#origami is the devil on my shoulder

[saccharanth]

“quit your job” “why” “join my emo svsss visual novel”

[da-shrimping-station]

thank you for everyone who participated in my lil poll for a noble character design!

the results gave me an androgynous devil from Abaddon and here he is!!!!!!

aight everyone meet Azaruuth

As one of the nobles of Abaddon, Azaruuth has a fierce reputation by default. He is a devil who specializes in bindings, restraints, and locking down anyone he wishes to, which is why he has taken up the role of Warden to the country's biggest prison. The entire facility is under his watchful care and he has full authority to choose who gets locked up and who gets to leave.

While he does run the palce with an iron fist, he is not above denying devils their vices. Garner enough favor and one might find their cell door unlocked and their restraints a little loose. Though they shouldn't get too overexcited with their taste of freedom. He can drag them back in prison in the blink of an eye.

more fun facts:

he loves sweets, so much so that you can use it as currency to barter with him (the rarer the sweets, the better chances you have)

tells Ronove to get pretty angel feathers for him since he can't really leave the prison often

before becoming the Warden, he was also a detainee at the prison

he has no problem binding lesser devils but the nobles need specialized binds to make sure they stay put

has a steady stack of complaints at his desk whenever he lets any devil out

he turns those papers into origami (Bael saw him do it to his own paperwork back when Azaruuth visited Abyssos and he almost had a heart attack)

★

a/n:

phew he's finally done! tysm for the peeps over at @/r0-boat's server for their input!

the biggest challenge was the eye and horn colors honestly. it took a few color combinations but i settled on pink 🩷 and damn he looks good in it

im still iffy about his uniform 🤔 he needs more leather straps lmao. trust that i'll be changing it soon

as for the whole androgynous part, i wanted to show it through his facial features. as for his body, i think im gonna have to tweak it more for him to be lean and slender rather that the typical broad shoulders, thin waist, ripped as fuck bodies we got for most of the cast

please lmk what you think of him 🙏

[acaciaavenue]

The Devils giving MC Christmas Gifts!

Gehenna Edition <3

Leraye

He's of course super excited to spend Christmas with you so get ready for him being even clingier than usual! He just can't keep his hands off of you like a dog begging to be pet. The day is full of activities! Christmas markets, baking cookies together, building snowdevils you can't catch a break. The gift you receive is wrapped horribly messy and he's extremely proud of his awful job but you can tell he tried his best. You can already feel that its something soft. Leraye is more excited than you when you finally open it. It's an adorable purple bunny plush with floppy ears and it's head still attached for once! "It looks just like you! Merry Christmas MC!"

Zagan

He's quiet as usual but seeks out small affectionate gestures like subtle touches and resting his head on your shoulder to let his long soft hair cascade down your back. You spend a cozy day cuddled up together under a fluffy blanket on the couch watching your favourite movies seasonal or not, all Zagan cares about is spending time with you. His gift for you is beautifuly wrapped with some decorative origami parts to it that make you hesitate to tear the wrapping open! Zagan watches your face the entire time to see your reaction when you open it. It's a painted canvas with the unmistakable carefully places brushstrokes of Zagans calm hands. A portrait of you! "It's not as beautiful as reality...Merry Christmas Mc"

Paimon

He gives you his gift right away, there is no waiting! It's important he says, you need to open it now come on come on MC!! He hands you a pink envelope covered in kitsch stickers and washi tape with the words 'My favourite girl' written in glitterpen in his cutesie neat handwriting and urges you to open it. It's a gift coupon for Gehennas fanciest beauty parlor! Paimon drags you there right away. You two get matching christmas themed manicures, your hair styled and your makeup done. He presses a kiss to your cheek to leave a shimmery lipstick mark there and tells you that wasn't all theres more! All dolled up you're taken on a shopping spree through the city. "I wanna show all of Gehenna how beautiful you aaaaare <3"

Astaroth

He takes you to see the Nutcracker at Gehennas theater, glancing over at you with a small smile every time there's romantic scenes. You're treated to christmas dinner after. He's all dressed up in suit and tie, his long dark hair in a ponytail and his purple tie chosen to match your purple dress. Even Apophis got a little purple ribbon on him. You keep telling Astaroth all day that he didn't have to do this much but he insists to treat his lady like the princess she is on a holiday like this! At the end of the day when you're sitting in your room together enjoying the time together he pulls out a neatly yet rather plain wrapped gift. it's a book! The synopsis on the back describes a romantic tale of a beautiful princesses love saving the dark heart of a black knight. "It reminded me of us, please read it to me tonight MC'

Belial

Christmas with him is quiet since Jiyu got the day off...lucky. But it's a comfortable silence you enjoy. Belial takes you ice skating and holds your hands the entire time so you don't fall, guiding you to twirl little circles like the two of you are slow dancing on the ice. Once you're back indoors he covers you in kisses to warm up your cold red face and you make hot chocolate together. He pulls out an envelope with a red bow around it and slides it toward you with a smile and a nod. It's sealed with a red heart sticker. You eagerly open it up! Belial holds your hand across the table you two are comfortably sitting at while you read it. It's a love poem! the most steamy yet sweet you've ever read. Oh he has such a way with words!

Amy

You two go out to a cute cafe for sweet seasonal hot drinks. You favourite silly over the top kind. After that you take a little detour through the snowy park, holding hands on the way home and spend the rest of the day together crafting little devil ornaments for the christmas tree. Amy showed you how! He's so skilled with those hands. You decorate it together, Amy picks you up by the waist gently so you can reach the tip of the tree to put a little red lump ornament ontop. When Amy finally gives you his gift he is stammering and blushing calling it nothing special. It's wrapped very neatly except for a small tear in the paper where he lost his cool with the tape It's a little doll of you he made himself! "You are the gift MC, Merry chirstmas"

Sitri

He has something special prepared for you in his Study. When you arrive there you're greeted by a wonderful smell of freshly baked cinnamon pastries and sweet butterfly pea tea. Sitri got his best teacups out on the coffeetable and is already pouring you a cup of tea before you even sat down. He insists you try every single one of the treats he baked for you. He took note of every time you seemed to enjoy something sweet particularly much through the year and everything he's prepared is one of your favourites. He feeds you and blushes when you compliment his baking! Sitri places a small box on the table infront of you and urges you to open it. It's a bracelet! A name bracelet...and it doesn't say Solomon. It says your actual name. "Merry christmas MC, i hope you never leave'

Satan

Satan is Satan even on a Holiday! You can already hear him outside before he even kicks your door open. He greets you all excited and wraps your scarf tighter so you don't get cold before he gets on his motorcycle and pets the seat behind him for you to join. He takes you on a joyride through snowy Gehenna. It would have probably been scary if it wasn't him driving. You feel safe with him even on the icy roads. He takes you to his favourite spot, high up in the hills on the outskirts of the city. You can see everything from here. All of Gehenna and all the lights. When he drops you off at home he takes off his leather jacket. One of his favourites he wears alot. He drapes it over your shoulders with a big grin. "So you always got something that reminds you of me incase you ever miss me MC"

[askroahmmythril]

Development of the RMN Series

A recent ask got me thinking about how I developed my set of Robot Masters over the years, which ones were made earliest, which ones came later, design elements that changed over time, etc. So figured I could compile some of that here.

High School Era

The earliest one I made was Vegas Man. I've always had a bit of a fascination with playing cards, so I wanted to theme a Robot Master around that sort of idea, I definitely wanted to make card suits part of his design (I don't think I'd seen RM&B by that point, so I was unfamiliar with Magic Man). His design changed a bit over time, gaining some slight western theming, as well as a change to his weapon, the Casino Shield. The earliest version was an actual physical circular shield he wore on one arm, designed to look like a roulette wheel.

Next up was Bow Man. I think I was somewhat inspired by RMs like Knight Man and Yamato Man that were equipped with solid "real" weapons. Sword Man might have been on the list by that point as well, come to think of it. I figured an archer robot could fit right in. My mind immediately went to Robin Hood as a design base, an overall medieval look. It took some time to come up with a design that carried that feel but looked "robot armor" enough, but I'm fairly pleased with the current iteration.

Third in order was a very early version of Glass Man. I had the overall design elements, and solid idea of how I wanted his weapon, the Shatter Shard, to work. Earlier versions were more solidly based on more colorful stained glass, but I could never really come up with a solid design that I liked, they all just came out looking too complicated or just an overall shape I didn't like. As such, design for him kind of sat on the bench for awhile.

Fourth was Met Man. This one seemed like an obvious design to go for, as I always liked the Met / Metool / Metall enemies from the series, a longtime favorite. His design is probably the overall least changed from conception to current iteration. Earlier designs had the usual line and + mark on his shoulder pad "helmets" as well. The artist who drew the usual reference art I show for my RMs, Alex, drew him without those markings on the shoulders, and honestly I think that looks better, less cluttered. (I know I just recently posted his art of my RMs, but I put it up above at the start of this post for easy reference, and hey, I love the art and was honored to receive it, so I like showing it off, haha) I think the biggest change Met Man got was getting armed with a pickaxe, a design that came about when I started getting into the MMBN series and wanted to get a bit of Mettaur virus design in there.

College Era

While at Full Sail, my habit of doodling in the margins of my notes continued, and along the way, more custom RMs were born.

Fifth up and starting this period was Devil Man. I wanted a fiery volcano stage, but wanted to go with a less standard fire based idea. I had the idea of an RM using a grappling hook to get around the dangerous volcanic tunnels, and that idea ended up taking the form of a sharp, pointed devil-style tail. I didn't really have a solid personality in mind for him, though the actual visual design came along fairly quickly. Alex again gave me something that I adopted as canon for this RM, in his drawing of Devil Man, he was depicted "throwing the horns," so now I imagine him to be a major metalhead, headbanging on the job as he listens to his favorite heavy metal music.

Sixth in line was Origami Man. Origami is an art form I always liked, my mum had a lot of books on the subject, with step by step instructions for various creations. I knew I wanted to do something with that. The overall design gave me trouble, figuring out something that truly looked like origami armor. The pallet was something else that gave me trouble, but in the end, I opted for a softer pastel pallet, largely for some visual contrast from other RMs I had, a good number of which were already on the warmer side of colors.

This was also the period of time where I largely had Vegas Man's finalized design pretty much down, as well as the redesign of his weapon.

YouTube Era

For lack of a better term of time frame, I didn't really think too much about my custom RMs for awhile after Full Sail, until I had started making videos on YouTube and hanging out with various friends. One conversation with a group of people I used to hang out with involved the idea for a Mega Man fangame, and so, we set to designing RMs. While I did think of my older designs, I also decided "why not try making some new ones?"

Seventh on the list was Fruit Man. Our overall designs for the RMs for this game were more on the silly side, so I decided to go wild with his design, making him a mascot character for an orchard, and thus fully theming him on various colorful fruits. In keeping with the sillier ideas, I made his weapon a pun, the Pineapple Grenade.

The eighth and final design was Disco Man, or as he was originally dubbed, Groove Man. His original design was a bit less solidly themed on one genre of music, instead he was sort of build like an entertainment system featuring tape decks, a CD slot, speakers, etc. I was playing around with visual designs for the head, and the one I ended up liking most had a sort of disco ball afro design. Thus, he started leaning more toward a Disco design, with the disco ball motif migrating to his shoulders, the mixtape taking over his chest, chill shades, platform boots, and a more refined afro design. What can I say, I'm a sucker for disco aesthetic (bring back Miror B. you cowards).

This was also around the time I finally came up with a solid visual design that I liked for Glass Man, and thus, the family was complete.

The Mystery 9th Robot Master...

Technically speaking, back in the High School era, I did have one more RM I had been working on. In true order, he was the fifth design I was working on. His name was Quartz Man. He was going to be a time based RM, armed (literally) with a wristwatch device that gave him time control abilities. However, it was a case where a) I couldn't come up with a visual design I liked enough, and b) I couldn't really think of a solid way to give him time powers that felt unique enough. I think about the only solid part of his design aside from the watch was I think I wanted him to have glasses, I felt it would give him a sharper, more "intelligent" look. I think I had it in mind that he was sort of a strategist type, using his time powers in clever ways to gain the advantage. (EDIT : One further detail I remembered was his color pallet, I wanted him to have at least some sort of bright teal-ish green in reference to the "glow" function of digital watches.)

And so, that basically wraps up the ol' design process I went through over time for the RMN series. Hope you enjoyed this bit of personal history.

[victheclown]

Dance with the Devil (BandPunch)

(Actual writing continues under cut !!)

Opening the giant doors leading inside of the Studios’ theater, Robin led the much shorter man through the empty line and all the way backstage for now, all the while Leon glanced around the place with a curious look while he was being metaphorically dragged to where they were meant to go.

L: “Woah… Dude, this place is really cool! I can totally see why you were put to guard the place here-”

R: “Of course I was! It simply makes sense.”

L: “Sure thing dude, hehe.”

Finally, from behind the stage, the two were on the actual theater stage. The entire seating area for a potential audience was empty currently, and apart from a few stage lights now being turned on, all of it was dark. It was actually almost entirely empty, apart from them both, and a few origami soldiers that seem to be roaming about, doing… whatever really.

L: “.... Huh! Kinda liveless here. Figured there’d be more of an audience!” R: “There will be. But…” Robin crossed his arms, turning away from Leon as he gazed off to the side for a moment, furrowing his brows as he thought for a moment… Was this good? Will this work out? Was he even… Entirely sure what he wanted to do anymore?

… It’s like every bit of a plan he had for this moment suddenly slipped his mind. He could only barely think straight now as he let out a quiet, mildly frustrated sigh… Why was it so hard to think? He has no issues planning anything down to the smallest letter, to make sure everything would be perfect… Why couldn’t he now?

L: “... But?” The demon slightly tilted his head in response, just a little confused before Robin quickly turned back towards him, putting his hands behind his back with an attempt to throw away any doubt and regain his composure once more.

R: “... We won’t need any audience tonight. I'd only like to practice.”

Leon quickly put on an excited smile again as his tail began to sway around a little behind him. L: “Yeah! You said something about dancing, yeah dude?”

R: “Mhm…” L: “.... Just, uhh, why me exactly? I’m not sure if my style of dance is exactly what you need-” R: “- And yet, you are the only one who knows at least something about dancing in general.”

L: “... Yeah! Sounds about right.”

With that out of the way, Robin looks over to a small group of Folded Soldier Shy Guys carrying equipment around, before pointing at one of them and calling out to them. R: “You! You’re going to be on the piano again. Just as practiced, alright?? I don’t want to hear anything out of tune today!” Without hesitation (and possibly out of mild fear), the Origami Shy Guy hurries over to a small stage piano, which it rolls over a little to get it into position before sitting down on the chair. Robin looks back down to Leon, clasping his hands together in front of his chest.

R: “Alright darling. It’s really not difficult, just a simple waltz. All you have to do is follow my lead.”

L: “... Isn’t that going to be a bit hard? Why didn’t you get someone taller than-” R: “We’ll manage. No more talk back now, we ARE doing this, okay-”

He was going to admit, seeing Robin this adamant about this was a little confusing to say the least. But he was completely up to helping his fellow dancer, even if he didn’t quite understand his thought process behind asking him in particular. With a quick crash course from Robin around how closed positions in a waltz worked and Leon having an at least decent grasp at how it worked in theory, he eventually snaps his fingers at the Shy Guy at the piano, signaling it to start playing on his cue.

R: “Okay… You don’t need to do much. Just… Follow what I do. Simple enough?”

L: “Yup! Can do, dude.”

Well then. Robin took a bit of a breath before placing his right hand, slowly, on the other’s back, and then leading Leon’s left hand, letting it go at his right shoulder then, where Leon placed it then. Taking his now free remaining hand into his own then, he taps the back of his heel on the ground to alert the piano assigned Shy Guy.

Then, counting down from four, their dance began. To the slow and graceful music from the piano, Robin attempts to guide Leon around the stage in their dance. It went about as he nearly expected - Leon wasn’t doing terribly, but he definitely wasn’t at all familiar with such a slow and coordinated way of dancing. Needless to say, he fell over quite a few times, whether it be over his own feet or over Robin’s. 

It did test Robin’s patience, quite a lot even. But something inside his mind wanted to keep going anyway, if just to be here for a little while longer. Even if this just went wrong in every possible way, simply the way of being this close, hand on hand, arm around him, moving so closely together to the soft ringing of the piano keys echoing through the theater… He couldn’t deny it. It was a feeling he didn’t want to stop.

As the amount of times they had to try again due to a dumb mistake from Leon, he began to grow a little less enthusiastic about all this. He expected this to be difficult for sure, but that he was going to be THIS bad at this? He honestly did expect at least a little better of himself… And part of him thought that Robin did so as well. During their next attempt, his gaze wandered off to the side a little, with a frown on his face.

R: “... Hey, darling. Look at me.”

Robin was rather quick to catch up on this. After getting Leon’s attention and gaze on him once more, he took a moment to try and figure out what to say, and ultimately… he just spoke freely from his mind for once.

R: “... You’re doing great, Leon. You’ve never done this before, so don’t feel bad. Alright?”

Leon quietly stares up at Robin for a moment, not quite sure what to say or how to react. He then let out a quiet chuckle before putting on a happy little grin, his tail slightly swaying around a little as they moved.

L: “Heh... Okay. Thank you.”

As he smiled up at him, Robin felt as if his heart just began to burn up inside of his chest. A feeling, amongst many right now, which he wasn’t used to at all. He nearly instinctively put his hand on top of it, lightly pulling and pressing on the bands that made up his harness to let out some built up emotions through his hands. But in no way was that enough. How was he supposed to even react to something he’d never known before? Should he laugh? Cry?

R: “... Heh… Haha.. Ahahaha-!-”

… He ended up doing both. He suddenly stopped and let go of Leon, supporting his hands on his knees as he lowered his head with a mixture of laughter and some light sobs. It was nearly out of his control now. He lived for drama, sure… But this was something else, even for him.

Leon stumbled back a little when Robin almost broke down laughing and crying, nearly forgetting he even felt down before. Instead he now felt a little panicked at this rather unnatural reaction from his friend.

L: “R.. Robin?- Are.. Are you okay, dude-” But it was almost to no use. Robin put a hand on his head, hiccuping a little from the continued cry-laughter as he seemed to try and specifically avoid looking Leon in his eyes right now.

R: “Haha-... Stop… Stop looking at me with that… Dumb… Cute… Face of yours..!..”

That was all he managed to bring out between fits of laughter filled with tears running down his face.

L: “... Huh?”

Not all too sure how to react or what to say, Leon simply stood around, waiting for anything else to happen. He lightly fiddled around with the zipper from his jacket, until Robin managed to calm down enough to get back up, letting out a few shaky laughs as he wiped any remaining tears from his eyes. Though there still remained a hint of distress in his voice as he finally began to speak up again.

R: “... Haha… Wow… I’m a mess… What a disaster…”

L: “Hey… Robin, dude- If something’s up, you can tell me..” R: “... I actually don’t even know what to say… Somehow…”

Robin let out a groan in frustration, grasping his harness’ bands with both hands as he took a deep breath, looking over to the much shorter man now with some desperation in his eyes. This was a scenario he wasn’t at all prepared for, a scenario he COULDN’T prepare for. He attempted to have everything figured out, that nothing could go wrong with this… And still he failed. All of these immense feelings messed up his brain and heart in more ways than he could ever have anticipated.

… He wanted to be angry so bad, but he couldn’t. Not at Leon, even when knowing he was the direct cause of this.

He can’t just be angry at him.

R: “... I can’t take this… Everything you do… Everything you say… It makes me feel so… so… gah-! I can’t take it-!...” That brief outburst got Leon to step away a little further, his tail wrapping slightly around one of his legs as his ears went down a little. He was a little stunned for a moment, not quite sure what was going on with his friend here, until he spoke again.

L: “... Do you… Want me to leave?” R: “No!- That’s EXACTLY what I DON’T want!-..... Gh…”

He truly couldn’t take this any longer. Whatever it was that was building up so much inside of him now, he couldn’t bring himself to contain it any more. Without much thinking, he reached over to grab Leon’s hands, leaning down to him as their faces were now only inches away from one another.

R: “You don’t understand Leon- I… I love you. I love you so much it makes me crazy-”

His voice quivered as he spoke, and for what feels like the first time in forever, he spoke completely freely from his completely overwhelmed mind now, flooded with emotions not even he could keep locked up for much longer.

R: “I.. I don’t know what to do. What was I thinking- To think this entire charade I’ve been putting up was in any way going to help with this- if only it made it WORSE- and I-... I…” L: “... Hey.” Leon briefly interrupted him in his stutters, wrapping his fingers around his hands now as he gave them a gentle squeeze. He was still a little unsure how to go about his own words, especially with how distressed Robin was in the moment. But part of him wanted to take the chance…

L: “... Did you mean this? What… You just said?” R: “... Yes. Yes I… I did.”

Both of them looked the other in the eyes now, with both now taking a moment to try and make up their mind on where to go from this. This was rather sudden…. But they could make it work, surely.

L: “... Heh, I’ll be real, this is kind of a surprise… Coming from you, from all people.” R: “... What makes you say that?”

L: “Y’know… Nothing against you really, but… You didn’t exactly seem like the kinda guy lookin’ for any kinda relationship like that… Especially not with someone like, well… Me.” Robin frowns a little for a moment, holding Leon’s hands a little closer to himself now as his tone begins to appear a little more collected again than it was just before.

R: “Oh darling- Don’t say that. You are a very interesting individual, yes… And your taste in music is abominable at best at times…”

He then let out another slightly frustrated breath, letting go of one of his hands now to cover part of his face, which was beginning to heat up quite a lot at this point.

R: “... But the Vellumentals be damned, your energy, your unrivaled passion for what you do.. And so much more… It’s something someone couldn’t help but… Love…”

By that point, Leon couldn’t help but smile again, his tail swaying back and forth now. A thought came to his mind then, something he in one way was a little hesitant to go forward with… But what the hell, here goes.

With Robin leaning down far enough that he could reach his face, Leon reached up just as much as he needed to with his free hand to place it on the back of Robin’s neck and gently pull him into a kiss, not thinking too much about it now. Robin was a little surprised for a moment. And though part of him was still quite overwhelmed by his own inability to keep his emotions in check… he didn’t quite pull back in any way, leaning into the kiss as he placed his own free hand on Leon’s shoulder.

Time practically stopped as the two stood in the middle of the theater stage together, in each other’s arms. They weren’t quite sure how long they’d been here now for as they eventually break the kiss, looking into each other's eyes in complete silence now.

Somehow, despite how wrong things went just before… It was all so good now, so… wonderful even. Robin almost couldn’t believe it actually… But now was not the time to freak out about it anymore. Somehow, it worked out… He didn’t know how, or if he would ever understand… But it worked.

L: “... Hey… Want to try that dance one more time? I think I’ll get it right this time.” R: “... Sure, sure. Of course.”

With a quick indicator for the piano music to start again, the two made their for now final attempt at this dance. It went well, not perfect, but well. And towards the end, Leon swiftly took a hold of Robin and picked him up into his arms, with little to no effort. Robin let out a surprised gasp for a moment, holding closely onto the other’s shoulders before he realized what was going on. Leon simply gave him a smile, his tail swaying in circles with excitement.

L: “Hehe, how was that?”

He let out a happy little laugh, Robin glancing off for a moment as he put a hand over his now very warm face.

R: “... Your posture needs work… But… It was good… Very good…”

In a way, he couldn’t help but admire that bit of confidence Leon showed him now. With Robin in his arms, he decides to sit on the stage floor now, loosening his grip on him a little so he could move.

L: “Heh, hard to get a good posture going when you’re so tall.”

R: “Now now… No excuses, heh.”

Robin moved a little to the ground himself, and after a moment of consideration pulled Leon over to his lap, loosely putting his arms around him, to which the other happily snuggled up against him with his head and a very soft and quiet purring sound. His tail slowly began to wrap around one of Robin’s legs now as the two cuddled up together.

R: “... Didn’t expect you to enjoy this that much.” L: “Mmrrp…”

He let out a light chuckle as he began to run a hand through Leon’s hair slowly as he leaned against him, to which Leon only responded by rubbing his head right into his hand.

R: “Heh… Look at you.”

He let out a soft, happy sigh, continuing to slowly and gently brush his fingers through the demon’s tied up hair. With the silence filling the theater room, it was a rather calming experience, something both of them rather enjoyed. Leon opened his eyes then as he looked up to Robin, speaking up with a lightly joking tone.

L: “Hmhm… Did the practice help at all by the way? Or was it just to get me to come with you?”

R: “Hm? Oh… Well yes, but… I really did want to practice a little also.”

Robin let out a light hum as he spoke, his gaze trailing off a little as his hand stayed gently rubbing Leon’s head now.

R: “... I do have a big show coming up after all… My big debut.”

L: “Yeah! You talked about that! You’re gonna nail that, I know it.” R: “Heh… I know… Hey. You should come to see it. If you can, that is.” He quickly raised his head at that, a small sparkle coming up in his eyes as he grins up at Robin.

L: “Oh…! Totally!! I can totally manage that, yeah!!”

His tail sways a little against one of Robin’s legs it was currently wrapped around, to which he gave a smile of his own in response.

R: “Heheh… Wonderful.”

They were there for a few more hours for sure, until it came to Robin that he had a few things to take care of of his own now. Soon enough, the two got to the currently very quiet entrance to Shogun Studios, where they bid each other farewell.

R: “Alright... Until next time then.

L: “Yeah! It’s been… Really, really nice with you.” Though his normal enthusiasm still shined through, there was a hint of how flustered he was now also. Robin couldn’t help but chuckle at that before leaning down to the demon and giving him a kiss on his cheek, rendering the other speechless for a moment.

R: “Remember me in your dreams now, will you darling?~”

Leon was stunned for a brief moment, slowly putting a hand over what was now the smudge of yellow lipstick on his cheek. It took him a moment of just staring up at Robin before he could speak.

L: “... Heh… I will… I could never forget someone like you.”

R: “I’m simply flattered.”

He smiled down at him as he slowly turned his way back to the way towards the studio, giving him another smile and a wave as he spoke.

R: “Take care then, darling… I love you.”

This last part…. Came almost naturally now. He felt so calm, even with all these new feelings still stirring around inside of him. And surely, that feeling was mutual between them both. With a wagging tail and a very enthusiastic wave in return, Leon stumbled his way off on his own.

L: “Love you too !! See you !”

R: “... And when the time comes, don’t forget about my show!”

L: “I promise you- I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world!”

[neverbelessthan]

15 QUESTIONS FOR 15 FRIENDS

I was tagged by @adickaboutspoons and @edsrosetattoo. Thank you for thinking of me! ❤️❤️❤️ I love this shit. And sorry for taking so long to do it, I had so. much. uni. work.

Are you named after anyone?

Katharine Hepburn. And my mother gave me her middle name ('her' as in my mother's, not 'her' as in Hepburn's - although, Houghton? What a bitchin' middle name jfc), which has pissed my sister off literally from the day I was born because she got given a(n arguably lovely) random middle name instead. Suck it.

When was the last time you cried?

Today.

Do you have kids?

Yep.

What sports do you play/have you played?

I’m an equestrian (dressage, specifically) although I’ve been out of it for a while because I had to have some surgeries, also because I’m broke, and horseriding is basically like burning money. Also figure skating. Group sports are the devil.

Do you use sarcasm?

I honestly wouldn’t know how to get through life without sarcasm. I’m like, 75% sarcasm (in person, at least - online I tend to be a bit more sincere because I generally obsessively re-read anything I post or comment before letting it loose in the world and if it comes off too sarcastic in my own head I’m like dude … stop being a dick).

What is the first thing you notice about people?

I’m hyper-sensitive, and I have acute sensory-sensitivity issues, so generally I pick up on the minutia of how someone presents at any given time (sometimes because it’s all my brain can take in, because wider general observations are too much), like I’ll pick up on shit people aren’t even aware that they’re putting down. Ask me how much fun I am at parties.

What’s your eye colour?

Brown. Very much towards the uniform brown/black end of the spectrum though, not hazel.

Scary movies or happy endings?

Neither.

Any talents?

I’m weirdly excellent at claw machines? Someone pointed out to me the other day that I’ll need to budget half a suitcase and a not-insignificant amount of my travel budget to The Claw Machines because Japan is full of them, and it honestly hadn’t even occurred to me. And by ‘weirdly excellent’ I mean weirdly excellent - like I can’t remember ever having started on one and not ended with a sizeable audience. I recently had a worker at one stop me mid-game to open the box and reshuffle the toys and then watch over my shoulder because he thought I was cheating. I’m also really good at mimicking people’s handwriting. I don’t have a gag reflex. I have full-body hyperextension, so I can do weird/terrifying joint-related things. Are we supposed to be picking weird stuff? I do have normal talents but they’re boring.

Where were you born?

Sydney, Australia.

What are your hobbies?

Sculpture, photography, crochet, knitting. I like small-scale art - miniatures, origami. Music (I play the piano, cello, guitar, and sing). I like plants (hoyas, particularly). Is travelling a hobby (my brain would like me to accept that no, it’s a coping mechanism for escaping the nihilistic futility of existence :)? I’m doing two university degrees right now, so I find that my hobbies don’t get much bandwidth and when I’m not reading about neuroscience or philosophy I’m usually just staring into the middle distance letting my brain power down for 5 minutes. Is that a hobby?

Do you have any pets?

I have a cat. And some tropical fish. And a semi-domesticated water dragon named Richard.

How tall are you?

5’2”. Or, as people often enjoy pointing out: pocket-sized.

Favourite subject in school?

I hated my school, and therefore generally hated all subjects by extension. I loved anything creative: art, music, drama, creative writing, but I was too much of a social weirdo to not get bullied about it all, so I stopped bothering because I wasn’t willing to make/do what I really wanted to because I was too terrified of getting shat on about it, and there didn’t seem much point in doing any of it halfway. Plus it was an academically selective smartypants-assface school, so they didn’t put much stock in anything creative, unless you could top the state in it, and I didn’t really want that sort of pressure, thanks.

Dream job?

Some sort of very well paid, very infrequently required consultant.

I tag, with absolutely no pressure at all (and with profuse apologies to anyone who hates these things or who has already done it and i somehow missed you doing it because i’ve been buried under research and only on here sporadically the past week): @jessystardust, @majesticartax, @follows-the-bees, @theangelyouknew, @iamadequate1, @jeffsinnbythesea, @tositandadmire, @ameryth74, and literally any other mutuals who I haven’t tagged and who haven’t done it that would like to do it. I get such insane social anxiety about participating in these things, but also I love them: The Horrors. Also I know that I didn't tag 15 people, but … anxiety (I've tried to not include people who I've already seen tagged, and have literally gone through the last 50 or so posts of the people I have tagged to try and make sure they haven’t already done it, because i’m an idiot, and you know, being an idiot like that takes time).

[napkinscrawls]

.Love letters. .Serenading.

Swiss/Rain/OC | 416 words | the polycule try romanticism | Rain & his simps

Three ghouls find a use for all the paper they 'find' in the Church. AO3

Small scraps of paper are commonly found all over the Church, for all its technological advances many believers still craved the use of it. To ghouls it was all frivolous fun anyway. Three in particular found the concept of love letters romantic.

A folded sheet of paper creased so many times it resembles cloth, & a scented paper that is folded into a crisp love knot. Both carefully threaded between Swiss' guitar strings.

You know what you did. I will thank you for it everyday. Keep safe & don't break anymore strings. It worries Rain. P.S stop peering over my shoulder when I write these, it defeats the point.

Always so sweet, you never fail to make me feel like I'm phosphorus. Swiss, you will always have me & Nimo, as I will always have the two of you. Now fold this back how it was.

An aged slip of paper with torn edges & the faint remainders of pencilled lines is folded concertina, & an intricately illuminated origami puzzle letter. Kept together inside a folded handkerchief in Nimo's breast pocket.

One day you'll realise what a difference you make, to the Church, to Rain, & to me. I can't do justice with words, so until then, I will continue to bang your brains out. -included is a winking devil stamp, it's arse is out-

Nimo, you have slipped the closest to my heart in the briefest of time that we've known one another. If I'm to continue having my way you will never know isolation again. The day Swiss pulled you into my small shore is the day I knew I'd found the last piece of my heart.

A 3-folded wax paper with silvered edges with what looks like hand-grafted diagrams inside, & a square of patterned paper with one bent edge trapped folded over in its lamination. Safely secured in a waterproof case at the end of the lanyard around Rain's neck.

I will give you every form of proof to my feelings you ask for. Unless you ask if I'd kill Swiss for you, again: he would win by every metric. But I would let him kill me. If you asked. I love you.

You guessed it! This is what I used that paper I borrowed from you for. We're already as close as our physical vessels allow but Treasure, I will keep trying to get closer. You've got my hook, line, & sinker. P.S Nimo was sweating writing theirs, they are so cute when they try for you.

[dracolunae]

I am the devil on your shoulder, order the origami paper. It’s really good paper I use it all the time! Plus there’s cherry blossom styles that are beautiful

Hrnnn I already have so much paper from them though, I barely know what to to with my Origami paper stack

But on the other hand pretty paper go brrrrr

[katsukikitten]

In which Shoto is an asshole Oni and I am the author that wrote the majority of this fic tipsy, you’re welcome! Bnharemcollab masterlist found here

Warnings: Non con bruv. Claws horns? He's an oni bud

"And they say he's been stealing the hearts of beautiful women for centuries. So don't go talking to any ole handsome man that steps over a threshold." The tour guide adds to the end of her ridiculous story about some Demon King that drags women to hell before she leads the group onto the next painting.

Still there was something captivating about the art work, how the man has his back to the viewer and how women bow to him, foreheads pressed into the tatami mats with their own bleeding hearts held high over their heads. Blood drips from their hands, splattering on the mats like rain or tear drops. The man, who is assumed to be the Oni, is looking over his shoulder, hand reaching out for the nearest offering. Both figures are forever suspended in brush strokes and desire for more. The closer you inspect the other worldly looking figure the more your gut tightens. His elaborate kimono hangs loosely from his body but you can still see the broadness of his shoulders, the thick bands of muscle on his forearms, the apparition of elongated nails when you look closer and finally the faint strokes atop of his two toned hair that are in the shape of sharp horns.

A God among men or maybe you should say a Devil among friends. A sigh escapes you as you admire the work before the tour guide announces the title, artist and time period of the next piece. “Wrath of the Mountain God.” A large man, with long hair so deep in hue you first mistake it for black, stands in a Kimono. His chest on display as he stands giving the view his profile, his eyes glow red in the light of the full moon, in his arms seems to be a maiden, a flower crown falling from her hair. It looks as if his strong form had just taken a step, beneath his foot begins a nasty fissure that gapes the Earth for miles and miles. The painting feels charged and emotions practically drip from the ink painting and yet still your eyes flicker to the painting to it’s right. At this angle you can see a faint shimmer in his smoky quartz colored eye. It sends a shiver down your spine as you feel a faint breath on the nape of your neck. Quickly you turn your head, craning your neck to look over your shoulder but no one stands behind you. Just another painting, “Golden God of Destruction.” Red gaze glowering as his hair drips gold, while he walks over the hellish landscape of cooling and erupting lava. You swallow thickly before following the tour guide onto the next section.

The tour lasts another half an hour but your mind lingers on the shimmering eyes of the dangerous entity. The more you think of him the bigger the sinking feeling in your gut becomes, not to mention the more you feel as if something is stalking your every move. Another quick glance over your shoulder as you exit the museum while you ponder over why this particular Oni was handsome when all of the other artworks featuring a yokai or oni were depicted as ugly, grotesque even.

Maybe it was because he was the King? You couldn’t be sure, all you knew is that you could understand why the women would rip out their hearts and offer them up to him. He was hot as hell, no pun intended.

Suddenly the fall air smells of frost and the threat of snow, you wrinkle your nose before you jump out of your skin. .

"So you liked the "Oni King, stealer of heart’s'' piece best?" A smooth voice calls from behind you, you press your hand over your rapidly beating heart as you try to catch your breath. Startled, you turn around to see a handsome man opening the gate, stepping over the grass line onto the sidewalk. Instantly you feel heat rush you as a cool autumn breeze swirls around fallen leaves around your boots.

"How did you…"

"I come here often and no one has ever stopped and looked at that piece as long as you have." He seems stoic and you can just barely see the corner of his mouth lift up. You take a moment to really drink him in, his tall stature, his hair a shocking white with contrasting red and a scar that sits beautifully over one of his gem stone eyes. One a smoky quartz and the other a bright turquoise.

You swallow thickly as you stare at the other worldly man, finding little to no words as your heart beats into your ribcage. You grip at the fabric of your jacket over your heart, it pounds against your rib cage like a fluttering wild bird.

"Where are my manners? I am Todoroki Shoto. But you can call me Shoto." Again he offers his barely there smile, "And you are?"

It's laughable how you stumble over your own name, you have never had issues talking to attractive people before, what the hell was your problem now.

“It sounds lovely.” He says your name, it rolls off of his tongue like music makes you swallow thickly, your knees threatening to buckle and you can’t understand why you’re acting like a love struck teenager again. There is a contrasting air about him, just like his hair. Passion and reservation, raging power and quiet tranquility, and the feel of it is making you dizzy. Tipsy almost, drunk if you linger here too long. Just as you’re about to express how you’ll be late for dinner he smiles at you.

Fully this time.

And you think your heart was going to claw out of its calcium coffin but it stalls when you notice that it doesn’t fully reach his eyes.

“Well since you have a good appreciation of art, would you care to join me in the garden, the Chrysanthemum are in full bloom this time of year.” You swallow as you look at him, a twinge of fear lingering in your blood that is soon lost as he steps over the threshold of the garden, waiting patiently.

“Uh, yea I think I can spare some time.” You smile nervously, he offers out his hand.

“Be careful, the step down can be quite steep.” A genuine small form on your lips now as you remember the first time you set foot into this garden and almost twisted your ankle. You step over the threshold, blinking against the late afternoon sun as you do.

Except when you open your eyes once more, you are no longer in the garden. There are no shrubs and bushes, no cinderblock wall of the old museum, something more sinister stands in its place. The sky is an inky black, the full moon hangs overhead shining down onto a small village that thickens the closer it gets towards a large feudal era looking castle. Fading sunlight filter behind you as you whip your head behind you. A giant Torri stands where the aging fence and garden gate stood before, a hazy image of an autumn afternoon in the shape of the gate rapidly begins to shrink. Panicked you lunge arm outstretched as if catching a full elevator as you’re running behind for a very important meeting.

If only your paralyzing panic was over something so trivial.

A strong set of arms wrap around your waist, pulling you towards a chiseled chest as hot breath whispers cooly in your ear.

“I wouldn’t do that if you want to keep all of your limbs, love.”

Shaking you glance over your shoulder before you watch the portal to home close up.

Just like that the landscape that could be seen through the gate was endless night and rolling hills dotted with homes here and there. When you turn to face your captor his eyes narrow as he studies you. His gem stone eyes glittering in the rich moonlight, following your hands up to your chest. He stills as he listens and while he looks you notice the horns growing from his head. Thin and shaped into a deadly point. He tilts his head as if you are bewitching before he leans closer, capturing your hair between his fingers. Now that you were in the moonlight, in the realm he ruled, you looked...familiar and the feeling made his chest tighten.

“How does your heart feel?” He asks, eyes anywhere but yours. You try to jerk out of his touch but his warm hand wraps around your bicep keeping you well within arms reach.

“My heart?! What does that have to do with me standing in HELL!” You scream and it echoes across the chilled landscape. Some women in kimono pass by, keeping their eyes turned down as they pass but once they are a few steps behind this brute’s back, they send you withering glares.

Your attention comes fully back to the man in front of you, or maybe you should say demon. He presses his hand over your heart with a puzzling look. Your body heats from the contact and embarrassment, you were sure he could feel how hard your heart was pounding. All the while his brows knit upwards.

“Seems you aren’t affected…”He murmurs to himself, tonguing his cheek. Suddenly he tears your sweater, pressing his hand against your chest and part of your breast.

“Hey!” You protest until a burning sensation blooms on your skin, when he pulls away you see kanji puckering up, that reads “Shoto”

“That should keep the lower demons away...for now.” He grabs onto your wrist tightly, too tightly before your world bends and blurs. Folding in on itself as if Space and Time were suddenly a beautiful origami paper creased until the maker was satisfied.

The world is bright when you open your eyes next, cradled in an abundance of candle light as your stomach sours causing you to lurch.

“Ugh, not on the tatami!” A woman’s voice scolds, but her state doesn’t help the nausea that hits you in waves. She wears a beautiful kimono, embroidered with gold and silver thread on violet cloth, the chest stained a deep cherry and a hole is where her heart should be. Her hands stained blood red and you back up, panting as you try to keep a level head.

“Get her cleaned up.” Shoto snaps, “I will want her in my room promptly.”

The women in the room shake slightly, keeping their heads down, distantly you can hear the sound of a thousand thundering hearts, deafening in a sense. The stately woman gently guides you towards the bath in the large mansion, shock sets in as your gaze glazes over. Every hall has a woman, anywhere from the feudal era to today, all dressed in kimonos, most were dressed in the ones they obviously died in or dressed in old clothes with their tattoos and fresh wounds peeking out from beneath the fabric.

Every single person sends you a death glare.

You’re stripped of your clothes and dignity in the company of about twenty women, hands shove you into the steaming water, cupping the cloudy water to wash your skin.

No matter how often the woman dip their hands into the water, the blood never leaves their fingertips, forever stained in their sin.

“We gave them away, you know. Ripped them from our chests….” She looks up at you with a timid look.

“Kiyoko, hush.” An elder hisses as she straightens the thin piece of cloth you were going to wear once you were all pieced together.

“No, she deserves to know..” Kiyoko hisses back, “The story is similar for a lot of us, he appears in a doorway, he seems kind enough, and then we look into his eyes. Gazing too deeply before our hearts seize in our chests, flopping around as if behind your flesh was killing it and it should sit in the palm of his hand. The only logical thing was for us to reach deep inside of ourself and give him what he deserved.” A quite falls over the room before a heavy solem air settles on your shoulders.

“He stopped for a while….after he met you.” Your eyes flash to hers and the elder’s hand wraps into Kiyoko’s hair, pulling her away from you.

“Enough.” She snarls as tears run down her cheeks, down all the women’s cheeks and you swallow thickly.

After an hour of primping you find yourself in front of two sliding tatami doors that have Oni and other yokai decorating their sheets.

“Send her in.” A deep voice sounds from the other side.

“Yes master.” The women answer, opening the doors before one shoves you in.

Doors to the eqwaa are open as he lounges on the polished wood, staring at the moon. He turns his head to look over his shoulder and it eerily reminds you of the painting in the museum.

In an instant he is in front of you, backing you into the plush bed that sat in the middle of his room, you fall onto the raised futon looking up at him.

The lowlight plays tricks on your eyes, the square paper lantern and the moon painting him in strokes of kind, of hurt, not some beastly thing he obviously was. Even his horns seemed soft, but nothing was softer than his lips as he pressed them to yours. Embarrassingly ecstasy blossoms under your eyelids as liquid heat floods your core. His tongue probes yours as he leans over top of you, playing with you nipples through the thin cloth as you moan into his mouth. Your body arches into his his as your heart flutters, trying to pull you away from his addicting touch.

Maybe you could have gotten away, maybe….

If only his hand hadn’t slipped between your thighs where he teased your sex utnil you pruned his figners, singing like the song bird he knew you were. His hard cock presses against your thigh twitching with delight. He kisses down your throat before he shreds the thin white kimono away from your body. He groans audibly before he leans down, one finger pulling at your pebbled nipple while the other pulls it between his teeth.

“Shoto…”You cry and he moans into your supple skin. Taking off his own thin kimono to align himself up to your fluttering hole. Eyes glued to your heart, fingers tracing the kanji as he eases himself in inch by inch. Stretching you and filling you pleasantly. He sits for a moment, taking in your body and how you burn under his touch. Free hand roaming your body as the other prods your fresh burn. Tracing the strokes over and over as if he wrote it himself.

Well technically he did.

“Please.” Your mouth betrays, hips pressing up into his to get any sort of friction, his free hand comes down, slamming your hips into the bed.

“Say it again.” He huffs, “Say my name again.”

“Shoto.” It's a hushed, reluctant breath but your skin was icy hot, lifeforce feeling as if it were evaporating away from the heated tension that sat between you two. He watches your body wither, feels your cunt clamping down onto him desperately and it’s all he can do not to thrust into you widely.

“Again.” He barks, pulling at your nipple harshly.

“Shoto.” You moan, the sound is enough to make him start his harsh pace. Pelvis slamming into yours as his tuft of pubic hair glides across your clit. Your vision blurs with tears, it feels so good. Better than anything you’ve ever had or could ever remember as his claws ghost over your soft skin.

“You thought you could escape me.” He grunts, ramming himself into you harder, you moan in response, “I marked more than your flesh two hundred years ago, I marked your soul.”

“You couldn’t help yourself, coming back to the very piece of art you created.” He continues with a laugh, claws raking down your skin, slicing at your skin superficially. Your eyes roll into the back of your head and you cannot fathom what he’s said. All that there is the feel of his hands, the pleasure that threatens to snap in your stomach.

He watches the way your cunt coats his cock in a silvery sheen that has his lips parting. Taking wanton ruts, the motion of it rattling the art on the wall. Pieces fall around you and any of the scrolls that try to block his view of you get shredded mid air. His thrusts turn sloppy as he comes down to bite at your neck.

“Shoto!” You cry out, vision going black as your body convulses around him, eyes rolling in to the back of your head as you forget your name and only cry out his.

“That’s right, tell me who you belong to. Who owns you love.” He pants, holding his own release for a moment longer just to hear your sweet voice scream his name over and over. Finally your milking cunt sends him over the edge. He grunts, staring into your eyes as he paints your wall a creamy white.

“Mine.” He growls, biting at your breast, at the skin over your heart. You feel his spilling cock harden again as your body melts into the sheets.

Most of the night is spent in mind numbing ecstasy and in those few short hours you forget you were ever brought here unwillingly.

You sit on a throne, overlooking the vast landscape of Yomi, Oni running the underworld as heartless women wander the streets. Their mortal heartbeats keeping time as they ceaselessly beat just beneath your feet. Mind’s eye miles away as you see a ghost of a hand before you. Memory playing out as you take careful brush strokes against your canvas, hoping this would serve as a warning for other women as you dab the brush in the deep colored liquid that stains the tatami floor of your home.

Ever the artist you wanted to add final touches even as you drew your final breaths, having thought it better to take your own life than to sit at the right hand of a demon, your chest was already mutilated with his name.

Irony weighs heavy in your stomach as you realize how futile it was to even make that masterpiece. It did not serve as a warning.

No if anything, it served as a beacon, drawing you like a moth to flame until you circled to close.

Burning up in the flames of the very thing you admired.

[ahtsumu]

目送 ; oikawa tooru

「alt. title: five times oikawa didn’t look back and the one time he did」

↳ pairing: oikawa tooru x f!reader

↳ synopsis: you spend a lifetime watching him go, sometimes with your stomach tied in knots, sometimes with tears in your eyes, but always with love.

↳ genre(s): angst, fluff, basically an emotional rollercoaster, non-linear storyline

↳ warning(s): profanity, depiction of a panic attack, suggestive themes

↳ length: 5.4k words

↳ a/n: hq fam how we doing after 402 ?? LOL anyway this is my birthday gift to oikawa tooru: my sun, moon, and stars, second to none, yadda yadda. the title is taken from a book with the same name, in case you were wondering. please pay attention to the roman numerals ahead of each section!! enjoy!

v.

“This is the last call for Japan Airlines flight 717 to Buenos Aires, now boarding at gate number twelve. This is the last call…”

Goodbyes are hard when you know they’re forever. Or at least a while.

The clamour of Haneda airport dims to a faint buzz as the two of you continue standing with touching shoulders–– facing the jetliner instead of each other–– in futile hopes of delaying the inevitable.

Oikawa knows that you’re holding in your tears by the light tremors running through your body. Permitting himself to steal a look at your side profile, he notices the familiar tensing of your jaw and hard-set look in your red-rimmed eyes.

Tch. You said you wouldn’t cry.

Impulsively, he unzips his backpack and pulls out a familiar turquoise banner. It feels like just yesterday the team handed him the silk fabric with everyone’s farewell gifts wrapped inside.

Out-of-sequence memories of the Spring High qualifiers flash through your mind. The orange-haired Karasuno player’s spike ricochets off Oikawa’s forearms. The numbers on both sides of the scoreboard slowly inch up like they’re taking turns. Oikawa’s white knuckles against the metal basin. Red eyes. Heaving chest. Something soft against your skin. Rule the Court.

And just like the last time, he gently drapes it over your shoulders, brushing his fingers against your neck as he does so. God, how he wants to kiss you.

“But it’s yours,” you protest weakly, making no move to give it back.

“It won’t be for a while.” His voice cracks when he speaks. But it will be mine again when I come back for it.

He wants to kiss you. One last time.

He wants your mouth against his like absolution to a sinner because he knows that what he’s done to you, what he’s doing to you right now, is comparable to desecration. But he remembers the look on your face that night he broke the news to you. How your megawatt grin caved into a wince when the length of his contract with Club Athletico San Juan finally registered in your mind.

You swallow your feelings of betrayal. You knew what you were getting yourself into.

“Five years is an awfully long time to be apart,” you say after a while.

Oikawa bites his lip. He doesn’t have the heart to say that five was just the starting number. If he does well there, he’ll probably stay longer. He’ll probably do well there. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

Seconds drag into minutes. The cavity in his stomach festers as he waits for your response, but he has a feeling that he already knows your answer.

So instead, all he can do when your floodgates finally burst open is cup your face in his calloused palms and wipe away some of your tears before offering you his own watery smile.

Through your blurred vision, you watch as the boy in front of you steels his resolve and disappears from your life through the jet bridge, ignoring his heart as it begs for one last look over his shoulder.

Oikawa nods numbly when the old man sitting beside him asks if he’s leaving home for the first time. Home, he realises, isn’t anywhere with walls, isn’t an address, isn’t even a person. When someone says they want to go home, it’s not a space that they yearn for, but rather, a time.

He watches Japan grow smaller through the window and feels himself yearn for the time he still had your heart in his hands. It felt like he was holding the sun.

i.

You wouldn’t consider July 21st to be a special day. Nothing special happened earlier that morning when you woke up without your usual alarm. Nothing special happened when your friends texted you four simple words–– come to Azukihana beach!–– during breakfast. But (and this will come to you much, much later) something special happened when said friends left you to guard their things as they dashed to the supermarket for more snacks.

For now, it’s just July 21st, and you’re lying with your back against a towel on the first day of summer break, soaking in the sun, peacefully flipping through a book.

“DON’T FUCKING DO IT, YOU COLOSSAL PIECE OF SHIT!” The familiar voice tears through the beach. Was that Iwaizumi? You set the book down and sit up to check.

And suddenly, the yellow and blue volleyball that had been leisurely rolling your way halts perfectly before your toes. Behind it jogs a shirtless brunet you’ve definitely seen around school.

Oikawa Tooru stops right behind the runaway volleyball and peers at you through half-lidded eyes. “Sorry about that,” he says, flashing you a charming smile.

After casually picking up the ball with one hand, he flexes his abdominal muscles as he straightens back up. Chestnut irises attempt to discreetly sweep over your features but you catch his gaze in the act, quirking an unamused brow. You also catch the intrigued twitch of his lips that follow.

You’re not stupid. Despite having never met him, you know a lot about the Grand King (as many call him). He’s the constant subject of Iwaizumi’s ire and you’ve heard a lifetime’s complaints about him at joint-family luncheons.

But here’s what’s important: you know that he tears himself apart to be the player his team needs him to be, that he sometimes makes Iwaizumi wish he’d passed the Shiratorizawa entrance exam, and that he fiddles with hearts like origami and sets fire to those beautiful fragile trinkets right after.

And in the interest of self-defence (but against what the devil on your shoulder begs), you choose to not place your most prized possession on the table.

A simple “no worries” passes through your lips. You return to your book. A page turns.

Oikawa Tooru is dismissed.

Though your gaze is trained on the page, you can feel his presence at your feet for a few seconds longer. You wonder what his next move is. Much to your surprise, instead of trying to strike up another conversation, he simply lets out an airy hum and strolls back to the sand court where he came from without a second glance.

Iwaizumi wonders why Oikawa is smiling so victoriously after watching the whole ordeal, but your tan family friend has, unlike the calculating Grand King, failed to notice one important detail:

your book is upside down.

And, as if in a trance, your eyes have followed Oikawa all the way back to his sandy kingdom.

Once the sun has set, Iwaizumi checks his phone and notices a text he’d missed in the afternoon. It’s from Y/N. Unease digs itself in his chest when he realises it can’t possibly be for anything except…

hey what was that about?

This can’t be good. Thumbs rapidly typing a response, he races to quash any interest you may have budding in Oikawa. You… you’re good. Nice. Smart enough for UTokyo. A bit naive, but he’s been around your overbearing parents long enough to see it’s not entirely your fault. And even though you run in different circles at school, he feels obligated to protect you from monsters that hide beneath pretty surfaces. He’s known you since the two of you were in diapers.

just trash being what it is

Iwaizumi watches the three grey dots on your side appear, disappear, reappear, and disappear again. And that’s when he realises that he cannot help you. The villain in this arc of your story has already sunken his teeth in your tender, unsullied flesh.

trash?

He sighs.

oikawa

It isn’t a surprise to Iwaizumi when summer break ends and Oikawa’s chestnut eyes start hunting for someone in the cafeteria during lunch. He doesn’t raise a brow when he hears that the second-year captain has been sneaking into Class 7, sometimes with flowers in his hands, and strolling out with a dazed look on his face. He slaps his teammates out of shock when Oikawa mentions his troubles with pursuing some girl–– but not before slapping himself first. Because the Oikawa he knows is not a chaser.

“Her name’s Y/N,” the brunet says, suddenly realising that he has never introduced any of his temporary interests to the team. But it’s been well over two months and he’s starting to think he’s been friend-zoned. Or worse. “I think she hates me.” He laughs melodically, then cocks his head in contemplation. “Is it weird that I kinda like that?”

Iwaizumi hides a satisfied smile behind a sip of water. Oikawa’s revelation has cleared the unease your name brought to his chest. Just a little. Perhaps he’d misread you. You have a bite of your own.

iii.

It’s routine for Oikawa to slink into Class 7 with a dazzling grin during morning break, but he’ll sometimes show up with flowers instead just to remind you that his affections, along with his modus operandi–– haven’t changed since he first started visiting you in September.

The girls in your homeroom have grown used to seeing the six-foot-tall volleyball captain hovering around your desk like a butterfly. Most treat him as part of the scenery nowadays. To them, Oikawa Tooru is no longer the mysterious, out-of-reach deity the rest of the school still paints him to be.

So when he strolls into class on a chilly January afternoon with your name a tune on his lips, they leave him be. Recently, the ladies of Seijoh have focused their attentions on some fellow on the swim team, anyway. Oikawa doesn’t feel as upset as he thinks he should about his shrinking fan club, but when his gaze finds yours already steady, expectant, utterly adoring on him, he understands why.

“For the lady,” he says like he does every time. A cluster of yellow flowers wrapped in brown kraft paper plop onto your desk. He pulls a chair up to your side, purposely ignoring, again, how two certain grooves in the wooden floor keep growing deeper with his visits.

You remember the first time he started bringing you flowers.

A posy of pink flowers sits awkwardly on your desk, untouched.

“I tell you I’d rather take your serve to my face than attend the bunkasai with you and your response is to give me weeds?” you reply with your chin in the palm of your hands, amusement blossoming over your features.

“Stop being a tease, Y/N-chan, they’re flowers,” he huffs, crossing his arms on your desk. “And I know you want to take them. The florist even said I have immaculate taste.”

“Really? Then what do these mean?”

Oikawa falters.

“Hmm?”

“Pink camellias,” he finally says, carefully enunciating the flower's name, “means that you’re a fucking tease. And that you should come to the bunkasai with me.” You snort and tell him to quit volleyball and join comedy club, feeling a strange warmth in your chest when he laughs.

The two of you fall into the same rhythm as always, talking a little bit about this and that, throwing in witty remarks where they belong, never passing up the chance to make fun of each other’s little idiosyncrasies. He’s enraptured by the way you string words together to describe the story behind your class’s bunkasai performance and all the gears in your brain whirr when he explains the strategy he’s using against the team Seijoh’s playing later that day.

When the bell rings, he reluctantly drags his chair back to the desk he stole it from. Just before he slinks back out the door, though, you tell him with a stern gaze that the Ushiwaka from Shiratorizawa he just spent the break shit-talking doesn’t hold a candle to Seijoh’s Grand King.

It’s like you had just stepped under a new light. Oikawa pauses in front of the doorway, trying to decipher what it is that’s different about you. And suddenly, the roses in his cheeks are in full bloom. Delighted and puzzled at his own realisation, he turns around without a second glance your way and strides back to Class 5. Oh, man, he muses as he passes through the emptying corridor. Oh, man. Iwa-chan is going to love this.

Your phone buzzes later that evening.

seijoh v. shiratorizawa 1-2, the text reads, quickly followed by, GAH.

Your lips twitch, though it doesn’t reach your eyes. Tapping your fingers against your phone screen for a response that’ll cheer him up, you suddenly remember a phrase Oikawa said earlier that day. It drew a laugh from you when it came out his contorted face.  He was obviously still hung up over with the words of the opposing team’s ace. Hopefully, it makes him feel something else coming from you.

you should’ve come to shiratorizawa, you send, grinning.

His response is immediate.

l m f A O

what flowers would you like at your funeral?

And then you’re reminded of his petalled gift on your desk, now comfortably sitting in a glass vase at your bedside. Pink camellias, he said? Curious, you open your laptop and type in the name for its meaning.

Longing, you remember, watching your boyfriend chatter about something–– probably aliens–– animatedly. The yellow flowers on your desk, you realise, are ones you’ve never seen before.

“Oikawa, what’s the name of these?” you suddenly ask. He stops in the middle of his sentence (he was definitely talking about aliens, by the way), and grins smugly.

“Jonquils,” he says with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “spelt J-O-N-Q-U-I-L-S, means that your boyfriend’s going to colonise Mars one day. And if you’re lucky, you can be the first queen of Mars. How ‘bout that?”

It doesn’t mean what he says it does, by the way.

ii.

Splashes of pink and orange have already settled into the blue sky above when you step onto the rooftop of Seijoh’s humanities building. Despite the breeze that has swept through the air, the flame of curiosity in your stomach burns just enough for you to turn a cheek to the cold.

Come to the rooftop at 6 PM.

It’s 5:59. Impatient, you study the note in your hand again. Maybe you’ll be able to glean something from the laconic letter this time.

Much to your irritation, no one had seen the author of this note. They had expertly placed the unsigned card on your desk with a single rose and Hershey’s chocolate kiss on top during lunch. Elegantly scrawled, their seven words have had your brain running circles all day around their identity. Could it be…? No–– he seemed completely normal earlier today. Still, you can’t shake your suspicions. They borderline hope.

Who else…

You inhale the cool air deeply and lean back against the rooftop railing, eyes burning a hole into the metal entrance. The door swings open with a high-pitched groan. Your breath catches in your throat.

… if not him?

Time briefly stops when Oikawa Tooru steps through the entrance, still in his volleyball uniform, sweaty from practice, cheeks the same colour as the setting sun. There’s an unusually tentative look on his face, though it’s immediately wiped off and replaced with the realisation that this is real when he sees you slightly slack-jawed, blinking once, twice, three times before letting out a breath.

“You look surprised. Expecting someone else to confess today?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of his uniformed chest. Despite how his features are contorted by his poorly hidden jealousy, you can’t help but feel a flood of blood rush through your veins, lighting every inch of your skin on fire.

Because whether he knows it or not, Oikawa, the Grand King of the Court, prettiest boy in all of Miyagi, has skipped the table and placed his heart straight into your hands.

“Of course not,” you retort. “I just didn’t think you’d… well, do something like this.” And I didn’t want to get my hopes up. Iwaizumi’s words still find their way into your mind sometimes. I didn’t want origami made from my heartstrings.

Oikawa’s demeanour changes and his eyes dart away from your face. Shoving his hands into his windbreaker’s pockets, he admits, “I’ve honestly never done something like this before.” A faint blush spreads across his cheeks.

“Really? You’ve never stepped foot in the fourteenth shrine of Sendai?” you tease, referring to how Seijoh students have claimed this very rooftop as one of the God of Love’s many temples. You both know he holds the school record for the number of visits to this rooftop. At this rate, he could be one of its caretakers.

“That’s not what I meant,” he replies with a scowl, though the awkward tension between you two dissipates. And it feels like the two of you are back at your desk in Class 7, snickering uncontrollably while throwing playful jabs at each other. Sensing the change in atmosphere, Oikawa finally steps forward to join you by the railing.

Humming softly, he rests his elbows on the metal bar, props his head up with his hands, and sets his gaze on the lowering sun.

It’d be unfair to say that you didn’t at least try to enjoy the moment of peace with the boy beside you. But there’s a burning question on your mind that you can’t put off asking any longer.

“Why me?” you finally blurt out. “You could have any girl in this school. What made you choose me?”

The brunet whips his head around, disbelief written all over his face. “You think I chose to chase after the most annoying girl in all of Miyagi?” He laughs. “Ridiculous. I’d never willingly put myself through that unnecessary angst.”

You scoff and cross your arms.

“I think that when you like someone, it’s harder to explain why,” he quickly adds. “‘Cause it’s not supposed to make sense. I bet that the inability to explain your feelings is a prerequisite for true feelings, actually. It’s logical to say that you’d date Person A because they’re smart, or Person B because they’re hot, or Person C because they’re rich. But I’m pretty sure that that’s not… that’s not falling for someone. When you fall for someone… you just do. No logic required. You weren’t an option I ultimately settled on, Y/N. One day I just woke up and thought, if not you, then no one else.”

A beat passes. A flurry of words floods through your brain, only to evaporate when the devil on your shoulder decides that words aren’t quite adequate for what you want Oikawa to hear.

So instead, your feet take you one step closer into his space. Impulsively, your fingers find their way to his nape and your eyes flutter shut and suddenly–– suddenly, your parted lips brush against Oikawa’s. Instantly, he deepens the kiss, soft lips surging against yours like a pulse under pressure. You barely register his arms snaking around your waist, tighter and tighter until the space between your bodies is completely closed off.

Breathless, you finally detach your lips from his. Oikawa, who still has you encircled in his arms, pouts at the loss of contact, though he sulky façade only lasts a second before it gives way to a grin that stretches from ear to ear. He looks magnificent. Cheeks red, lips flushed, chest heaving, eyes wide with excitement. You want to kiss him again.

“One more.” It’s as if he read your mind. “To celebrate that last one.”

When Oikawa finally detaches himself from your lips, it’s to respond to the buzzing in his pocket. Noticing your raised brows, he explains that it’s an alarm for practice. The Spring High Prelims are just around the corner and he doesn’t plan on graduating without never having taken his team to Nationals.

“That’s my cue,” he states with a warm–– read: not apologetic–– smile. He doesn’t grab your hand or look imploringly into your eyes in hopes that you understand, never mind that you just shared your first kiss, never mind that you just became his girlfriend.

If Oikawa’s looking for any sign of your objection, he won’t find any. Instead, you step out of his space with an acquiescent nod. You knew what you were getting yourself into.

“Play well,” you say softly.

But before he heads for the creaky rooftop door, he presses one last kiss to your lips. And then he turns around, whistling as he goes, leaving you beaming behind his back with the light of a thousand suns.

iv.

When Matsukawa hands you the turquoise “Rule the Court” banner after the team lunch with a shit-eating grin on his face, the only resistance you offer is a resigned sigh.

“I’ve been dating Oikawa since we were second years,” you say flatly.

“Sorry, Y/N-san, but it’s the team’s hazing ritual,” he replies, not appearing sorry at all. “And you’re the only one who hasn’t done it.” He jerks his head at the blonde girl standing a little farther from the group with Hanamaki. “Emiko-san did it at the last game.”

“Plus, it’s the Spring High qualifier semifinals!” Kindaichi adds. “It’s an even bigger deal for you to do it now, especially since you had to miss our games on the first two days for school.” The team murmurs in agreement.

You shudder at the thought of your impending distress. Sit in the front row of the cheer squad and raise the banner with a scream every time your boyfriend serves? Fleeing from the Sendai City Gymnasium back home in an expensive taxi suddenly becomes very appealing.

Seeing the expectant and hopeful looks on the rest of the team’s faces, however, you begrudgingly place the banner in your backpack, signalling your acceptance of the horrible, cringe-worthy tradition.

“Where is Oikawa-san?” Kindaichi asks, rotating his turnip-shaped head around rapidly. “He was just at the team lunch. Iwaizumi-san’s missing too…”

Kunimi shrugs, pulling out his copy of the team schedule. He starts herding the team towards one of the courts. “Our game against Karasuno starts about an hour, so we should start warm-ups in around fifteen minutes.”

Worry creeps up your spine. For the past few days, all Oikawa has talked about is this match against his bratty kouhai’s team. And in the past two weeks leading up to today, you haven’t been able to even catch a glimpse of his face outside of break or lunch. To suddenly go missing before warm-ups doesn’t seem like Oikawa. You’re about to ask the team if he’s ever done this before, but your phone starts ringing a familiar tune and the question is set aside.

“Iwai––”

“Third-floor bathroom by the orange pillar. Come alone. Don’t tell anyone. Emergency.” Through his harsh and abrupt tone, you pick up traces of fear.

“What––”

“It’s Oikawa.” The call is cut before you can ask any more questions. Heart suddenly racing, you tell the team that your mother just called with questions about your new smart blender and excuse yourself to “explain what the manufacturers mean by salsify”. No one sees you bolt towards the nearest set of staircases with Oikawa the only thought on your mind.

There are very few things in this world that scare you. Stray hairs in the bathroom, the dark, essays longer than three pages… but the terror that short-circuits your brain when you find your boyfriend in the bathroom–– knuckles white around the sink, chest heaving violently, frenzied pupils surrounded by broken blood vessels–– trumps any fear you’ve faced before.

Iwaizumi stands helplessly beside him.

“Is he having a panic attack?” you question, still unable to move your feet. You’ve never seen Oikawa like this before. He’s the Grand King who hums while he walks, who spams your phone’s camera roll with peace-signs and funny faces, who winks and flirts and teases without regard. But watching the long-deified setter crumble like a measly human before you, you realise that Oikawa is also the guy who tore his meniscus from overexertion, who trades sleep to study his opponents play, who works his body to the bone just to stay a hairline above a certain Karasuno setter.

“A scout for the Schweiden Adlers said that Kageyama will soon surpass Oikawa in skill.” Iwaizumi explains how they had overheard the conversation lowly in your ear. “I got us into this bathroom just before he completely lost it. 5-4-3-2-1 isn’t working. And he won’t listen to a word I say.” What’s 5-4-3-2-1? Well, if it isn’t working then don’t focus on that right now.

Your eyes dart to Oikawa’s quivering body again. “I don’t know how to pull someone out of a panic attack.”

“The goal is to ground him. So use physical touch, make him feel something with texture, and get him to talk,” he responds instantly. Mechanically. Like he’s all-too-familiar with this set of instructions. A heaviness grows in the pit of your stomach when you realise what that means for Oikawa. And yet, from that very dread sprouts strength.

Slowly, you tread over to Oikawa and place a hand on his arm. His muscles tense under your touch but when you murmur over and over that it’s “Y/N, your girlfriend, the most annoying girl in Miyagi”, his fingers loosen ever-so-slightly from the metal basin. He lets you lead him to the bench by the door. He lets you drape the Seijoh banner over his shoulders like it’s armour and wrap your arms around his waist. He lets you press your cheek to his sweat-drenched back.

Get him to talk.

“Remember that quote you showed me from that interview of yours? What was it again?” you question softly.

No response.

“If you’re going to hit it, hit it until it breaks,” you say into his ear.

Through the mirror, you see his eyes widen with recognition. In the brief moment of lucidity that washes over Oikawa’s glistening face, you repeat the original question again, followed by his own quote.

Again and again.

And Oikawa finally says back.

“If you’re going to hit it, hit it until it breaks.” Focus re-enters his gaze. He blinks as if just waking from a spell.

“That’s right,” you say as firmly as possible. “So don’t you dare break first, Tooru.”

An unreadable blend of emotions scrawls itself over his features. While Oikawa washes his face with cold water, you remember rumination and resolve but can’t decipher the rest, giving up anyway when Iwaizumi pushes open the bathroom door. When the light washes over Oikawa, his face shows no signs of the episode he just had. It’s just like how the sky moves on after a storm, how the sun beams to say, “I’m here now. The rain has gone.”

But sometimes it still rains in spite of the sun.

A sunshower. It sounds so beautiful. But it’s wonderfully sad.

The three of you wordlessly make your way to the court where the rest of Seijoh is likely getting ready to warm up. What are you supposed to say after that? What can you say?

Once the smell of air salonpas and sweat finally greets your nose, Oikawa slips the Seijoh banner off his back and hands it over to you. Guessing that’s your cue to leave, you tell him to play well like you always do before starting to head for the upper deck. Softly, Oikawa asks you to wait.

“Stay for warm-ups,” he adds. “Please.”

From your spot behind the Seijoh divider, you carefully watch for any signs of another breakdown. To your relief, he goes the entire half-hour without a single crack in his disposition, exchanging laidback grins with the team, bantering with Iwaizumi. At one point he even has the audacity to taunt the Karasuno setter Tobio-chan, as Oikawa often says with a sneer.

Sunshowers, Y/N. Sunshowers.

Just before the referees call for the teams to line up at their ends of the court, Oikawa jogs over to you, eyes folding into thin crescents when he smiles.

He pulls the Seijoh banner out from your hands and gingerly cloaks it around your shoulders. Oikawa presses a quick kiss to your lips and murmurs, “Thank you.” Something in face tells you that it’s supposed to mean more than gratitude. Before you can read more into it, he turns back around and jogs to the line where his team awaits. Oikawa grins ferally.

Knowing that your luminous eyes are fixed to his back like his own set of wings, the monster crows on the other side suddenly look more like humans.

vi.

Oikawa isn’t surprised that his text is still unopened. At twenty-seven years old, he’s had his fair share of dead-ends when it comes to love. But he hadn’t expected radio silence from you of all people.

After closing all the tabs of Team Japan’s latest matches, he powers off his laptop and checks his phone again to reread what he wrote to your old number one last time. Still nothing. It’s highly probable you’ve changed phone numbers at least once in the last nine years, but the disappointment’s still there after he powers his phone off for the night. Tomorrow’s a big day and he’s not the same victim of self-destruction he had been in high school.

Or so he thinks, realising that texting the last person he loved the night before the 2021 Olympics volleyball finals might have been slightly irresponsible on his part. A thought arises in his head, though he quickly quashes it. Asking Iwaizumi to pass the message along would be a little overboard, wouldn’t it? Oikawa chuckles, imagining he response he’d get from his best friend (and Team Japan’s team trainer, that traitor).

“Go the fuck to sleep or I’ll put you to sleep, you dumbass simp,” he hears in Iwaizumi’s gruff voice.

He convinces himself that you’ll be there like you’ve always been. After all, he’s spent a lifetime with your pair of watchful eyes on his back. Satisfied, he drifts into a dreamless sleep.

The volume in the Ariake Arena is astronomical. Blood pounds against his ears as he sets the ball in the air, a monstrous grin carving into his face when his teammate José spikes the set straight down the net, drawing a wave of oohs and aahs from spectators on both sides.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes at the flashy Team Argentina setter and finishes taping up Ushijima’s arm.

Oikawa turns haughtily towards the opposite team, gaze zeroing in on Team Japan’s raven-haired setter and the shrimpy ginger beside him. It’s been a while since he last saw them this close in person–– the chance encounter with Hinata in Brazil happened well over three years ago and he hadn’t had the time earlier in the tournament to say hello. Of course they’re the final boss in this arc, he muses, though the thought is void of vexation. Instead, begrudging pride blossoms in his chest. Truthfully, he had expected nothing less from his kouhai.

And he expects nothing less than finally tasting the ambrosia of victory against that monster–– no, an entire generation of monsters–– today. Monsters who happen to be the kids he grew up beside.

He wonders what you’d say at the sight of Japan’s greatest players all gathered on one court. On instinct, his eyes dive into the bleachers, searching for your face. Knowing he’s not likely to find you like this, he tsks, deciding to look for Iwaizumi instead. Maybe he knows where you are.

The referees signal for both teams to line up at their ends of the court. As he steps onto the white boundary line, he notices Iwaizumi’s gaze transfixed on someone in the upper deck on Team Argentina’s side. The neutral expression on his face morphs into shock, then recognition. And then he glances at Oikawa.

The latter’s brows furrow before everything clicks in place.

Who else…

All your memories together hit him at full force–– your face shimmering with tears in front of gate twelve in Haneda Airport, the feeling of your shallow breaths against his neck, the savvy lilt to your voice as you speak.

… if not her?

For the first time in his life, Oikawa Tooru looks behind his shoulder.

And there you are, leaning against the railing with the old Seijoh flag draped over your shoulders, a tender, splendid smile on your lips.

“Play well,” you mouth.

And Oikawa feels the sun rise back into his hands.

[tessiete]

Hi! For the Spotify wrapped, could you do song 46 with Cody and Obi-Wan? You decide if it's platonic or romantic!

WILLOOOOOOOOOW!!!! Alright, so, so, so for YOU I broke my vow to never write Codywan, and wrote my first Codywan. I'm gonna tell you right now that @the-last-kenobi was NO help, and advised that I skip plot and for for "straight vibes".

The vibe you chose was Elvis Costello's Watching the Detectives.

So, I'm afraid I've gone a bit tragic, a bit dark, and with an ambiguous (possibly sad, sad end?)

I HOPE YOU LIKE IT, BECAUSE YOU ARE SO LOVELY AND KIND AND I DON'T WANT TO MAKE YOU SAD! (Unless it's the good, fic-reading kind of sad, you know?)

ANYWAY - tw: mentions of violence, discussions of death, assassinations, ambiguous ending (of which one possibility is major character death).

It only took my little fingers to blow you away

It’s raining the night he rolls into town. Gun-metal sheets of water glinting in the lamplight of 47th street. Downtown. Yesterday’s news lines the gutters, the print bleeding out, black ink spilled across the street, running into the sewers, the evidence of the past washed away and forgotten. Distant figures cluster on street corners. The red eye of a cigarette glares at him as it’s passed from hand to hand. A siren wails. Dawn is a distant, impossible thing at this hour of the night. A pipe dream. The city is full of them.

God, Cody hates this place.

He cracks another sunflower seed between his teeth, and rolls up the window of his Phaeton trying to ignore the twist of envy that curls on the breeze like smoke. He’s been trying to quit. He’s been trying to move on. From a lot of things.

All he needs is a bit of money. A bit more money, he thinks, and then he can move upstate. Find a farm. Find a bit of green, and a creek, and maybe, finally, some peace. Freedom. Escape.

This job is one step closer to that. No matter how much it sickens him to do it.

Cleaning up for the Empire isn’t his idea of noble work. But it’s better to be on the right side of the devil than in his path, and he knows he owes them. One spot of trouble coming out of service, and he’s paid for it ever since.

“Damn it,” he growls, cracking the window to spit the shell.

Well. This rain isn’t letting up any time soon. Best to get this over with.

--

The diner is empty when he goes in - or, at least as good as.

Some guy with skin folded over itself like origami sits at the countertop making his way through a bowl of soup, hand trembling with each slow sip. His hat lies by his hand, turned up so the band is visible. It’s white with salt, and the brim is bent. Cody spares him an errant glance. Seems like they both have seen better days.

He rings the bell for service, and a man steps through the saloon doors from the kitchen, a gingham towel thrown over his shoulder. He’s neither short, nor remarkably tall. His hair falls over his brow in a haphazard way - far different from the neatly combed coif of his DA photo. His mouth is softer, too, and he smiles at Cody.

“What can I do for you?” he asks.

The photo Cody has is in black and white. Nobody told him anything about the colour of his eyes. They’re blue. An aching, stunning blue that Cody thinks must have only looked on clear skies and mountain views. They’ve certainly never seen this city. They’ve never seen the streets - not the way Cody’s seen them. This is his target?

Shit.

A muscle in his jaw jumps as he grits his teeth. Doesn’t matter. Job’s a job.

“Sir?”

He realises he’s been staring. So much for subtlety. The old man shoots him a sideways glance, slurping at his soup.

“Yeah,” Cody says. He clears his throat. “What’s good here?”

“Ah,” the man stammers, blinking in the dim, yellow light of the diner. His eyes dart to the side, and Cody can tell by the way his mouth twists, and the way he runs his hand nervously over his beard that he’s not accustomed to lying. “Most people just order coffee,” he says, finally.

“Alright,” Cody says, sliding onto the next barstool over. “We’ll start with that.”

--

The man’s hands are steady as he pours him a mug from a large pot. Cody likes it black, and so he sets aside the bowl of cream, and the little caddy of sugar. He notes the angle of the man’s hip as it juts out to brace a tray against it, the coffee pot balanced neatly on top. He snags a pencil down from above his ear, and flips up a worn notepad already filled with the indecipherable scratches of his handwriting. From this angle, Cody can see some of it is in shorthand, and thinks, that’s right. Vader said he was a spy. A traitor.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter to him.

“Can I interest you in anything else?” the traitor asks. “Anything to eat?”

Cody takes a sip from his coffee. It’s cold, and burnt, and coats his tongue like treacle. Awful stuff, but he reckons it’ll keep him up. Already he can feel the buzz of caffeine clawing its way over his skull. Whatever the taste of it, there’s no denying that it’s strong.

He shifts slightly to see the old man, still digging away at his bowl of soup. He can’t do anything with him here, he was strictly told: keep it tidy. So he glances at the menu, the peeling plastic and old food stains make it practically impossible to read, but he figures a diner is a diner. It ain’t that complex.

“You got any desserts?” he asks. “Milkshakes? Ice cream?”

“We’ve -” the man breaks off, like he’s said something out of tune. But he squares his shoulders and tries again. “We’ve got some pie. It’s fresh.”

“Oh, yeah?” Cody says. “What kind?”

“Apple.”

“Any good?”

The man smiles, showing his teeth, lines breaking away from his eyes like sun rays, bright with joy, and Cody thinks he might be fucked.

“Best thing you’ll get in this place.”

--

At this point, Cody’s convinced that grandpa in the corner is drinking from a bottomless bowl of soup, or else Obi-Wan - Obi-Wan, he’d introduced himself as - has been topping him up. He’s been sitting here for more than an hour, watching his mark ever so graciously flit back and forth between his two customers with all the charm of a born politician. Snakes and scoundrels, the lot of them. It makes perfect sense for Obi-Wan to be a master of this. After all, it was his silver tongue that negotiated the Utapau Pact. His efforts that sealed the Treaty of Geonosis in ‘43. His voice that spoke out to undermine the Mustafar Agreement which put this whole damn thing into motion. Cody knows this man is a cheat, and a liar, and a fraud, but it’s so damn hard to believe that when he’s watching him laugh with the old man like an old friend.

When he laughs with Cody like that, too.

“A top up?” he asks, sidling over with the coffee pot. “Or do you think you’ve punished yourself enough for one night?”

Cody nods, his mouth grim as he pushes his mug forward to be refilled. The cuff of his sleeve pulls back, and he catches Obi-Wan looking at the tattoo inked at the base of his wrist. Obi-Wan blinks, and looks away.

“Military man then, are you?” he asks. His voice is carefully casual, his eyes downcast. His hand shakes.

Cody only shrugs. He hates it when they make a scene.

“Used to be,” he says. “Now I’m just a humble man, trying to make my way in the world.”

“Aren’t we all?” Obi-Wan says, voice soft. He fills the mug then steps back, licking his lips. He glances over his shoulder, but the old man hasn’t gone anywhere. Hasn’t called him either. He’s looking for a quick escape. He clears his throat. “Another slice of pie, sir?”

“Sure,” Cody agrees. The night isn’t getting any shorter. “Why not?”

--

God, it’s got to be well past midnight now, and that damn fool still hasn’t left. Obi-Wan’s definitely topping him up, though, but Cody doesn’t want to read too much into it since he was doing it before he knew Cody was ex-military. Cody begins to suspect he does it a lot.

“You’re right,” he says, clearing his plate of a third helping of pie. “That was good.”

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan says. He ducks his head, and when he looks back up Cody is horrified to see a vivid blush spread across his cheeks. “I made it.”

“What?”

“I made the pie,” he says with an indifferent shrug. “There’s an apple tree just down the street from the boarding house I live at. Not beautiful red apples, or those sour, green ones, no - or I suspect I would have had to fight to get my hands on them. No, it’s just these ones. Northern Spy, I think they’re called. Good for baking, and, well, I like to keep my hands busy.”

“Is that so?”

Obi-Wan nods. “Anyway,” he says, his smile fainter and more brittle now. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Well in that case,” Cody says. “Sit. Share a slice with me.”

Obi-Wan hesitates, glancing at the old man.

“I shouldn’t.”

“Hey,” Cody says. “I hear it’s on the house.

--

Obi-Wan is a fantastic conversationalist. Obi-Wan speaks four languages, and has a doctorate in English, and has climbed literal mountains, and has, by pure coincidence, lived in the same town that Cody was born in.

He doesn’t tell him that, though. He only listens as Obi-Wan describes the familiar streets, and the familiar faces with all the loving detail of someone who never wanted to leave.

“Dex’s ain’t in Pawalo,” he corrects, as Obi-Wan describes the greasy little hole-in-the-wall that’s a favourite of all the locals. “That’s Cocotown you want.”

Obi-Wan catches the slip before Cody does.

“Oh, you’ve been there?”

“A bit.” Cody takes a sip of his coffee, wincing at the taste and hoping it covers his chagrin.

“Then you know how beautiful it is.”

“Yeah,” Cody says. “Suppose I do.”

There is silence between them for a moment. Cody can hear the old clock ticking on the wall over the register, and the patter of rain against the glass, and the old man’s spoon scraping the ceramic of the bowl.

Obi-Wan leans forward over the table, and Cody, instinctively, leans in to hear him.

“Have you come to kill me?” Obi-Wan asks.

Cody looks him dead in the eye. “Yes.”

“I see,” says Obi-Wan. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t beg. He only leans back in his seat, his arms wrapped over his chest, and brow furrowed deeply in thought. He’s a strategist, Cody realises. Like himself. And a realist. He takes an unflinching view of the world, and knows his place in it. He knows he’s overstepped. He doesn’t fight it, now.

You can only admire a man like that.

Obi-Wan rubs a hand over his jaw, gently. Tenderly. He handles himself with a certain care as though he means to offer himself the comfort which the world at large has denied him.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan muses. “I had thought Vader might catch up to me eventually.”

Cody nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels the warmth of Obi-Wan’s hand over his, reaching out across the table to pat it reassuringly. As if it were Cody who was to meet death imminently. As if he were giving Cody sympathy.

He smiles, and Cody...Cody fucking cracks.

“What’d you do?” he says. That’s a thing he never does. He never should do. He knows better than to ask this, and get reeled in by a bad story. It doesn’t matter. He’s not the boss. He just pulls the trigger. He knows it’s better to know as little as possible about why.

Obi-Wan knows better, too.

“If this is going to be my last night,” he says. “I’d much rather we talked about something else?”

“You have until that old man goes.”

--

So Obi-Wan talks, and Cody listens.

More stories about travelling, and teaching, and studying. More stories that skirt close to the war, then dart away again. It’s hard, Cody knows, when so many friends began and ended in those ranks. It’s easy for your thoughts to wander back there. Easy - but dangerous.

But Obi-Wan is nimble, and soon, he has even distracted Cody from his brooding thoughts, and in a sudden, shining instant, he is laughing.

And then Obi-Wan is laughing. And Cody is telling his stories. All of them. As many as he can think of, and for some reason, with Obi-Wan, he can only think of the good ones. The ones when he was happy. Obi-Wan’s eyes shine with delight, and his cheeks are red with the flush of joy. Cody can feel that same heat coursing over his face, and he wonders when the last time was that he felt warm.

He can’t remember. The city is always so cold.

“I’m going to move upstate,” he says. “I’m gonna get out of here once my contract’s paid up.”

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know,” Cody says. “Maybe Alderaan. Maybe Naboo. Heard there’s a pretty little town called Mandalore I’d like to go to. Gonna buy a farm, you know? Try growing something for once.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“And you -?”

Cody blinks. His gut twists, and his stomach flips over on itself. Eight tours of duty, and this is what’s going to make him lose his supper? But it’s sick. He’s sick. The taste of apple is still on his lips. Obi-Wan sighs, looking at Cody’s mouth.

“I want peace,” Obi-Wan says. “I’m tired of running. I’m tired of - do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy? To know it’s coming, that is. I don’t blame you. And I think it might be nice...to rest.”

“Obi-Wan -” He leans close, reaching for Obi-Wan’s hand where it lies between them, and gripping it.

“Only I - I should like a little taste of happiness. Don’t you think? Or is that too selfish to ask?”

He leans in to Cody, offering himself up to the pull of Cody’s gravity, and Cody surrenders with him, tilting ever so slightly until they are touching, brow to brow, the warmth of their breath mingled between them.

“It’s not selfish,” Cody swears. “Not at all.”

He lifts his other hand to cradle Obi-Wan’s jaw. The rasp of his beard is as soft as Cody had imagined it, and he is warm, and yielding beneath his touch. Cody lifts his chin, and Obi-Wan relents, his eyes drifting shut as Cody closes the distance between them with a kiss.

The bell over the doorway rings, and Obi-Wan pulls back. Cody opens his eyes, not noticing he’d shut them, and Obi-Wan smiles in the yellow light. Outside, the rain pours, dragging the night down with it. The old man has gone.

“Well,” Obi-Wan says. “I suppose my time is up.”

[aeempress]

Apritello Express Evidences, part 1

Greetings, Apritello enthusiasts and attention! Here comes a loong post is written by totally nerd. You've been warned. Here we go.

The thing is that Apritello is a double-edged sword. The series shows us established friendship of these two, give us a lot of content with them. We can see development of relationship through interaction between the characters, their reaction about the situations they are put in. We can sense their synergy and bound through the show.

Donnie and April have incredible chemistry, and both options, brotp and otp seems fine to me.

But let me tell you why I ship them.

Apritello is the kind of pairings, which consists of small details, hints, that's hidden, but if you're sharp and attentive one, you will notice that. Apritello has a strong foundation: the best friends trope.

And from the very beginning, it works as planned.

When I start watching show, I could say that April and Donnie are best friends. It is worth noting that April is like an older sister to the other brothers, more of a sisterly figure than a friend, but with Donnie she behaves somewhat differently, namely, as best friend. Obviously, she sets him apart from his brothers, although girl tries to pay attention to all of them equally. And Donnie behaves as well.

Dee's battle shell designs for April needs as well as his. His shell transform into comfy spot for taking ride for April. Special and only for her. Because his bros are not supposed to use it (at least, he carries no one on his back), Donnie carries them by his techno-bó or his limbs.

This tiny detail shows his special treatment to her. April is a very, very special occasion to D. Don does care about her comfort, he accept the way she is. Donatello does not try to prevent her from participating in their affairs because he respects her decisions and is pleased that April can be shoulder to shoulder with him.

D is glad to be at her service.

Yeah, Dee's still playing cool, he has image to perform as tough and coolheaded guy. So Don doesn't show his intentions, interest and feeling to other people (he's tryin', but fails). Because his actions matter. They are always small, hidden, but meaningful.

April, in return, trusts Dee and depends on his tech, even knowing what his inventions are the opposite of success (usually).

Go on. Look at Donnie's facial expressions and body language when April is near.

Donnie seems more relaxed when she's around, happier. His emotional response is always different from his brothers ones.

Oh, and look, he wanted to be first to give her a high three.

They worry about each other. Look at Don. He does worry about her way more than his brothers. Yeah, they all want to protect her, but Donnie is more expressive.

Mayham has no particular sympathy for the brothers: he is afraid of Raph and behaves aggressively, he is indifferent to Leo and Mikey. Mayham immediately takes a liking to April. And then the details come back: he let Donnie touch his neck. The most vulnerable place for any living creation, for a second. Let him to study an important vial without any hesitation. Mayham depends on April trust for Donnie. When everything goes wrong for Don, the little doggie comes to his rescue, just as April would have done. Is the hint transparent enough?

We can see links with "A mystic library", wherе Donnie begins to look for solutions to save April's pet. Yes, this may seem like his next leap, "sit down, I'm smart, and now I'll solve all the problems, watch and learn," but Don says one phrase that opens up the veil of the second plan, what happens behind the scenes. "My illiteral colleagues and I was conducting a mustic research, with a life of the beloved pet, hanging in a bounce".

Strange wording, Donatello. Beloved pet? Not yours, as we can see. I can say, that everything in this sentence is true, but Donnie and Mayham has something more.

Continue. Next episode "Origami tsunami". Interactions are kept to a minimum, as April herself appears for a maximum of 5 minutes in the series itself. But devil is always in the details, dear friends.

When April was attacked and hung up, the only one who excitedly called out to her was Donny. Raph is furious that the thieves have escaped, Leo is frustrated that their plan has failed, and Mikey is worried about the salami.

Yeah, we didn't see his worries about her when she fell, because Donnie is on the mission and must be coolheaded turtle, and second, he's calm because now April life is safe and sound, out of the danger.

Dear passangers, Apritello Express arrives to the next station - episode "War and Pizza".

Bare facts:

1. April has Donnie's number on an emergency call.

2. "Anything for you"

3. Donnie is the reason why Alberto knows April's name.

No one calles April by her name (except for Donnie, while phone call, but Alberto wasn't nearby) it was "Captain O'Neil" by her chief, her badge seems blank. And yeah, you can say, that's just economy of budget, but I assure you: in the first episode we were shown the name of the delivery guy. The animators were not lazy bones and wrore "Stewart" on his badge. So if something isn't there, then it either shouldn't be there, or it really isn't, that's how this show works.

So, the reason explained in the episode. When Al has short circuit, parts of its new code flashed through its mind.

Info about April was in its memory, in its code. Alberto was a lame animatronic, and it seems somewhat outdated. I do really doubt about Alberto is being something smartass machine with complicated AI like Freddy's Pizza's ones. Quite questionable. Donatello fix Al's brain and wrote code, synchronize with his remote control. He put information about Cap O'Neil into animatronic's head. All this pictures are kind of massage: "You was created for birthday celebrations. You are machine, and there concepts of "life" and "birth". Do great party for this birthday kid and April won't be like this". Or, something like that.

So Alberto did - do a memorable party. And he do what his creator programmed him to do, but in his way.

4. In other words, Alberto was a tool to impress April. Don flaunts himself in front of her, stating how he did the upgrade while doing the upgrade, even though April is fully aware of his tech wizard. And his abilities supposed to help Cap O'Neil to finish the birthday party, so she will stay at her job, not fired. All thanks to Donnie and his upgrade Alberto. (Or not)

By the way, Donnie was the last to leave April in ruined "Alberto's". And it's not an isolated case, it is a pattern.

5. They understand each other without words.

First, Donny came at her at the speed of light. Second, she hadn't even finished speaking before Dee was taking Al apart. Third, their chaotic, well-coordinated work? Donnie was a distraction (although he wanted to just take a break from the battle or let Alberto's guard down, while April just knocked him out). Donnie and April are great team, and sometimes the DonniexApril team is much more precise, coordinated, and interdependent than the DonniexBrothers one.

D&A feel each other and anticipate each other's actions, their skills complement each other, creating an incredible synergy of their interaction. They act as a whole, while it's not always possible with his brothers, even though they're family and know each other the way more Donnie know April. And Dee hasn't trained with cap O'Neil.

Donatello didn't show his crush for April. No puppy, loving eyes, no lovey-dovey speeches, no planning schemes (at least, the audience don't see one) . He just want her attention, but stays cool and hidden. D is already her BFF, but still.

The same thing is claimed in 5B episode - Mascot Melee. Donnie has no problems with interaction with idol of his childhood - Atomic Lass. She'd put Leo in a stupor, but Donnie? He playfully challenges her to a dance duel. Yes, he adores this character, who may have become his measure of the attractiveness of others to Donatello, determined his type. But still, he's playing all cool and confident guy, he's really smooth with girls, so you will never see a puppy loving eyes from him. Only two things can betray him at this point: his voice and his body language. Remember, how's soft his voice became for Atomic Lass? Now I want you to remember the scene before, in turtle tank, when April sent guys a meme.

D is the first to respond to the message, despite the fact that Mikey is sitting closest to the screen. And the responding is a little too emotional for this situation, don't you think?

And this face of his. And he comments it. He likes her sense of humour.

The only difference between April and Atomic Lass is that the first one is a real girl who is a friend of their family, practically a member of it; and the other one is just a fictional character. It is easier to say about love for a fictional character, because it brings less problems for a teenager, especially when he is living with three brothers and a father who likes to tease as well. Donatello needs to be careful and outline the area of emotions he could show, so that he does not get hurt.

Now, dear passangers, we are returning to the previous episode, shall we?

Donnie presents to his brothers his precious Turtle tank, but she's gone, and it's really necessary to find out, who has taken her. And the first person to suspect is April.

Something is odd, don't you think? Yeah, Raphael has taken tyre for their "Midnight special", Leo claimed that Donnie's stuff is common, but they are D's beothers. It's natural for family to borrow(stole) stuff of each other. But this trend was not observed in April. She would never steal anything from Donnie, much less steal anything from him.

Actually, there is a good, logical and solid explanation here. April was number 1 in Donatello' suspect list, because he simply told her about Turtle tank. His brothers didn't know he were working at Moon buggy, except Mikey (Orange helps Dee get the vehicle from Repomantis), but they didn't know what exactly Donnie was working for. They didn't know he build the Turtle tank, he kept it a secret, to surprise his brothers. But April knew.

- Alright you! Where's our turtle tank?

- Hi, DONNIE. You have 9 seconds to say, why are you just broke my door.

- Someone's stole Donnie's turtle tank.

- Haha-ow, I see. As your best friend, you naturally suspect me.

- She gets it!

- Oh-ho, don't give me that! You're the only one could taken it!

The only one, because she knew about it.

As Splints said in this episode - "April is not a snitch"

Donatello does trust April and share with her both, sorrows and joys. But we are not shown this directly. We do not see the action itself, we do not see their calls and conversations on the phone late at night, we only see the consequence. We have no choice and take it as a given.

And the way she cooled him down? Fast, efficient, and Donnie seems to used to it. Moreover, she slapped everyone, but still, she throw Don out of window the last. However, why such a large time delay between him, being slapped and him, was throwing out of the window?

And my favourite scene. It was obvious that Donnie had taken the hardest hit (judging by his scream and the way he was putting his knuckles back in place). Don then claims that their inner circle is secure, Mikey tries to make amends for everyone, and April agrees, blowing them a kiss and closing the window. Cute and mean, isn't it? (You're cute! but mean! why do I always go for your type?! - ep. War and Pizza)

Nota bene: Donnie wouldn't apologize to April. Tough, not caring badass boy image, remember? Even to best friends. It's hard to him to express his feelings by using words, he cannot do it in proper way. But he has Mikey, who is so alike inner him. Michelangelo apologizes not only for himself, but for D mostly, because D starts suspected April.

Let's continue: the episode 8B: Hypno Part Deux

• Donnie put "Donnie's blocker" at April's phone to protect her.

It's common thing that your friend install some programs or apps on your device. But you will always ask your friend to do such a favour, and you will always know about what, when and where were installed on your phone.

And April didn't know Donnie had done something with her phone. It was a real surprise for her, to see blocker with "Donnie says no-no-no".

And you know, the interface of his app. The way he tell this current phrase. Donnie could put a huge banner "THE APP YOU WANT DOWNLOAD TO IS A REAL PIECE OF GARBAGE", as usual antiviruses do. But no, voice interface. It makes the app more personal and thoughtful. Because when Don made gifts for his brother, the program was voiced by a computer-generated female voice. Yes, the tank's interface is voiced by Donatello himself, but his voice sounds more like Google than the real Don. And, we talking about HIS BABEY, for a second. Bit still, the point remains.

• Also, Dale.

Dale is nerdy boy in purple, wow, how convenient for making a parallel with certain purple turtle.

But thing is, April doesn't like Dale. He's clingy, remora guy, who has a little obsession with April, even he's not harmful, still, such behaviour freaks girls (and not them only) out. Her classmate is usually tell her what April O'Neil is "his favourite person" and he loves her. There is little that is attractive about this behavior.

So, there is nothing new and unpredictable here that Dale was rejected. Because April didn't, doesn't and won't like him because of his lame personality and strange behaviour. Our girl in yellow do right thing: she clearly sets personal boundaries and does not allow any dubious personalities to invade them. So that's the reason she refuses to go on a date with him at the end. He's weird, obsessed, and she doesn't like him.

Donatello, as far as I concerned from different versions of TMNT, was always a little obsessive with some things. And, you know, putting a blocker inside your best friend's phone seems a little weird, because it's, in simple words, violation of privacy and personal space. And there are people who may regard this as stalking or sorta.

Yeah, for the most part, he gets away with it, not only because April's focus is in a different area, but also because their bond is stronger than April's with anyone else at school.

She has known him for years. Donnie is her best friend. I can't say that it's fine to her when Dee violates her personal space - her phone, but April can accept Donatello's personality in general.

And he does really have good intentions. Donnie installed this blocker, developed by himself only for one reason: to protect personal space April from fishy apps from nowhere, from being hacked and etc. Don knew her too well, how much she depends on stupid apps that will distract her. He also knew well, that he can't be with her 24/7 to fix problems with April's phone, so Dee put a part of himself to prevent any harm in the future.

And again, "Donnie's gifts"'s vibes. Donatello genuinely cared about April, because he wrote, coded, developed, designed, and dubbed it, turned on the database, and installed it all on April's phone. 'cause, you know, writing programs in general is a bit of a hassle, but writing an antivirus is much more difficult, because viruses are changing, and questionable applications are finding ways to bypass. Do you feel how much effort Dee put in for her?

But Donatello didn't mean to fix April, as he tried to do with his brothers. Purple turtle accepts this girl the way she is, and tries his best to play smoothly with April, by adjusting, not being passive aggressive jerk. It's his outstanding way to show his caring nature, soft side.

Remember, small but meaningful actions.

Maybe, Donnie also can foresee that April may be forced to download some suspicious program, but still, it work: he managed to prevent April being hypnotized, even if couldn't be physically with April at the this moment - Dee was working for Repo Mantis, building dog's paradise for Todd. That's why, by the way, Leo and Raph were dragged into this whole situation. Mayham would teleported literally anyone to help his hostess. Donnie just wasn't at the Lair at the moment.

And on this note, we'll take a break for now. Stay tuned, expect parsing of the series, there's a lot to discuss.

Part 2

Part 3

[squid-rp]

So... remember when I said I wanted to make playlists for my characters while stuck at work? WELL... today is the day of results, staring with Cora. See cut below for playlist and a few drabbles that are inspired but may yet change as more info about the world comes out.

TW: Language... both in the playlist and out of it. I'm not kidding when I said Cora needs a swear jar, and some of her song choices definitely uh... reflect that.

DRABBLES:

Cora might not have been a proper witch or warlock, but she knew full and well what storms were, because she saw them in people. She saw it in her mother’s eyes when her parents thought she had been asleep -- the woman’s lips turning to a snarl as she deftly dodged another bottle thrown at her head and the sloppy slur of a yell to get out. Cora knew that sometimes storms collided and one usually gave way to another. Her mother gave way to her father and fled into the night, leaving her alone with a bitter man festering in all of his losses and resentful of what he felt he deserved but could not have. Had it not been for her grandmother, Cora knew she would have felt that wrath turned on herself more severely than sour glances and whiskey touched words. Lavinia Carrington was a storm of her own. She lacked the wild snarl and harsh words that her daughter used so frequently, but her eyes were fixed and focused like the rumble of thunder on the horizon. Steven Mills could barely look up from his kingdom of half-drunken bottles to acknowledge the woman on his doorstep. He did blink lamely at the statuesque woman in his living room who deigned to stand above his recliner like some sort of fairytale queen. She wore a tailored dress, but no crown, although her fading red hair was enough to tell him exactly who she was. “Fuck you want?” Steven managed, but he knew, and although she didn’t know what exactly, Cora knew too. Later, she would ruefully recall that nobody had asked her, but why would they? She was just a slip of a thing hiding against a door frame back then -- eager for a peak of something strange but terrified of being caught. “I refuse to let my legacy nourish itself on whiskey and regrets. That child is mine and she will be great, or she will be nothing at all.” There was no room for argument.

---

Cora had always been a girl who liked to know things. Her mother was a faint shadow in her memories, but sometimes she would recall her mother telling her stories at night -- stories of little girls and the wolves that gobbled them up for their curiosity. Curiosity, her grandmother said, was a useful tool. Curiosity was usually the first step towards folly and the lesson of hurting, which would give away to the much more useful trait of ambition. Cora no longer spent nights being lulled to sleep by scary stories of wolves gobbling up girls. Those weren’t useful tales anymore, especially since nobody was coming to save her. Cora hadn’t exactly shaken curiosity, but she tempered it with caution, and her only ambition was to stay one step ahead of her grandmother -- to learn to be more powerful if only to save herself and others who might be in the bitter hag’s way. But the lesson of hurting had turned to a lesson of haunting, and the most haunting thing Cora learned was that she would never stop looking over her shoulder, even in the crowds of New York.

---

If there was one thing Cora learned since running away, it was that she was always going to be underestimated by people who didn’t know what the hell she was. That was fine on most days. It was easier to traipse around on the sly and have a semblance of a life if people just saw her at face value: small, petite, porcelain skin, a light dusting of freckles, doll eyes, clothes that barely fit. A fragile thing with such a foul mouth. And sometimes it was that mouth that got her into trouble, and the invitation to “fuck around and find out” resulted in a right hook that was far meaner than it had any right to be. Sometimes meanness wasn’t enough, though. There were times Cora limped along home, ribs aching, teeth stained with blood and eyes bruised purple, but she’d be damned if she saw something that bothered her without speaking up. She didn’t run away to hold anything in anymore.

---

It didn’t matter how well she hid: eventually one of her grandmother’s followers would find her. It didn’t matter if she washed her hair out so that it lost its coppery sheen or crafted an identity that was the greatest great or the lowest of the low. Someone always found her, and how could they not? She was an unbound Ephemeral, and a grasping threat to boot, even if she claimed to just want to live. She ran first. Cora ran from jobs. She left homes with nothing but the clothes on her back. She lost her pursuers in subway trains or by dodging into an Uber and -- once -- jumping off a bridge into a freezing river that had her shivering for what felt like weeks. She finally dug her heels in and fought back in Arizona, and when her pursuer was flat on his back in the sand, Cora stood over him while a dust devil raged through the desert. She thought of her grandmother. She thought of those sharp blue eyes, the steel in the woman’s demeanor, and everything she had taken and would continue to take. It would have been easy to kill the man in the dirt. It would have been easy to kill him and leave him to rot in the desert for the coyotes to pick his bones clean. It would have sent a clear message, and it would have been a warning for those who would come after. But it would have been something she would have done, and more than anything, Cora did not want to be her. So she knocked the man out and left him in the desert to make his way to safety once he woke up. By then, she’d be on the way to elsewhere to try and make her way on her own terms. Despite how she had been raised, and despite all of her grooming, Cora was not her, and she never would be. Not if she had anything to say about it.

---

It could not be said that Cora was skilled in Origami as she only knew how to make one shape. She tried to learn others over the years -- the owl, the fan, the boat, the flower -- but her fingers fell into the familiar habits of the crane as if she were being guided along on a string right on back to home. Cora had so few memories of her mother. She had no pictures -- they had been burned at her grandmother’s behest -- and no mementos or trinkets to remind her of the woman who had given her life and then had abandoned her. She remembered stories told in the dark, but the years had distorted the voice that told them. The memories of a face -- the cut of a nose, and the curl of a lip -- had blurred to a void that could have been everything and nothing all at once. What Cora couldn’t forget was muscle memory, and her fingers gracefully folded smooth paper to form a head and wings until another colorful paper crane joined the small army threatening to burst out of her shoebox apartment. “One thousand gets a wish,” the woman murmured as she set the newest crane atop the bundle of blankets that comprised her bed and looked out the window towards the looming city and all its lights. She doubted she would ever get what she wanted. After all, other people wanted, and when it came to her, they only wanted what she could do and who she could be. They never really wanted her for her. It didn’t stop her from reaching for another sheaf of paper and trying again.

TLDR: Pretty sure Cora's grandma (who in my head is super old and reeks of sandalwood and dismissiveness) is the head of a Gramarye coven elsewhere. Cora was meant to take up the mantle or... something else more nefarious but yeeted instead and is hiding out in New York until she can figure out wtf to do. AGAIN, this could change depending on revealed site lore and also the fact that I might see another bright and shiny idea and go crow.

[herpronuonsarefemslash]

Teaser for “Hop, Skip, and a Jump”

A Bellamione fic that explores what happens when the Department of Mysteries duels end in Hermione taking Bellatrix down with a whip, which leaves an impression on Bella when she's sent back to Azkaban. Luna invents a longer-range time turner, Hermione is lonely after divorcing Ron, and the Black sisters were just legendary for getting up to gay nonsense... https://www.patreon.com/posts/48881466 Harry is thrashing in Remus grip, refusing to believe it and trying to dive through the Veil. Hermione takes in the other members of her merry band of child soldiers.

Ron's a mess. Black eye. Split lip. Bloody knuckles. Dark red staining the tips of his sweaty ginger hair where it dips against a cut on his forehead. Looks like a soccer hooligan after a riot. Made excellent use of that table leg when he lost his wand, though.Full marks.

Ginny displayed raw elemental force with wind, cold and lightning that her tiny body shouldn't have been able to contain and reflexes none of them could keep pace with.

Luna was bloody terrifying. She nearly killed a man with an origami dragon made out of interdepartmental memos. Hermione nearly threw up after her first real curse connected, after the first time that she did magic that truly harmed another human being. Yet Luna simply cocked her head and looked curiously at the dragon and was about to pet it when it dissolved.Creativity and lack of inhibitions are useful in a soldier, Hermione supposes.

Tonks is badly hurt, but she's breathing at least. What the fuck was that curse? Dumbledore has been letting her read up on Dark Arts, supervised, and she's never heard of those elements being combined. If there's a person spending their rainy Sundays with a notepad working out new ways to use dark arts, it's probably Bellatrix Lestrange.

A magically amplified voice rings throughout the room.

"I killed Sirius Black, I killed Sirius Black, I killed Sirius Black!"

Harry slips out of Remus' grip and then he's gone.

Fucking invisibility cloak. One of these days, I'm going to hang him with it. ----- Never used an Unforgivable Curse, have you, boy?" she chuckles.

The dark witch's hand is not far from her own wand. She's taunting Harry about having to mean it when he does dark magic. 

Pathos versus logos, one French scholar decided when studying the topic. Someone can do ordinary magic emotionlessly, acting out just an idea. Not dark magic. Dark spellwork takes raw emotion and blood magic and dark rites more so.

Which also brings her to the disturbing realization that Bellatrix is not nearly as broken as everyone thinks, and at the same time, she's so much more broken than anyone realized.She's never seen Harry this angry, or this torn up, and he can't summon a cruciatus for a woman who really deserves one. 

Bellatrix can let one drop from her lips like its nothing, ten seconds after telling a joke. She's not cold. She's not empty or numb or hollow. Bellatrix Black Lestrange is just too much. She's always boiling over.

She's not dangerous despite being insane because it's not a handicap. Bellatrix is dangerous because she can use her own insanity. Uses her instability as just one more weapon. To be able to do the things she does, to channel wildly different emotions on a moment's notice like that... ----- Hermione spots a bit of velvet rope on the ground, not far from one of the entrances.

"Accio rope," she whispers, calling it slowly into her hand.Bellatrix's fingers are curling around that clawed wand of hers. Any moment now, she's going to make use of the fact that Harry's standing there, barking out curses he doesn't understand the mechanics of, his lip trembling. She's going to kill him.

"Flagellum ingis!" Hermione shouts and the rope in her hand catches fire. Crimson, bloody-looking flames. What had been a few inches of fat velvet is now a thirty-foot coil of nasty-looking black leather. The frayed end becomes a hard metal handle. She swings and, by some miracle, connects. ----- Shacklebolt stares at her for a long time, like he doesn't believe her.

There's a knock on the door.

"Enter," he calls over his shoulder. It's Tonks, wobbling on crutches with an expandable sack under her arm. Her typically pink hair is a messy gray and her metamorphagus skills seem to be trying to shift her dislocated jaw back into shape, against the bracing charm the healers put on her.

"Tonks!"

"Wotcher, Hermione," she chuckles.

"Get it?" Kingsley asks.

"Kreacher wasn't happy about it, but yes."

She tips the sack upside down and drops a huge book on the table. It's bound in crimson silk and black lace. No title on the spine, instead two words. Tojous pur. Always pure. The motto of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. "Looks a bit like fancy knickers, don't it?" Tonks jokes. ----- When the Black Grimoire teleports itself into Hermione's lap, no one's laughing. Arthur Weasley goes white as a sheet and Remus's eyes flicker gold momentarily and she could swear she heard a canine's whine.

"Hermione," Remus says, his voice scratchy and small. "Please. That's..."

"Dangerous," Arthur fills in.

They're all looking at her like she's Darth Vader, suddenly. Like she has to be talked down. Like she's suddenly the most dangerous person in the room. She looks at the book. What spells are in this, anyway, that it being in her lap makes the entire Order of the Phoenix flinch?

"I don't want it!" she protests.

The book teleports itself again. Where it goes, none of them can figure out.

----- The book comes back again the night before the battle. She asks Tonks over to try to get rid of it. "S'not something to be afraid of, little devil," Tonks says. "Doesn't have to be." Little devil is Tonks' nickname for her, after finding a photo of Hermione gothed-out at age eleven, a few weeks before she got her letter. She's stopped using it around others. "I'd think you'd hate the Blacks," Hermione mumbles.Tonks sighs, shifting her skirts out of the way and sitting down on the bench beside her. Hogsmeade is empty. Cleared out so fast that everyone left almost everything. They've been eating like kings, and it helps. Tonks especially is thriving. Crazy bitch decided to put the witch-or-wizard debate to bed for all time by rejoining the war nine days after giving birth, slinging spells while leaking milk into her clothes. "I think that'd be like using a time turner to kill my grandparents," Tonks admits. She puffs at her hair, which goes pink, then blue, then green, then turns to something rather like glass. "Being a Black gave me this ability.” "Let's take a look, shall we?" Tonks squeezes her hand tight, and together they open the grimoire. "I'll keep you safe." ----- She's staggering out of the Great Hall. Bloody. Aching. Alive. Before she can find a banister to lean on, Tonks slams into her. Hermione wails. "Sorry," Tonks squeaks. "Just ribs," she grumbles. "What is it?" "Page two hundred seventeen. Knowing what that curse looks like? Saved my life. Remus' too." Hermione huffs."Next time you're trying to thank me, let's talk, all right?" The Grimoire appears in her trunk on the way back to Hogwarts to re-take her seventh year. This time, it won't leave, even when ordered to. ----- Everything is pain and exhaustion. But Rose is gorgeous. She's everything. Hermione fumbles for her wand, gathers the birth blood into the air and then whispers out an ancient curse with her lips pressed to her eldest's tiny, sticky head. Not all curses are meant to hurt the one at the center of them. The Mother's Curses are darker than night and because of the blood linking caster to target, far more powerful than ordinary spells. ------ They split after Hugo's born. It's more to do with her campaign for Minister, which she loses by a hair, than the 'neglect' of Hugo who she keeps so close she thinks that Molly would have blushed. As divorces go, it's bloodless. Pureblood-muggleborn marriages can be rocky, of course, and she produced heirs for the Weasley line. So from the traditionalist point of view, the muggle divorce and the Gringotts paperwork don't mean much. The same ceremony showed that their children's blood bears more of her magic than his. For that reason, or some other reason, Ron never bad-mouths her in public. She never moves to have their names changed to merely 'Granger'. She hears 'mudblood' whispered for the first time in a long while. ----- On one side of her desk, the plaque bears bold green letters that thrum with sorcery. Hermione Jean Granger, Minister of Magic On the other side, visible only in the presence of a Dumbledore's Army coin, she scratched a second marking in one of Tolkien's half-right, half-wrong scripts of Elvish. here sits a servant of the elves ----- "WHAT DO YOU TAKE ME FOR, A BLACK?" a woman shrieks outside her office. Hermione groans, dropping her fork back into her takeout container.Harry chuckles, glancing up from his case file. "Your damn fault," she mutters."You needed the help, old friend. Be a shame if paperwork killed you after all this." "It'd be the most evil thing that tried, so it makes sense." She flicks her wand at her office door. "In here, both of you!" she barks. ----- "Sarah?" Hermione asks, desperate to hear a human voice across the shuffling of papers. "Yes, ma'am?" "Something's been bugging me about...the incident." Missy stiffens. "What?" she asks, flipping another sheet face down."You said, what do you take me for, then added the word Black." There's a polite throat-clearing so familiar sounding that has Hermione scrambling for her wand and leveling it at a sixteen-year-old girl. "Right. Sorry," she mumbles. "Sounded a bit like..." "Umbridge," the girl laughs. "Professor Longbottom and Professor Abbot complain too." "I keep telling her that's going to get her jinxed," the boy next to her huffs. "Interrupting people who that lunatic tortured in mid-lecture rather than just raising her hand." "Shut up, Ballard." "Go on...uh...""Myn," the girl chirps, offering her hand. "Mynara Wallsworth." Hermione shakes it and then bows. "Enlighten us, wise one." "It's just that the Blacks are notorious. There's a bunch of scratches on the sixth-year Slytherin dorm's walls. Hard to tell with fading, but at least twenty. According to legend, it's one mark for each girl who got a hat trick." "A what?" "Each girl who snogged all three of the Black sisters during school."

[ellariasand]

i’m not gonna teach him how to dance with you

pairing: frank castle x karen page summary: frank's helping karen with a story. some slight miscalculations put them in serious trouble. rating: t warnings: references to sexual situations & canon-typical violence - no actual depictions of either; swearing word count: 8.2k (sweet jesus) a/n: i’m not particularly used to posting my writing on tumblr (you can find this same piece along with others over on my AO3), so this is new for me! big props to @peoniesforfrankcastle for pitching me the softball of “what do you think would happen if frank and karen ended up in their own version of the landlord threesome situation from new girl??”, because that’s a normal thing to discuss at 1:30 in the morning on a saturday. enjoy!

“You’re sure this is the place?” 

It’s pissing rain outside the pathetic blue Jetta Frank’s sitting in — because of course it is. It’s dark, it’s wet, and the only thing he can see properly is the profile of Karen Page’s face, highlighted by soft blue dashboard lights. It’s cold, he’s not dressed properly, and he’d be at home in bed if not for her. He’d be warm, comfortable, and not packing three different pistols on various parts of his body. He’d be, for as much as the Punisher can be, safe. 

But Karen, despite every warning and caution and threat to her life, never quite knew when to quit.

She’s packing quite a different arsenal as she sits in the passenger seat, hands still covered in glitter from the bachelorette party she’d been at an hour earlier. Marci had insisted, she claimed as she checked the clip on her own gun, just an hour to say hi — but Frank knew better. Just an hour, he thinks as she makes sure her tape recorder’s working, is an hour she doesn’t have to think about what she’s about to do. 

“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

She sounds absolutely certain as she speaks, even though Frank can see her hand shake as she stuffs the gun and the tape into her coat pocket. Her research is sound, her head screwed on straight, her plan well-equipped. (Well, perhaps not so much her plan as the plan Madani and Frank helped her make, but it’s all the same to her.) She’s Darius and Daniel all at once, throwing herself into the lion’s den without even a backwards glance. 

She’s here for a story, and she’s going to get what she wants, no matter how it scares the shit out of her. 

Or Frank, for that matter. 

“You’re dead sure?”

His voice is as deadpan as it was the first time he asked - all bite, no bark. Someone once joked that he sounds like he gargles with rocks when he does that, pulls out the Marine voice. The voice meant for giving and receiving orders, not sitting in a Volkswagen with a Bulletin reporter helping her with a story. Apparently, it’s as intimidating as the bruises perennially darkening the orbitals of his eyes - not that he’d be able to tell, the way Karen responds to him.  

“Yes, Frank.” She sounds as impassive as he does, if not more. He can’t read her expression in the low light, but he’s sure it’s as stolid as his. “Why are you so concerned about it?” 

All he can think to do is scoff as she pats herself down in a quick double-check.

“Because I’d’ve appreciated it if you’d told me we were going to a Cooley gun club instead of having to hear about it from Lieberman.” 

If he couldn’t read her expression before, he can now. It drops like a sack of bricks, and for all that his voice suddenly sounds upset, Frank can practically feel the weight of it hit his chest as the frown envelops her entire face. It dents her eyebrows, creases her forehead like some imitation of a child’s origami project. It’s a frown of surprise, not dissimilar to the ones he used to see on Lisa when he caught her reading past her bedtime. She’s been caught with her hand in the metaphorical cookie jar. 

Even if Lieberman hadn’t tattled, Frank would’ve figured it out eventually. Anyone north of 119th this late was asking for trouble, if not pointing the gun at their forehead themselves. Even he didn’t stray this far if he didn’t have to. Not if he wasn’t on a job. Once Central Park was in their rear-view, he’d gripped the Weston under his jacket a little more tightly.  

Karen’s parked herself right in the middle of a warzone, and judging by the loss of confidence in her expression, she knows it.  

“I didn’t want to lose my chance at getting you to help,” she mutters. She sounds as much of a spitfire as she did before, but the way she’s gripping her coat sleeves betrays her real reaction. “David knew?”

“‘Course he did.” Frank scoffs. “Guy can hack the NS-fuckin’-A, you think your laptop’s any different?” 

Karen’s frown deepens, the delicate origami construction of her face crumpling. 

“So that’s why you agreed to come,” she says quietly. It’s almost enough to make Frank regret his choice of words. Almost, if not for the truth of what they’re about to do weighing down on his shoulders.

“You can’t just...throw yourself in with the Kitchen Irish, Karen,” he replies, firmly but carefully. 

“I did it with Grotto.” 

It’s like she doesn’t even think before the words are out of her mouth. She’s so sure of herself. It scares Frank. Just enough. 

“Yeah,” he says, “And look how that turned out.”

“With you in the driver’s seat of my car, wearing a tape wire and helping me with a story.” Karen’s still wearing the frown, but she’s repurposed it now. Outfitted it to her advantage. Crumpled the paper and refolded it - treasure out of trash. “Not too bad in the grand scheme of things.” 

She says it with a shrug and a nonchalant glance over at him, and Frank can’t muster much beyond an incredulous laugh in response. A small part of him knows he’d walk through all seven circles of hell with weights tied to his legs if it meant helping Karen with a story, but sometimes he wonders how she does it - looks danger in the face and laughs like it’s nothing more than a carnival clown, there for her amusement. Like the few inches of column space she’s afforded can be weaponized as much as the Ruger she keeps in her purse. 

Karen dances with devils and comes out in first place every time, and Frank should know. He’s one of them. 

“We get in, you talk to the guy, we get out, alright?” 

He says it with a deadpan that hardly hides how much he’d rather taken Karen right back home, but he doesn’t stop Karen from fixing her lipstick in the mirror, doesn’t stop himself from checking that all three of his pistols are loaded and ready to go. The faster they’re in, the faster they’re out, and the less he has to feel his heart pounding in his chest like an animal trying to escape its cage. 

“No funny business.” 

Karen’s nod in response is perfunctory - she’s thirty-two, not twelve. She knows how this works. Frank knows that too, but the words come out anyway, in some vain attempt to reassure himself that what they were about to do wasn’t completely and utterly batshit. They’re more of a mantra than a command, and Karen’s response comes quickly on their heels as she pops open the door to the Jetta.

“People say my sense of humor is surprisingly dry.” 

Frank Castle has, thus far, simply been too angry to die. No other way to phrase it. He’s been shot, tortured, run through, hit by cars, and electrocuted, amongst a handful of other, unmentionable things. He’s gone through more injuries than a child’s video game character, and yet he’s gotten back up, beaten and bruised, every time, without fail. Whether it’s stubbornness or just rage, no one can ever really tell. 

But, he thinks as she smirks and hops out of the car, Karen Page might just end up being the death of him.

___________

The club they end up loitering outside of is dark, barely more than a husk of a building on the outside. It’s creative, the amount of effort these scumbags put into disguising themselves in plain sight, despite their existence being as common knowledge as the Harlem bus schedule. Decrepit storefronts, butcher shop basements, even the occasional apartment over a nail salon. Real estate in New York is slim, and Frank’s seen just about all of it - and a disproportionate amount of it with Karen at his side. 

He doesn’t understand how he keeps getting dragged into these places, these undercover ops for information held so closely it might as well be fantasy. He doesn’t understand how Karen gets herself involved, much less convinces him on nothing more than a hunch and a prayer to follow at her heels, sneaking about like Zoey when she’s trying to dart out the apartment door before Karen can catch her. 

He is, as Lieberman not-so-lightly puts it, built like a brick shithouse — sneaking isn’t particularly his style. Pretending to be someone else is something he’s done enough of in his everyday life. The life belonging to Pete. The life that doesn’t quite fit right - a present from an overbearing grandparent that collects dust in the basement from disuse. An old shirt, run through the wash one too many times that ends up stretched and worn, too grimy and ugly for everyday use. 

The only parts of that life that seem to fit right are the ones with Karen in them. Even if they involve breaking the law. 

The both of them are soaked by the time they’ve made it down the street, out of sight of their little blue getaway vehicle but in too much of a hurry to have bothered with an umbrella. Mercifully, there’s an overhang, and in some stroke of luck, the Irish at least have the courtesy to answer quickly when Karen knocks at the peeling wooden door with bare knuckles. 

She’s good at that, sneaking right in the front door instead of prowling around out back. Good enough that Frank can only stare in silence as she barely blinks  at a burly, dark-haired man opening the door, drilling her with enough questions to unsettle a Marine. He watches intently as she tosses around names Frank’s never heard, places he’s never been like she’s at some kind of fucked up family reunion. She calls him Robert and herself Harriet, and all he can think as they’re invited to cross the threshold is that at least it isn’t Pete. 

The inside of the club looks more inviting than the outside, but Frank’s eyes are too busy scanning the interior for exits to notice the furnishings. He lets Karen do all the flattering as they’re dragged through room after room, past locked door after locked door, each one more and more concerning as Karen makes inane comments his ears barely hear. He’d been primed on all the exits - and that did mean all - but the anonymity of what lay behind those dark panels of wood doesn’t bode very well for them. 

He manages to count sixteen separate doors by the time one of them opens to invite them in. The creak of it grates on Frank’s nerves, but he pays no mind as his attention zeroes in on Karen, whose blonde hair is disappearing into a dimly lit room, leaving him to chase after her like fool’s fire. 

His eyes are practically evolved for low-lighting by now, but his pupils still blow wide as he ducks past a burly security detail and into the darkened room. He could swear he’s stepped into an old-fashioned parlor, one of those overly ornate ones from the PBS dramas Karen likes to watch. Velvety couch, paintings on the wall, the works - even that awful gold gilt that old New York money people thought was pretty, rather than like they’d plastered scrapyard salvage all over their walls. Frankly, his grandmother had had better taste in decor, but clearly the new Irish have money. And they want to prove it. 

They want to prove they can defend themselves, too, based on the three men Frank clocks the instant the door snaps shut behind them. Strapped to the gills with firepower, looking like they could take a hit from a train and not move and inch, and angry to boot. Not too dissimilar from himself, in a way, aside from the way they mold themselves around the presence of a much slimmer man, in much better clothing, looking significantly more smug. 

If Frank had to describe him, he’d say the man standing in front of he and Karen looks like one of those people mothers describe as “homely” when they’re young, but is really just the kind of person women cross the street to get away from on their commute home. Pasty, skinny, unsettling to a degree that Frank can visibly notice as Karen’s posture goes rigid. The suit he’s wearing is very obviously couture, as are his cufflinks and shoes, but it doesn’t offset the alarm bells that his general presence sets off in the both of them. Not enough to truly make either of them afraid, but enough to suck all the air out of the room in less than an instant. 

Why do all drug lords remind Frank of the rats in the 34th Street subway station?

Perhaps because of the way they sneer like this one does, overconfident and cocky when Frank knows he could crush him under the heel of his boot in one step. Perhaps because of the way they carry themselves like they own the world, own the people standing in front of them and all that they’ll ever say simply because they’re on home turf. They’re leeches of the worst kind - vacuums of airheadedness and egos so big they could stop a truck. 

Frank prays this isn’t the guy Karen’s come to see.

There’s a reason he stopped doing that. 

“Ah, Miss Smith.” 

His voice is as cocky as his face, dripping with something between venom and crude oil. His hand extends towards Karen, and Frank can only watch as she accepts it with a plastic smile. 

“What a treat to finally speak in person. And this is Mister…?”

“Martin,” Karen replies. “My partner, yes.” 

“Partner.” He says the word as if considering it, as if the answer is better than he’d been expecting...which is, ironically, the best reaction Frank’s gotten to his own presence in years. Clearly the beard he’d started growing in was doing its job as a mask. “Wonderful.” 

He’s like a cartoon villain, this guy - if cartoon villains trafficked women and had bodyguards wearing enough firepower to set a building alight. All he’s missing is a mustache to twirl. Too bad he looks too young and skinny to be able to grow one. 

“We weren’t expecting a third,” he jeers, “But in that case, would you prefer business or pleasure first?”

Karen shrugs, and Frank mirrors it. It doesn’t look as friendly coming from someone as broad-shouldered as him. 

“I suppose we could do both,” Karen says. “It’s a bit late for shooting, but I’m not opposed to firing a few rounds while we talk about the--”

The laughter that cuts Karen off is even more jeering than the Bad Bond Villain’s voice. It’s high-pitched, off-key - like the vocal equivalent of nails scratching on a chalkboard. It takes a significant amount of Frank’s restraint not to flinch as he grins at Karen, far too boldly to simply be friendly. 

“Oh no, my dear,” he replies as Karen’s mouth is left hanging open. “This isn’t that kind of club. Did Georgey not tell you?”

Karen’s mouth closes, then opens, then closes again as she blinks. Frank offers a quick “no sir” in place of a response from her, despite the fact that the closest thing he’d ever heard to the name Georgey was one of Karen’s silly pet names for her dog. Whether she’d crucify him for that, he couldn’t tell, but it was better than leaving the reject Lucky Charms man hanging. The expression on the man’s face tells him that’s a bad idea.

“His loss, my gain, then.” The man shrugs, sits up straighter in his seat. “You two are...swingers, no?”

Ah. So, not a gun club then.

Frank can feel Karen tense next to him. Not enough to alarm the asshole, but enough that he hears her breathing go shallow, notices the way she sits up that much straighter on the couch. She nods, refusing to break character, but he can see how far the comment has thrown her off course. He even goes a bit stiff himself - and not in the way the creep sitting in front of them would hope for - so he’s not sure he blames her. He can do guns, he can do knives...but this was new. 

“It’s all part of the deal.” The creep sounds far too satisfied with himself, far too pleased in reaction to Karen’s nod that wasn’t any more than perfunctory. “We give you what you need, you give us...a little something in return.”

The look he shoots at Karen is enough to make Frank’s trigger finger twitch. 

The locked doors suddenly make more sense, much the same as the furnishings that seemed slightly too impeccable for a mafia den. Everything is slightly too pristine, slightly too well-oiled for a bunch of amateurs fresh out of metaphorical diapers. No criminal gives this much of a shit about appearances unless they’re trying to impress - who that is, Frank doesn’t know, but he can only imagine the kinds of clients that run through here. A gun club in the middle of Harlem is bad enough, but this? Nothing wrong with a bit of fun if you aren’t psychotic, but...

“You traffic girls and you run a swinger’s club.” Frank’s voice sounds like he’s down an entire construction site’s worth of grave, disguising the sarcasm he can’t quite keep out of it. “Clever.”

The man nods, oblivious to Frank’s train of thought. 

“We pride ourselves on it.” Pride isn’t exactly the word Frank would use, but the emotion shows on his face anyway. “The guns are a temporary cover. While we get our hooks in, so to speak. Clearly a good cover though, eh?”

He’s teasing Karen now, clearly trying to get under the thick skin of the identity she’s created for herself. It won’t budge, Frank knows that much, but the remark still makes him shift in his seat, fighting off the urge to throttle the bastard before they’ve even gotten a word out of him. 

Frank’s never been good at holding his tongue, but he’ll do it for Karen. 

She nods at the remark, a sound coming out of her mouth that’s as far from her real laugh as Frank imagines she can possibly get. It’s a hollow tittering sound, like hearing birds chirping through the metal of a roof they’ve nested on, but it’s convincing enough for their host, whose grin borders just the slightest bit on insane. 

“We’ll give you two a moment,” he says. “Only reasonable to let you get...comfortable.”

There’s that teasing voice again, and Frank hardly has the chance to let it annoy him before one of the guards is swooping in on them, an ominous black-clad raven with an assault rifle strapped across his chest. He almost reaches out when he puts a hand at the small of Karen’s back, not quite pushing her but not letting her move of her own free will either. The cold stare Frank receives when his nerves jump is enough to tell him that he should follow, or suffer the consequences otherwise. He’s not particular to following the rules - not anymore - but he chooses to make an exception this time. 

The creep stands by as the two of them are herded away, towards a door at the far end of the parlor that hangs just ajar enough to remind Frank too much of The Shining. The darkness beyond doesn’t look promising, and the results aren’t much better as they’re herded into some kind of dimly-lit antechamber, presumably a dressing room of sorts. Broom closet would’ve been a better term for it, given the fact that Frank and Karen are nearly chest to chest once the gorilla takes his hands away and leaves the two of them in relative dark, lit only by mood lighting that does about as much for Frank’s eyesight as a flashlight with mostly-dead batteries. 

He can see about as much of Karen as he could in the Jetta, but he’s hesitant to say anything. Who knows how much of the club the Cooleys had bugged for posterity - he wouldn’t be surprised if there are cameras hidden in the tiny cracks of exposed brick he can see behind the swaths of fabric covering the walls. These types didn’t seem entirely beyond a bit of voyeurism at all. 

“You okay?” 

Frank Castle is not a man to whisper, but that’s how his voice comes out anyway; low enough that it would probably be unintelligible to cameras. It’s not as though he needs to shout in this broom closet anyway. 

Karen shakes her head, less as a response to his question and more as if she’s trying to shake cobwebs from her brain that she’d missed when she dusted last. 

“I swear to God I didn’t know this was going to happen.” She’s rambling, her sentences peeling off one after the other with no way of stopping them. “There was nothing in the notes about it. Not in the witness statements, not in the police reports...fuck, somebody should have told me or else I wouldn’t have brought you here into the middle of this—”

“Hey, hey, hey.”

Frank’s hands are on her shoulders before he can think to stop them, a grounding wire for his emotions and hers. He knows how it feels to have a plan go to shit, that feeling of the ground spinning underneath you without any recourse to stop it. He can see that feeling in Karen, the way her pupils are so blown with fear he can practically see himself in them. It’s not often that anyone can strike fear into Karen Page. 

“Shhh. It’s okay.” He’s rubbing her arms now, though perhaps a bit more for his own sake than for hers. “Even Lieberman missed it. It’s not your fault.”

It really isn’t. He’s not sure how a sex club got confused with a gun league - all euphemisms aside, even Lieberman isn’t that stupid - but the Irish must be smarter than he thinks. Or, at least, clever enough to deflect attention away from themselves. It makes sense, in the long run of things, he thinks... if you’re that kind of subway track scum that traffics human beings.

“I’ll handle it,” he mutters. “You go out the back, call Nelson or Walker or somebody, get the hell out of here. I’ve still got the tape so you’ll still get what you need, I promise. I can take care of—“

“What?”

Karen’s voice interrupts the speech that he has memorized all too well, and he short circuits. Feels his hands squeeze her shoulders in place of a question. Watches her shuffle in place, shift her weight to her hip. He’s not prepared for this. This doesn’t usually happen. 

She’s got her eyebrows raised, shoulders squared under his hands. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. He can’t focus when she’s looking at him like that. Can barely focus when she’s looking at him at all. 

“Red door down the hall takes you out the back,” he sputters. Now was not the time for thought-out tactical plans. “I’ll get you what you need. You just get out.”

He’s not sure exactly how he’ll manage that, but he will. It’s the least he could do, in return for everything she’s--

“Frank, I’m not leaving.”

He can feel Karen’s enunciation down to his bones. It rattles her shoulders and moves the curtains that swirl around them, an energy not even Red could match if he tried. It’s an energy that speaks to the reason she’s good at her job, why and how she gets herself into situations like this, cramped in a tiny dressing room in a swingers’ club well past midnight when she could very well be at home, safe and secure without a second though otherwise. It’s an energy Frank knows all too well. 

Here she is, looking as much like a scared rabbit as Frank’s ever seen, and Karen chooses now to be stubborn. 

“You kiddin’ me?” 

His arms flop down at his sides, and the air stings his palms where they’d touched Karen’s shoulders. She’s looking straight at him now, and that’s all he can focus on - the stinging and her eyes. Both of which flare when she shrugs. 

“No, I don’t think I am,” she replies. “I don’t think “coercion via the Punisher” is a printable source.  It’s my responsibility to get this information, and if takes going a little out of my comfort zone, then I’m more than willing to—“

“The guy wants you to strip down and have sex with him, and you call that your responsibility?”

It seems like an applicable moment to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, had he not broken it less than a week earlier. His definition of “responsibility” might be more muddled than the average New Yorker’s, but being propositioned for a threeway in exchange for information is certainly not in his dictionary. 

“He included you in the offer too,” Karen protests, “And I’m pretty sure I just heard you say ‘I’ll handle it’.” 

“Not by playing into whatever fucked up fantasy he’s got in mind!”

He might as well have pulled the pistol out of his waistband for all the good his words did. They ricochet off the walls like stray bullets, and he can see them lodge into Karen, though the way she rolls her shoulders and stands all that much straighter proves that she’s not in any mood to back down. She never is, and he knows it. Anyone who assumes otherwise is in for the shock of their life. 

Being around Karen is like sticking your finger in an electrical socket, and Frank is a curious kid who doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone. 

“How badly do you need him to squeal?” 

He chooses the sentence carefully, measuring his words as though they can remedy the situation all on their own. He’s not good with that, figuring out what to say. Actions speak louder than words, he’d always believed that, but this is Karen’s show. Karen’s livelihood. A livelihood she’d built on words alone. 

Her expression doesn’t change. 

“Enough that I’m willing to stay,” she says. “Frank, this story could wipe out a whole new generation of Kitchen Irish before they even get started. If I get this guy to talk, they’d be busted wide open within the week. Maybe sooner.”

“Same thing could happen to your head if you say the wrong thing.”

“I’m a journalist, Frank.” Karen squirms under his gaze, but doesn’t falter. “Saying the right thing is what I get paid to do.” 

But you shouldn’t have to.

That’s what Frank wants to say. Wants to blurt it so loudly that the shit-for-brains in the next room can hear him loud and clear. Wants an excuse to bust them out of there, to avoid this situation entirely rather than subject himself to the burning gaze of this woman who doesn't know when to quit. He wants to shake some sense into Karen’s head, despite the fact that she’s about the only sensible person left in his life. 

“I emptied a clip on a man,” she says. Her words are measured, careful. “I think I can handle...that.” 

It suddenly feels like there’s not enough air in the room for both of them to breathe. 

“Fine.” 

Frank can’t tell if she’s being entirely serious, or if this is another facet to the facade she’s put on tonight - whether her bravery is manufactured entirely because she’s too persistent to walk away from a story unfinished. The room feels like it’s running circles around him, and he’s too dizzy to fight. 

“You want it?” His voice is harder now, sharper. “Let’s go in there and get it.” 

It’s not quite the Punisher persona she’s used to - it’s a little frayed around the edges, askew from being out of place - but Karen recognizes an irritated Frank when she sees one.

“I can do it by myself,” she sighs. Frank isn’t convinced - not when there’s half an army on the other side of the door and a creep who’ll undoubtedly take advantage of her the moment he turns his back. 

“Like you said,” he replies, “he said both of us.”

Karen frowns.

“You’re really going to go in there and do this just to get me to admit that I’m wrong?”

“Could do worse.”

His shoulders are too heavy with the weight of their predicament to really make his shrug convincing, but he does it anyway. Tries his hardest to look nonchalant, despite the fact that his dominant hand still burns - this time for something a bit more significant than the air it’s currently grasping at. 

“Too much longer in here and they’re going to get suspicious,” he offers. “Either we do this or we don’t. Your pick.”

He’s offering her an ultimatum. Karen fucking hates those. 

“I do the talking.” 

It’s the only thing she says while she’s shrugging off her jacket, loosening the top button on the starched, Wednesday Addams-looking blouse she’s got on. It’s the only confirmation Frank gets to shirk his own hoodie (how he’s going to finesse hiding the wire he’s wearing, he doesn’t know), before she slips out of the dressing room and back into the parlor, where Redhead Dr. No has shirked his own suit jacket, and the armed gorillas have all but disappeared. 

He can’t tell if the feeling in the pit of his stomach is regret, but it certainly makes him nauseous all the same. 

If it’s at all possible to have dimmed the already barely-lit lights of the parlor, that’s what they’d done in the time it’s taken he and Karen to argue their way into this mess. He can see the room for what it really is now that he’s removed the rose-colored glasses of playing along with Karen’s scheme: the way the room is laid out, with larger-than-usual couches, designed with open slats for things Frank didn’t even want to begin to think about. The fact that, despite being part of a much larger complex of rooms, there are no doors leading anywhere except the small antechamber, and no windows either. All that’s missing is some shitty Careless Whisper saxophone playing in the background, and even Frank wouldn’t do that song that much of a disservice. 

“Ah, the lovebirds return.”  

The phrase lovebirds makes the hair on Frank’s neck stand on end, but he beats the impulse to stir like a startled cat down just enough as their host approaches, clearly more keen than when they’d been whisked away. He’s rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, and Frank’s fairly certain he can see rope burns up and down the lengths of his arms - fresh enough that they might not even be a day old. 

That is what makes him startle. 

“It’s club policy for couples to...initiate proceedings,” their host says, with an eagerness that makes Frank want to beat it out of him. “To ensure all parties have a comfortable evening. Unless, of course, you’d like to…?”

“No, I think we’re fine.”

Karen’s face is red as she replies - not the kind of red it gets when she’s angry, but a brighter kind. It makes her look gaunt. 

“No sense breaking the rules our first time ‘round, huh?” 

The man smiles, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Very well,” he sneers. “I’ll be here. Whenever you’re ready.”

Whenever you’re ready. 

The dealer’s voice is laced with the chill of dry ice, and that fact doesn’t escape Frank. This isn’t some jaunty weekend experiment, where consent is key and anybody who isn’t comfortable can bounce when they want to. This is payment, and he expects his full share, whether they like they like it or not. 

That’s the thought that ruminates in Frank’s head as the dealer fiddles with the buttons on his perfectly-starched shirt, and Karen moves into his space enough that his vision is enveloped by her. That’s the thought as she steps in close, close enough that they can share the same breath, and that’s the thought as he considers the fact that nothing on Earth could possibly be more humiliating than this. The thought of touching and being touched in ways that don’t bear thinking about is worse than any embarrassment he’s ever suffered. Worse than any hazing his Marine buddies ever put him through, worse than any and every time he’s said something stupid and gotten himself landed in the wrong place at the wrong time. He feels stripped bare, down to the bone, and he hasn’t even taken off his clothing yet. 

But for a moment, he looks at Karen, and thinks of the way his hands burned when he touched her, and a part of him thinks, Maybe if we spin this, we can get out mostly unscathed. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Not with Karen. He thinks that, of all the people he could end up stuck here with, at least it’s her. Their foreheads are touching, and he can feel Karen skate her own hands down his arms until she’s gripping his. At this distance, he could reach out and--

But then another part of him remembers Maria, remembers that he can’t recall the last time he used those hands to do anything but cause hurt. He remembers everything he buries deep inside, under layers of Kevlar and firearms and a voice so gravelly no one could ever think that it had ever belonged to a father. He remembers all the reasons why Karen shouldn’t trust him anywhere near her, and the situation morphs, molds itself into something that could only be a disaster, could only end with both of them hurt in a way that no stitches or antiseptics or trauma nurses could ever fix. It’s inescapable, and it’s all his--

“It’s the red door, right?” 

Karen’s voice is a whisper, barely audible even when she leans in close (too close, too close, she’ll get hurt); it’s easily misconstrued as sexy, but really, it’s a well-practiced way of communicating in crisis, and Frank can hear the wobble in it even as she breathes.

He nods just enough that she can feel it, without looking like he’s doing anything but...well, setting the mood. Karen nods too, and he’s sure the both of them look fidgety - like nervous first-timers, not sure how to proceed. And it isn’t far from the truth - Frank’s got no idea how he’s going to proceed from here, but he’s nothing if not good at improvising. 

“I, ah...think you should take charge.”

This she says at full volume, loud enough that their partner can hear. Like she said - she knows when to say the right thing. 

And Frank knows enough about the fear on her face that his pistol’s out of his pocket before she can blink back tears. 

And when he blows them out of there, it isn’t a euphemism. 

_________

The sun is peeking out over the horizon line by the time the two of them stumble down the sidewalk to Karen’s walk-up. It plays peekaboo with them, reminding them that they've survived to see another day as Frank watches Karen digs for her keys in her purse. It’s stopped raining now, though the air is still muggy with its aftereffects, and they walk slowly as they approach the stairs to her building. She’s got cuts in three places on her face, and he’s got at least one broken rib, but they’re out. They’re safe. 

She’s safe. 

Her hands are still shaking though, vibrating ever so slightly as she attempts to find the right key to get them into the building. The ring jingles like an out-of-tune band, and Frank can see the frustrated, tired tears in her eyes as they slip out of her hand and onto the ground.  

“Let me.”

He stoops before she can and dutifully ignores every protest from his tired, overworked muscles as he picks the bundle of metal up from the ground. They chime their high-pitched tune as he does, muffled by the size of his hand compared to Karen’s, like wind chimes in a distant open window. She doesn’t look at him - won’t look at him, maybe - as he straightens his back, but she can’t hide her frenetic blinking from him as he does. He doesn’t blame her. This is the longest night either of them has had in years. 

He’s never sure how to fill long silences between them. He’s a man of few words, always has been, and the idea of saying anything when his entire body wants to shut down is beyond his area of comprehension right now. Is he supposed to hug her? Pat her on the back, tell her it’s alright after she watched him (not for the first time) eviscerate a handful of human beings like it’s nothing? Nothing he could possibly say can erase that. Erase everything else he’s ever done to her, every layer of hell she’s been dragged through and back out again. Silence feels like the only appropriate response, the only way to avoid dragging her through anything else. 

She’s the first to speak up, naturally. Her voice comes out soft, a quiet monotone Frank suspects she uses to disguise the fact that she’s choking back a night’s worth of emotions all at once. 

“Thanks.” She’s still not looking at him, but she doesn’t move to wipe away tears, doesn’t hide behind the high collar of her jacket to avoid him. “Do you want to…?” 

She hesitates, and Frank can nearly hear her backtracking in her head as her sentence drops off. The missing word hangs in the air, heavy and loud despite the fact that it never leaves Karen’s mouth. 

Stay. 

“I’ll be up working on this damn thing to make the deadline.” She shrugs, as though overnight shootouts and going thirty-six hours without sleep are a regular part of anyone’s workday. The laugh that comes with it is watery. “Might as well have some company.”

The scoff that escapes Frank’s mouth isn’t entirely intentional, but it isn’t accidental either. He can feel the bruised muscles in his face sting as he lets the sound ring, ducking his head to fiddle with the glittering skull trinket she keeps on her key ring. 

“Almost get your head blown off and you’re worried about a deadline,” he mutters. “Should be resting.” 

“So should you. And I know for a fact you won’t sleep a wink.” 

Karen shrugs, reaching a hand out for her keys. Frank obliges, and there’s something of a smile on his face when he does. The little skull glints in the light of the streetlamp, a sly reminder of just what kind of a mess she’d gotten herself involved with. 

“I started this story,” she asserts, “And now I'm obligated to finish it. Just like any job.”

“You think you’re gonna be able to get anything outta that wire?”

“I’ll have to,” she says. “If not, I’ll pester Turk, see what else he can get me. Maybe do a ridealong or something. I know what’s there. We saw it. I just need proof.”

Frank laughs then. Not maliciously - not really intentionally, either. It just spills out, a soft, short bark of a thing that sounds off coming from him. Frank Castle doesn’t laugh, much less like that. It’s like interference on a radio; a negative side effect of pushing the wrong button or adjusting the wrong lever. The AM channel no one ever wants to use. 

“Y’know,” he huffs, “I wonder if you don’t know when to let something die.”

It’s not that he doesn’t think before he speaks - Frank’s a smart man, he knows what happens when someone backs Karen Page into a corner. He’s seen it, from the moment she shoved that photo of his family in his face while he was chained helpless to a hospital bed, and he respects it. She’s a force to be reckoned with, a hurricane of immense proportions that doesn’t give a shit who you are or how much power you say you have if you’re in the way of the truth. Karen Page is not someone to be taken lightly. 

But she’s more than that. She’s also a human being, a woman with a life, friends, family that cares about her. She’s got more than blood on her hands and a legacy so stained she can’t even use the name her family thought to give her when she was born. She’s better than that, better than this ugly, misshapen world they’ve both found themselves in whether they like it or not. She’s the best goddamn thing to happen to New York - hell, the country, probably - since god knows what, and to lose her to the storm of her own determination is something that Frank thinks might snap a lot of people clean in two. 

Himself included. 

He knows he’s said the wrong thing, knows he’s pushed that button of hers that makes her cheeks flare red and her voice hike up a few notches. He can tell as soon as the words are out of his mouth, as soon as she bunches her keys up in her fist in a way that’s got to hurt as she finally looks him in the eyes. 

“Oh, you mean the hundreds of people that would die because I put myself over the truth?” She spits the words out like they’re shitty vodka from Josie’s, like if she kept them in she’d explode. “What am I supposed to do, just let this fall by the wayside? Tell Ellison I need him to switch me to the lifestyle section this week? I can’t just let it go. That’s not how this works.” 

A part of Frank knows she’s right - knows that this shit won’t stop until the world can see the man behind the curtain - but a bigger part of him, the stubborn, protective part of him that he can never quite seem to fight down, can’t live with the idea of danger knocking at Karen’s door. 

“You could’ve been killed before the truth ever got out!” He doesn’t mean to be as loud as he is, but that hidden part of him doesn’t like the quiet. “You really want to do that again? You want to put a gun to your own head like that?” 

“I was hardly in danger of anything except hurting my own pride and you know that. I just let myself get scared.” 

Frank can see her flex her hand where her keys are digging into her palm, but she doesn’t relent. She doesn’t look angry, but he can see the way her jaw clenches to fight back another round of frustrated tears threatening to spill over. He can see how tense she is, how close her shoulders are to touching her ears. She’s got every hallmark of a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but she refuses to move an inch. 

“Don’t make this about my safety, Frank,” she says. “You can’t keep mothering me like this. I can handle myself.”

She stares at him like she bore a hole directly to his soul, and Frank’s skin burns when she looks at him like that. Not like fire, but like acid. Corrosive, stinging, sizzling. It’s a burning that seeps through his clothes, plasters them to his body so nothing he does can serve as escape. It’s the worst in his hands - pins and needles that suddenly makes that “reach out and touch faith” song make more sense. He feels the stinging down to his bones, and sometimes he wonders whether he’s just a skeletal ghost floating around anymore. Whether the rest of him matches the skull crudely painted on a vest in his closet. 

No, it’s not like fire. Fire would be too easy, too instant. One splash of water and it’s out, wiped from body and from memory. It burns brightly but shortly, in and out of someone’s life with almost no passing thought beyond treating the wounds left behind. Fire is an easy solution. Fire doesn’t come from people who matter. 

No, the burning Frank feels isn’t fire, because Karen Page never does things the easy way. 

“‘M sorry,” he says, conceding another in a long list of arguments that neither of them would ever be able to win. He doesn’t know what to say, what to do to stop the burning. Isn’t sure if he wants to stop it. “Just didn’t—I didn’t want it to be like that.”

“Didn’t want what to…” 

Her sentence drifts off before she can finish it, and he can’t be sure whether she understood what he was referring to. Her fists clench and unclench, and the burning worsens when she looks at him like she’s staring down the barrel of a gun. 

“Frank, come on.” Her voice is tired - the groan of someone who’s been through far too much, far too soon. “You’re bleeding. I’m tired. Let’s just go up, and you can crash on the couch and we’ll talk about this—“

In the morning. Later. After. That’s always how it goes. Let things settle. Let them rest. Let the blood flow out of things, let the venom run its course. Take the rose-colored glasses off and let reality settle back in before anyone does something dumb. Karen wants an after for him, she’s said as much. She wants him to be able to walk out, as unscathed as a man with blood on his hands can ever manage to be. 

What she doesn’t realize is that his after is already standing right in front of him. 

Which is his only explanation for why his hand shoots out and closes around her arm like he’s pulling her away from some invisible danger. It’s the only explanation for the way he spins her like a top, until they’re close enough that he can see her eyes dilate in surprise. It’s the only explanation for the way he can feel his heart pounding in his chest, a feral animal broken free and running down the streets of Brooklyn with wild abandon.

It’s the only explanation for the way that he kisses her on her front stoop for God, the early morning garbagemen, and the rest of the modern world to see. 

Karen Page, he realizes, is everything good left in the world. She is sun after a thunderstorm and a comfortable bed after a long day. She’s raucous laughter at a terrible joke, the kindness of a stranger when you need it most. She’s good friends and fond memories and the ridiculous way she dances to Lady Gaga whenever she finishes a piece that gives her trouble. She’s the beers they share on her fire escape after weeks away and the tight feeling he gets in his chest every time someone asks what the hell he’s still fighting so hard for. She’s everything he thought he’d given up the right to have a long time ago, and she’s everything he fights to keep. 

Pulling away from her is painful. More painful than any gunshot, any gut punch, any knife wound he’s ever received. Pulling away from Karen is like pulling the skin from his bones, the air from his lungs. It’s like the burning he feels, only a million times worse. A million hot pokers on his skin, burning away anything that makes him who he is and leaving nothing but a shell, cradling this stubborn, beautiful, terrifyingly intelligent woman in its arms. 

All that’s left is her. All that matters is her. 

Her eyes are closed when he finally moves far enough away to see her face in full. For a moment, he panics, terrified -- too close, too close, fuck, did I make her cry again? -- but then she’s opening them, something he thinks might be glee or absolute horror written on her face. He can’t tell which is which, so he improvises. 

“Didn’t want to do that in front of the Irish.”

Karen’s pupils are still dilated, and the glee-horror-something-else-maybe morphs. Becomes a little clearer. 

“Oh.”

It sounds less like surprise and more like a smug question. He shrugs. He’s still got a hand at the small of her back. 

“Didn’t want them to get a chance at it either.”

Now he sounds smug. The garbagemen can definitely see them now. He’s not sure he cares. 

“Mmm.” Karen doesn’t bother to move. Doesn’t bother to separate herself from him. “Kinda glad about that.” 

Frank quirks an eyebrow. 

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah.” She fiddles with her keyring. Glances at the tiny skull. Jams the whole thing in her pocket. “‘Cause you kinda just ruined it for me for the rest of my life.” 

“What, the saving your life or the kissing?”

“Both.” 

She taps his chest with her newly free hand, and the spaces that have been hollow there since the park feel just that much fuller. Just enough to ease the ache. 

“But mostly the latter.”

Frank can’t even remember what the latter is, but Karen’s kissing him again and that’s all that matters. This moment, on this grimy doorstep, with her hands bunched in his coat and his wrapped around her back. 

So this is what it means to finally have an after. 

[terror-that-flaps-in-the-evening]

Words and Scribbles

The first time Launchpad had to go out on an adventure with Mr. McDuck and the kids after he and Drake started dating, he left Drake a coloring book and asked him to do his daily colorings for him. Drake had really done his best before that to shrug his shoulders and say, “Oh, yeah, I’ll be fine here alone.” He’d been so nonchalant about it - telling everyone who asked that yea, he’d miss his boyfriend, but he’d be fine. He wouldn’t worry.

The coloring book was the straw the broke the camel’s back, however. Drake, despite telling everyone who asked him that, no, of course he wasn’t going to cry when Launchpad went out of town indefinitely on one of Mr. McDuck’s crazy, life-threatening, potentially world-ending adventures. He was a grown adult, and he could handle being alone for a few days, weeks, months, whatever it took. 

He was a grown adult who was trusted by his boyfriend with his coloring book for the duration of an indefinite trip. Drake knew that Launchpad loved relaxing at the end of the day by scribbling away at the pictures inside - he knew the weight that was being handed to him in between the covers of such a simple and childish gesture.

So, yeah, Drake Mallard was a little bit of a sobbing mess the first time his boyfriend left home to go out on an adventure with his other family. For an hour after Launchpad left, Drake lay curled up on the floor in his living room, clutching at the coloring book that was left to him and wishing that he could call Launchpad. 

He was pretty sure there was some sort of rule on airplanes that all cell-phones had to be turned off, though. At least on the commercial flights he’d taken. He wasn’t entirely sure if Della and Launchpad followed those same customs, but he certainly wasn’t going to endanger quite literally everyone he really knew just for a phone call to a duck that had only been gone for an hour.

Drake wasn’t completely useless, however. So, after only a few hours of moping about, Drake managed to drag himself off the floor and into the kitchen, where he promptly started tearing up again as he realized that he was making himself a dinner for one. Sure, he’d gotten a lot of his cooking out of his system when he was meal-prepping for Launchpad, the kids, Mr. McDuck, and Mr. McDuck’s niece and nephew, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t still have it in his heart that he should be cooking for at the very least himself and his boyfriend.

Drake ended up making himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and practically throwing himself in one of the dining room chairs - which gave a dangerous creak from the force of which he plopped down. New dining room furniture, he noted, was something he needed to work on once S.H.U.S.H. started paying him…

Once he had devoured his childish dinner, he realized that he had a much more childish task to attend to. Drake flipped open the coloring book, tracing the crayon lines that had already been colored in by his boyfriend with his fingers, letting his mind drift to all the times that they’d been laying on the couch together, watching Darkwing Duck while Launchpad scribbled away.

He flipped through the pages slowly, admiring each and every page, despite the ultimate simplicity that the nature of the activity dictated. It wasn’t until he got to the first uncolored page that his heart dropped out of his chest once again as a piece of paper floated down out of the coloring book. He picked it up and read,

“Heya, Drake! This is Launchpad, obviously. I am writing here as instructions. You have to follow them. That’s the rules. They’re easy, because I don’t like hard games. Just color for me, like I said before I left (Thanks past Launchpad!). Then after you color, you get another paper. From me. Launchpad. Get coloring!”

The note was written in crayon, with alternating colors featuring some of their favorites and some random splashes of color. There were little scribbles and doodles all around the note, some of which looked vaguely like hearts that had been half scribbled out, then redone. A few of the longer words had a few crossed out versions in front of them, but no matter because in Drake’s heart, it was the world’s best piece of literature. Drake took the note over to the fridge, placing a Darkwing Duck magnet over it to hold it in place. 

As childish as he felt doing it, Drake grabbed Launchpad’s box of crayons, curiously labeled “Launchpad’s! Do not eat!” Drake made a mental note to ask Launchpad if someone else had tried to eat his crayons before. Drake picked out a plum purple and began to darkly color the outline of the train that was sprawled out on the page in front of him. Once he’d finished his dark outline, he lightly colored in the body with varying shades of purple, creating what he’d call a work of art compared to Launchpad’s wild scribbles - not that he disliked the fact that Launchpad just went wild on the page with the pack of crayons. It was cathartic to watch his boyfriend do, and it was comforting to have that piece of him here now that he was out in the air somewhere, on the way to adventure.

The first day after Launchpad left, Drake went to the coloring book as soon as he woke up, very tempted to unfold the note that lay on the next page (Labeled, “No peeking!”) before he finished the coloring of the lion that lay on that page, but Drake knew that Launchpad’s first question would be whether or not he followed the rules, so he managed to hold back his eagerness to hear from his boyfriend.

Once he finally finished coloring the lion with an unfortunate thorn in its paw (Drake had added the splinter and a tear to the drawing - for dramatic effect!), Drake eagerly slipped his finger under the fold in the paper and flipped it open.

“Day one of no Launchpad. You must be sad. I know I am. In between being scared for my life, that is! Adventures are crazy. I am probably being very brave right now. You are probably being very brave too - being Darkwing alone. I am going to buy you a sooveneer.” 

Drake made a mental note to tell Launchpad how to spell souvenir. He also made a mental note to tell Launchpad just how much this entire thing meant to him. It felt like he might not be entirely alone, what with Launchpad’s good natured-ness still there to envelop his heart in warmth. Reading the note, he could hear his boyfriend’s voice echoing through his head, and he could practically picture him laying on the floor in the McDuck manor garage, tongue stuck half out as he scribbled away notes and carefully folded them into little origami triangles to hide in the coloring book. 

Each day only made Drake appreciate the gesture more and more. On day three (After coloring a picture of a pond full of fish, to which Drake drew in a shark), the letter read, “Things are probably getting rough on my end. I say they’ve gotten in three arguments by now! I’ll keep count and we can see when I get home! Have you caught any good bad guys? By good, I mean bad. By bad I mean extra bad. Extra bad-baddies. The mean kind. Answer here _______________. Tell me about it when I’m home.”

Drake scribbled away his answer in the small space provided, telling a story about a particularly rude villain that he arrested - he had gotten called a creepy cosplayer while he was in the process of tying up the guy. Drake drew a little picture of him, taking the liberty of adding devil horns. He made sure to leave the picture colorless, so Launchpad had something to do when he got back. Drake added the note and his own addition to his fridge collection. Another day closer to having his boyfriend back.

Day four was a coloring sheet of a small duck strumming away at a guitar. Drake wrote the notes for the Darkwing Duck intro above the guitar and drew a little smiley face. “Let’s Get Dangerous,” he wrote above the picture after he finished coloring it, proud of his handiwork for the day. He’d earned the next note.

“Heya! It’s LP again. I’d hope you know that by now. Today is a scavenger hunt. Or, sort of. Just go to the bedroom, and go under the bed. Or, look under the bed. There is a box that says, ‘Launchpad’s Do not Eat,’ on it. It has something for you. Miss you.”

Drake resisted the urge to run to the room immediately - instead he took the time to pin up the note alongside the first three. By the time he made it to the bedroom and dug the little shoebox out, he was shaking with anticipation. He opened the lid, and his jaw dropped. Within the shoe box was one of the few pieces of Darkwing Duck memorabilia that he had not managed to obtain yet - the classic Darkwing Duck slippers that went for hundreds online. Drake felt himself tearing up again as he put his feet into the cute little cartoony versions of his childhood hero.

On day five, Drake woke up with his entire body aching from the fight with a few of the Beagle Boys he’d had the night before. Usually when they woke up after a rough fight, Launchpad would massage his back for a while, he’d massage Launchpad’s back, and then they’d make breakfast together. Instead, he hobbled out of bed and made himself some toast. He immediately got to coloring, eager to see what awaited inside. He took his time filling the drawing of two ducks riding a tandem bicycle, trying to add features to the two to make them look more like him and Launchpad. He wasn’t sure how successful he was, so he ended up just labeling them in the end. He eagerly unfolded that day’s note, ready to hear it sounding out to him in his boyfriend’s voice in his brain.

“LP here! Mr. McDee said it’d only take a little bit, so maybe I’ll be home soon. Here’s a Hamburger Hippo coupon I saved for you. Get yourself dinner! I miss you. Or, I will miss you. I am Launchpad from the past. OooooOOOooooOoooo, spooky!”

The entire letter was surrounded in drawings of clocks and little ghosts. There were also a few of what Drake could only assume were supposed to be ghost clocks. Drake’s fridge was starting to look more like an art museum than a fridge, but he wasn’t complaining. Each time he saw the letters that peppered his fridge, his heart started fluttering all over again. He couldn’t wait to see Launchpad again - the second his boyfriend came knocking on his door, he’d get attacked with the full force of a flying, climbing, scaling hug that would no doubt end up with Drake clinging to Launchpad for hours.

Day six was laundry day. Usually they’d end up having a sock fight when they were trying to fold the clothes. Instead, Drake folded the clothes in record time with a sagging heart. His heart fell even further when he saw the coloring scene he had for the day - it was a sock. Who puts a sock in a coloring book? Drake made a mental note to look up who in the world designated the drawings that went into this coloring book so he could have a word with them. Once he finished, he eagerly grabbed the note that was stuck in that page, unfolding it to see,

“Laundry day. I probably need laundry day. Jungles don’t have washing machines. Fun fact. From Launchpad. Your boyfriend. I will throw a sock to say I miss you. In the future, not now. I am past Launchpad. Throw a sock for me too. Miss you,” Drake grabbed one of the pairs of socks he’d just folded, ripped the two socks from each other, and hurled one of them as far as he could. Somehow, it landed on top of the fridge. At least when he would have to ask Launchpad to get it down, he’d have proof that he was following the rules… Drake pinned the note up on the fridge, and continued on with his day.

Day seven. A week had passed. Drake found it hard to believe that he hadn’t heard Launchpad for a week. He hadn’t seen him for a week. He saved the coloring and note for that day until right before bed - wanting to cherish each second that he could of looking forward to it. As he was coloring away at the picture of the day - a monkey hanging from a tree (Drake was adding bananas to make it more fun), he heard a knock at the door. 

Drake thought he must be hearing things - no way was Launchpad back so soon! He carefully closed the coloring book and lay it on his bed, somehow managing to fight the urge to just toss it and sprint to the door. He felt his legs turning to jelly as he walked to the door, wearing the slippers that his amazing boyfriend had somehow acquired for him.

Drake just knew that the moment he opened the door, it would turn out to be the mailman, someone who had the wrong door, an assassin sent to kill him, anyone but --

He swung the door open and felt his heart stop. There he was. Launchpad McQuack, in the flesh. Drake ran full force into the mountain of a man, who immediately picked him up to swing him around. “Don’t ever leave again,” Drake mumbled through his tears into Launchpad’s chest. He took in the scent of the man - how he’d missed that strange combination of baby shampoo, oil, leather, mustard, and a slight cologne-y smell. 

“I missed you,” Launchpad squeezed the air out of Drake’s lungs, but it wasn’t something Drake was going to complain about - on the contrary. He didn’t want this hug to ever end, because it felt like the second the hug was over he might lose his boyfriend to adventure again. He couldn’t let that happen again, he loved every second he had with Launchpad. He--

“Launchpad?” Drake pulled his head back just enough to give his boyfriend a quick peck before burying his face in Launchpad’s chest and saying, “I’m in love with you.” 

Maybe it wasn’t quite the opportune time for his first confession of love, but damn if it didn’t feel right. He felt Launchpad’s hug increase in power to a dangerous, spine-cracking level, and he felt like he was hugging just as hard back.

“I love you too, Drake,” Launchpad said, with tears in his eyes, “I love you so much.”

“I hope you know that you’re bringing me along on your next adventure,” Drake said, nuzzling into Launchpad’s chest. “I mean, what adventure wouldn’t benefit from famed superhero Darkwing Duck. And what day wouldn’t be better with the man I love?” Drake felt his heart skip a beat as he said those magical words again. Who knew that seven days without the man he loved would really awaken the awareness of that love in him?