk. “She was about to ask if we can use the trial to settle a bet.” “With hide and seek,” you add before they get any more lewd ideas. “Go nuts,” Nea quips and Quentin just shrugs with a “Whatever”.

You return your attention to the task of choosing an offering, settling for a reagent to increase the mist. When you go to throw it into the fire, you see Ace fiddling around with something, his back turned to you.

“Are you bringing bond!?” you squawk, grabbing his hand and yanking his sleeve up to display the familiar aura-reading twine wrapped around his wrist. "No, no! These are… bracelets! All the rage, back in my day—” Ace hurries to explain, gesturing animatedly with his other hand. The movement causes some cards to fall out of his sleeve. “And open-handed!?” you demand, hands on your hips. “Oh my, how did those get there?” Ace feigns ignorance, kicking the cards under a log. You bite back a laugh at his cheating antics, at this point knowing better than to expect him to play fair. “Guess that means you're scared of losing,” you say, a smirk pulling at your lips as an idea forms in your head. Predictably, Ace immediately perks up, taking the bait. “In your dreams, princess,” he says, puffing up his chest. “How about we raise the stakes? No perks.” You hesitate for a moment. Spine chill and urban evasion have saved your ass on countless occasions, but since you were only going to be hiding from Ace and not the killer… how hard could it be? “Deal.” When you fade back to consciousness, you’re standing by the Thompson house. You’ve spawned right by a generator, but instead of getting to work, you make your way towards one of the outside walls of the trial, crouching down to hide with a good view of two of the closest generators.

Soon enough, you see Ace make his way over to the machine you were just by, pushing through the corn and glancing around. Not seeing anything, he seems to frown before kneeling down to start his repairs. You snicker to yourself and start sneaking to the other generator, keeping an eye on Ace the entire time.

Halfway through your repairs, you hear Nea’s pained scream of taking a hit somewhere within the trial. It seems like she’s keeping the killer busy.

As soon as you hear Ace’s generator pop, you duck down and start making your way along the trial wall. You flatten yourself against a tree when you see Ace approaching, before he disappears into the pallet gym your nearly finished generator is at. With the wall blocking the crucial line of sight, you seize the opportunity to bolt away, the sound of your footsteps drowned out by the machine. You hear him opening a locker and scoff at the action; like you’d make such an amateur mistake.

Another gen pops, apparently Quentin’s handiwork, while you cut through the cornfield. You run into Nea, being chased through the corn, and quickly dive out of the way and crouch in a row of stalks as the killer—the Wraith, good to know—follows, not far behind her. Predictably, he doesn’t see you.

By the time you get to your destination, the second story of the house, Ace has gotten your generator done and Nea has been hooked and unhooked. The killer is once again chasing her, and from your vantage point you can even see her repeatedly clicking the flashlight in the Wraith’s face while looping the cow tree.

The generator on the balcony hasn’t even been started, but you’re waiting for Ace and Quentin to finish theirs first, working on a machine together in the corn right below the balcony.

Ace’s back is turned to you and he keeps glancing around, trying in vain to spot you in the field. Damn, if you'd only brought diversion into the trial, you would have thrown a pebble at him to confuse him further. Feeling cocky, you lean over the railing and wave down at the two instead. You see Quentin glancing your way with a smirk, before looking back at the generator.

“You need some glasses, old man,” you hear Quentin snark. “Huh?” Ace says, getting his wires crossed and making the machine explode as he whips his head around to look at the house, but you’ve already ducked down safely behind your generator. You wait for the duo to finish their repairs and disappear in the direction of the shack before starting the generator in the house.

When your generator pops and the exits gates get powered, Nea is just about to be death hooked, and hearing her final scream, you feel a little bad when you make your way to a corner of the map instead of pressuring an exit gate. But soon enough, you spot Ace running to the house to try to catch you leaving after your repairs, proving your hunch was correct—he’s so predictable, bless his heart. A little while later, you see him come out of the house and look around in confusion, but then you hear Quentin’s pained scream and Ace seems to sigh and utter a curse before running in the direction of a gate.

You try to find the hatch but have no luck, and then you hear a screech as one of the massive gates slides open, followed by Quentin’s wail as he finally goes down. You spot his prone aura by the shack, before it disappears into thin air; huh, guess he managed to crawl out.

Now knowing which gate is open, you start walking to the other, a little on edge not knowing where the killer is after losing his last prey.

To your surprise, Ace is pulling on the other exit gate’s lever, effectively ruining your plans. You start making your way back towards the shack, taking a detour to avoid the killer's patrol route between the gates.

You're a little nervous Ace is going to get found, taking an unnecessary risk in getting both gates open. If he gets caught, you're throwing your little game and saving him, the bet be damned. Though it's not going to be easy, with Nea dead and Quentin out and neither of you having any perks. Even though you’ve known the entire time you were both likely to die from this dumb game, thinking about Ace getting hurt still makes you uneasy.

Exit gate now in sight, you carefully look around for any signs of the killer. The Wraith could just be standing still in the exit, completely invisible to the naked eye. Even if he was there, you could just run out and take a hit in the back before escaping, as you know from Quentin’s chase he doesn't have NOED. Still, you'd rather not get injured at all.

There's no telling shimmer in the gate, so you decide to just go for it. You walk into the structure, and nothing happens. You're nearly out when you hesitate, turning to look back into the trial; what if the Wraith has found Ace? What if he comes out of nowhere, grabbing Ace off of the exit gate lever since neither of you has spine chill and—

There's footsteps right next to you and you try to whip around, but then someone is grabbing you from behind and your heart leaps into your throat as you let out a startled yelp—

“Gotcha,” Ace's voice whispers in your ear. The relief floods over your body even as you shove at him playfully, making him let go of you with a chuckle. “Fuck you! You scared the shit out of me!” you argue even while your face is splitting into a grin. “You're not the only one who can be sneaky, doll,” Ace quips, returning your grin with a self-satisfied smirk. “What are you even doing here? I saw you at the other gate!" “Ah, the old bait and switch," Ace chuckles. “I wanted to get both gates for you, so you didn’t have to risk the killer finding you. And then it was only a matter of luck! A classic 50/50,” he grins.

Damnit, what a stupid and dangerous and— …Kind of romantic… —and unnecessary and idiotic stunt!

“Get over here,” you say, yanking him closer by his shirt. “I missed you,” you mumble softly, hands wrapping around his neck as the surprise makes way for familiar affection. “I missed you too, sweetheart,” he says, eyes softening and a hand wrapping around your waist, the other coming up to cup your cheek. “I missed seeing this cute little face,” he says, pecking your nose sweetly. “You avoiding me wasn't nearly as fun as I'd imagined,” he jokes, but there's a tinge of uncertainty in his voice. “If it makes you feel better, I basically stalked you the entire time,” you murmur, leaning your forehead against his and a hand scratching at the baby hairs on his neck. “Though I almost threw a rock at you at one point.” He chuckles at the confession, a warm puff of air in the space between you. “Can't take your eyes off of me, eh?" he grins. “Not when you're being so oblivious and adorable,” you murmur. “Well, I clearly underestimated you," he admits, and is that a little blush you can see on his cheeks? “Likewise,” you smile. “So, what do you want for your prize?” “Oh I'll think of something, don't you worry,” he wags his eyebrows suggestively and you roll your eyes from the corny gesture. “But here's your consolation prize,” he says, finally leaning down to capture your waiting lips.

You eagerly respond to the kiss, moving your lips against his while your heart flutters from the affection, even moaning a little when Ace pulls you even closer against him. It’s all so familiar; the scratching of his goatee, the way he playfully nips at your lip, the scent of his cheap cologne lingering even after all these years stuck in the realm. You don't even mind losing the bet, not when you get to be in his arms and kiss him silly.

But then Ace is suddenly pulling away, lifting his head up to look back into the trial over the top of your head.

“I think we have an audience,” Ace says and you glance over your shoulder, his arms still around you.

There's a slight shimmer just beside the exit gate where the Wraith seems to jolt from surprise. A small pause later the familiar bell rings, and then you have an embarrassed killer in front of you, looking at the ground and sheepishly scratching the back of his neck. You just stare at him stupidly, a little ashamed over being caught making out in the exit. How long has he been standing there?

“Hey bud, thanks for letting us goof off this match,” Ace is thankfully speaking so you don't have to, but the words manage to confuse you. Was the Wraith in on it? You genuinely thought you'd been able to hide from the killer the entire time, especially since he was so focused on Nea.

The Wraith looks up bashfully, nodding his head and shuffling his feet. Then he pauses, points at you and then Ace, and makes a heart shape with his hands. Ace huffs out a surprised laugh while you blink owlishly, and the killer hurries to leave, ringing his bell and the sound of his footsteps scurrying away from the exit.

“Looks like we have a fan,” Ace muses, turning to look at you again. You smile up at him and you’re just about to lean back in for another kiss, when a realization hits you.

How did Ace know the killer was there? You saw him take off spine chill before the trial, and he hadn't even flinched like the perk usually makes you do when the killer is looking at you. Unless…

“Did you bring premonition!?” you realize, and now Ace does flinch a little from being caught off guard. “So, err, remember when you said some perks are so bad they shouldn't even be considered perks—” Ace hurries to make excuses. “You little shit!” you exclaim in mock offense. “You cheated! No prize for you!” “Aww,” Ace whines and honest to god pouts. “Fair enough. Damn, and I only did it to keep you safe… oh well, still worth it,” he mumbles defeatedly, mostly to himself. “Ugh, fine, get back here,” you grumble, pulling him into another kiss to stop him from moping because it's breaking your heart. 

When Ace just chuckles against your lips, you realize you've been played. Instead of snarking at him some more, you take advantage of his open mouth to shove your tongue down his throat and relish in the way his laugh turns into a needy groan.

And next time you're bringing the pebble, rules be damned.

[yokelish]

Rhetorical.

This is not easy-peasy-lemon-squizzy. This is difficult-fucking-difficult. 

I hate myself for the person I am because my first reaction was “that’s a drag, I don’t remember much of the manga already”. But then I remembered complex human relationships is nyom-nyom-nyom. And so fell in love with working on it more and more as I went. So here you go, @gogolparadise​

Unfortunately, I am one of those people who doesn’t blame Ango for Oda’s death. My blaming scale looks more like this: Gide, Oda, Mori, everyone else. I blame Oda for Oda’s death, mostly. And there’s no denial about who shot Odasaku in the first place. But Ango isn’t blameless. He done fuck up.

I won’t write how and when Dazai sabotaged the airbag, I am sure even he wouldn’t know it either. P L O T. The scene between Ango and Dazai unfolded differently in manga and anime. And I like manga’s version better. I rarely use Japanese respectful suffixes like “san” and “kun”, but here….it’s sorta important.

✏ Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs ✏ Characters: Dazai Osamu, Ango Sakaguchi  ✏ Word count: 2,166 ✏ Warnings: none? 

Rhetorical.

He couldn’t deny the fact that having a gun in his hand felt distantly pleasant. The power and control that came with the weight in his hand would add more pleasure to it. But the weapon was oddly light compared to his memories of handling one. It wasn’t loaded. A good decision: a smart and safe decision. If Dazai couldn’t trust himself, he could trust in the distrust people have for him. And no one would know that better than someone he once called a friend. The two loyal guard dogs wouldn’t be able to stop him if that’s what he wanted. The resting blade against his neck only sharpened that tiny thrill coursing through his veins. It was bringing up old memories of having his life on the line every other day. The sound of raining shots, the lightning bolt shine of it, the heat of the muzzle afterwards. And the lingering smell of gunpowder. Unloading the gun was the smartest decision his once-friend had ever made. Because Dazai also couldn’t deny the fact that when it was aimed at the back of Ango’s head, it felt invigorating.

“What on earth made you think…” Dazai asked calmly. “…that I had forgiven you?” He didn’t regret asking. The question didn’t need to be answered. There was no need to have a conversation about that part of history. After all, there was too much to forgive, and Dazai didn’t even start on it. But asking had to clearly state where they stand.

“I was the one who cleaned your record when you fled the Mafia. If anything, you are the one who owes me,” Ango replied, unfazed by the threat, and even sounding a little exasperated.

“Alright.” Dazai easily dropped the threat, the aim of the gun, the feeling coursing through his veins. “The gun isn’t loaded. You knew I’d do that.”

A hand was offered to collect the empty weapon. “I am glad you catch on so quickly.” The man in glasses offered a calm, collected smile, with a little amusement traced in the lines of his face. Dazai would roll his eyes at this if the man wasn’t so obviously looking. Credit given where its due, Ango wasn’t slow on the uptake — always deceitfully sharp. But Dazai didn’t appreciate proximity or eye-contact. Least of all he wanted to grow an appreciation for Ango’s quick thinking, stoic and neutral approach, and overall efficiency. He remembered the man from the past too vividly, and separating those images was harder than it should have been. Liar. Traitor.

“If we are not rekindling our old friendship,” Sakaguchi spoke again, more hesitantly this time. “…What do you want?”

How eloquent and bold it was to say that there was something to rekindle between them. When a torch goes out, you look for a fire to light it again. You don’t wet the cloth and chop up the wooden stick. And you sure do not let the torch burn to ashes. If so, there was nothing to rekindle.

With his back to Ango, Dazai allowed himself to smile. The half-masks he knew how to transform and switch seamlessly. His goals were for him to know. Ango would find out soon enough. The bandaged man shifted his smile into a childish grin. “Oooh…” He patted the roof of the car. “You government men drive fine cars, eh?”

The government man graced him with an unamused stare. A sharp look of a man who didn’t want his car touched in such manner. Pity, really, that should be the least of his worries. Government men drive fine cars, but there are many fine cars in this world.

Ex-Mafia rested his elbow on the car if only to gauge a reaction out of the man he once made a mistake to call friend. “Care to go for a drive?” Dazai didn’t regret asking. The question didn’t need to be answered.

Fine cars indeed… For what those government men got those fancy cars Dazai could only guess. “It’s your job to keep those skill-oriented crimes in check, isn’t it? You mustn’t shirk your duty like that.” He spoke leisurely, enjoying, savouring. There was something sickeningly amusing in the ease of the situation. The tension that was visibly lacking in the air. Ango’s safe driving befitting of a good citizen. The calm Dazai couldn’t help but feel. He almost felt guilty about it, too. The calm that comes with the knowledge of what’s to come. And yet, by all canons of the world, it should not be as easy as breathing.

“We have been keeping tabs on the Guild as well,” Ango finally gave a reply fitting for a government man. A limited, careful answer.

Dazai’s interest was piqued by the narrowness of such words. “You knew…and you simply let them be? Do I have that right?” He knew he did. The question didn’t need to be answered. But he didn’t regret asking, he savoured it without guilt.

“Unlike you, Dazai-kun, I believe in an honest day’s work,” Sakaguchi answered evenly, never taking his eyes off the road. “Do you even know what kind of kind of group the Guild is?”

Dazai could guess that this feeling inside him was glee. There was nothing compared to the feeling of knowing and seeing through the deceit of others even if that deceit was a delusion for one’s self. He cared little for the games the government played, he just despised them. He cared not for the power the Guild possessed, he just wanted to beat it.

“Oh my, wait a moment,” the bandaged man said. “This discussion is taking a strange turn.”

“This is politics, Dazai-kun.”

That’s an exceptionally fine carpet word for lies, deception, manipulation, power play and the like. Perhaps, it was a matter of perception, the things one believes in. If perception can stop you from seeing the world upside-down, if it can grant you the vividness of colours and appreciation for abstract, then it surely must be able to install a belief in the greater good.

“…to grant immunity to their members…”

Like Ango believing in an honest day’s work. Or Atsushi believing in his own worthlessness or that saving people will justify his existence. Like Kunikida upholding his ideals stronger than any other man alive.

“…truly, above the law…”

Perhaps, it was all about the installed moral compass within a person. The lines one draws to walk a straight path. Those constructed margins of morality that should never be crossed lest the world changes its meaning or loses it completely. Dazai’s compass had been broken for the longest time, he could admit that much. There were too many bold strokes beyond the margins: crosses, stains, incomprehensible lines made in indifference and irresponsibility.

“…they’re surveilling our little conference even now…”

But, truly, how morally superior is the government handling the bizarre world of skill-users compared to the Mafia? He couldn’t be the one to judge and tell. He couldn’t understand.

“Dazai-kun, start running away. Now.” The urgency in Ango’s voice brought him back to the oncoming reality. Whatever emotions were hidden behind the glasses, Dazai couldn’t press into his memory. The mind was too preoccupied. He pressed back into the seat — a response of his body to the upcoming and unavoidable danger. The thought of dying had never once scared him, but pain, broken bones, and the like — loathed.

“Run, and tell your agents that danger will find them soon —” It didn’t matter what the answer was. There was no need for it.

If there were indeed parallel worlds — an infinite number of possibilities of the current one — then it could be different. In another world, perhaps, it could be different. They could have never met and, thus, never had their past shared. Two perfect strangers to each other — two parallels never meeting. In a different world where the events unfolded differently, where they still met, became friends and met in a bar with, preferably, a similar menu. In a world where he didn’t die, they could remain forever as they were back then. Dazai would feed them his terrible tofu and talks about suicide. They could eat and drink together while sharing nonsensical stories. There would be no guilt or regret. But that would have to be a different world.

In this world, Sakaguchi Ango, a government agent, successfully infiltrated Port Mafia and then Mimic. In this world, Sakaguchi survived in the Mafia and climbed the ranks. In this world, he had successfully pretended to be a friend to Dazai Osamu, youngest Executive in history, and Sakunosuke Oda, the lowest of the ranks. He done so not out of necessity but because he could. In this world, Sakunosuke Oda was dead, killed in confrontation with Mimic. Ango’s betrayal of the Mafia didn’t matter in the least. After all, Dazai had done so too: even he wasn’t such a hypocrite. In this world what mattered was the death of a man who didn’t get to write his novel. In this world, Dazai Osamu wasn’t a better man to forgive. In this world, ex-Mafia held grudges despite knowing the regret of another.

If he were in a different world and was a different human being, he would understand the necessity for the flowers when visiting a hospital. But he wasn’t, and he didn’t really understand it. Nonetheless, he had done it. A man who believes in honest day’s work deserved that much, at least.

“Why, hello there, Ango!” Dazai’s chirpy voice carried through the ward. “How are you doing?” With a bouquet and a basket of consumable goods as visiting protocol dictates. And a bright friendly smile, of course. “Well, you look lovely,” Dazai lied effortlessly, seamlessly. He had done so not out of necessity but because he could. “I have a fine story for you!”

It was in the very same bar where the three of them met that he witnessed it: regret. Sakaguchi Ango, a government agent who infiltrated Port Mafia and climbed the ranks, expressed regret. Perhaps, that alone was the thing that steadied the Executive’s hand. That, and Odasaku’s presence. Unfortunately, there was no more Odasaku to steady the bandaged Executive’s hand. Only the words of a friend now gone to guide this ex-mafioso.

It was much later that Dazai truly saw the guilt behind the round glasses. It’s much easier to recognize guilt in others when experienced. He couldn’t tell if it was cleverly hidden from others or if Ango had hid from himself.

“Thirty-five count murderer?” the bedbound man asked, unsurprised. Dazai was a visitor but he sure wasn’t a good one after eating from the basket. According to him, that’s what he planned. According to everyone else who could be in the room to pass judgement: selfish, inconsiderate, and even mocking. He didn’t do it out of necessity but because he could.

“Murder is murder,” Sakaguchi stated simply. Dazai remained a patient listener despite how easy it would be to probe at wounds unhealed, to uncap the bottled regret, to stir their shared but erased past. He knew full well what murder was. So did Ango. But the thing about murder and death is that it often was accompanied with guilt. And guilt was a disobedient spirit: it didn’t follow you because you murdered, it followed because it could. For all that Ango did, for all the lies and treacherous moves, Dazai knew one thing for sure: in the moment it mattered most he had nothing to offer Odasaku to cling to. In that vital moment all he could offer were pitiful words that wouldn’t even convince a child. If he had to live with the guilt of it, he would.

“…if you seek other help…I’d be glad to do that.”

“Is that so?” Dazai asked, getting up from the chair. That was all he needed to hear. The task was accomplished. “Well, I’ll be back.”

“Dazai-kun.”

That stalled him at the doorway.

“I am accepting your offer of treatment in exchange for support. So just tell me one more thing.” Sakaguchi Ango was deceptively sharp as ever and just as calm. “When we were struck by that mystery vehicle, the airbag on my side alone failed to inflate. Would you happen to know the reason?”

Just as Ango doesn’t put his regret and guilt out on display, Dazai, too, had trick to hide his darkness. If guilt was a disobedient spirit, then darkness was a parasite set on self-destruction.

Oh, he hoped to make his once-friend regret the question. For it would be easy to hide the smile with his back to Ango. It would be equally as easy to switch one smile for another. But there was no need for that. Whatever it was he hid, the other would soon find out. Dazai allowed himself to smile with sincere darkness of his mind and offer it to the man who betrayed him. There was no need for an answer.

[skimmilk11]

:0 angsty back story for kaiji,, could we see?

oof so

manga spoilers I guess??

I was thinking about how Kajii could have ever gotten into a situation where he was exposed to a bomb as a civilian, much less a lemon-shaped one? Yes, it’s possible that he was exposed to one after he became a member of the Port Mafia, but it would be strange for the Port Mafia to take in someone who, as far as they know, doesn’t have an ability, especially with Kajii’s, uh, eccentricities. The Port Mafia, as Mori has stressed multiple times, is, first and foremost a gifted organization. Almost every position of power in the mafia is occupied by ability users, save Gin and Tachihara(;)), who more than make up for it with great skill at their weapons. The only non-ability users are the grunts, and I doubt Kajii could ever be a good and obedient henchman.

Kajii, while talking to Yosano, describes death as something to admire and study, as the apex of science. We see two other characters in Bungou Stray Dogs who are obsessed with death- Dazai, whose mental health is the ditch and witnessed the death of one of the only few people he cared out, and Fyodor, whose ability revolves around death and probably affected his life greatly. But why is Kajii, who could probably lived the rest of his life as a normal civilian, obsessed with death? Besides, he’s an physicist- not even a doctor like Mori, and you don’t see Mori ranting about death. Idk, but to me, Kajii wanting to dissect what he sees as the ‘apex of science’ almost seems like a coping mechanism. This led me to believe that, as a child, he experienced death firsthand in traumatic incident in which he discovered his ability, before he joined the Port Mafia, which also hurt his mental health. Kajii’s ability really has astounding potential for survivor’s guilt. In his talk with Yosano, he also questions why death is, ultimately, completely unavoidable, asking why everyone has to eventually die- very sus. Why is lemon boy, who is, on all counts, presented as a simple-minded unhinged manchild, so fixated on the irreversibility of death? 

Also, why is Kajii so loud, playful, immature, and theatrical? It’s not something you’d expect from a mafia member almost thirty years old. Something- some trauma, coping mechanism, etc may have hurt his mature. Or, I mean, it could just be that he’s really self-confident like Ranpo.

Okay, so the actual headcanons! Misfortune seems to dog all ability users, so Kajii is no exception. (; (Do we know a single parent of an ability user who’s still alive?)

Kajii was raised by a single father, who worked at a factory! They had a close relationship, and his father inculcated his love of science, who, in turn, loves science because of his mother, who was a science teacher. She died when Kajii was two when a bus blew up. Kajii’s grandfather, on the other hand, was a baker, who specialized in lemon tart! They do a lot of science experiments together! His grandpa’s friend is also a scientist, and shows him around the college lab where he studies. Kajii’s grandfather died of leukemia when Kajii was six, but taught him how to make a semi-decent lemon tart before. His grandfather’s friend drifts away. 

 So, all Kajii had now was his father. At age nine, in a Leo Valdez-esque tragedy, he was helping out his father finish things up in the factory. He was in the office, his dad in another room for one last check when a machine blows up due to a mechanical failure.

Kajii is far enough to survive, but his dad dies. Injured, he runs away, and when he finds out the police are looking for him, he immediately thinks they think he was the one who set off the explosion and is scared farther into hiding.

Instead of joining a gang of some sort, he ends up sort of stealing food(mostly lemons) from an old physics professor, and keeping off boredom by reading his books. He notices and invites him in. Kajii refuses and runs away, afraid that it’s a trap.

Then, what do you know?? He finds a lab belonging to the Port Mafia, and in all his love for science, breaks in and snoops. Kajii is caught, and, like Tachihara, is forced to join the Port Mafia. But he’s not too mad. He has a home, and some friends. Life is good.

But the Port Mafia is, obviously, not a good environment for a preteen to grow up in. He’s forced to kill people. It disturbs him, and he disassociates, making the deaths as flamboyant as possible. He chafes against authority and severely reprimanded for his carefree ways, but it’s still not too bad. He’s sometimes allowed to experiment in the science labs, after his affinity for it is discovered.

Then, Kajii is eleven when the Lime Bomber shows up. The Lime Bomber is from a rival underground organization who wants to take revenge against the hawkish Port Mafia leader(remember, this is before Mori) while he’s rumored to have become sick. The Lime Bomber makes a mockery of death, and his bombs are lime-shaped.

Kajii and his friends are ambushed, and they all die. Kajii still hasn’t connected his survival with an ability, and is wracked with grief. Why did he survive? Why didn’t the others? Can he trade their lives for his?

The people he’s relied on as his foundation for the past four years are dead, and he’s expected to continue on as if everything is normal. His mental health and trust in authority plunges. He’s distracted. He’s petty and spiteful and takes comfort in the things he can. At this point, Kajii is trusted to oversee and help out the mafia’s arms dealers. One of the workers is kind to him and lets him help. Kajii makes the outer casing of the bombs lemon-shaped as a ‘fuck you’ to Lime Bomber. She gets angry at him- he ‘messed them up’.

At the same time, he’s getting sloppy. He accidentally sets off a small bomb. He ends up with a broken leg, which takes months to heal. The leaders of his division in the Port Mafia notice, his former mentors who he used to respect and trust, commit the ultimate the ultimate betrayal- they decide he’s a liability and to let him die. He’s not too useful anyway- a twelve year old without an ability. His death will be useful, though- he’ll blow both himself and the enemy up.

Like, what Fyodor did.

Kajii realizes this is a suicide mission, but he’s simultaneously too angry and too empty to care. He’s equipped with the bombs he made himself and is sent to the front lines.

One of his friends who survived because she wasn’t at the incident comes to save him, even after he pushed her away, but it’s too late.

He sees Lime Bomber and is so angry he starts crying, and as the bombs explode around him, he’s still crying, and kills everyone around him, including his friend. It finally clicks for the higher-ups- Kajii has an ability. Kajii, meanwhile, breaks. He wants the innocence of his childhood and the childish wonder of science back. 

He can’t.

He’s promoted, studies science more extensively. He takes the name of the late Lime Bomber, who he hates so much. His personality breaks and reforms. He’s obsessed with death now, and how he seems to be able to avoid it- as long as they’re citrus-shaped bombs. He sometimes accidentally kills other Port Mafia members when experimenting with his ability, but who cares? There’s nowhere he can go now. Where would go? His friends fade from memory and now he’s stuck. His identity revolves around his ability now. What else is there? Was there anything there to begin with?

He doesn’t remember how to make his grandpa’s lemon tart anymore.

Oof this is stupid and really ooc but take it. I wrote this when I was really tired. I’ll probably delete this later lol. Pleas tell if this romanticizes mental illness in any way, which wasn’t my intention. I’m too tired to check. 

[izanyas]

prompt suggestions!- the phantom thieves pov regarding akechi and akira's relationship, a continuation of portrait of you with uraraka as a working hero, a snippet of agency chuuya ...?

it’s been 10000 years since i updated Nothing Noble and you guys will have to wait 10000 more years before i can get back to it so here, have chuuya and dazai’s reunion, you deserve it

-

When Chuuya woke up, it was to the distorted and fake sound of gunshots, and grunts and cries running thin through the cool air. A video game, he thought blearily, his head ringing still with the blow of the girl’s ability—a demon with a sword folding out of her back, just like—

His temple throbbed. Chuuya groaned, frowning, feeling the dry pull of skin under crusting blood. So sharp was the pain that he felt nauseous; and either the girl had been as highly-trained as she had looked, or he was very lucky, for a few centimeters lower and he could have died on the spot. He swallowed back the bile. He exhaled painfully, and reached up to touch the wound.

Or he tried, at least.

His right wrist was stopped by a bond of some kind. His left wrist by another—a skin-soft, skin-warm other.

New cries and gunshots rang out of the game just as Chuuya realized that the emptiness in his chest was not simply due to fatigue.

“Oh, just great,” he spat out.

His voice broke over the words, but it was no matter. Chuuya was having to breathe and clench the teeth now, to acquaint himself again with the feeling of nothingness where his ability should lay. The fingers circling his wrist tightened.

“Welcome back,” Dazai replied. “Please don’t bark so loudly, I’m trying to beat my record.”

Chuuya inhaled sharply and opened his eyes.

He immediately regretted it: the light of the port mafia’s infirmary was still the disgusting, blinding white he remembered from his childhood, and the brightness made the side of his head shout with pain. He was definitely concussed, he thought, feeling nausea roll up his throat. With any luck he’d vomit on Dazai’s clothes and not his own.

Dazai took his sweet time. As if wanting to draw out the moment—and maybe he did, the sadistic bastard—he finished his game. He must be doing it one-handedly too, considering his fingers hadn’t let go of Chuuya’s wrist for a second. Chuuya refused to be the one to look at him first. He sat straighter in the chair he was bound to and stared at the window opposite him, through which a pale square of grey sky showed.

At last, the victory jingle of Dazai’s game rang in the silence. Dazai let it play for a while before turning off his console. He sighed loudly; the very sound of it made Chuuya’s chest feel tight, pressurized. Dazai rose to his feet, still holding Chuuya by the wrist, before letting go. He walked around the chair to stand before him.

And Chuuya would rather die than look meek before someone, before Dazai, so he met his eyes defiantly.

He was so stupidly tall. Of course Dazai had always been lanky, skinny and long-limbed, but now his legs and torso stretched without the awkwardness of adolescence. His face was thinner, his eyes wider-apart. His hair was still the same mess, lighter-brown rather than black.

His shoulders had grown to fit the coat Mori had given him so long ago.

“I hate what you’ve done with the hair,” Dazai told him conversationally.

His voice was deeper too.

“Piss off,” Chuuya couldn’t help but reply.

“I wish. I’ve been holding it back for an hour.”

“I can’t fucking believe you.”

Dazai looked thoughtfully aside. “I see you haven’t gotten any less rude,” he said, still in that same even voice Chuuya had always despised. “Although you have gotten weaker.”

“Let me go,” Chuuya growled, all of his body strained against the bonds; “and I’ll show you just how weak I am, you son of a whore.”

Silenced crushed the space between them to smithereens.

Dazai sighed again. His fingers found the side of Chuuya’s neck a few seconds at most before the Tainted Sorrow would have gone back to him. Chuuya wanted to rage as the feeling of emptiness deepened; he wanted to bite off Dazai’s hand, to spit out of his own chest the nostalgia now holding him back.

“Well, I can’t say I didn’t use Kyouka-chan for this purpose,” Dazai said. The pad of his thump pressed right above Chuuya’s clavicle, right under the collar of Chuuya’s shirt; right above his pulse. “I was counting on the surprise. Good thinking, me.”

“You’re such a piss poor excuse for a human being.”

“You’ll hurt my feelings.”

Chuuya snorted audibly.

Still, he was reeling from the sight of the girl’s ability. Still his heart ached with the memory of Kouyou’s Golden Demon.

“Who is she?” he asked.

Dazai’s hand shifted around his neck. It fit against the line of his shoulder full-palmed. “Izumi Kyouka,” he replied at last. “Her ability is called Demon Snow. Looks a lot like ane-san’s, doesn’t it? I even dressed her up like her—”

Chuuya’s foot erupted out of the rope keeping it tied to the chair leg and hit Dazai in the belly.

Dazai crashed into the opposite wall satisfactorily. The sound of broken wood as he fell over the desk there was music to Chuuya’s ears, as much as the pained grunt he let out, squeezed from his throat. Chuuya bit down on the twisted regret flaring up his ribcage. He lowered his foot again, focusing on the pain of rope-burn and of his twisted ankle.

“Don’t fucking say her name,” he warned Dazai lowly.

Dazai pushed himself to his feet again slowly while Chuuya tested the give of the chair under him. It was bolted to the floor, and his left foot was too solidly roped to hope to tear it out as well. He couldn’t risk two twisted ankles while in port mafia custody. Still he tensed within his bonds, his spined arched off of the wooden backrest as far as it would go, his arms bulging against the rope. When Dazai touched his neck again, he growled in frustration.

“You’re such an animal,” Dazai complained.

His voice was hollow. Chuuya saw with half-satisfaction, half-guilt that his right shoulder hung limply out of its socket.

“You’ve been hiding around civilized people for years, and you still act like this? I’ve heard of Fukuzawa Yukichi, you know. Mori-san calls him a righteous man. It’s a wonder he welcomed you into his group.”

“Mori won’t be saying shit for much longer,” Chuuya bit out harshly.

“Biting and barking and drooling everywhere,” Dazai replied. “You know you won’t get to him like this. Or to Ango.”

Or to me, he didn’t say.

Chuuya wouldn’t have know what to do if he had.

Dazai’s hand lifted from his neck again. Chuuya jumped back as it rose into his face, hating himself for it and hating Dazai more—but Dazai did not laugh or make any comments to him. His hand simply followed the path of Chuuya’s head until it knocked into the wall; then he touched Chuuya’s cheek right where gauze hid the scar. His cold fingers pinched the edges of it and tore it away without a care.

The ugly hole there always stung when the weather was damp and cold; it stung now, being freed from the bandage, a crater of scar and skin high up on Chuuya’s bone. Dazai looked at it in silence.

When he could stand it no longer—when the quiet grated at him and made him feel as though his skin were being peeled away—Chuuya spat out: “Admiring your handiwork?”

Dazai breathed out quickly. He threw the dirty gauze into a paper-basket by the desk with disgusting accuracy, then rubbed at the finger hanging from his dislocated arm for a second. He took hold of Chuuya’s shoulder again and did not look at him.

“You’re out of luck,” he said, even and bored. “Mori isn’t in Yokohama now. Neither is Ango.”

“Like you would know if he was.”

“He was my friend, you know,” Dazai whined to him.

Chuuya was about to kick him again, twisted ankle or not, when someone knocked on the door.

They looked at each other in silence before looking away as one; Dazai’s hand flexing over Chuuya’s shoulder as if to brace him, Chuuya’s hurt foot touching the floor as if ready to kick away and fly.

As if this were combat, the both of them standing on the same side again.

Oda Sakunosuke entered first. He took one look at Chuuya, his serious face plying with—with pity or fucking compassion, Chuuya didn’t know and didn’t care. If he had the means now, he would plunge a first through Oda’s chest and tear out his beating heart, no matter that he had once protected him for Dazai’s sake.

Oda may now where Sakaguchi was. Out of them all, he was the most likely to know, and the most likely to be able to hide the information from Dazai successfully.

“Don’t bite, now,” Dazai murmured.

His fingernails dug into the soft flesh between bone and tendon, made all the easier to feel for Chuuya’s tension. Chuuya clenched his teeth. Dazai threatening him physically again, without even a gun this time—what a joke.

He relaxed only when he saw the shadow behind Oda: Akutagawa, as tall and skinny as Chuuya had seen him last over the tiger boy’s prone body; and still looking at him now with fear in his eyes.

Dazai’s hold relaxed. His hand left Chuuya’s body altogether as he walked leisurely toward his subordinate. “Did you bring it?” he asked jovially.

“Yes,” Akutagawa rasped out.

He handed over a small box, which Dazai took from him without a word. Akutagawa stood still then, his hand still outstretched, his eyes still jumping between Chuuya and the floor uneasily. His black coat seemed to shiver about his skin as if moved by his powers; as if, even now, Rashoumon were preparing for someone to bring a knife out.

“Hi,” Chuuya told him bluntly. “How’s that wound?”

Akutagawa jumped. Rashoumon flared off of his shoulders like wings, posing against the door at his back in defense.

“Thank you,” Dazai said pointedly. He threw Akutagawa a dark look. “You’re dismissed. Shoo.”

Akutagawa didn’t have to be asked twice. He nodded curtly and left, bowing the head when he passed by Oda’s side, who gave him the same look he had given Chuuya.

Chuuya’s guts squirmed unpleasantly. “What the hell did you put through that kid’s head?” he asked Dazai. “He keeps looking at me like I’m about to tear him a new one.”

“Nothing much,” Dazai replied distractedly. “Just incentive enough not to get any ideas about fraternizing with you.”

Oda shook his head and sighed. He still hadn’t said a word.

Dazai did not look at him anyway: his hands were busy with the box Akutagawa had brought. He slid the lid of it open one-handedly, taking out a syringe full of water-clear liquid, letting the box drop to the floor uselessly.

Chuuya’s heart skipped a beat. The pain in his temple sharpened; he pulled against his restraints uselessly.

“What the fuck is that,” he growled.

“Just something to keep you nice and put while I tend to some business,” Dazai replied, flicking a nail against the glass vial. “Now be still.”

Excess air erupted out of the needle head, and a droplet fell out and crashed onto the wooden floor.

Bile swarmed within Chuuya’s mouth.

He hardly saw Dazai approach. His ears rang under the rush of his own blood; fear the likes of which he hadn’t known in fifteen years blinded him, taking away sight and smells and sounds, as if he were afloat in green water again; from deep within his belly, the growl of a great beast echoed, enraged, uncontrollable. Pulling against the bright-gold bonds that Fukuzawa’s ability granted, showing Chuuya once again what a flimsy excuse for control this was—

“Dazai.”

Chuuya stilled, and blinked, and heaved.

That had been Oda’s voice. Dazai had stilled as well, his cold hand frozen upon the skin of Chuuya’s forearm. Chuuya first saw Oda standing behind Dazai and having grabbed Dazai’s unhurt shoulder; then he looked at Dazai, whose eyes were wide open and fixed onto Chuuya’s face.

There was an expression there that Chuuya had seen before, a long time ago. Something fragile, something outlining the youth of Dazai’s mouth and cheeks, the fatigue bruised under his eyes. Something that made Dazai lift his injured arm as if to touch Chuuya’s neck again—as if to brush fingers against the numbers tattooed at his nape, as he once did every time Corruption ravaged Chuuya whole—before he stilled.

His hand fell. His thumb rubbed at the side of index nervously. He stared at Chuuya in silence, his other hand still pressed to Chuuya’s forearm.

“It’s just a sedative,” Dazai said. “And something to keep your powers in check.”

His voice was unbearably soft.

Chuuya licked his lips. His temple throbbed. “This is supposed to reassure me?” he rasped out.

“No,” Dazai replied immediately.

But it had, and he knew it. They both knew it.

Still Chuuya tried to jerk his hand back with Dazai took hold of him again. Still a whimper tried to escape his lips when the needle punctured his skin, as his mind once more shook with half-buried memories, with the sight of a book torn out of a dead man’s hand, showing pictures he wished he had never seen.

There were so many things one could do to him while sedated and powerless, even if Mori was far, even if Dazai stood before him with more sanity in his eyes than when they were children. Chuuya breathed in deeply. The very slight ache of the needle pulling out made him want to cry out.

Dazai’s hand lingered above his skin for a moment longer. He wiped the small wound with his thumb when a single drop of blood leaked out; he backed away; he pressed his palm to Chuuya’s skin again, and then stepped back entirely.

“I hate you,” Chuuya let out uselessly.

Dazai stared at him in silence. Already Chuuya could feel his eyelids weigh down as the sedative worked through him. He blinked open his eyes forcefully. Dazai’s face blurred and swayed, pale and haunting.

As consciousness faded from Chuuya, Dazai replied, “I know. You’re right to.”

The last Chuuya saw of him before darkness took him was the flutter of a black coat and a bowed head of brown hair; and his last thought flew to that same dark hair in the moonlight, to a blasted-open hangar stained with the blood of dozens of strangers—

—to Dazai holding a glistening pistol up, shaking through his body, begging him: “Please. Don’t make me do this.”

[dazailover69]

Eternal Agony- Mistake (Dazai x Reader)

Slight Suicidal Themes

(Y/N P.O.V)

I felt all the blood rush right back into my body, as I came back to conscious. Blinking, I waited until my sight adjusted to my surroundings. Expecting to see blood to fill my sight, electricity thrummed within my veins, when not a single speck could be seen. Searching for an answer, to fill the questions that raided my mind, my gaze settled on the sight of the fluffy brown-haired man, with a gun positioned directly at my face. He stood with a powerful stance, with each leg propped to each side of my waist, as a lied on my back, supported by my elbows. My cuffs nowhere in sight.

The night sky filled the window, with not a single other soul, besides the Executive before me. His eyes swirled with anger and alertness, being aware of every blink and breath I took.

What happened? How did I get here? Where did everyone go?

The lump and dryness of my throat struggled to make out the faint words.

"W-what h-hap-pened?" Tears slowly overflowed, raising redness to flow into my cheeks and eyes.

"You have five seconds to stand and put your hands behind your back" An authorial tone flooded his words, causing every hair and goose bump to rise on my skin. Quickly, I rose to my feet, noticing how my skin was clear of blood, bruises and cuts. The fear that engulfed me, was intense. What was scary was there was no scars.

"Angels of Death" has never been able to activate, when I loose control. However, I would always come back to my senses, and my ability would soon activate after, which lead me to feel hopelessness in another possible attempt to be free.

Change.

It had change.

I'm so afraid of change.

His cool stern voice disturbed my thoughts. "You will follow every direction I give, unless you want to feel five bullets hitting your spinal cord". Moving behind me, he pressed the gun to my back. Slightly pushing it into my skin, he signalled to begin moving. I made sure to keep every step steady and listen to each command, not wanting him to notice the shakiness of my arms.

(Dazai's P.O.V)

Keep your cool. Stay calm.

Don't shake. Don't show fear. Don't do anything.

You're in control.

Consistently repeating the same words in my head, I forced the uneasiness, burning in my blood stream, to cool. I thrusted the gun to Y/N's back, making a mental note to ensure she would forget every turn that I demanded her to take.

Left.

Right.

Down the Stairs.

Right.

Left.

Confuse her. Make her lost. Let her lose her way.

Don't feel empathy. Don't feel guilt. Don't feel.

Coming across the top of the staircase, she slowed down, eventually coming to a stop. Her arms shook relentlessly, immediately flowing into her legs causing them to thrum with fear. She knows. She knows the pain that awaits her.

Smirking, I shoved the gun further, into her spine, and darkly said, "Get fucking moving".

After a few seconds of silence, Y/N begins taking another step and another. Steadily, in hopes if she could somehow find an escape, within her short time from the eternal darkness below her.

Finally reaching the last step, Y/N took in her surroundings quickly, as if she was searching for an answer to what would be happening. Her gaze fixtures on the giant slab of concrete, positioned in the centre of the dark chamber with silver glinting handcuffs hanging loosely from each corner.

Y/N's face contorted, into something I know too well, when entering this room.

Fear.

Quickly returning my gun to its hoister, I grasped her wrists and dragged Y/N to the slab, not letting her take the time to understand the true meaning behind her current circumstance. When she came to the realisation of the severity her situation, Y/N began to thrash and pull away. Swiftly, I threw her at the slab of concrete, letting small droplets of blood slowly drip down her face, as she made contact with the wall.

It doesn't matter if she gets hurt. Her ability will let her live. It doesn't mean that she can't feel pain though, since every single nerve in her body still functions.

While she sat dazed, "Angels of Death" automatically activated, giving me some momentary time to lock her wrists, while her body regenerates. I turned my gaze back to her glistening e/c eyes, brimming with tears. With her wrists locked above her head, she stood shaking, fear rebounding off every bone, within her figure.

I smirked.

For someone who caused me such a mental dilemma, it was nice knowing they were suffering too. After causing me to relive another mental breakdown, I needed to watch her endure some form of the same agonies. Except, the slight pang swelling in my chest, made it difficult to enjoy the sight.

I don't understand.

Why does it hurt to watch her legs shudder in fear?

Why does it hurt to watch her struggle with the restraints?

Why does it hurt to watch her eyes slowly morph into emptiness?

Emptiness.

It's something I look at the mirror, and see every single morning.

I can only feel for the pleasure being derived from the sufferings of others, and the anger that spikes and burns, when people push me off the edge. It's all I feel. It's all I have ever felt.

Pleasure in the sufferings, of enemies and innocent people, and anger.

Ango and Oda, are the only individuals who I have ever barely considered protecting, let alone talk to friendly. Mori promised me a pleasant suicide, so it's only right that I listen to his commands. Chuuya was a prick, and always will be. If i protect him, it would only be if I passed the point where living was better than death.

So, what am I feeling, towards her?

Annoyance?

Happy?

I don't know.

I'm scared of the things I don't know.

It shouldn't matter though. I won't be here much longer. Mori will come and get some revenge. After Y/N's incident, he wanted to get payment from her attack.

Elise threw herself, in front of Mori, before Y/N started punching and scratching at him. If you touched Elise, you were already dead. Mori would never let her live peacefully now, unless he got his repayment. However, since Y/N ability, "Angels of Death", heals her before truly dying and with her immense desire to die, Mori had to gather the right method and tools.

Y/N can still feel pain. She can't die.

So, to Mori,

Y/N is a play toy, who can live through even the cruellest of tortures.

Authors Note:

Hello~

I'm sorry for not updating last week. Had exams. Sad. But here we are with another chapter! I'm posting it early so I can get the next chapter done on time.

yay~

(Word Count: 1143)

[mpregwrites]

Pop That Lock

rated: g/soft t for swearing words: 2302

@soukokuweek​ day one: “trial and error”

--

***

The only thing that kept Chuuya from launching his phone full-force against the nearest wall was the fact that he was a reasonable person who could control his temper when dealing with shithead Dazai and all of his stupid ass shit. Definitely not because he did that exact thing last week and had to make a very embarrassing trip to the service provider with the barely-recognizable smashed remains of an iPhone X that probably deserved better. He refused to go back for at least the next month or they were going to start worrying about him and his tendency to go through thousand dollar phones every couple of months at best.

There was still a pressing matter at hand: Kouyou’s birthday party. He had already requested leave for the rest of the day starting at noon but that didn’t do anything to mitigate the issue of Dazai most definitely showing up just to ruin it, and Kouyou deserved better. In the past year or so he had installed seven more deadbolts on his apartment door and started locking them at random in the vain hopes that it might deter Dazai from just breaking in whenever the hell he felt like it, but Dazai’s lockpicking abilities were second to none in the worst way. He could put up with having his furniture moved two inches to the left but he drew the line at crashing Kouyou’s birthday party.

He tapped his foot quickly on the ground, arms crossed over his chest. There had to be some way to keep Dazai from showing up uninvited and eating all the crab. It was rude to keep excusing himself from the festivities to re-lock the door every couple of minutes, not to mention how fucking annoying that would be. Sometimes it felt like Dazai hadn’t really outgrown all of his 16-year-old mischief.

Regrettably, though, Chuuya was far too mature these days to match all of Dazai’s nonsense blow-for-blow, and he was fresh out of teenagers to ask for tips and tricks. Maybe he could hire one for the night—

He smacked himself in the forehead. The answer was staring him in the face the whole time.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he opened his contact list and pressed ‘call’ on Mori’s contact info, not even bothering to hide the mania of the grin cracking across his face as it rang. Gin only raised an eyebrow at him before going back to sharpening her knife with extreme prejudice, because Gin only knew how to do things with extreme prejudice and Chuuya appreciated such an honest and straightforward approach to life.

Finally, Mori answered the phone. “Hello, Chuuya-kun. Did you need something?”

“Apologies for bothering you, Boss,” he replied, bowing slightly even though Mori couldn’t see it. “I have a, uh… peculiar request to make of you pertaining to the festivities tonight.”

“Oh? I’m intrigued.”

Chuuya shifted the phone from one ear to the other so he could grab his wallet out of his pocket and rifle through the bills in the fold. “In the interests of keeping unscrupulous characters from disturbing said festivities, I was wondering if it would be okay for me to borrow a certain asset for the night.”

Mori chuckled, amused. “They’ve been in a bit of a mood lately, you know. Are you sure you can handle that?”

“I’m sure.”

“Alright, then. I leave them in your capable hands.” And with that, Mori hung up, leaving Chuuya with a rising giddiness under his skin that thrummed warmly. Kouyou was going to have a fantastic birthday party because he was finally, finally going to be able to outsmart Dazai after ten years of knowing each other and a lot of mortifying losses taken.

Everything was going perfectly.

***

Q removed one earbud from their ear and looked Chuuya up and down from where they were perched on their bed. “I don’t want to, though.”

So things maybe weren’t going perfectly, but Chuuya wasn’t going to admit defeat to a fucking teenager. He ground his teeth together tightly and counted backwards from ten in Japanese, then French, then Russian, Italian, Spanish, and eventually English before he felt like he could open his mouth without screaming obscenities. “You will notice that it wasn’t a request and I specifically phrased it as such to avoid confusion, Kyuusaku.”

They rolled their eyes and a vein started throbbing in Chuuya’s forehead. After the heavy traumatization they received during the entire Guild bullshit three years prior it had been decided that maybe locking them up like an animal wasn’t exactly welcoming to the development of a healthy mental state, so Chuuya and Kouyou both lobbied for at least humane treatment. They were given their own room and the periodic ability to head out into the dregs of normal society, provided they behaved and were accompanied by several mafiosi.

Unfortunately, this also meant that they had the chance to develop a personality, and mixed in with the dangerous cocktail of hormones running through their pubescent veins, it meant they were kind of a snarky shithead. God, he hated dealing with teenagers.

“What do I even get out of this?” Q asked, reclining back onto their elbows and crossing their legs at their ankles. “It sounds boring with no payoff. No thanks! I’ll just read manga here instead.”

More than he hated dealing with teenagers, he hated dealing with mouthy teenagers with zero work ethic, and—holy fuck, 16-year-old Q was just a repackaged version of Dazai at 15. Chuuya wanted to scream.

“Look,” Chuuya said, trying to level with Q as best as he knew how. “I’ll give you $500 and a PS Vita with three games of your choice if you just sit by the front door and flip locks all night. A monkey could do this.”

“Then hire a monkey to do it.”

“I’m trying.”

Q frowned. “I said it sounds boring and I don’t want to do it. It’s not worth the effort.”

“I’ll give you an extra $100 for every time Dazai gets frustrated and swears.”

They sat up straight, pulling their legs in to sit cross-legged on the bed. “I guess… it doesn’t sound that bad when you put it like that.” Q tapped a finger on their chin thoughtfully, humming a long tone that only got longer the more Chuuya’s foot started involuntarily tapping out of irritation. “Okay, fine. I’ll do it. But I want one of the new Vita models. None of the crappy older ones. And let me use your Amazon Prime account to order figures.”

Chuuya sighed. “Deal.”

***

Dazai whistled a happy little tune to himself as he walked by the doorman and the person manning the front desk of Chuuya’s apartment building, waving at them. They waved back. All was right in the world.

The elevator ride was the longest part of the job every single time he came here, and he was running fashionably late to his already fashionably late lockpicking session. His lockpick set bounced against his leg in his jacket pocket as he shifted from side to side to stretch out his back for the crouching hell he was about to endure. Soon enough, the elevator slowed to a stop, dinged, and the doors opened.

Chuuya’s apartment was more than one apartment. The hat rack decided years ago that one apartment wasn’t enough for him, so he bought half a floor’s worth of apartments and had it remodeled into one massive living space, complete with multiple bedrooms for guests, an entertainment center, a full library, two different kitchens, more bathrooms than any person with one ass could ever need, and several other luxuries he definitely didn’t need. He liked to throw his fancy executive paycheck around as much as he could, and it was kind of cute.

He also refused to give Dazai a spare key to it, not that it ever stopped him. Eating all of his crackers and leaving crumbs on the couch was part of the experience of their relationship, after all.

The party was clearly a rager from what he could hear from behind the closed door. Surveying the eight deadbolts between him and Chuuya’s home cooking and absurdly expensive alcohol collection, he whipped out his lockpicking set and got to work.

The first bolt gave easily, and the next two weren’t locked. The third was, as was the fourth, but the fifth wasn’t set. The sixth and eighth were, the seventh not. It was easy enough to fiddle with the picks to get them open, and all in all it took less than ten minutes to get through all eight. He stood up, brushed himself off, and then grabbed the handle and turned it.

Or, well, he tried turning it. It didn’t budge.

He stared at his hand, still around the doorknob, and said, “What the fuck.”

***

Senbonzakura faded out and Fukagyaku Replace started up, but Q had their other ear trained on the door. Every time they heard a lock click out of place, they would either lock it back up or lock one of the ones that hadn’t been locked. It was mindless work, but at least they were going to get free food out of it once the party was over on top of the other agreed-upon spoils.

They heard Dazai swear again outside the door and added another tally to their list.

***

Three hours of hosting later, Kouyou was pleasantly tipsy and ready to go home. The consensus among the rest of the guests was much the same, and they all thanked Chuuya in turn as he escorted them to the door, undoing all the locks in one swift motion and letting them out. When the last of them had left, he stood in the threshold and looked down.

On the floor outside the apartment, Dazai sat with his knees to his chest and a pout on his face. It was equal parts hilarious and adorable. Chuuya kicked him with the toe of his house slipper. “Get up, asshole. There’s leftovers.”

“I think I’ll just sit out here until I die of starvation instead,” Dazai replied, the pout infecting even his voice. “Since you clearly don’t want me around. This is a pretty cruel method of torture, even for you.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, you were the torture specialist, Demon Prodigy,” Chuuya said back flatly, kicking Dazai again. “Stop pouting and get in here already and fucking eat something. I’ve gotta get Cinderella back before midnight.”

“I don’t want to now. McDonald’s wouldn’t treat me like this.”

Chuuya snorted, leaning back into the apartment to address Q from where they were still sitting on the stool they had been provided at the start of the party, one earbud in as they played Snake on the shitty Nokia flip phone Mori allowed them to have. “Honor system, but how much do I owe you for this one?”

Q pursed their lips and did some quick mental math. “Well, you said $100 every time he swore, so with the $500 you started with… $2000?”

“I’ll make it $3000 because he’s pouting like a goddamn child.” He pulled out his wallet and selected the appropriate amount of cash before handing it to Q. “Go ahead and grab some food before I take you back to headquarters. You’ve earned it.”

Almost immediately after the words came out of Chuuya’s mouth, Q vacated their seat with enviable speed and scurried over to the spread of leftovers on the dining room table, loading a plate up with everything they could see. With that problem out of the way, it was time to get his stupid manchild of an ex-partner to stop throwing a silent fit on the floor outside his apartment.

He put his hand on the top of Dazai’s hair and gave it an affectionate ruffle he would deny until his last breath. “I made crab. Just the way you like it.”

Dazai looked up at Chuuya, the angle accentuating the way his bottom lip was dramatically sticking out. He sniffed. “I guess if you make it up to me with a romantic dinner I can get over the pain you’ve caused my poor heart.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get in here, stupid.”

***

Q stuffed another bread roll into their mouth, glancing back and forth between Chuuya—his mouth so impressively turned down into a frown it was a wonder his lips hadn’t fallen off yet—and Dazai—currently holding his fork so tight it was threatening to bend in his hand—while chewing. They swallowed. “Are you guys gonna eat?”

“You know, Chuuya,” Dazai said, icicles forming on the words, “when I say ‘romantic dinner,’ it usually means just the two of us.”

“I don’t think they could pick up a hint if you dropped it right at their feet and literally fucking pointed at it, Dazai.”

They took another bite of the roll and chewed slower this time, more deliberately. They were pretty sure there was some kind of tension in the room over something, but knowing Dazai and Chuuya it could easily have been over just about anything under the sun. It wasn’t worth worrying about it, not when there was so much food ready to be eaten. And why would they eat in the living room when there was a perfectly good table begging to be dined on?

Chuuya put his face in his hands and sighed deeply. Dazai’s top lip twitched violently.

After about five minutes of that, Q swallowed, drank half a glass of water, and pointed at Dazai’s plate before saying, “Do you want that or not?”

The fork finally gave out.

[vfdbaudelairefile13]

Chapter Seven:

The One Where Bastard Man Ruins Everything Yet Again

The very second Jacquelyn had hung up the phone with Larry, she threw herself back under her desk and dialed the number to the man that she had called just a little while ago. “Snicket?” she whispered as the person on the other line answered. “Someone needs a ride, and quick.”

“Got it,” Jacques replied. “May I ask who though?”

“Larry,”

“Larry…” Jacques repeated. He gave a small smile. It’s been a while since he had seen Larry. They had tried to remain close friends after the relationship had faltered but VFD missions surely got in the way of that. “Where from?”

“Prufrock Prep,”

“Ah, I was just headed there to help my niece,” Jacques replied. “I will help Larry as soon as I can…”

“Thank you, Jacques,” Jacquelyn replied.

“Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill,” Jacques replied. “The world…”

“Is quiet here,” Jacquelyn finished.

The world is quiet here. This might sound curious, as the motto of a secret organization, or something an associate of yours, like in Lemony Snicket’s case, his brother, might say when he arrives in his taxi to smuggle you across the border, high up into the mountains for a while until you successfully fake your own death and hideaway in the town where you did your apprenticeship for a secret organization. When the world is noisy...the world may feel as if it is coming apart like in….the case of the Baudelaires and Violet Snicket, who’s life was getting very loud and coming apart very fast.

Klaus and Sunny sat amid a crowd. Klaus had found a row of five seats and he and Sunny were looking around desperately for Violet, Isadora, and Duncan. Suddenly, he saw the three running out to the athletic field. The crowd of other students was chanting and cheering making it vastly fucking difficult for any of the five kids to hear. “What’s wrong?” Klaus asked confused as the three slid in their seats passed him. Isadora sat the furthest away from Klaus and Sunny, Duncan sat between his sister and Violet. Violet sat next to Klaus and Sunny sat in the seat right next to the aisle.

“We think we saw Count Olaf!” Isadora cried.

“What?” Sunny asked unable to hear Isadora.

“We think Count Olaf is here!” Duncan screamed.

“Huh?” Klaus asked confused blocking his ears with his hands because the noise was becoming too stimulating for him.

“Thank you. Thank you.” Nero said as he stepped upon the stage. “Welcome to the mandatory pep rally. I don’t know which I like more, the word ‘pep’ or ‘rally’,”

“I like ‘pep’,” Mrs. Bass said, who sat behind the children.

“I like ‘rally’,” Mr. Remora said, who sat behind the children beside her.

“Maybe we should ask our mascot! What do you say?” Nero asked the crowd, who cheered.

“What’s Prufrock’s mascot?” Klaus asked Duncan.

“A dead horse,” Duncan replied.

“What?”

“He said a dead horse,” Isadora replied.

“But that doesn’t matter...You have to listen,” Violet pleaded. “The Quagmires and I saw…”

“Shush!” Mr. Remora hissed from behind them.

“I know things seemed less peppy since our athletes, cheerleaders, and beloved gym teacher vanished on the way home from that away game. But Prufrock Preparatory School has a motto and that motto is ‘Memento Mori’ and it’s an ancient Greek saying…”

“Latin,” Klaus said rolling his eyes.

“...which means, ‘Remember, you will die.’ and soon, indeed, the sun will set, the fiery orb of life, leaving me alone!...alone!...Alone!” he shouted as he looked at the grey sky above. Everyone on and off stage stared at him confused. Duncan took this time to try to write Klaus and Sunny a note, but Mr. Remora closed his commonplace book tossing it to the ground next to Violet and Duncan’s feet. Nero stiffened up. “Until, of course, you meet someone who truly understands and supports you with friendship, camaraderie, and cash bribes. Our gym teacher was irreplaceable, but I have found someone who I know can fill her shoes,”

Violet looked down at the commonplace book saddened by the fact that it had been thrown to the ground and closed shut. She looked up at Klaus and Sunny with a desperate look in her eyes. “Klaus!” she shouted.

Klaus just stared at her for a moment. Trying to block out the noise. “What!?”

“Count Olaf is…” she began before Mrs. Bass shushed her.

“And now, please welcome to the stage, a man with no resume, no letters of recommendation, no credit history, but with such a marvelous ear for music that I’ve hired him as the newest member of our faculty!”

A tall, skinny man stepped onto the stage. The man was wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt, such as any gym teacher might wear. On his feet were some expensive-looking running shoes with very high tops, and around his neck was a shiny whistle. Wrapped around the top of his head was a length of cloth secured in place with a shiny red jewel. Such things are called turbans and are worn by some people for religious purposes, but Klaus and Sunny took one look at this man, feeling both of their hearts drop instantly. Klaus frowned miserably at the man on the stage, they both knew that this man was wearing the turban for an entirely different reason.

“Your new gym teacher, Coach Genghis!” Nero cheered. The crowd cheered except for the five orphans. Isadora, Duncan, and Violet all turned to Klaus and Sunny, who stayed staring at the man on the stage.

“Count Olaf…” Klaus whimpered.

“Bastard,” Sunny growled.

“So much to learn,” Olaf shouted to the crowd, his eyes fixating right on Klaus and Sunny. His eyes became shiny when he saw his prey sitting next to his newest targets. He smirked. This is going to be easier than I thought… he thought to himself smirking. “...and I am here to school you,” he said smirking mainly at Klaus.

The crowd began to cheer and applaud the awful man. Carmelita jumped on stage dressed up as a cheerleader and began to chant. “Who can’t be beat?!”

The crowd around the kids began to chant in response. “A dead horse!”

This went on for a couple of minutes. The crowd around the children were showing an exceptional amount of school spirit. The term ‘school spirit’ is, in my opinion, a curious one. The phrase might sound as if it refers to a ghost or other undead phantasm haunting an educational establishment like very old gum clinging to a trophy case. Now what I was told ‘school spirit’ actually referred to is the belief that one particular school is better than another. Though, as Violet Snicket and the four younger orphans were about to learn, there are much worse things that can haunt a school.

“I love the energy! I love it!” Olaf shouted to the crowd. Every student besides the five orphans clapped and cheered for Olaf. Sunny bared her teeth at the man, Violet and the Quagmires glared intensely at Olaf, Klaus just stared at the man with sorrow and worry in his eyes. Why can’t he just leave us alone? Klaus thought as he felt Violet slip her hand into his. When he felt her hand, he looked over at her, realizing that he had begun to shake.

“Okay, everyone, settle down,” Nero said addressing the audience.

Olaf feigned a look of pure shock. “Settle down? Do you hear what Vice Principal Shapiro just said?” he asked the crowd.

“It’s Nero, ” Nero corrected.

“‘Settle down’? How often I hear those words come out of people’s ears and into my mouth,” he took his glance from Klaus and began to glance towards Violet. Violet glared back, she was at a safe distance away from where Olaf didn’t have the upper-hand. “‘Settle’ a word which here means ‘settling...for less’ and ‘down’, my personal least favorite direction,” he said as he reached the edge of the stage and began to walk slowly down the steps from the stage to the aisle that separated the crowd of students in two. “Let me tell you a story,” he said in a voice that sounded more like one of those inspirational life coaches rather than a gym teacher. “Some years ago...a woman came to me. She needed my help. ‘Coach Genghis’, she had said to me. ‘I’m a failure. I have no job. My love life is in the pits. I can’t seem to lose these last twenty pounds,” he turned to the students. “I bet that describes just about everyone one of you, am I right?” he joked.

“Ummm, Genghis, they’re schoolchildren,” Nero pointed out.

“Exactly!” He replied to Nero, turning back to the crowd. Beginning to slowly walk again. “And what did I say to her? Do you think I told her to settle down?...” he paused waiting for a response from the crowd. Sunny couldn’t help but giggle when no one responded to him. “Answer me, pippity-squeaks! Do you think I told her to settle down?!” he yelled glaring at Carmelita, who still stood on the stage.

“Probably not?” Carmelita chanted in a rather confused tone.

“Probably not!” the crowd chanted back.

“Probably not, indeed. I told her to stand up. I told her to actualize and incentivize! I told her to keep her eyes in the clouds and her feet on the stars,” Olaf said reaching the orphans’ row of seats. He turned to face Sunny and Klaus, glaring and smirking down at Klaus, who’s face was slowly turning from one of fear and sadness to rage and madness. “And. do you. Know. what. Hap-pened?” He asked staring directly at Klaus, his shiny meeting the death glare of the very angry twelve-year-old. He enunciated every syllable, slowly giving a Grinch-like smirk at Violet’s two younger siblings. He tilted his head so his gaze was also on Violet. “ She died...in a mysterious fire.” He stood for a few seconds looking at first Violet, then Klaus whose face turned dark as it became full unbridled rage. If looks could kill, Olaf would surely have dropped dead due to this face Klaus was giving to the villain, no question about it. Olaf then glared at Sunny, keeping his eyes on Sunny for a rather long time.

Klaus noticed his gaze on his baby sister, Klaus quickly grabbed Sunny and passed her quickly to Violet, who felt it necessary to pass her to Duncan, who shifted Sunny to sit half on Isadora’s lap that way both Quagmires could protect their young toddler bestie if Olaf tried to hurt her.  Both Isadora and Duncan put an arm around Sunny, Sunny may have leaned into their grasp but she still bared her teeth at the villain when he simply smirked at Klaus’ attempt to keep Sunny safe. Violet slipped an arm around Klaus as Olaf began addressing the crowd of students again.

“Wait...what?” Nero asked, the words that ‘Genghis’ spoke finally registering in his tiny brain.

“Settling down is what losers do,” Olaf explained making his way slowly back on stage.

“But the woman you were talking about…” Nero said curiously.

“Settling down is what started World War I,” Olaf misinformed the students of Prufrock.

“Okay, but the story you were telling,” Nero tried again.

“You see, settling down is what happens when you bite your lip, and your lip gets swollen, so you bite your lip again and then you keep biting your lip over and over. I don’t want that. Do you want that, Prufrock Prep?” he asked.

“No!”  the students cheered.

“Let’s bring in the violin!” Olaf cheered. Nero smiled as he took center stage and began to horrifically play his violin. The crowd began to cheer even though no one was interested in his attempts to destroy classical music. The crowd was surprisingly cheering for Count Olaf and he was eating it up. Taking bows.

Klaus just looked like he wanted to die. He just stared frantically at Olaf. “No…” he whimpered, his breathing becoming rapid.

“Klaus?” Duncan asked looking at his maybe-boyfriend.

“He...he...he found us again ,” Klaus said terrified. “ I told you guys...he’s...he’s right there,” Violet could hear the quiver in Klaus’ voice, she turned to see a few tears glistening his eyes behind his glasses. He quickly wiped them. “We’ll never be safe,” he whispered this sentence, the only one who could hear him was Violet and it took a lot of straining to hear him entirely. “I have to do something,” he said aloud, more so to himself.

Violet looked at him confused. “Klaus?”

“I have to do something,” Klaus repeated, only slightly louder this time. “The school is falling for the treachery of an unhinged lunatic,”

Duncan and Isadora looked towards Klaus. “That always happens during pep rallies,” Isadora commented trying to light up the mood.

“I have to do something,” Klaus said taking a deep breath. He slowly stands up, all four other children could tell he was shaking. “ For them, ” he said slowly beginning to walk into the aisle. His legs were wobbly and with each movement on his feet, he felt like he was going to fall. He turned to his baby sister, “Stay here, Sunny,”

“Luck!” Sunny replied sticking both her thumbs up at her brother, knowing it was not the time to argue with him. She leaned back into the Quagmires’ grip. As Klaus slowly reached the stage, Violet realized the closer he got to Olaf, the harder Klaus would shake.

“E-everyone!” Klaus tried to shout, his voice quivering. He looked desperately at Nero. “T-this...this...th-this...man,”

Carmelita began to mock Klaus relentlessly, which was causing some of the other kids to laugh at Klaus. Olaf just smirked at Klaus, making pretend crying faces to the twelve-year-old. “You…”

“What’s wrong, student? Having a panic attack...induced by some unexplained trauma?” Olaf asks in a low hiss, reaching out to grab Klaus’ shoulder, but Klaus flinches back, throwing his arms in front of his chest.

Violet glared when Olaf began to laugh along with the crowd at Klaus. “ That’s it! ” she hissed as she stood up.

“Where are you going?” Duncan asked.

“To help Klaus,” she replied not even turning around. She kept her gaze on Olaf and her younger brother. “Stay here with Sunny, please,” she called back, hissing under her breath as Klaus backed away from Olaf again.

“We’ll help if we can!” Isadora shouted to Violet, who gave a small smile towards Isadora.

“I know and thank you, Isa,” she said blushing a bit. She turned back to the stage. I got this, Lemon Man, I got this. You didn’t risk your life for nothing, I will finish the job. Snickets take care of their own. She thought to herself as she rushed on the stage. She took a deep breath and practically yelled, “ Everyone! Please! Listen! This man is an imposter! ”

“How dare you interrupt a genius!” Nero barked at Violet angrily.

“And his guest violinist,” Olaf remarked.

Everyone on stage turned to look at the feral Snicket girl who was breathing heavy with unbridled fury. Even Klaus, who looked a conflicted mixture of relief and fear, watched Violet in silence as she took a place on the stage near Klaus.

Olaf turned to her with very shiny eyes and back at Klaus smirking at the poor boy, which sent chills down the boy’s spine.

“This man is not a genius…” Violet barked through gritted teeth.

“Vi...what are you doing?” Klaus whispered to his older half-sister, doing his best to keep eye contact with Olaf rather than Violet to pretend like he doesn’t even know who Violet is.

“Helping you,” Violet replied back. “Snickets take care of their own,” she said patting him on the back. He looked at her with a face of worry.

“You don’t have to…you can free yourself from this tragic tale…” he warned her. She shook her head.

“We fight together,” she replied.

He opened his mouth to reply, trying his best to find the words that could make Violet understand just how dangerous Count Olaf truly was. But she turned to him again. “ This man is a fucking imposter!” she yelled again taking a defensive stance between the vile man and her younger brother.

“I think you mean...improviser, dear,” Olaf replied.

“This so-called gym teacher is the notorious villain, Count Olaf!”

Violet and Klaus could hear a gasp in the crowd, it seemed to be coming from the librarian, Miss Caliban.

“A-as long as he’s at Pru-ru-fr-frock Prep...n-n-nobody is safe,” Klaus warns.

“That’s not true,” Carmelita cried. “You’re just jealous. Vice Princie throw them off the stage, and I’ll start my dance over with extra twirls,”

“Well said, adorable little cheerleader,” Olaf commented smiling at Carmelita.

“This man is Count Olaf and we can prove it!”

She turned to Olaf remembering the characteristics of the vile man that Klaus and Sunny had described. She glanced at his disguise, her eyes fixating at the top of his head. She gave the man a smirk. “ If Count Olaf were to remove his turban…!” she yelled, as she reached her arm up towards the creep’s turban. But with cat-like reflexes ‘Genghis’ grabbed Violet’s arm keeping her from ruining his disguise.

“Isn’t she just lovely? Everybody?” he asked the crowd as Violet struggled to reach his turban. He kept a good grip on her wrist causing her to grunt. Klaus watched in a silent panic hoping that Olaf wasn’t harming Violet. “But I am afraid my two bushy eyebrows are going to stay under my turban, which I wear for religious purposes,” he explained.

Klaus rolled his eyes. “A-and what religion would that be?” Klaus asked incredulously.

Olaf glared at Klaus with his shiny eyes, causing Klaus to shake from behind Violet. Violet glared again as Olaf held her arm above her head. He looked at his smartest henchperson.

“Reconstructionist Judaism,” the henchperson of Indeterminate Gender replied as the Hook Handed Man nodded.

“Re-recon-reconstruct…ism... ” Olaf mumbles. He rolls his eyes. “ What they said,”

“I would never ask you to remove your turban, Coach Genghis,” Nero explained sympathetically to Genghis. “I’m against religious persecution, but I can’t speak for the orphans, ”

Both Violet and Klaus rolled their eyes. Seeing that no one was believing them but instead believing Olaf. Olaf ignored the two children’s glare and released Violet’s arm but not before a harsh squeeze and a shove.

“O-Olaf can also be i-identif-fied by the tattoo of an eye on h-his a-ankle,” Klaus studdered.

“My body is a temple, young man!” Olaf snarled at Klaus, who stayed behind Violet.  “I would never sully my skin the way so many young people do nowadays with their hedonistic lifestyle of loud music and abstinence,”

Klaus gave a look of confusion towards Olaf as Violet looked down at Olaf’s shoes, remembering the tattoo that has been haunting her the last couple of days.

“W-why don’t you t-t-take off your sh-shoes and prove it!?” Klaus suggested from behind Violet.

“ If Count Olaf were to remove his running shoes…!” She yelled glaring at the man.  

Olaf interrupted her. “I will absolutely not be removing my running shoes,”

“Oh! L-le-let me guess, is that due to ‘religious purposes’?” Klaus asked him mockingly.

“No. It’s just taking off my shoes, you’ll see that my socks are sweaty...which means they’re smelly..which is gross,” Olaf explained.

“We can…” Violet said her voice trailing off. “We can compare Genghis to the photograph of Olaf in the Daily Punctilio!” she suggested desperately. “Please, this is serious!”

“C-count O-Olaf is wanted by the authorities...for sus-suspicion of fraud, th-theft, mur...murder, kidna-napping,” Klaus studdered slowly. He closed his eyes, “Ch-ch-ch-child abuse, and chi-child en-endangerment,”

“You sound like a boring librarian,” Nero mocked. Miss Caliban huffed in response. “Plus we don’t need newspapers now that we have our advanced computer system.”

Violet, Klaus, and Olaf watched as a few AV club members pushed the advanced computer to the stage. Olaf’s eyes widened and Klaus and Violet looked at one another and smiled.

“Oh. Uh, you mean that computer?” Olaf asked nervously, pointing a bony finger at the advanced computer.

“He’s sweating!” Klaus said happily. “He’s nervous!”

Olaf gave a quick glare Klaus’ way. Klaus was right when he said Olaf was sweating and nervous. The vile bastard carefully wiped his forehead making sure he didn’t accidentally knock off his turban. He began to use his hand to fan himself. He began to stutter. “N-no, I’m not… I have naturally leaky pores,”

Nero sighed. “Will you and your pores please stand in front of this very expensive electronic device and just clear this matter up, once and for all?” Nero asked.

“I...I…” he backed away from Nero. He realized that Violet and Klaus were both smirking at him as if they were winning. “I...uh...mmmm...this reminds me of a story,”

Violet and Klaus looked to one another, both siblings sharing a slight nod as they both walked over to the advanced computer system. They both grabbed its side and rolled it towards Olaf, who had backed himself against the wall. Olaf began to shudder nervously as the computer stopped in the perfect spot to get a clear view of his face. He closed his eyes nervously, waiting for his disguise to be fucked. He was trying to decide how to escape.

The computer made a whirring noise and finally, it beeped. Olaf held his breath at the same moment that Klaus had. But unfortunately for Violet and Klaus, the computer’s robotic, monotone voice declared to the crowd, “this is not Count Olaf”. When Klaus heard this, his heart shattered in his chest as he fell to his knees. Violet looked at Klaus and then looked to Olaf, who gave the computer the same confused face that Violet had given it when it claimed Coach Genghis was not Count Olaf. Olaf opened his eyes slowly, his fearful expression disappearing behind a gleeful one.

“See?” he said confidently as he pushed the computer away from him. He glared down at Violet and Klaus, crossing his arms against his chest.

“Yeah, see?” Nero mimicked. Violet just glares at the villainous man as they both realize the same thing at the same time. Klaus was now paralyzed. Both could tell he was trying to not have a breakdown in front of the whole school. Olaf looked at the boy wondering just how far he can push Klaus, while Violet looked down at him with a sorrowful and pitied expression.

Olaf takes this chance to take a step closer to Klaus, who flinched back away from Olaf with a soft whimper. “Please…” he begged in a meek voice, not looking up.

Violet stepped in front of Klaus to shield him. “I think this calls for a little democracy, my second favorite style of government. How many of you want to continue hearing tiresome accusations hurdled at an innocent man by pathetic little orphans?”

Duncan picked Sunny up as he stood tall. “ Investigate further!” He yelled.

Isadora stood alongside her brother and best friend. “ We demand this issue receive further scrutiny!” she yelled.

Surprising to all, the librarian, Ms. Olivia Caliban stood up as well. “Klaus Baudelaire and Violet Snicket seem like honest and decent people. I think we should listen to what they have to say!” she called out.

Violet gave the librarian a quick smile. Even Duncan, Isadora, and Sunny smiled at her. Other than her, no one else in the crowd was willing to help the children out.

“Now...who would love to hear about a new exercise program?” Genghis asked. Genghis smiled when he heard Klaus groan at the word ‘exercise’ but other than that, Klaus stayed there on the ground breathing heavily. Although he was relieved that Violet was still with him. “This new, exciting program is sure to blast your school spirit right out your blowhole!”

Everyone in the crowd cheered.  Nero began to play the violin. “Students! Faculty! Don’t worry if every exercise program you have tried has failed you because I am here to fail you more by putting the ‘whip’ back into ‘whip you into shape’! Everyone, get on your feet, and let's try something that I invented one lonely night at a truck stop, called jumping jacks.” He waited for the crowd to stand, the only three people in the crowd who refused to stand were the two Quagmire triplets and the youngest Baudelaire orphan. “Here we go! Ready? One! Two!” He shouted as he did only two jumping jacks before yelping in pain. “Okay...all right. All right. Let’s cool it down...we don’t want to ham up the old hamstrings.” He groans. “Oh, God, can someone say, ‘class dismissed...for ice water and some deep breaths?” he asked as he grabbed onto one of his henchpeople for support.

“Um…”

“I know...I’ll be okay...I just need a second,” he explained groaning.

“But the…” The henchperson said glancing at Violet and Klaus. Violet stood there waiting for Olaf to explain whatever bullshit he was talking about.

“What? What? Oh...oh yeah...the orphans,” he muttered. “One last thing, everybody. As anyone who has been to junior college knows, orphans tend to have unsound bodies, which as you can see,” Olaf commented pointing at Klaus. “Leads to paranoia...delusion...and of course, untapped wealth.” He smirked at Violet, then turning to the crowd. “That’s why I have developed the Special Orphans Running Exercises or S.O.R.E, for short, which I will be offering to a few select students.”

He stepped forward to address the crowd, glaring at Sunny who sat between the two Quagmires. “Will the orphans in the house please stand?”

After exchanging a look of dread, Isadora and Duncan stood up, this time Isadora held Sunny who simply glared towards Count Olaf with her teeth bared. To all five children's surprise, even Miss Caliban stood up again giving them a small smile.

Olaf gave Sunny a slight wave as she growled at him. Olaf smirked as he began to walk in a small circle around Violet and Klaus as if they were stranded without a boat amid shark-infested waters. This caused Klaus to close his eyes and reach his arms out for Violet pulling her closer to him as she countered all of Olaf's movements dragging a shell shocked Klaus in a circle making sure that he was never exposed to Olaf.

"Hmmm," Olaf snarled bending down a tad bit to make sure Klaus knew that Olaf was referring to him. " I choose you," he said menacingly as he touched the young boy's shoulder. Violet yanked Klaus away from Olaf's cold grasp.

"No…" Klaus whimpered in a rather saddened tone. His tone reeked of desperation and fear, which caused Violet's heart to break for her younger brother and her blood to boil as she did her best to shield her brother from the wicked man. Klaus continued to shake, refusing to look up at his nemesis.

Olaf turned to face the crowd, his glare sent chills down Sunny and the Quagmires' backs. "I choose...the little baby secretary I have heard so much about," he said.

Sunny, still in Isadora's arm, flipped him off. "Toddler!" she yelled angrily although her friends could tell she was scared. Not as scared as her brother but she was definitely scared of what Olaf had planned.

Violet's glare towards the villain intensified as her blood began to boil hotter. This man was definitely Count Olaf, she had no doubt about it. She could hear Klaus cry another desperate "No…" as he shook harder. "She's just a toddler...leave her out of it…" she could hear him whisper.

" And…" Olaf snarled, once again slowly walking the stage. Giving Duncan and Isadora one last look over before slowly turning to Violet.

Klaus, who had his head hidden so he didn't have to see Olaf, felt his heart stop beating. And?... Klaus panicked. There shouldn’t be an ‘and’! Just me and Sunny! His eyes became wide. His absolute worst nightmare was happening. Olaf was now targeting either Violet, his half-sister, or the Quagmires, his new friends. Klaus began to tremble harder in fear blaming himself for ever letting the three get close to him and Sunny. Then a question popped into his mind, causing his breathing to become rigid. Did Olaf also know that Violet was related to the Baudelaires?

Olaf stopped circling the two orphans just as Klaus raised his face to meet the shiny eyes of his arch-nemesis staring at his older sister in a way that Klaus couldn't describe. he just knew the face had vile intentions behind it. He silently glances up at Violet, who stood there stone cold, glaring back at Olaf acting as a human shield for her brother.

" And...Miss Snicket," Olaf snarled. His tone of voice sending massive chills down Klaus' spine. If Violet was afraid, she was good at hiding it because Klaus looked up at her in disbelief. she stood tall, not allowing Olaf or Klaus to sense any fear behind the cold demeanor even though there were fear and uncertainty plaguing at her mind.

Olaf paused for a moment to truly look at Violet. She continued to stand her ground, staring back at him with a face of indifference. The man's stare was getting extremely uncomfortable, just as Violet was going to slightly turn her head allowing her eyes to avert from the villain’s shiny ones, She felt Klaus’ head shift. Dammit! She thought keeping her stare at Olaf. She knew Klaus was now looking at her, she couldn’t be weak now. For Klaus. She told herself as she tried to drain all of her emotions from her face, holding in her fear. For Sunny. Remember, Violet, Snickets take care of their own. They’re counting on you! Everything falls on you now. They’re safety, comfort, and happiness. Keep strong for them! She quietly sighed, hoping Klaus and Olaf didn’t notice. She had to be strong, she couldn’t let Klaus know that she was intimidated. Big sisters are supposed to chase away the monsters, not also be afraid of them. As she stared back as Olaf, with a hand gently placed on Klaus’ head, Violet realized that if she replaced her fear with anger, it was easier to hold her composure.

Olaf waited until both orphans were looking at him. Violet with her cold, emotionless demeanor and Klaus with his desperation and fear. “ Thank you….for being so eager to... volunteer ,” he hissed looking directly into Violet’s eyes, his eyes so shiny that they could blind her. The second he called her a volunteer, her face became dark. He must’ve realized that she wasn’t going to let him get away with killing her father and hurting her siblings.

Violet refused to show him fear, she couldn’t do that because she had to convince Klaus that with her around he is safe and her pride refused to allow it. So she stared right back with a face that could kill. Olaf merely smirking at her. While Klaus adverted his gaze as his face drained of all color and then flushed red with anger. “No…!” He said again but Violet noticed that it wasn’t the same desperate ‘no’ that he had whispered when Olaf mentioned Sunny. This one was stronger, angrier, even. Before Violet could process what was happening, Klaus had shot up to his feet, grabbing Violet and harshly whipping her behind him. He kept a grip on her hand, though and she could tell that he was still shaking.

“ No!” He yelled glaring at the disguised coach. “ Do NOT fucking involve Violet in this shit!”

“Oh, my,” Olaf feigned confusion like it was his first language. “What are you talking about?”

Klaus can feel the tears streaming down his face. “Leave... you better leave her alone!”

Olaf continued to look at Klaus as if he had no idea what the young orphan boy was talking about.

“Klaus…” Violet asked concerned.

“T-th-this batter is between you and me! ”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Coach Genghis asked.

Klaus’ shaking began to be more than he could handle because soon everyone at the pep rally could clearly see his panic attack. Olaf took this opportunity to put a hand on Klaus’ shoulder which put the young boy into a frenzy. Shaking faster and more visibly, crying harder, as he flinched away quickly causing himself to fall backwards on his ass.

“Leave him alone!” Violet yelled at the vile bastard.

Olaf looked down at Klaus, “There’s no need to cry like an infant. Be a man, orphan!” Olaf says cruelly poking Klaus in the chest just as Carmelita began chanting “Crybaby cake-sniffers in the Orphan Shack!” and all at once nearly everyone in the crowd was making fun of Klaus and chanting along to Carmelita. The only faculty member who even gave a shit was the kind librarian, who stood up, and started shushing children and yelling at Carmelita.

Violet glared at Olaf. “You three orphans are to report to the athletics field at sundown and every night until further notice,” he announced as the crowd began to disperse.

Nero laughed. “This, of course, does not excuse you from missing my nightly violin recitals. Oooh, you are going to owe me a lot of candy!”

“Now that’s the sort of leadership I was talking about,” Genghis mentioned. “You are a genius,” Violet rolled her eyes as she listened to the two pieces of shit stroke each other’s egos.

“You’re the genius for nothing,” Nero replied.

“YOu’re the genius for saying so,” Genghis admitted.

“You’re a genius for agreeing,”

“All right, I’m the genius,” Genghis bragged smirking at Violet.

“Drat!” Nero yelled.

The vice-principal began to walk away.

Duncan, Isadora, and Sunny walked over to the stage just as Genghis took a step closer to Klaus. Violet stepped in between the two, glaring daggers. “Whatever you’re up to, Count Olaf , we will put a stop to it!” she hissed.

“ Really?” He asked, feigning confusion. “Because it seems to me, if you Snickets had the skills to stop me, you wouldn’t be having this batch of episodes in your new lives,” he hissed back.

Klaus curled up into a little ball, trying to hide behind Violet’s thin legs. Violet looked down at him and then at Olaf and her heart broke. What did this fucker do to her little brother? She hated not knowing important things.

Olaf smirked as the Quagmires joined them on the stage carrying Sunny.

“Fucker!” Sunny hissed.

“Oh, little Sunny when will you and your cry baby, wimpy brother learn? You can’t survive me! ” he laughed, “your parents really taught you nothing at all.”

This angered Violet, she took Sunny from Isadora’s arms and the two orphaned half-sisters glared at Olaf as they guarded their brother against the cruel fiend.

“ Our parents taught us to survive!” Violet yelled as Sunny nodded waving a tiny fist at Olaf.

Olaf laughed a cruel, sadistic laugh. “Well, I guess...sweet little Miss Snicket... those who can’t do, teach, ” he replied bitterly.

Violet’s face rushed with anger to sadness. She tried to push the anger back to the surface but she soon realized that pushing sadness was harder than pushing down fear. Olaf could see that he had effected her because her eyes lit for about three seconds, a small flare of fire and it flared out almost immediately, quickly turning into a broken ocean blue. She couldn’t hide it, and he could definitely see it.

And with that he gave Violet, Sunny, Isadora, and Duncan an evil grin and then put a hand on Klaus’ shoulder, causing Klaus to jump and scream in shock. “ I told you,... no matter where you go...no matter what you do...I will find you,” he smiled a vicious smile when Klaus looked up. “ At least one of us can actually keep our promise! ” He then began laughing as he pats Klaus on the head, still laughing. “See you three at sundown,”

This time if looks could kill, Sunny Baudelaire would be the orphan killing Olaf with her look of pure, concentrated hate. “ Bitch! ” she shrieked at him as Olaf simply flipped the toddler off.

Sunny and Violet knelt down to Klaus. Sunny rushed to her brother to hug him. Olaf walked away cackling like a madman.

“Prom,” she said to her brother, holding him close. This was her way of saying, “Ignore him, Klaus. You’ve kept good on your promise,”

Klaus shook his head in response. “No, no I haven’t. He’s right, Sunny.”

Sunny shook her head furiously and playfully slapped her brother in the face.

“No!” she said simply. “Bueno,” she told him sternly, which meant, “you’ve done, good.”

Violet looked at Klaus. “Sunny’s right, Klaus. Comparatively, you’re the more fucked up. You’ve obviously sacrificed yourself for her,”

Duncan placed a gentle hand on Klaus’ shoulder which made the bookworm flinch but he looked up seeing Duncan and gave the journalist a small smile.

He turned to Violet. “Sunny and I are never going to be safe,”

She shook her head. “Oh yes, yes you are. Cause you see, Olaf made one very fatal idiotic mistake...he got me involved,”

“Us, too,” Duncan said.

“Don’t worry Baudelaires, don’t feel disgrace. The Quagmires triplets are on the case,” Isadora recited smiling.

Klaus continued to shack his head. “No…” he pleaded with them.

Violet smiled at Isadora. “Sweet poem. I love it.”

“Th-thank you,”  the poet responded blushing.

“You guys...I’m sorry,” Klaus cried.

“For what?”

“For letting you get attached to me and Sunny,” Klaus explained. “Now he’s targetting you too,”

“Klaus...that’s not your fault,” Duncan reassured

“You’re kinds and generous, all three of you are, but we can’t let you get involved,” Klaus said pointedly staring at his older half-sister, who simply glared at him.

Sunny was slowly nodding her head in agreement with her brother.

“Olaf is too dangerous,” Klaus explained.

“He’s too dangerous for you to face alone,” Duncan pointed out. Isadora and Violet nodding in agreement.

“We can run away,” Isadora suggested.

“All of us,” Duncan added as the triplets looked to Violet to agree with them.

“...it’s plausible,” she admitted.

“Our parents' inheritance will be ours once we come of age,” Isadora explained.

“We’re not of age yet.” Klaus countered. “Besides, it wouldn’t matter if we ran away...Count Olaf will still find us...he found us...he always does,” He sighed. “Everywhere we go, he shows up to steal our stupid fortune.”

“How can he get your fortune as a gym teacher?” Violet asked confused.

“Well...there’s treachery lurking in most exercise programs,” Klaus replied laughing at his own joke. “I just...I just can’t believe he fooled everyone again.”

“Not everyone,” Duncan said pointing at himself and his sister.

“Come on, you guys, let’s go back to the Orphan Shack and figure shit out,” Violet suggested holding her hand out for Klaus’. Isadora picked up Sunny as Duncan took Klaus’ free hand. Isadora slipping her free hand into Violets. The five children walked from the athletic field to the Orphan Shack, all trying to think of a way to put a stop to Olaf once and for all.

[strawberry-devil-fruit]

I Kept My Melancholy and My Agitations Hidden

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19048714/chapters/45247036

Chapter 5 of A Waterfall Framed in Summer Leaves

Can be read as stand-alone. Warnings: suicidal thoughts, intrusive thoughts, language

“I have always shook with fright before human beings. Unable as I was to feel the least particle of confidence in my ability to speak and act like a human being, I kept my solitary agonies locked in my breast. I kept my melancholy and my agitation hidden, careful lest any trace should be left exposed. I feigned an innocent optimism; I gradually perfected myself in the role of the farcical eccentric.” - Dazai Osamu, No Longer Human

Chuuya’s still formed grazed Dazai’s eyes. The redhead remains asleep three days after their mission; where Dazai almost failed to nullify Corruption.

There is so much guilt. He can’t get his head around it all. Every thought plagues him in a flurry of what if and I almost lost. Dazai struggles to keep in his chair. His legs bounce up and down restlessly. His hands clasp each other in a desperate game to stop from unwrapping bandages and scratching.

Dazai goes through the same old motions; thinking of death; wanting to die. He is so deep in, and Chuuya is a blur before him.

There is no hope for me. I’m such a burden. I’m faking it, I’m fucking faking it.

He squeezes his hands tighter. Dazai can’t shake it away. Guilt guilt guilt. Burden.

All the things Dazai does, all he feels—never a positive emotion—is just another stupid, stupid annoyance on everyone around him.

I’m a waste of time. So stupid. Worthless. Absolutely worthless and stupid and hopeless and fuck me, I should remove myself from everyone. I take up too much space.

Despair bubbles in a vicious energy, and his legs stay persistent in their bouncing. He can’t slow down; his thoughts, his legs. It’s too painful.

Dazai wants to sleep, lay down and sleep. Be encased by the warmth of his blankets like a coffin. He wants to stay like that forever, never wake up.

He’s falling. Falling fast or slow, Dazai can’t figure out, because he is endlessly confused and doesn’t know where to start. He remembers Odasaku advising him to organise his thoughts, take a breather, relax his muscles. Odasaku sure as hell wasn’t a certified therapist but this is where he should begin. Do this now and see where it takes him.

Dazai wants Chuuya to wake up…

I should stop asking for things. He brings his clasped hands to his forehead and presses them there with enough pressure to ache. Hope is useless, I’ve learnt that in the past. Dazai knows that’s not him talking, but the voice is so convincing, so soothing and understanding and helpful. I don’t know what to do. I’m so scared. I hate this life.

The thoughts are dizzying—his entire state is. The pain exhausts him and arouses the lingering sting in his arms.

Dazai curls in the chair, draws knees to his chest and buries his face in the dark.

I need to get my shit together. Stop thinking, stop thinking!

Mori will be back soon. He can’t show weakness or Mori will take advantage and exploit him.

Fuck fuck fuck… what am I doing?

Why can’t I focus?

He grits his teeth and almost screams but Chuuya’s unconscious grimace of pain distracts him.

Dazai’s mind tarries in fog, and Chuuya is quickly removed from his attention. The fog is as immovable as trying to swat a broom at the wind in hopes of it going away; Dazai grasps at nothing, finds no way out.

He draws inward, lets the world close tight around his awareness. Sink in, think of nothing.

Just enough, it has to be enough. But Mori will see through it, he always does.

The mantra of just enough carries through and resonates at Mori’s arrival.

Dazai stays quiet, making the words louder than the clacking shoes and doctor coming around him. He zones out as Mori hovers over Chuuya. It takes the weight of the world to focus on Mori when Dazai is addressed. Two minds in one; to continue the mantra, to listen to words he doesn’t want to hear. Comprehending them is both minds combined. He’ll need to sleep two days after this, the prediction rings in his bones.

“The entire gang,” Mori starts. He doesn’t need to say more.

Dazai meets steely violet eyes. “They had us surrounded. I was left with no other options.”

“I’m sure you could have found another way if you truly set your mind to it,” Mori’s tone is scheming. Dazai feels familiar shivers in his body and the immense urge to run. “But, of course, you forced Chuuya to use Corruption,” a glance to Chuuya, “and nigh on lost him, I suppose. Foolish.”

“I… I didn’t—”

Mori snaps over him with a croon, “Oh, but you did, Dazai-kun. You know you did.”

Mori is trying to get to him. Dazai knows that. His instinct is to break eye-contact and squeeze his eyes shut in defence. All he can do is shake his head as Mori continues to lean over him, too close—

“What do you intend to achieve from this?” Dazai breathes out.

“Your utmost subservience,” Mori states it like it’s obvious.

The door clicks closed and Dazai can finally take in air properly.

He hates himself so much more now. Not for Chuuya almost dying, not from Mori’s words… Himself.

For making the decision to return to the Port Mafia in the empty wish that it could save him, Dazai hates his guts more than ever.

A rustle draws his eyes to Chuuya who is… not so motionless. Dazai blinks blearily as he takes in the twitching fingers and shuffle of shoulders, foggy brain too slow to comprehend what is occurring before him.

Dazai snaps into awareness as he registers Chuuya’s scarcely open eyes, and leans closer to his partner. Only three days, that’s not too bad, he’s alive, oh thank god.

“Chuuya…” Dazai whispers, and he grabs Chuuya’s hand in his own, squeezing as tight as he dares. Chuuya’s gaze rolls over to him, straining as his head doesn’t follow. He raises his other hand, and Dazai understands the message.

He takes a glass of water from the bedside and helps Chuuya sip down a bit. Dazai relaxes back in his chair as Chuuya swallows.

Dazai knows he should say the words, but he can’t get them out. The number of times he’s spoken them in his entire life… Dazai can count it on one hand… one.

“I’m sorry,” and it’s genuine enough that Chuuya’s eyes widen. Dazai stares down at their intertwined hands, No Longer Human actively pulsating through his hand into Chuuya, suppressing the anger of Arahabaki.

“Wha—what for?” Chuuya clears his throat, and his voice still comes out dry.

“For… almost losing you. For almost being too late,” Dazai admits.

Chuuya blinks, “Well I’m here, aren’t I? What does it matter that you were almost too late to stop Corruption? And… honestly, the words don’t suit you, so keep them in there, please.”

Of course I’m saying sorry. You almost died. Why are you forgiving me? After everything I’ve done, how can you forgive me?

Dazai strains to keep awake and aware, focusing on Chuuya’s face, the acceptance in his relaxed expression, as if there was nothing to stress over and no one to punch.

“I can help you but you’ve got to want to be helped.”

What? Help me? Dazai tries to think of the many reasons why, and each plausible idea he strays from, because surely they are not so bad he needs help? He can get through it on his own, always has. Why should Chuuya help him, when the man spent every moment expressing his hatred for Dazai? It made no sense to him, and he didn't have the energy nor the mental capacity to figure out why Chuuya was offering help.

“You’re so messed up and yet you refuse to do anything about it. It’s obvious that you’re in pain. You hide it behind jokes and glorious ideas about how you want to die, without letting anyone remember that you do, actually, want to die,” Chuuya says, and the matter-of-fact way he puts it sends Dazai reeling back.

“So what?” Dazai clips. “There are plenty of people like me.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes, “Well, yeah… but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get better. Recovery is always possible. And it’s not just you’re suicidal tendencies. Your past is still affecting you, in negative ways, and too much to be bearable. You’re back in the Mafia, after all.” Chuuya turns his head now, stares directly into Dazai, into his soul, his mind, seeing everything he wishes to stay hidden.

“Can we stop talking about it? It’s stupid anyways. Let’s move on,” Dazai wriggles in his chair, looking away from Chuuya’s scrutiny. Who cares what happened in his past? That was years ago, it doesn’t matter.

“Then at least tell me something? Tell me something and I’ll leave you alone today,” Chuuya persists. And Dazai can see, that even saying something small will get Chuuya to lay off until Dazai can gather himself together. Maybe… maybe telling the truth for once will ease a little of the pain.

“Fine… I feel stuck. I feel stuck, and all the while everyone continues to move on without me. They have their paths, they aren’t lost. They aren’t frozen,” they don’t have Master to think about, they don’t have to dream of his presence every night. They don’t have to dream of Mori, either. Dazai has said his part. He doesn’t need to speak any longer.

................

Dazai stares into water, rushing by as slow as time. The river glistens white with moonlight, and the cool breeze makes the water shimmer. Dazai draws his coat closer around himself and crosses his arms. His mind is dreary, aching for sleep, be it eternal or until the sun rises.

I used to believe I never deserved love… And now I know it for certain: I’ll never deserve love. It’ll be better this way. Oh, how easy he had slipped into his demonic persona, eighteen once more and delighting in the pain he could draw from victims. All it had taken was Mori’s order and a knife in his hand. He is cruel. Too cruel to live, too cruel to be on the side that saves people. How can I be good if I can only do what is evil?

One step… One step is all he needs to reach the water, fall into its depths and never come to the surface again. One step to feel the ache of his lungs as they are deprived of air and frozen by the cool water. One step and his heavy coat will drag him down to the riverbed like an anchor. One step to try and end it all, pass into hell, escape the living. The temptation is almost too much to handle, to resist.

“Are you going to drown yourself?” Dazai doesn’t bother to spin around. It’s Chuuya, the pissed off voice enough of a marker. The steps approach him, near silent on the grass. “Seriously?”

“Did you expect any different?” Dazai asks. It’s a lie, he won’t attempt to die tonight, regardless. But Chuuya doesn’t know that, and he doesn’t need to know.

“I gave you everything. Before you left and even now, when you finally come back. When will you repay me?”

Dazai can’t bring himself to answer, too shocked by the sincerity of Chuuya’s words. He has been foolish, to not pay attention to Chuuya. His partner is right, he needs to repay him in someway, give back what he has always taken for granted. All those times he treated Chuuya as a dog, taken advantage of Corruption, ordered him around, not once giving control to Chuuya. Too hard, it’s too hard to go on, he’s a mess, he’s worthless, doesn’t deserve to live. He should take that final step, and would, if not for Chuuya who would save him again, like every other time he has.

“Why did you go the first time?” Chuuya asks softly. Dazai can understand. Chuuya is loyal. He puts everything into protecting those he loves, answers to, and he does everything they ask of him. So when Dazai left after Oda’s… after Oda’s death, of course Chuuya felt betrayed. Chuuya feels too much, wears his heart on his sleeve. He must have been crushed by Dazai’s abrupt departure.

Dazai shakes his head minutely. As much as he wants to speak, tell Chuuya everything, he doesn’t want to talk at all. Keep silent, keep it all locked inside, keep him from being vulnerable.

“Am I just a toy for you to play with and cast aside?” Chuuya growls. Dazai doesn’t reply, gaze fixed on the water. Go away, please. I’m sorry, I’m so damn sorry… but leave me to die. It’s what you want, right? You always go on about how much you want to kill me, want me dead.

Like his thoughts were spoken aloud, and perhaps they were, to Chuuya, his partner leaves, footsteps quieter as the distance between them stretches. Dazai shrinks at the anger radiating from Chuuya. He can feel it from here. No doubt Chuuya will be heading someplace to start a fight and drink his rage away.

Dazai should accept his help, he really should. But he can’t bring himself to when Chuuya will evoke in him so many emotions that Dazai doesn’t know how to navigate. It strikes in him a fear of the unknown. After living in darkness all his life, and still to this day, Dazai can’t let the light in. He can’t predict what it will do to him, and Dazai always knows what will happen next. He doesn’t want that structure disrupted. Dazai will do nothing, for he cannot accept Chuuya’s help. But… even without it, Dazai still feels those same emotions he wishes to run from.

“Is this what humans feels like?” Dazai whispers, and a warm trail streams down his cheek, again on one side, then the other. He reaches up a hand, feels the tears escaping him. “If it is, I don’t want it.”

[aalinastarkova]

Odazai mini fic 20 (if youll do two 17 as well! Please)

Requested from the Mini fic list! 20- things you said that i wasn’t supposed to hear 17- things you said that i wish you hadn’tI’ve incorporated both into the following fic, the first one is a little bit of a stretch but, it’s fine, right? anyways-three years later i bring you: {TRUTH.}or read on AO3

nine.

Two gunshots.

His eyes shoot open, stare into the darkness of his room. The air is silent and the sheet over his open window rustles as he pushes the blanket off his body. Getting up, the boy walks to the doorway, stands there, little hands clasped around the doorframe. He listens. It’s quiet. There’s no more loud noises. He walks, his little feet barefoot on the wood. “Hello?” he says, entering the other room. It’s dark, he steps in something wet and he looks down. “Mom?”

Her hair is like spilled coffee across the ground and surrounding her head is something else, a widening puddle of water. He stares. “Dad?”

He’s slumped. Head askew. He doesn’t answer.

He turns on the light and stares at the red, stares at the holes in their heads. His hands start shaking, his knees knock together. He drops, shakes his mother’s shoulders. She won’t get up, she won’t look at him, only past him with glassy brown eyes. He’s crying, he doesn’t know when he started, but they sprinkle down his cheeks like crystals. He’s shouting, he doesn’t know when he started, but the words burn at his throat and he doesn’t know what he’s saying.

The floor creaks and the boy’s head jerks over. The door flaps against the frame. He shouts: “No! Take me too! Kill me too!”

The police find him curled, his clothes blooded and his hands in his mother’s shirt.

eighteen.

The smoke singes Dazai’s nostrils when he arrives, his hands curled into fists beneath his sleeves. For once he’s glad they’re too long, no one, not even Odasaku, can see how tightly he’s clenching his muscles. He stares at the burst of fire red hair and the black smoke curling towards the clouds fat with tears. There’s a lump somewhere at the back of his throat, but he swallows it. He hasn’t cried in years.

When the minutes creep, they’re terrible and every syllable that drops from Odasaku’s mouth tightens the pit of panic in Dazai’s gut. Please, he thinks. Please don’t go, Odasaku. But nothing he says is the right thing, the wiring glitching somewhere between the sentiment in his head and the words that leave his tongue. But he knows he’s not lying, he wouldn’t lie to this man before him. Or rather the broken shell of his best friend.

Thunder ripples. Lightning flashes. He reaches out, he grabs a fistful of Odasaku’s jacket and for a terrible second he things Oda will slip right out of it. “Odasaku,” he gasps, the panic dripping, overflowing, “don’t go.” A thousand words make circles in his battered brain. There’s only one thing for me now, Oda had said and Dazai is terribly aware that they’ve switched places. That Dazai is the one begging his friend to realize that there is more to this world, that something will change! That Oda has to be alive to face that next sunrise!

Oda pushes his hand off and Dazai flinches back, curls into himself. The spot where Oda touched him burns, and he stares at it for a moment before looking back up to Oda, visible eye wide. His lip trembles and he’s grateful that it’s started to rain because if he cries it will mask his tears. “Odasaku-” he trembles.

Oda speaks and his voice rumbles from his chest like the thunder. It’s a rough timbre, filled with emotion and yet so terribly void of anything but remorse and hurt. “When I was an assassin there were these two people. A man and a woman. They didn’t fight, they didn’t even know I was after them. I didn’t remember a lot about them. I actually forgot about their kid until now.”

Dazai starts, “What does that matter no-”

Oda keeps going, “He shouted after me too.” Oda’s eyes are dark, he’s looking right at Dazai and Dazai feels his throat tighten. He wants to lunge forward, to shove his hand over Oda’s mouth and beg him to stop, to not say another word. He doesn’t. His hands clench.

Oda says, “He told me to kill him too. They were your parents weren’t they, Dazai? The man and woman? That was your parents.”

Dazai is the one to look away, to shake his head, to bite back a lie building on his tongue. His hands are shaking, his stomach is in knots as a hundred repressed emotions spread through his body. They shiver down his spine, curl his toes in his shoes and his nails bite into his palms. No, he wants to say. No, they were someone else’s parents. He knows Oda would see right through his lie, so he swallows, breathes. “Yeah. But-” he hurries forward, breath tearing from him like a terrified jackrabbit, “But that was years ago! It doesn’t matter!” His fingers itch forward, begging him to grab onto Oda and not let go.

“Stop,” trembles Oda, shaking his head. His eyes are wide, there’s a breakdown on his lips and the quiver of his voice. “Just stop, Dazai. It does matter, dammit!” It’s the second time Oda’s raised his voice at Dazai. “I killed your parents. I killed your parents without even thinking.”

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. He remembers the blood under his nails, the smell of gunpowder and his parents’ fleeting lives hanging in the air. He remembers a man leading him away, he remembers watching the house disappear. He remembers the funeral and he remembers a thousand people all saying, “what do we do with him?” He remembers he remembers he remembers a million fucking things he tried to keep caged.

He wants Oda to stop talking.

“You were hired weren’t you? They had to have done something wrong. Something to deserve it!”

Yes, that’s it. Oda wouldn’t kill them without reason. Dazai’s parents are the enemy.

Oda grabs him. Shakes him. Once. Hard.

Dazai’s head bobs and he hugs his arms, staring up at his friend as the redhead retreats. “Odasaku,” he cries, “please, don’t go.”

Oda goes and Dazai fractures a little more. He screams, grits his teeth and runs to Mori because the child in his brain tells him Mori will have an answer. Mori will let him get together men to rescue Oda. Mori, for all his faults, wouldn’t let someone like Oda die.

(He knows Mori’s not innocent. Not in this. Yet, he goes. And the seconds tick.)

ten’i muhou.

Two gunshots. Blood and gunsmoke hovers in the air. Oda breathes it in like it’s curry spice, sighs it out like it’s cigarette smoke. There’s a thousand etches of taken lives on his ribcage, he takes the second between them to count it all over it again. Gide breathes his name like it’s a prayer, trembles then collapses backwards. The hole in his heart leaks life down his breast and his gun clatters away like the last broken beats of his twisted metal heart.

The door crashes, Oda pivots and his gun arm comes up. Standing in the door with a gasp hitching on his face, is Dazai. The redhead pauses, stares. “Oh,” he sighs, “Dazai. It’s you.” His fingers loosen. Good. He won’t have to kill anyone else. He doesn’t know when he let go of the gun, but he hears it skitter away from him like a frightened mouse. His knees go weak and he lets go, expects the floor to crash up against his back like a pool of frigid water.

Arms catch him, cradle him. Hands press to his chest, his breath catches. He stares upwards into a single amber eye and he breathes slowly. Dazai. His lips move and the words crash into him like bullets.

“Odasaku, you’re an idiot! Why did you come here!”

Oda knows they both know why. He doesn’t say. He mumbles, “It doesn’t matter now.” It feels harsh and the dagger tip of his own callous words twists in his gut. Of course it matters. The explosion plays through his memory. He closes his eyes. Opens them, stares past Dazai’s head to the sunlight catching on the large chandeliers.

He looks back to Dazai. “There’s something I want to tell you,” he says. “You have to listen.” His hand moves on its own, slides up to cup Dazai’s cheek and his friend leans into the touch with a closed eye. He bows forward and Oda watches words struggle on his lips.

“What is it?” whispers Dazai, opening his eye and placing his own hand atop Oda’s. Dazai’s hand is warm. Oda sees the blood on his fingertips.

“You told me you were searching for a reason to live, but you won’t find it in the mafia. You won’t find it in a world of blood and suffering, you know that too. Nothing beyond what you would expect will occur if you keep on that path.” The words come from the patch of selfishness steadily growing and overtaking him like a disease. He knows what he is. He knows he’s not a good man, he knows he’s taken countless lives including the lives of Dazai’s parents. God, he thinks, has finally punished him for that crime. He took a child’s parents from him, and so God sent a devil to take away Oda’s own children.

He powers on as sleep tugs at him and Dazai’s lip quivers above him. “Do something for me. Be on the side that saves people, if good and bad don’t mean anything, at least do something good… protect the orphans, save the weak… become a good man. that would make you even more beautiful.“

Dazai’s closer than before, he’s curled almost completely over Oda. Their noses nearly brush. He asks, “How do you know, Odasaku?”

“Of course I know. I’ve always known,” Oda murmurs back. “Because I am your friend.” His eyes close and the darkness pulls him under, a single breath sliding free from his lips. Finally, he thinks, I will find peace.

reason living.

Oda opens his eyes, the sunlight is amber and Dazai’s voice meets his ears first. The brunette’s hand tangles with his and Oda glances to him, takes in the scruffy quality to his hair and the bags hovering beneath his eyes. Oda’s alive and the hurt of it lingers in his chest, a dull ache spreading from the stitches.

Dazai hugs him and it’s warm and safe and despite everything, Dazai is still his comfort and his rock. Safety.

The hours blur. Oda comes in and out of sleep, his body demanding he treat it with respect. Dazai is always there when he wakes, and they trade sleepy words. A nurse brings Oda food and he eats it slowly. It’s not curry and it’s not good, but he eats it because Dazai insists and when he’s managed to eat some, he insists that Dazai finish it. Once they’ve both eaten, they sit like ghosts and then Dazai turns to Oda with the sun in his eyes.

“Come save people with me, Odasaku.” His smile is wide, his eye is wide and he looks like a child.

Oda frowns. “Do you really think I deserve that?”

Dazai’s smile is knowing and careful. He leans forward, pats Oda’s cheek. “I know you do.”

“How?” He leans forward too, lets Dazai’s knuckles brush against his cheekbone. His eyes implore, search and Dazai bumps their noses together.

“Because, Odasaku,” he smiles, “I am your friend.”

after.

Oda finds peace in the little things. In the sigh of relief Dazai gives him when they trade his black jacket for one at the back of Oda’s closet. They burn the black coat in an alley and Dazai skips all the way back to Oda’s apartment, where Oda sits him down and peels the bandages away from his eye. Dazai holds his breath and when it’s off and Oda tucks Dazai’s hair behind his ear and smiles some fragile broken thing.

Dazai asks: “How do I look?”

Beautiful, Oda thinks. He doesn’t say that, he kisses Dazai’s forehead and gets up.

They bury the kids by the sea and they let the salty air ruffle their hair. On the way back, Oda’s hand finds Dazai and neither says a word about it the entire way back. When night falls, they meet Taneda at his usual haunt and Dazai smiles wide and asks where they can do work that saves people. They leave with a two year sentence to the underground, but Oda doesn’t mind. He takes the news with stride and Dazai’s fingers curl around his own.

“At least,” says the brunette, “I’ll have Odasaku!”

Oda finds healing in the small things. In the way Dazai’s nose feels as it brushes against Oda’s skin when they sleep curled together. He finds it in the laughter Dazai gives him on rare nights when they drink cheap rum from plastic cups and the sunlight catching on those beautiful amber eyes. He finds it a year later in the ocean spray and the kids’ graves. He asks that they rest in peace and cries silent tears for the lives he lost that day.

Then, he finds his reason to live in the setting sunlight and Dazai’s smile and the way their lips fit together when Oda surges forward without thought to kiss him. He finds peace in the way Dazai gasps into his mouth before his arms slide around his waist and Oda’s hands find their way into Dazai’s hair.

He finds safety in leaning his head into Dazai’s hair and murmuring: “I love you, Dazai Osamu,” for all the times he thought it and never said it.

“I love you too, Odasaku.”

[dweetwise]

day 11: crying

prompt from: whumptober pairing: felix x ace notes: all this angst is getting to me, i’m so glad tomorrow is a fluff day ;w; warnings: amnesia, implied suicide word count: 1960

If there was anything Ace had always been good at, it was dealing with all the various shit life threw his way. He'd smile and roll with the punches, not wasting time on pointless concepts like regret and what if:s.

The Entity's world had been no exception. Sure, it was objectively worse than just another poker losing streak or scam gone wrong, but since there wasn't anything he could do to change it, he just tried to make the most of it. And no, he didn’t particularly like getting chased or stabbed or brutally murdered, but in the end he was still alive and free to hang out with his newfound friends and make shitty jokes. It was the new normal, and like always, Ace adapted with surprising ease.

Until he didn't.

It had been like any typical not-day at the campfire, where a trial was taking place but Ace wasn't chosen for it. The only thing different from usual was that Ace was a little on edge, though from worry or anticipation, he wasn't sure.

Felix was the newest addition to their group, and despite only being there for what couldn't be more than a couple of months, he'd made a huge impact on Ace's life. Ace had never been any kind of clingy in his old life, but even he had to admit that he'd much rather have Felix by his side at the campfire than in a trial at the mercy of the Entity's Monster of the Day.

And maybe his heart broke a little when Adam, Cheryl and Quentin returned from the trial and Adam met his eyes and offered a pained “I'm sorry, we tried”. Ace gave a half-assed reassurance in return, and despite knowing that they always came back after a sacrifice and weren't any worse for wear, it wasn't a pleasant thing to go through.

But if he'd thought that information broke his heart, the next one shattered it into pieces.

Felix finally returned to the campfire, his look just as impeccable as ever, like he'd been preparing for an important business meeting instead of taking a chainsaw through the gut. Ace felt his fake smile give way to a genuine one, unexplainable relief flooding through him upon the confirmation that yes, even after a hundred sacrifices Felix was still alive. For some reason, Felix was frowning, so Ace made his way over to cheer him up, a witty comment already on the tip of his tongue—

“Wo zum Teufel bin ich?" Felix said, looking at him with a very confused expression that made him stop dead in his tracks.

It wasn't uncommon for Felix to revert back to his native tongue in certain situations, but it was usually only a word or two. And it wasn't like him to keep his distance from the others like this, not since befriending the group and especially not after they’d started dating.

“Come again?" Nea snorted from somewhere behind Ace, probably thinking it some kind of joke.

When Felix looked at her with clear wariness, Ace already knew what he was going to say, having seen that same exact look only months before.

“Where am I?” Felix asked, and then further twisted the knife in Ace's heart by looking back at him and adding “Who are you?”.

Ace didn't pay much attention after that. He sat by the fire while the others hovered around Felix in worry, staring at the ground and asking himself why.

Claudette came by to offer him some empty words of comfort and a gentle hand on his shoulder. He heard Bill raising his voice in the group and urging them to “calm the fuck down and let the guy breathe”. And eventually, Yui was there, kneeling before him and commanding Ace to look at her.

“He got hit with Leatherface's mallet really hard during the mori,” the biker told him, her stern expression being enough to convince Ace. “Adam and Claud said it's post-traumatic amnesia from the concussion. It's temporary.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Ace said, realizing how shaky his voice sounded, dragging a hand through his hair to try to quell his doubts.

Hours passed and Felix didn't get any better. Meg and Steve were by his side the entire time, reminiscing stories from the campfire and some of his best moments of outsmarting the killers to try to jog his memory, but nothing seemed to work.

Claudette suggested maybe Ace should talk to him, as he'd been the closest to him since he got here. So he swallowed his own grief and put on a shitty smile and shooed Meg and Steve away to sit down with Felix alone.

But when Felix started talking about how he had to get back because of his girlfriend and the baby he was so excited for, Ace had to nope the fuck out before he started bawling or cussing him out.

He avoided Felix for the entire day, playing some dumb card game with Ash he was pretty sure the other just made up, and despite his mind not being anywhere near the cards the bastard let him win. Nea was being even more obnoxious than usual, shit-talking the killers and trying to get Ace to join in, and it was really obvious that they were trying to keep him distracted, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

Then the next trial came and Dwight, Tapp, Kate and Zarina were off, and Ace was left to stare at the futile sight of Jane asking Felix about trials he had no recollection of.

“What if he never remembers?” Ace heard Cheryl whisper.

“It's temporary,” Yui immediately snapped.

“Maybe it takes another resurrection to fix,” Adam said, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

Ace felt empty. The worry and fear and absolute loneliness had created a hole in his chest he didn't know how to fix, and wouldn't until Felix was back to his old self, because he would be, because that's how it always worked—

And then Dwight stumbled into camp and looked around with pure terror in his eyes and asked if they knew a way back into the city and Ace's world stopped turning.

The hole in his chest was instantly filled with grief and anguish and he was helpless to stop the sob from wracking his entire body, burying his face into his shaking hands and mourning what he now knew he'd never get back.

There was a commotion again, and he wasn't the only one who was crying, the entire group shaken to the core at their leader losing his memory and now realizing it wasn't an accident.

There were arms around Ace’s shoulders and who he thought was Laurie whispering that she's “so, so sorry, but we’ll get through this”, and if he could do something other than cry he'd have told her that no, he doesn't think they will.

The Entity had a lot of creative ways to torture them, but none of them had been enough to break him until now.

It was hours or maybe even days before Ace came to and could try to think somewhat clearly. Nancy and Adam were standing in the middle of camp, evenly explaining that they needed to start documenting everything, that the Entity had changed its rules and a death now meant forgetting everything after coming to the realm.

Some of the others were sobbing and the rest looked grimly serious, the usual laughter and outrageous stories around the fire long forgotten. Yui was hugging Kate in a death grip and Nea and Meg held each other and carried a hurried conversation with worried expressions, the couples no doubt terrified of forgetting each other.

He looked over to Dwight, and saw Jake being much more calm and collected than Ace could ever be, patiently explaining everything to his boyfriend and gently holding his hand. Dwight already looked almost as smitten as before he lost his memory, and Ace couldn't help the sharp pang of jealousy at how easy it was for them.

“So you, uh… said you left your family? Can I ask why?” Dwight asked, just as eager as ever to get to know Jake, and blushing when Jake gave a lovestruck smile and shared his life story without complaint.

How Jake wasn't a broken shell of a man like him, he'd never know.

Ace considered telling Felix everything, but what would be the point? Even if he did somehow manage to worm his way into Felix's heart again, the memories were lost forever, not to mention he’d be back to square one after Felix got sacrificed the next time.

There was a map and a piece of charcoal shoved into his hands, and Ace looked up at Zarina's usually carefully schooled features twisted into uncertainty.

“We're writing letters to yourselves,” Zarina explained. “For when—if we die, we have some guidance and know about the important stuff.”

She left him to it and he idly wondered if it would have even made a difference for Felix.

Suddenly, a new determination hit him and he started jotting down what he knew he needed to hear. His codeword for safety, so he’d know it was real. How he got to the realm and how long he'd been there. The names of his friends and the insistence that he trusted them all with his life. The few killers who were somewhat reasonable. The names of the couples and some random gossip he could use to lighten the mood.

‘Felix’ he started a sentence automatically, but then paused. A dark thought was creeping up in the back of his mind, and he knew exactly what needed to happen next. He finished the sentence with ‘has a girlfriend and kid in the real world’, before folding the piece of paper and placing it in his jacket pocket and waiting for a trial to start.

It was two days before Ace got called into a trial, and while the others were panicking and hugging each other and trying not to cry, he felt calmer than he had since this whole thing started.

“Keep an eye on Ace, okay?” he even heard Kate murmur to Bill, and it was almost enough to make him change his mind.

But then the trial started and Ace ran right into the center of the map to get chased first by the Wraith.

He was on his second hook, struggling against the Entity’s claws, with only one generator left and only one other person having been hooked. His chances were looking good, a weak killer on a strong map, his teammates pumping out generator after generator. With a much worse threat than sacrifice and resurrection looming in the distance, their determination had improved tenfold.

The Wraith was nowhere to be seen when Bill made his way over to the hook.

“Hold on, bud,” Bill grunted, slowly vaulting the window in front of him as not to alert the killer of the rescue in advance.

The last generator popped and Ace smiled for the first time in days, a toothy grin that probably came off as maniacal, realizing he could finally fulfill his plan while knowing the others would make it out.

“Ace, what are you—” there was alarm on Bill's features and he picked up his pace to a sprint, but it was too late.

“Sorry, old friend,” Ace offered before he let go.

“ACE!”

Bill's panicked scream was the last thing he heard before the claw pierced straight through his gut, and he had a few seconds of time to feel a bad for putting Bill through that, before his consciousness faded to black.

At least he wouldn’t remember any of it.