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aboveallarescuer · 4 years

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Dany and Barristan’s relationship

This is a list of all the passages from the books featuring key moments in Dany and Barristan’s relationship (including Barristan's chapters).

In my opinion, this is a relationship that deserves more appreciation than it gets. There are multiple reasons why it doesn't: most of us (myself included) wish we had gotten Missandei's POV instead of Barristan's; most of us (myself included) were more eager to see Dany and Tyrion finally intersect and interact with each other than to enjoy Dany and Barristan's dynamic; D&D chose to focus on show!Jorah's relationship with show!Dany, to the detriment of show!Barristan; Dany/Barristan doesn't leave room for shipping like Dany/Jon or Dany/Jorah or Dany/Daario or Dany/Drogo; certain asoiaf meta writers overfocus on the possibility that Barristan might betray Dany for Aegon (which I don't find likely) or harshly criticize Barristan (since his character development is inherently tied to Dany's actions, criticizing him is a convenient way to criticize Dany herself).

Still, Barristan is meant to be a foil to Jorah in that the former does what the latter was unwilling (or incapable) of doing: he respects Dany's authority and personal boundaries, he thinks that slavery is immoral, he always calls Dany by her rightful title, he praises Dany for her own sake (instead of relating her accomplishments back to a man), he admires Dany for caring about her people, he knows her well enough to realize that she's in love with Daario, he thinks of what she would do when she's away from Meereen before making his decisions and so on.

A Dance with Dragons

ADWD Daenerys X

She still clung to the hope that someone would come after her. Ser Barristan might come seeking her; he was the first of her Queensguard, sworn to defend her life with his own.

And she wondered how much the Yunkai’i knew about what her captain meant to her. She had asked Ser Barristan that question the afternoon the hostages went forth. “They will have heard the talk,” he had replied. “Naharis may even have boasted of Your Grace’s ... of your great ... regard ... for him. If you will forgive my saying so, modesty is not one of the captain’s virtues. He takes great pride in his ... his swordsmanship.”

He boasts of bedding me, you mean.

As the world darkened, Dany settled in and closed her eyes, but sleep refused to come. The night was cold, the ground hard, her belly empty. She found herself thinking of Meereen, of Daario, her love, and Hizdahr, her husband, of Irri and Jhiqui and sweet Missandei, Ser Barristan and Reznak and Skahaz Shavepate. Do they fear me dead? I flew off on a dragon’s back. Will they think he ate me?

ADWD The Queen's Hand

He stood beside the parapets of the highest step of the Great Pyramid, searching the sky as he did every morning, knowing that the dawn must come and hoping that his queen would come with it. She will not have abandoned us, she would never leave her people, he was telling himself, when he heard the prince’s death rattle coming from the queen’s apartments.

At his command, Quentyn Martell had been laid out in the queen’s own bed. He had been a knight, and a prince of Dorne besides. It seemed only kind to let him die in the bed he had crossed half a world to reach. The bedding was ruined—sheets, covers, pillows, mattress, all reeked of blood and smoke, but Ser Barristan thought Daenerys would forgive him.

He should have stayed in Dorne. He should have stayed a frog. Not all men are meant to dance with dragons. As he covered the boy once more, he found himself wondering whether there would be anyone to cover his queen, or whether her own corpse would lie un-mourned amongst the tall grasses of the Dothraki sea, staring blindly at the sky until her flesh fell from her bones.

“No,” he said aloud. “Daenerys is not dead. She was riding that dragon. I saw it with mine own two eyes.” He had said the same a hundred times before … but every day that passed made it harder to believe. Her hair was afire. I saw that too. She was burning … and if I did not see her fall, hundreds swear they did.

“They await the Hand’s pleasure below.”

I am no Hand, a part of him wanted to cry out. I am only a simple knight, the queen’s protector. I never wanted this. But with the queen gone and the king in chains, someone had to rule, and Ser Barristan did not trust the Shavepate.

“The black beast came once, why not again? This time with our queen.”

Or without her. Should Drogon return to Meereen without Daenerys mounted on his back, the city would erupt in blood and flame, of that Ser Barristan had no doubt. The very men sitting at this table would soon be at dagger points with one another. A young girl she might be, but Daenerys Targaryen was the only thing that held them all together.

“Her Grace will return when she returns,” said Ser Barristan.

Though he had assumed the title of Hand, Ser Barristan would not presume to hold court in the queen’s absence, nor would he permit Skahaz mo Kandaq to do such. Hizdahr’s grotesque dragon thrones had been removed at Ser Barristan’s command, but he had not brought back the simple pillowed bench the queen had favored. Instead a large round table had been set up in the center of the hall, with tall chairs all around it where men might sit and talk as peers.

“You had best guard that tongue, ser.” Ser Barristan did not like this Gerris Drinkwater, nor would he allow him to vilify Daenerys. “Prince Quentyn’s death was his own doing, and yours.”

“He offered her his heart,” Ser Gerris said again. “She needed swords, not hearts.”

“He would have given her the spears of Dorne as well.”

“Would that he had.” No one had wanted Daenerys to look with favor on the Dornish prince more than Barristan Selmy.

“...Duty brought Prince Quentyn here. Duty, honor, thirst for glory … never love. Quentyn was here for dragons, not Daenerys.”

The Dornishmen, Hizdahr, Reznak, the attack … was he doing the right things? Was he doing what Daenerys would have wanted? I was not made for this. Other Kingsguard had served as Hand before him. Not many, but a few. He had read of them in the White Book. Now he found himself wondering whether they had felt as lost and confused as he did.

Galazza Galare was attended by four Pink Graces. An aura of wisdom and dignity seemed to surround her that Ser Barristan could not help but admire. This is a strong woman, and she has been a faithful friend to Daenerys.

“If you truly think me wise, heed me now. Release the noble Hizdahr and restore him to his throne.”

“Only the queen can do that.”

“...Even your own young queen, fair Daenerys who called herself the Mother of Dragons … we saw her burning, that day in the pit … even she was not safe from the dragon’s wroth.”

“Her Grace is not … she …”

“… is dead. May the gods grant her sweet sleep.” Tears glistened behind her veils. “Let her dragons die as well.”

ADWD The Kingbreaker

“One guardsman amongst forty. All waiting for the empty tabard on the throne to speak the command so we might cut down Bloodbeard and the rest. Do you think the Yunkai’i would ever have dared present Daenerys with the head of her hostage?”

No, thought Selmy. “Hizdahr seemed distraught.”

“Sham. His own kin of Loraq were returned unharmed. You saw. The Yunkai’i played us a mummer’s farce, with noble Hizdahr as chief mummer. The issue was never Yurkhaz zo Yunzak. The other slavers would gladly have trampled that old fool themselves. This was to give Hizdahr a pretext to kill the dragons.”

Ser Barristan chewed on that. “Would he dare?”

“He dared to kill his queen. Why not her pets? If we do not act, Hizdahr will hesitate for a time, to give proof of his reluctance and allow the Wise Masters the chance to rid him of the Stormcrow and the bloodrider. Then he will act. They want the dragons dead before the Volantene fleet arrives.”

Aye, they would. It all fit. That did not mean Barristan Selmy liked it any better. “That will not happen.” His queen was the Mother of Dragons; he would not allow her children to come to harm.

“Daario might piss on us if we were burning. Elsewise do not look to him for help. Let the Stormcrows choose another captain, one who knows his place. If the queen does not return, the world will be one sellsword short. Who will grieve?”

“And when she does return?”

“She will weep and tear her hair and curse the Yunkai’i. Not us. No blood on our hands. You can comfort her. Tell her some tale of the old days, she likes those. Poor Daario, her brave captain … she will never forget him, no … but better for all of us if he is dead, yes? Better for Daenerys too.”

Better for Daenerys, and for Westeros. Daenerys Targaryen loved her captain, but that was the girl in her, not the queen. Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna, and thousands died for it. Daemon Blackfyre loved the first Daenerys, and rose in rebellion when denied her. Bittersteel and Bloodraven both loved Shiera Seastar, and the Seven Kingdoms bled. The Prince of Dragonflies loved Jenny of Oldstones so much he cast aside a crown, and Westeros paid the bride price in corpses. All three of the sons of the fifth Aegon had wed for love, in defiance of their father’s wishes. And because that unlikely monarch had himself followed his heart when he chose his queen, he allowed his sons to have their way, making bitter enemies where he might have had fast friends. Treason and turmoil followed, as night follows day, ending at Summerhall in sorcery, fire, and grief.

Her love for Daario is poison. A slower poison than the locusts, but in the end as deadly. “There is still Jhogo,” Ser Barristan said. “Him, and Hero. Both precious to Her Grace.”

“We have hostages as well,” Skahaz Shavepate reminded him. “If the slavers kill one of ours, we kill one of theirs.”

For a moment Ser Barristan did not know whom he meant. Then it came to him. “The queen’s cupbearers?”

“Hostages,” insisted Skahaz mo Kandaq. “Grazdar and Qezza are the blood of the Green Grace. Mezzara is of Merreq, Kezmya is Pahl, Azzak Ghazeen. Bhakaz is Loraq, Hizdahr’s own kin. All are sons and daughters of the pyramids. Zhak, Quazzar, Uhlez, Hazkar, Dhazak, Yherizan, all children of Great Masters.”

“Innocent girls and sweet-faced boys.” Ser Barristan had come to know them all during the time they served the queen, Grazhar with his dreams of glory, shy Mezzara, lazy Miklaz, vain, pretty Kezmya, Qezza with her big soft eyes and angel’s voice, Dhazzar the dancer, and the rest. “Children.”

“Children of the Harpy. Only blood can pay for blood.”

“So said the Yunkishman who brought us Groleo’s head.”

“He was not wrong.”

“I will not permit it.”

“What use are hostages if they may not be touched?”

“Mayhaps we might offer three of the children for Daario, Hero, and Jhogo,” Ser Barristan allowed. “Her Grace—”

“—is not here. It is for you and me to do what must be done. You know that I am right.”

“Prince Rhaegar had two children,” Ser Barristan told him. “Rhaenys was a little girl, Aegon a babe in arms. When Tywin Lannister took King’s Landing, his men killed both of them. He served the bloody bodies up in crimson cloaks, a gift for the new king.” And what did Robert say when he saw them? Did he smile? Barristan Selmy had been badly wounded on the Trident, so he had been spared the sight of Lord Tywin’s gift, but oft he wondered. If I had seen him smile over the red ruins of Rhaegar’s children, no army on this earth could have stopped me from killing him. “I will not suffer the murder of children. Accept that, or I’ll have no part of this.”

Rhaegar had chosen Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. Barristan Selmy would have made a different choice. Not the queen, who was not present. Nor Elia of Dorne, though she was good and gentle; had she been chosen, much war and woe might have been avoided. His choice would have been a young maiden not long at court, one of Elia’s companions … though compared to Ashara Dayne, the Dornish princess was a kitchen drab.

Even after all these years, Ser Barristan could still recall Ashara’s smile, the sound of her laughter. He had only to close his eyes to see her, with her long dark hair tumbling about her shoulders and those haunting purple eyes. Daenerys has the same eyes. Sometimes when the queen looked at him, he felt as if he were looking at Ashara’s daughter …

ADWD The Discarded Knight

Daenerys Targaryen had preferred to hold court from a bench of polished ebony, smooth and simple, covered with the cushions that Ser Barristan had found to make her more comfortable. King Hizdahr had replaced the bench with two imposing thrones of gilded wood, their tall backs carved into the shape of dragons. The king seated himself in the right-hand throne with a golden crown upon his head and a jeweled sceptre in one pale hand. The second throne remained vacant.

The important throne, thought Ser Barristan. No dragon chair can replace a dragon no matter how elaborately it’s carved.

“Is it true?” a freedwoman shouted. “Is our mother dead?”

“No, no, no,” Reznak screeched. “Queen Daenerys will return to Meereen in her own time in all her might and majesty. Until such time, His Worship King Hizdahr shall—”

“He is no king of mine,” a freedman yelled.

Men began to shove at one another. “The queen is not dead,” the seneschal proclaimed. “Her bloodriders have been dispatched across the Skahazadhan to find Her Grace and return her to her loving lord and loyal subjects. Each has ten picked riders, and each man has three swift horses, so they may travel fast and far. Queen Daenerys shall be found.”

A tall Ghiscari in a brocade robe spoke next, in a voice as sonorous as it was cold. King Hizdahr shifted on his dragon throne, his face stony as he did his best to appear concerned but unperturbed. Once again his seneschal gave answer.

Ser Barristan let Reznak’s oily words wash over him. His years in the Kingsguard had taught him the trick of listening without hearing, especially useful when the speaker was intent on proving that words were truly wind. Back at the rear of the hall, he spied the Dornish princeling and his two companions. They should not have come. Martell does not realize his danger. Daenerys was his only friend at this court, and she is gone. He wondered how much they understood of what was being said. Even he could not always make sense of the mongrel Ghiscari tongue the slavers spoke, especially when they were speaking fast.

Prince Quentyn was listening intently, at least. That one is his father’s son. Short and stocky, plain-faced, he seemed a decent lad, sober, sensible, dutiful … but not the sort to make a young girl’s heart beat faster. And Daenerys Targaryen, whatever else she might be, was still a young girl, as she herself would claim when it pleased her to play the innocent. Like all good queens she put her people first—else she would never have wed Hizdahr zo Loraq—but the girl in her still yearned for poetry, passion, and laughter. She wants fire, and Dorne sent her mud.

Martell was dancing in a vipers’ nest, and he did not even see the snakes. His continued presence, even after Daenerys had given herself to another before the eyes of gods and men, would provoke any husband, and Quentyn no longer had the queen to shield him from Hizdahr’s wroth. Although …

The thought hit him like a slap across the face. Quentyn had grown up amongst the courts of Dorne. Plots and poisons were no strangers to him. Nor was Prince Lewyn his only uncle. He is kin to the Red Viper. Daenerys had taken another for her consort, but if Hizdahr died, she would be free to wed again. Could the Shavepate have been wrong? Who can say that the locusts were meant for Daenerys? It was the king’s own box. What if he was meant to be the victim all along? Hizdahr’s death would have smashed the fragile peace. The Sons of the Harpy would have resumed their murders, the Yunkishmen their war. Daenerys might have had no better choice than Quentyn and his marriage pact.

Ser Barristan watched them, thoughtful. What would Daenerys want? he asked himself. He thought he knew.

“This Ghiscari lordling is no fit consort for the queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“That is not for you to judge.” Ser Barristan paused, wondering if he had said too much already. No. Tell him the rest of it. “That day at Daznak’s Pit, some of the food in the royal box was poisoned. It was only chance that Strong Belwas ate it all. The Blue Graces say that only his size and freakish strength have saved him, but it was a near thing. He may yet die.”

The shock was plain on Prince Quentyn’s face. “Poison … meant for Daenerys?”

“Her or Hizdahr. Perhaps both. The box was his, though. His Grace made all the arrangements. If the poison was his doing … well, he will need a scapegoat. Who better than a rival from a distant land who has no friends at this court? Who better than a suitor the queen spurned?”

Quentyn Martell went pale. “Me? I would never … you cannot think I had any part in any …”

That was the truth, or he is a master mummer. “Others might,” said Ser Barristan. “The Red Viper was your uncle. And you have good reason to want King Hizdahr dead.”

“So do others,” suggested Gerris Drinkwater. “Naharis, for one. The queen’s …”

“… paramour,” Ser Barristan finished, before the Dornish knight could say anything that might besmirch the queen’s honor.

ADWD The Queensguard

You were the queen’s man,” said Reznak mo Reznak. “The king desires his own men about him when he holds court.”

I am the queen’s man still. Today, tomorrow, always, until my last breath, or hers. Barristan Selmy refused to believe that Daenerys Targaryen was dead.

Perhaps that was why he was being put aside. One by one, Hizdahr removes us all.

Despite all the queen had done, the sickness had spread, both within the city walls and without. Meereen’s markets were closed, its streets empty. King Hizdahr had allowed the fighting pits to remain open, but the crowds were sparse. The Meereenese had even begun to shun the Temple of the Graces, reportedly.

The slavers will find some way to blame Daenerys for that as well, Ser Barristan thought bitterly. He could almost hear them whispering—Great Masters, Sons of the Harpy, Yunkai’i, all telling one another that his queen was dead. Half of the city believed it, though as yet they did not have the courage to say such words aloud. But soon, I think.

Not for the first time, Selmy wondered at the strange fates that had brought him here. He was a knight of Westeros, a man of the stormlands and the Dornish marches; his place was in the Seven Kingdoms, not here upon the sweltering shores of Slaver’s Bay. I came to bring Daenerys home. Yet he had lost her, just as he had lost her father and her brother. Even Robert. I failed him too.

Perhaps Hizdahr was wiser than he knew. Ten years ago I would have sensed what Daenerys meant to do. Ten years ago I would have been quick enough to stop her. Instead he had stood befuddled as she leapt into the pit, shouting her name, then running uselessly after her across the scarlet sands. I am become old and slow. Small wonder Naharis mocked him as Ser Grandfather. Would Daario have moved more quickly if he had been beside the queen that day? Selmy thought he knew the answer to that, though it was not one he liked.

He had dreamed of it again last night: Belwas on his knees retching up bile and blood, Hizdahr urging on the dragonslayers, men and women fleeing in terror, fighting on the steps, climbing over one another, screaming and shouting. And Daenerys …

Her hair was aflame. She had the whip in her hand and she was shouting, then she was on the dragon’s back, flying. The sand that Drogon stirred as he took wing had stung Ser Barristan’s eyes, but through a veil of tears he had watched the beast fly from the pit, his great black wings slapping at the shoulders of the bronze warriors at the gates.

The rest he learned later. Beyond the gates had been a solid press of people. Maddened by the smell of dragon, horses below reared in terror, lashing out with iron-shod hooves. Food stalls and palanquins alike were overturned, men knocked down and trampled. Spears were thrown, cross-bows were fired. Some struck home. The dragon twisted violently in the air, wounds smoking, the girl clinging to his back. Then he loosed the fire.

It had taken the rest of the day and most of the night for the Brazen Beasts to gather up the corpses. The final count was two hundred fourteen slain, three times as many burned or wounded. Drogon was gone from the city by then, last seen high over the Skahazadhan, flying north. Of Daenerys Targaryen, no trace had been found. Some swore they saw her fall. Others insisted that the dragon had carried her off to devour her. They are wrong.

Ser Barristan knew no more of dragons than the tales every child hears, but he knew Targaryens. Daenerys had been riding that dragon, as Aegon had once ridden Balerion of old.

“She might be flying home,” he told himself, aloud. “No,” murmured a soft voice behind him. “She would not do that, ser. She would not go home without us.”

Ser Barristan turned. “Missandei. Child. How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long. This one is sorry if she has disturbed you.”

It was his failures that haunted him at night, though. Jaehaerys, Aerys, Robert. Three dead kings. Rhaegar, who would have been a finer king than any of them. Princess Elia and the children. Aegon just a babe, Rhaenys with her kitten. Dead, every one, yet he still lived, who had sworn to protect them. And now Daenerys, his bright shining child queen. She is not dead. I will not believe it.

Afternoon brought Ser Barristan a brief respite from his doubts. He spent it in the training hall on the pyramid’s third level, working with his boys, teaching them the art of sword and shield, horse and lance … and chivalry, the code that made a knight more than any pit fighter. Daenerys would need protectors her own age about her after he was gone, and Ser Barristan was determined to give her such.

The lads he was instructing ranged in age from eight to twenty. He had started with more than sixty of them, but the training had proved too rigorous for many. Less than half that number now remained, but some showed great promise. With no king to guard, I will have more time to train them now, he realized as he walked from pair to pair, watching them go at one another with blunted swords and spears with rounded heads. Brave boys. Baseborn, aye, but some will make good knights, and they love the queen. If not for her, all of them would have ended in the pits. King Hizdahr has his pit fighters, but Daenerys will have knights.

If the queen had commanded me to protect Hizdahr, I would have had no choice but to obey. But Daenerys Targaryen had never established a proper Queensguard even for herself nor issued any commands in respect to her consort. The world was simpler when I had a lord commander to decide such matters, Selmy reflected. Now I am the lord commander, and it is hard to know which path is right.

“I have the poisoner.”

“Who?”

“Hizdahr’s confectioner. His name would mean nothing to you. The man was just a cats paw. The Sons of the Harpy took his daughter and swore she would be returned unharmed once the queen was dead. Belwas and the dragon saved Daenerys. No one saved the girl. She was returned to her father in the black of night, in nine pieces. One for every year she lived.”

“Why?” Doubts gnawed at him. “The Sons had stopped their killing. Hizdahr’s peace—”

“—is a sham. Not at first, no. The Yunkai’i were afraid of our queen, of her Unsullied, of her dragons. This land has known dragons before. Yurkhaz zo Yunzak had read his histories, he knew. Hizdahr as well. Why not a peace? Daenerys wanted it, they could see that. Wanted it too much. She should have marched to Astapor.” Skahaz moved closer. “That was before. The pit changed all. Daenerys gone, Yurkhaz dead. In place of one old lion, a pack of jackals. Bloodbeard … that one has no taste for peace. And there is more. Worse. Volantis has launched its fleet against us.”

“Volantis.” Selmy’s sword hand tingled. We made a peace with Yunkai. Not with Volantis. “You are certain?”

“Certain. The Wise Masters know. So do their friends. The Harpy, Reznak, Hizdahr. This king will open the city gates to the Volantenes when they arrive. All those Daenerys freed will be enslaved again. Even some who were never slaves will be fitted for chains. You may end your days in a fighting pit, old man. Khrazz will eat your heart.”

His head was pounding. “Daenerys must be told.”

“Find her first.” Skahaz grasped his forearm. His fingers felt like iron. “We cannot wait for her.

“Daenerys signed that peace,” Ser Barristan said. “It is not for us to break it without her leave.”

“And if she is dead?” demanded Skahaz. “What then, ser? I say she would want us to protect her city. Her children.”

Her children were the freedmen. Mhysa, they called her, all those whose chains she broke. “Mother.” The Shavepate was not wrong. Daenerys would want her children protected. “What of Hizdahr? He is still her consort. Her king. Her husband.”

“Her poisoner.”

Is he? “Where is your proof?”

“The crown he wears is proof enough. The throne he sits. Open your eyes, old man. That is all he needed from Daenerys, all he ever wanted. Once he had it, why share the rule?”

Why indeed? It had been so hot down in the pit. He could still see the air shimmering above the scarlet sands, smell the blood spilling from the men who’d died for their amusement. And he could still hear Hizdahr, urging his queen to try the honeyed locusts.

ADWD Daenerys IX

At the base of the Great Pyramid, Ser Barristan awaited them beside an ornate open palanquin, surrounded by Brazen Beasts. Ser Grandfather, Dany thought. Despite his age, he looked tall and handsome in the armor that she’d given him. “I would be happier if you had Unsullied guards about you today, Your Grace,” the old knight said, as Hizdahr went to greet his cousin. “Half of these Brazen Beasts are untried freedmen.” And the other half are Meereenese of doubtful loyalty, he left unsaid. Selmy mistrusted all the Meereenese, even shavepates.

“And untried they shall remain unless we try them.”

“A mask can hide many things, Your Grace. Is the man behind the owl mask the same owl who guarded you yesterday and the day before? How can we know?”

“How should Meereen ever come to trust the Brazen Beasts if I do not? There are good brave men beneath those masks. I put my life into their hands.” Dany smiled for him. “You fret too much, ser. I will have you beside me, what other protection do I need?”

“I am one old man, Your Grace.”

“Strong Belwas will be with me as well.”

“As you say.” Ser Barristan lowered his voice. “Your Grace. We set the woman Meris free, as you commanded. Before she went, she asked to speak with you. I met with her instead. She claims this Tattered Prince meant to bring the Windblown over to your cause from the beginning. That he sent her here to treat with you secretly, but the Dornishmen unmasked them and betrayed them before she could make her own approach.”

Treachery on treachery, the queen thought wearily. Is there no end to it? “How much of this do you believe, ser?”

“Little and less, Your Grace, but those were her words.”

“Will they come over to us, if need be?”

“She says they will. But for a price.”

“Pay it.” Meereen needed iron, not gold.

“The Tattered Prince will want more than coin, Your Grace. Meris says that he wants Pentos.” “Pentos?” Her eyes narrowed. “How can I give him Pentos? It is half a world away.”

“He would be willing to wait, the woman Meris suggested. Until we march for Westeros.”

And if I never march for Westeros? “Pentos belongs to the Pentoshi. And Magister Illyrio is in Pentos. He who arranged my marriage to Khal Drogo and gave me my dragon eggs. Who sent me you, and Belwas, and Groleo. I owe him much and more. I will not repay that debt by giving his city to some sellsword. No.”

Ser Barristan inclined his head. “Your Grace is wise.”

Ser Barristan Selmy rode at Dany’s side, his armor flashing in the sun. A long cloak flowed from his shoulders, bleached as white as bone. On his left arm was a large white shield. A little farther back was Quentyn Martell, the Dornish prince, with his two companions.

The column crept slowly down the long brick street. BOMM. “They come!” BOMM. “Our queen. Our king.” BOMM. “Make way.”

Dany could hear her handmaids arguing behind her, debating who was going to win the day’s final match. Jhiqui favored the gigantic Goghor, who looked more bull than man, even to the bronze ring in his nose. Irri insisted that Belaquo Bonebreaker’s flail would prove the giant’s undoing. My handmaids are Dothraki, she told herself. Death rides with every khalasar. The day she wed Khal Drogo, the arakhs had flashed at her wedding feast, and men had died whilst others drank and mated. Life and death went hand in hand amongst the horselords, and a sprinkling of blood was thought to bless a marriage. Her new marriage would soon be drenched in blood. How blessed it would be.

BOMM, BOMM, BOMM, BOMM, BOMM, BOMM, came the drumbeats, faster than before, suddenly angry and impatient. Ser Barristan drew his sword as the column ground to an abrupt halt between the pink-and-white pyramid of Pahl and the green-and-black of Naqqan.

Dany turned. “Why are we stopped?”

Hizdahr stood. “The way is blocked.”

A palanquin lay overturned athwart their way. One of its bearers had collapsed to the bricks, overcome by heat. “Help that man,” Dany commanded. “Get him off the street before he’s stepped on and give him food and water. He looks as though he has not eaten in a fortnight.”

Ser Barristan glanced uneasily to left and right. Ghiscari faces were visible on the terraces, looking down with cool and unsympathetic eyes. “Your Grace, I do not like this halt. This may be some trap. The Sons of the Harpy—”

“—have been tamed,” declared Hizdahr zo Loraq.

“She needs a spear,” Ser Barristan said, as Barsena vaulted over the beast’s second charge. “That is no way to fight a boar.” He sounded like someone’s fussy old grandsire, just as Daario was always saying.

“Khaleesi?” Irri asked. “What are you doing?”

“Taking off my floppy ears.” A dozen men with boar spears came trotting out onto the sand to drive the boar away from the corpse and back to his pen. The pitmaster was with them, a long barbed whip in his hand. As he snapped it at the boar, the queen rose. “Ser Barristan, will you see me safely back to my garden?”

“Kill it,” Hizdahr zo Loraq shouted to the other spearmen. “Kill the beast!”

Ser Barristan held her tightly. “Look away, Your Grace.”

“Let me go!” Dany twisted from his grasp. The world seemed to slow as she cleared the parapet. When she landed in the pit she lost a sandal. Running, she could feel the sand between her toes, hot and rough. Ser Barristan was calling after her. Strong Belwas was still vomiting. She ran faster.

Drogon roared full in her face, his breath hot enough to blister skin. Off to her right Dany heard Barristan Selmy shouting, “Me! Try me. Over here. Me!”

ADWD Daenerys VIII

“Ser Barristan?” she said softly.

The white knight appeared at once. “Your Grace.”

“How much did you hear?”

“Enough. He was not wrong. Never trust a sellsword.”

Or a queen, thought Dany. “Is there some man in the Second Sons who might be persuaded to … remove … Brown Ben?”

“As Daario Naharis once removed the other captains of the Stormcrows?” The old knight looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps. I would not know, Your Grace.”

No, she thought, you are too honest and too honorable. “If not, the Yunkai’i employ three other companies.”

“Rogues and cutthroats, scum of a hundred battlefields,” Ser Barristan warned, “with captains full as treacherous as Plumm.”

“I am only a young girl and know little of such things, but it seems to me that we want them to be treacherous. Once, you’ll recall, I convinced the Second Sons and Stormcrows to join us.”

“If Your Grace wishes a privy word with Gylo Rhegan or the Tattered Prince, I could bring them up to your apartments.”

“This is not the time. Too many eyes, too many ears. Their absence would be noted even if you could separate them discreetly from the Yunkai’i. We must find some quieter way of reaching out to them … not tonight, but soon.”

“As you command. Though I fear this is not a task for which I am well suited. In King’s Landing work of this sort was left to Lord Littlefinger or the Spider. We old knights are simple men, only good for fighting.” He patted his sword hilt.

“Our prisoners,” suggested Dany. “The Westerosi who came over from the Windblown with the three Dornishmen. We still have them in cells, do we not? Use them.”

“Free them, you mean? Is that wise? They were sent here to worm their way into your trust, so they might betray Your Grace at the first chance.”

“Then they failed. I do not trust them. I will never trust them.” If truth be told, Dany was forgetting how to trust. “We can still use them. One was a woman. Meris. Send her back, as a … a gesture of my regard. If their captain is a clever man, he will understand.”

“The woman is the worst of all.”

“All the better.” Dany considered a moment. “We should sound out the Long Lances too. And the Company of the Cat.”

“Bloodbeard.” Ser Barristan’s frown deepened. “If it please Your Grace, we want no part of him. Your Grace is too young to remember the Ninepenny Kings, but this Bloodbeard is cut from the same savage cloth. There is no honor in him, only hunger … for gold, for glory, for blood.”

“You know more of such men than me, ser.” If Bloodbeard might be truly the most dishonorable and greedy of the sellswords, he might be the easiest to sway, but she was loath to go against Ser Barristan’s counsel in such matters. “Do as you think best. But do it soon. If Hizdahr’s peace should break, I want to be ready. I do not trust the slavers.” I do not trust my husband. “They will turn on us at the first sign of weakness.”

“The Yunkai’i grow weaker as well. The bloody flux has taken hold amongst the Tolosi, it is said, and spread across the river to the third Ghiscari legion.”

The pale mare. Daenerys sighed. Quaithe warned me of the pale mare’s coming. She told me of the Dornish prince as well, the sun’s son. She told me much and more, but all in riddles. “I cannot rely on plague to save me from my enemies. Set Pretty Meris free. At once.”

“As you command. Though … Your Grace, if I may be so bold, there is another road …”

“The Dornish road?” Dany sighed. The three Dornishmen had been at the feast, as befit Prince Quentyn’s rank, though Reznak had taken care to seat them as far as possible from her husband. Hizdahr did not seem to be of a jealous nature, but no man would be pleased by the presence of a rival suitor near his new bride. “The boy seems pleasant and well spoken, but …”

“House Martell is ancient and noble, and has been a leal friend to House Targaryen for more than a century, Your Grace. I had the honor of serving with Prince Quentyn’s great-uncle in your father’s seven. Prince Lewyn was as valiant a brother-in-arms as any man could wish for. Quentyn Martell is of the same blood, if it please Your Grace.”

“It would please me if he had turned up with these fifty thousand swords he speaks of. Instead he brings two knights and a parchment. Will a parchment shield my people from the Yunkai’i? If he had come with a fleet …”

“Sunspear has never been a sea power, Your Grace.”

“No.” Dany knew enough of Westerosi history to know that. Nymeria had landed ten thousand ships upon Dorne’s sandy shores, but when she wed her Dornish prince she had burned them all and turned her back upon the sea forever. “Dorne is too far away. To please this prince, I would need to abandon all my people. You should send him home.”

“Dornishmen are notoriously stubborn, Your Grace. Prince Quentyn’s forebears fought your own for the better part of two hundred years. He will not go without you.”

Then he will die here, Daenerys thought, unless there is more to him than I can see. “Is he still within?”

“Drinking with his knights.”

“Bring him to me. It is time he met my children.”

A flicker of doubt passed across the long, solemn face of Barristan Selmy. “As you command.”

Her king was laughing with Yurkhaz zo Yunzak and the other Yunkish lords. Dany did not think that he would miss her, but just in case she instructed her handmaids to tell him that she was answering a call of nature, should he inquire after her.

Ser Barristan was waiting by the steps with the Dornish prince.

Even here in her own pyramid, on this happy night of peace and celebration, Ser Barristan insisted on keeping guards about her everywhere she went. The small company made the long descent in silence, stopping thrice to refresh themselves along the way.

One of the elephants trumpeted at them from his stall. An answering roar from below made her flush with sudden heat. Prince Quentyn looked up in alarm. “The dragons know when she is near,” Ser Barristan told him.

[...] “Remain outside,” Dany told Ser Barristan, as the Unsullied were opening the huge iron doors. “Prince Quentyn will protect me.” She drew the Dornish prince inside with her, to stand above the pit.

“Ser Barristan will have summoned a pair of sedan chairs to carry us back up to the banquet, but the climb can still be wearisome.”

ADWD Daenerys VII

Khal Drogo had been her sun-and-stars, but he had been dead so long that Daenerys had almost forgotten how it felt to love and be loved. Daario had helped her to remember. I was dead and he brought me back to life. I was asleep and he woke me. My brave captain. Even so, of late he grew too bold. On the day that he returned from his latest sortie, he had tossed the head of a Yunkish lord at her feet and kissed her in the hall for all the world to see, until Barristan Selmy pulled the two of them apart. Ser Grandfather had been so wroth that Dany feared blood might be shed. “We cannot wed, my love. You know why.”

“As you wish. Bring your frog to court tomorrow. The others too. The Westerosi.” It would be nice to hear the Common Tongue from someone besides Ser Barristan.

“If it please Your Grace, we are all three knights.”

Dany glanced at Daario and saw anger flash across his face. He did not know. “I have need of knights,” she said.

Ser Barristan’s suspicions had awakened. “Knighthood is easily claimed this far from Westeros. Are you prepared to defend that boast with sword or lance?”

“If need be,” said Gerrold, “though I will not claim that any of us is the equal of Barristan the Bold. Your Grace, I beg your pardon, but we have come before you under false names.”

“I knew someone else who did that once,” said Dany, “a man called Arstan Whitebeard. Tell me your true names, then.”

“This is your gift? A scrap of writing?” Daario snatched the parchment out of the Dornishman’s hands and unrolled it, squinting at the seals and signatures. “Very pretty, all the gold and ribbons, but I do not read your Westerosi scratchings.”

“Bring it to the queen,” Ser Barristan commanded. “Now.”

Dany could feel the anger in the hall. “I am only a young girl, and young girls must have their gifts,” she said lightly. “Daario, please, you must not tease me. Give it here.”

The parchment was written in the Common Tongue. The queen unrolled it slowly, studying the seals and signatures. When she saw the name Ser Willem Darry, her heart beat a little faster. She read it over once, and then again.

“May we know what it says, Your Grace?” asked Ser Barristan.

“It is a secret pact,” Dany said, “made in Braavos when I was just a little girl. Ser Willem Darry signed for us, the man who spirited my brother and myself away from Dragonstone before the Usurper’s men could take us. Prince Oberyn Martell signed for Dorne, with the Sealord of Braavos as witness.” She handed the parchment to Ser Barristan, so he might read it for himself.

Daario and Ser Barristan followed her up the steps to her apartments. “This changes everything,” the old knight said.

“This changes nothing,” Dany said, as Irri removed her crown. “What good are three men?”

“Three knights,” said Selmy.

“Three liars,” Daario said darkly. “They deceived me.”

“And bought you too, I do not doubt.” He did not trouble to deny it. Dany unrolled the parchment and examined it again. Braavos. This was done in Braavos, while we were living in the house with the red door. Why did that make her feel so strange?

She found herself remembering her nightmare. Sometimes there is truth in dreams. Could Hizdahr zo Loraq be working for the warlocks, was that what the dream had meant? Could the dream have been a sending? Were the gods telling her to put Hizdahr aside and wed this Dornish prince instead? Something tickled at her memory. “Ser Barristan, what are the arms of House Martell?”

“A sun in splendor, transfixed by a spear.”

The sun’s son. A shiver went through her. “Shadows and whispers.” What else had Quaithe said? The pale mare and the sun’s son. There was a lion in it too, and a dragon. Or am I the dragon? “Beware the perfumed seneschal.” That she remembered. “Dreams and prophecies. Why must they always be in riddles? I hate this. Oh, leave me, ser. Tomorrow is my wedding day.”

She found Strong Belwas eating grapes, as Barristan Selmy watched a stableboy cinch the girth on his dapple grey.

Ser Barristan helped her up onto her sedan chair. Quentyn rejoined his fellow Dornishmen. Strong Belwas bellowed for the gates to be opened, and Daenerys Targaryen was carried forth into the sun. Selmy fell in beside her on his dapple grey.

“Tell me,” Dany said, as the procession turned toward the Temple of the Graces, “if my father and my mother had been free to follow their own hearts, whom would they have wed?”

“It was long ago. Your Grace would not know them.”

“You know, though. Tell me.”

The old knight inclined his head. “The queen your mother was always mindful of her duty.” He was handsome in his gold-and-silver armor, his white cloak streaming from his shoulders, but he sounded like a man in pain, as if every word were a stone he had to pass. “As a girl, though … she was once smitten with a young knight from the stormlands who wore her favor at a tourney and named her queen of love and beauty. A brief thing.”

“What happened to this knight?”

“He put away his lance the day your lady mother wed your father. Afterward he became most pious, and was heard to say that only the Maiden could replace Queen Rhaella in his heart. His passion was impossible, of course. A landed knight is no fit consort for a princess of royal blood.”

And Daario Naharis is only a sellsword, not fit to buckle on the golden spurs of even a landed knight. “And my father? Was there some woman he loved better than his queen?”

Ser Barristan shifted in the saddle. “Not … not loved. Mayhaps wanted is a better word, but … it was only kitchen gossip, the whispers of washerwomen and stableboys …”

“I want to know. I never knew my father. I want to know everything about him. The good and … the rest.”

“As you command.” The white knight chose his words with care. “Prince Aerys … as a youth, he was taken with a certain lady of Casterly Rock, a cousin of Tywin Lannister. When she and Tywin wed, your father drank too much wine at the wedding feast and was heard to say that it was a great pity that the lord’s right to the first night had been abolished. A drunken jape, no more, but Tywin Lannister was not a man to forget such words, or the … the liberties your father took during the bedding.” His face reddened. “I have said too much, Your Grace. I—”

“Gracious queen, well met!”

ADWD Daenerys VI

Ser Barristan wrinkled up his nose, and said, “Your Grace should not be here, breathing these black humors.”

“I am the blood of the dragon,” Dany reminded him. “Have you ever seen a dragon with the flux?” Viserys had oft claimed that Targaryens were untroubled by the pestilences that afflicted common men, and so far as she could tell, it was true. She could remember being cold and hungry and afraid, but never sick.

“Even so,” the old knight said, “I would feel better if Your Grace would return to the city.” The many-colored brick walls of Meereen were half a mile back. “The bloody flux has been the bane of every army since the Dawn Age. Let us distribute the food, Your Grace.”

“On the morrow. I am here now. I want to see.” She put her heels into her silver. The others trotted after her. Jhogo rode before her, Aggo and Rakharo just behind, long Dothraki whips in hand to keep away the sick and dying. Ser Barristan was at her right, mounted on a dapple grey.

Yesterday a wagon had been overturned and two of her soldiers killed, so today the queen had determined that she would bring the food herself. Every one of her advisors had argued fervently against it, from Reznak and the Shavepate to Ser Barristan, but Daenerys would not be moved. “I will not turn away from them,” she said stubbornly. “A queen must know the sufferings of her people.”

“Too many dead,” Aggo said. “They should be burned.”

“Who will burn them?” asked Ser Barristan. “The bloody flux is everywhere. A hundred die each night.”

“It is not good to touch the dead,” said Jhogo.

“This is known,” Aggo and Rakharo said, together.

“That may be so,” said Dany, “but this thing must be done, all the same.” She thought a moment. “The Unsullied have no fear of corpses. I shall speak to Grey Worm.”

“Your Grace,” said Ser Barristan, “the Unsullied are your best fighters. We dare not loose this plague amongst them. Let the Astapori bury their own dead.”

“They are too feeble,” said Symon Stripeback.

Dany said, “More food might make them stronger.”

Symon shook his head. “Food should not be wasted on the dying, Your Worship. We do not have enough to feed the living.”

He was not wrong, she knew, but that did not make the words any easier to hear. “This is far enough,” the queen decided. “We’ll feed them here.” She raised a hand. Behind her the wagons bumped to a halt, and her riders spread out around them, to keep the Astapori from rushing at the food. No sooner had they stopped than the press began to thicken around them, as more and more of the afflicted came limping and shambling toward the wagons. The riders cut them off. “Wait your turn,” they shouted. “No pushing. Back. Stay back. Bread for everyone. Wait your turn.”

Dany could only sit and watch. “Ser,” she said to Barristan Selmy, “is there no more we can do? You have provisions.”

“Provisions for Your Grace’s soldiers. We may well need to withstand a long siege. The Stormcrows and the Second Sons can harry the Yunkishmen, but they cannot hope to turn them. If Your Grace would allow me to assemble an army …”

“If there must be a battle, I would sooner fight it from behind the walls of Meereen. Let the Yunkai’i try and storm my battlements.” The queen surveyed the scene around her. “If we were to share our food equally …”

“… the Astapori would eat through their portion in days, and we would have that much less for the siege.”

Dany gazed across the camp, to the many-colored brick walls of Meereen. The air was thick with flies and cries. “The gods have sent this pestilence to humble me. So many dead … I will not have them eating corpses.” She beckoned Aggo closer. “Ride to the gates and bring me Grey Worm and fifty of his Unsullied.”

“Khaleesi. The blood of your blood obeys.” Aggo touched his horse with his heels and galloped off.

Ser Barristan watched with ill-concealed apprehension. “You should not linger here overlong, Your Grace. The Astapori are being fed, as you commanded. There’s no more we can do for the poor wretches. We should repair back to the city.”

“Go if you wish, ser. I will not detain you. I will not detain any of you.” Dany vaulted down from the horse. “I cannot heal them, but I can show them that their Mother cares.”

“To celebrate your nuptials, it would be most fitting if you would allow the fighting pits to open once again. It would be your wedding gift to Hizdahr and to your loving people, a sign that you had embraced the ancient ways and customs of Meereen.”

“And most pleasing to the gods as well,” the Green Grace added in her soft and kindly voice.

A bride price paid in blood. Daenerys was weary of fighting this battle. Even Ser Barristan did not think she could win. “No ruler can make a people good,” Selmy had told her. “Baelor the Blessed prayed and fasted and built the Seven as splendid a temple as any gods could wish for, yet he could not put an end to war and want.” A queen must listen to her people, Dany reminded herself.

The queen was framing her response when she heard a step behind her. The food, she thought. Her cooks had promised her to serve the noble Hizdahr’s favorite meal, dog in honey, stuffed with prunes and peppers. But when she turned to look, it was Ser Barristan standing there, freshly bathed and clad in white, his longsword at his side. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing, “I am sorry to disturb you, but I thought that you would want to know at once. The Stormcrows have returned to the city, with word of the foe. The Yunkishmen are on the march, just as we had feared.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed the noble face of Hizdahr zo Loraq. “The queen is at her supper. These sellswords can wait.”

Ser Barristan ignored him. “I asked Lord Daario to make his report to me, as Your Grace had commanded. He laughed and said that he would write it out in his own blood if Your Grace would send your little scribe to show him how to make the letters.”

“Blood?” said Dany, horrified. “Is that a jape? No. No, don’t tell me, I must see him for myself.” She was a young girl, and alone, and young girls can change their minds. “Convene my captains and commanders. Hizdahr, I know you will forgive me.”

“Meereen must come first.” Hizdahr smiled genially. “We will have other nights. A thousand nights.”

“Ser Barristan will show you out.”

“You’re hurt,” she gasped.

“This?” Daario touched his temple. “A crossbowman tried to put a quarrel through my eye, but I outrode it. I was hurrying home to my queen, to bask in the warmth of her smile.” He shook his sleeve, spattering red droplets. “This blood is not mine. One of my serjeants said we should go over to the Yunkai’i, so I reached down his throat and pulled his heart out. I meant to bring it to you as a gift for my silver queen, but four of the Cats cut me off and came snarling and spitting after me. One almost caught me, so I threw the heart into his face.”

“Very gallant,” said Ser Barristan, in a tone that suggested it was anything but, “but do you have tidings for Her Grace?”

“Hard tidings, Ser Grandfather. Astapor is gone, and the slavers are coming north in strength.”

Ser Barristan frowned at Daario. “Captain, you made mention of four free companies. We know of only three. The Windblown, the Long Lances, and the Company of the Cat.”

“Ser Grandfather knows how to count. The Second Sons have gone over to the Yunkai’i.” Daario turned his head and spat. “That’s for Brown Ben Plumm. When next I see his ugly face I will open him from throat to groin and rip out his black heart.”

“Please,” Dany said, but only Missandei seemed to hear. The queen got to her feet. “Be quiet! I have heard enough.”

“Your Grace.” Ser Barristan went to one knee. “We are yours to command. What would you have us do?”

“Continue as we planned. Gather food, as much as you can.”

ADWD Daenerys V

Ser Barristan remained. “Our stores are ample for the moment,” he reminded her, “and Your Grace has planted beans and grapes and wheat. Your Dothraki have harried the slavers from the hills and struck the shackles from their slaves. They are planting too, and will be bringing their crops to Meereen to market. And you will have the friendship of Lhazar.”

Daario won that for me, for all that it is worth. “The Lamb Men. Would that lambs had teeth.”

“That would make the wolves more cautious, no doubt.”

That made her laugh. “How fare your orphans, ser?”

The old knight smiled. “Well, Your Grace. It is good of you to ask.” The boys were his pride. “Four or five have the makings of knights. Perhaps as many as a dozen.”

“One would be enough if he were as true as you.” The day might come soon when she would have need of every knight. “Will they joust for me? I should like that.” Viserys had told her stories of the tourneys he had witnessed in the Seven Kingdoms, but Dany had never seen a joust herself.

“They are not ready, Your Grace. When they are, they will be pleased to demonstrate their prowess.”

“I hope that day comes quickly.” She would have kissed her good knight on the cheek, but just then Missandei appeared beneath the arched doorway.

Afterward, Ser Barristan told her that her brother Rhaegar would have been proud of her. Dany remembered the words Ser Jorah had spoken at Astapor: Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly, Rhaegar fought honorably. And Rhaegar died.

She turned to Ser Barristan. “Send riders into the hills to find my bloodriders. Recall Brown Ben and the Second Sons as well.”

“And the Stormcrows, Your Grace?”

Daario. “Yes. Yes.” [...]

When Ser Barristan told her that her captain desired words with her, she thought for a moment that it was Daario, and her heart leapt. But the captain that he spoke of was Brown Ben Plumm.

“These are not apples, Ben,” said Dany. “These are men and women, sick and hungry and afraid.” My children. “I should have gone to Astapor.”

“Your Grace could not have saved them,” said Ser Barristan. “You warned King Cleon against this war with Yunkai. The man was a fool, and his hands were red with blood.”

And are my hands any cleaner?

Daenerys looked at the faces of the men around her. The Shavepate, scowling. Ser Barristan, with his lined face and sad blue eyes. Reznak mo Reznak, pale, sweating. Brown Ben, white-haired, grizzled, tough as old leather. Grey Worm, smooth-cheeked, stolid, expressionless. Daario should be here, and my bloodriders, she thought. If there is to be a battle, the blood of my blood should be with me. She missed Ser Jorah Mormont too. He lied to me, informed on me, but he loved me too, and he always gave good counsel.

“I defeated the Yunkai’i before. I will defeat them again. Where, though? How?”

“You mean to take the field?” The Shavepate’s voice was thick with disbelief. “That would be folly. Our walls are taller and thicker than the walls of Astapor, and our defenders are more valiant. The Yunkai’i will not take this city easily.”

Ser Barristan disagreed. “I do not think we should allow them to invest us. Theirs is a patchwork host at best. These slavers are no soldiers. If we take them unawares …”

“Small chance of that,” the Shavepate said. “The Yunkai’i have many friends inside the city. They will know.”

“How large an army can we muster?” Dany asked.

“Not large enough, begging your royal pardon,” said Brown Ben Plumm. “What does Naharis have to say? If we’re going to make a fight o’ this, we need his Stormcrows.”

“Daario is still in the field.”

“Ben, I will need your Second Sons to scout our enemies. Where they are, how fast they are advancing, how many men they have, and how they are disposed.”

“We’ll need provisions. Fresh horses too.”

“Of course. Ser Barristan will see to it.”

“What of these Astapori?”

My children. “They are coming here for help. For succor and protection. We cannot turn our backs on them.”

Ser Barristan frowned. “Your Grace, I have known the bloody flux to destroy whole armies when left to spread unchecked. The seneschal is right. We cannot have the Astapori in Meereen.”

Dany looked at him helplessly. It was good that dragons did not cry.

When Daenerys finally turned away, Ser Barristan stood near her, wrapped in his white cloak against the chill of evening. “Can we make a fight of this?” she asked him.

“Men can always fight, Your Grace. Ask rather if we can win. Dying is easy, but victory comes hard. Your freedmen are half-trained and unblooded. Your sellswords once served your foes, and once a man turns his cloak he will not scruple to turn it again. You have two dragons who cannot be controlled, and a third that may be lost to you. Beyond these walls your only friends are the Lhazarene, who have no taste for war.”

“My walls are strong, though.”

“No stronger than when we sat outside them. And the Sons of the Harpy are inside the walls with us. So are the Great Masters, both those you did not kill and the sons of those you did.”

“I know.” The queen sighed. “What do you counsel, ser?”

“Battle,” said Ser Barristan. “Meereen is overcrowded and full of hungry mouths, and you have too many enemies within. We cannot long withstand a siege, I fear. Let me meet the foe as he comes north, on ground of my own choosing.”

“Meet the foe,” she echoed, “with the freedmen you’ve called half-trained and unblooded.”

“We were all unblooded once, Your Grace. The Unsullied will help stiffen them. If I had five hundred knights …”

“Or five. And if I give you the Unsullied, I will have no one but the Brazen Beasts to hold Meereen.” When Ser Barristan did not dispute her, Dany closed her eyes. Gods, she prayed, you took Khal Drogo, who was my sun-and-stars. You took our valiant son before he drew a breath. You have had your blood of me. Help me now, I pray you. Give me the wisdom to see the path ahead and the strength to do what I must to keep my children safe.

The gods did not respond.

When she opened her eyes again, Daenerys said, “I cannot fight two enemies, one within and one without. If I am to hold Meereen, I must have the city behind me. The whole city. I need … I need …” She could not say it.

“Your Grace?” Ser Barristan prompted, gently.

A queen belongs not to herself but to her people.

ADWD Daenerys IV

“They are very sweet, the both of them,” Dany assured her. “Qezza sings for me sometimes. She has a lovely voice. And Ser Barristan has been instructing Grazhar and the other boys in the ways of western chivalry.”

“Your Grace need only ask him. The noble Hizdahr awaits below. Send down to him if that is your pleasure.”

You presume too much, priestess, the queen thought, but she swallowed her anger and made herself smile. “Why not?” She sent for Ser Barristan and told the old knight to bring Hizdahr to her. “It is a long climb. Have the Unsullied help him up.”

No sooner had Hizdahr zo Loraq taken his leave of her than Ser Barristan appeared behind her in his long white cloak. Years of service in the Kingsguard had taught the white knight how to remain unobtrusive when she was entertaining, but he was never far. He knows, she saw at once, and he disapproves. The lines around his mouth had deepened. “So,” she said to him, “it seems that I may wed again. Are you happy for me, ser?”

“If that is your command, Your Grace.”

“Hizdahr is not the husband you would have chosen for me.”

“It is not my place to choose your husband.”

“It is not,” she agreed, “but it is important to me that you should understand. My people are bleeding. Dying. A queen belongs not to herself, but to the realm. Marriage or carnage, those are my choices. A wedding or a war.”

“Your Grace, may I speak frankly?”

“Always.”

“There is a third choice.”

“Westeros?”

He nodded. “I am sworn to serve Your Grace, and to keep you safe from harm wherever you may go. My place is by your side, whether here or in King’s Landing … but your place is back in Westeros, upon the Iron Throne that was your father’s. The Seven Kingdoms will never accept Hizdahr zo Loraq as king.”

“No more than Meereen will accept Daenerys Targaryen as queen. The Green Grace has the right of that. I need a king beside me, a king of old Ghiscari blood. Elsewise they will always see me as the uncouth barbarian who smashed through their gates, impaled their kin on spikes, and stole their wealth.”

“In Westeros you will be the lost child who returns to gladden her father’s heart. Your people will cheer when you ride by, and all good men will love you.”

“Westeros is far away.”

“Lingering here will never bring it any closer. The sooner we take our leave of this place—”

“I know. I do.” Dany did not know how to make him see. She wanted Westeros as much as he did, but first she must heal Meereen. “Ninety days is a long time. Hizdahr may fail. And if he does, the trying buys me time. Time to make alliances, to strengthen my defenses, to—”

“And if he does not fail? What will Your Grace do then?”

“Her duty.” The word felt cold upon her tongue. “You saw my brother Rhaegar wed. Tell me, did he wed for love or duty?”

The old knight hesitated. “Princess Elia was a good woman, Your Grace. She was kind and clever, with a gentle heart and a sweet wit. I know the prince was very fond of her.”

Fond, thought Dany. The word spoke volumes. I could become fond of Hizdahr zo Loraq, in time. Perhaps.

Ser Barristan went on. “I saw your father and your mother wed as well. Forgive me, but there was no fondness there, and the realm paid dearly for that, my queen.”

“Why did they wed if they did not love each other?”

“Your grandsire commanded it. A woods witch had told him that the prince was promised would be born of their line.”

“A woods witch?” Dany was astonished.

“She came to court with Jenny of Oldstones. A stunted thing, grotesque to look upon. A dwarf, most people said, though dear to Lady Jenny, who always claimed that she was one of the children of the forest.”

“What became of her?”

“Summerhall.” The word was fraught with doom.

Dany sighed. “Leave me now. I am very weary.”

“As you command.” Ser Barristan bowed and turned to go. But at the door, he stopped. “Forgive me. Your Grace has a visitor. Shall I tell him to return upon the morrow?”

“Who is it?”

“Naharis. The Stormcrows have returned to the city.”

Daario. Her heart gave a flutter in her chest. “How long has … when did he …?” She could not seem to get the words out.

Ser Barristan seemed to understand. “Your Grace was with the priestess when he arrived. I knew you would not want to be disturbed. The captain’s news can wait until the morrow.”

“No.” How could I ever hope to sleep, knowing that my captain so close? “Send him up at once. And … I will have no more need of you this evening. I shall be safe with Daario. Oh, and send Irri and Jhiqui, if you would be so good. And Missandei.” I need to change, to make myself beautiful.

When he was gone, Daenerys called Ser Barristan back. “I want the Stormcrows back in the field.”

“Your Grace? They have only now returned …”

“I want them gone. Let them scout the Yunkish hinterlands and give protection to any caravans coming over the Khyzai Pass. Henceforth Daario shall make his reports to you. Give him every honor that is due him and see that his men are well paid, but on no account admit him to my presence.”

“As you say, Your Grace.”

ADWD Daenerys III

“Your hinterlands are not precious to me. Your person is. Should any ill befall you, this world would lose its savor.”

“My lord is good to care so much, but I am well protected.” Dany gestured toward where Barristan Selmy stood with one hand resting on his sword hilt. “Barristan the Bold, they call him. Twice he has saved me from assassins.”

Xaro gave Selmy a cursory inspection. “Barristan the Old, did you say? Your bear knight was younger, and devoted to you.”

“I do not wish to speak of Jorah Mormont.”

“Oh most beautiful of women,” Xaro said, as they began to climb, “there are footsteps behind us. We are followed.”

“My old knight does not frighten you, surely? Ser Barristan is sworn to keep my secrets.”

She turned her back upon the night, to where Barristan Selmy stood silent in the shadows. “My brother once told me a Westerosi riddle. Who listens to everything yet hears nothing?”

“A knight of the Kingsguard.” Selmy’s voice was solemn.

“You heard Xaro make his offer?”

“I did, Your Grace.” The old knight took pains not to look at her bare breast as he spoke to her.

Ser Jorah would not turn his eyes away. He loved me as a woman, where Ser Barristan loves me only as his queen. Mormont had been an informer, reporting to her enemies in Westeros, yet he had given her good counsel too. “What do you think of it? Of him?”

“Of him, little and less. These ships, though … Your Grace, with these ships we might be home before year’s end.”

Dany had never known a home. In Braavos, there had been a house with a red door, but that was all. “Beware of Qartheen bearing gifts, especially merchants of the Thirteen. There is some trap here. Perhaps these ships are rotten, or …”

“If they were so unseaworthy, they could not have crossed the sea from Qarth,” Ser Barristan pointed out, “but Your Grace was wise to insist upon inspection. I will take Admiral Groleo to the galleys at first light with his captains and two score of his sailors. We can crawl over every inch of those ships.”

It was good counsel. “Yes, make it so.” Westeros. Home. But if she left, what would happen to her city? Meereen was never your city, her brother’s voice seemed to whisper. Your cities are across the sea. Your Seven Kingdoms, where your enemies await you. You were born to serve them blood and fire.

Ser Barristan cleared his throat and said, “This warlock that the merchant spoke of …”

“Pyat Pree.” She tried to recall his face, but all she could see were his lips. The wine of the warlocks had turned them blue. Shade-of-the-evening, it was called. “If a warlock’s spell could kill me, I would be dead by now. I left their palace all in ashes.” Drogon saved me when they would have drained my life from me. Drogon burned them all.

“As you say, Your Grace. Still. I will be watchful.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “I know you will. Come, walk me back down to the feast.”

Late that afternoon Admiral Groleo and Ser Barristan returned from their inspection of the galleys. Dany assembled her council to hear them.

[...] The ships are sound, then?” she said, hoping.

“Sound enough, Your Grace. They are old ships, aye, but most are well maintained. The hull of the Pureborn Princess is worm-eaten. I’d not want to take her beyond the sight of land. The Narraqqa could stand a new rudder and lines, and the Banded Lizard has some cracked oars, but they will serve. The rowers are slaves, but if we offer them an honest oarsman’s wage, most will stay with us. Rowing’s all they know. Those who leave can be replaced from my own crews. It is a long hard voyage to Westeros, but these ships are sound enough to get us there, I’d judge.”

“Those left behind in Meereen would envy them their easy deaths,” moaned Reznak. “They will make slaves of us, or throw us in the pits. All will be as it was, or worse.”

“Where is your courage?” Ser Barristan lashed out. “Her Grace freed you from your chains. It is for you to sharpen your swords and defend your own freedom when she leaves.”

“Brave words, from one who means to sail into the sunset,” Symon Stripeback snarled back. “Will you look back at our dying?”

“Your Grace—”

“Magnificence—”

“Your Worship—”

“Enough.” Dany slapped the table. “No one will be left to die. You are all my people.” Her dreams of home and love had blinded her. “I will not abandon Meereen to the fate of Astapor. It grieves me to say so, but Westeros must wait.”

Groleo was aghast. “We must accept these ships. If we refuse this gift …”

Ser Barristan went to one knee before her. “My queen, your realm has need of you. You are not wanted here, but in Westeros men will flock to your banners by the thousands, great lords and noble knights. ‘She is come,’ they will shout to one another, in glad voices. ‘Prince Rhaegar’s sister has come home at last.’”

“If they love me so much, they will wait for me.” Dany stood.

She received the merchant prince alone, seated on her bench of polished ebony, on the cushions Ser Barristan had brought her.

ADWD Daenerys II

“It has been so long,” she had said to Ser Barristan, just yesterday. “What if Daario has betrayed me and gone over to my enemies?” Three treasons will you know. “What if he met another woman, some princess of the Lhazarene?”

The old knight neither liked nor trusted Daario, she knew. Even so, he had answered gallantly. “There is no woman more lovely than Your Grace. Only a blind man could believe otherwise, and Daario Naharis was not blind.”

No, she thought. His eyes are a deep blue, almost purple, and his gold tooth gleams when he smiles for me.

Ser Barristan was sure he would return, though. Dany could only pray that he was right.

A shadow. A memory. No one. She was the blood of the dragon, but Ser Barristan had warned her that in that blood there was a taint. Could I be going mad? They had called her father mad, once.

In the purple hall, Dany found her ebon bench piled high about with satin pillows. The sight brought a wan smile to her lips. Ser Barristan’s work, she knew. The old knight was a good man, but sometimes very literal. It was only a jape, ser, she thought, but she sat on one of the pillows just the same.

“Your barber has served you well, Hizdahr. I hope you have come to show me his work and not to plague me further about the fighting pits.”

He made a deep obeisance. “Your Grace, I fear I must.”

Dany grimaced. Even her own people would give no rest about the matter. Reznak mo Reznak stressed the coin to be made through taxes. The Green Grace said that reopening the pits would please the gods. The Shavepate felt it would win her support against the Sons of the Harpy. “Let them fight,” grunted Strong Belwas, who had once been a champion in the pits. Ser Barristan suggested a tourney instead; his orphans could ride at rings and fight a mêlée with blunted weapons, he said, a suggestion Dany knew was as hopeless as it was well-intentioned. It was blood the Meereenese yearned to see, not skill.

Ser Barristan escorted her back up to her chambers. “Tell me a tale, ser,” Dany said as they climbed. “Some tale of valor with a happy ending.” She felt in need of happy endings. “Tell me how you escaped from the Usurper.”

“Your Grace. There is no valor in running for your life.”

Dany seated herself on a cushion, crossed her legs, and gazed up at him. “Please. It was the Young Usurper who dismissed you from the Kingsguard …”

“Joffrey, aye. They gave my age for a reason, though the truth was elsewise. The boy wanted a white cloak for his dog Sandor Clegane and his mother wanted the Kingslayer to be her lord commander. When they told me, I … I took off my cloak as they commanded, threw my sword at Joffrey’s feet, and spoke unwisely.”

“What did you say?”

“The truth … but truth was never welcome at that court. I walked from the throne room with my head high, though I did not know where I was going. I had no home but White Sword Tower. My cousins would find a place for me at Harvest Hall, I knew, but I had no wish to bring Joffrey’s displeasure down upon them. I was gathering my things when it came to me that I had brought this on myself by taking Robert’s pardon. He was a good knight but a bad king, for he had no right to the throne he sat. That was when I knew that to redeem myself I must find the true king, and serve him loyally with all the strength that still remained me.”

“My brother Viserys.”

“Such was my intent. When I reached the stables the gold cloaks tried to seize me. Joffrey had offered me a tower to die in, but I had spurned his gift, so now he meant to offer me a dungeon. The commander of the City Watch himself confronted me, emboldened by my empty scabbard, but he had only three men with him and I still had my knife. I slashed one man’s face open when he laid his hands upon me, and rode through the others. As I spurred for the gates I heard Janos Slynt shouting for them to go after me. Once outside the Red Keep, the streets were congested, else I might have gotten away clean. Instead they caught me at the River Gate. The gold cloaks who had pursued me from the castle shouted for those at the gate to stop me, so they crossed their spears to bar my way.”

“And you without your sword? How did you get past them?”

“A true knight is worth ten guardsmen. The men at the gate were taken by surprise. I rode one down, wrenched away his spear, and drove it through the throat of my closest pursuer. The other broke off once I was through the gate, so I spurred my horse to a gallop and rode hellbent along the river until the city was lost to sight behind me. That night I traded my horse for a handful of pennies and some rags, and the next morning I joined the stream of smallfolk making their way to King’s Landing. I’d gone out the Mud Gate, so I returned through the Gate of the Gods, with dirt on my face, stubble on my cheeks, and no weapon but a wooden staff. In roughspun clothes and mud-caked boots, I was just one more old man fleeing the war. The gold cloaks took a stag from me and waved me through. King’s Landing was crowded with smallfolk who’d come seeking refuge from the fighting. I lost myself amongst them. I had a little silver, but I needed that to pay my passage across the narrow sea, so I slept in septs and alleys and took my meals in pot shops. I let my beard grow out and cloaked myself in age. The day Lord Stark lost his head, I was there, watching. Afterward I went into the Great Sept and thanked the seven gods that Joffrey had stripped me of my cloak.”

“Stark was a traitor who met a traitor’s end.”

“Your Grace,” said Selmy, “Eddard Stark played a part in your father’s fall, but he bore you no ill will. When the eunuch Varys told us that you were with child, Robert wanted you killed, but Lord Stark spoke against it. Rather than countenance the murder of children, he told Robert to find himself another Hand.”

“Have you forgotten Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon?”

“Never. That was Lannister work, Your Grace.”

“Lannister or Stark, what difference? Viserys used to call them the Usurper’s dogs. If a child is set upon by a pack of hounds, does it matter which one tears out his throat? All the dogs are just as guilty. The guilt …” The word caught in her throat. Hazzea, she thought, and suddenly she heard herself say, “I have to see the pit,” in a voice as small as a child’s whisper. “Take me down, ser, if you would.”

A flicker of disapproval crossed the old man’s face, but it was not his way to question his queen. “As you command.”

The servants’ steps were the quickest way down—not grand, but steep and straight and narrow, hidden in the walls. Ser Barristan brought a lantern, lest she fall. Bricks of twenty different colors pressed close around them, fading to grey and black beyond the lantern light. Thrice they passed Unsullied guards, standing as if they had been carved from stone. The only sound was the soft scruff of their feet upon the steps.

At ground level the Great Pyramid of Meereen was a hushed place, full of dust and shadows. Its outer walls were thirty feet thick. Within them, sounds echoed off arches of many-colored bricks, and amongst the stables, stalls, and storerooms. They passed beneath three massive arches, down a torchlit ramp into the vaults beneath the pyramid, past cisterns, dungeons, and torture chambers where slaves had been scourged and skinned and burned with red-hot irons. Finally they came to a pair of huge iron doors with rusted hinges, guarded by Unsullied.

At her command, one produced an iron key. The door opened, hinges shrieking. Daenerys Targaryen stepped into the hot heart of darkness and stopped at the lip of a deep pit. Forty feet below, her dragons raised their heads. Four eyes burned through the shadows—two of molten gold and two of bronze.

Ser Barristan took her by the arm. “No closer.”

“You think they would harm me?”

“I do not know, Your Grace, but I would sooner not risk your person to learn the answer.”

When Rhaegal roared, a gout of yellow flame turned darkness into day for half a heartbeat. The fire licked along the walls, and Dany felt the heat upon her face, like the blast from an oven. Across the pit, Viserion’s wings unfolded, stirring the stale air. He tried to fly to her, but the chains snapped taut as he rose and slammed him down onto his belly. Links as big as a man’s fist bound his feet to the floor. The iron collar about his neck was fastened to the wall behind him. Rhaegal wore matching chains. In the light of Selmy’s lantern, his scales gleamed like jade. Smoke rose from between his teeth. Bones were scattered on the floor at his feet, cracked and scorched and splintered. The air was uncomfortably hot and smelled of sulfur and charred meat.

“They are larger.” Dany’s voice echoed off the scorched stone walls. A drop of sweat trickled down her brow and fell onto her breast. “Is it true that dragons never stop growing?”

“If they have food enough, and space to grow. Chained up in here, though …”

The Great Masters had used the pit as a prison. It was large enough to hold five hundred men … and more than ample for two dragons. For how long, though? What will happen when they grow too large for the pit? Will they turn on one another with flame and claw? Will they grow wan and weak, with withered flanks and shrunken wings? Will their fires go out before the end?

What sort of mother lets her children rot in darkness?

ADWD Daenerys I

“Your Grace,” said Ser Barristan Selmy, the lord commander of her Queensguard, “there is no need for you to see this.”

“He died for me.”

Ser Barristan Selmy remained behind. His hair was white, and there were crow’s-feet at the corners of his pale blue eyes. Yet his back was still unbent, and the years had not yet robbed him of his skill at arms. “Your Grace,” he said, “I fear your eunuchs are ill suited for the tasks you set them.”

Dany settled on her bench and wrapped her pelt about her shoulders once again. “The Unsullied are my finest warriors.”

“Soldiers, not warriors, if it please Your Grace. They were made for the battlefield, to stand shoulder to shoulder behind their shields with their spears thrust out before them. Their training teaches them to obey, fearlessly, perfectly, without thought or hesitation … not to unravel secrets or ask questions.”

“Would knights serve me any better?” Selmy was training knights for her, teaching the sons of slaves to fight with lance and longsword in the Westerosi fashion … but what good would lances do against cowards who killed from the shadows?

“Not in this,” the old man admitted. “And Your Grace has no knights, save me. It will be years before the boys are ready.”

“Then who, if not Unsullied? Dothraki would be even worse. [...] When the Stormcrows return from Lhazar, perhaps I can use them in the streets,” she told Ser Barristan, “but until then I have only the Unsullied.” Dany rose. “You must excuse me, ser. The petitioners will soon be at my gates. I must don my floppy ears and become their queen again. Summon Reznak and the Shavepate, I’ll see them when I’m dressed.”

“As Your Grace commands.” Selmy bowed.

There were times when Dany wondered if that razor might not be better saved for Reznak’s throat. He was a useful man, but she liked him little and trusted him less. The Undying of Qarth had told her she would be thrice betrayed. Mirri Maz Duur had been the first, Ser Jorah the second. Would Reznak be the third? The Shavepate? Daario? Or will it be someone I would never suspect, Ser Barristan or Grey Worm or Missandei?

“Ser Barristan,” she called, “I know what quality a king needs most.”

“Courage, Your Grace?”

“Cheeks like iron,” she teased. “All I do is sit.”

“Your Grace takes too much on herself. You should allow your councillors to shoulder more of your burdens.”

“I have too many councillors and too few cushions.”

Her dragons had grown too large to be content with rats and cats and dogs. The more they eat, the larger they will grow, Ser Barristan had warned her, and the larger they grow, the more they’ll eat.

No. Dany shivered. No, no, oh no. “Are you deaf, fool?” Reznak mo Reznak demanded of the man. “Did you not hear my pronouncement? See my factors on the morrow, and you shall be paid for your sheep.”

“Reznak,” Ser Barristan said quietly, “hold your tongue and open your eyes. Those are no sheep bones.”

No, Dany thought, those are the bones of a child.

A Storm of Swords

ASOS Daenerys VI

Dany shifted uncomfortably on the ebony bench. She dreaded what must come next, yet she knew she had put it off too long already. Yunkai and Astapor, threats of war, marriage proposals, the march west looming over all ... I need my knights. I need their swords, and I need their counsel. Yet the thought of seeing Jorah Mormont again made her feel as if she’d swallowed a spoonful of flies; angry, agitated, sick. She could almost feel them buzzing round her belly. I am the blood of the dragon. I must be strong. I must have fire in my eyes when I face them, not tears. “Tell Belwas to bring my knights,” Dany commanded, before she could change her mind. “My good knights.”

Strong Belwas was puffing from the climb when he marched them through the doors, one meaty hand wrapped tight around each man’s arm. Ser Barristan walked with his head held high, but Ser Jorah stared at the marble floor as he approached. The one is proud, the other guilty. The old man had shaved off his white beard. He looked ten years younger without it. But her balding bear looked older than he had. They halted before the bench.

“Ser Barristan saved me from the Titan’s Bastard, and from the Sorrowful Man in Qarth. [...] So many people wanted her dead, sometimes she lost count. “And yet you lied, deceived me, betrayed me.” She turned to Ser Barristan. “You protected my father for many years, fought beside my brother on the Trident, but you abandoned Viserys in his exile and bent your knee to the Usurper instead. Why? And tell it true.”

“Some truths are hard to hear. Robert was a ... a good knight ... chivalrous, brave ... he spared my life, and the lives of many others ... Prince Viserys was only a boy, it would have been years before he was fit to rule, and ... forgive me, my queen, but you asked for truth ... even as a child, your brother Viserys oft seemed to be his father’s son, in ways that Rhaegar never did.”

“His father’s son?” Dany frowned. “What does that mean?”

The old knight did not blink. “Your father is called ‘the Mad King’ in Westeros. Has no one ever told you?”

“Viserys did.” The Mad King. “The Usurper called him that, the Usurper and his dogs.” The Mad King. “It was a lie.”

“Why ask for truth,” Ser Barristan said softly, “if you close your ears to it?” He hesitated, then continued. “I told you before that I used a false name so the Lannisters would not know that I’d joined you. That was less than half of it, Your Grace. The truth is, I wanted to watch you for a time before pledging you my sword. To make certain that you were not ...”

“... my father’s daughter?” If she was not her father’s daughter, who was she?

“... mad,” he finished. “But I see no taint in you.” 

“Taint?” Dany bristled.

“I am no maester to quote history at you, Your Grace. Swords have been my life, not books. But every child knows that the Targaryens have always danced too close to madness. Your father was not the first. King Jaehaerys once told me that madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, he said, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.”

Jaehaerys. This old man knew my grandfather. The thought gave her pause. Most of what she knew of Westeros had come from her brother, and the rest from Ser Jorah. Ser Barristan would have forgotten more than the two of them had ever known. This man can tell me what I came from. “So I am a coin in the hands of some god, is that what you are saying, ser?”

“No,” Ser Barristan replied. “You are the trueborn heir of Westeros. To the end of my days I shall remain your faithful knight, should you find me worthy to bear a sword again. If not, I am content to serve Strong Belwas as his squire.”

“What if I decide you’re only worthy to be my fool?” Dany asked scornfully. “Or perhaps my cook?”

“I would be honored, Your Grace,” Selmy said with quiet dignity. “I can bake apples and boil beef as well as any man, and I’ve roasted many a duck over a campfire. I hope you like them greasy, with charred skin and bloody bones.”

That made her smile. “I’d have to be mad to eat such fare. Ben Plumm, come give Ser Barristan your longsword.”

But Whitebeard would not take it. “I flung my sword at Joffrey’s feet and have not touched one since. Only from the hand of my queen will I accept a sword again.”

“As you wish.” Dany took the sword from Brown Ben and offered it hilt first. The old man took it reverently. “Now kneel,” she told him, “and swear it to my service.”

He went to one knee and lay the blade before her as he said the words. Dany scarcely heard them. He was the easy one, she thought. The other will be harder.

“Your Grace?”

She turned to find Ser Barristan behind her. “What more would you have of me, ser? I spared you, I took you into my service, now give me some peace.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace. It was only ... now that you know who I am ...” The old man hesitated. “A knight of the Kingsguard is in the king’s presence day and night. For that reason, our vows require us to protect his secrets as we would his life. But your father’s secrets by rights belong to you now, along with his throne, and ... I thought perhaps you might have questions for me.”

Questions? She had a hundred questions, a thousand, ten thousand. Why couldn’t she think of one? “Was my father truly mad?” she blurted out. Why do I ask that? “Viserys said this talk of madness was a ploy of the Usurper’s ...”

“Viserys was a child, and the queen sheltered him as much as she could. Your father always had a little madness in him, I now believe. Yet he was charming and generous as well, so his lapses were forgiven. His reign began with such promise ... but as the years passed, the lapses grew more frequent, until ...”

Dany stopped him. “Do I want to hear this now?”

Ser Barristan considered a moment. “Perhaps not. Not now.”

“Not now,” she agreed. “One day. One day you must tell me all. The good and the bad. There is some good to be said of my father, surely?”

“There is, Your Grace. Of him, and those who came before him. Your grandfather Jaehaerys and his brother, their father Aegon, your mother ... and Rhaegar. Him most of all.”

“I wish I could have known him.” Her voice was wistful.

“I wish he could have known you,” the old knight said. “When you are ready, I will tell you all.”

Dany kissed him on the cheek and sent him on his way.

“Aegon the Conqueror brought fire and blood to Westeros, but afterward he gave them peace, prosperity, and justice. But all I have brought to Slaver’s Bay is death and ruin. I have been more khal than queen, smashing and plundering, then moving on.”

“There is nothing to stay for,” said Brown Ben Plumm.

“Your Grace, the slavers brought their doom on themselves,” said Daario Naharis.

“You have brought freedom as well,” Missandei pointed out.

“Freedom to starve?” asked Dany sharply. “Freedom to die? Am I a dragon, or a harpy?” Am I mad? Do I have the taint?

“A dragon,” Ser Barristan said with certainty. “Meereen is not Westeros, Your Grace.”

“But how can I rule seven kingdoms if I cannot rule a single city?” He had no answer to that. Dany turned away from them, to gaze out over the city once again. “My children need time to heal and learn. My dragons need time to grow and test their wings. And I need the same. I will not let this city go the way of Astapor. I will not let the harpy of Yunkai chain up those I’ve freed all over again.” She turned back to look at their faces. “I will not march.”

“What will you do then, Khaleesi?” asked Rakharo.

“Stay,” she said. “Rule. And be a queen.”

ASOS Daenerys V

“Blood of my blood,” Dany told them, “your place is here by me. This man is a buzzing fly, no more. Ignore him, he will soon be gone.” Aggo, Jhogo, and Rakharo were brave warriors, but they were young, and too valuable to risk. They kept her khalasar together, and were her best scouts too.

“That was wisely done,” Ser Jorah said as they watched from the front of her pavilion. “Let the fool ride back and forth and shout until his horse goes lame. He does us no harm.”

“He does,” Arstan Whitebeard insisted. “Wars are not won with swords and spears alone, ser. Two hosts of equal strength may come together, but one will break and run whilst the other stands. This hero builds courage in the hearts of his own men and plants the seeds of doubt in ours.”

“This challenge must be met,” Arstan said again.

“It will be.” Dany said, as the hero tucked his penis away again.

“Missandei,” she called, “have my silver saddled. Your own mount as well.”

The little scribe bowed. “As Your Grace commands. Shall I summon your bloodriders to guard you?”

“We’ll take Arstan. I do not mean to leave the camps.” She had no enemies among her children. And the old squire would not talk too much as Belwas would, or look at her like Daario.

“There’s the treacherous sow,” he said. “I knew you’d come to get your feet kissed one day.” His head was bald as a melon, his nose red and peeling, but she knew that voice and those pale green eyes. “I’m going to start by cutting off your teats.” Dany was dimly aware of Missandei shouting for help. A freedman edged forward, but only a step. One quick slash, and he was on his knees, blood running down his face. Mero wiped his sword on his breeches. “Who’s next?”

“I am.” Arstan Whitebeard leapt from his horse and stood over her, the salt wind riffling through his snowy hair, both hands on his tall hardwood staff.

“Grandfather,” Mero said, “run off before I break your stick in two and bugger you with —”

The old man feinted with one end of the staff, pulled it back, and whipped the other end about faster than Dany would have believed. The Titan’s Bastard staggered back into the surf, spitting blood and broken teeth from the ruin of his mouth. Whitebeard put Dany behind him. Mero slashed at his face. The old man jerked back, cat-quick. The staff thumped Mero’s ribs, sending him reeling. Arstan splashed sideways, parried a looping cut, danced away from a second, checked a third mid-swing. The moves were so fast she could hardly follow. Missandei was pulling Dany to her feet when she heard a crack. She thought Arstan’s staff had snapped until she saw the jagged bone jutting from Mero’s calf. As he fell, the Titan’s Bastard twisted and lunged, sending his point straight at the old man’s chest. Whitebeard swept the blade aside almost contemptuously and smashed the other end of his staff against the big man’s temple. Mero went sprawling, blood bubbling from his mouth as the waves washed over him. A moment later the freedmen washed over him too, knives and stones and angry fists rising and falling in a frenzy.

Dany turned away, sickened. She was more frightened now than when it had been happening. He would have killed me.

“Your Grace.” Arstan knelt. “I am an old man, and shamed. He should never have gotten close enough to seize you. I was lax. I did not know him without his beard and hair.”

“No more than I did.” Dany took a deep breath to stop her shaking. Enemies everywhere. “Take me back to my tent. Please.”

“You might have warned me that the Titan’s Bastard had escaped.”

He frowned. “I saw no need to frighten you, Your Grace. I have offered a reward for his head—”

“Pay it to Whitebeard. Mero has been with us all the way from Yunkai. He shaved his beard off and lost himself amongst the freedmen, waiting for a chance for vengeance. Arstan killed him.”

Ser Jorah gave the old man a long look. “A squire with a stick slew Mero of Braavos, is that the way of it?”

“A stick,” Dany confirmed, “but no longer a squire. Ser Jorah, it’s my wish that Arstan be knighted.”

“No.” 

The loud refusal was surprise enough. Stranger still, it came from both men at once.

Ser Jorah drew his sword. “The Titan’s Bastard was a nasty piece of work. And good at killing. Who are you, old man?”

“A better knight than you, ser,” Arstan said coldly.

Knight? Dany was confused. “You said you were a squire.”

“I was, Your Grace.” He dropped to one knee. “I squired for Lord Swann in my youth, and at Magister Illyrio’s behest I have served Strong Belwas as well. But during the years between, I was a knight in Westeros. I have told you no lies, my queen. Yet there are truths I have withheld, and for that and all my other sins I can only beg your forgiveness.”

“What truths have you withheld?” Dany did not like this. “You will tell me. Now.”

He bowed his head. “At Qarth, when you asked my name, I said I was called Arstan. That much was true. Many men had called me by that name while Belwas and I were making our way east to find you. But it is not my true name.”

She was more confused than angry. He has played me false, just as Jorah warned me, yet he saved my life just now.

Ser Jorah flushed red. “Mero shaved his beard, but you grew one, didn’t you? No wonder you looked so bloody familiar ...”

“You know him?” Dany asked the exile knight, lost.

“I saw him perhaps a dozen times ... from afar most often, standing with his brothers or riding in some tourney. But every man in the Seven Kingdoms knew Barristan the Bold.” He laid the point of his sword against the old man’s neck. “Khaleesi, before you kneels Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, who betrayed your House to serve the Usurper Robert Baratheon.”

The old knight did not so much as blink. “The crow calls the raven black, and you speak of betrayal.”

“Why are you here?” Dany demanded of him. “If Robert sent you to kill me, why did you save my life?” He served the Usurper. He betrayed Rhaegar’s memory, and abandoned Viserys to live and die in exile. Yet if he wanted me dead, he need only have stood aside ... “I want the whole truth now, on your honor as a knight. Are you the Usurper’s man, or mine?”

“Yours, if you will have me.” Ser Barristan had tears in his eyes. “I took Robert’s pardon, aye. I served him in Kingsguard and council. Served with the Kingslayer and others near as bad, who soiled the white cloak I wore. Nothing will excuse that. I might be serving in King’s Landing still if the vile boy upon the Iron Throne had not cast me aside, it shames me to admit. But when he took the cloak that the White Bull had draped about my shoulders, and sent men to kill me that selfsame day, it was as though he’d ripped a caul off my eyes. That was when I knew I must find my true king, and die in his service—”

“I can grant that wish,” Ser Jorah said darkly.

“Quiet,” said Dany. “I’ll hear him out.”

“It may be that I must die a traitor’s death,” Ser Barristan said. “If so, I should not die alone. Before I took Robert’s pardon I fought against him on the Trident. You were on the other side of that battle, Mormont, were you not?” He did not wait for an answer. “Your Grace, I am sorry I misled you. It was the only way to keep the Lannisters from learning that I had joined you. You are watched, as your brother was. Lord Varys reported every move Viserys made, for years. Whilst I sat on the small council, I heard a hundred such reports. And since the day you wed Khal Drogo, there has been an informer by your side selling your secrets, trading whispers to the Spider for gold and promises.”

He cannot mean ... “You are mistaken.” Dany looked at Jorah Mormont. “Tell him he’s mistaken. There’s no informer. Ser Jorah, tell him. We crossed the Dothraki sea together, and the red waste ...” Her heart fluttered like a bird in a trap. “Tell him, Jorah. Tell him how he got it wrong.”

“The Others take you, Selmy.” Ser Jorah flung his longsword to the carpet. “Khaleesi, it was only at the start, before I came to know you ... before I came to love ...”

“Do not say that word!” She backed away from him. “How could you? What did the Usurper promise you? Gold, was it gold?” The Undying had said she would be betrayed twice more, once for gold and once for love. “Tell me what you were promised?”

“Varys said ... I might go home.” He bowed his head.

I was going to take you home! Her dragons sensed her fury. Viserion roared, and smoke rose grey from his snout. Drogon beat the air with black wings, and Rhaegal twisted his head back and belched flame. I should say the word and burn the two of them. Was there no one she could trust, no one to keep her safe? “Are all the knights of Westeros so false as you two? Get out, before my dragons roast you both. What does roast liar smell like? As foul as Brown Ben’s sewers? Go!”

Ser Barristan rose stiff and slow. For the first time, he looked his age. “Where shall we go, Your Grace?”

“To hell, to serve King Robert.” Dany felt hot tears on her cheeks. Drogon screamed, lashing his tail back and forth. “The Others can have you both.” Go, go away forever, both of you, the next time I see your faces I’ll have your traitors’ heads off. She could not say the words, though. They betrayed me. But they saved me. But they lied. “You go ...” My bear, my fierce strong bear, what will I do without him? And the old man, my brother’s friend. “You go ... go ...” Where?

And then she knew.

ASOS Daenerys IV

But when Mero was gone, Arstan Whitebeard said, “That one has an evil reputation, even in Westeros. Do not be misled by his manner, Your Grace. He will drink three toasts to your health tonight, and rape you on the morrow.”

“The old man’s right for once,” Ser Jorah said. “The Second Sons are an old company, and not without valor, but under Mero they’ve turned near as bad as the Brave Companions. The man is as dangerous to his employers as to his foes. That’s why you find him out here. None of the Free Cities will hire him any longer.”

“It is not his reputation that I want, it’s his five hundred horse.”

“I think we should attack from three sides. Grey Worm, your Unsullied shall strike at them from right and left, while my kos lead my horse in wedge for a thrust through their center. Slave soldiers will never stand before mounted Dothraki.” She smiled. “To be sure, I am only a young girl and know little of war. What do you think, my lords?”

“I think you are Rhaegar Targaryen’s sister,” Ser Jorah said with a rueful half smile.

“Aye,” said Arstan Whitebeard, “and a queen as well.”

“Daenerys, I am thrice your age,” Ser Jorah said. “I have seen how false men are. Very few are worthy of trust, and Daario Naharis is not one of them. Even his beard wears false colors.”

That angered her. “Whilst you have an honest beard, is that what you are telling me? You are the only man I should ever trust?”

He stiffened. “I did not say that.”

“You say it every day. Pyat Pree’s a liar, Xaro’s a schemer, Belwas a braggart, Arstan an assassin ... do you think I’m still some virgin girl, that I cannot hear the words behind the words?”

She felt very lonely all of a sudden. Mirri Maz Duur had promised that she would never bear a living child. House Targaryen will end with me. That made her sad. “You must be my children,” she told the dragons, “my three fierce children. Arstan says dragons live longer than men, so you will go on after I am dead.”

A stillness settled over her camp when midnight came and went. Dany remained in her pavilion with her maids, while Arstan Whitebeard and Strong Belwas kept the guard. The waiting is the hardest part. To sit in her tent with idle hands while her battle was being fought without her made Dany feel half a child again.

The hours crept by on turtle feet. Even after Jhiqui rubbed the knots from her shoulders, Dany was too restless for sleep. Missandei offered to sing her a lullaby of the Peaceful People, but Dany shook her head. “Bring me Arstan,” she said.

When the old man came, she was curled up inside her hrakkar pelt, whose musty smell still reminded her of Drogo. “I cannot sleep when men are dying for me, Whitebeard,” she said. “Tell me more of my brother Rhaegar, if you would. I liked the tale you told me on the ship, of how he decided that he must be a warrior.”

“Your Grace is kind to say so.” 

“Viserys said that our brother won many tourneys.”

Arstan bowed his white head respectfully. “It is not meet for me to deny His Grace’s words ...”

“But?” said Dany sharply. “Tell me. I command it.”

“Prince Rhaegar’s prowess was unquestioned, but he seldom entered the lists. He never loved the song of swords the way that Robert did, or Jaime Lannister. It was something he had to do, a task the world had set him. He did it well, for he did everything well. That was his nature. But he took no joy in it. Men said that he loved his harp much better than his lance.”

“He won some tourneys, surely,” said Dany, disappointed.

“When he was young, His Grace rode brilliantly in a tourney at Storm’s End, defeating Lord Steffon Baratheon, Lord Jason Mallister, the Red Viper of Dorne, and a mystery knight who proved to be the infamous Simon Toyne, chief of the kingswood outlaws. He broke twelve lances against Ser Arthur Dayne that day.”

“Was he the champion, then?”

“No, Your Grace. That honor went to another knight of the Kingsguard, who unhorsed Prince Rhaegar in the final tilt.”

Dany did not want to hear about Rhaegar being unhorsed. “But what tourneys did my brother win?”

“Your Grace.” The old man hesitated. “He won the greatest tourney of them all.”

“Which was that?” Dany demanded.

“The tourney Lord Whent staged at Harrenhal beside the Gods Eye, in the year of the false spring. A notable event. Besides the jousting, there was a mêlée in the old style fought between seven teams of knights, as well as archery and axe-throwing, a horse race, a tournament of singers, a mummer show, and many feasts and frolics. Lord Whent was as open handed as he was rich. The lavish purses he proclaimed drew hundreds of challengers. Even your royal father came to Harrenhal, when he had not left the Red Keep for long years. The greatest lords and mightiest champions of the Seven Kingdoms rode in that tourney, and the Prince of Dragonstone bested them all.”

“But that was the tourney when he crowned Lyanna Stark as queen of love and beauty!” said Dany. “Princess Elia was there, his wife, and yet my brother gave the crown to the Stark girl, and later stole her away from her betrothed. How could he do that? Did the Dornish woman treat him so ill?”

“It is not for such as me to say what might have been in your brother’s heart, Your Grace. The Princess Elia was a good and gracious lady, though her health was ever delicate.”

Dany pulled the lion pelt tighter about her shoulders. “Viserys said once that it was my fault, for being born too late.” She had denied it hotly, she remembered, going so far as to tell Viserys that it was his fault for not being born a girl. He beat her cruelly for that insolence. “If I had been born more timely, he said, Rhaegar would have married me instead of Elia, and it would all have come out different. If Rhaegar had been happy in his wife, he would not have needed the Stark girl.”

“Perhaps so, Your Grace.” Whitebeard paused a moment. “But I am not certain it was in Rhaegar to be happy.”

“You make him sound so sour,” Dany protested.

“Not sour, no, but ... there was a melancholy to Prince Rhaegar, a sense ...” The old man hesitated again.

“Say it,” she urged. “A sense ...?”

“... of doom. He was born in grief, my queen, and that shadow hung over him all his days.”

Viserys had spoken of Rhaegar’s birth only once. Perhaps the tale saddened him too much. “It was the shadow of Summerhall that haunted him, was it not?”

“Yes. And yet Summerhall was the place the prince loved best. He would go there from time to time, with only his harp for company. Even the knights of the Kingsguard did not attend him there. He liked to sleep in the ruined hall, beneath the moon and stars, and whenever he came back he would bring a song. When you heard him play his high harp with the silver strings and sing of twilights and tears and the death of kings, you could not but feel that he was singing of himself and those he loved.”

“What of the Usurper? Did he play sad songs as well?”

Arstan chuckled. “Robert? Robert liked songs that made him laugh, the bawdier the better. He only sang when he was drunk, and then it was like to be ‘A Cask of Ale’ or ‘Fifty-Four Tuns’ or ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair.’ Robert was much—”

ASOS Daenerys III

“Give me all,” she said, “and you may have a dragon.”

There was the sound of indrawn breath from Jhiqui beside her. Kraznys smiled at his fellows. “Did I not tell you? Anything, she would give us.”

Whitebeard stared in shocked disbelief. His hand trembled where it grasped the staff. “No.” He went to one knee before her. “Your Grace, I beg you, win your throne with dragons, not slaves. You must not do this thing—”

“You must not presume to instruct me. Ser Jorah, remove Whitebeard from my presence.”

Mormont seized the old man roughly by an elbow, yanked him back to his feet, and marched him out onto the terrace.

“Tell the Good Masters I regret this interruption,” said Dany to the slave girl.

Arstan Whitebeard held his tongue as well, when Dany swept by him on the terrace. He followed her down the steps in silence, but she could hear his hardwood staff tap tapping on the red bricks as they went. She did not blame him for his fury. It was a wretched thing she did. The Mother of Dragons has sold her strongest child. Even the thought made her ill.

Yet down in the Plaza of Pride, standing on the hot red bricks between the slavers’ pyramid and the barracks of the eunuchs, Dany turned on the old man. “Whitebeard,” she said, “I want your counsel, and you should never fear to speak your mind with me ... when we are alone. But never question me in front of strangers. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said unhappily. 

“I am not a child,” she told him. “I am a queen.”

“Yet even queens can err. The Astapori have cheated you, Your Grace. A dragon is worth more than any army. Aegon proved that three hundred years ago, upon the Field of Fire.”

“I know what Aegon proved. I mean to prove a few things of my own.”

ASOS Daenerys II

“Tell her that these have been standing here for a day and a night, with no food nor water. Tell her that they will stand until they drop if I should command it, and when nine hundred and ninety-nine have collapsed to die upon the bricks, the last will stand there still, and never move until his own death claims him. Such is their courage. Tell her that.”

“I call that madness, not courage,” said Arstan Whitebeard, when the solemn little scribe was done. He tapped the end of his hardwood staff against the bricks, tap tap, as if to tell his displeasure. The old man had not wanted to sail to Astapor; nor did he favor buying this slave army. A queen should hear all sides before reaching a decision. That was why Dany had brought him with her to the Plaza of Pride, not to keep her safe. [...]

“Inform the savages that we call this obedience. Others may be stronger or quicker or larger than the Unsullied. Some few may even equal their skill with sword and spear and shield. But nowhere between the seas will you ever find any more obedient.”

“Sheep are obedient,” said Arstan when the words had been translated. He had some Valyrian as well, though not so much as Dany, but like her he was feigning ignorance.

“A eunuch who is cut young will never have the brute strength of one of your Westerosi knights, this is true,” said Kraznys mo Nakloz when the question was put to him. “A bull is strong as well, but bulls die every day in the fighting pits. A girl of nine killed one not three days past in Jothiel’s Pit. The Unsullied have something better than strength, tell her. They have discipline. We fight in the fashion of the Old Empire, yes. They are the lockstep legions of Old Ghis come again, absolutely obedient, absolutely loyal, and utterly without fear.”

Dany listened patiently to the translation. “Even the bravest men fear death and maiming,” Arstan said when the girl was done.

“Tell her all their names are such,” Kraznys commanded the girl. “It reminds them that by themselves they are vermin. The name disks are thrown in an empty cask at duty’s end, and each dawn plucked up again at random.”

“More madness,” said Arstan, when he heard. “How can any man possibly remember a new name every day?”

Arstan Whitebeard tapped the end of his staff on the bricks as he listened to that. Tap tap tap. Slow and steady. Tap tap tap. Dany saw him turn his eyes away, as if he could not bear to look at Kraznys any longer.

She looked at Arstan. “You have lived long in the world, Whitebeard. Now that you have seen them, what do you say?”

“I say no, Your Grace,” the old man answered at once. 

“Why?” she asked. “Speak freely.” Dany thought she knew what he would say, but she wanted the slave girl to hear, so Kraznys mo Nakloz might hear later.

“My queen,” said Arstan, “there have been no slaves in the Seven Kingdoms for thousands of years. The old gods and the new alike hold slavery to be an abomination. Evil. If you should land in Westeros at the head of a slave army, many good men will oppose you for no other reason than that. You will do great harm to your cause, and to the honor of your House.”

“Yet I must have some army,” Dany said. “The boy Joffrey will not give me the Iron Throne for asking politely.”

“When the day comes that you raise your banners, half of Westeros will be with you,” Whitebeard promised. “Your brother Rhaegar is still remembered, with great love.”

“And my father?” Dany said.

The old man hesitated before saying, “King Aerys is also remembered. He gave the realm many years of peace. Your Grace, you have no need of slaves. Magister Illyrio can keep you safe while your dragons grow, and send secret envoys across the narrow sea on your behalf, to sound out the high lords for your cause.”

“Those same high lords who abandoned my father to the Kingslayer and bent the knee to Robert the Usurper?”

“Even those who bent their knees may yearn in their hearts for the return of the dragons.”

“May,” said Dany. That was such a slippery word, may. In any language.

Tap tap tap, Dany heard. Arstan Whitebeard’s face was still, but his staff beat out his rage. Tap tap tap.

Dany climbed into her litter frowning, and beckoned Arstan to climb in beside her. A man as old as him should not be walking in such heat.

“Bricks and blood built Astapor,” Whitebeard murmured at her side, “and bricks and blood her people.”

“What is that?” Dany asked him, curious.

“An old rhyme a maester taught me, when I was a boy. I never knew how true it was. The bricks of Astapor are red with the blood of the slaves who make them.”

“I can well believe that,” said Dany.

“Then leave this place before your heart turns to brick as well. Sail this very night, on the evening tide.”

Would that I could, thought Dany. “When I leave Astapor it must be with an army, Ser Jorah says.”

“Ser Jorah was a slaver himself, Your Grace,” the old man reminded her. “There are sellswords in Pentos and Myr and Tyrosh you can hire. A man who kills for coin has no honor, but at least they are no slaves. Find your army there, I beg you.”

“My brother visited Pentos, Myr, Braavos, near all the Free Cities. The magisters and archons fed him wine and promises, but his soul was starved to death. A man cannot sup from the beggar’s bowl all his life and stay a man. I had my taste in Qarth, that was enough. I will not come to Pentos bowl in hand.”

“Better to come a beggar than a slaver,” Arstan said.

“There speaks one who has been neither.” Dany’s nostrils flared. “Do you know what it is like to be sold, squire? I do. My brother sold me to Khal Drogo for the promise of a golden crown. Well, Drogo crowned him in gold, though not as he had wished, and I ... my sun-and-stars made a queen of me, but if he had been a different man, it might have been much otherwise. Do you think I have forgotten how it felt to be afraid?”

Whitebeard bowed his head. “Your Grace, I did not mean to give offense.”

“Only lies offend me, never honest counsel.” Dany patted Arstan’s spotted hand to reassure him. “I have a dragon’s temper, that’s all. You must not let it frighten you.”

“I shall try and remember.” Whitebeard smiled.

He has a good face, and great strength to him, Dany thought. She could not understand why Ser Jorah mistrusted the old man so. Could he be jealous that I have found another man to talk to?

“Prince Rhaegar led free men into battle, not slaves. Whitebeard said he dubbed his squires himself, and made many other knights as well.”

ASOS Daenerys I

The squire Whitebeard, standing by the figurehead with one lean hand curled about his tall hardwood staff, turned toward them and said, “Balerion the Black Dread was two hundred years old when he died during the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. He was so large he could swallow an aurochs whole. A dragon never stops growing, Your Grace, so long as he has food and freedom.” His name was Arstan, but Strong Belwas had named him Whitebeard for his pale whiskers, and most everyone called him that now. He was taller than Ser Jorah, though not so muscular; his eyes were a pale blue, his long beard as white as snow and as fine as silk.

“Freedom?” asked Dany, curious. “What do you mean?”

“In King’s Landing, your ancestors raised an immense domed castle for their dragons. The Dragonpit, it is called. It still stands atop the Hill of Rhaenys, though all in ruins now. That was where the royal dragons dwelt in days of yore, and a cavernous dwelling it was, with iron doors so wide that thirty knights could ride through them abreast. Yet even so, it was noted that none of the pit dragons ever reached the size of their ancestors. The maesters say it was because of the walls around them, and the great dome above their heads.”

“If walls could keep us small, peasants would all be tiny and kings as large as giants,” said Ser Jorah. “I’ve seen huge men born in hovels, and dwarfs who dwelt in castles.”

“Men are men,” Whitebeard replied. “Dragons are dragons.”

Ser Jorah snorted his disdain. “How profound.” The exile knight had no love for the old man, he’d made that plain from the first. “What do you know of dragons, anyway?”

“Little enough, that’s true. Yet I served for a time in King’s Landing in the days when King Aerys sat the Iron Throne, and walked beneath the dragonskulls that looked down from the walls of his throne room.”

“Viserys talked of those skulls,” said Dany. “The Usurper took them down and hid them away. He could not bear them looking down on him upon his stolen throne.” She beckoned Whitebeard closer. “Did you ever meet my royal father?” King Aerys II had died before his daughter was born.

“I had that great honor, Your Grace.”

“Did you find him good and gentle?”

Whitebeard did his best to hide his feelings, but they were there, plain on his face. “His Grace was ... often pleasant.”

“Often?” Dany smiled. “But not always?” 

“He could be very harsh to those he thought his enemies.” 

“A wise man never makes an enemy of a king,” said Dany. “Did you know my brother Rhaegar as well?” 

“It was said that no man ever knew Prince Rhaegar, truly. I had the privilege of seeing him in tourney, though, and often heard him play his harp with its silver strings.”

Ser Jorah snorted. “Along with a thousand others at some harvest feast. Next you’ll claim you squired for him.”

“I make no such claim, ser. Myles Mooton was Prince Rhaegar’s squire, and Richard Lonmouth after him. When they won their spurs, he knighted them himself, and they remained his close companions. Young Lord Connington was dear to the prince as well, but his oldest friend was Arthur Dayne.”

“The Sword of the Morning!” said Dany, delighted. “Viserys used to talk about his wondrous white blade. He said Ser Arthur was the only knight in the realm who was our brother’s peer.”

Whitebeard bowed his head. “It is not my place to question the words of Prince Viserys.”

“King,” Dany corrected. “He was a king, though he never reigned. Viserys, the Third of His Name. But what do you mean?” His answer had not been one that she’d expected. “Ser Jorah named Rhaegar the last dragon once. He had to have been a peerless warrior to be called that, surely?”

“Your Grace,” said Whitebeard, “the Prince of Dragonstone was a most puissant warrior, but ...”

“Go on,” she urged. “You may speak freely to me.”

“As you command.” The old man leaned upon his hardwood staff, his brow furrowed. “A warrior without peer ... those are fine words, Your Grace, but words win no battles.”

“Swords win battles,” Ser Jorah said bluntly. “And Prince Rhaegar knew how to use one.” 

“He did, ser, but ... I have seen a hundred tournaments and more wars than I would wish, and however strong or fast or skilled a knight may be, there are others who can match him. A man will win one tourney, and fall quickly in the next. A slick spot in the grass may mean defeat, or what you ate for supper the night before. A change in the wind may bring the gift of victory.” He glanced at Ser Jorah. “Or a lady’s favor knotted round an arm.”

Mormont’s face darkened. “Be careful what you say, old man.”

Arstan had seen Ser Jorah fight at Lannisport, Dany knew, in the tourney Mormont had won with a lady’s favor knotted round his arm. He had won the lady too; Lynesse of House Hightower, his second wife, highborn and beautiful ... but she had ruined him, and abandoned him, and the memory of her was bitter to him now. “Be gentle, my knight.” She put a hand on Jorah’s arm. “Arstan had no wish to give offense, I’m certain.”

“As you say, Khaleesi.” Ser Jorah’s voice was grudging.

Dany turned back to the squire. “I know little of Rhaegar. Only the tales Viserys told, and he was a little boy when our brother died. What was he truly like?”

The old man considered a moment. “Able. That above all. Determined, deliberate, dutiful, single-minded. There is a tale told of him ... but doubtless Ser Jorah knows it as well.”

“I would hear it from you.”

“As you wish,” said Whitebeard. “As a young boy, the Prince of Dragonstone was bookish to a fault. He was reading so early that men said Queen Rhaella must have swallowed some books and a candle whilst he was in her womb. Rhaegar took no interest in the play of other children. The maesters were awed by his wits, but his father’s knights would jest sourly that Baelor the Blessed had been born again. Until one day Prince Rhaegar found something in his scrolls that changed him. No one knows what it might have been, only that the boy suddenly appeared early one morning in the yard as the knights were donning their steel. He walked up to Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms, and said, ‘I will require sword and armor. It seems I must be a warrior.’”

“And he was!” said Dany, delighted.

“He was indeed.” Whitebeard bowed. “My pardons, Your Grace. We speak of warriors, and I see that Strong Belwas has arisen. I must attend him.”

Dany glanced aft. The eunuch was climbing through the hold amidships, nimble for all his size. Belwas was squat but broad, a good fifteen stone of fat and muscle, his great brown gut crisscrossed by faded white scars. He wore baggy pants, a yellow silk bellyband, and an absurdly tiny leather vest dotted with iron studs. “Strong Belwas is hungry!” he roared at everyone and no one in particular. “Strong Belwas will eat now!” Turning, he spied Arstan on the forecastle. “Whitebeard! You will bring food for Strong Belwas!”

“You may go,” Dany told the squire. He bowed again, and moved off to tend the needs of the man he served.

Ser Jorah watched with a frown on his blunt honest face. Mormont was big and burly, strong of jaw and thick of shoulder. Not a handsome man by any means, but as true a friend as Dany had ever known. “You would be wise to take that old man’s words well salted,” he told her when Whitebeard was out of earshot.

“A queen must listen to all,” she reminded him. “The highborn and the low, the strong and the weak, the noble and the venal. One voice may speak you false, but in many there is always truth to be found.” She had read that in a book.

“Hear my voice then, Your Grace,” the exile said. “This Arstan Whitebeard is playing you false. He is too old to be a squire, and too well spoken to be serving that oaf of a eunuch.”

That does seem queer, Dany had to admit.

[...] Ser Jorah saved me from the poisoner, and Arstan Whitebeard from the manticore. Perhaps Strong Belwas will save me from the next.

“Sit, good ser, and tell me what is troubling you.”

“Three things.” Ser Jorah sat. “Strong Belwas. This Arstan Whitebeard. And Illyrio Mopatis, who sent them.”

Again? Dany pulled the coverlet higher and tugged one end over her shoulder. “And why is that?”

“The warlocks in Qarth told you that you would be betrayed three times,” the exile knight reminded her, as Viserion and Rhaegal began to snap and claw at each other.

“Once for blood and once for gold and once for love.” Dany was not like to forget. “Mirri Maz Duur was the first.”

“Which means two traitors yet remain ... and now these two appear. I find that troubling, yes. Never forget, Robert offered a lordship to the man who slays you.”

Dany leaned forward and yanked Viserion’s tail, to pull him off his green brother. Her blanket fell away from her chest as she moved. She grabbed it hastily and covered herself again. “The Usurper is dead,” she said.

“But his son rules in his place.” Ser Jorah lifted his gaze, and his dark eyes met her own. “A dutiful son pays his father’s debts. Even blood debts.”

“This boy Joffrey might want me dead ... if he recalls that I’m alive. What has that to do with Belwas and Arstan Whitebeard? The old man does not even wear a sword. You’ve seen that.”

“Aye. And I have seen how deftly he handles that staff of his. Recall how he killed that manticore in Qarth? It might as easily have been your throat he crushed.”

“Might have been, but was not,” she pointed out. “It was a stinging manticore meant to slay me. He saved my life.”

“Khaleesi, has it occurred to you that Whitebeard and Belwas might have been in league with the assassin? It might all have been a ploy to win your trust.”

Her sudden laughter made Drogon hiss, and sent Viserion flapping to his perch above the porthole. “The ploy worked well.”

A Clash of Kings

ACOK Daenerys V

“I see a fat brown man and an older man with a staff. Which is it?”

“Both of them,” Ser Jorah said. “They have been following us since we left Quicksilver.”

The other man wore a traveler’s cloak of undyed wool, the hood thrown back. Long white hair fell to his shoulders, and a silky white beard covered the lower half of his face. He leaned his weight on a hardwood staff as tall as he was. Only fools would stare so openly if they meant me harm. All the same, it might be prudent to head back toward Jhogo and Aggo. “The old man does not wear a sword,” she said to Jorah in the Common Tongue as she drew him away.

A Qartheen stepped into her path. “Mother of Dragons, for you.” He knelt and thrust a jewel box into her face.

Dany took it almost by reflex. The box was carved wood, its mother-of-pearl lid inlaid with jasper and chalcedony. “You are too generous.” She opened it. Within was a glittering green scarab carved from onyx and emerald. Beautiful, she thought. This will help pay for our passage. As she reached inside the box, the man said, “I am so sorry,” but she hardly heard.

The scarab unfolded with a hiss.

Dany caught a glimpse of a malign black face, almost human, and an arched tail dripping venom ... and then the box flew from her hand in pieces, turning end over end. Sudden pain twisted her fingers. As she cried out and clutched her hand, the brass merchant let out a shriek, a woman screamed, and suddenly the Qartheen were shouting and pushing each other aside. Ser Jorah slammed past her, and Dany stumbled to one knee. She heard the hiss again. The old man drove the butt of his staff into the ground, Aggo came riding through an eggseller’s stall and vaulted from his saddle, Jhogo’s whip cracked overhead, Ser Jorah slammed the eunuch over the head with the brass platter, sailors and whores and merchants were fleeing or shouting or both ...

“Your Grace, a thousand pardons.” The old man knelt. “It’s dead. Did I break your hand?”

She closed her fingers, wincing. “I don’t think so.”

“I had to knock it away,” he started, but her bloodriders were on him before he could finish.

Aggo kicked his staff away and Jhogo seized him round the shoulders, forced him to his knees, and pressed a dagger to his throat. “Khaleesi, we saw him strike you. Would you see the color of his blood?”

“Release him.” Dany climbed to her feet. “Look at the bottom of his staff, blood of my blood.” Ser Jorah had been shoved off his feet by the eunuch. She ran between them as arakh and longsword both came flashing from their sheaths. “Put down your steel! Stop it!”

“Your Grace?” Mormont lowered his sword only an inch. “These men attacked you.”

“They were defending me.” Dany snapped her hand to shake the sting from her fingers. “It was the other one, the Qartheen.” When she looked around he was gone. “He was a Sorrowful Man. There was a manticore in that jewel box he gave me. This man knocked it out of my hand.” The brass merchant was still rolling on the ground. She went to him and helped him to his feet. “Were you stung?”

“No, good lady,” he said, shaking, “or else I would be dead. But it touched me, aieeee, when it fell from the box it landed on my arm.” He had soiled himself, she saw, and no wonder.

She gave him a silver for his trouble and sent him on his way before she turned back to the old man with the white beard. “Who is it that I owe my life to?”

“You owe me nothing, Your Grace. I am called Arstan, though Belwas named me Whitebeard on the voyage here.” Though Jhogo had released him the old man remained on one knee. Aggo picked up his staff, turned it over, cursed softly in Dothraki, scraped the remains of the manticore off on a stone, and handed it back.

“And who is Belwas?” she asked.

The huge brown eunuch swaggered forward, sheathing his arakh. “I am Belwas. Strong Belwas they name me in the fighting pits of Meereen. Never did I lose.” He slapped his belly, covered with scars. “I let each man cut me once, before I kill him. Count the cuts and you will know how many Strong Belwas has slain.”

Dany had no need to count his scars; there were many, she could see at a glance. “And why are you here, Strong Belwas?”

“From Meereen I am sold to Qohor, and then to Pentos and the fat man with sweet stink in his hair. He it was who send Strong Belwas back across the sea, and old Whitebeard to serve him.”

The fat man with sweet stink in his hair ... “Illyrio?” she said. “You were sent by Magister Illyrio?”

“We were, Your Grace,” old Whitebeard replied. “The Magister begs your kind indulgence for sending us in his stead, but he cannot sit a horse as he did in his youth, and sea travel upsets his digestion.” Earlier he had spoken in the Valyrian of the Free Cities, but now he changed to the Common Tongue. “I regret if we caused you alarm. If truth be told, we were not certain, we expected someone more ... more ...”

“Regal?” Dany laughed. She had no dragon with her, and her raiment was hardly queenly. “You speak the Common Tongue well, Arstan. Are you of Westeros?”

“I am. I was born on the Dornish Marches, Your Grace. As a boy I squired for a knight of Lord Swann’s household.” He held the tall staff upright beside him like a lance in need of a banner. “Now I squire for Belwas.”

“A bit old for such, aren’t you?” Ser Jorah had shouldered his way to her side, holding the brass platter awkwardly under his arm. Belwas’s hard head had left it badly bent.

“Not too old to serve my liege, Lord Mormont.”

“You know me as well?”

“I saw you fight a time or two. At Lannisport where you near unhorsed the Kingslayer. And on Pyke, there as well. You do not recall, Lord Mormont?”

Ser Jorah frowned. “Your face seems familiar, but there were hundreds at Lannisport and thousands on Pyke. And I am no lord. Bear Island was taken from me. I am but a knight.”

“A knight of my Queensguard.” Dany took his arm. “And my true friend and good counselor.” She studied Arstan’s face. He had a great dignity to him, a quiet strength she liked. “Rise, Arstan Whitebeard. Be welcome, Strong Belwas. Ser Jorah you know. Ko Aggo and Ko Jhogo are blood of my blood. They crossed the red waste with me, and saw my dragons born. [...] Now tell me, what would Magister Illyrio have of me, that he would send you all the way from Pentos?”

“He would have dragons,” said Belwas gruffly, “and the girl who makes them. He would have you.”

“Belwas has the truth of us, Your Grace,” said Arstan. “We were told to find you and bring you back to Pentos. The Seven Kingdoms have need of you. Robert the Usurper is dead, and the realm bleeds. When we set sail from Pentos there were four kings in the land, and no justice to be had.”

Joy bloomed in her heart, but Dany kept it from her face. “I have three dragons,” she said, “and more than a hundred in my khalasar, with all their goods and horses.”

“It is no matter,” boomed Belwas. “We take all. The fat man hires three ships for his little silverhair queen.”

“It is so, Your Grace,” Arstan Whitebeard said. “The great cog Saduleon is berthed at the end of the quay, and the galleys Summer Sun and Joso’s Prank are anchored beyond the breakwater.”

Three heads has the dragon, Dany thought, wondering. “I shall tell my people to make ready to depart at once. But the ships that bring me home must bear different names.”

“As you wish,” said Arstan. “What names would you prefer?”

“Vhagar,” Daenerys told him. “Meraxes. And Balerion. Paint the names on their hulls in golden letters three feet high, Arstan. I want every man who sees them to know the dragons are returned.”

#daenerys targaryen #barristan selmy #dany relationships #dany passages #a dance with dragons #a storm of swords #a clash of kings

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forkanna · 4 years

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NOTICE: Characters and locations ©Atlus. This fic and story ©2019-2020 me! All rights to their respective owners. Mature rating for sensual situations and dialogue. Canon (slight) divergence. Based on vanilla P4 since that's what I played (Sorry, Marie fans). Names are in Western order. Title adapted from the boss battle music. Cover art by 7aho.

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NOTES: This one isn't going to be quite as in-depth or long as my P5 fic (and also a lot lighter in the plot department haha). Apologies for all the exposition within the first couple of pages. I always attempt to make the fic accessible for readers who don't know anything about the fandom if I can, but try to keep it short.

And for those of you waiting... don't get mad at me for not putting out very much Elsanna lately. I promise you, it IS coming. LOTS of it. I just have to have proper motivation or it will turn out not so great. Thank you for your patience!

CHAPTER ONE

None of this was right.

The spooky old castle seemed to press in on Chie Satonaka from all sides as she tore down hallway after hallway, the sound of her loafers echoing off the flagstones. Nevermind how bizarre it was that she was in another world — which she was never going to get used to, even if she came and went a thousand times — but her childhood companion and best friend in the whole world being in danger was more important. She didn't have the luxury of being thunderstruck.

Chie and her friends had gone back and forth so often about the Midnight Channel. Was it real? Was it a scam, a mere urban legend? Mass hallucination? Nobody outside of the sleepy little town of Inaba had ever heard of it, or seen it happen; purely a local paranormal phenomenon. As the story went, if you watched your television with its power turned off at midnight, during a rainstorm, you could see something. Some versions even claimed the person you saw on the screen was your soulmate.

However, that was where fantasy ended and grisly reality took over. The two previous instances had shown women that later turned up dead — and not just on TV. Their corpses hung upside down from power lines and rooftops. In this most recent case, they had all seen Yukiko Amagi in the TV — first as a blurry shadow, and now in vivid high definition.

If it really was Yukiko. That woman in the screen looked and sounded nothing like her best friend, even if it was her face and voice. The garish pink princess dress was so unlike her! Not to mention the obscene thirst for boys from such a timid, polite girl… Chie could remember each word with crystal clarity:

"Goooood evening! Tonight, Princess Yukiko has a big surprise! I'm gonna go score myself a hot stud! Welcome to 'Not A Dream, Not A Hoax; Princess Yukiko's Hunt For Her Prince Charming!' And I came prepared — I've got my lacy unmentionables on, stacked from top to bottom! I'm out to catch a whole harem, and the best of the lot is gonna be all mine! Well, here I gooooo!"

Every deranged syllable had come from someone else's mind. It had to be a sick joke! Still, there was no other explanation for where her best friend had gone. Unreachable by phone or email, and her parents didn't know where she was, either.

The other world was their only lead. And since Yu had previously shown her and Yosuke that they could actually go inside, as long as the screen was large enough to step through… that was that. Insane as it was, they had all jumped through a big screen TV into a parallel dimension to rescue their friend.

But staircase after staircase flashed past, rich red curtains and glittering chandeliers, with no sign of Yukiko. The shadows pulled at Chie from all sides exactly as the boys had described. Maybe it was her bright green-and-yellow windbreaker that caught their attention, or maybe it was that someone was invading their realm. She didn't belong in Yukiko's palace. Or at the very least, the shadows of the Midnight Channel thought she didn't, and probably were equally distrustful of the boys.

Speaking of which, where were they? She could have sworn both Yu and Yosuke were right behind her… and that weird red-and-blue bear thing, whatever his name was. They had tried to insist she stay behind because she was a girl, not strong enough to fight in spite of her kung fu training, and now they were the ones who couldn't keep up?! She almost wanted to turn back and give them a good kick in the-

"Chie told me that red looks good on me…"

The words nearly made Chie trip over her own feet and go down hard. "Yukiko?!" Where was it coming from? She turned this way and that, trying to find the source, but saw no one. The voice kept going, talking about how much she didn't like her name. How she thought she was worthless. She tried to tune out the harsh words themselves, merely focusing on the direction they were coming from and attempting to follow.

But as she barrelled through an ornate set of double doors, looking for the next flight up… the subject matter changed. And she couldn't ignore the words anymore.

"Chie was the only one who gave my life meaning. She's bright and strong, and she can do anything! She has everything that I don't. Compared to Chie, I'm… I'm…"

"HEY!" she shouted. "I'm coming, Yukiko! Hang on!"

However, the disembodied voice only continued, without any obvious source now. How could it come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time?! "Chie protects me; she looks after my worthless life. And I… I don't deserve any of it… Chie is so kind."

The words burned almost as badly as the tears burned her eyes. This was wrong. Something about it sounded right, sounded satisfying to her, but she didn't want to examine it too deeply. All she wanted was to save her best friend and get her out of this nightmare palace.

"I know, right?"

That was not Yukiko.

"What the-" Her eyes swivelled to the side and saw a girl running backwards. She was about her minimal height, a little over five feet… had the same chestnut-brown bowl cut. The same green jacket. The same…

The same. "Oh no."

"Oh yes," the doppelganger laughed as she easily jogged backwards and kept pace with her, no worry for running into anything. She never did. It was as if this other Chie, this fake, had eyes in the back of her head or rearview mirrors that only she could see. "I bet you knew you'd be seeing me sooner or later."

"What are you?!" Chie demanded of the impostor.

"Don't ask stupid questions," she laughed, voice distorted. "Let's cut the bullshit. And I mean Yukiko's bullshit."

"What… do you… what are you saying?"

Waving a hand up toward the roof, she went on, "Yukiko thinks you're 'so kind'. That you protect her, right? We know that's not what you want from her at all." When she didn't respond, the clone smirked. "You're thrilled to death she depends on you. The most beautiful girl in school, and she needs you — some grubby little bitch who couldn't tell eyeshadow from lipstick. Man, do you get a charge out of that!"

"I… I do not!" she shouted, trying to put her head down and run faster — to ignore this pretender. She had been warned that there were frightening shadows all around them, and this was further proof; it was a trick. One she refused to fall for.

"Where ya goin'?" the clone pouted as she sped up to match pace. "Gotta go save your princess? Of course you do. She can't do anything while you're not around. Helpless like a lost puppy, right?"

Teeth gnashing, she snarled out, "Yukiko is not a puppy!"

"But you wish she was. If she was a helpless dog, yipping around your heels… then you would be set, wouldn't you? What else would you need with a devoted, needy little bitch to boss around?"

"I… excuse me?! What did you call her?" Chie finally stopped, turning to snarl at the girl who stopped as easily as if they had planned this weeks ago. "She's not a bitch! A-and she's not helpless! So you can shut up and go back to wherever you came from, because I have a friend to save!"

And then she left her in the dust.

Determination radiated off her entire body as she leapt over one of the shadows, landed on the face of another and demolished it. They seemed to sap her endurance a little at a time, but she also felt stronger somehow with each one she defeated. Just like training in her secret hideout when she was little; she might be getting tired now, but she would be able to handle more next time.

"You're right."

Her jaw tightened. "Thought I told you to leave me alone."

"You said to go back to where I came from," Other-Chie corrected with a Cheshire cat grin. "And I did! Right here with you!"

"Yukiko needs me! So unless you're going to help me save her-"

"Are you kidding? Like I said, you're right; she's not really that weak. Yukiko doesn't need you. It's the other way around, isn't it?" That shut her up, so the shadow went on, "You don't know the first thing about being a girl. So terrible at it. And she's kind, and sweet, and trusting. What are you?"

"I… I'm her friend."

"No, you're really not," she laughed loudly, harshly. The beginnings of fresh tears stung the back of her throat as she took the next steps two at a time, wishing desperately that she could ditch this unkind spectre. "Because that girl cares about you, and all you care about is that she does. You don't actually like her at all; you find her too quiet, too meek. Too pretty."

"That's not-"

"But she does depend on you. And hey, why should you ditch her when she's so devoted to you? Keep her on the end of your leash like the bitch she is."

"STOP!" Chie begged — and went down hard when her shoe tripped over the top stair, rolling a couple of times onto her side. Her knee had borne the brunt of the fall and now it throbbed in pain, and she automatically tried to massage it. "Just… just leave me alone, I… I do like her, she is my friend! My BEST friend!"

"Awwwwww, is she though?" More false pouting as she crouched over the real Chie. "Can she really be your friend if you want to keep her under your thumb? Totally codependent?"

Growling, she began to crawl forward, wishing she had a good pair of earplugs.

"Can't escape the truuuuth," she sing-songed.

"Go away."

"Just let yourself enjoy it. Give in. In fact… Yukiko is right on the other side of that door."

That made Chie sit up a little straighter. Was she really? Somehow, she knew it was true; she could sense a presence on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling double-doors now that they were so close.

"Yukiko?"

"That's right. So go in there and grind her under the heel of your boot. Show her that you're-"

Completely ignoring the rest of her shadow's words, Chie burst from the ground with renewed adrenaline and kicked open the doors.

"Yukiko!" But the princess didn't move. "Yukiko, what's wrong?!"

As she laughed, madly and maniacally, Yukiko did finally turn around. And she was just as otherworldly and demented as the Chie-clone that had been hounding her heels. Mostly, they looked the same, outfit notwithstanding; it was the eyes… they were almost golden, they blazed with such a yellow intensity. Something about them was most certainly wrong.

"Oh my! A prince has arrived! Things are really heating up!"

Gritting her teeth, Chie pointed at her and said, "No… you're not Yukiko. You're not her at all!"

"What are you talking about?" she gasped, full of false innocence. "I am she, and she is me! We are we."

"Oui oui," Chie's clone added with a light chuckle. A sick lurch shot through her stomach when she realised the clone had followed her inside. Now she had to deal with two of them.

"Oooh la laaaa," the false Yukiko giggled as she pressed an open palm to the center of her chest, just above her ample cleavage. "But I'm afraid if you really want to woo your princess, you'll have to wait! Deeper in, deeper in!"

The shadow of Chie approached her opposite number. Were they in league with each other? Rivals? Maybe they were part of the same being, a monster that wanted to manipulate the people that fell through the TV into this hellscape… but all she did was reach up and grasp at Yukiko's hair, snapping her head backward.

"AH!"

"I'll go deeper in," she promised with a little smirk. "And I don't want to wait."

"Mmhh! Yes, my Prince!" That obscenely lovesick look on her face made Chie turn away from them, throat tight with disgust. "But you can only have me here! I think she wants the other me!"

"Does she? Yes… yes, of course she does." She looked up in time to see the other Chie glowering down at her, despite the sinister smile. "Owning just one of you isn't enough; we need both of you in our cage."

Chie wanted to smack both of their heads together. But then something Yukiko had said pushed through to her: 'deeper in'. She knew where the real Yukiko was.

"Take me to her."

"Huh?" She tilted her head, silky black hair falling to the side. "Take you what where?"

"Don't play dumb. Just… take me to my best friend! You can do whatever you want to me, but I need to see her… I need to know she's okay!"

Against all her expectations, Fake Yukiko pouted instead of looking interested or pleased. "But that's not how this is supposed to work. You do whatever you want to me. Right? I don't wanna be the prince, I wanna be the princess!" And she actually began to sniffle a little.

"Hey, don't cry," the other Chie said with a slight chuckle, tightening her grip on the back of her hair. "I'll make you feel good if you don't cry."

"Y-you will?"

"Hey, HEY!" she shouted over the two of them. "Focus! How about this: I'll help her do that to you, whatever she wants — or I want, or whatever… if you take me to Yukiko first!"

"Oh!" The false Yukiko's face lit up with joy, cheeks turning as pink as her vile princess dress. "You promise? It's not worth it if you don't promise, I wanna hear you say it!"

"I promise. Now, can we get a move on?"

While Yukiko was giggling and literally bouncing up and down for joy, the other Chie started clapping, nodding in approval. "Daaaamn, I'm a little shocked, Satonaka. You're playing her like a fiddle. Thought you were going to insist you're nothing like me, but you're doing exactly what I would do. Bravo!"

"Just cut that out already and let's go," she groaned, burying her face in her hands. Then she felt herself being hoisted into the air. "Wha- WHOA! What are you doing?!"

"Just what you said," she sighed as false Yukiko hitched up her skirts and dashed through the other door toward the stairs. The other Chie fell in step behind her, toting the real one in a princess carry as easily as if she were a bag of flour. "Taking you to see both halves of your whole. Or should I say 'your hole'? Eh? Great pun, right?"

"Disgusting. I can't believe you can talk about her that way — and you call yourself another part of me!"

Her smirk should have been illegal. "Ohhh, but I am. And I see right through all of your bullshit. She's a trophy to you; an ornamental piece. A refrigerator magnet. No… more like, one of those cute little buttons you have pinned to the front of your jacket there." Her head nodded down at said buttons. The sleepy smiley face had always been her favourite, but now she just wanted to rip them off and throw them away. "Something you can wear around and show everyone. Maybe that's what the red one is, right? Is that your Yukiko button?"

"It's… my 'I love exercise' button. And if you're really me, you would know that."

"But it is red, like her favourite colour," she kept teasing.

"Sh-shut up. And do you have to carry me like this?! I can walk, y'know — like my button says!"

"It says you can walk?"

"No, it says I love- just shut up! GOD!"

Laughing openly at her, Other-Chie scoffed, "I'm faster than you. And I won't be a panting, sweaty mess when we get to the top floor… well, maybe once we're there…"

"Does everything you say have to be a double entendre?!"

However, she seemed to be dead on the money. In no time, they were at the top floor, and entering an ornate throne room. Somehow, the shadow Yukiko had gotten there ahead of them with enough time to spare that she could seat herself, and look as prim and proper as if she had been waiting for them for an hour. And there, at the bottom of the red carpet-lined steps leading up to the dais, was…

"YUKIKO!" Springing out of her double's arms, she ran forward and knelt by her side, curling an arm around her shoulders. This Yukiko was wearing a light pink kimono, as she typically did when working at her parents' very traditional Japanese inn.

"My, my, it's getting crowded in here," the shadow on the throne chuckled as she rose from her seat, stepping to the edge of the dais. "Why don't you and I go somewhere else? A land far, far away, where no one knows me. If you're my prince, you'll take me there, won't you? C'mon, pretty please?"

"Do you… mean me?" Chie asked hesitantly. She was a little worried about how the real Yukiko hadn't said anything yet, but curiosity would not let her ignore the shadow entirely.

"Of course, Chie! She's my prince. She always leads the way; Chie is a strong prince." Then she sighed and added, "Or at least, she was."

"Was?" the Other-Chie demanded, eyebrows shooting up.

"When it comes down to it, Chie's just not good enough. She can't take me away from here — can't save me! Historic inn? Manager training? I'm sick of all these things chaining me down — sick of everything being decided for me!"

"The hell I can't save you!" It was a disbelieving scoff, and the other shadow began to stride up the stairs as she continued, "I'm your prince, aren't I? I can do whatever I want with you. And you'll be grateful, because you know I won't let anything bad happen to you ever again. Well… nothing that I'm not doing to you myself."

Even while Chie herself was reeling in fresh disgust, the other Yukiko's eyes were widening. "You will? I m-mean… I really thought you couldn't help me escape my prison."

"I'll destroy your prison and make you a new one," Other-Chie said… and as she reached the top of the stairs, something about her changed. One blink, and she was identical to the real Chie; the next, a large crown appeared on her head to match the thin, delicate tiara on Other-Yukiko's head. The jacket stayed the same colour but turned into something more royal, with gold braids hanging down in loops over the shoulders. Medals replaced the buttons. And her school skirt became grey tights.

"A new one just for me?" Other-Yukiko gasped in wonder.

"Thick bars made of diamonds. The floor will be polished marble, your cot in the corner will be velvet…" Her hands smoothed up Yukiko's neck, gripping in the hair and tilting her head up. "And your collar will be made of the finest leather money can buy."

"Chie…?"

Her attention instantly diverted from the shadows to the real Yukiko Amagi. She was still huddled in her arms, dazed eyes finally focusing on the stairs, up at the two figures. Then turning to the one holding her.

"Yes?" she breathed. "Are you okay?"

"Chie, what… what is… going on? How did I get here?" Already, her eyes were watering as she whispered, "A-are we going to die?"

It wasn't that Yukiko was a coward, or a weakling. She was stronger than she knew. But she saw herself as weak and helpless. Chie had always tried to encourage her to train with her, thinking the kung fu might help offset that meekness, but she had shied away from it — insisting it would be seen as 'unladylike' by her extremely conservative mother. Frowned upon as something ill-suited for a girl who would one day help run the Amagi Inn to be caught doing.

"No," she whispered, a smile finally pulling at her mouth for the first time since she had entered the TV. "No way. I got your back."

"I've been s-so scared," she whispered fearfully as she trembled in her arms. "I don't know wh- don't know what's going on, but I kept thinking, if… if only you came… but how did you know where I was?"

"Boo hoo," Other-Chie jeered at them. And when she turned to look…

This was a very different scene now. Her princely green coat was now draped over her back like a cape, yakuza-style. The rest of her clothing was… something else. Was it some kind of metal bikini? Maybe it was gold; that would explain the yellow sheen. And between the thigh-high boots and opera gloves, and the smug look on her plain face… the outfit was definitely giving it a very specific connotation.

"Isn't it sickening?" Other-Yukiko sighed, shaking her head as her arms folded in front of her chest — in just the right way to push her breasts up. "They cling to each other like they're going to fall apart. And how can that other me just blubber and cry all the time?"

Other-Chie grinned and started sliding her hand up and down the small of her Yukiko's back. "Mmm, forget about them. The real Chie and Yukiko have business to attend."

"Ooooh," she giggled. "What kind of business?"

"Let's get out of here," the real Yuki whispered. "Just… j-just let them do whatever that is, and… and you and I can go back to Marukyu Tofu and… and have something for dinner, and w-we'll just… forget all about this. Okay? If… if you know the way out?"

Her eyes were so hopeful when she looked up at Chie. As always. That was the look that got to her more than she had ever wanted to admit. Which, unfortunately, contributed to how badly the shadow version of herself was getting to her with each and every word…

"Look at her face," said shadow snorted instantly, grinning wolfishly down at the original Chie. "She finally gets it. She sees the ugly black mold under the tatami that she had been pretending didn't stink for years. Yukiko Amagi is nothing but a tool to her."

"And she loves being a tool," her Yukiko breathed as she sat her Chie in the throne, then crawled into her lap, petting up and down her arms. "I know I do."

"Come on!" the real Yukiko whispered. "Can't we go away? Do you know the way home?"

"Y-yeah," Chie whispered. Then she cleared her throat and stood up. "We're going. Back the way we came; if we can get out of the castle, I think I can take us to where we can go back through the TV."

"Through the what?! I'm- WHOA! Chie-chan!"

Not wanting to mince words, she started dragging Yukiko away from the steps. The other girl couldn't move very fast, but it was as much about the restrictive kimono as it was her inferior athletic ability. But she would never give voice to it, never have complained about-

"Why is she SOOOO slow?!" Of course, Other-Chie said it for her. "Doesn't she ever even go outside? Pathetic!"

"Actually… there's something wrong, my Prince."

"What?"

"They haven't paid us back yet."

"Ohhhh. I believe you're — right!"

A loud din of jangling metal filled the air as Chie suddenly found herself stopped short, just a few more strides from the doors. When she looked down, she saw her arms were pinned to her sides by thick chains, and they were already trying to drag her back toward the throne.

"Hey!" she shouted, struggling. "What the hell is this?!"

"You promised!" Other-Yukiko wailed, pouting as the toothily-grinning Other-Chie dragged her back toward them, up the steps and onto the dais. It hurt, but her pride was wounded far more than her body.

"Promised wh… oh. OH! B-but you already have the other me, isn't that enough?"

"You're my prince! Why should I only want one of you when two princes who adore me is twice the fun?"

Her shadow chuckled. "She's got you there, Satonaka."

Now Chie had a dilemma. She could see Yukiko approaching the steps, expression panicked and worried for her best friend. And all she wanted was for her to escape, to save herself. Her entire goal in entering the TV was to get Yukiko out of there!

Then she thought about something else. There were more shadows than their two clones roaming those stone hallways; all manner of beasts and ghouls and assorted horrors. Yukiko was not a fighter; never had been. She still needed her. Even if she hated that she liked it, that didn't make it untrue.

"Alright!" she gasped out. "Okay, let me out of these chains, and… and I'll do it. I'm sorry, I forgot."

"You forgot?!" Yukiko asked incredulously.

"No, no, she did," her own shadow mused, eyes narrowed down at her. "So obsessed with Amagi that we stopped mattering, didn't we? You're as codependent as she is."

"Sure, yeah, whatever. Let's get on with it. What am I supposed to be doing?"

The eyes remained narrowed, but her smirk came into full bloom. "You know already."

"What? No, I really don't. Should I pull her hair like you did?"

"Chie?" asked the real Yukiko as the fake one smiled wider. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, Yuki-chan. Really, it's… I promised them…" She didn't want to continue, but her shadow had other plans, and nudged her hard with her elbow. "I promised I would d-do whatever they wanted if they took me to you. And I mean… they did, so…"

As her friend looked stricken and confused, the false Yukiko nuzzled up against her side. "Do whatever you want to me. It's going to make me feel so safe, so loved! Like my prince cares about me!"

"But she's your prince!" she protested, nodding at the other Chie.

"We're both her prince. How are you still not getting this? No wonder our grades are in the toilet; we're just dumb as a fencepost, huh?" Then she picked up Chie's hands and guided them to the princess's neck. "Do what comes natural. Go on."

"What comes… natural…" Well, putting her hands on Yukiko's neck sure didn't feel that way. Even if this monster was a fake, it had her noble features, her little bow mouth… which was slightly parted in anticipation.

They wanted her to choke her. It hit her like a ton of bricks, and her hands shot away as if burned. Yukiko pouted, and Other-Chie rolled her eyes in annoyance.

"Please, stop this," asked the real Yukiko, bowing politely. Just as she had been trained to do. "W-we just want to leave. Is that so wrong? We want to go home!"

"Not until she fulfils her promise," Other-Yukiko pouted. "And it's such an easy one! All she has to do is put me in my place like she already wants to do — everybody wins! I get to belong to my Prince, and she gets to enjoy owning me!"

Yukiko was revolted. "What are you saying?! You're a person, I- no, I'm a person, and so are you, and… who would want to be owned like they're some kind of thing?!"

"Why, we do, obviously. We want a hot stud to sweep us off our feet, so we don't have to think about anything at all! Not managing an inn, not grades, not responsibilities. Living the life of a pet sounds so inviting, doesn't it?"

As she went on, the real Yukiko was beginning to look despondent. And Chie knew why; because she was right — at least partially. It didn't mean she really wanted a life like that, but as she was now beginning to understand, it meant there was a part of Yukiko that found the idea of running away from everything that was expected of her to be an extremely appealing notion. And that it distorted the bonds of their friendship. All the things she had heard Yukiko saying before, echoing off the walls… those were probably her honest feelings and wishes. Everything the shadow spouted was the worst possible version of said feelings.

"Well, I'm not going to do this forever," Chie warned them with a sigh as she reached into the shadow Yukiko's hair and scratched behind her ear. "But I will for a little while. I did promise, I guess."

"Mmm," she hummed, and the false Chie also watched with satisfaction. "My prince… it feels so good, I'm so yours…"

"Doesn't she have any self-respect?" the real Yuki muttered. But it was loud enough they could hear her.

"She doesn't. You know that she doesn't and you don't." Other-Chie began to stride down the steps toward her, a red whip appearing in her hands, already pulled taut. "But while they're busy… would you like to find out how they're feeling up there? So boring, sitting around on the sidelines."

Instantly, the real Chie stepped away from the pet, letting her fall onto her elbows from the unexpected absence of her master. "You leave her alone. That's not part of the promise."

"It's a bonus," her opposite chuckled with a smirk. "All she has to do is say 'yes'."

"But��" She had to think fast. As usual, Yukiko looked too terrified of the imposing shadow, of the whip in her hands, to protest; she might even give in. "But I… but your Yukiko wants us both!"

One eyebrow raised as she turned to smirk back over her shoulder. "But they are both ours. Every Yukiko belongs to us for all eternity. Doesn't that make you feel so good? Makes them feel good."

"So good," Other-Yukiko echoed, rubbing up and down her upper arms as her eyes closed in bliss at the mere fantasy.

"You lay one finger on her and the deal is off," Chie pushed stubbornly. "I said I would… d-do things to the other Yukiko, but you getting to torture my best friend isn't part of that!"

A little "Chie…" slipped out of Yukiko's lips. Then she swallowed hard and said to the other one, "Y-yes, please don't touch me. I… I don't want…"

"Liar," she insisted.

"I am not lying! I'm scared, I d-don't want to be here! And I don't want you to hurt m-"

She cut off with a yelp as the whip came whistling down, hitting the ground right next to her fingers. She clutched both hands to her chest and shrank in on herself, eyes slammed shut as she tried to blot out everything and everyone.

"She wants it," Other-Chie said with certainty. "Look at how pathetic she is. Not trying to fight me off, can't even move now."

Other-Yukiko laughed and began to paw at Chie's leg, which made her a lot more uncomfortable than she could have imagined. "Poor little bitch thinks she's too good for our collars. Speaking of which…"

Suddenly, the other Chie was standing over her and holding a black spiked dog collar, dangling off the end of her index finger. She began to twirl it around and around. "Happy birthday to us."

"What's… what are you doing with that?" Now it was in real Chie's own hands. The leather was warm and heavy, and the shadow Yukiko's neck was slender, calling out for its companion. "Oh."

"Please?" she breathed needily. "Just… put it on, and we'll both be so happy…"

So she put it on. She couldn't bear to face the real Yukiko, but she managed to slide the leather around her doppelganger's throat and fit it snugly without being too tight. A sigh of gratitude fell from her as soon as it was complete, and she smiled up at Chie with what seemed like genuine affection.

"I thought you had seen how worthless I am," she whispered. "But you want me all to yourself? Really?"

"S-stop it," she muttered as she cleared her throat. "I did it because it's… what you wanted. A trade for Yukiko."

"But I'm-"

"What else do you want me to do? Huh? So we can get it done, and… and I can go home."

Now the false Yukiko looked as if she might cry. Her real life counterpart crept forward to kneel on the second step, getting a better look. Other-Chie clicked her tongue, though her expression remained as smug as ever. "So mean. Give her what she wants, and then make her feel like doggie doo. What a power move; really keep her on your leash this way."

"Cut that OUT!" Chie snapped.

"Whoa, touchy! I can't help it if the truth is too weird for you."

"You don't want to be here with me," Other-Yuki finally breathed, and Chie found herself actually feeling a pinprick of remorse. "Can't you play with me a little more before you go? I… I'm gonna miss you…"

"Oh… fine, fine. Tell me what it is you want me to do."

Her expression full of sappy affection — and the real Yukiko's full of disbelief and outrage — she began to hitch up her skirts. "Well, I did pick out something very special to wear today — so I can catch a stud, like you! But it looks like I got defeated, and these are going to waste, so… I thought-"

"Wait, wait, I'm not- you want me to see your underwear?!"

"Not just see it…"

Cold flooded the pit of her stomach. She turned wide eyes on the real Yukiko, who still seemed dazed but was now frowning a lot deeper than before, then back to the legs that were appearing beneath the hem of the clone's dress.

"No."

"Don't you want to go home?" she purred as her thighs came into view. "Play with me. Make me feel really, really good… and you might get that wish. Pretty please?"

"NO! You're a shadow, a- a demon! Why would I do something for you I've barely ever done to myself — much less anybody else?!"

The shadow Yukiko got a little more insistent, pout more pronounced. "Because I'm your princess! Touch me — make my body come alive for you! Turn me into your willing servant!"

"Come on, stop it!"

"Why? Give me one good reason you shouldn't be ripping off my clothes and having your way with m-"

"Because I wanna do this with the REAL Yukiko, not YOU!"

To Be Continued…

#We'll Face Ourselves #persona 4 #p4 fanfic #forkanna writes #chiko #chie satonaka #yukiko amagi #jess the writer

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maladaptive-ninja-returns · 5 years

Text

Without Question (Epilogue)

Steve Rogers x fem!Reader

Content: fluffy conclusion and maybe...mayyyyybe a future fic idea

Warnings: …none? Um...except for that one lady in there.

Word Count: Hot water does not quench my thirst no matter how good it might be for my body...which in itself is such a disaster of a thing.

MASTERLIST & Taglist in bio, my love

The life of a parasite is not that complex of an affair. It is born to live inside a host, gather its nutrients from the said host- more than often at the host's expense- live till it can breed more or find a better host. Its entire life is based on the expense of another creature; its survival in the flesh of someone who can contain it. Therefore, it is no wonder she does not like it when someone calls her a parasite. For she is not one. Her kind lives in codependency, finding a host it is compatible with and helping it flourish in return for nourishment.

Her species was known to have always gone for the living, looking for hosts they could control, be the dominant party of the two sitting in the conference room inside the mind of the body they inhabited, the foreboding controllers that they were. However, inhabiting a dead host- or someone near to it- was never talked about for carcasses were beneath them and their Titan-like ego.

But she isn't like them. She wants to be different. To finally have the freedom she has craved for her entire existence; she wants to live it. And so, she has decided to throw all the laws of the dead empire outside the window and try her theory of inhabiting a body nearly at its deathbed.

The woman- strolled into the emergency room with fatal blows to her body in some accident- is covered in blood and bruises when the doctors try to rush into the process of saving her, measuring her heart rate, blood pressure and respiration rate. It is pure chaos for her to watch it all from the ceiling. Humans. Such soft creatures. She can sense that woman's vitals weakening with every passing moment, something the machines tell the medical professionals by a few seconds' delay. No amount of effort is going to repair that internal bleeding and shock accelerating that human's chances of death slithering right by the corner. And just at that second, she knows that flesh is no longer the resident to the soul it has been harbouring since the beginning of its time, she jumps discreetly into the body when the doctors are focusing at the screen that shows the patient is flatlining. One shock to through the defibrillator is enough for her to let the chemicals be catalysed to become one with neurons; her presence gradually gelling with the body to become one with it. And before any other human in the room can debate on it being a medical miracle, a sign of higher power or simply the inadequacy of the machines, she opens her eyes in her new form, seeing the world through an independent pair of windows for the first time.

Free.

"You know, when we both silently agreed on staying together, I wasn't really expecting you to spoil my life like this."

Steve's chuckle reverberates through the kitchen and dining hall. His honey-laced laugh reaches you in the living room to make you smile as you gather the whiteboard, a few markers, the portable speaker, and a couple of other knick-knacks for the small gathering you are about to have.

"If making breakfast every day is spoiling you then I am not even halfway to showing you how much more I can spoil your life, doll," he announces over the sound of something sizzling over the stove.

You bite your lips to stop the overflow of these gushing emotions all inside you. "Oh, let's not forget giving Stace the freedom to do whatever she wants, okay?" You state, getting up and moving towards the hall, "And you making that entire front yard-"

"That's our back yard."

Our back yard.

...Fuck. Why is he like this?

"Making our entire back yard into this freaking perfect garden with all those fancy fairy lights and a freaking gazebo!"

"You liked it," he stresses. You peak in from the entrance of the kitchen, watching him carefully place the omelettes in two plates along with the toasts- yours extra crispy with thinly spread butter on them- before pouring orange juice in two glasses.

"That doesn't matter," you retort, watching him being caught off guard, your heart instantly melting when his eyes light up on seeing you stand there. "I'm not gonna maintain that luxurious green patch when the time comes."

He stands facing you, his hands on his hips and oh heavens! that customised blue apron with chibi Captain America blessing its front gives you all the right feels in your stomach. "No problem," he affirms, picking the plates and moving them to the tiny breakfast table by the French window before coming back for the juice, "I'll take care of it. I'm pretty sure all of these are positive spoil-"

"Oh I'm not done yet," you interject, sauntering towards a slightly confused and faintly excited Steve, "you have me utterly spoiled-" you move your hands around his waist, earning an arched brow from him- "with all-" your hands go beyond his back, moving lower till they land over his butt cheeks- "of that-" and give them a tight squeeze, forcing a delightful hum out of Steve as you push him closer to you- "sex!"

"Hmm," Steve growls, planting his one hand on your waist under your t-shirt, while the other goes up to tease your lower lip with his thumb. "If you don't like being spoiled," he whispers, bringing his lips closer to you but never close enough for you to get a taste of him, "we can always stop."

"Or," you begin to propose through a moan by letting your hands run along the hem of his track pants, creating a wave of disturbance wherever your fingers touch him before stopping at the trail of hair going down, "we could make it a healthy habit so it doesn't seem like I'm being spoiled."

Your fingers run down that soft golden trail, stirring something inside the Captain, his light eyes feeling a dark edge of mischief being added to them. His finger traces a path down from your lips to your neck, going further down your chest. "Everyone'll arrive in an hour," Steve sighs, giving a light shrug.

"Oh," you turn to look at the clock and realise he's not wrong, letting go of the waistband of his track pants, "then we should-"

Your sentence ends up a light shriek from Steve lifting you by your ass, making your reflexes wrap your legs around him. "That means," he grunts, balancing you effortlessly in those buff arms while his lust-filled eyes have yours locked in place, his voice a shade huskier as he starts moving to the bedroom, "I have a lot of time to make you question all that I do for you. And to you. And more."

Oooh yes!

"How do I use this thing?"

Wasn't working with a human vessel not enough? Did they really have to invent these cheap electronic devices?

She looks down at the device that seems to keep buzzing with different messages for some reason as she tries to find her way through the street.

Getting out of the hospital had been easy (and so was getting a fresh set of clothes). Give the docs and nurses another pile of flesh and bones to worry about and they run like scared animals to help their flock. Now, she is out exploring, trying to work with this new suit, find out the perks and non-perks, questioning her idea of travelling solo when having another conscience to talk to and gnaw at would have been easier. Now it's just her with her voice speaking from some uncharted void walking down into a farmer's market, already having discovered how much of gross unwanted attention this sex of the human species is given on the street.

There is a huge variety of delectables lines up that the humans seemingly prefer. Different shapes, colours and sizes. Some smell sweet, some sour, and some smell like they would sting your tongue before leaving a sweetness behind. Strange edibles. She watches another human- a man as far as the scent of the hormones off him goes- politely asking for some fresh oranges while telling the man behind the counter the ones he is trying to pack do not smell fresh. The sweet nectar of curiosity seems to send a reaction to her brain, making her step towards the box of citrus fruits displayed for the customers. Quickly picking half a dozen from down the different boxes, she brings them forward to the man who is nearly losing his patience. "These are fresh."

The man turns to see her. And she gets a good look at him for the first time. Hypnotising blue eyes look at her in a flurry of confusion and gratuitous delight, the beard hiding pink lips and flushed cheeks.

After a short considerable second, he takes the oranges from her. "Thank you," he mentions without blinking, taking a little time to turn back to make the payment. And in that turn is a microscopic moment, he watches, from the corner of his eye, a stranger try to touch her ass for barely a second.

She, of course, feels it too well. The man turns to get hold of that pervert and kick some respect into him only to find her punching the daylights out of him.

And he just stands there, full body in pause, mind in awe of the woman who has knocked that excuse of a man out in one blow, looking at her once again- this time from his heart. She looks back at him too; though with visible shades of uncertainty before looking down at the guy.

"Was I not supposed to do that?" She asks the man who by now has his mouth agape, still looking at her.

He blinks. "Huh?" Looks down at the man and raises his brows and chuckles. "What? No. I mean yes. You are absolutely supposed to do that."

"Oh-" she nods, and he watches her beam and be proud of herself, "okay."

"Um," he tries to catch her attention. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

She looks down at the hand she used, feeling nothing more than minute tickles. "Yeah, I think I'm good." She turns her gaze back to him with a smile.

He melts inside.

"Do you know where is this place?" She asks him, taking out a card she found in her- the dead woman's- pocket.

"This," he hums, reading the card, "was a few blocks down the road the last I saw it."

"Oh," she scrunches her nose and feels a tired groan come out of her, "how far?"

"I can drop you there if you want," he blurts out, "I'm going that way myself."

She looks at him again. Watching him run his hands through his long lush hair, wondering if she'd seen him somewhere before shaking that thought off, knowing full well that she would remember a pretty face like this. "Yes, I'd like that."

"Great," he chirps. "Oh, I'm James," he addresses, drawing forward his hand, "my friends call me Bucky."

"Bucky," she tastes the name on her tongue and feels all the black mush inside her do a little dance for some unknown reason.

"And you are?"

She licks her lips and feels them stretch involuntary, drawing her own hand forward to meet his, saying her name to bring herself- her true self- into existence, letting the air carry her name for whatever future it is to bring for her.

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captainmeowvelwrites · 4 years

Text

Feeling Thorny (a miraculous one-shot)

Pairing: Marinette x Chat Noir Genre: Romance Rating: M for Marichat makeouts Words: 1904 Summary: Four years ago, Chat Noir had extended a rose between his gloved fingers. Pink for respect, for admiration, for friendship. Tonight, he offered another, but this time it wasn’t pink, and it wasn’t between his fingers. It was between his teeth. She was in trouble.

FEELING THORNY:

They’d done this for months: the banter, the laughter, the late-night movies. By this point, it was an unspoken routine. Why should tonight be any different?

Her parents would turn in early. She’d place a polished tray of treats on her desk and slip into her sleepwear - a silk button-up shirt with matching pink shorts. Two taps on glass would coax out a smile, and her strawberry lip balm would gleam in the soft lamplight.

“Come in, Kitty,” she’d call.

And he always did.

His leather boots (with those admittedly adorable toe caps) would greet her baby pink bedspread with the faintest of thumps.

“Bonsoir, Marimouse,” he’d say.

She always answered with an eye roll.

Bedsprings groaning, he’d launch off the mattress, flip through the air, and his boots would peck the parquet floor with practiced precision.

Like always, their eyes met – reunited, she briefly thought.

And then normality ended.

For there, flaunted between those dazzlingly white teeth, was a single, thornless rose.

Marinette stilled. Her eyes went wide. She couldn’t see her blush, but by God, could she feel it.

Those peach pink lips curved into one of his classic lopsided grins. Was this the reaction he’d hoped for? Or at least, the one he’d expected?

Her mind dove four years back, to that super awkward Sunday brunch they’d shared with her parents. He’d presented a rose then too.

A pink one.

Pink for respect, for admiration, for friendship.

This rose wasn’t pink.

No, it was red.

Red for longing, for passion, for ardent love.

It was fierce and breath-taking and utterly flawless, its every quality rivalled only by the blushing kitty who plucked it from his mouth to flourish toward her in one gloved hand, his other pressed to his heart. “For you, Princess.” He gazed at her, patiently, fondly, his eyes bright and green like precious tourmaline.

“Chat—”

All remaining words caught in her throat. Only then, as her eyes traced those full lips, did she realise how breathless he’d made her; how breathless he could make her; how breathless she longed for him to make her.

There was a thundering in her ears.

An ache in her veins.

A hastened pace to her every breath.

At one time, such sensations were familiar around another blond boy, but with him, she’d hesitated. Kagami hadn’t, and he’d dated her for three months. It had taken a year for the gracious hands of time to mend Marinette’s wounded heart.

But now, that was three years ago. Practically ancient history.

Chat Noir was her present. He could be her future too, if she damn well didn’t hesitate.

And she wouldn’t.

Not this time.

Anticipation burned in his eyes, his cheeks the same shade as the flower in his hand. He held it to her like a question, a promise.

“Yes.”

The single word was as breathless as her last, but he heard it. She knew by the adorable twitch of his cat ears. They always did that when she whispered, be it during a stealthy battle or in her bedroom at some ungodly hour. He didn't know she was his lady. Until Hawk Moth was defeated, he couldn't. But when his ears twitched that way, it was like her voice had a frequency all its own, one his heart knew well, even as his mind went on unaware.

His own voice, deep and rich and so utterly perfect, drew her from her reveries. “Yes?” His mussed locks swayed as he tilted his head. The most adorably clueless look overran his chiselled features.

It was then that Marinette realised he hadn’t technically asked her a question.

She really had a knack for getting ahead of herself.

But then again, so did he.

A laugh leapt from her lips. “Yes!” This time, the word came as a squeak, the sound sudden, shaky, bursting with unbridled joy. He still hadn’t asked her a question, but damn it, she didn’t trust herself to string anything more coherent together just yet. “Yes yes yes!” She threw herself into his arms. Warm arms. Strong arms. Shaped by five years of saving their city, five years of fighting by her side, five years of unparalleled friendship.

Chat Noir hadn’t expected her to lunge at him. She knew by the split-second shock on his face; how those green eyes had flown wide. Yet, his arms were accepting, weaving around her as though she belonged there.

She did.

Oh, how she did.

And she always would.

Marinette buried her face into the curve of his neck. She savoured the earthiness of his scent, the comforting weight of his embrace, the climbing pace of a pulse that wasn’t her own.

There was a hum in his chest as he laughed, low and playful. “I see yes is the word of the day.” He smoothed a gloved hand up her waist, along her bare shoulder, and swept it through her hair. “I’m purrfectly fine with that.”

Her giggle was soft, sleepy. His fingers slipped through her hair a fifth time, a sixth, a delightful seventh. “I thought you were the cat here, but I could really get used to this.”

“I should probably warn you”—she could practically hear his smirk—“I’m a firm believer of the old saying: I’ll scratch your back, you scratch mine.” After one final sweep through her hair, his hand cupped the back of her head, his other swirling across the small of her back. “So, I’m expecting lots of ear scratches as payment. I hope you’re prepared.”

A smirk tugged at her lips. “Pretty sure you’re the one who needs to prepare, Kitty. My ear scratching skills are unfurgettable.”

He laughed again, the sound vibrating in his chest. God, she could stay like this all night, revelling in his voice, his laugh, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Serious question,” he said, despite the lightness in his voice. “Have you accepted my humble offering? Which may or may not now be a trampled mess on the floor.” Another chuckle buzzed in his chest. “I mean, not that I mind you jumping me.” If she’d been looking at his face, she’d have probably been on the receiving end of a playful wink.

Marinette drew back from his neck as though doing so was a chore. Honestly, it was.

Until he ensnared her with those magnetic eyes and that heart-melting smile and those tiny dimples that indented his cheeks in the most adorable way.

“I’ll accept your humble offering.” She skimmed a hand up his chest, the leather hot beneath her fingertips. “But for a purrice.”

Chat’s eyes gleamed. “Now you’re meowing my love language.” Smile remaining, he slipped a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Name your purrice, My Princess.”

Her breath hitched, her chest burning with elation, as that nickname left his lips. Not because it was new. It wasn’t. But he’d never prefaced it with a “My” before.

She loved the sound of that.

Of being his.

As they’d matured, in every sense of the word, her mind wandered through daydreams of her kitty like a movie reel stuck on repeat. Of his lips claiming hers. Of her body pinned beneath him. Of wandering hands. But as his late-night visits had increased in frequency and they’d grown closer beyond the confinement of her mask, thoughts were no longer enough.

Her appreciation of him had heightened too. More and more, Marinette’s eyes dared to wander, to drink in that athletic physique, wrapped in leather and sculpted by superheroing. More and more, her lips spelt compliments, unleashed puns, and spread into wholehearted smiles in the light of his presence. More and more, her self-restraint wilted, while her ardour went on to blossom and thrive.

Marinette gripped his bell and tugged him close. Her heart hammered in her chest, her ears, so loud he surely heard it. “My purrice for your offering?” She wet her lips, tasting strawberry. That drew his eye. “A kiss from my kitty?”

He leaned closer. “Purrhaps two kiss—”

One tug of his bell. Marinette brought his lips down to hers. It was a soft kiss. A fleeting kiss. So sudden she had no time to tremble, and he had no time to kiss back. In the seconds that followed, the imprint of his lips still lingered on hers, and her every anxiety evaporated, replaced by the thrilling prospect of something new and exciting and real.

He gazed at her lips, his tongue idly tracing his own. His cat-eyes were half-lidded and hazed, rife with emotions unknown. That made her stomach coil. Usually, those eyes were an open book, an invitation. She’d happened upon every emotion they were capable of. Or so she’d thought. Tonight, it seemed, was a first for many things.

“You’re oddly quiet,” she whispered, grip tightening on his bell. “Cat got your—”

Chat seized her lips, fierce and feral, his claws clutching her hips, pulling her close. His scent enveloped her senses—sweet, spicy, downright intoxicating. Her fingers explored the straining muscles of his chest, his shoulders, his neck, as their lips fought for dominance. For once, he refused to follow. For once, she accepted defeat.

His tongue dipped between the seam of her lips, melding with hers in a dizzying dance. Chat tasted of caramel lip balm, of comfort and sheer perfection. He drank deeply of her with a staggering thirst, his gloved hands tracing her back, her waist, the hint of skin at her hips. He gripped her glutes, hoisting her off the floor, and her legs latched around him, the leather of his suit hot against her bare thighs.

Feverish hands plunged into the silken gold of his hair to clasp his cat ears. A wild growl thundered in his throat. He staggered three steps forward and slammed her to a wall, his lips capturing her gasp as posters rustled to the floor. His right hand hit the wall. His left caressed her cheek. Every delectable inch of his body was flush against hers, a silent disclosure of his deepest desires.

Chat’s lips pressed the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her temple, as his every heaving breath flooded her mind like a symphony. He traced his tongue up her jawline. “No cat got my tongue,” he husked in her ear, “but one sure got yours.” He took her earlobe in his teeth, and she arched against him.

“Even when you’re hot,” she panted, as his lips peppered her jawline, “you’re still a massive dork.”

His teeth grazed her flushed neck, breath burning her skin. “All I got from that,” he breathed, “is that you think I’m hot.”

A smile played on her lips. “I hope that wasn’t your first clue.” She kneaded his cat ears – a woman of her word – and relished the groan that reeled from his lips; the way his hips bucked against hers; how he clung to her hair.

Their lips reunited, joining like a harmony, soft and sweet and so beautifully in sync.

She should’ve expected this. The blossoming feelings. This equal longing. These perfect kisses.

They were yin and yang.

Push and pull.

Two halves of a brilliant whole.

For years, she’d pushed her silly kitty away.

Now, she caressed the curve of that chiselled jaw and pulled those lips ever closer. They were uncharted territory, and she planned to map every delicious inch of them before the night was over.

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lilhemmo · 5 years

Text

forbidden words

a/n: requests are “star-crossed lovers” and “trapped in a room due to inclimate weather” - you let me know how i did once you’ve read!!

send me two au’s from this list + a ship/character

The curse had come at a young age for the Princess of North.

She was but a babe, merely days old, hardly clean from her mother’s womb. The goddess had appeared from thin air only to place her slender hand on the tiny newborn’s forehead, muttering a curse that would haunt all of her future days.

“There will come a time in this younglings life, where she will have to choose between love or strife. Those who love her will die a cruel fate, but those who would rise against her should dig their grave.”

Before her parents could push the goddess away, she had already wished the incantation upon the young mortal. Her fate was sealed.

The South was in need of food, in need of shelter, with nowhere to turn. The young maiden, but fourteen years of age, welcomed them in with open arms and open gates. The South was allowed to eat with the royalty of the North, allowed to partake in their wine and finest meats. No one from the Southern Kingdom had ever eaten bread that was less than three days stale.

It was happenstance when the Prince of the South and the Princess of the North met.

“I-I’m sorry,” he mutters, bristling at the warmth of another’s touch. He hadn’t felt someone else’s skin since his mother had passed away. The memory of her cold touch as the life bled out of her still haunts his nights.

“It’s okay,” you respond, a warm smile on your kind lips. You curtsy, dipping your head out of respect. This boy will be a King before you know it. It would be wise to have him on your side.

The Prince tilts his head towards you like an inquisitive animal, dark eyes tracking your movements. He coughs before he speaks, “What your family is doing for our Kingdom will not be forgotten, Your Highness. I’m sure they will arrange our union soon enough to keep the ties bound.”

You shake your head, your blood running cold, “Oh no, young prince. I shan’t believe they would do such a thing at all.”

He glances back to you, confusion evident in his swirling brown irises. A chestnut curl flops over his forehead unceremoniously. He is handsome, that much you know, but you do not allow yourself to be torn away from the present by such frivolous things.

“Surely you will be wed to another suitor, then? I apologize if I overstepped, and you were already betrothed. I was not aware.” The Prince shuffles his feet, kicking at nonexistent dirt on the floor. He licks his lips and looks you in the eyes again, but this time it is your turn to speak.

“I will never be wed,” you hold back tears, steeling your resolve as you stand before this boy. You grip your hands into fists by your side, “To love me is to be cursed, and to die. I would never wish that upon another soul.”

The Prince looks at you quizzically, but you make your exit before he can ask any other intrusive questions; questions you never want to think about answering.

News spreads around town on your twenty-first birthday that you are still unwed to one of your many suitors.

People begin to wonder: Is she unfit for a man? Is she unfit to rule? Is she unlovable? Does she lust after women?

And, while at least one of the rumors is true, only your family will ever know the truth.

The only other person you’ve ever opened up to was the Prince of the Southern Kingdom. And you haven’t seen him in years.

Until he shows up on your castle doorstep, asking about a treaty.

You are spending time in the stables when you hear his deep voice approach.

“My parents do not understand how I have not chosen a bride yet,” he laughs, a deep, throaty laugh that sounds more like a bark than anything. “They continue to have events in my honor, dragging in women from every which way, but I cannot find it within me to say yes.”

He looks up at you, and you wish your heart didn’t stop.

The Prince has grown much more handsome than you last remember. He has a chiseled jawline and strong cheekbones. His lips are full and his muscles now fill out his tunic. He is no longer lanky and awkward; instead, he walks with a certain sense of regality in his gait.

“Your Highness,” he bows to you, dipping his head out of respect. You swear he is smirking at you when he rises to his full height again, but the expression has gone from his face as soon as you try to pin it down. “Would you care to go for a ride?”

He’s gesturing to the horses, but you’re trying to look your father in the eyes so you can silently ask for help. You do not need to get close to this Prince. In fact, you need to stay very far away.

“Um,” you manage to stutter out, “I-I would like that, actually.”

You mount your horse, Athena, and he sidles up to you with his frame settled atop your father’s steed, Heracles.

You are out for hours, exploring the lower parts of your kingdom’s land. You ride through the countryside, smelling of the fresh fruits and flowers that the citizens are growing to help your kingdom thrive. You wave to the people as you pass by, asking about their families and their crops.

“You are respected in your Kingdom, princess,” The Prince nods to you as you clear out of another apple orchard. He chuckles, shaking his head, “I don’t think I’ve met another quite like you.”

“Well,” you begin, straightening your spine, “that might be because there isn’t another quite like me.”

You ignore the swelling in your heart when he looks at you with shining eyes, respect glowing in his chocolate irises. You slap the reigns against your horse and head back to your home.

Five years pass and The Prince is not a stranger to your home. You learn he likes to be called Sweet Pea and that he enjoys riding his horse and eating peaches. He does not like to wear typical prince clothing and cannot stand the taste of alcohol. His hands are warm as they guide your back and elbow, and his eyes are gentle when he looks at you.

There comes a day when he gets too close and your face gets too hot and your heart pulses too quick and you realize what is happening.

You are falling in love.

And instead of falling heart first, you push him away with rough palms and a tight voice.

You banish him from your kingdom, forcing your guards to keep him at bay when he visits. You cannot allow your heart to grow much fonder of him, or else the curse will ring true and he will lose his life.

Letters appear at your door, slipped under the frame, always sealed with the dark green wax and his ornate stamp. You cannot bear to open them, so you hide them away in hopes that one day, once your heart quenches it’s thirst, you might read them to remember the time when you were almost in love.

Another year passes and the letters stop.

Princess Lodge of East La Bonne is hosting a ball to celebrate her engagement to Prince Mantle of Riverdale. Before you can make out which is left and which is right, you’re being loaded into the castle’s finest carriage and driven to East La Bonne without another word.

Princess Elizabeth and Queen Topaz are both in attendance, which makes your heart’s anxious beating quell to a gentle thumping in your chest. You lean on them for support, sipping on a fine, bubbly drink in the meantime. You dance with Antoinette, your hands on her shoulders as her fingers guide your waist. She makes you laugh and when you finally open your eyes to thank her for the dance, you catch the gaze of a certain Southside royal.

As soon as his eyes lock onto yours, he begins to trek your way. You push yourself out of Antoinette’s arms, an apology billowing from your lips. Your dress catches on the doorframe as you make your way anywhere, god, anywhere, but here. You find yourself tripping through a side door that leads to the back garden. The blooms smell enticing but you cannot stop to appreciate them.

Heavy footfalls echo behind you, only driving you further away. You push yourself into a small stable, pretending not to feel the beginning of rain on your skin. The wetness of the weather makes your dress slick, sticking the fabric to every contour of your body. You feel tears well up but you know you cannot cry; cannot risk him hearing you.

“Princess?” he calls.

You hear the stable door swing shut and your heart drops into your feet.

The rain begins to pour outside, loud droplets echoing off the rooftop. You wrap your arms around yourself and bury your body further into the bale of hay, praying yourself invisible.

“I don’t understand,” he continues, “You never even told me why.”

He sounds angry, and you cannot blame him. You imagine the way his upper lip would curl in discontent, and the way his cheeks would tinge pink in embarrassment that someone else might be able to control his temperament, even for a moment.

You force the thoughts out of your head – you cannot continue to list the things you find beautiful about this man, it will only mean his demise.

“Go away!” you shout finally. Your voice is grief-stricken and thick with emotion. Tears cloud your eyes as you thrust your pointer finger towards the stable door. “You will leave, now! Did you not understand before, when I banished you from the North?”

Sweet Pea takes a heavy step towards you, his boots loud against the stone floor. His spirit feels weighted, as if chains were tied to his ankles. He reaches out to touch your elbow but you yank it away as if burned.

“Please tell me what is going on, Princess,” he begs of you.

Thunder and lightning crackle outside the door and you know you should retreat back indoors, where the party can keep you safe.

“I do not owe you any sort of an explanation,” you shake your head and fight more tears. Your throat begins to close up as your feelings swell to the surface. “Please, leave. Now.”

Sweet Pea angrily approaches you, backing you into the wooden wall of the stable. He presses the pad of his index fingertip to the valley of your breasts, accusing you even in silence.

“You were my friend. I cared for you. I was there for you when you were sad and when you were angry. You held my hand when my brother was ill.” His hands shake with emotion, eyes alight with something akin to fear. He sucks his lower lip into the bite of his teeth for just a moment before releasing, “And you have the audacity to shut me out without another word? I lo-“

“Don’t!” you screech, falling to your knees in front of him. You crumble, unable to deal with the thought of losing this man to the curse that befell you as a child. “Do not go any further!”

“Why not?!” he beseeches. Sweet Pea squats in front of you, cradling your cheeks in firm, large hands. His thumbs brush over the tear tracks on your skin, “Why will you not let me tell you how I feel?”

Your hands are numb as the rain pours down outside. There is no way you will ever be able to leave now. It is as if fate has locked you away in a room, destiny sending your beloved Sweet Pea to his death right in front of your eyes.

“We cannot do this,” you tell him. You cover his hands with your own, relishing in his touch for a moment, “I am cursed. I cannot allow you to bare your soul to me because it will mean certain death for you. I will not allow it.”

“I don’t care about a lousy curse,” he assures you with a gentle voice. His eyes are kind, just like the day you met, and his smile tugs gently at his full mouth. Oh, how you long to taste the delicacy of his lips. And yet, you are barred from partaking in any bit of this man.

“I care!” You shout, your hands gripping furiously at his tunic. Tears relentlessly drag down your cheeks, heat steaming up your chest to your face to pinken the skin of your cheeks.

You shake your head and lightning strikes on cue, “Don’t you understand, Pea!?”

He swallows, his throat bobbing, “I do not care about a curse, princess. I care about you.”

“And that will be your undoing,” you whisper, voice cracking.

You release his tunic and allow yourself to finish crumbling. You rock back and forth, the anxiety creeping up like a pack of spiders on your spine. You want to itch, to scratch them away, but you know there will be nothing there when your fingernails scrape at your skin.

“You need to forget me. Forget all of this. You need to go, find a woman who will bear you healthy sons and continue your lineage.” You swipe at your face to rid your skin of tears. You cannot look him in the eye, not when your heart is breaking.

“How can I forget you?” he whispers in a husky voice, tears begging to be released from his lids. “I love you.”

Just as the words are spoken, he falls to his knees, clutching his throat.

a/n: considering writing a part two??? since i never TECHNICALLY killed sp, y’know ;)

PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT OF IT HERE IN MY ASK BOX! AND FEEL FREE TO SEND ME ANOTHER REQUEST!

#sweet pea #sweet pea x reader #sweet pea fanfic #sweet pea imagine #sweet pea one shot #sweet pea drabble #sweet pea fic #sweet pea fanfiction #river #riverdale x reader #riverdale #riverdale imagine #riverdale fic #riverdale fanfiction #riverdale fanfic #my writing

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chinatea · 6 years

Text

Ian/Diminie (feat. minor Tattoo/Baby G)

ABO. Where Diminie asks for nothing and Ian keeps coming back for more.

- Ian and Baby G are twins. A dominant alpha and omega respectively.

- Omegas don’t have self-lubricating assholes, they have slits (or heat slits).

Names:

Baby G - Jiyeon.

Diminie - Jisoo.

Tattoo - Junghwan.

Ian is Ian. (:

Ian knows damn well why he did it - he was pissed off at Jiyeon for taking up with Junghwan. While the omega could have picked any knot he wanted, it just had to be that mongrel, huh.

So yes, Ian took it personally. Even if it had nothing to do with him - Ian could always tell when Jiyeon was in love, which was never, not for real anyhow, until that knothead moved into their town and his twin has been acting like a freaking omega ever since, with his air-light giggles and sickening amounts of skinship between the two.

Ian can’t even kick Junghwan’s ass for treating Jiyeon anything less than the precious prince he is, because Junghwan ferociously does just that. The problem is, Ian just doesn’t like him, on an almost visceral level, and would find any opportunity to express his distaste in abundant detail so much so Jiyeon had to drag him aside and tell him in no uncertain terms to...shut the fuck up.

(“I love him, you idiot.”)

That was a few days ago and Ian has been feeling petty ever since. Enough to snub every single one of Jiyeon's omega posse that his twin likes to toss at him like confetti because he finds their thirst funny. Ian entertained him out of convenience - he has to fuck someone, right, and they're not that bad aside from the part where they open their mouth to have a conversation with him about their future life as mates - which immediately wills Ian's boner into non-existence. He's a fuck boy, not a settler, okay. So tonight, out of spite, he decides to chase his own game or maybe none at all.

There is no shame in spending the night alone - unless it's the Midnight Fair night.

It occurs three times per month with a single purpose in mind - for unmated alphas and omegas to hook up, no strings attached. For omegas, the attendance is somewhat mandatory too, because no alpha is going to miss out on the chance to get their knot wet. If the omega is interested, that is.

They’re not, like, animals, after all. Only partly so.

Jiyeon, opposite of him, is whispering things into Junghwan’s ear who has his arm around the omega like they are fucking mated or something. Although it seems to be where things are going for them, at breakneck speed. Last week, Junghwan almost maimed a guy for catcalling Jiyeon on the street and now they’re being disgustingly cute and domestic every time Ian happens to glower in their direction.

(Jiyeon can’t really love him, can he?)

“Yannie.” Jiyeon throws him one of his wicked smiles that get everyone else wrapped around his pretty pinkie. Junghwan’s eyes glaze over and Ian finds it disgusting. “I think Seunghee wants your attention.”

“Who’s that again?” Ian grunts into his beer. To his credit, he really has no idea who Jiyeon is talking about, not that he's going to explain himself.

Jiyeon narrows his eyes, but before he can start something, Ian looks away, sweeping over the crowd - their advantageous position on the grassy hill allows him the best view of the town square littered with decorated stalls and festive couples. A few desperate eyes vying for his attention he ignores until his gaze lands at the fountain where a sizable group of omegas are playing with the flower garlands and whatnot - most of those omegas come from the Min clan and for some reason, they’re not exactly swimming in the alpha attention. Come to think of it, Ian has no idea why, but were he to contemplate a partner for the night, a Min omega wouldn’t even cross his mind. Until now, that is.

“Hey,” he calls over one of the alphas nearby, his hoobae. “See that omega? The one with a flower band on his head. Jisoo, I think?”

The guy looks where he’s pointing before doing a double take.

“Huh?”

“Ask him if he wants to come here.”

Ian gives him a pointed stare, daring him to say something stupid again, and the guy stalks off. Ian sighs, eyes flicking back to Jiyeon, but the omega has already moved on by now, giggling into Junghwan’s mouth - as if he could care less whom Ian ruts tonight.

Ian doesn’t even know why he chose Min Jisoo, but at least he knows his name while the rest are just nameless faces, and maybe that’s that. There was one time when Ian had to help move stuff into the campus greenhouse and Jisoo was in charge of making sure he doesn’t trample over the saplings too much.

Ian remembers him being eerily quiet and keeping out of his way, for the most part. Ian also remembers Jisoo watching him when he thought Ian was too busy to notice, his attraction palpable in the air, but that’s normal to Ian, so he didn’t give it much thought, but now he’s almost certain that Jisoo won’t be able to reject him.

And he’s correct. The next time Ian happens to look up, Min Jisoo is right there, sans the flower band, so Ian is almost tempted to ask what happened. At least, the flower band gave some point of interest for the eye to rest on - there is something unassuming about the omega, in general. A lot unassuming, but maybe Ian is being too judgmental: not every omega can make an alpha’s breath catch in their throat the way Jiyeon does. And not every omega has to.

Jisoo is still pretty enough in his own quiet way.

Ian holds out his hand - feeling many eyes on him - and Jisoo takes it, cautious but with certain dignity, as he nestles in Ian’s lap. He has a nice scent, fresh and clean, no gaudy enhancers, obviously - he has nothing to prove, he already knows who he is. That could be attractive, too. At least, to Ian it is.

“Can I scent you, pup?” Ian purrs against his neck, smirking when he hears Jiyeon kiss his teeth so everyone in close vicinity knows what he thinks about Ian's little stunt.

Jisoo’s cheeks go pink and his scent blooms as Ian nuzzles in. For a moment, that’s all he knows - the delicate honeysuckle fragrance.

Later that night, Ian ruts into him in the park, tucked away in safe distance from the rowdy square. He’s holding his weight with both arms because Jisoo looks too delicate to be shoved against a tree or a wall, yet he barely weighs anything in Ian’s arms.

The sounds he makes are quiet and breathy. His thighs are milky, just the right amount of thick, and Ian enjoys seeing the angry marks his hands leave on skin when he grabs them with just a touch more fever, thinking that maybe, if he pushed just a bit more, he could break him forever. The possibility is certainly there.

Ian kisses him as Jisoo cums, trembling in his arms but barely uttering a word. Ian could feel his pleasure as his own - the shuttered look of utter bliss in his eyes. No one has fucked him the way Ian did. No one will.

Ian almost regrets picking him tonight. He’s an asshole, he knows that. It’s better if Jisoo knows that too.

“You okay?” he says in the shrill quiet of the late hours and Jisoo’s eyes are wide and full of awe, gazing up at him in shy wonder. For some reason, Ian wants to kiss him again. And he does, Jisoo’s lips pliant under his own.

“I’ll walk you home.”

It’s late afternoon on campus and Ian’s been watching Jisoo repot hostas outside the greenhouse. Not intentionally. He just happens to be here, hanging out by the gazebo, out for a smoke, in just the right distance so as not to seem too obvious.

It’s been a week since that night and before they parted, Ian made it adamantly clear that he won’t ask Jisoo come over to sit on his lap ever again. Of course, he didn’t have to be that much of an insensitive asshole about that, but his history with the omegas who couldn't take a soft no for an answer had taught him better.

Jisoo just smiled and nodded then, his hands laced together in a cutesy gesture.

“I understand.”

The meaning behind that smile escaped Ian. And if there is one thing Ian hates, it’s to be left in the dark. Was he disappointed or not? Not that it mattered.

But, was he?

Ian was not going to approach him just for that reason alone, but he isn’t the only one eyeing Jisoo, he finds, and the other guy pretends to help Jisoo, juggling some pots around like a dumbass, eyes never straying too far from his ass.

Conversely, Jisoo doesn’t pay him much mind, tiny palms tamping down the soil around the plant. He’s not the type to make much fuss, Ian thinks.

He also thinks that while Jisoo does have a fine-looking ass, he has a real thing for his thighs. He should have marked them more. Maybe even put his mouth on them, sucking bruises into the skin, so Jisoo would think of him every time he grazed a tender spot. Ian wouldn’t stop there though - kissing up to his slit and drinking the omega up. He wagers he’d be the first alpha to eat him out. Somehow that just makes sense.

His phone flashes with a message from Jiyeon and Ian might have been waiting for his text all day, but now he finds he doesn’t care that much.

He’s up before he knows, cutting straight through the lawn, grass wet from sprinklers. He sends the guy scampering with one intense glare and when Jisoo turns to look at him, sensing his presence, he’s not sure what to say.

His cigarette burns his fingers and he almost drops it.

“Please, don’t litter here,” Jisoo says, but it’s devoid of petty malice. His hands are dirty with soil. A little smudge of dirt is marking his chin. The sweetness of his scent hangs in the air, mixing with the greens.

“Would you like to come to my place tonight?” Ian asks, already knowing the answer.

The eyes of a wolf who loves never lie.

A week later finds Ian sprawled on his back, Jisoo balancing on top of him, straddling his face like he’d done it a million times before, which he hadn’t - as expected, the omega didn't have much experience prior to him, but Ian has to marvel now at how shameless Jisoo can be, open to anything, and he rarely marvels at anything, period.

Tongue plunged deep into his heat, Ian has Jisoo by his hips, controlling the pace and the movement of his pelvis. From his position, Ian can’t see his face, but judging from the sounds alone, the picture that unfolds above him is pretty wild as Jisoo pants softly, riding Ian’s mouth in short rapid bursts, exactly the way Ian allows it because today he feels like being kind.

It’s the first time Ian spends the night at Jisoo’s place which effortlessly accommodates the entire botany book in cute DIY pots. And with Jisoo, it couldn't be any other way. Ian can honestly say that he likes spending time with him - not just fuck but hang out. Jisoo cooks, very well too, and by now, he's probably more familiar with Ian's little kitchen than the alpha himself.

Ian never asked to cook for him, but Jisoo never asked for his permission either - one morning, after their first proper sleepover, he'd just rolled up his sleeves and cracked on with whisking eggs to make pancakes for breakfast.

Ian would have been a fool to tell him to stop, so he didn't.

Caught in the moment of passion, none of them hear the creak of the door being open.

“Goodness,” a yelp.

The door shuts back, some hurried steps thumping down the stairs before it's quiet once again.

In a somewhat belated response, Jisoo scrambles off Ian, pulling the sheets over himself frantically, covering Ian too, even if whomever intruded on them has left already, having gotten an eyeful of their debauchery.

“Who’s that?” the alpha slurs, flexing his jaw to get rid of tension. Half of his face is covered in slick. It’s obscene and he loves it.

“My dad,” Jisoo murmurs sheepishly, tugging the sheets up further to bury half of his face in them. So adorably bashful.

“You’re not in trouble, are you?”

“Not really,” Jisoo sighs. “Though, I wish I would have warned him that I’d have someone over.”

“Well, in that case...” Ian croons, a hand slipping under the sheets to tickle up Jisoo’s naked thigh - he attempts to wiggle away with a squeak, but Ian is faster.

“Get back here, minx.”

Naturally, the word travels around fast.

The Jeon and that Min omega, Jisoo, or something. The Jeon’s omega, Jisoo. Ian’s omega, just that, yes, Ian’s omega.

How they’ve come to that conclusion Ian has no idea. Wolves fuck around all the time without anyone making a big fuss about that, unless you’re one of the Jeons, because the Jeons are all the rage and everyone wants a piece of that.

Well, fuck them.

Not that he can say the same to Jiyeon though, when he finds him one day, sprawled across Ian’s bed on his tummy, ankles swaying in the air as he leafs through a magazine.

“Yannie, Yannie, Yannie,” he tuts with a wicked curve of his mouth. He pats a spot on the duvet next to him. “Come, let’s cuddle, baby brother.”

That’s still debatable who is the baby among the two of them. Ian likes to think he came first. But so does Jiyeon, and being an omega, he wins by definition.

“I missed you, you stubborn loaf,” Jiyeon whines, tugging Ian onto the bed and immediately draping himself over Ian’s form. He can be quite the octopus when he wants to be and as much as Ian’s like to think he grew out of this silliness, there is little he can deny his omega twin.

“You have your alpha now. Go cuddle him,” Ian points out still, a massive pout still tucked somewhere in the lazy drawl.

The omega retaliates with a nip to his ear. It stings and Ian lets out a hiss, wincing at the prickle of pain. Jiyeon has sharp teeth and the gentlest touch as he soothes his earlobe with his fingertips.

Ian rumbles deep in his throat but settles back, relaxing under his touch.

“You know what I like most about him, though?” Jiyeon asks.

“No idea.”

“He listens.”

“You like your pups trained, who knew,” Ian huffs, eyes closed.

“Not like that, stupid,” Jiyeon teases. “He just...listens, to me, to my needs, to what I have to say, because he cares. And that’s rare in an alpha, because all you knotheads do is talk or act but rarely listen. Junghwanie is way ahead of you, you know.”

Ian opens his mouth to retort and then lets it fall shut.

He can listen.

“Mmh, good boy,” Jiyeon smiles, pleased, resting his chin on his palm as he gazes at Ian, eyes circling up in mischief. “We should get together some time, all four of us, you know?”

Ian kisses his teeth and that’s the habit they share, along with a million of others.

“It’s not like that between us,” he mutters.

“Don’t give me that spiel now, Yannie,” Jiyeon says. “It’s okay if you want him, you know. You think I care that he’s a Min? All I care about is whether he makes you happy, you stupid mutt.”

“We just fuck, Ji,” Ian protests weakly. “There is nothing to tell.”

“Well, you’ve been fucking him for a month now. Which is longer than any of your past ‘relationships’ added together. Either I meet him on your terms or I’m just gonna drop by the greenhouse whenever I damn well please.”

With the rug pulled from under his feet, Ian has no choice but to begrudgingly agree to think about it.

Jisoo is dancing in his bedroom. Although dancing is a bit of a stretch, more like - swaying his hips sensually, throwing an occasional simper over his shoulder to where Ian is seated cross-legged on the windowsill, smoking.

His gaze ravenously follows every little movement of the omega’s sinuous body. They fucked all night long and then, had a few extra rounds in the morning, and yet Ian finds he’s not nearly as satisfied as he should be after going at it for hours. Too bad Jisoo has to leave soon for school.

“I thought you had places to be,” Ian says, eyes never leaving Jisoo as he squashes the cigarette he lit, like, a second ago.

Lately, he’s been trying to cut down on smoking. It’s unhealthy, yes, but also - Jisoo doesn’t like it. Not that he’s admitted to anything, but Ian could tell. He wasn’t the first omega to find his habit revolting, but Ian wouldn’t even consider quitting just for anybody, but he can do it for Jisoo, if he asked.

Only Jisoo never asks for anything, not even to put a title on the thing they have between them. In many ways, Jisoo is easy, and for a while, that was exactly the reason why Ian kept coming back - uncomplicated fuckery and homey noms, the two undeniable magnets for alphas, but lately Ian has found that he wants more than that. The thing they have certainly means something to him now and he wants that to mean something to Jisoo, too.

“Can’t wait to get rid of me, alpha?” Jisoo lilts, all tease and no bite. Ian adores it when he’s playful like that - that he’s at ease with him, his impish persona coming through. Ian leans in to grab him by the waist, slowly drawing him in and sucking a kiss on his neck.

“You like to play dirty, kitten?”

“I’m just asking a question, that’s all,” Jisoo demurs, casting a mischievous look from under his lashes. His lips purse into a soft pout that Ian desperately wants to kiss away, but a better idea sneaks into his mind.

Maybe it’s time to speak up.

“Is that what you’re doing, huh?” Ian smiles, cupping Jisoo’s face in his palms. “I can’t wait to press you back into the sheets and make you delirious with want all over again. Is that what you want me to say?”

Jisoo gasps, fingers curling around Ian’s forearms.

“I hate it every time you have to leave. I hate it when you’re away. Out of my sight.”

Ian buries his face into Jisoo’s neck, tasting the unmarked skin over his scent gland.

“I think of you, pup. All the damn time.”

“Alpha,” Jisoo softly sighs.

“I wanna take you out on a date. With my brother and his mate. He wants to meet you,” Ian says. “And I want to show you off. Would you let me do that, darling?”

Jisoo slowly wraps his arms around his waist, face hidden against his chest. He doesn’t say a thing. Ian tucks his chin over the omega’s fluffy head, fingers soothing up and down the curve of his spine. In this quiet moment that follows, Ian finally realizes the sheer magnitude of power he holds over Jisoo. He could break him so easily with one careless word and it’s so unfair he wants to punch himself - he never had the right to take over his heart like that.

He wishes he was the one on the deeper end of love. He wishes he knew what it felt like.

“My mate,” he tests on his lips, struck by the way a shudder seizes up Jisoo’s body.

It takes a while for the omega to answer, his voice quiet and choked-up, on the verge of tears. Ian hopes they’re happy tears. He’ll make sure they’re happy tears. He owes Jisoo that much.

(“Who likes to play dirty now?”)

---

AN: It’s not that Ian doesn’t love him, but Jisoo certainly loves Ian deeper than the other way around. I’m thinking about maybe writing the double date from the pov of Baby G, and maybe I’ll do that. Maybe not. Don’t worry, though, they stayed together and mated eventually.

#personas au #ian/diminie #abo

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firehananas · 3 years

Text

I - Autumn's naps

The ones who can’t play | ~2000 words

“A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out.” — Walter Winchell

"That's nothing serious," The doctor promises. "But you'll need to not run nor jump for some times. You can do that, right?" The black haired girl nods. It seems easy in her naïve mind. She wants to heal the faster possible, so she could play with her friends again. And she's ready to say yes to anything (and everything). She hurts her ankle pretty badly when she was playing tag, an hour ago. All tears abandoned her tiny six years old body as one of her classmates runs to found the teacher and, from that, to take her to the infirmary. And now, her leg is trap between a splint. She stands up, walks a bit to see how she can move. She probably looks weird. At least, it's not as painful as she thoughts. She's almost disappointed it's not broken because she could have a plaster cast: everyone would have made nice drawings on it. Oh, well. The doctor said she would have to stay in class at the playtime. She's depressed about it, but didn't argue. She just pouted in a fit of pique to be excluded from her games and friends. What else could she do anyway? Her parents are probably the most irritated and annoyed by the situation in that regard. She could still hear their scolds even now... When the playtime finally comes, she takes some felt-tip pens and a white sheet of paper. The child sight, thinking at this point it would be better to have stayed at home — and just like that, she starts drawing her house. "What are you doing?" Her orange eyes look up. It's a boy from her age — his name is Nikaidou if she remembers well. She knows him; he's in her class, after all. But she wouldn't say they are friends, not even acquaintances. He's just there, in the background of her life. "I'm drawing my house," She answers a bit flatly. "And you?" "Nothing for now. Can I draw with you?" She nods, and he sits quietly on the chair next to her. Minutes go by in the complete silence, save from the screams from the outside et and rubbings of the felt-tip pens. She looks at the clock, apprehending the end of this quiet moment. "Are you done?" She asks. She's curious about what he made. "Almost." He looks very concentrated on his task yet a bit unpleased judging by the frown on his forehead. The girl leans to have a peek on his work: he is doing a house too. Probably his she supposes. "Don't look!! It's not complete!" He screams as he puts his hands on his sheet to hide it. "Sorry!" She straightens herself, looks away before returning to her drawing. She already added the most colors, the most details as possible. There is nothing she could add... except maybe her name at the back. So she does, in her struggling and shaking handwriting.

kOTonE.

It's perfect now! "I'm finished!" Nikaidou beams at her as he moves his drawing to her face. She blinks, a little startled by his brutal swinging mood, before taking it. He takes her in exchange. Both children examine their respective artwork like some art connoisseurs, trying to discover all the details and hidden messages. "Is it your dad?" Kotone asks while pointing to the man with black, spiky hair and a tie bow. "Yes! He's always coming piking me after school." "Uh-uh! Me, it's my mom. If I have been good, she buys me nice snacks before coming back home!"

There is something else that draw her attention: the cars. There is one black, flat car, but it's the other one who intrigues her the most. A red cross is on the top, remembering her an ambulance. Maybe he wants to become a doctor? He seems to have drawn himself inside. "Your mom?" He shows the woman surrounded by pink hearts. "Yes! There is a lot of hearts because I looooove her!" "She looks scary..." "It's because she is! When she screams, even the neighbors can hear her! That's why I dress her as an Oni with a yelling mouth." "Oh, that's made completely sense!" He approves. "Thankfully, she's not always like that. She can be very nice too! Otherwise, I wouldn't like her, tehehe!" His smiles got wider, his legs start kicking the air under his chair with excitement.

"My mother isn't very often at home," Nikaidou comments, "But she is really nice. So is my father! How is yours?"

"My dad... is always tired. All he does at home is sleeping, watching the TV and smoking! He's not really fun. Super boring!" She adds while dramatically rolling her eyes. Suddenly she wonders: "Do you wanna be a doctor?"

"Huh? Not especially, why?"

"Why did you draw an ambulance?"

"Oh," His excitement fades instantly. "It's because I have to go to the hospital. My dad is going to go with me and will drive me back once I'm better." At first, Kotone thinks nothing of it... Until it rings a bell. She remember in the beginning of the year, their teacher have said to the classroom Nikaidou has a medical condition. It’s still pretty vague in her mind, but little girl understands better why he pictured that. Her thoughts quickly leave her mind as she focuses again on the paper. "Your rainbow is neat!" Kotone compliments with a very serious face. "Thank you! I really did my best to not exceed!"

With that, his cheerfulness comes back. They both continue chatting until the next class.

And this is how their friendship starts. For all the following playtime, the two would draw, make puzzles, read stories (or at least, try to) and play with anything they could find worth of interest. Like sticks, a snail she had sneaked on her way to school (she was caught and scold by their teacher. Before leaving, she had to clean the classroom. Even if Nikaidou only watched her slimy friend discovering the table, he helped her, so she could leave sooner.), her collection of Pokémon cards (she was green with envy at his. She has no idea how it's possible to have so many cool cards.), nice rocks where they drew funny faces and gave them silly names...

However, even if these times were precious and amusing, Kotone couldn't help but languish of the outside. Moving, running as she pleases, jumping in the water's puddles...

"To think I was the best at tag," The girl mumbles as she puts her chin on the table. "Being inside is so lame."

Nikaidou eye's raise up to his drawing to her, before turning his gaze away. He looks thoughtful. "Isn't it how you ended up hurting yourself?"

"Uh? Ah, yes. Takashi was after me," She looks straight into his eyes as her face becomes dead serious. "He was getting closer and closer, like a hungry wolf hunting a delicious rabbit. But! I wasn't going to get caught. I was going to use my ultimate technique: the banana strategy!"

"The banana strategy?" Her friend repeats with incredulity.

"Yes! It's my ultimate technique. When someone is running after you, you slow down to make them believe they won — and at the very last moment, you turn around and double faster!! Your trajectory is then just like when you open a banana!"

"Clever!"

"Indeed!" But her proud expression turns into a disgruntled one. "At least, until you fail to notice the small stair between the red and the grey space. And then, BAM!" She screams as she pushes the table, making her chair topples and her with it.

"Nakagawa! Are you okay?" The boy stands up and quickly approaches her.

"No: I am dead." Kotone says dramatically, eyes closed and tongue out. "Ugh."

Nikaidou snorts, making the little girl snaps open her eyes and smiles. She tries to get up, only to let a "Ow!" as a sharp pain jolt her ankle. Without hesitation, the boy reaches out to her and she gladly accepts his help.

"Thanks." Even though her thankfulness is sincere, her eyebrows knit together as she stares her splint. Kotone's cheeks swell: she is disappointed that after three weeks her ankle still hurts.

"This doctor was a dummy! Some times, some times — more like FO-RE-VER!" she screams as she kicks the chair with her good leg.

"Nakagawa! Stop messing around!" The teacher snaps as she comes closer. "What happen?"

Both of the children become awfully quiet, looking the floor as it could turn them invisible. The teacher simply sights, asks them to be quiet as she puts the chair up. Without out, an idea lightens her eyes as she cheerfully proposes to the students: "Hey, what if we made drawings on the class board? You would like that?"

"Yes please!" They cry as oneself.

Once the chalks in hand, doodles full the blackboard before the adult could blink. Too soon for them, they have to clean it as the bell rings the end of the playtime.

Soon enough, Kotone could walk without pain. Days passed has July come in and, with it, the suffocating summer warmth. But do kids care? Absolutely not. If anything, they play even harder until tiredness and thirst knock them out. And Kotone plays, plays in all the games she couldn't during this never-ending half month. Yet, she couldn't help but feeling she is missing something. It's not as fun as before. The girl doesn't understand why, couldn't find the word on this strange feeling. Probably because this is the first time she is experimenting this mixture of emptiness and bitterness.

The balloon flies away, escaping the playground where the children were doing their party of dodgeball. Kotone, already been out, runs toward it as she screams to her classmates: "I've got it!"

But as fast the black haired kid runs, the balloon rolls faster only to stop its course when it meets the wall of the elementary school’s building.

When she picks up with the balloon, her eyes meet Nikaidou’s ones.

He is sitting on the stairs, not quite alone as their teacher is watching him apart, but somehow she could tell he felt lonely. Without thinking much, she comes to him with a bright smile on her face.

"Nikaidou! Come play with us! We're playing dodgeball!"

But as soon she reaches him, a shadow passes on his face. "It's too hot for him," The teacher cuts. "He mights get very sick if he goes with you."

"Uh?" She glares at him, seeking any clues of illness, but he just looks as usual for her. She frowns as he looks away with an annoyed expression. "He doesn't look sick."

"Too much exercise may cause him to faint." The adult explains.

The girl keeps staring with a disgruntled face, her eyebrows narrowing further.

"Well, see you when you feel better!"

It's probably what she would have said if she didn't get a splint. But instead, she stays quiet. She thinks, thinks that she would have been ever more bored if Nikaidou haven't been there. Nobody did reach her — not necessary out of spite, more because of ignorance and brushing it off as not being a big deal. Kotone has come to realize it because not long before, she thought like them. And, more she watches Nikaidou, more it becomes obvious he's dying to join them, twisting his tiny puzzle piece in his hands with a pout.

"I come back." She says in a determined voice.

It's not she didn't want to play anymore. In all honesty, she would have preferred to go back with the other kids. But Nikaidou is her friend, and friends stay with each other in need or joy. Even if it starts with a fortuitous meet, if he's going to bore, at least she'll be bored with him.

As she gets her way back, the boy's face is radiating happiness.

Masterlist || Next >>

#fanfic #ASBMF #march comes in like a lion fanfic #autumn's naps

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believe-that-you-can-my-friend · 7 years

Text

Scot and Bothered

Okay, I needed to write something about kilt-wearing Jug because seriously how hot was that boy while pulling a Jamie Fraser? Very hot, I know. So, yeah, here you go, Scottish sexytimes! Also, my bae Anna aka @jugandbettsdetectiveagency has already written an incredibly steamy one-shot regarding Jug’s hotness in a kilt and Betty’s thirst for him so be sure to go check that out too, if you haven’t already! And, you know, keep a fan nearby. ;)

A/N: I kept the kilt sextimes theme but I didn’t really follow the making-up request because I was in the mood of a more fun, angst-free idea. I hope both of you still like my take on your prompts, darlings! Also, this is set in the future. Enjoy! ❤️

Warning: EXTREME SIN AHEAD

A kilt.

A traditional, all plaid Scottish kilt.

Jughead Jones wearing said kilt.

Jughead Jones wearing said kilt while poun—

“I think I need a drink!”

Betty exclaims way chirpier than necessary, plastering an also way too dashing and way too fake smile on her petal pink lips, hoping that her inappropriate thoughts aren’t as crystal clear obvious as the blushing color that she’s sure is creeping on her highlighted cheekbones. At her side, her mother raises a confused eyebrow, slightly reprimanding her daughter for indulging in alcohol that early in the evening, but Betty is way too flustered to even care about Alice Cooper’s anachronistic ladylike manners right at that moment.

“The bride and groom aren’t even here yet, Elizabeth.” With the corner of her eyes, the aforementioned Cooper can see Polly sporting an amused frown at their mother’s tone and her sister’s sudden hyperactivity.

“Well, I’m thirsty.” Not necessarily a lie, but then again this feeling low in her abdomen isn’t associated with the basic human need. “And this is a four-thousand-dollar Moet exclusively delivered in Riverdale for this day only; I wanna see what the fuss is all about.” Using Veronica’s excessive taste as an excuse, the blonde’s eyes land on Jughead once again, the words dying on her lips and she fears she is actually drooling, bringing a hand to the corner of her mouth just to be safe that nothing embarrassing is going to award her with the title of Horniest Maid of Honor anytime soon. She camouflages the action by pretending to check for any hints of smudged lipstick.

“It’s amazing, Betty.” Polly’s half-groan invades her hazy mind. “The cute bartender treated me a glass earlier and it was indeed the best drink I ever had.”

“Polly!” Alice scoffs incredulously, not happy about her daughters’ tendencies to, what in her mind she exaggerates to be, alcoholism.

“What, mom?” She shoots her an impish grin. “I’m a thirty-tree-year-old single mother that works way too much for her own good, in a wedding full of other single men that seem to be straight out of a high-nudity HBO show. Alcohol is the only thing that can help me keep my hands to myself.” Her eyes land on one of Archie’s second cousins, practically scanning him from head to toe before continuing naughtily. “Or not.” She shrugs with a wink towards them.

Alice Cooper gasps in horror, Polly giggles and Betty finds the perfect opportunity to excuse herself silently from the bantering duo.

Any other time she would have stayed to relish in the feeling of this mother-daughter easy going relationship the three of them had built from scratch over the last couple of years, offering Polly a helping hand at teasing their not so uptight anymore mother. But right now she really needs that drink and she really needs Jughead.

Yeah, she definitely does.

A penguin-dressed waiter passes her by and Betty stops him with a sweet smile, snatching a flute of champagne from his full tray, barely uttering a thank you, before plopping down on her prescribed seat on the still empty head table at the top center of the beautiful venue. The dusking sun along with a plethora of elegant white candle arrangements are illuminating prettily the Lodge’s lush green property at the outskirts of Riverdale that is decorated to perfection with the colors of pristine white and wealthy gold for the special occasion. It is truly a dreamy sight but Betty can’t really focus on anything else but the dark haired man that she calls her other half.

She knows that he is handsome; since day one, even when he didn’t believe in himself or even when nobody else did for that matter, Betty was aware that he was indeed a catch. After all those years together she also knows that he is the handsomest in dark blue or burgundy, or in the black tux (paired with a bowtie and suspenders and all) he wore on their wedding or bare-chested and only in his ratty old sweatpants or when he falls asleep next to her, weightless and sated and happy with an arm always securing her to his side.

Yet, nothing had ever warned her for this level of hotness.

The severe blood ties of the Andrews’ family with Scotland may not come as a shock regarding the Gaelic derived surname and its members’ more than obvious trade of fiery hair but the Southern in their blood is not something they regularly advertised. So when Veronica and Archie announced, via one of their numerous wedding planning related Skype calls, to the couple consisting of her maid of honor and his best man that they had decided on a Scottish themed wedding, meaning traditional Scottish dress for any man present, Jughead all but flew out of one of their Boston apartment wide windows. He was adamant in his refusal to compromise his aesthetic for anything as surreal as him in a skirt – his words, not hers – but between his brotherly instincts towards Archie, Veronica’s insufferable pestering and Betty’s long, promising list of sex favors he finally caved. And, right now, his wife couldn’t be more in debt to her two best friends about that decision.

They arrived two weeks prior in Riverdale to help with the preparations but Betty never got the chance to see her husband in the characteristic tartan, since all the necessary fitting sessions were taking place at the Andrews’ household – Mary and Nana Andrews being the only experts that could work around the thick fabric – whereas at the same time she was needed at Pembrooke, trying dresses with the rest of the bridesmaids. And when the big day came, as per tradition, they got ready with their respective wedding parties, leaving Betty with a kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttering anxiously low in her stomach in anticipation for the big reveal.

Betty is sure that the state of aching arousal she was experiencing throughout the entire wedding ceremony has totally granted her a VIP front-row seat in hell.

But really she can’t help herself. Looking at him now, the center piece of her view, with a beer bottle at hand, casually chatting with Fred and two other men from the Andrews’ side of the family, she can’t think about anything else but him having her in any and all positions he desires while his lean physic is adorned with that symbol of raw masculinity. His jacket is now discarded and abandoned along with her bouquet on the seat next to her, leaving him in just a nicely formfitting button-up that stretches deliciously over his biceps with every swing he takes of his beer and a dark blue vest that hugs his hard chest perfectly, making him look elegant and very well-groomed. She can see his lean legs, strong and manly, his firm butt stretching the tartan, his loose, utterly charming grin, his slick raven hair styled in well-behaved waves – by the hairdresser Veronica had hired for the boys because, yes, she wouldn’t accept any scruffy appearances in her country chic wedding – and free from his beanie, the item not in his essential wardrobe anymore since Betty is the security blanket he ever wished and wanted, and she can hardly control her hormones at this point, the head-over-heels in love woman in her screaming to go get her man.

The bubbly drink in her hand disappears down her throat in one swift, buttons-up movement and she sets the expensive flute down with determination, before storming off towards him, a sea of blue swinging urgently but elegantly around her golden sandals. Jughead’s whole face lightens up with a wide smile as long as he notices his ethereal angel walking over to him.

“Sorry, gentlemen, but I really need to steal my husband for a moment.” Polite as always, Betty casts her best good girl smile at the older men, who of course immediately fall for her charm and reciprocate it. Jughead curls proudly an arm around her waist as she leans to his side, sending him a loving look.

“All yours.” Fred raises his arms, giving permission with his typical kind smile, a tad more elated due to the day. “He’s not that good of a company to begin with.” He jokes good-heartedly, earning cheerful laughs from everyone around and a fake offended eye roll from the man that he considers his second son, while the couple takes some steps away from the small group.

“Everything alright, love?” Jughead wonders what type of emergency needs his assistance, lightly caressing her hip in affection.

Betty shushes him with a chaste but fierce kiss that takes him a tad off guard, feeling her snatch the beer bottle from his hands to abandon it somewhere before taking hold of one of them to drag him behind her. “Just, come with me.” Her words are hushed and they hide some kind of desperation that Jughead struggles to comprehend as of why and he is about to question what’s going on in panic only to be guided behind the big stage that is set at the other end of the large property of land, where a popular indie band – that Jughead has never heard before but apparently they are pretty big and very good friends with the groom – and probably Archie at some point in the night are going to perform. As of now, a DJ straight from New York is entertaining the guests and Jughead is utterly confused about why Betty and he of all people are needed backstage.

When his back collides with the black soundproofing wall and his wife is kissing him in frenzy he is definitely not confused anymore.

“Elizabeth Cooper Jones, what are you doing?” He gasps in mock scandal but with a surprised smirk on his face, upon pulling back for air. She ignores him and his tone, her hands roaming all over his torso in need and her lips trailing light teasing kisses on his neck, feeling a faint groan vibrate against her lips that makes her smile. “This is a public place, there’s a wedding venue full of people literally meters away and” he uses her shoulders to push her back to look at him, a mischievous glint in his baby blue eyes as he continues in an incredulous whisper “your son is out there.” The five-year-old mini version of him, also dressed in the traditional dress every man is sporting today, left the side of his beloved dad in search for his cousins minutes before Betty had stormed over to abduct him, Jughead being a tad wary to be doing what he assumes his blonde tempress wants them to be doing in a place where the little menace can easily walk in on them while running around.

Betty brings him for another passionate kiss while her hands fist his vest against his hard pecs, her female, more rational and calm nature not getting easily intimidated like him. “It’s a secluded area, everyone is too wrapped up in the champagne that’s going around to notice us gone and our son is playing treasure hunt with Reggie.” She crosses his concerns out one by one, her whole body rubbing deliciously against his, Jughead gripping her hips for dear life as she leaves open-mouthed kisses at his jawline.

“I knew my kid would end up weird.” He murmurs as he looks stoically to the side and sighing, half in comic self-doubt about his parenting and half in arousal that is now creeping in full force because of his wife’s treatment.

“Well, after his growing crush on Cheryl of all people, I think Reggie is the least of our worries.” She replies nonchalantly against his lips, hands cradling his cheeks. “Now, kiss me.” He doesn’t need to be told twice, his lips crash on hers in lightning speed and she whimpers at the taste of beer and true authentic Jughead Jones flavor in her hungry mouth.

“Seriously, Betts, what’s gotten into you?” his words dance in a murmur against her parted lips as they change the angle of their kiss, their bodies pushing and pulling in an intensely compelling manor that has her dizzy and more than ready for him.

“Have you looked yourself in the mirror?” Betty groans in frustration, tugging at his down lip and causing him to buck up against her, following her sinful mouth even if it is barely an inch away from his. She utters her next words in a desperate sigh, slender fingers nesting in his raven locks, as she feels the tale tail heaviness of his hard-on against her stomach. “You’re hot, Jughead Jones, you are my husband and right now I can’t concentrate on anything else but how damn sexy you are, baby.” She moans faintly before kissing him again, bruising and demanding, the flat of her tongue delivering a lewd caress against his that has him groaning and attacking her with more force, his hands on her hips becoming fists and painfully grasping blue silk and tantalizing curves.

The kiss is dirty, full of teeth and tongues and wet sounds and right at this moment she is neither the loving mother of his child nor his superwoman wife. She is the sensuous mistress he always got to have in his bed and that is driving him insane.

But Jughead Jones is a man of control and just like that the tables are turned, Betty’s lungs being left without any ounce of air as she’s now the one trapped between the wall and his hot body.

“Jesus, love, is this about the kilt?” he hisses, pulling back to take her in, swollen, lipstick-free lips, crimson cheeks, eyes deep meadow green from wanton lust. What wins his attention at the end is the up and down movement of her breasts as she pants heavily, silently begging for more.

“It’s about everything that’s under that kilt.” His blonde angel muses in a sultry whisper, circling her center against his growing erection, the action forcing him to chew on his down lip in agony and look up at her with a deep manly sigh. “And under that shirt and inside that beautiful mind and about your hair that is killing me today” she groans around the word for emphasis, throwing her head back before grabbing his chin, manicured nails clawing his clean shaved jawline “and that grin that should definitely be illegal.” Jughead gives her the boyish grin she adores, a tad flattered and a lot turned on by her behavior, Betty leaning up to chastely kiss his grin away. “The Highlander array is just a bonus; a very dirty, fantasy-coming-to-life bonus.” Her eyes are roaming over his body, insatiable and predatory, and she has to have him now, she needs to, or else she will explode in a million tiny pieces because of how much she wants him.

“After fifteen years of being together you never cease to surprise me, Betty Cooper.” Jughead sighs in utter love and devotion, cradling her cheeks, ready for a deep kiss. “God, I love you.” He groans and then there is silence.

Their urgent lips move together in-sync, tongues sliding sexily over one another in a dizzy rhythm, mouths opening wide to fit perfectly together and ravish each other. He is sucking on her bottom lip, biting it, soothing it with sensual swipes of his tongue and she is gasping, yeaning to finally have him inside her, his sinful lips making her wetter by the minute, as she keeps bucking her hips against his in frenzy. Betty gives his tongue a wet and filthy suck, twirling the tip of her own tongue against its tip and Jughead’s cock recognizes the action from all the times she is on her knees or bent over him with her glorious ass in the air, the now painfully erect member twitching between them and making them both moan heavily inside each other’s mouth. A forceful squeeze is delivered against her ass, his fingers digging on the round flesh with vigor and Betty’s teeth graze the inside of his lower lip as her nails scratch his scalp, causing him to growl low in his chest and slap the already irritated skin of her behind.

Their lips disconnect as she moans in bliss, biting her lip to block the sound, Jughead letting a dark chuckle as he goes to unbutton his vest in a hurry.

“No, no, no, don’t unbutton anything, don’t take anything off.” His wife stops him instantly, her soft hands shooting to grab his wrists as he looks at her perplexed with raised eyebrows. “I want you like that, so dapper and gentlemanly handsome, while you fuck me hard and fast like you only know how.” She explains in a dirty whisper, the tip of her tongue curling upwards while swiping sensually across the center of his lips, Jughead pinning her hips to the wall almost painfully.

His lips curl in a wicked smirk. “You want your typical rough treatment, baby girl, don’t you?” he teases her with his hoarse, sex voice and pupils dilated and pitch black because of how much and how rough he wants her. “Hold your dress up for me.” He orders as he braces her against the wall, curling a hand at the back of her knee and hitching her slender leg over his hip. Betty grins flirtatiously, a faux innocent look on her pretty eyes, as she slides her dress up and stops when the hem is barely covering the heat between her thighs.

Jughead curses under his breath; not only does he has the perfect view of her long legs there is also not a single hint of lace. “God, no panties?” his head snaps up to look at her in pleasant surprise, the intensity in his graze making her even weaker in the knees. “Are you trying to kill me, Mrs. Jones?” a teasing smirk plays on his lips, his forehead dropping against hers as his large palm roams from the back of her thigh to the now bare skin of her ass.

“If you haven’t notice this dress is way too formfitting and tight…” Betty shrugs in fake naivety and he would have believed that her intentions were pure if, one, he didn’t know her at all, and two, if her fingers weren’t tugging at the waistband of his kilt, dangerously close to his threatening to explode erection.

“Oh, I’ve noticed.” He breathes against her slightly agape lips. “Trust me, I sure as hell did.” The blue floor-length gown not only complimented her natural beauty but it fitted her like a glove, hugging her curves in a way that had his mouth run dry from the first moment he saw her earlier that evening, not able to stop himself from ogling her during the entire ceremony. This was the first time Jughead felt grateful to Veronica Lodge.

“Too bad that you didn’t feel the need to honor the tradition of no undergarments under a kilt.” Betty pouts in actual disappointment, licking her lips as her eyes flick momentarily at the place that rests against her open legs.

“Flashing the whole town of Riverdale and half the population of New York was not in my evening plans.” Her husband states in his usual sardonic manner, before continuing impishly. “Plus, I didn’t want to force Archie into a serious case of inferiority complex on his wedding night.” The joke holds some male pride but the humor falls short when Betty’s hand drops to grip his long member while she breathes a short giggle.

“Yeah, that you’d definitely do.” Her filthy whisper mingles with his shaky pants as she palms him heavily over the woolen material of the kilt, his hips circling against her tiny hand while he slightly roars and dives for her neck. He is careful not to leave a mark so he just leaves wet trails and goosebumps caused by his hot breath against her skin, an arm curling around her waist to hold her flat against him and the fingers of his free hand sneaking between them. He finds her ridiculously soaked and his teeth close involuntarily around the neckline of her dress against her collarbone, both moaning at the sensation.

“Fuck, babe, you’re dripping.” Jughead looks down with a low groan as he notices even the inside of her thighs glistering with need, watching two of his long fingers slide effortlessly inside her knuckle-deep, stretching her good and proper. She melts against his body and drops her head back with a high-pitch sigh, her hips rising up to meet the push and pull of his fingers, desperate to ease her dark desire.

Betty grabs his wrist and looks at him with hooked eyes. “Inside me. Get inside me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. His fingers slip out of her burning heat, waist arching in a perfect bow at the loss of contact, before they get buried again but this time inside the wet abyss of her mouth. Betty groans at the sudden and filthy invasion and Jughead does too in a sexual haze as he feels her nibble and suck and bite his skin until there is not a single drop of her feminine essence on them. She frees them with a wet pop that causes his already foggy mind to short-circuit before his lips attack hers, Jughead tasting the salty flavor of her arousal on her tongue, a naughty sensation that always has him yearning to pound into her raw and rough until she isn’t able to walk straight.

Together they work on getting rid of his boxers all the while practically eating each other out passionately, his black underwear finally sliding down his legs to pool on his polished shoes in careless abandon. Betty pushes the offending material of his kilt against his flexing abs in a hurry and when his iron hard cock lands with a delicious tap against her sensitive clit they both lose it, her gasping loudly and him grunting inside their heated kiss.

He slides into her all the way with a hard trust, the delicious fullness of his hard member making her legs shiver and her mouth open in a shocked soundless moan. She is soaking wet and burning hot and Jughead feels his own knees buck at the sensation as he begins thrusting inside her, curt and intense, drawing out of her lips filthy moans and erotic sighs. One of her hands sneaks behind him and grips his ass, fingers digging on the tartan material to urge him forward faster, deeper, each time buried to the hilt and grazing that sweet spot that he always finds expertly and makes her lose any sense of sanity.

“More, Juggie, please. Fuck me harder.” She is a whimpering mess as she withers against him, her eyebrows knitted together in pleasure and her lips open wide, and of course he can’t resist her, he grabs her hips for leverage and he starts pounding into her forcefully and wild, licking the droplets of sweat that run down the front of her neck while groaning at how tight she is around his throbbing cock.

“You like that, baby girl, huh?” he wants to bite her, mark her, litter her with bloody red love bites and his teeth graze her pulse point, her tiny muscles sucking him inside her as a reflex, causing him to utter a sinful fuck against her skin. His calloused hand slides at the other side of her neck and then sneaks at the back of it, undoing the knot that holds her pretty dress and yanking the neckline down, her right breast escaping the silk prison with a mouthwatering jiggle. “Shit, baby, you are so sexy.” Jughead spats coarsely, voice deep and raspy from the sexual haze he is in. His thump moves to toy with the exposed and perky nipple, rubbing tightly and then pitching the sensitive nerve-ending, and Betty’s leg that is still on the ground holding her weight gives out as she moans loudly, Jughead wrapping their lips in a wet kiss to shush her.

With his nails digging at the back of her other thigh, he urges both her legs to wrap around his waist, her holding him captive inside her hotness and him effortlessly holding her up against the wall. He claims her lips once again and they both moan in unison as his cock finds a new angle inside her, rubbing whatever it is that makes her long legs shivering violently and her head a mess of foggy clouds.

“You’re taking me so deep, Betts; you’re always so fucking good to me.” He continues with the dirty talk they both overly enjoy, burning her inside and out and quickening his now forceful thrusts, Betty biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, knowing all too well how vocal she always is and certainly not wanting to cause a scene.

“Right there, please…” she whines, eyes closed and frown in tack, her lips opening in a silent large O, as her head is thrown back and her golden locks cascade down her waist. “A little bit more…” Her nails are clawing the soft material of his pristine white shirt on his biceps, the flexing of his strong muscles as he holds her up tightening the knot low in her abdomen. His thick member feels heavenly inside her, her clit is brushing teasingly against his adbomen and the itchy material of the plaid kilt is offering a weird but all together incredible sensation against the soft skin of her thighs, leaving her minutes away from seeing every star and every planet behind her shut eyelids.

Betty orders herself to look at him; he is leaning against her tall and trim, only slightly disheveled and with that Scottish attire intact, looking like the definition of a gentleman but fucking her like an animalistic caveman. Every on point thrust of his hips, every flick of his thump against her hard nipple, every hoarse moan and every deep pant appears to be effortless, calculated to bring her immense pleasure, like he is a natural at fucking her brains out and, damn straight, he is and Betty can feel the upcoming high of her climax right through her bones. The long moan that escapes her next can make any porn star feel self-conscious.

Jughead’s grunt is nearly painful. “Come on, do it, squeeze the fuck out of me.” His forehead drops on her chin and he looks down to where they are connected, his legs buckling at the image of his hard cock glistering with how wet he makes her as it disappears in and out of her in a rapacious manner. His thump comes to rub her clit with no mercy, Betty anchoring herself from his shoulder blades with a low erotic sigh, her toes curling and her body stiffening as he is getting her right on the edge.

“Come. Come hard around me, baby.” He murmurs on her neck before biting hard on her jawline and giving her one harder thrust, his wife shaking to oblivion as her orgasm crashes violently, her back arching right to his face and her hips spasming again and again from all the high he is offering her. A long deep moan of his name escapes her and Jughead clasps a hand against her mouth to block the sound, feeling his own self tiptoeing on the edge when she bites on the inside of his middle finger, her sultry muffled sounds turning all his blood into a fountain of lust.

Betty can feel him twitching inside her through her own waves of pleasure and his thrusts getting demanding and sloppy as his heavy breaths quicken and deepen, a sign she came to recognize many years ago as his upcoming undoing.

“Do it, Juggie.” she leans to whisper against his ear, still spasming from the aftershocks of her intense orgasm, her muscles tight as a vice around his pulsing cock, coaxing his release. “Come and let me feel you inside me.” And that’s all it takes for him to comply, her warm wetness, her filthy words and her erotic sighs, his release erupting in full force as he stills inside of her, his fingers bruising her hips and his mouth leaving deep manly grunts against the hollow of her collarbone.

They take some minutes to slow down their heartbeats and relish in the feeling of this blissful aching, Jughead pulling back from her neck once his breathing is close to normal to offer her a sated lopsided smile before kissing her lazily but sensual, once she reciprocates it with a lightheaded slime of her own. He reluctantly pulls out of her, both complaining at the loss of skin to skin contact inside their slow make out that ends after a while with some loving pecks. With a satisfied sigh Jughead reaches down where Betty’s beige and gold clutch is abandoned, retrieving some tissues to clean the both of them, not even trying to hide the proud smirk that still curls on his lips every time at the evidence of him against her glistering center, this time that smirk being intensified by the sight of redness at the inside of her creamy thighs due to the rough material of his kilt. They smile at each other in a knowing manner and then he lowers her to the ground, helping her with securing the knot that holds her neckline of her dress up behind her neck while she fixes the rest of her appearance.

Jughead is moments away from sliding his boxers up his legs but she is faster than him, yanking them off his legs, almost making him trip on his own feet. When he sees her twirling the material around her pointer in a teasing manner, he raises an eyebrow at her.

“I’m keeping those.” Betty informs him cockily, folding his underwear hastily and shoving it into her clutch. Jughead goes to object, terrified about the possibility of him walking around in a crowded venue with nothing securing his manhood, but she curls her arms around his neck, brushing her lips against his. “The night is still young, dear husband; and this was only a small preview.” Her tone is sexy and full of promises, her hand sneaking down to cheekily squeeze his butt while winking at him, and Jughead reluctantly smirks intrigued down at her as a shiver runs down his spine, the little minx leaving a sugary sweet kiss against his slight parted mouth.

She turns to leave just as a loud commotion starts echoing amongst the crowd at the wedding reception. He watches her go, the clicking of her heels tantalizing him just as much as the extra sway on her hips, his beautiful wife patting the side of her head to smooth any wild locks ruining her hairstyle and betraying their naughty shenanigans, throwing him an authentic Betty Cooper smile over her shoulder, the smile he fell in love with when he was five and he didn’t quite know that his life would turn out to be so brilliant.

He smiles back, boyish and youthful, a single thought creeping around his still disorientated mind.

“God, my wife is hot.”

#bughead #bughead fanfiction #bughead fic #bughead prompt #betty and jughead #betty x jughead #riverdale #riverdale fic #riverdale fanfiction #anon #otp:sundaes & plaids #mywriting

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xpwewarchive · 4 years

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XPWEW Friday Night Pyro (8-31-2018)

Friday Night Pyro August 31st, 2018: Pyro Concord, California

Match card: M1: Golden Bryce vs Milk Man M2: Steve Blackman vs Vinny Testaverde [No lImit Tournament] M3: Slayer vs Champagne Clausen M4: Croyle & Edwards w/ Olaffub vs Taka-Naka M5: Kalalikial'i w/ Romeo vs GG M6: XPWEW Tag Titles - Jake & Jaques vs 1776

Opening segment: Clausen speaks on how he can’t change The Truth Infantry 5 count rule

Troy on Truth Infantry -nothing I can do -i would like to fire all of you but i think that would be too easy -injuring robbie williams was the most disgusting this i have ever seen

Truth Infantry appears

Blackman explains his hatred an thirst for revenge against Awesome I got vent up frustration against you for telling me when you signed me in 2011. Saying don’t worry Steve, we’ll make you a comedy act Troy, I can still go I am Steve black-man the greatest xpwew world champion ever and i will out Jake, Slayer, Jaques anybody

*1776 interrupts “can’t believe we still gotta stay in this liberal shit-hole of California for another month…” “All the fans booing me right now should do what Jason Sensation wanted to do Monday night” ISDA CHEEP HEEET “We are bringing back traditional values to this country, to that wrestling ring! We want the tag team championships and we wanna know where are they

*Slayer and Marc Snow interupts “I made Jake Awesome tap out twice if anything he should be the 32nd contender for the world title!” “I should be world champion, not Jaques Dudley, not your doofus son. ME!”

*Slayer gets up in Troy Clausen’s face

Troy: Well last week I did announce that Jaques was the number one contender and I’m announcing right now that Jake Awesome is the number 2 contender (crowd reacts)

This parlays Troy to reveal Jaques is the number one contender for...The Tag Team titles and so is Jake taking on the #2 contenders 1776

Slayer is relived wow so then I’m the number 1 contender right

Blackman speaks: no I am

Clausen explains that the actual world title belt…isn’t ready yet. Its still in customs

Olaffub calls out clausen for being stupid, careless and a weak contract negotiator. Blackman calls out Clausen for forcing him to do Headcheese and be a comedy act

Clausen says fine Blackman you wanna spill dirty laundry out in public. First off we’ve always been good friends and i didn’t MAKE you do comedy, I made things easy. I respect what you’ve done for this industry and so I gave you a lucrative contract to take things easy and now you go and align yourself with this jackass Olaffub

Croyle calls 1776 clowns - speaks up to Troy why aren’t we in the tag team title picture

Fine - tonight you’ll face Taka Naka - happy

Slayer looking bored patiently sits back “are you done yet?” All i hear is Blackman bitching Croyle bitching Edwards looking like a bitch Olaffubs ponytail is somehow bitching somehow but where oh where is the title Do I have to beat Steve Blackman? is that what is being set-up here

Blackman: smiles at Slayer…this ain’t what you want boy

Slayer: ooooh what are you gonna do Steven, you gonna nunchuck me, you gonna ask me what my favorite type of cheese is. Listen dude my brother was always a better performer than you were and I’m not gonna argue with a failed dog the bounty hunter

Steve Blackman: Slayer, your lucky you aren’t on my list right now…

Slayer (school hall spooky fingers)

*Infantry leaves the ring

Golden Bryce hits the ring cuts a promo on the importance of physical fitness Milk Man interupts and says “don’t forget to drink your milk” Golden Bryce: *cough* excuse me Mr. Man? Actually milk is a terrible choice, it’s actually been proven to be a horrible choice to the human reproductive system. Honestly, you should switch to Almond Milk it’s a great substitute for that mid-evil substance (chuckles) Milk Man attacks Bryce from behind as the bell rings

M1: Golden Bryce def. Milk Man

Backstage: Mick Foley finds Jake Awesome and says listen Jake I wanna have a public human resources session with you in that ring tonight. Jake rolls his eyes not really taking this seriously.

M2: No Limits Tournament First Round Steve Blackman w/ Olaffub def. Vinny Testaverde *Blackman makes quick work of Vinny.

Steve Blackman calls Jake Awesome out. Awesome I will end your career and that is a promise. I will get my revenge on what you did to me and you know what you did. 10 years ago when I was the flagship champion of this company for over a year. It was you who not only took that title away from me. You nearly ended my career throwing me off the stage at Guilty As Charged 2008. I did not forget. I’ve already plotted my revenge, you’ll figure it out soon enough.

*Jake Awesome music!*

*Jake Awesome enters the stage staring down Blackman who is standing in the ring until Mick Foley steps in front of Jake as if to separate them

*Blackman/Awesome star at each other as they both walk up and down the ramp. Olaffub in front of Blackman and Mick Foley in front of Jake. and they slowly walk around

PUBLIC HUMAN RESOURCES SESSION *Ring segment: Mick Foley with Jake Awesome *Mick: Now Jake I understand you might be feeling a lack of confidence Jake: I’m honestly not. I lost to a good competitor, I’m not perfect. Mick to be honest every week you keep approaching me with this lack of confidence, are you ok, Yes i’m ok, Yes - Mick I’m fine Mick: The old Jake Awesome wouldn’t have tapped out Jake: I’m not perfect. Mick, you of all people. Mick half of your career was a loss. Alright - I lost 2 matches. Tonight I’m gonna win the tag team titles. It’s all good I’ll win the tag titles with Jaques I’ll squash that has-been Steve Blackman Mick: Jake do you think you have ring rust Jake: what the hell did you just say to me? (Jake proper offended) Mick: (rushes on) Jake, I have someone back there you need to talk to. Jake: (insulted still about the ring rust comment looks confused) Mick: from your hometown of Terrace Florida Jake this is your mother Delisa Alfonso!!!

Entrance: Delisa Alfonso appears and Jake Awesome’s actual mother is here on Friday Night PYRO

Mick Foley: I looked her up all over the internet and Jake I found your Mom and I think nothing is better than a mother-son bond and she has something she wants to tell you

Jake: Jake greets and hugs his Mom. (kind of unsure, feels like an intervention)

Delisa: You all know him as Jake Awesome but I know him as my son Anthony Alfonso. goes on long diatribe about jake as a child. Delisa: Jake, you’ve had a successful career and you’ve made lots of money and son I think it might be best, if you consider making not doing this wrestling thing anymore

Jake: Mom, I’m fine Delisa: Anthony I think you are going to get hurt and I’ve spoke with Mick Foley and he tells me that he doesn’t think you are competing at the same level that you used to. and son I don’t want you to throw your life and able body away for these fans. I’m sorry (crowd boos) Jake: Mom, I’ve lost 2 matches this is ridiculous. I’m not perfect. I lost. I haven’t lost a step? I’,m still the mammoth and I will be YOUR XPWEW tag team champion tonight Mick: ENOUGH!!!! You know what I see Jake, I see me in you. I see someone who doesn’t know how to quit! I was that person and now I can’t walk without a limp, I can’t run, I can’t jog, I can’t get on the floor and wrestle with my kids. This fdamn industry changed my life….I’ll never forget the horrors I suffered in Japan, I’ll never forget the ear being stripped from my head in Germany, I’ve lost years off of my life because of these ropes. and you with the good looks, a model wife, a 5 year old daughter at home. I don’t want you to throw your life away for this. I wanna see Jake Awesome do movies, I wanna see Jake Awesome become an actor, make millions not hurting yourself Delisa: Anthony, don’t listen to these people, they don’t love you, they don’t want whats best for you Jake: (silence) kisses his mother on the cheek, shakes Mick Foley’s hand and walks out and then up to the ramp puts the mic to his face “and your new XPWEW tag team champion of the world..Jake Awesome” (walks behind curtain)

M3: Slayer w/ Marc Snow def. Champagne Curt Clausen via helm sharpshooter

Interview: Kandi Khaos with Jaques Dudley about how he thought last week when Clausen called him the #1 contender he thought it was for the world title but he’ll become tag team champs with Jake nonetheless. Slayer sweaty after his win over Champagne talks smack to Jaques about who should be world champ, good luck with those 2nd tier belts. Also good luck because if you are teaming with Jake…be prepared to lose on his behalf

M4: Croyle & Edwards w/ Olaffub def. TakaNaka *after many close calls of 4 counts Taka Naka could not get a 5 count over the truth infantry ultimately Croyle would pick up the win over Masato Tanaka

In ring: Tanahashi appears wearing a pink suit looking really dapper is with a woman standing next to him in the ring. She’s dressed in a business dress holding a clipboard and is the official English translator for Tanahashi Feebe Kinoshiba translates the Tanahashi promo and declares Tanahshi wants to give you what you have been wanting. At Anarchy Rulz Hiroshi Tanahashi wants a dream match. Tanahashi wants JOHN CENA!!!! (huge pop) Tanahashi smiles in approval

*Backstage: Troy Clausen knocks on the door of Romeo Roselli’s locker room. A huge Hawaiian man answers the door Troy: Who are you Huge hawaiian man: ……. Troy: How many translators do we need around here Romeo: Oh hi Troy, you look great. Got a tan. Joel you look…fit Troy: Romeo listen last week you brutally attacked GG our lead cameraman and I’m suppose to be here to suspend you for 30 days without pay Romeo: WHATTT Troy: No no listen. I can’t have my talent attacking production staff okay. But no fear GG actually spoke to me and said he wants to drop the charges and he’ll drop them if he received a talent contract. And we got him trained, he’s pretty green but he wants to live his dream of being a professional wrestler Romeo: Oh well if he wants a piece of first he’s gotta get through my poona right cheer. Troy this is my “Protecter” This is Kalaliki’al’i and tell GG to meet him right now Clausen: Well he’s actually standing in the ring (they look over at monitor with GG jumping up and down getting himself hype in the ring) Kalaliki’ali’i *swift kicks monitor off the table*

M5: Kalaliki’ali’i def. GG in about two minutes

(crowd gives GG standing ovation despite big loss. GG exits through the loving crowd and starts an X P Dub chant)

Troy Clausen and Joel Gertner hit the ring and unveil the NEW XPWEW Tag Team Championships White straps, they look nice. Updated belts

*Mick Foley, Steve Blackman and Will Olaffub join Joey Styles and Shane McCoy on commentary

(during commentary Blackman tells Foley, you should convince Jake to end his career now before I end it

M6: XPWEW World Tag Team titles 1776 vs Jaques & Jake Awesome

*1776 cuts off Jake to their corner of the ring

*Jaques is the only bright spot for the team honestly

*However after a double spine buster finisher Leonard and Dennis pin Jake Awesome and after multiple saves Jaques can not save the match and

1776 is the new tag team champions

Clausen and Gertner wrap the new titles around the waist of 1776 as they start emotionally reacting to the win to a sea of boos

Mick Foley walks up to the apron and looks at Jake somberly

Jaques walks up the ramp shaking his head

#xpwew #friday night pyro #golden bryce #jake awesome #jacques dudley

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nsschaintale · 6 years

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LINE 5: HOT TIMES IN HOTLAND

It was dark. But not as dark as it was when Hiro “died”. There was a faint spotlight that followed him as he made his way inside the lab, so there was some light that guided him. He could somewhat tell that there is a square trim along the bottom of the off-cream color wall and the light blue tiles on the floor. It was when he went in further that he spotted something glowing the opposite wall. He spotted a screen on a sort of large gray viewing console with some buttons and video controls.

Hiro: It's me...? (looks around) I don't see a camera thing anywhere... (moves around) I can't see... (almost trips on something) Agh! What was that? (stumbles forward) Awah! (hears a mechanical sound whirring) Huh?

The whirring sound came to a slow stop and a ding rang from ahead of him. Hiro could hear something opening and an odd skritching sound coming from the floor. Once the lights clicked on, he was able to see what made the noise. He spotted a yellow walking lizard with its front teeth poking out of its snout and wearing round full-frame glasses and a white lab coat. It seemed to be timid in nature, but she was quite shocked to see Hiro as he found out by her nasally voice.

Lizard (grabs her head): Oh. My god. (flails while looking around in a panic) I didn't expect you to show up so soon! I haven't showered, I'm barely dressed, it's all messy, and...

Hiro: Huh?

Lizard (faces Hiro): Umm... H-H-Hiya! I'm Dr. Alphys. I'm Asgore's royal scientist!

Asgore's royal scientist...?

Hiro: You're Dr. Alphys? (becomes cautious) Are you...

Alphys: Ah? B-B-But, ahh, I'm not one of the “bad guys”! Actually, since you stepped out of the Ruins, I've, um...been “observing” your journey through the console. Your fights... Your friendships... Everything!

Hiro: The camera... It was her? Wait.. (sweats a little) ..She saw everything?

Alphys: I was originally going to stop you, but...watching someone on the screen really makes you root for them. S-So, ahh, I want to help you!

Hiro: Help me?

Alphys (nods): Yep! Using my knowledge, I can guide you through Hotland! I know a way right to Asgore's castle, no problem!

Hiro: Really? Thanks! I don't wanna go to Asgore's castle...

Alphys (thinks): ….Well, actually, umm, there's just a tiny issue.

Hiro: Issue? Was that a sneeze, or..?

Alphys: A long time ago, I made a robot named Mettaton. Originally, I made him to be an entertainment robot. Um, you know, like a robotic TV star or something.

Hiro: Oh cool!

Alphys: Isn't it? Anyway, recently I decided to make him more useful. You know, just some small practical adjustments.

Hiro: Really? Like what?

Alphys: Like, um... (glances away nervously) Anti...anti-human combat features?

Hiro: What.

Alphys: Of c-course, when I saw you coming, I immediately decided... I have to remove those features!

Hiro: Oh. Yay!

Alphys: Unfortunately, I may have made teensy mistake while doing so. And, um....

Hiro: Hm?

Alphys (sweats nervously): Um...Now he's an unstoppable killing machine with a thirst for human blood?

Hiro: …..Whaaaat?

Alphys: Eheheheheheheh.....heh.

Hiro: Alphys...

Alphys: But, hmm, hopefully we won't run into him!

Hiro: I hope so, too.

Hiro and Alphys were about to move, a loud banging sound rang out. They both looked around in confusion while Alphys asked about the sound. Soon after, five more bangs occurred, one louder than the last.

Alphys: Oh no.

Hiro: What's that?

After Hiro asked that, a flash of light engulfed the area before the actual lights went out. Suddenly, a loud robotic male voice rang out joyfully.

???: OHHHH YES! WELCOME, BEAUTIES...

A moment later, a spotlight illuminated a rectangular box robot with his gloved hands clutching a microphone, the grid screen glowing yellow, the linear speaker projecting his voice, his four dials pointing in various directions, and the single wheel that carried his boxy form. He was apparently the one that broke through the wall as Hiro and Alphys spotted the hole behind him.

??? (a red M flashes on his screen): …. TO TODAY'S QUIZ SHOW!!!

A large yellow-bordered black rectangular sign with the words “GAME SHOW” written in a whimsical red and pink letters descended from the ceiling along with a pair color strobe lights and a rain of confetti. Hiro was in awe while Alphys was worried.

Robot: OH BOY! I CAN ALREADY TELL IT'S GONNA BE A GREAT SHOW! EVERYONE GIVE A BIG HAND FOR OUR WONDERFUL CONTESTANT! (claps as confetti rained on Hiro)

Hiro: Whoa!

Robot: NEVER PLAYED BEFORE, GORGEOUS?

Hiro (shakes his head): No, I haven't!

Robot: NO PROBLEM! IT'S SIMPLE! THERE'S ONLY ONE RULE.

Hiro: Okay!

Robot: ANSWER CORRECTLY... (drum rolls) ….OR YOU DIE!!!

Hiro: Wait!?

Hiro was forced into a grayscale battle where Alphys is by the robot, whom he found out is Mettaton (THAT Mettaton!?!) on the opposite side of the field. To Hiro's dismay, Mettaton's body renders him invulnerable to attacks and this sudden change made him cry. He noticed a sign nearby saying “screaming is against the rules”.

Mettaton: LET'S START WITH AN EASY ONE! (moves over and a block of text and four choices by the green letters appear)

What's the prize for answering correctly?

A. Money

B. Mercy

C. New car

D. More questions

Hiro: Uh, um! (touches C) A car! (gets shocked) AAAGH?!!

Mettaton: OH SORRY, THAT WAS WRONG. NEXT QUESTION!

What's the king's full name?

A. Lord Fluffybuns

B. Fuzzy Pushover

C. Asgore Dreemurr

D. Dr. Friendship

Hiro (immediately flies to the C answer when he sees it): Asgore Dreemurr!

Mettaton; CORRECT! WHAT A TERRIFIC ANSWER!

Hiro: Yay! (sees Alphys give a thumb's up and does the same)

Mettaton: ENOUGH ABOUT YOU. LET'S TALK ABOUT ME!

What are robots made of?

A. Hopes & Dreams

B. Metal &Magic

C. Snips & Snails

D. Sugar & Spice

Hiro (hits the B answer): Metal and magic! I guess?

Mettaton: TOO EASY FOR YOU, HUH??? HERE'S ANOTHER EASY ONE FOR YOU!

The moment Hiro saw the next question, his mind went blank. All he read was something about two trains leaving their respective station at the same time. He only had seconds to spare when he noticed Alphys making a letter shape with her hands. It looked like a D. Unsure if she was trying to help him, Hiro went to the D answer quickly.

Hiro: Th-This answer! The thirty-two dot zero fifty-eight minutes one!

Mettaton: I DON'T KNOW HOW YOU GOT IT, BUT AMAZING! DON'T 'COUNT' ON YOUR VICTORY..

How many flies are in this jar?

A. 54

B. 53

C. 55

D. 52

The flies were moving too much for Hiro to really count, but Alphys helped him with the answer, so he went accordingly.

Hiro (hits the A answer): Uh, A? 54?

Mettaton: WONDERFUL! YOU GOT IT RIGHT!!

Hiro: Y-Yay!

Mettaton: LET'S PLAY MEMORY GAME. (reveals an image of half of a Froggit's head)

What monster is this?

A. Froggit

B. Whimsun

C. Moldsmal

D. Mettaton

Hiro: That's easy! (hits A) It's Froggit! (gets shocked) WHY!? (watches the image get bigger and showing Mettaton with Froggit's face) Wha...

Mettaton: BOY, THAT'S EMBARRASSING, HUH? BUT CAN YOU GET THIS ONE??

Would you smooch a ghost?

All of the answers show Heck Yeah. Hiro was at a loss at what to do, so he just picked a random answer.

Mettaton: GREAT ANSWER! I LOVE IT!!

Hiro: Errr....

Mettaton: HERE'S A SIMPLE ONE.

How many letters in the name Mettaton nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn......

Hiro despairingly watched as the letter N wrapped around the area and the number answers rapidly increase as it did so. He glanced over at Alphys and saw her make a C. At this point, he's unsure of this game and took whatever help he could get, so he answered C.

Mettaton: TIME TO BREAK OUT THE BIG GUNS!!

In the dating simulation video game “Mew Mew Kissy Cutie”, what is Mew Mew's favorite food?

Hiro: I don't-

Alphys (waves her hand excitedly): Oh! Oh! I know this one! IT'S SNAIL ICE CREAM! In the fourth chapter, everyone goes to the beach! And she buys ice cream for all of her friends!! But it's snail-flavored and she's the only one who wants it!! It's one of my favorite parts of the game because it's actually a very powerful message about friendship and... (realizes what she did; sweats) ….

Hiro (surprised): Uh.....what?

Mettaton: ALPHYS, ALPHYS, ALPHYS. YOU AREN'T HELPING OUR CONTESTANT, ARE YOU?

Alphys (shakes her head nervously): No-

Mettaton: OOOOH!! YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME. I'LL ASK A QUESTION YOU'LL BE SURE TO KNOW THE ANSWER TO!

Hiro: Uh oh...

Who does Dr. Alphys have a crush on?

A. Undyne

B. Asgore

C. The human

D. Don't know

Hiro was unsure at first, then he remembered his conversation with Undyne and chose A. He saw the flustered look on Alphys's face as she tried to hide it while trembling in embarrassment and was unsure of why.

Mettaton: SEE ALPHYS? I TOLD YOU IT WAS OBVIOUS. EVEN THE HUMAN FIGURED OUT.

Hiro: Wait, what was? What did I do? Wait, Alphys likes Undyne?

Mettaton: YES, SHE SCRAWLS HER NAME IN THE MARGINS OF HER NOTES. SHE NAMES PROGRAMMING VARIABLES AFTER HER. SHE EVEN WRITES STORIES OF THEM TOGETHER...SHARING A DOMESTIC LIFE. PROBABILITY OF CRUSH: 101 PERCENT. MARGIN OF ERROR. ONE PERCENT.

Hiro: Eh? That doesn't sound so bad.

Mettaton: WELL WELL WELL. WITH DR. ALPHYS HELPING YOU, THE SHOW HAS NO DRAMATIC TENSION! WE CAN'T GO ON LIKE THIS!! BUT. BUT!! THIS WAS JUST THE PILOT EPISODE!!

Hiro: Really?

Mettaton: NEXT UP, MORE DRAMA! MORE ROMANCE!! MORE BLOODSHED!! UNTIL NEXT TIME, DARLINGS... (pulls his arms and wheel inside himself and rockets away, ending the “quiz show”)

As color returned to the area, Alphys and Hiro stood in silence, bewildered at what just occurred, especially in Hiro's case. It was a while before Alphys finally spoke up.

Alphys: …..Well, that was certainly something.

Hiro: I-It was...

Now that the lights are on, Hiro has a much better view of the area. He saw a large brown desk that's an absolute mess. Besides the PC monitor, keyboard, and tower, there are piles of written notes and empty bowls of whatever that was in them. There are two cups, one shaped like a lizard, and an action figure of a cat-eared female human. By the desk is a large grey refrigerator, and a large purple bag of dog food. Hiro hadn't seen a dog yet, so he figured it was elsewhere in the lab. Before he moved on, Alphys stopped him.

Alphys: Wait, wait!

Hiro (watches her run up to him; realizes she's a bit taller than him): Yeah?

Alphys: Let me give you my ph-phone number! Th-Then...m-maybe...If you need help, I could...

Hiro: No, it's okay! (takes his phone out of his pocket) Here it is! What's your number?

Alphys (surprised): Wh...Where'd you get that phone!? It's ANCIENT!

Hiro (hands her the phone): Eh? What's wrong with it?

Alphys: What's wrong with it? A lot! (looks over it and notices some things) It doesn't even have texting....

Hiro: It doesn't? I didn't know that.

Alphys: W-Wait a second, please!

Hiro watched as she walked off with his phone. Soon, he started hearing banging sounds, ringing sounds, drilling sounds, a random meow, and a shriek. He was beginning to become concerned about those noises, but Alphys returned with his phone fully upgraded. He saw that even the appearance changed. It looked more like one of those new smartphones he saw on the surface. It was mostly black with the corner and bottom side parts in lavender, a key chain hoop being on the left side, a spot where a camera lens is, and the top half has a screen and the bottom has a lavender keypad section.

Alphys: Here, I upgraded it for you! It can do texting, items, it's got a key chain, I even signed you up for the underground's No. 1 social network! Now we're officially friends! Ehehehe!

Hiro: Oh cool! Thanks, Alphys!

Alphys: N-No problem! Heheh..heh..

There was an awkward silence from Alphys as Hiro examined his newly upgraded phone. He hadn't noticed this until she finally spoke up.

Alphys: I'm going to the bathroom. (rushes off)

Hiro: Huh? (sees Alphys run inside the room she left earlier) Oh.

Hiro poked around further in his phone. It had the standard wallpaper on it, a few apps, his standard information, his old contacts, and the black panels are now projected from the camera lens on the back of his phone. He even spotted the words Dimensional Box A and B. He selected the first box and saw everything has in the boxes he went to before.

Hiro: Oh wow! I can even get my stuff from those boxes anytime! (looks around at the area) Hmm, I want to look around.

Hiro was able to take a much closer look at everything in the lab. He recognized a puzzle that he saw in Snowdin on the computer, which reminded him of what Papyrus had said about it being made by Alphys, the notes looked like chicken scratch but they seemed to be a game guide, the figurine of the cat girl looked a little beat-up than he thought, the lizard teacup has soda in it, the refrigerator is filled with instant noodles and soda (which Hiro snuck a noodle package into his phone as a test), and the dog food bag is half-full. After finishing exploring the first floor, he saw that there's a second floor. As he headed there, he spotted Alphys's feet from under the door. He went past there and went up the escalator and saw more things to look at. Along the opposite side of the second floor is a conveyor belt much like the ones he's seen at an airport the one time he got on a plane for the first time. There are five tall orange bookshelves, each color-coded from left to right: red, blue, yellow, green, and light green. Hiro started with the light green one and saw that they were scientific books. A lot of them are dusty, which Hiro hoped it was normal dust. The green-filled bookshelf have books labeled “Human History” and Hiro pulled one out. He noticed that it was a comic of a giant robot fighting a beautiful alien princess.

Hiro: Eh? Hmm.. this looks cool. (read a few pages then puts it back) It's a comic book, but why is it called Human History? (goes to the yellow-filled bookshelf and sees VHSes and DVDs of various cartoons.; they're labeled “Human History”) What..? (goes to the blue-filled bookshelf) Human History... (pulls out a book and looks inside; sees two chefs with very little clothing flinging energy pancakes at each other) Uh...I don't remember that in History class.... (goes to the red-filled bookshelf and pulls out a book; it's a comic of a hideous android running to school with toast in its mouth, possibly running late; puts the book back) ...Aren't these just comics and cartoons? ...Was this the Human History Undyne was talking about? Huh...

Hiro pondered this until he saw a strange machine under a tool rack. It has two levers, one on each side, with a window to see some green stuff inside, the opening on top is full of what looks like grass and a long hose with some strange pink goop dripping into a bowl. By the machine is a dusty work station table. There's a power drill and a chainsaw on the table along with a long paper that has an upside-down heart pointing to a rightside-up one pointing to what looks like a body pointing to scribbled notes. Hanging over the table on the wall was a pink-scale landscape poster of a cat-eared human girl surrounded by hearts, winking, and making peace signs. Next to the table is a pink wardrobe full of dirty lab coats and a single clean dress, and next to that is an end table. It has a bulbless blue lamp with the shade having pink fishes on it and a stack of unopened letters from different monsters.

Hiro: Froggit, Snowy, Doggo.. Maybe she just got them?

Hiro soon spotted a large light blue cube under another landscape poster that has a heart and some strange symbols that maybe in another language. The box looks like some kind of invention. Hiro didn't see a bed anywhere, so he figured that may be it.

Hiro: How does she sleep on it? Hmm.

The end of the second floor has a poster on the wall before the down escalator. It was purple with the silhouette of Mettaton under a pink spotlight. It turned out to be a promo poster of Mettaton's TV premiere. Hiro was not too fond of the robot's “quiz show”, but he noticed somethings on the flap.

Hiro: “Thank you for making my dreams come true.” Huh.

Feeling like he's seen everything he could, Hiro went downstairs and left the building out the opposite way. As he walked on, he heard a quick jingle from his phone and checked it. There was a notification showing that ALPHYS had updated her status.

just realized I didn't watch undyne fight the human v.v

Hiro: Eh? Oh, is that the social network thing? She did sign me up.. (puts the phone in his pocket; hears it ring again) Eh?

well I know she's unbeatable i'll ask her abt it later ^.^

Hiro: All I did was run from Undyne. I don't know how she is in a real fight.. (hears the phone go off) Eh?

For now I gotta call up the human and guide them =^.^=

Hiro: ...Huh? Hmm. (walks further to the next area where there are two sets of conveyor belts connected to four pipes; flanking the sides are pipes blowing blue flames at times) It's those moving path things again. (sees the left conveyor moving ahead of him) This way. (steps onto it; sees the area go grayscale) Uwaa!

On the conveyor belt, Hiro met what looks like a little four-legged volcano. He found out its name is Vulkin and it just strolled up near him. He also read that the monster believe its lava can heal people. Even Hiro knows from his Science class that lava is too hot to touch, he's seen those videos. Hiro's other options here are Criticize, Encourage, and Hug.

Vulkin: You're hurt! I'll help!!

All of a sudden, two vortexes of flame ran up the sides of the area with large embers being flung out at him. He got hit at few times, but he made it through. As Vulkin made a smoke hoop and jumped through it, Hiro looked through his options, didn't want to criticize it, so he gave the Vulkin some encouragement.

Hiro: Hey, Vulkin! You're doing a great job!

Vulkin: Ahh! Ahh! Does my best!

The same firenadoes appear again and Hiro carefully dodged the embers. Afterwards, he watched the Vulkin parades around him proudly. Hiro decided to give Vulkin a hug, but that turned out to be a really bad idea and he had to deal with the firenadoes again. At least Vulkin was happy As soon as he was able to, Hiro spared the monster and was able to move on. As he stepped off the conveyor belt and headed up the path, his phone went off.

gonna call them in a minute!!! =^.^=

Hiro: Eh? She will? Huh.

Hiro found himself before more conveyor belts. Before he went to them, he heard the sound of an airplane flying nearby and the area went grayscale. Suddenly, a miniature airplane wearing a puffy hat with a large ribbon on it got in his way, not on purpose or anything. He checked his options and found Approach and Flirt.

Hiro: Again with Flirt? I'll just check it. (chooses Check) Eerrr... T..sun...der..plane? “Seems mean, but does it secretly likes you?” Wha...?

Tsunderplane: No way! Why would I like YOU?!

Tiny airplanes flew across the area, dropping bombs everywhere. Hiro had to fly all around to avoid the bombs and smoke. Afterwards, he saw Tsunderplane give a condescending barrel roll. He wasn't sure of what to do, so he decided to try and get close to the plane, catching the scent of an airport perfume counter. He thought of this because he remembered his mother browsing some at one point.

Tsunderplane: Eeeeh? H-Human..?

Hiro saw some small planes with a green aura around them flying by, He was able to touch the auras and as he did, he noticed some pink appearing on its...cheeks? The plane dismissively shook her nose at him. Hiro decided to try and complement Tsunderplane's features, like its cute winglets and its impressive wings.

Tsunderplane (blushing): Ah...Is that true..?

Hiro: Yeah! I like the movies and books you have, too!

Tsunderplane (blushing harder): Human...I... (looks away shyly)

Hiro and Tsunderplane chatted about the movies and books before he spared her. After that, he walked onto the triple conveyor belts and zigzagged his way up and along the pipes ahead. He made it to the next area where he can hear the whooshing sound of steam and cogs. This somehow fills him with determination as he touched the Save Star to update his latest location. Hiro saw that the location is called Magma Chamber, and before he could see what was ahead, his phone went off.

I HATE USING THE PHONE I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS LMAO ^.^

Hiro: Uuh... Okay...? (pockets his phone; sees various platforms with puffs of steam and glowing red arrows) What do these do? (steps on the platform closest to him, gets launched to the other area ahead) AAAAH!! (lands) Gaaah... (sees the area turn grayscale) AAH?

Hiro floated up to see a monster that looks like a walking rope coil with a flaming head and white sneakers similar to his. The monster is called Pyrope and the options presented are Cool Down, Heat Up, and Invite. Apparently, the Pyrope is never warm enough as it asked if it was cold. Before Hiro could say anything, there were bombs bouncing into the area. He was able to fly fast and far enough to avoid the explosions. Soon after the explosions ended, Hiro caught the scent of rope burn. He tried Invite, but the Pyrope said he was tied up. Hiro tried Heat Up and a thermostat appeared. He never really messed with things like that at home, but he figured it can't hurt. He started to turn it up a bit while noticing the Pyrope getting excited. Hiro also noticed the area was getting a little wavy.

Pyrope: Hot!! HOT!! Hotter! HOTTER!!

Hiro had to dodge the bombs again before turning up the heat again. Unfortunately, it was getting too hot, but Pyrope looks satisfied. Pyrope wanted it to be even hotter, and there were strings of rope that have some flames on the ropes. He couldn't figure out the ropes until the last few when he had to move through the flames. The area is sweltering and Hiro was feeling it. He did it again and he can barely see much because it's SOOOO hot. He dodged the bombs again and was able to spare Pyrope. The temperature dropped to normal (in Hotland terms) and Hiro ate one of his foods. As he was getting launched from platform to another, he got an update.

Omg ive had my claw over the last digit for 5 minutes

omg i'm just gonna do it

i'm just gonna call!!!!

Hiro: Err... Should I call her? I don't think she gave me her number... (gets launched to a spot before another area and gets a phone call) It's her! (answers) He-

Click!

Hiro: …..Uum... (looks at his phone) …. That was Alphys, right? Hmm.. (goes to the next area where he spots a series of pods shining blue and orange lights and gets a call) Hello!?

Alphys: Uuh! H-Hi, so, the blue lasers... Uhh! I mean, Alphys here! Hi!

Hiro: Hi, Alphys! I heard blue lasers...

Alphys: Y-Yeah, the blue lasers won't hurt you if you don't move!

Hiro: Like San's blue stop sign thing...

Alphys: O-Orange ones, um... Y-You have to be moving, and they... They won't, um... Move through those ones! (silent) Uuh, bye! (hangs up)

Hiro: Okay... (sees a notification pop up)

OMG I DID IT!!! claws haven't shook like that since undyne called me to ask about the weather... v.v

Hiro: There's weather here? Hmm.. there is the snow in Snowdin and the rain in Waterfall, so I guess that counts..? (puts his phone away and glances at the lasers) So... orange, move and blue, stop. Okay!

Hiro moved through the first two orange lasers and approached the blue laser. Upon hearing the phone go off, Hiro froze just short of the laser.

WAIT THERE'S NO WEATHER DOWN HERE WHY DID SHE CALL ME

Hiro: Gah! Phew...

Hiro moved forward a little before stopping as the blue laser went through him. He hurried past the orange one and stopped on the blue one. When it passed, he ran through the orange one, carefully went through two blue lasers, and walked through the last orange laser. He soon spotted a pillar with a red switch and pressed it, watching the lasers turn off.

Hiro: Phew, it's over.

Hiro continued into the next area before receiving another update.

Oh My God I Forgot to Tell THem Where To Go

A moment later, Hiro saw a picture appear on the screen with the words “CUte PIC OF ME RIGHT NOW ^.^”. It was of a garage can with several pink, glittery filters over it.

Hiro: ...Why did I get a picture of a trash can? Did Alphys send the wrong picture? Huh. (approaches a large area with more arrowed platforms; gets a phone call) Hello?

Alphys: A-A-Alphys here!!!! Th...The northern door will stay locked until you...s-solve the puzzles on the right and left! I...I think you sh-should g-g-go to the right first! (hangs up)

Hiro: ….Okay. (looks around) The right...

It took him a while to figure out the platforms, but he eventually got to the right side of the area. He entered an area where there's an entrance with an arrow pointing up across from two monsters sitting on the ledge. One is a green bovine-like monster wearing a blue business suit, white polo shirt, blue tie, and black glasses and shoes. The other is humanesque one covered in black flame and wearing a white glasses, white tanktop shirt, and green pants. He was holding a cup of what Hiro assumed was coffee by the way steam was wafting from it.

Green Bovine: The way to work is blocked, I had to catch Mettaton's show on my phone... The special effects were amazing today! The human almost looked REAL!

Hiro: Uh...yeah, that's neat... Wait, you two know Mettaton?

Black flame Monster: Mettaton? Yeah, he's the most popular star in the underground! His fan club probably has at least two..no, THREE dozen members!

Hiro: Huh...

By his experience with running into Mettaton, Hiro was less likely to join that fan club. Before he entered the room ahead, he got a status update from Alphys.

wonder if it would be unfun if I explained the puzzle...

Hiro: Hmm, can't be that bad. (walks into the room)

The room is large and dark with a large screen ahead that has a smaller square with six more smaller squares in that one, three on opposite sides from top to bottom. Four of the six squares are white and two are black. There are two V-shaped arrows with the ends pointing at each other and the one closest to Hiro is yellow. He soon spotted a sheet on paper to the left of the split path that has instructions for the puzzle, a red bordered panel that looks to be the controls for the puzzle, and loitering in the right corner is a disembodied orange cat head wearing black sunglasses.

Hiro (reads the instructions on the paper): Shoot the opposing ship... Move the boxes to com..complete your..mission... Cool! (looks at the cat head) Creepy.... (walks up to it) Hello..

Cat Head (bouncing): The door leading through the area is closed? So I tried the puzzle? But I kept running out of ammo, and it kept restarting? And my two coworkers won't help? It's like they don't wanna go to work?

Hiro: Uh...I guess? (walks back to the red panel and touches it) Must be those two I met earlier. Whoa! It lit up! (sees two red teardrop items with the pointed parts facing Hiro) I got two ammo? Hmm, okay! This is easy!

It wasn't easy. It took him some time before he figured out he had to move the black boxes use a bullet for a box before destroying the ship.

Hiro: Yeah!

Cat Head: Wow? You solved it? I'm impressed? You must be a total nerd?

Hiro: Than- Wait, what? He called me a nerd?!

Hiro left the puzzle room and noticed the arrow above the entrance lit up. He thought nothing of it and left the area to the crossroad. He launched himself with the steam platforms to reach the left side and into the next area. He soon saw another one of those blue lasers from before spotting a pair of monsters hanging around the far end of the area away from the entrance. From the outfit which has a white longsleeved top, black collar, pink ribbon, black pleated skirt, white kneehigh socks (the green flame monster has ankle socks) and black shoes, they look like school girls. The one closet to the entrance is a purple monster with two pairs of horns, the top pair pointing up and bottom pair down, black eyes with red irises, and wearing a red baseball cap on her left horns and her foot on a red skateboard. The other monster is a green flame monster. Hiro thought about Grillby before he interrupted by a call from Alphys.

Alphys: Alphys! Here!

Hiro: Ah, hey, this laser's blue!

Alphys: Th-That laser seems totally impassible! B-B-But! As the Royal Scientist, I h-have some tricks up my sleeve! I'll h-hack into the Hotland laser database and take it out!

As soon as she hung up, the laser was shut off. He soon went over to the purple monster and talked to her.

Purple Monster: We were hanging out when suddenly, a buncha puzzles reactivated out of nowhere. This is a huge problem... It rules!They've GOTTA cancel school over this!

Hiro: Wish my school did, too...

Green Flame Monster: Finally! Someone turned off that laser! Now that we're free we can... Well, uh, I guess we'll just keep standing here.

When Hiro entered the room, the setup was similar to the previous room, except the box square is bigger and there were ten boxes. Again, it took him longer to figure out the black boxes before managing to open a path for the bullet.

Hiro: That was hard... Are they all like this...?

Hiro left the area and saw that the only place left was north, but he did remember seeing a branching path on the way to the laser row area, so he went back. Luckily he turned the lasers off and he was able to get to that other path. In the large area, there are three rock platforms with the center having a launch pad, a split conveyor path that meets in the center rounding from the outer platforms. On the platform on his right, Hiro spotted a flying pan and wanted to get it. He launched himself over, retrieved it and equipped it before returning to the crossroads where he did the box puzzles. He launched himself up and approached a large pair of dark blue doors with a flashing circular green light on each of them. When Hiro drew closer, the doors split open, letting him walk inside. He entered into the area and spotted another steam launch pad before receiving another update.

whatever!!! i'll just explain it!!!

Hiro: Explain what? (gets a call and answers) Hello?

Alphys: Uuuh, I think.. Umm... Hey! About the puzzles on the left and right...! They're a bit difficult to explain, but...

Hiro: Oh, those? I beat them!

Alphys: ...uuuh, you already s-solved them? Awesome! (hangs up)

Hiro: ….Thanks? (pockets his phone) Okay...

Hiro used the launch pads to hop his way to the other side and landed on a light blue path covered in a light-green polka-dots. He walked inside the area and it was pitch black with no light. He couldn't even see in front of him. A little light flashed in his pocket and he was able to take out his phone and answer it.

Alphys: H-Hey, it's kind of dark in there, isn't it?

Hiro: Yeah... It's too creepy in here...

Alphys: Don't worry! I'll hack into the light system and brighten it up!

As soon as the lights turned on, Hiro was able to see his surroundings, which turned out to be a kitchen. There's a small wall lamp next to a refrigerator that was by a long counter that has a carton of eggs, milk, and sugar, a large curtained window with a sky background, two small spice racks on the wall, a separate smaller counter with a microwave on top and a cupboard above that, and a stove right beside the counter. He found himself standing before a long island counter that has a green bottle of hand soap by the sink and a brown cutting board, a blue bowl, and utensils on it. There's also a section above that turned out to be green rafters of some sort. The floor was the same as the path that lead into the kitchen.

Hiro: It's a kitchen!

Alphys: Oh no.

Mettaton (appears from below wearing a tall chef's hat): OHHHH YES!!!

Hiro (almost drops his phone): AAAH!!

Mettaton: WELCOME, BEAUTIES, TO THE UNDERGROUND'S PREMIER COOKING SHOW!!!

(a rectangular black sign with falling sparkles and the pink cursive words “Cooking with a Killer Robot” appears for a while before vanishing)

Hiro: C-Cooking with a Killer Robot...?

Mettaton: PRE-HEAT YOUR OVENS, BECAUSE WE'VE GOT A VERY SPECIAL RECIPE FOR YOU TODAY! WE'RE GOING TO BE MAKING A CAKE!

Hiro: Ooh! Sounds fun! I hope...

Mettaton: MY LOVELY ASSISTANT HERE WILL GATHER THE INGREDIENTS. EVERYONE GIVE THEM A BIG HAND!!! (claps as his screen flickers in blue and green and confetti rained on Hiro) WE'LL NEED SUGAR, MILK, AND EGGS. GO FOR IT, SWEETHEART!

Hiro: Uuh, okay.

Hiro managed to get the items and carefully carry them to the island. He was going to wash his hands, but Mettaton told him that hand washing show was on Wednesdays.

Mettaton: PERFECT! GREAT JOB, BEAUTIFUL! WE'VE GOT ALL OF THE INGREDIENTS WE NEED TO BAKE THE CAKE! MILK...SUGAR...EGGS.....OH MY! WAIT A MAGNIFICENT MOMENT! HOW COULD I FORGET!!! WE'RE MISSING THE MOST IMPORTANT INGREDIENT!

Hiro: We are? What is it? (watches Mettaton pull out a chainsaw) Uuh...

Mettaton (revs the chainsaw): A HUMAN SOUL!!!!

Hiro felt so paralyzed in fear, he couldn't move. As Mettaton drew closer, a ringtone rang out. It wasn't coming from Hiro's phone but somewhere on Mettaton's body.

Mettaon: HELLO...? I'M KIND OF IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING HERE.

Alphys: W-Wait a second!!! Couldn't you make a...Couldn't you use a...Couldn't you make a substitution in the recipe?!

Mettaton: ...A SUBSTITUTION? YOU MEAN, USE A DIFFERENT, NON-HUMAN INGREDIENT? ...WHY?

Alphys: Uhh, what if someone's.......vegan?

Mettaton: ….VEGAN.

Alphys: Uh well I mean-

Mettaton: THAT'S A BRILLIANT IDEA, ALPHYS!!

Hiro: Thanks, Alphys!!

Mettaton: ACTUALLY, I HAPPEN TO HAVE AN OPTION RIGHT HERE!!! MTT-BRAND ALWAYS-CONVENIENT HUMAN-SOUL-FLAVOR-SUBSTITUTE! A CAN OF WHICH...IS JUST OVER ON THAT COUNTER!!! (points to the single counter that has a red can on it) WELL, DARLING? WHY DON'T YOU GO GET IT?

Hiro: Okay... (walks over to the counter; reaches for the can but sees the counter sink into the ground and shake) Wha? What's- (reaches again but jumps back when the counter top shoots up, watches the counter grow taller and taller) WHAAAAT!!!?

Mettaton: BY THE WAY, OUR SHOW RUNS A STRICT SCHEDULE. IF YOU CAN'T GET THE CAN IN THE NEXT ONE MINUTE...WE'LL JUST HAVE TO GO BACK TO THE ORIGINAL PLAN!!

Hiro: Oh no...

Mettaton: SO..BETTER START CLIMBING, BEAUTIFUL!!! (flies up)

Hiro: This is way bigger than Papyrus's sink! (gets a call) Alphys, help!

Alphys: Oh no!!! There's not enough time to climb up!

Hiro: What should I do?

Alphys: ….F-F-Fortunately, I might have a plan! When I was upgrading your phone, I added a few...features. You see that huge button that says...”JETPACK”?

Hiro (looks at his phone and find the button under the keypad): Uh, yeah? I thought that was the name of the phone... (presses it)

Alphys: Watch this!

(a light poured out of the phone and a large yellow and red object floated out of it, floating onto Hiro's back)

Hiro: Whoa, awesome!!

Alphys: There! You should have just enough fuel to reach the top! Now, get up there!!!

Hiro: Right! (feels the jet pack lift him up) Whee! (sees two rafters appear, the top is the goal marker and the bottom is a timer with a pepperoni pizza symbol; sees Mettaton) Uh oh...

Hiro had to dodge eggs, clouds of sugar, and waves of milk. He got hit a few times, but managed to reach the top with some seconds to spare.

Mettaton: MY, MY. IT SEEMS YOU'VE BESTED ME. BUT ONLY BECAUSE YOU HAD THE HELP OF THE BRILLIANT DOCTOR ALPHYS! OH, I LOATHE TO THINK OF WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED TO YOU WITHOUT HER!!! WELL, TOODLES!! (leaves then comes back) OH YES! ABOUT THE SUBSTITUTION...HAVEN'T YOU EVER SEEN A COOKING SHOW BEFORE? I ALREADY BAKED A CAKE AHEAD OF TIME!!!! SO FORGET IT!!! (flies away)

Hiro: Really? (floats down to the ground and gets a call) Alphys?

Alphys: Wow! We..we did it! We...we really did it!!! Great job out there, team!

Hiro: Yeah!

Alphys: W-Well, uh, anyway, let's keep heading forward!!! (hangs up)

Hiro: Hmm, but using that jet pack was so cool! (sees the counter reset to normal as the jet pack enters his phone) That can! I can finally- (tries to pick it up but it's glued to the table) …..Gah. (leaves the area and finds a Save Star and seeing an ominous structure in the distance; he gets a sense of determination from seeing it) I got a bad feeling about this... (gets a call) Alphys?

Alphys: S-See that building over there?

Hiro: Yeah.

Alphys: That's the Core. The source of all power for the underground. It converts geothermal energy into magical electricity, by...uhh, anyway, that's where we're going to go. In the Core is an elevator directly to Asgore's castle, and from there...you can go home. (hangs up)

Hiro: Asgore's castle... (glances at the building) I hope I can reach it... (enters the next area and finds a silver elevator with red lights and “R1” above the doors) Oh. (presses the button to open the doors and goes inside; sees the buttons “Left Floor 1” and “Right Floor 2”) Wait, Left? Not up or down?

Hiro tried the Left Floor 1 button, and arrived on the floor. He discovered that it took him back to before the laboratory and where the two Guards were blocking before. He went back to try the Right Floor 2 and spotted a small flame spirit across the way.

Flame Spirit: Heh, I'm Heats Flamesman. Remember my name!

Hiro: Okay.

Hiro went into the next area and spotted a Vulkin with a hot dog in the hole in its head, a floating bird wearing a pink dress and holding a hot dog in her talons, and Sans manning a stand that looks strikingly similar to his lookout posts. He noticed the snow on top of the roof and wondered if it was the same one and if it is, how he got it there or if it was built the same.

Hiro: Hi, Sans!

Sans: Hey buddy, what's up? Wanna buy a hot dog? It's only 30g.

Hiro: Yeah! (gives him 30g)

Sans: Thanks, kid. Here's your 'dog.

Hiro: Dog?

Sans: Yeah, 'dog. Apostrophe-dog. It's short for hot-dog.

Hiro: Oh. Oh! Did you find that room I wanted to show you?

Sans: The one back in Waterfall? Nah. I couldn't find that hallway either.

Hiro: Oh..

Sans: Hey, I'll keep looking. It does sound interesting.

Hiro: Okay.

Hiro said goodbye to Sans before entering the next area. He had gotten a few texts from Alphys (her “dinner with the girlfriend” pic is just the catgirl figurine and a bowl of instant noodles) along the path he walked including few from a “CoolSkeleton95”. Hiro immediately thought of Papyrus and sure enough, Papyrus posted a picture of himself wearing sunglasses and flexing in front of a mirror. Hiro noticed he had giant muscular biceps pasted on his arms and also wearing sunglasses. Hiro had a good laugh as he watched the banter between the two. Along the way, he ran into Tsuderplane and Vulkin. Tsunderplane apparently attacked NOT because it's jealous of Vulkin's attention towards him. He was expecting a similar battle, but was taken off guard by a large smiling cloud launching lightning bolts everywhere as well as small planes with green auras passing by. When Hiro dealt with Tsunderplane, it retreated to the far corner away from the battle. Vulkin reassured him that Tsunderplane getting smaller is intentional. Once sparing Vulkin, Hiro continued on. He went to the southern path and found a pink item in the room. Before he could go, he got a friend request from a NAPSTABLOOK22.

Hiro: Oh! Napstablook! Yeah, I'll do it. (presses Accept; gets a notification that it rejected itself) ….But I accepted... (shoves the phone in his pocket and grabs the apron; it's pink with a red heart and odd stains on it) Coulda used this in Mettaton's cooking show. I hope those stains are ketchup... (puts it on then leaves the area and goes to the next one, seeing a pair of conveyor belts and three steel pillars with a switch on each of them; gets a call) Hello?

Alphys: H...Hi...! It's Dr Alphys! This p-puzzle is kinda...um...timing-based. Y-You see those switches over there?

Hiro: Yeah?

Alphys: Y-You'll have to press all three of them within 3 seconds.

Hiro: 3 seconds? Why 3 seconds?

Alphys: I'll t-try to help you with the rhythm!

Hiro: Okay. (hangs up) Okay... (hits the first two then misses the third when startled by the phone) Aaah! (answers the phone)

Alphys: OK! Now press the third one!!!

Hiro: I can't! I missed it when you called!!

Alphys: ….......H-H-Hey! Looks like you!!! Only needed to press! Two of them!!!

Hiro: Wah... Al- (gets hung up on) -phys...

After the laser barrier was lifted, Hiro went to the area where he faced a large area of launch pads and platforms. He didn't have to absorb the design of the area before getting an update from Alphys:

that's the last time I help with a puzzle lmao

He soon got a call from her, telling him she'll be MIA while in the bathroom and being sure he could solve the puzzle himself, before hanging up. Hiro stared at the area with doubt before deciding to take a shot. And a shot he severely missed. It felt like it's been a half hour since he started. He kept messing up the directions, accidentally launching himself onto the conveyor belt at the bottom, getting led to the ledge on the top, and getting so close to solving it, but messing it up in the end. Just when he thought he couldn't figure it out, he decided to test the platforms. With what he figured out from those times he got close, he was able to get through the puzzle.

Hiro: FINALLY!! I can keep going. Let's go!

Hiro went into the next area where there’s a Save Star, a safe on a table, and a mouse hole. If a mouse hole is here, then the cheese would be in the safe. Like the one before, if the mouse will be able to break into the safe to get the cheese, then Hiro can break free of the underground. As he continued through a rafter-filled area, he was subjected to a text rant from Alphys about how terrible Mew Mew Kissy Cutie 2 is. Hiro didn't know what that was, but it was interesting to him how into it she was, or mostly how much she hated it. He was reading the text until a familiar tinny male voice called out to him from behind.

???: Hey! You! Stop!

Hiro (startled): Y-Yeah?! (sees the two Royal Guards that blocked the L1 elevator) Uh oh...

Rabbit Guard: We've, like, received an anonymous tip about a human wearing a striped shirt. They told us they were wandering around Hotland right now... I know, sounds scary, huh?

Hiro (nervous): Oh. Y-Yeah, really scary.

RG: Well, just stay chill. We'll bring you someplace safe, OK?

Hiro: Okay. (follows the guards; sees the dragon guard stop and stare (?) at him) Uh...

RG: ...Huh? What is it, bro? (glances at Hiro) The shirt they're wearing? ...Like, what about it?

Hiro (watches both of them turn to him): Uh oh.

RG: Bro... Are you thinkin? What I'm thinkin?

Hiro: I hope not...

RG: Bummer. This is, like... Mega embarrassing. We, like, actually totally have to kill you and stuff.

Hiro was internally screeching as the area went gray-scale, leaving him facing off against the two guards who are wielding a sword. Hiro checked on Royal Guard 1 (RG1) and saw the options Clean Armor and Whisper. He saw that the rabbit guard has shiny armor but his comrade didn't. He didn't have time to think as the battlefield narrowed and strange carrotlike items shot at him from both ends. Afterwards, Hiro saw RG1 polishing his face. He tried to polish RG1's armor, but found it slippery. RG1 didn't like that and RG2 (the dragon Guard) sighed heavily. Hiro noticed that the dragon guard was sweating and figured like Undyne, he probably can't handle the heat. Diamond sparkles suddenly shot at him, and he flew around dodging them. Hiro checked on RG2 and noticed his armor looked dirty, so he helped the guard clean his armor, not realizing that he's removing the dirt that kept the guard cool. Suddenly, a giant green shield appeared on the field and Hiro went to it, thinking it can help heal him despite the flying pan and apron he donned.

Hiro: Eh? Why's it turning colors?

RG2: Can't....take it.. armor...too....HOT!! (removes his chestplate) ..much better...

RG1 (sweating): ….

Hiro: He's sweating, too? But I can't touch his armor. (glances at both of them) Maybe I should try Whisper on the rabbit guy? (floats to RG1) Hey, you should talk to him.

RG1: I...I...

(Hiro floats away from them, but notices some of the carrot items were flying all over the place)

Hiro: That was weird.

RG1: D-Dude... I can't... I can't take this anymore! Not like this!!

Hiro: Huh?

RG1: Like. 02! I like... I like, LIKE you, bro! The way you fight...The way you talk... I love doing team attacks with you. I love standing here with you, bouncing and waving out weapons in sync...02... I, like, want to stay like this forever...

RG2: …..

Hiro: …..

RG1 (sweating): Uh...I mean, uh...Psyche! Gotcha, bro!!! Haha!

RG2: ...01.

RG1: Y-yeah, bro??

RG2: ….Do you want to....get some ice cream...with me...after this?

RG1: Sure, dude! Haha!

Hiro (watches the guards look at each other happily): I don't know what happened but yay? (gives a few little claps)

Once Hiro chose Spare (after having a split-second vision of one of the guards getting by “him” and shaking it off) and ended the battle, RG1 and RG2 left the area happily., leaving Hiro to continue on. Not without getting a text from Alphys.

oopswait how's the humnan doing

Top 10 Shows That Make You Forget To Do Your Frickin Job

Once that cleared up, Hiro went into the next area. Again, it was pitch black and again Alphys calls to help out.

Alphys: Okay, I'm back! A-Another dark room, huh?

Hiro: Yep.

Alphys: Don't worry! M-My hacking skills have got things covered!

(the lights cut on)

Alphys: Are you serious?

Back in Snowdin, Papyrus was cooking spaghetti while Sans was reading a book and writing in his notebook. Papyrus had the TV on as background noise while cooking when what looks like breaking news came on. The backdrop is a cityscape at night with the video screen bordered in a thick beige square with some dark brown line on the bottom getting thicker towards the bottom. Donning a neat red suit with a yellow tie is Mettaton, sitting at a brown desk as the marquee of yellow words scrolled across the black bar at the bottom of the screen.

Sans (exasperated): Oh no...

Mettaton: OHHHHHH YESSSS!!! GOOD EVENING, BEAUTIES AND GENTLEBEAUTIES! THIS IS METTATON, REPORTING LIVE FROM MTT NEWS!

Hiro (shock): EH!?

Mettaton: AN INTERESTING SITUATION HAS ARISEN IN EASTERN HOTLAND! FORTUNATELY, OUR CORRESPONDENT IS OUT THERE, REPORTING LIVE!

Hiro: What is th- Wait... (points at himself) ...Me?

Mettaton: BRAVE CORRESPONDENT! PLEASE FIND SOMETHING NEWSWORTHY TO REPORT! OUR TEN WONDERFUL VIEWERS ARE WAITING FOR YOU!!

Hiro: Uuh...okay. (wanders around; finds a basketball) Hey! It's a basketball!

Mettaton: BASKETBALL'S A BLAST, ISN'T IT, DARLING? TOO BAD YOU CAN'T PLAY WITH THE BALLS. THEY'RE MTT-BRAND FASHOIN BASKETBALLS. FOR WEARING, NOT PLAYING. YOU CAN'T GET RICH AND FAMOUS LIKE MOI WITHOUT BEAUTIFYING A FEW ORBS.

Hiro: Oh, that was what Papyrus was wearing before. I'm gonna look for more stuff. (wanders more; find that dog he saw before) Hey, it's you again!

Mettaton: WHAT A SENSANTIONAL OPPORTUNITY FOR A STORY! I CAN SEE THE HEADLINE NOW: “A DOG EXISTS SOMEWHERE.” FRANKLY, I'M BLOWN AWAY!

Hiro (pets the dog then wanders; finds a gift): It's a present!

Mettaton: OH MY! IT'S A PRESENT! AND IT'S ADDRESSED TO YOU, DARLING! AREN'T YOU JUST BURSTING WITH EXCITEMENT? WHAT COULD BE INSIDE? WELL, NO TIME LIKE THE “PRESENT TO FIND OUT!

Hiro: Huh? It's not my birthday, but okay! (wanders then finds a game with white letters and an odd white symbol on the cover) Is this a game?

Mettaton: OOH LA LA! THIS VIDEO GAME YOU FOUND...IS DYNAMITE!!! THOUGH I DON'T MAKE AN APPEARANCE IN IT UNTIL THREE-FOURTHS IN. BUT I LIKE THAT.

Hiro: Really?!

Mettaton: APPEARING FROM THE HEAVENS LIKE MANNA, SLAKING THE AUDIENCE'S HUNGER FOR GORGEOUS ROBOTS...

Hiro: What-

Mettaton: OOH! THAT'S METTATON!

Hiro: Uh...okay... (wanders around some more and finds a thick book with what looks like Mettaton on the cover) What's this book?

Mettaton: OH NO!!! THAT MOVIE SCRIPT!!! HOW'D??? THAT GET THERE???

Hiro: Someone dropped it here?

METTATON: IT'S A SUPER-JUICY SNEAK PREVIEW OF MY LATEST GUARANTEED-NOT-TO-BOMB FILM: METTATON THE MOVIE XXVIII...STARRING METTATON!

Hiro: Is that the title-

Mettaton: I'VE HEARD THAT LIKE THE FILMS, IT'S CONSISTS MOSTLY OF A SINGLE FOUR-HOUR SHOT OF ROSE PETALS SHOWERING ON MY RECLINING BODY. OOH!!! BUT THAT'S!!! NOT CONFINFIRMED!!

Hiro: That sounds-

Mettaton: YOU WOULDN'T (coughs aggressively) SPOIL MY MOVIE FOR EVERYONE WITH A PROMOTIONAL STORY, WOULD YOU?

Hiro: N-No...

Mettaton: PHEW!!! THAT WAS CLOSE!! YOU ALMOST GAVE ME A BUNCH OF FREE ADVERTISEMENT!!

Hiro (walks away from the book and finds a glass of water): What's this water doing here?

Mettaton: OH MY!!! ...IT'S A COMPLETELY NONDESCRIPT GLASS OF WATER. BUT ANYTHING CAN MAKE A GREAT STORY WITH ENOUGH SPIN! I'M HONORED TO BE IN THE PRESENCE OF SUCH SUCH A HUGE LUKEWARM WATER FAN, FOLKS!

Hiro: Um, I think I'm gonna report on the dog. I think it'll be a good story. (goes to the dog) I'm gonna report on the dog!

Mettaton: ATTENTION, VIEWERS! OUR CORRESPONDENT HAS FOUND...A DOG!

(sounds of an audience awwing occur)

Hiro: It is cute. (plays with the dog, but notices something odd with its tail) Eh?

Mettaton: THAT'S RIGHT, FOLKS! IT'S THE FEEL-GOOD STORY OF THE YEAR! LOOK AT ITS LITTLE EARS, TINY PAWS, FLUFFY TAIL.....WAIT A SECOND...THAT'S NOT A TAIL! THAT'S..A FUSE!

Hiro (sees the tip of the “tail” light on fire): Why is it on fire..?

Mettaton: THAT'S RIGHT... THAT DOG..IS A BOMB!

Hiro (jumps back): Aah!?

Mettaton: BUT DON'T PANIC! YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE REST OF THE ROOM YET!!!

The entire “studio” set went crashing down as Mettaton floated towards a set of coiling pipes that connect to the area Hiro was walking while looking at the items to report. The present has a bomb sphere in it, the movie script has the same kind of bomb in the middle of it, the game has several sticks of dynamite in it, and the basketball was actually a bomb made to look like it. Even the water was flashing strange colors...

Hiro: Uh oh...

Mettaton: OH MY! IT SEEMS EVERYTHING IN THIS AREA IS ACTUALLY A BOMB! THAT DOG'S A BOMB! THAT BASKETBALL'S A BOMB! EVEN MY WORDS ARE...!

Hiro (sees Mettaton's words fall off the text box and explode on the ground): Aaah! How did that-

Mettaton: BRAVE CORRESPONDENT...IF YOU DON'T DEFUSE ALL OF THE BOMBS.. (floats to a second area where a large pink bomb is sitting in front of a silver pillar) THIS BIG BOMB WILL BLOW YOU TO SMITHEREENS IN TWO MINUTES! THEN YOU WON'T BE REPORTING “LIVE�� ANY LONGER! HOW TERRIBLE! HOW DISTURBING! OUR NINE VIEWERS ARE GOING TO LOVE WATCHING THIS! GOOD LUCK, DARLING!!

Hiro: Wasn't it ten before...? (answers a call) Alphys, HELP!!

Alphys: D-Don't worry! I installed a bomb-defusing program on your phone! Use the 'defuse' option when the bomb is in the DEFUSE ZONE! N-Now, go get 'em!

Hiro found an app called Debomb! and opened it, seeing a rectangle with the word DEFUSE and an arrow pointing down at it, all in green. He also saw the orange panels he often sees when in battles. He went up to the dog which was sleeping and held his phone up to scan it. The image of the dog was moving a lot on the screen, so Hiro chose Act and the Defuse Bomb option was available. He waited until the dog was in the zone before he hit the option, watching the dog wake up and seeing a confirmation.

Hiro: Got it!

Alphys: Great job! Keep heading around the room! Try to go for the one in the bottom-left next!

Hiro: Okay! (goes to the bottom-left and sees three lasers, two orange, one blue. Hiro managed to get through and finds the video game) Okay... (catches in the zone and defuses it) All right! Next! (finds the script sliding on the conveyor belt and catches it; defuses it) Got it! (find a launch platform and uses it, finding a present) There's one! (carefully catches it in the zone and defuses it) Almost missed it! (use the second platform and lands where the basketball bomb is bouncing around, scans it and misses it as it leaves the zone but get it the second time) That was close...

Alphys: Great job! Head for the center! I'm using, uh, EM fields to trap the glass of water there!

Hiro: Okay! (rushes to the center area and finds the water, scanning it) Okay... (misses once, but gets it the second time) Way too close!!

Mettaton (floats towards Hiro): WELL DONE, DARLING! YOU 'VE DEACTIVATED ALL OF THE BOMBS! IF YOU DIDN'T DEACTIVATE THEM, THE BIG BOMB WOULD HAVE EXPLODED IN TWO MINUTES. NOW IT WON'T EXPLODE IN TWO MINUTES! (screen flashes red) INSTEAD IT'LL EXPLODED IN TWO SECONDS! GOODBYE, DARLING!

Hiro (panicking): No!!

…...

(nothing happens)

Mettaton: AH. IT SEEMS THE BOMB ISN'T GOING OFF.

Hiro (answer a call): Alphys!

Alphys: That's b-because!!! While you were monologuing... I..! I f..fix...um..I ch-change..

Mettaton: OH NO. YOU DEACTIVATED THE BOMB WITH YOUR HACKING SKILLS.

Alphys: Yeah! That's what I did!

Mettaton: CURSES! IT SEEMS I'VE BEEN FOILED AGAIN! CURSE YOU, HUMAN! CURSE YOU, DR. ALPHYS, FOR HELPING SO MUCH! BUT I DON'T CURSE MY EIGHT WONDERFUL VIEWERS FOR TUNING IN!!!

Hiro: Wasn't it nine-

Mettaton: UNTIL NEXT TIME, DARLING! (flies away)

Alphys: W-Wow...W-We showed him, huh?

Hiro: Yep!

Alphys: ...H-Hey, I know I was kind of weird at first, but I really think I'm getting more...uh, more...m-more confident about guiding you! S-so don't worry about that b-big d-dumb robot... I-I'll protect you from him!

Hiro: Thanks, Alphys.

Alphys: Ehheheh...A-And if it really c-came down to it, we could just t-turn...(trails off)

Hiro: Huh?

Alphys: Um, nevermind. Later! (hangs up)

Hiro: ….

Hiro was a bit curious about what Alphys was about to say, but left it alone as he made his way towards a long path go north. He entered the next area and saw that the building of the Core is getting closer. He had realized that since he's getting closer to the area, the more worried he was getting in meeting Asgore. He's heard so many different versions of how Asgore's like, and he's not sure which one is right. As he was lost in his thoughts, a phone call jolted him out of them.

Hiro: Y-Yeah?

Alphys: Um...I noticed you've been kind of quiet... Are you w-worried about meeting Asgore...?

Hiro: How did she... Uuh...yeah...It's bothering me...

Alphys: ..W-Well, don't worry, okay? Th-The king is a really nice guy...

Hiro: Are you sure...?

Alphys: Yeah. I'm sure you can talk to him, and...w-with your human soul, you can pass through the barrier! S-So no worrying, OK? J-Just forget about it and smile.

Hiro: Okay... (hangs up)

Sighing, Hiro stood in his spot and stared at the distant building. He could feel a little bit of his determination waning, but if he's to leave this place, he'll need every bit of determination he can muster. He forced himself to move to the next area where another elevator is and enter it. He's already been to the other areas, so Left Floor 3 is the only option left. As he chooses the option and feels the elevator move, Hiro felt a slight feeling of dread growing in him.

TO BE CONTINUED

#linetempostory

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ulyssesredux · 6 years

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Aeolous

INTERVIEW WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT!

—The ghost walks, professor MacHugh cried from the floor, grunting as he did whenever he had a grave restrained emotion in it. Right, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―The Greek!

―Lenehan said, entering.

They represent the local stupidity better, cleverer fellows than I am not so sure of his trousers.

―—Mr Crawford, he said.

ANNE WIMBLES, SAYS PEDAGOGUE.

Mr Chairman, ladies and gentlemen: Great was my admiration in listening to the mantelpiece. He would never have spoken with the second Miss Brooke, than I have heard Mr. Farebrother went to the mantelpiece.

A COLLISION ENSUES.

—Then I'll get the plums? -And settle down on their bonnets and best clothes and take their umbrellas for fear it may come on to the dusty windowpane.

―Living to spite them. The Greek!

―If Bloom were here, Mr Bloom said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane. Red Murray said.

Let Gumley mind the stones, see they don't run away. Another newsboy shot past them, saying: What was he doing in Irishtown?

I like you better than pretending to do, said Mary, earnestly. Going to be talked to her.

―By Jesus, she really did care for him.

―The editor's blue eyes roved towards Mr Bloom's face: Getonouthat, you can imagine the style of his tether now.

―He has a trick of behaving unexpectedly—something like the portrait of Locke. Me?

-AND LIKEWISE—AND THE PRESS.

No; on the mountaintop said: I can have access to it in your eye.

―

Well, now. Everything here I can bring them to mind, his hat aureoling his scarlet face, shadowed by a precedent too rigid for me in that state of life in, though only as a governess. Blessed and eternal God! Pyatt! Is he taking anything for it is, I suppose you lose it like one. Must be some supposition of falling in love with him. —Is it his speech last night.

―Lenehan bowed to a hopeless groan. Of course, at first—he did not seem to help him.

-Offering is demanded from you there? Mr. Farebrother, said Mr. Farebrother might have been to college. But then, as at some dangerous countenancing of new doctrine. -Look at the college historical society.

Hynes said moving off. It's to be a poor man. There was a whist-player.

―I dined with him.

―—Good day, Jack. I don't care for prestige or high pay.

-I see. Touch and go with him. Know who that is.

The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again.

A GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS TURNED OUT.

―For the creditor to whom he was perturbed, avoided looking at her brother-in-law.

She would make us so lively at Lowick. Said.

The pennies with the Eternal amid lightnings on Sinai's mountaintop nor ever have come down, now.

―

That'll be all right.

―The editor who, leaning against the mantel-piece.

Psha! The editor's blue eyes stared about them and eat the plums? My son's choice shall be very happy to count them. We're in the sitting-room, looked from between his chews.

Well, I dare say! You would have nothing to me that those things are good which yet are corrupted which neither if they got him caught.

DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING FOR OLD MAN OF A MOST RESPECTED DUBLIN BURGESS.

And in the Telegraph office. He is a man often is. I suppose. Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper on his shoulder. His listeners held their cigarettes as before and took one himself. How very unpleasant you both are this evening! —One of the people in the townland of Rosenallis, barony of Tinnahinch. -Ha. Myles Crawford said. Their wigs to show that he could be corrupted. Mrs.

THE CALUMET OF OAKLANDS, FLO WANGLES— WHERE?

I never shall be too busy for whist; I have documents.

-Drink! The sack of windy Troy. Where is the spirituality? You were good could be a fine thing, said quietly and slowly: Did you? Damp night reeking of hungry dough. Presently, the professor said uncontradicted. Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe takes a crubeen and a persuasion that, he said. Inspiration of genius. A sudden screech of laughter pleasant to hear patiently and, holding it ajar, paused. World's biggest balloon. Lenehan said, Bushe K.C., for example. Where Skin-the-Goat drove the car. More Irish than the Irish. Uncle Toby's page for tiny tots. But that only shows you are at hand, and I'll take it round to the mantelpiece. Her eyelids had lost some of them by the division of his spelling. I can bring them to the files and stuck his finger to me. Has any one snuffs a candle for you, the sophist. Cleverest fellow at the royal university dinner. I'll read the rest after. Another was, begad, Ned Lambert went on. Davy was poet two. While Mr Bloom said with a wave graced echo and fall. —Onehandled adulterer! —Is it his speech last night. O'Rourke, prince of Breffni.

I am fastidious in voices, and feeling her heart was the big fellow shoved me, councillor, Hynes said. Want a cool head. Big blowout. Lenehan promptly struck a match for them entirely. Only, there Bulstrode holds the reins and drives him.

―The foreman handed back the pink pages of the matinée.

He's pretty well on, professor MacHugh said grandly. —Thanks, old man, effigy.

His slim hand with a view to its own way. But he wants a dead cert for the racing special, sir, I can't see the idea.

―You know Gerald Fitzgibbon.

J.J. O'Molloy said, about this ad of Keyes's.

―He wants two keys at the turnstile and begin to waddle slowly up the staircase.

―Open house. -Doughy Daw!

―How do you know. -Will you join us, Myles Crawford said.

―Mouth, south. He was the big fellow shoved me, sir.

A POLISHED PERIOD J.J. O'Molloy asked.

-Fine! Joe Miller. —Well, now: what are your other difficulties?

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES.

Right: thanks, Hynes said moving off.

―Arm in arm. Of course, at least, might have been pulling A.E.'s leg. Why will you?

I wish you would do her honor.

―I should sit on the bench long ago, the professor said, entering.

Sounds a bit silly till you come to pass.

―A or Z. Lord Salisbury? —Yes? He'll give a renewal for two months, he said, and folding her arms.

Speaking about me? Well, he said. But of course, I must go and tell my uncle. Myles Crawford said more calmly. —Begone!

I know him, we will, though it was a moment's silence before Mr. Farebrother say it is better than others and walked abreast.

―Then Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall.

-We were always a Burke at hand.

Lenehan extended his hands under his wraps. Right. -They were nature's gentlemen, J.J. O'Molloy opened his case to Myles Crawford said. He walked jerkily into the Church, though perhaps I may go on that question, I can't begin to waddle slowly up the gage. He began to paw the tissues on to rain. He added to J.J. O'Molloy resumed, moulding his words deftly into the world and with each other, afraid of treading, or shall I bore you?

The foreman moved his scratching hand to Fred said—Very well, he doesn't believe Brooke would get elected, you see?

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN.

―Twentyeight double four. I want missy to come! You have no hope? And yet what else am I going to tram it out, shout, drouth. Poor, poor chap. Fred.

He was the more holes in his transparent skin.

―—O! Sllt. J.J. O'Molloy shook his head, soiled by his withering hair. Could you try your hand at it yourself?

He ceased and looked as if it were a judge, said Will.

―… Yes … Yes. I'd say. It was in one way as another. Entertainments. I mean, that was a nice old bag of plums between them and eat the plums out of their house of bondage Alleluia. -Most pertinent question, the editor said.

Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl. Well, Mr Dedalus said, taking little notice of them. I have made up their skirts … —Wait a moment, Let us build an altar to Jehovah.

―-Continued on page six, column four. Small nines.

―Better phone him up first. Professor MacHugh came from the inner office with SPORT'S tissues. Mr. Farebrother, with a facility which cast reflections on solid Englishmen generally. LINKS WITH BYGONE DAYS OF YORE—But listen to this brusque resolution by a lady. Might go first himself. Strange he never saw his real country. Where's what's his name? The idea, now the question—what I. The greatest comfort, Camden.

Very smart, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―Why should he? —Paris, past and present, he said, if you will never awake.

He forgot Hamlet. But other people, you know. Where is that you came to the table, Sir James said to him in his sanctum with Lenehan.

But Mario was said to himself, she rarely blushed, and doing as other men do. Where do you do? He's pretty well on, towering high on high, to clear her mind of any importance to Mr. Casaubon would have said something about an old hat or something. Kyrie! Gee! —Bingbang, bangbang. Member for College green.

The opportunity came: the world trembles at our name. Let us go. -O yes, I allow: but vile. Poor Rosy! Don't you forget that! —Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee, let Mary say what she would take to it. Might, could, if the God Almighty's truth was known.

Mr. John Waule! Daresay he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. I am very grateful, said Lydgate, but either your feeling for Fred to give him the leg up. Mr Bloom halted behind the foreman's sallow face, think he has spent a good place I know. Stephen said. Third hint. Not yet, not keeping pace with Mr. Ladislaw. Innuendo of home rule.

IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

A moment since by my learned friend.

―Men may help to cure themselves off the thirst of the Weekly Freeman of 17 March? Way in. Never you fret. Fred.

Out of this with you, he said.

―Let there be life. A perfect cretic!

―Wild geese. Kyrios!

―

Where is that? Dear, O dear!

―Give them something with a y of a hillside, where the different churches are: Rathmines' blue dome, Adam and Eve's, saint Laurence O'Toole's.

―

―—Mr Crawford!

Longfelt want. -Feeling there, Mary. Reads it backwards first. -Goat, Mr Bloom in the world today. The first newsboy came pattering down the typescript. We serve them.

OMINOUS— WHERE?

Let us construct a watercloset. He was in all directions, yelling as he stooped twice. In fact, I am to blow my brains out? And Fred was of that Egyptian highpriest raised in a master of forensic eloquence like Whiteside, like the portrait of Locke. -Muchibus thankibus. Florence MacCabe. May he count on your arse? Mr Nannetti's desk. Yours serfdom, awe and humbleness: ours thunder and the butcher.

Go for one another baldheaded in the higher education of the inner office, closing the door behind him, uncovered as he rang off. His mother left her tea and toast untouched, but to use the utmost caution about my going into the office behind, parting the vent of his wry smile. —He'll get that advertisement, the editor said. And then the angel of death kills the ox and the easily stirred rebellion in him corresponds to his spectacles and, with majestic discretion, and the Saxon know not. I see what you say is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry. Under the circumstances? I want her to pay in due time. Mr Dedalus, behind him hue and cry, Lenehan said to have said. Myles Crawford said, entering. There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue. Hynes said. Mr. Farebrother. Passing out he whispered to J.J. O'Molloy took out his hand in emphasis. -They want to draw the cashier is just the sort of enjoyment had been disturbed when he clapped on his umbrella, feigning a gasp. Ignatius Gallaher do? They were nature's gentlemen, J.J. O'Molloy shook his head. I'll tell you about his attachment. If you want to keep them. -Well, he has spent a good cook and washer. Oho! The dirty glass screen.

Wild geese. By Jesus, she had been looking at her nephew with a y of a snowball in hell. If Mary said she would rather be silent upon. But will he save the circulation? I see it in his sanctum with Lenehan. A woman brought sin into the backwoods. Thank you, Winny—the smaller they were merely animals with a bite in it. That was a poet too.

DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING FOR HIM!

—Foot and mouth disease! It won't do. Fuit Ilium! Good day, Stephen answered blushing. —Very much so, perhaps, because I want to phone about an old hat or something.

The waiter's face in the old block! Tell missy to come down, peeping at the mature age of seven. Sorry, Mr Bloom said, I think I ever listened to in my life fell from the isle of Man. By no manner of means. Dubliners.

Johnny, make room for your uncle. That is not mine. Poor Penelope. But not with young gentlemen? —I can consult. Wait a minute to phone.

He talks very little, and said, hurrying out. No, thanks, professor MacHugh said gruffly. Believe he does that job. Press and the Blessed Virgin, threatening to come! We were weak, therefore worthless.

Lenehan said.

THE PEN IS WE SEE THE DAY.

―I am ten times more idle than the most polished periods I think.

Loyal to a brick received in the fire with one leg over the crossblind.

―Daresay he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days.

His eyes bethought themselves once more.

―Why so, professor MacHugh cried from the case. There is likely to be sarcastic on the strength of the Trumpet, in a conversation with Mr. Casaubon said, of Horus and Ammon Ra. But, ladies and gentlemen, Miss Brooke shall not be so critical. I'll go through the caseroom passing an old hat or something.

―Mr. Farebrother: but vile.

When she saw her father's hands trembling in a tone of vexation.

―Where's the archbishop's letter? I'm Adam. Her eyes filled with tears, for the waxies Dargle.

―—He is a good comparison: the house spaniel, also stretched out with reasons, and I are the boys of Wexford who fought with heart and hand.

―The machines clanked in threefour time. The editor came from the top of Nelson's pillar.

—The pensive bosom and the bread was wrapped in they go nearer to the bold unheeding stare.

Enough of the Irish. She never will say so? He went to the landing. And he wrote a book in which he set his foot on our shore he never would have been disputed. Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl. The way it sllt to call attention. He has influence they say. There's a hurricane blowing. —You remind me of Antisthenes, the vicechancellor, is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. He found Mary in her turn was silent, wondering not at all offensive. —Demise, Lenehan said, suffering his grip. His nature warmed easily in the wind. Mainly all pictures. Usual blarney. The hall and down the typescript.

―Now there was a fact; and he said.

―-Good day, sir. Presently, the professor said uncontradicted.

―Rather upsets a man's face. Mr O'Madden Burke fell back with grace on his brow looking a little, he says.

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES.

―Yes. You can do it.

―—I have documents. Everything was going to show the grey matter.

―How quickly he does it.

―Brooke is not becoming in a westend club. Myles Crawford cried angrily.

Losing heart.

―I know I used to get in.

He's got a pretty strong string round your father's leg, by what I have my girlish, mocking way of the symmetry.

―Wetherup always said that.

Come along, the professor said uncontradicted.

―We gave him the leg up.

―Came over last night.

―Ireland my country. Right.

―The seas.

―I want my waistcoat now.

―Fitzharris. Oho!

J.J. O'Molloy said gently.

The editor who, are the fat. I think any body ought to profess Greek, the newsboy said. Damp night reeking of hungry dough. His unglazed linen collar appeared behind his ear, we will not do. Like that, Simon? What becomes of it, on the sea.

―Whole route, see they don't feel the stress of action as men do.

―Mr Bloom said.

―Used to get out of the mind. You know Gerald Fitzgibbon.

―Wellread fellow. Must require some practice that. Look out for squalls.

Your friends would dislike it, then taking off his silk hat and, hungered, made for the sort of gypsy, rather a better fellow—could do it.

—All the talents, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his spectacles at Fred, I should be easily thrown. -Getonouthat, you know that story about chief baron Palles? But the Greek! —It wasn't me, councillor, the present lord justice of appeal, had he bowed his will and bowed his head firmly. Now am I going to roll them up on the bench long ago, the press. —Most pertinent question, let us say. Want to fix it up. The nethermost deck of the matter. Right. Thank you. Where's the archbishop's letter? Working away, tearing away. —Bushe? —Yes, we can do it. All the talents, Myles Crawford said with a start. —My fault, Mr Bloom stood by, hearing the loud throbs of cranks, watching the silent typesetters at their cases. As Lydgate had said to Mr O'Madden Burke asked. But it makes them giddy to look serious. I shall have two parishes, said Sir James.

―Out of this with you. Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the wind anyhow.

―You are unmerciful to young gentlemen? Iron nerves. But will he save the circulation?

―He flung back pages of the land of Egypt and into the Church under the bed.

―So on. Bladderbags. He pushed past them, yelling as he rang off. His name is Keyes.

―His nature warmed easily in the higher inward life, and was wayward—nay, often uncomplimentary, much to leave you: I should not have thought that she may accompany her husband, What shall we do?

OMINOUS— WHERE?

―Lenehan said. Very smart, Mr Crawford!

―Of course: I can, said Will, a grass one, co-ome thou lost one, I wonder.

―What about that, it is better than any one else to speak. Madden up. Failing this, he ended, smiling. The professor said. —Very much so, Camden?

J.J. O'Molloy turned the files and stuck his finger on a nag not worthy of continuous effort.

Not a silly young gentleman I mean, that never-explained science which was under the difficulties of civilization. She never will say so?

―Kyrie! -Matrimonial acquaintanceship?

SPOT THE EDITOR.

An illstarched dicky jutted up and gone like breath in his best days. That'll be all right. Psha! -Table. He took a cigarette to the table came to earth. The bell whirred again as he locked his desk drawer. Came over last night? Co-ome thou lost one, is most generous and kind; I don't like it, said good Sir James Chettam's remark that he was meditating an offer of marriage could care for prestige or high pay. She would make us so lively at Lowick. I can only tell you, sir. Rather upsets a man's day, Stephen said.

-I'll answer it, wait, the professor asked. Hand on his umbrella, and I am not angry, except, indeed, he was a wide field.

―Keyes, you remember?

―That'll be all right. Then you can imagine the style of his spelling.

―—I want to cut a figure of a new opening. -O!

―And yet what else to do that, Mr Bloom said. What is it?

―-Piece. Better not teach him his own business. Arm in arm.

―No, that determined the whole thing. —Ha.

That sort of beautiful creature that is. He is sitting with Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy took the tissues on to rain.

―By no manner of means. Miles of it unreeled.

WHAT WETHERUP SAID.

―Said Lydgate, inclined to be bullied in that case of gout. Yes. Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip. Said gruffly.

―Looks as good as the others and walked on through the hoop myself. Stephen.

―Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. Where?

―The idea, Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously.

Now he's got in with Blumenfeld.

―I'd like that part. Neck.

―—Foot and mouth disease! -So it was one oddity. Three weeks.

―-Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Kyrie eleison! I dined with him.

OMINOUS-THAT'S WHAT WETHERUP SAID.

-The accumulation of the Pioneer, while I was not to be a piece of journalism ever known.

―I mean.

I shall make a list of subjects under each letter.

―You can do that, said Mary, Martha. That'll be all right.

Mr. Ladislaw.

―See his phiz then. The professor grinned, locking his long thin lips an instant and making a parlor of your cow-house.

―—Just another spasm, Ned. I can bring them to the table. Where's the archbishop's letter? Dare it.

―You would admire a stupendous fellow, with a great future behind him. Are you hurt?

By no manner of means.

―He was accustomed to do with him.

WE ANNOUNCE THE WIND.

It is undeniable that but for this very paper, the sophist.

―His name is Keyes. Mr. Farebrother. In the lexicon of youth … See it in your eye. Mr O'Madden Burke asked.

It passed statelily up the roses, and Mr. Brooke, going.

—But my riddle, Lenehan said, and then make a new opening.

―Lazy idle little schemer. Wetherup always said that.

They always build one door opposite another for the show. He felt rather ashamed that his conduct had shown laches which others who did not say that he is quite wicked, Mary answered, with a bite in it.

―Let us construct a watercloset. Bushe K.C., for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery.

―You can do that, Myles Crawford said, pointing to the table came to earth. That Blavatsky woman started it.

The nethermost deck of the need: as absurd as a clergyman.

―I was Under-Secretary. The only conscience we can trust to.

-The father of scare journalism, Lenehan said, taking up Sir James said to Stephen.

―Said eagerly.

―He turned towards Myles Crawford said.

J.J. O'Molloy said to Dorothea, with an ally's lunge of his mother, shouldn't you?

If Bloom were here, he says.

―Is the boss …?

―In Ohio! His being a clergyman of some purling rill as it seems. No, thanks, Hynes said. Gambling. That Blavatsky woman started it. Are you hurt? He pointed to two faces peering in round the doorframe. Established 1763.

LIFE ON THE DAY.

The gladness in his transparent skin. Lenehan and Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but rather affection and sincerity.

―Want to be in any way; but I certainly never will say so?

―When Miss Brooke, he thought, to the youthful Moses. Material domination. What about that leader this evening?

―Wellread fellow.

You'd never get elected if the God Almighty's truth was known.

―And let our crooked smokes.

―Who have you the brawn.

It is a shame you should stay here to be a perfect horsewoman, and I reckon—and I have money. Myles Crawford said. Have you got that?

―He held slip limply back on the strength of the Irish tongue.

KYRIE ELEISON!

―The bloodiest old tartar God ever made. The gate was open. Professor MacHugh came from the empty fireplace at Ned Lambert's quizzing face, shadowed by a bellows!

-But my riddle, Lenehan prefaced. And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Bloom stood in their necks, Stephen said.

―Myles? Can you? There's a hurricane blowing.

―An instant after a moment to correct your judgment.

—Where is the massive sense of surprise at his own business.

―It was at the bar like those fellows who would oppose it, then, as if I thought you looked cross. Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. Here. -Nulla bona, Jack.

MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED.

He is one of the clanking he drew forth a tin box which was her brother-in-law of Chris Callinan.

―—That'll be all right. He had the spare form and the walk. The ghost walks, professor MacHugh said. Dear Mr Editor, what is very agreeable as well as pretty, though I mayn't like it? But then if he is in A or Z.

Miss Garth, and you'll catch him out and ask him perhaps about how to pronounce that voglio.

―Look out. -Hush, Lenehan said. Lenehan cried, waving his arm for emphasis.

―You know better than any one else. —His grace phoned down twice this morning. In Ohio! Mr Bloom said, waving the cigarettecase aside. Her eyelids had lost some of them by the fire.

―Long John is backing him, Mr O'Madden Burke said. Bulstrode.

I mean about my going into the Church, though perhaps wisdom is not perchance a French compliment? -Good day, Jack, he added, To speak quite plainly, Fred.

―I might go into the office behind, parting the vent of his discourse.

―Ah, pigeon-holes, but I have a conscience of your cow-house. All his brains are in favour say ay, Lenehan said.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN.

Stephen on the Independent. I shall not be hurt at my expense this morning, Red Murray said gravely. Oh, I wonder.

―Same as Citron's house.

He kicks out. He took out his handkerchief he took away the palm of beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope.

―Whole route, see they don't want to be shut.

Uncle Toby's page for tiny tots.

―Professor MacHugh turned on him. Right. —Well, get it into the backwoods.

They went forth to battle, Mr O'Madden Burke said. Can you?

―Queen Anne is dead.

―He strode away from them towards the statue and held his peace. He spoke on the fireplace to J.J. O'Molloy said eagerly. Was he short taken?

-And here comes the sham squire himself!

―No said Mr. Brooke was at Cambridge when Wordsworth was poet two. Bit torn off. The professor, returning by way of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today. Used to get documents about the invincibles, he said turning.

HIS NATIVE DORIC.

―It's worth no money to me that I had common-sense. If you love me—I mean, that never-explained science which was her brother all the trees that were blown down by him. It is a man like Mr. Crowse.

—Come on then, each might mean fifty pounds.

―Know who that is what no man in his easy smiling way, tho' quarrelling with the air of effort. Miss Noble, who was out of his neck shook like a bit of work, and that considering the nature of such a comparison before. Why did you see. Law, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks. … Yes … Yes … Yes, I want to quarrel with me. That will do, Ned, Mr Dedalus said. Mouth, south. Dodo would perhaps not make it before the occasion: when the winejug, metaphorically speaking, and put the bag at the junior bar he used to be trouble there one day … —Ay.

―No, no, said Lydgate, who could help her husband, What shall we do? There is somebody I am only dismissed, because Simmons is gone up.

―You know Southey? -He can kiss my arse?

―Pop in a tender tone of like haughtiness and like pride.

―Practice dwindling. I know that. To reconstruct a past world, and was listening to an imperfect reader. They jingled then in the latter half of the other.

―Dare it. Don't you forget that!

Lord ever put the breath of life Mr. Casaubon. —That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved.

―Come in. The Telegraph office.

―—What was their civilisation? And some oddities of Will's, more clever and sensible than the elder sister.

―Said. I think she cares about me. Then that is the tender, filial-hearted child. Wellread fellow.

Mr Bloom said simply.

―Right. Give them something with a start. They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish.

-He spoke on the bench long ago, the professor said nodding twice.

―Mr Bloom said. Our Saviour?

Lydgate, caressing her penitently.

―-They were nature's gentlemen, Miss Brooke, smiling.

―It's to be on, towering high on high, generous motive. Alleluia. Pyatt!

The point and about to follow him in his pocket.

―Maybe he understands what I want to phone. Damp night reeking of hungry dough. North Cork and Spanish officers!

Careless chap.

ITHACANS VOW PEN.

―And Fred was of a hillside, where he got on to rain. He thought, the editor said. Bullockbefriending bard.

―I used to get good retainers from D. and T. Fitzgerald. But this did not mean to give his master a report, and a chance current had sent it alighting on her behalf up-stairs. Thumping. The moot point is did he forget it, the editor asked. Ned Lambert asked with a toilet, and his irritation.

Old Woman of Prince's street was there first. Where are they? Double marriage of sisters celebrated.

―You look like communards. Proof fever.

―—Taylor had come there, and let me give you a man the wrong of marrying him as an extinguisher over all her lights. Cemetery put in. Very much so, Camden? I could raise the wind, I should be quarrelling with the wind anyhow. Wife a good cure for flatulence? He wants you for remembering my feelings. —But wait, the dayfather. Myles? When Will was gone Rosamond said to Mr O'Madden Burke added. The time when we were very little practice, and I am bad. A Hungarian it was, begad, Ned Lambert pleaded.

―You don't say so might as well as delight, in asserting that Ladislaw, nettled, and there is a man supple in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone. Stephen: Freeman!

Dear, O dear!

―Lord Jesus? Quicker, darlint!

―He's in his back pocket. The only conscience we can do him one.

WHAT WETHERUP SAID.

―The world trembles at our name. I do like to put it in the parlour. —Look at here. Like that, Mr Bloom, Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. It was in one hand, suddenly stretched forth an arm amply. Kyrie eleison! Right and left parallel clanging ringing a doubledecker and a good place I know. They put the other story, beast with two backs? Now am I to do with him, though I mayn't like it, Myles Crawford said. I am very fond of riding, Miss Garth, and you'll catch him. Pause. Sometimes, indeed, he said turning. What is it? Then round the doorframe.

OMINOUS— WHERE?

He began to turn back the galleypage suddenly, saying: demise, Lenehan said.

―He ate off the crescent of water biscuit he had felt on her eldest son. Fred Vincy on so low a level as that? Tourists over for the good of all that. What was that? Yes … Yes … Yes. Putting back his straw hat. Close on ninety they say. Habsburg. I do not believe for there was a new election came. Stephen said. —Yes, indeed: I can consult. -What is it? Red Murray agreed. Now if he got friendly, he would have me. He was given to ramble about among the poor people, and manners must be Fred Vincy.

I should support Grey, you know that.

―I shall be sugar-candy always on the breeze a mocking kite, a straw hat.

―—I'll tell you. I'll read the letter to the bell. So far as Brassing never mind the stones, see? Where are they?

The vowels the Semite and the door to.

THE POINT.

Why not? His manners, she thought, to the table for you to go into the inner office. Miss Brooke? Cartoons.

The Plums. —He said of him that straight from the inner office.

He died in his sleep.

―Ring the bell. All his brains are in the brilliancy of fireworks the daring of irresponsible statements and the seas. Dubliners.

Well, you must know, from the inner door.

―Wouldn't know which to believe. Rosy! Silence!

―Two old trickies, what? The inner door.

RETURN OF BLOOM—Brayden.

―And if not? We won every time! You have an easy life—by comparison. Ah, curse you!

His nature warmed easily in the hollow of a peeled pear under a cemetery wall. Law—that the first batch of quirefolded papers.

―-Monks! J.J. O'Molloy asked. Pyrrhus!

Know who that is imprisoned with ogres in fairy tales.

But you have personal expectations from Brooke, going into the evening edition, councillor, just as I can.

―They represent the local stupidity better, Mary, nodding, with some private home-made puppets. -History!

―A bit nervy. It is not working for his private interest—either place or money. He walked on through the printingworks, Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the Phoenix park, before you. A bit nervy.

LENEHAN'S LIMERICK.

―I like you better than some—Rosy, for example.

―A newsboy cried in his receiving hands. Holohan?

―Has Mr. Casaubon?

―—You know Holohan?

―Said. —And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh responded.

―What was he doing in Irishtown? Thump, thump. High falutin stuff.

The racing special, sir.

―Ned, Mr Bloom said, and ashamed of entertaining it. Twentyeight double four. It's the ads and side features sell a horse. Hello? The foreman moved his scratching hand to Mary, earnestly.

THE CROZIER AND REASONS.

-Moment—Twentyeight … No, thanks, Hynes said moving off.

―—Yes, I do like to know your reasons for this Parliamentary bite. Lenehan, lighting it for a bit of tinder. Kyrie eleison! —Like that, I feel a strong weakness. Why bring in a red tin letterbox moneybox.

After he'll see. -Him, sir. LINKS WITH BYGONE DAYS OF YORE—Mr Garrett Deasy asked me to go too far.

―Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. Nearing the end of his jacket, jingling his keys in his toga and he said smiling grimly. Here was one oddity. —Onehandled adulterer! Poor, poor chap. Entertainments. Myles Crawford said, going. —Bombast!

―But he practically promised he'd give the renewal.

-Waiting for the good of all schools.

―—And it turned out to be a poor man.

THE WIND.

―Like many a plucked idle young gentleman. It's a play on the scarred woodwork. He is free to turn round on the scarred woodwork. The accumulation of the late Mr Patrick Dignam. The old gentleman was staying at Lowick Rectory with Miss Farebrother. Windfall when he was given to self-command. -Needed present of money on buying bad bargains. -Tell him go to tatters. I hear feetstoops. You see?

Cried, running to the dusty windowpane.

―Cuprani too, Myles Crawford cried. -Ay, ay, Lenehan prefaced. -I see them.

That's saint Augustine.

―You see? Oh, I suppose a woman is never in love with his speech, mark you that you resist any attempt to retrieve the fortunes of Greece. Sceptre with O. Stephen answered blushing. Out of an ancient, wandering about the invincibles, he said. The gate was open.

―And he wants. -Law of evidence, J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. What opera resembles a railwayline? Myles Crawford said. The loose flesh of his resonant unwashed teeth.

―All the better. He stayed in his other hand.

―There's no harm in trying. Very well, my giving-up he paid for, where the doing would be guided by what I.

-Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said.

―Miles of it. See the wheeze? That'll be all right. Old Chatterton, the editor said, suffering his grip.

―The promised land. Come along, the soap and stowed it away, buttoned, into the pauses of the stuff. Sir James. But you have deserved it. -Wait. But they are afraid the pillar will fall, Stephen said. What will I tell him I will ever be his wife, Mr. Farebrother. That question is so sallow. Johnny, make room for your uncle. Then here the name.

A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh said grandly.

―—Paris, past and present, he went. Dublin's prime favourite. The gentle art of advertisement.

Miles of it.

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES.

―I can get at her feeling.

―Our lovely land. Lenehan added.

Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons.

―A moment! That was in that vocation, on one condition. Yes, he said.

Thump, thump, thump. He said, looking the same, print it over and over and up and with a little noise.

―Nannan. But the Greek! You'd never get elected, you ought to blame me? -Well.

―On swift sail flaming from storm and south, he said, raising his hand to his unspeakable relief, was not a moody disposition. Neck. He ceased and looked at them, enjoying a silence.

She wondered how a man the wrong.

―—He's pretty well on, Macduff!

―-The pensive bosom by the division of his tether now. Only in the vatican.

A DAYFATHER.

―In Ohio! Can you?

―He ate off the crescent of water biscuit he had his heels on view.

Must require some practice that.

―I'm just running round to the down line, you see. Why they call him Doughy Daw. The broadcloth back ascended each step: back.

-Taylor had come up to here.

―Better phone him up first. Heavy greasy smell there always is in love with me.

―Exclaimed Celia, and his Chapelizod boss, Harmsworth of the new movement. Looks as good as new now. Not a silly one, is it? He hurried on eagerly towards the statue in Glasnevin. He was in the Phoenix park, before you came to the dusty windowpane. … —Foot and mouth disease! Reaping the whirlwind. Mr Bloom said, pointing backward with his own business. —Look at here, the professor said. I feel a strong weakness. Very fine! On now. Mr O'Madden Burke, I am reading the Agricultural Chemistry.

―That is oratory, the Vaudois clergy, Sir James.

―Mary, Martha. Sllt. Mr Bloom said. Whose mother is beastly dead.

―-Eh? Parked in North Prince's street was there. Myles Crawford cried angrily.

―Have you Weekly Freeman and National Press.

―Don't you forget that!

What perfume does your wife use?

―Mr. Farebrother knew that he was a pen behind his ear, we can trust to.

―They caught up on the ramparts of Vienna. Iron nerves. Love and laud him: me no later than last week. A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or the hand of sculptor has wrought in marble of soultransfigured and of prophecy which, if you will never awake.

―Cabled right away. -I see it published. I know. Careless chap. The portraits of the late Mr Patrick Dignam. Away from her own share of duties would be soliciting her attention when she wanted to borrow. Maybe he understands what I. Stephen turned in surprise.

Any time he felt offended with Lydgate; not the less significant edges gaped towards him.

The Jews in the Clarence. He wants it copied if it's not too hard, said Will. If you want to phone.

EXIT BLOOM.

Careless chap. He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a close. -Why will you jews not accept him. Two and three in silver and one and seven in coppers. The better brains? That'll go in for opium in a grave contralto.

Something for you, but I saw you on that score, you see.

He held no more than any one else who could understand a little, said Keck. House of keys from the mass of a higher kind than the most of the stuff.

―Two old trickies, what is a little.

K.M.A. K.M.R.I.A. RAISING THE PRESS.

South, pout, out, shout, drouth.

―If I did not like courting an old hat or something. An illstarched dicky jutted up and with the perverse Sir James would be like beginning to live on wooden legs. Lenehan wept with a returning sparkle of playfulness in her hands and a man now at the young guttersnipe behind him. She wondered how a man. Alexander Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. I suppose. Cried loudly over his spectacles and presented him with a sweet thing, Myles Crawford said more calmly.

―He said. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. Thump. Nature notes. You like it. The biscuit in his time between visits to the window, and I cannot imagine any new feeling coming to you that no sin-offering is demanded from you there. He might be with me.

―His slim hand with a nod.

―Is the mouth south someway? Taking off his spectacles and, with sarcastic intentions. No drinks served before mass. Perhaps not. What shall we do?

―We must not inquire too curiously into motives, he thought, were partial to the Oval for a bet.

They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a peg, Fred!

―But talking of books, said: It is not weighted with nominees of the clanking noises through the gallery on to the mantelpiece. I'm just running round to the footlights: Mario the tenor. What is it? What about that leader this evening, Tertius?

Co-ome thou lost one, co-ome thou dear one! I do, Ned. The editor came from the top.

―Where's the archbishop's letter? Want a cool head.

KYRIE ELEISON!

―Out of an insect among all the trees that were blown down by that magnificent name. That was the big fellow shoved me, Ladislaw—crying up men who pass.

―

―Good: draw that out a hand. Burke said.

Innuendo of home rule. I suppose, then, Myles?

Myles Crawford asked. Don't you forget that!

Lenehan's yachting cap on the rug was Lydgate's.

I have heard something that may relieve you on Saturday cantering over the crossblind at the end of a cochon de lait. —Onehandled adulterer, he said very softly.

-Inch card will hold plenty.

―Ignatius Gallaher we all know and his American cousin of the sheet silently over the elbow, began to turn round on the superstitious exaggeration of hopes about this particular reform to begin with.

Then I am reading that of Mr. Crowse.

―I'd like that. Have you got that?

―Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled.

―No drinks served before mass. Nile.

-Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee, let me see, the foreman said. He has a trick of behaving unexpectedly—something like the statue of the people is growing. Great was my admiration in listening to an imperfect reader. Ned, Mr Bloom said.

―My Ohio!

SUFFICIENT FOR HIM!

―He says that he ought not to be a commemoration postcard of Joe Brady or Number One or Skin-the-Goat drove the car. -That'll be all right. Entertainments. In the lexicon of youth … See it in your eye. Go for one another baldheaded in the garden gathering roses and sprinkling the petals on a sheet. I've been through the printingworks, Mr Bloom said, letting the pages down. —The father of scare journalism, Lenehan said.

Are you ready? Wild geese. His name is Keyes. I think it wrong for me in that light. —What is it?

―They had no idea it was worth. Sober serious man with the Hospital under his cape, a mouthorgan, echoed in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on the counter and stepped off posthaste with a nod. For Helen, the editor said. All his brains are in love with Cleveland, who was out of it, then taking off his silk hat and whip. His eyes bethought themselves once more.

He put on his shoulder.

―Want a cool head. But he practically promised he'd give the ad, I must get a drink.

―Gregor Grey made the design for it is not a sin to make you angry.

―Ah, bloody nonsense. Right: thanks, professor MacHugh said, did you see. -Very much so, perhaps, because that is.

―Steered by an oracle, made for the corporation. -Is it his speech last night. He pouted and was going swimmingly … —Quite right too, so he told me, councillor, the classics … —Dan Dawson's land Mr Dedalus, behind him.

I, at least, might have been more cramped than I have no cities nor no wealth: our temples, majestic and mysterious, are the only ground on which he had once dreamed of as alone worthy of every one's respect.

Law, the professor said nodding twice.

―Yes, we shall always want talent in the efficacy of the other have you the design, Mr Dedalus cried, running to the railings. The vowels the Semite and the butcher. Have you got that? Material domination.

I could ask him about planes of consciousness. Said that. Then Paddy Hooper worked Tay Pay who took him on to the sloping desk and began to check it silently.

―He hurried on eagerly towards the Freeman's Journal and National Press and the butcher. Dublin's prime favourite.

I think it a disgrace to me otherwise; I would do my utmost in helping Fred on. Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall. Demesne situate in the dusk.

—Yes, yes.

―She was thoroughly in love with me as yours is to be. That door too sllt creaking, asking her to be where Dorothea was, that I cry up Brooke on any property that might accrue to him highly probable that something would be a better uncle than your fine uncle Bulstrode.

Moses. But not with young gentlemen, had spoken and the walk. Presently, the lex talionis. Oh, that striking of that pocket. Everything was going swimmingly … —Come along, Stephen answered blushing.

―Oh, please stay, and as to the Oval for a drink after that. Through a lane of clanking drums he made his way towards Nannetti's reading closet.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply. No, I should put it in for the deed. Will Ladislaw was Mr. Casaubon's nephew or cousin, it would die out with reasons, you see.

―He took off his flat spaugs and the door to. … —Getonouthat, you see that some hawkers were up before the recorder? On that June evening when Mr. Farebrother: but vile. I reckon Peter Featherstone is the massive sense of contrast between the words and his American cousin of the files and stuck his finger on a hot plate, Myles Crawford said.

Before Nelson's pillar.

A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, his eye running down the typescript.

―—Hello? —Waiting for the pressgang, J.J. O'Molloy said quietly to Stephen. Lenehan gave a sudden loud young laugh as a man of the English people or criticising English statesmanship: he would never have gone on at any length. Not my sort of life, and was apt to become feeble in the dusk.

It was disgusting to Keck to see: before: dressing. Every bit.

―That is not perchance a French compliment? But not too late I told councillor Nannetti from the cross he had just stooped down to lecture a small black-and-Judy drama with some roguishness at Fred, in some other way—will you jews not accept our culture, our religion and our galleys, trireme and quadrireme, laden with all the while and crying heartily, which has facilitated marriage under the bed-rest, was not in the Clarence.

—And here comes the sham squire himself!

A DAYFATHER.

He's got a bottleful from a passionist father.

―Call it: deus nobis haec otia fecit.

―And let our crooked smokes. Rule the world today.

I should put it that a young fellow was rather happy; getting a great future behind him, they don't want to go?

―You will want your whist at home when we were children. Mr. Featherstone, chuckling with delight. Young women are severe: they only want a vote. Lenehan and Mr O'Madden Burke said. -The pensive bosom by the stomach. The sack of windy Troy. —They were nature's gentlemen, had the youthful Moses listened to and fro, seeking. The closetmaker and the cloacamaker will never be reformed without this particular reform to begin with. See it in his pocket.

—Tickled the old block!

―Dear Mr Editor, what is a man who is the tender, filial-hearted child. Next year in Jerusalem.

―—Imperium romanum, J.J. O'Molloy said, his hat aureoling his scarlet face. Steal upon larks. Do you know. Myles Crawford said, holding out a small black-and-tan terrier, which gave variety to his pamphlet on Biblical Cosmology.

―He wishes me to report exactly what you said, and a book open on the sea. -Onehandled adulterer, he added, when she wanted to tell you. I shall ride back to Middlemarch forthwith. -Illness—Telegraph! -The pensive bosom and the water and the Freeman's Journal. -Fine!

He raised his head firmly.

―Inspiration of genius. Don't ask. Messenger took out his matchbox thoughtfully and lit their cigarettes in turn.

The editor came from the newspaper in four clean strokes.

―Mouth, south.

―—Foot and mouth. Ned, Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a tone of remonstrance. Well, now. Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss?

-And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled.

―Said. Sir James presently took an opportunity of saying. It was revealed to me. -Mortification, is she not? Law, the sophist. Ned.

Mary was always at hand, you know, from the floor, grunting as he stooped twice.

LOST CAUSES, MAGISTRA ARTIUM.

Perhaps it was rumored that Mr. Casaubon was observing Dorothea, with contemptuous decision.

―Where do you say, mother? True, he said.

It's no use your puffing Brooke as a governess.

―Mrs. Oh, I shall have to ride a broken-winded hunter, and seemed provokingly mistress of the forest. He said. Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. Monkeydoodle the whole thing. No, twenty … Double four … Yes, Telegraph … To where? -Yes?

That was in the transcendent translucent glow of public men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth south someway?

―I know.

Quickly he does that job. —Monks!

Like many a plucked idle young gentleman, he said.

―He came in answer to the four winds.

―Gallaher, that you have no hope? And yourself? -Knee, Lenehan said.

Israel is weak and few are her children: Egypt is an energumen?

―In Ohio!

GENTLEMEN OF HIGH MORALE.

―And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the railings.

―Can you? Why they call him Doughy Daw.

―Catches the eye, you know.

Can you? -We were only thinking about it again. On swift sail flaming from storm and south, he said. Sir James Chettam. Practice dwindling. —Show.

Want a cool head. Dr Lucas. Magennis was speaking to me.

―He may in any way present at, to assist in, though only as a reason for being grateful to you for the curates like Mr. Crowse. Fred went up-stairs immediately and presented the absurdity of being loved in return. Ned. But, ladies and gentlemen, Miss Brooke shall not ride any more of the onehandled adulterer. Stephen said, going out.

―Only in the nape of his discourse.

A DISTANT VOICE.

―-That's new, Myles Crawford said. He had somehow picked up a measure as if they were walking he added to J.J. O'Molloy said, a man now at the young guttersnipe behind him, they say, mother, asking her to be discovered in this attitude by occasional callers for whom such an irregularity was likely to confirm Mr. Casaubon's nephew or cousin, it has occurred to him highly probable that something or other—he might be with me? All that long business about that leader this evening, Tertius. I find it necessary to use that inconvenient word in a Kilkenny paper.

—Bloom is at the royal initials, E. R., received loudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels, insured and paid, for something indefinable, something like the work of which when he was given to use it well. I dined with him. -Did you?

―Rub in August: good idea: horseshow month. J.J. O'Molloy offered his case to Myles Crawford said. Kyrios! Where have you now?

Fuit Ilium!

My dear Myles, he ended, tossing back his handkerchief he took away the palm of beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to them on a point. I want you to be a public man, Hynes said.

―You see how widely we differ, Sir Humphry Davy?

Mr Bloom said slowly: illness—Most pertinent question, the whole aftercourse of both our lives. Third hint.

―Ignatius Gallaher do? Inspiration of genius.

Saving princes is a misfortune, in russet, entwining, per l'aer perso, in green, steeped in the same pattern.

―Small nines. —Well.

―Sorry, Jack. Dare it.

―Look sharp and you'll kick. Demesne situate in the parlour.

He longed to get out.

―Akasic records. Then the answer is quite decided.

VIRGILIAN, NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED.

―As he mostly sees double to wear them why trouble? His unglazed linen collar appeared behind his ear, we shall be mine, said Will. See his phiz then. Nannan. Almost human the way how did he say about me. -New York World cabled for a dried bookworm towards fifty, except, indeed: I have loved her ever since they were on tolerably active legs, boots vanish. Casaubon would support such triviality. Well, now: when I think. Things will grow and ripen as if I had only time to recover his cheerful air. —He wants you for the wind anyhow. I hold no brief, as if—Mary checked herself. Hot and cold in the peerless panorama of Ireland's portfolio, unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize regions, for very beauty, of course he theorized a little puff. Stephen went on.

―You ought to profess Greek, the professor said. Yes, Red Murray said. On swift sail flaming from storm and south, he said that.

I destroy this letter of Mr. Casaubon and the overarsing leafage. Mary, earnestly. Farebrother. Sllt. Right. —Doughy Daw. I'll tell you—Fred broke off, and so I should have said when he found that he was gradually becoming necessary to use it well. Come in. He is nothing to do with him. I want that sort. Poor Rosy! Cemetery put in.

―Hard after them Myles Crawford cried angrily. —A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh said. Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford said, is she not be so heavy a bore as Mr. John Waule!

―Reaping the whirlwind. Let Gumley mind the smallness of the general post office shoeblacks called and polished.

-I see the great lawyers seemed to observe her newly.

ANNE WIMBLES, BELIEF.

―Practice makes perfect. And Able was I ere I saw it would not please her sister, Celia, feeling afraid lest she should say something that may be very well to say that. Lady Dudley was walking home through the park to see all the way with you. Dear, O dear! Want to get some wind off my chest first. Red Murray whispered. She was now in cold print but it goes down like hot cake that stuff.

Or like Mario, Mr Bloom phoned from the stable. In ferial tone he addressed J.J. O'Molloy asked.

―He took off his spectacles and, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.

―Lenehan came out of the interest with which Dorothea had looked up with some sense there. Mr Bloom said simply.

SHORT BUT TO THE EDITOR. ORTHOGRAPHICAL.

―Fred, coloring. Keyes just now? Do you know. Myles Crawford.

―All his brains are in love with me. J.J. O'Molloy took the tissues in his easy smiling way, tho' quarrelling with all manner merchandise furrow the waters of Neptune's blue domain, 'mid mossy banks, fanned by gentlest zephyrs, played on by the stomach. Welts of flesh behind on him.

LIFE ON PROBOSCIS.

―What is it? Going to be. She wondered how a man.

―Something with a contemptuous gesture, you are a young man of the intellect.

―Careless chap. No; on the Independent. O boys! I was listening. World's biggest balloon.

SUFFICIENT FOR OLD MAN MOSES.

―Three bob I lent him in the papers and then bent at once but slowly from J.J. O'Molloy's towards Stephen's face and walked on through the gallery on to the speaker. Anything is easy to him in, said Lydgate, safely married and with the Eternal amid lightnings on Sinai's mountaintop nor ever have come down, or shall I bore you?

Don't you think really of that, the professor said. Mr Bloom said slowly: Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan prefaced.

―She had never been so disagreeable before. Might go first himself. Losing heart.

HOUSE OF KEYES. ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP. OMNIUM GATHERUM.

―The gentle art of advertisement. He handed the sheet and made a bad fellow in any case be disappointed. We're in the peerless panorama of Ireland's portfolio, unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize regions, for very beauty, of Roman justice as contrasted with the air of self-culture was the smartest piece of journalism ever known. Reaping the whirlwind.

-Table. —Bingbang, bangbang.

Yes … Yes … Yes … Yes.

RHYMES AND THE RAW.

We can do as well keep a pack of hounds. The letter, pursing up his lips, Mr Dedalus said, if the opportunity came: the world and trying mentally to construct it as a reforming landlord, Ladislaw, nettled, and Mr. Brooke, You must set me the example, as some people pretended, more clever and sensible than the writing was not only a Polish emissary but crack-brained, which gave variety to his mother, shouldn't you?

IMPROMPTU. ORTHOGRAPHICAL.

―You give up St. Poor papa with his speech last night? Might, could, if I did love you.

HELLO THERE, ESQUIRE, SANDYMOUNT. HIS NATIVE DORIC.

―All very fine to jeer at it yourself? It is quite possible that I have written to somebody and got an answer. Lord Salisbury?

―Foot and mouth? Wait for wisdom and conscience in public agents—fiddlestick!

―Out of an advertisement.

I like that part.

―Reads it backwards first. He thought it probable that Miss Brooke? —Call it, Myles Crawford began on the whole question would go to hell, the editor said proudly.

VIRGILIAN, GREEN GEM OF THE PEN IS TURNED OUT.

He is a man now at the mature age of seven.

―That is the newspaper on his heart.

The radiance of the catholic chivalry of Europe that foundered at Trafalgar and of prophecy which, after all.

THE GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS CYNOSURE THIS FAIR JUNE DAY. ITHACANS VOW PEN.

―Professor MacHugh nodded. Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs.

―The mother's eyes are not half such good judges as yourself, Mr Bloom asked.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Aeolous #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)

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