#can’t have been doing swords I primarily use my right hand

[mycological-mariner]

Again with the mystery pain in my arm. Arm muscle feels sore as does the same side of my neck, like I slept really bad on it or overworked it but like. I definitely did not. Go away, arm pain, you annoy me

[innerfare]

I Love You - Part 2 

Summary: Who says I love you first? How do you say it?

Characters: Shanks, Beckman, Crocodile, Mihawk, Corazon, Marco

Genre: Fluff

CW: None // SFW

——— 

Shanks: The two of you have known each other for years before the words ever leave his lips. You’ve been through so much, and you never felt the need to put a label on it. But one night, you’re both swinging in a hammock on a beach, you in his arms and him sipping a bottle of booze, and he says out of nowhere, “you know that I love you, right?” You think he must be drunk but he insists he’s not, telling you it struck him recently that he’d never told you before and he really should in case something happens. He wants you to know how he really feels and how much you mean to him. 

Beckman: He’s always visiting you on your home island, either finding excuses to plot a course straight to you or sneaking away for a few days. It’s only as he’s leaving one evening that it strikes him: he loves you. It takes him a very long time to decide to tell you. Given his lifestyle, a relationship isn’t exactly easy, and he would be putting you in danger should anyone learn your association to him. Plus, he enjoys his freedom. He works it over in his head for months, to the point Shanks even asks him about what’s bothering him, though Beckman doesn’t fess up. But he just can’t get you out of his head. He can’t sleep, he can’t eat, he can’t even focus in a fight. One late night, he returns to his cabin to find Shanks waiting. His captain has puzzled out what has the first mate in such a state, and Shanks tells him to go take care of his business. Beckman agrees and turns up at your doorstep at three in the morning with some flowers he picked on the side of the road because he felt awkward showing up empty handed. You lead him into your kitchen and make him something to drink, thinking something horrible has happened, only for him to confess his love for you. He’s not shy about saying it after that, always making sure to tell you when he greets you and says goodbye, as well as several times in between. 

Crocodile: He despises the word love, would never even utter it except to mock people who use it. He thinks it’s weak, thinks men who profess love are sniveling and pathetic, thus the reason he despises himself for feeling it. The emotion creeps up on him slowly but surely, and he beats it back and bottles it up for as long as he can, staying up late at night with a bottle of whiskey because laying in bed makes him think of you and your mischievous smile. Only when he is locked up in Impel Down does he finally, begrudgingly admit to himself that he feels deep affection for you, which he painfully admits to you one night after he breaks out, bracing himself for you to reject him, laugh at him, or spurn him in any way. When you tell him you feel the same way, he decides that is that and sees no reason to ever repeat it, your mutual and abiding affection one of his most closely-guarded secrets. 

Mihawk: He doesn’t tell you when he feels it, however overwhelming the feeling may be, so you’ll definitely be the one to say it first. This man is the king of unspoken affection. He’d sooner die than draw his sword and cut through all the tension that seems to follow him. That being said, he does say it in other, more subtle ways, primarily referring to you as, “my love,” and leaving it at that. When you finally tell him you love him, he doesn’t even say it back, simply burying his face in your hair and saying, “I’m glad to hear it, my love.” He shocks you by saying it back a few months later, though you don’t say it back, instead pulling him in for a kiss. And it continues like that, only one of you ever saying it, the other responding with affection. 

Corazon: A victim of near insta-love, he knows better than to tell you how he’s feeling when he first meets you. He tells himself to wait a month, and then at the one month mark, it seems premature, so he pushes it to two. Then, he pushes it to three, and then to four, and then to five. He thinks he’s good at hiding it, and normally, he is good at hiding his emotions, but with you, it’s all out in the open. You catch on pretty quickly to how he feels, have even seen him start to form the words only for his face to fall and him to turn away. Eventually, one night, you ask him, “why haven’t you told me you love me yet?” He’s shocked to discover you know the truth, and when you laugh and tell him it was pretty obvious, he laughs, too, his heart soaring when you tell him you feel the same way. He’s overwhelmed by the feeling that he has a family, something he’s been desperately wanting since he was just a little kid. 

Marco: He says it first. He’s loved and lost so many people, formed the family he never had as a kid and lost so many members along the way. And he’s done a measure of living, enough to know that love should never be hidden. So when he realizes he’s in love with you, he swallows all of his fear like a seasoned professional and tells you exactly what’s on his mind the next time you two have a quiet moment alone. He’s soft and gentle in that moment, too, just as he is in all the moments you two share, just the two of you. He says it often, always either turning away or burying his face in your hair when you say it back, overwhelmed with giddiness he’s certain a man of his age and standing should not be feeling.

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[inaconstantstateofchange]

okay so when reading the final chapter of svsss volume three, the interactions between yue qingyuan and tianlang-jun are so—

Shen Qingqiu wanted to say something when Tianlang-Jun raised his chin, squinting at Yue Qingyuan. “I remember you.” After thinking for a bit, he said with conviction, “Back then, the Huan Hua Palace’s old geezer wanted you to help him with the ambush, but you ignored him. So you’re the current sect leader of Cang Qiong Mountain? Not bad.” “Your distinguished self’s memory is also quite good.” Tianlang-Jun smiled and smiled, then gave a sigh. “If you were also trapped in a pitch-back darkness for over ten years, unable to glimpse the sky or sun, with nothing to pass the days but for reminiscing over past affairs, your memory would be quite good as well.”

tianlang-jun remembered him, and while yes, it's clear he has a pretty good memory and might also be using it as a way to throw his potential enemy off-balance, it is still a very interesting way to go about it. and the rejoinder yue qingyuan sends back at him, perfectly polite - even respectful! - totally unflappable—tell me you do not see the potential there!!

but never fear, if you are not yet convinced, i have more:

Tianlang-Jun continued to sit upon his stone, completely at ease. “I remember that you also waited until the last moment to draw your sword that day,” he said to Yue Qingyuan. “Doing the same now?” Yue Qingyuan didn’t answer.

tianlang-jun remembered a lot about yue qingyuan, even small details like his sword, and the actions he took (or didn't) upon the day of tianlang-jun's betrayal. to me, this reads as though, even then, he took note of yue qingyuan's power as something to look out for. he is also, despite all of the other people around, primarily engaging in conversation with yue qingyuan.

Tianlang-Jun pulled his hand back and smiled. “Honestly, in the beginning I had no malice, nor did I find fun in the idea of the world burning. I only occasionally crossed the border, coming here to sing songs or read books—it was quite nice. However, since I’ve already been in residence beneath Bai Lu Mountain for so many years, if I don’t follow through on something along the lines of your thoughts, I’d truly find my circumstances a bit too unjustified.” Yue Qingyuan flicked his finger. Xuan Su sprang three inches from its sheath, its spiritual energy seething. The bones of Tianlang-Jun’s body cracked and popped, almost like his joints had been dislocated. He made a sound of surprise. “As expected of a sect leader. Not bad. Your master was quite mediocre but had quite the eye for disciples and successors.”

okay first of all, the tension here is remarkable, and second of all, the compliment at the end—tianlang-jun, for the power level we know he possesses, is being practically effusive with his praise of yue qingyuan's strength something we know to be greatly prized by demons.

this segment follows the previous directly, but i had to give it it's own spotlight, for reasons that i hope will be readily apparent:

Then Tianlang-Jun reached out and grabbed Xuan Su’s blade directly, as if he couldn’t feel a thing. “But why not draw it all the way?” he said with a smile. “You can’t do anything to me with only this much.” Yue Qingyuan’s gaze hardened, and Xuan Su jumped another half-inch from its sheath.

tianlang-jun: oho, you'll need more than that much to handle me, big guy

(jokes aside, considering the rampant spiritual energy of xuan su, described as so powerful as to be oppressive in volume 2, and the susceptibility of demons to spiritual energy, tianlang-jun is truly doing the absolute Most™ right now.)

... moving decidedly away from jokes now, this is one of the most pivotal lines for them, in my opinion. it comes at the conclusion of wu chen's reveal of the betrayal-that-wasn't, and how su xiyan chose death over bringing harm to tianlang-jun, only for it to find him regardless:

“It wasn’t that she didn’t care about you, but that she was without alternative. Yet the world is pitiless, and so you passed each other by…” Tianlang-Jun’s lips seemed to tremble slightly. A long moment passed. Then he said, “Is that so?” Right after those three words, he asked again, “Truly?” “This one swears upon his life that his words contain not a single falsehood,” said Master Wu Chen. Tianlang-Jun turned his head to look at Shen Qingqiu and Yue Qingyuan. As if seeking confirmation, he asked, “Truly?” He didn’t even care whether someone was in the know; he was just asking anyone he could. Unable to say anything, Yue Qingyuan silently lowered his head. It was unclear what he thought.

it is clear that the tragedy of su xiyan and tianlang-jun was one that yue qingyuan felt keenly, not only for his response here, clearly processing some significant emotion, but also for the way that he used the same words to describe his relationship with shen jiu just a short time later:

“I really…didn’t mean to not return,” said Yue Qingyuan. “Only, it really is true that the world is pitiless, and so the two of us passed each other by…”

pardon me while a cry a new freshwater body into existence.

there is truly so much more that can be said about what makes these two a great fit for each other, especially in a canon-adjacent/post-canon scenario, but i'll save that for another day. for now, i will let these excerpts speak for themselves.

[theunbonded]

4

Garrick looked at me like I was a bug he wanted to squash underneath his boot. Not maliciously, but as a way to quickly get rid of an annoying pest. 

This was our fifth meeting and he had yet to let me touch a sword, focusing primarily on my hand-to-hand capabilities. Normally I would be complaining, but with the way he was putting me on my ass every session, this was probably for the best.

I was right that we could last a long time against each other, each dodging and making hits, but never getting the advantage. He had more muscle and weight, as well as height on his side, but I was nimble and quick on my feet. It was a constant game of cat and mouse on the mat. The bruises blooming across my ribs were courtesy of him, but my bloodied knuckles and the black eye gracing his face were reminders that this was an even matchup.

Until we got on the floor. No matter how we made it down, he got the advantage. I could have tripped him, flipped him over my shoulder, kicked out his knees, yet the minute I tried to pin him, he used his strength to steamroll me onto my back. None of my holds worked on him. It always ended with his thighs bracketing mine into place. His chest pressed against mine until the point of pain. His long, thick fingers loosely gripping my neck, a declaration of his win.

Then he would get up, wipe imaginary dust off his pants, and extend an arm to help me off the mat. Only once I was up would he begin his list of everything I could do better.

“Again,” I told him after regaining my balance, cutting off whatever rant he was about to begin. His hand stayed on my forearm until my feet were firmly on the ground, and then he quickly backed away from me. This was the third time we had gone today and it showed. His lip was split and sweat pooled at his collarbones. I’m sure my curls had frizzed into a mess at the top of my head, and my wrist felt swollen from where he had grabbed it during the previous match. 

“No.” His breath was heavy as he wiped the beads of perspiration on his forehead. “We’re done with the mat today.”

“Again,” I said, more firmly. “Until I can figure out how to get out from underneath you.”

He smirked at me, but whatever crude comment he had remained in his head at my expression. “The best possible solution for you is to never get in that position. Your size won’t give you an advantage against someone built like me.”

“But I need to learn how to get out. I won’t die because I can’t get out from underneath a pig of a man.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.” Garrick ran his fingers through his hair. How his curls remained like that while mine disappeared the minute I broke a sweat was a mystery. “Don’t get on the floor. It’s as simple as that. And if you do, you don’t let them pin you. You may have the advantage on top with weaker riders, but don’t attempt to pull any tricks with riders stronger than you.” At my look, he added. “And there are people stronger than you.”

“It’s frustrating.” I ran my hands down my face, then cringed at the sticky sweat that came away. 

“It’s life.”

“I’ve won every match I’ve been here.”

“They haven’t put you against a real opponent.”

“There are no real opponents here.”

“What do you call this?” He raised that eyebrow at me, motioning to our unsanctioned practice, and there was nothing I could say to that. 

“My advice, Capplynger.” Garrick leaned in close, like it was a secret. “In a real fight, get them on the floor and kill them before they drag you down with them.”

⤧⤧⤧

I stood with my squad mates as Violet took the mat. How she had managed to continue winning was a mystery to most. Each of her challengers took ill or seemed to be out of it the day they were up against the littlest Sorrengail. I personally didn’t know how leadership hadn’t said anything to her yet.

Then again, I was the only one in the kitchen looking when she slipped roots and mushrooms into her opponents' foods.

I was once again thankful for that year of poison lessons. It had helped me keep up with the girl trained by the Scribes themselves. 

I glanced at Rhiannon as Violet’s opponent didn’t appear on the mat. She raised her eyebrow at me and I shrugged back. To everyone else, it seemed like he must have caught a sudden illness. Violet must have fucked up the timing of her poison. 

Xaden Riorson began handing his weapons to Garrick, saying he didn’t mind sparring with Violet today. It was within his right as Wingleader, and even though protests went up around the gym, Emetterio allowed him on the mat. 

Violet rushed at him, and I barely watched her humiliating attempt before discretely sliding to Garrick’s side so we could watch together. Standing like this, our height difference was much more pronounced. My head barely reached the top of his chin.  

That moment in the clearing on Conscription Day had suddenly come to mind when I saw Xaden walking towards Violet. The way he had murder in his eyes, watching the daughter of the woman who killed his father be welcomed into Basgiath. And then those hazel eyes watching me, a similar yet less dramatic story. It suddenly occurred to me that I may walked into Garrick’s trap when I asked to be trained by him. 

“Was this always the plan?” I hissed underneath my breath. “Riorson watches Violet while you watch me.”

“I don’t quite understand what you are asking me, Cadet.” He kept his eyes trained on the mat ahead of us.

“The daughters of the two biggest generals in the war are in the same year, and somehow two sons of the rebels seem to have taken an interest in them.”

“This seems to have nothing to do with that.” Humor laced his words as he continued to stare at Xaden and Violet, but when he looked down at me it all vanished. “And I seem to remember that you were the one that approached me first.”

He had a point. “Riorson didn’t plan this?”

“Apparently not.”

Interesting. I couldn’t help but feel relief. 

We watched in silence as Xaden stole each of Violet’s daggers except for one, leaving her almost defenseless. They were snapping at each other as they rolled around on the mat. From here, it looked like a lover’s spat. 

“They should keep this to themselves,” I muttered.

“Agreed.”

A moment of silence, and then:

“Did you agree to help me because of my father?” I finally blurted out.

“Did you come to me because of my rebellion mark?” He countered.

“No.”

“Exactly. I don’t believe in holding people accountable for their parents' actions. We’re all in here together now, so we might as well all try to survive.” Xaden had gotten off of Violet and started his way back to Garrick, which led Garrick to take a final look at me. “Get out of your own way, Capplynger. You’re focusing on the wrong things here.” 

He met Xaden halfway and handed him back his weapons before they both strolled out of the gym, never looking back. 

--

Masterlist

[phykios]

Five Times Percy Jackson Cheated At School (And One Time Someone Cheated Him) [read on ao3]

thank you as always to @darkmagyk for inspo and beta-ing 💙💙💙 and thank you to @arosnowflake for the homer idea!

1)

Percy squints at the paper prompt again, tilting his head, as if the new angle will extract some hidden information. It doesn’t change. The font is the special dyslexia-friendly one used by most departments at NRU, so he isn’t misreading it, either.

Your final will be an 8-10pp (TNR, 12pt, double-spaced) research paper expanding on one of the topics discussed in our class so far, or an alternate idea of your choosing, to be submitted in writing by May 7 with footnotes and bibliography. By 10am on the Wednesday before the Thursday class you will submit online a 750-word essay (word count does not include footnotes) on the research thread you have pursued that week (no written assignments due Week 6 or Week 12). 

Percy might hate college.

“Your neck bothering you again?” Annabeth asks, coming up behind him, her hands already on his shoulders. She’s sweaty, dressed in workout clothes, having just come back in from a jog. 

“My neck is fine,” he says. “Just preemptively freaking out over my Roman history final.”

He tilts his head back over the top of his chair, staring into the upside down, prettily frowning face of his girlfriend, and it does nothing to improve his mood.

“How bad is it?”

“Eight to ten pages,” Percy says, “not including footnotes.”

“Ouch.”

“And,” he grimaces, “it’s a topic of our choosing.”

Her mouth twists in sympathy. “Sucks.”

“Yep.”

“Anything I can do to help?” She squeezes his shoulders lightly, an open invitation. 

He shakes his head, stretching his arms back to grab her waist. “Promise not to break up with me when you catch me crying at 4AM over it.”

“Promise.” And she seals it with a kiss, bending down to reach him. “Dad wants to know if you’re free on the 16th.” 

“The 16th?” He wracks his brain. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t conflict with sailing, or Greek Club, or the monthly intra-pantheon relations council meeting that Chiron and Clarisse both guilted him into joining. “Pretty sure. Why?”

“Dinner--Charlotte’s out of town that weekend.”

“Sounds good.”

“Great, I’ll let him know. Now,” and she grins, “are you going to stare at that computer all day, or do you want to come and take a shower with me?”

Percy slams the computer shut. 

He doesn’t think about his paper topic for a while after that.

***

To his great dismay, Percy gets to her dad’s house first on the 16th. Drama in writing group 🙄 she texts him as he gets to the door, be there asap.

Great. Alone in the house with his girlfriend’s dad. Taking a deep breath, he knocks on the door. 

Not a minute later, Dr. Chase opens it. Last time they went to visit, Percy and Annabeth had ended up waiting outside for almost a quarter of an hour. “Oh, Percy,” he says, fumbling his flight helmet off his head. “Goodness, I thought I’d lost track of time again. Come in, come in.”

“Thanks,” Percy says, stepping inside and shedding his jacket. “Annabeth’s running late, but she said she’d be here soon.”

He frowns, looking so much like Annabeth that it throws Percy for several loops. “Well, that’s alright,” he says. “I’m sure we can entertain ourselves well enough until she gets here.”

“Yeah,” Percy chuckles, uneasy.

Several seconds pass. 

“Oh!” starts Dr. Chase. “Right, yes. Come in. Would you like something to drink?”

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t get much better.

A few minutes of staggered conversation later, it becomes eminently clear why they need Annabeth between them. It’s not the awkward small talk that doesn’t go anywhere (“How’s school going for you?” “It’s okay.” “Good, that’s good to hear.”) or the fact that Dr. Chase doesn’t really grasp how to relate to younger kids (“Have you heard of this website called ‘Vine’?”), but more that it’s just painfully obvious that the two of them don’t really know where they stand with each other. 

Now, he knows that Frederick Chase doesn’t hate him. Objectively, he’s aware of the fact that, if it weren’t for him, Annabeth never would have reconnected with her father in the first place, and he kind of owes him for that. Also, Percy knows that he’s a pretty chill guy--a little scatterbrained, but chill. 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to make a good impression, though. Or that Dr. Chase thinks that Percy is smart enough for his daughter. Because, like, Percy isn’t smart enough for Annabeth--that much is obvious. Dr. Chase was courted by Athena. Percy barely made it out of high school calculus.

“Would you…” Dr. Chase hedges, plucking off his glasses and giving them a quick wipe with his shirtsleeve. “Would you like to see some of my current research?”

“Uh… sure. I’d love to.” 

At the very least, hopefully Dr. Chase will talk enough for the both of them, eating up time until Annabeth gets here.

A new spring in his step, Dr. Chase leads Percy to his study, where he’s got a setup worthy of Cabin Six: on his desk is a massive map of the Mediterranean, littered with miniatures of tanks, planes, and ships. Ringing the room are wall-hangings, depicting different types of planes, half of their structure in x-rays like people in an anatomy textbook, sandwiching the giant viking sword which hangs directly behind his chair. Every inch of floor space is occupied with a pile of books, some serving as additional desk space for mugs, notepads, spare toy soldiers, and, in one case, what looks like the leftovers of a handful of celestial bronze spearheads, melted down into shiny, useless nuggets. 

“You know I primarily study aviation,” Dr. Chase is saying, tidying up as he walks around the room, “but my colleagues and I are collaborating on an interdisciplinary re-evaluation of the entire North African theatre in World War II. It’s fascinating stuff; until very recently, they used to call it the ‘war without hate,’ given the lack of partisan roundups and, ah, ethnic clashes that you see in Europe--absolute garbage, of course. As if there weren’t civilians caught up in the fighting, too!” He chuckles, pleased at his own joke. Percy forces a laugh out of himself. “Anyway, with my prior experience studying the invasion of Sicily, I was brought on to assist in piecing the timeline together, working backwards from 1943.”

“Cool,” says Percy, filling the natural gap of conversation.

“Extremely! Operation Husky was a terrific endeavor of airborne, amphibious, and land-based combat.”

Percy nods. Amphibious? “Uh-huh.”

“Though, I must admit, I am having a little trouble retracing some of the ships.” Peering over his map, he leans down, fiddling with one of the ships. “You see this one here? The Palmer?”

Stepping up to the desk, Percy crouches down so the little toy ship is at eye level.

“Well, based on official records, the Palmer was supposed to have arrived at the rendezvous point at the same time as all the other ships, but ended up delayed by two days, and I can’t… quite…” He moves the ship again, frowning. “Figure out… why…” 

“Where were they sailing through?” Percy asks. 

Dr. Chase points to the map. “From Alexandria to Malta.” 

“They probably just hit a bad couple of currents,” Percy says, standing up. 

Tilting his head, Dr. Chase peers at him. “How do you mean?”

“If you’re going through the Cretan Passage, you’re going to hit all kinds of West-East currents which will push you backwards.” Snatching up a pencil from a nearby book stack, Percy lightly sketches on top of the map, tracing along the North African coast. “There are tons of overlapping currents in this area that push boats around in circles, especially around Sicily. That’s one of the reasons why so many historians figure that Homer was referring to the Strait of Messina when Odysseus goes through Scylla and Charybdis, here.” And he circles the strait, with a confident flourish.

When he pulls back, Dr. Chase is staring at him.

Percy blinks. “Um… sorry I drew on your map.”

“You--I have been trying to figure that out for weeks.”

He coughs, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry.”

But Dr. Chase just laughs. “You can make it up to me by helping me with these next.” Clearing crumbs off of southern France, he bends over, pencil in hand. “So, say you were trying to get from Marseilles to Tunis…” 

Forty-five minutes later, still embroiled in battle recreations of the Mediterranean theatre, they don’t hear Annabeth letting herself in with her key, not even registering her presence until Dr. Chase, grasping for a notebook, spots her leaning against the doorway. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Oh, Annabeth, dear! I’m sorry,” says Dr. Chase, going over to give her a hug. “We didn’t hear you come in.”

“I can see that,” she says. “What are you guys doing?”

“Percy here has been assisting me with naval movements,” he says, proudly.

Lacing her fingers with his, Annabeth steps over to Percy, studying their battle map. “Really?”

“Oh yes, he’s been phenomenally helpful.”

She kisses his cheek, pleased. “Look at you, Mr. ‘Phenomenally Helpful.’”

“It was pretty fun,” he admits, warm all over.

“I’d bet. Although, I guess this means we should probably order in for dinner…?”

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Dr. Chase smiles. “Yes, I suppose we should. Does pizza sound all right to you two?”

“Let me take care of it,” she says, slipping from Percy’s side. “You guys looked like you were in the middle of something. Extra olives, dad?”

“Don’t forget--”

“And anchovies, Percy, I know.” She rolls her eyes, taking out her phone.

Rather than the three of them move into the kitchen, Annabeth ends up bringing the pizza in with her, because of course she has opinions she’d like to share about the Allies’ naval movements. 

“You know, Percy,” says Dr. Chase, “I must say, you have a real knack for this kind of thing. Have you thought about what you might major in yet?”

Ah, the million drachmae question. “Not yet,” he says, fiddling with a pencil. “I figured I’d get through my gen eds first and then see which one I hated the least.” 

“I think you should consider majoring in history.”

Percy’s head snaps up. “History?”

“Specifically maritime history, I suppose. Your predisposition to sailing and ocean currents would be a huge asset to your research.”

“But--wouldn’t history have, like, a metric ton of required reading? I’m not really sure that’s my area.” He has a daughter with dyslexia and ADHD; surely he’d understand Percy’s hesitation.

But he just shakes his head. “Graduate programs these days are very favorable towards interdisciplinary methodology, I sincerely doubt you’d have to barricade yourself in the library. And recently there’s been a significant push to make the field more accessible to students with disabilities, including things like digitization, screen reading for people with vision impairments, and even restructuring programs all together so that students no longer have to memorize the Encyclopedia Britannica in order to pass their general exams.”

“That’s really nice of you to say, Dr. Chase,” Percy says, “But history class isn’t like talking over naval movements with you.” He thought back to the paper that had lowkey been haunting his dreams. “Like, in my classical history survey, I can’t just… talk about currents and battle plans. I have to come up with a topic on my own, and then write about that.” 

“Surely something involving Roman naval movements would be well within your skill set. You have a second sense about these things,” he chuckles, “clearly.”

Percy glances towards Annabeth, hoping she’ll back him up, but she looks thoughtful. Considering. Like she’s actually thinking about her dad’s proposal. “I can’t just choose something in naval history.”

“Why not?”

“Because… it's too easy?” 

If it was anything like his afternoon with Dr. Chase, it might even be fun. And school isn’t supposed to be fun. 

He repeats that thought to Annabeth as they drive home. “School isn’t supposed to be fun.” 

“No,” Annabeth agrees, “but I don’t know… I like my intro art history class way better than anything we ever did in high school because I actually care about it. Maybe if you write about stuff you’re good at, like my dad suggested, you’ll like it more.” 

The idea follows him all the way to bed, where he’s still mulling it over at 2 in the morning. Before he can chicken out, he grabs his phone, shooting off a quick email to his professor with his potential paper topic, then rolls over, eventually falling asleep.

By morning, he has a response. 

Sounds good! Looking forward to it.

***

With shaking hands, Percy calls his mom. “Yes?” 

“Hey mom.”

“Percy?” He hears her perk up, almost visualizing her sitting up in her chair. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Mom instincts. They can always tell when something is different. His heart throbs in his chest. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, smiling stretching across his face. “It’s just--I got my paper back.” 

Percy had ended up writing his paper about the Roman navy movements in the Battle of the Aegates in 241 BC. It was probably the most fun he’s ever had on a school assignment, or at least the most fun he’d ever had writing a paper. 

“And?” She sounds expectant, hopeful. His mom has always had such faith in him, even with thirteen years of schooling to prove her otherwise. 

He looks back at his email, just to make sure he’s reading it right. “I got an A.”

She gasps. He can hear the scrape of the chair as she stands up. “Percy, that’s wonderful!” 

“Thank you.”

“An A!”

He smiles into his fist, inordinately pleased. “Thank you.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I am so happy for you!”

“Thanks, mom.”

“I’m so proud of you, Percy.” Her voice is soft now, like twilights on the beach with blue marshmallows. “I know how hard you’ve worked for this. You should be very proud, too.”

“I am.” And he is, weirdly enough. “I just can’t believe it.”

“I can.” His mom must be grinning, her eyes sparkling. “I always knew you could do it.”

“Sally?” He hears in the background, muffled. “Is that Percy?”

“Paul, Percy got an A on his Roman history paper!”

A second voice crowds its way in, equally excited. “An A? That’s great, kiddo! Congratulations.”

Why can’t he stop smiling? “Thanks.”

“I bet that feels pretty good, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

“Well, it is very well-deserved,” says Paul. “That was some great work you did. I could tell how passionate you were about your topic just from your first sentence.”

“Thank you.” Maybe he should be worried about all this praise going to his head, but damn, is it nice. “Listen, I have to go get started on dinner, but I just wanted to give you a call.”

“Of course,” says his mom. “I want to hear from you more, okay? Tell me more good news! Like when are you and Annabeth going to--”

“I’m working on it, okay?” says Percy, smiling even more broadly. “I’ll keep you posted, promise.”

She laughs, tinny and happy. “You’d better. Congratulations again, sweetheart.”

“Thanks mom. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” 

And he hangs up, puts his phone down on the table, tilts his head back, and sighs, full, happy, a release. 

Maybe college won’t be so bad after all. 

2)

“You don’t have to do this,” Frank says, hushed. “All you have to do is walk away.”

Five Greek Fire bombs, cloudy yellow, are lined up on the table in front of him, neatly laid out in front of five twenties. From the side, Frank stares him down, surrounded by an army of morbidly curious Romans. Someone turned off the music and turned on the lights a while ago, stopping the party in its tracks, every eye on Percy and his opponent. Figures, his first college party all year and he causes a scene. 

Percy grips the edge of the table. “He insulted the Mets,” he says for the millionth time. “I can’t let that shit stand.”

Frank sighs. “Annabeth?” he asks, hoping to stop this nonsense.

Turning to his side, Percy sees his girlfriend, two drinks in, her cheeks lightly flushed, but solid as she stands beside him, supporting him. Her eyes are hard, fierce, the warrior gaze of Athena all but leaping out of her. “Do it,” she says. 

William, the sour-faced Roman legacy of Juventus, scowls. “A hundred bucks on the table. Sixty seconds. No throwing them back up.”

“Deal.”

“Frank,” Annabeth calls. “Start the clock.”

He sighs. “You guys are idiots.”

“Frank!”

“Okay, okay.” He holds out his phone, thumb primed, hovering over the screen. “On your marks, in three… two… one…” 

He hits zero, and Percy grabs a shot glass. Squeezing his eyes shut, he brings it to his lips, and throws it back.

It’s… not what he expected.

The tequila is awful--no getting around that. Even to Percy’s untrained taste buds, having really only ever had some of Gabe’s sour beer (under duress) and some of the Demeter cabin’s strawberry wine (on his eighteenth birthday, a celebration for actually getting to graduate high school), he can tell it’s cheap, rank, unrefined shit, like he’s drinking straight toilet cleaner. But the garum, the weird Roman condiment that the shot is mixed with, the one that Percy had never heard of before, it’s… it almost tastes like the fish sauce that comes with the pork and rice noodles from the Vietnamese place down the corner of his mom’s apartment, only less… fishy? Yeah. Less fishy.

It’s a weird taste. It’s not bad, by any means, it just--straight up, it just tastes like saltwater. Like the sea. 

And, well. Percy can handle the sea.

He looks at William, and grins. “You are so fucked.”

The assembled Romans cheer, spectators at a gladiator show, as Percy knocks back the rest of the Greek Fire bombs, one after another, clearing them all in under thirty seconds. Annabeth swipes up the cash, shrieking as she throws her arms around Percy. William wanders off, red-faced and glaring, as whoever turned the music off before flips it back on, the night, and the party, saved.

Silly Percy. He should have known what was coming next.

Thirty minutes later, he is well and truly wasted.

“You’re, like, really pretty,” he shouts at Annabeth over the loud music.

She snorts, grinning at him. “Thanks.”

“Seriously,” he slurs, tipping forward on his feet. “You could be a model.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Remember when we were fourteen,” he yells, bracing himself against the wall, “and you got kidnapped by that monster?” Slightly soberer but still a little flushed, she bites her lip, nodding. “Well, I followed the rescue party--I told you that, that I snuck out of camp to follow the rescue party? Right?” 

“You did.”

He takes a sip of water, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Feels goofy as fuck. “We got hijacked by Aphrodite halfway through, and when I saw her, I thought--I thought, ‘Holy shit, she looks a little like Annabeth.’”

Her brows shoot up, smile pulling at her lips. “Really?”

He nods. “Totally! But you’re way, way p--” 

Still smiling, she silences him with a kiss, the lingering taste of hard cider on her tongue. “I appreciate it,” she murmurs, grinning, “but you probably shouldn’t say that out loud.”

“Gross.”

From out of nowhere, like he always does, the weasley little shit, Nico di Angelo is suddenly in their space, looking surly and emo as ever, red solo cup in his left hand. “Nico!” Percy crows, grabbing for him and missing. “How’s my favorite cousin?!”

Ducking his wildly swinging limbs, Nico grimaces in the way that Percy has to come to recognize as his attempt at a smile. “Better’n you,” he says, a little wobbly. “What’s up with him?” he directs towards Annabeth.

“Greek Fire bombs. Five.”

“You’re a psychopath.��

“What!” Percy pouts. “He insulted the Mets.”

“Aren’t you s’posed to be, like…” Nico snaps his fingers, words momentarily escaping him. “A--representation… person? For the Greeks?”

Percy waves his hand, hitting the wall. “Fuck that. The Greeks can handle themselves. The Mets are sacred!”

“Are you with anyone?” Annabeth asks, momentarily taking up Percy’s usual role of concerned parent friend while he is drunk off his ass. Theoi, he loves this girl so much. 

Nico shakes his head. “No, but Will and I are staying with--”

A thought suddenly blooms in Percy’s tequila-soaked brain. “Nico!” He shouts.

“What?” he hisses, glaring.

Percy pushes himself off of the wall, outstretched arms managing to box Nico in, falling on his shoulders and trapping him. He’s still a short, skinny little shit, the fuck, when are his Big Three genes going to kick in? “I need to talk to you about the thing.”

“The what?”

“The thing! The--the,” then he leans in, scream-whispering over the pounding bassline. “The thing.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“You know, it’s…” Percy licks his lips, language escaping him for a hot second. “Round. Metal. Jewelry thing.”

A beat, then Nico’s eyes widen. “Oh, that thing.”

“Yes, that thing!” Pulling back, he pulls Nico towards him, slinging an arm over his shoulders in a half-headlock. Annabeth watches, bemused, lips pursed as she tries not to smile. “I need to borrow Nico for a sec,” he says, words spilling out of him. “Back soon. Later. Soon.”

Her eyes crinkle, grey sparkling. She’s so fucking pretty. “Drink your water.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Then together, like some three-legged beast, the two boys lurch away deeper into the party, Nico leading them towards the kitchen. “Where’re you taking me?” Percy slurs. “‘M I being kidnapped again?”

“If I’m helping you plan out this stupid proposal,” he grumbles, pouring himself more vodka, “then I need to be less sober.”

***

Some mistakes may have been made.

“Where’s Annabeth?” Percy mumbles, looking back towards the house. The party is still raging, someone’s muffled Spotify playlist making a real racket, the greatest hits of ABBA still bouncing around his skull.

“Simp.” Nico, swaying a little, tries to stand up from his kneeling position, only to fall heavily back down on his knees. “She’s right where you left her.”

Discussing Percy's proposal plan had led to more drinking. More drinking had led to the two of them discussing their shared preference for blondes. (“Malcolm is pretty cute,” Nico admitted, flushing, and Percy almost screamed, “Isn’t he?! Sometimes I think about Annabeth with short hair looking like Malcolm and I almost start crying because she’d be so cute!”) Which then led to even more drinking. Which then led to general bitching about their lives, about Percy's hard-ass classics professor Dr. Bauer who he actually really liked but just pushed him so hard and expected so much of him, and Nico's half-brother Zagreus who was causing some family drama by picking fights with Hades all the time and also hooking up with both Thanatos AND the fury Megaera, which, ew, which then led to Percy inhaling his drink, nearly choking to death on unspecified college punch, Nico laughing at him all the while, as he had the most incredible idea.

"Nico!" He shouted, crushing the red solo cup. "Can you resurrect Homer for me?"

Nico gaped, staring. "What."

"Seriously! I need to ask him something for my paper."

"Percy." Nico gazed at him, all the power of the Ghost King boring into his soul, deep and haunting. Percy stifled a burp. "You're a fucking genius."

Which is how they found themselves around a shallow hole they had dug in the backyard, a large bottle of Pepsi originally intended as a mixer pilfered from the kitchen along with two slices of pepperoni pizza dumped on the grass beside them.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this," he says, uneasy even through his drunken haze.

"It was your idea!"

"I don't have good ideas."

“Fuck you, I’m doing it.” With all the force of a tiny, angry kitten, he snatches up the Pepsi bottle, wrestling with the twist cap for a good ten seconds. “I wanna give that bitch a piece of my mind for making me cry in school.”

Percy looks at him sideways. “Hector killing Patroclus got you, too?”

He snorts. “Fuck no. Achilles didn’t pay his dues to the dead.”

“Seriously?”

The cap pops off, and Nico tips the bottle over, dumping flat, lukewarm soda into the shallow hole. “It’s the ultimate dishonor!”

Freak. Percy would die for the kid.

“Let the dead taste again,” Nico mutters. “Let them rise and take this offering. Let them remember.”

“You’re so weird.”

“Says the guy who’s related to both horses and water.”

“I’m not related to water, I just control it.” 

The dirt turns black, dead soil mixed with sticky sugar water. Nico drops in the pizza, and begins to chant, that same ancient Greek that Percy heard in a dream once, talking of death and memories and returning from the grave or whatever. It’s still creepy as shit. 

Despite the warm California night, the air thickens with chilly fog. Silence, impenetrable, surrounds them, blocking out the noises of the party. From the earth, blueish, vaguely person-shaped figures begin to form, like thunderous clouds before a storm. “Which one is Homer?” he asks, hushed.

“Shh!” Nico hisses. 

Like little wells of gravity, the fog begins to coalesce. On one of them, Percy can almost make out, like, fingers. “Um, Mr. Homer? Sir?”

The figure doesn’t say anything. It lowers its mouth, drinking the soda out of the dirt. When it raises its head, Percy can see it more clearly, curly hair and milky white eyes and a straight nose. It--he?--seems a little more solid than your average run-of-the-mill ghost.

Nico frowns, eyes closed, concentrating. “What’s your name?” he mumbles. 

That mouth opens, soundlessly, jaw working on nothing.

“Speak.”

It--there’s a sound, like hissing, only it’s not coming from the mouth, Percy thinks. It sounds like it’s coming from the earth. “Nico?” he asks. “You good?”

The ghost opens its mouth again, moaning, raising its hands. Weakly, unsteadily, it stumbles forward on feeble legs, tripping over the shallow hole in the dirt.

“Nico?” he asks again, a little more forcefully. “What’s going on, dude?”

Nico blinks, slowly, mouth hanging open a little. “Uh.”

The… thing… raises itself up on its hands? He guesses, and knees, crawling its way over towards them.

Now, Percy may be drunk off his ass, but he has seen enough movies to know exactly what the fuck is up.

Moving with a speed he didn’t quite think was possible right about now, he grabs Nico’s wrist, and pulls him up, dragging him along as he lurches towards the house. “Percy…” Nico moans, stumbling over a rock. “I think I fucked up.”

“You think?” Percy wrenches the door open, tossing Nico inside, before following in after, throwing himself against the door. 

Nico groans, throwing his arms over his face. “Dio santo, my head.”

“Forget your head,” he says, “did we just raise a Homer zombie?!”

Panting, Nico stares up at him, sprawled on the floor of the house. “Oops.”

Percy thunks his head against the door. He does not have nearly enough mental capacity to deal with this right now.

But, he thinks ruefully, at least it’s just one. Even drunk, he’s pretty sure he can handle one zombie.

Nico’s eyes widen. 

Percy stares. “What.”

“I didn’t stop the ritual.”

His stomach goes cold.

Turning around slowly, he pulls aside the little curtain on the window. “What?” Nico asks. “What do you see?”

Percy can’t speak, mouth dry.

Slithering up behind, Nico peers over his shoulder. “That’s… not great.”

“Nico,” Percy says, eyeing the horde which slowly shambles closer, half-decayed bodies in togas bumping into each other, almost identical to the drunk college students inside, as the song changes, once again, to ‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight).’ “Please go get Frank and Annabeth.”

The following Monday, an announcement is sent out to the entire campus: Per new department guidelines, students may not utilize the ambassador of Pluto to interview the dead for academic purposes.

3)

Percy attempts to flatten his hair. He readjusts his shirt. He almost wipes his sweaty palms on his pants, before he realizes what he’s doing, and clenches them instead, nails digging into his palms. He turns to Annabeth. “Do I look okay?”

“Ooh, ‘Mapping Funerary Monuments in the Periphery of Imperial Rome.’”

“Annabeth.”

She looks up from her brochure. “Relax, seaweed brain, you look fine. You look better than most people here.”

“That’s because I bring down the average age of presenters by about thirty years,” he hisses, eyes darting about at the milling mass of attendees, all packed into the hotel ballroom. 

Dr. Bauer had alternately convinced/pressured/guilttripped him into attending this year’s annual conference for the Society of Classical Studies to talk about the research he’d been doing with her. This year, the conference was held in San Francisco, so at the very least Percy didn’t have to spend five hours stressing about his poster presentation while simultaneously up in the air. But now that he’s here, in the ballroom, surrounded by strangers who know way more about this subject than he does, who are actually smart and probably never nearly flunked out of school or got kicked out or--

“Hey.” Annabeth takes his hand. “I know that look. You deserve to be here just as much as any of them.”

“Do I? I feel like any moment someone is going to come over and throw me out for trespassing.” He vaguely recalls something similar happening to him as a kid after he had ducked into the lobby of a semi-nice hotel to dodge what he had thought, at the time, was just a weird stalker, but had later realized had only had one eye. In any case, the hotel security guard had practically picked him up by the scruff of his neck, tossing him back out into the street. 

“That’s just your imposter syndrome talking,” she reassures him. “No one is going to throw you out.”

He sure as shit hopes so. It would be a shame to have done all this work for nothing. 

Glancing back at his poster, Percy can’t help but feel… good. Accomplished. Proud. About a school assignment, of all things. 

His poster traces the development of the prow from the Greek penteconter, to the Roman liburna, and finally to the Byzantine dromon, looking at artistic depictions in history. Percy had picked the topic himself, spending hours in the library reading, writing, and hand-drawing cross-sections of the ships on the poster board when the images he had gotten from the Cambridge University library had been too small. It had been grueling, frustrating work, but fun, too. And not nearly as much reading as he had feared.

Dr. Chase proofread it for him. Dr. Bauer signed off on it. And Annabeth had taken one look at it, smiled, then kissed his cheek.

That was the best compliment he had gotten.

Though now he’s kind of torn between showing it off and hiding it away before one of these attendees figures out that he doesn’t belong.

He rocks back and forth and his feet, pursing his lips, randomly clicking his tongue. Annabeth nudges him. “Your ADHD is showing.”

That’s when, finally, one of the attendees steps up to his poster. He certainly has the look of a professor, in a black cable knit sweater with grey, curly hair and a receding hairline, thin, rimless glasses perched on his nose. He squints at Percy’s poster, rubbing his chin with one hand. “Interesting,” he murmurs, in a thick German accent. “Very interesting. This is yours?”

“Um.” He glances at Annabeth, who is frowning at the brochure, silently sounding out words that she can’t read. “Yep. All mine.”

“Very interesting.” He leans in closer, tilting his head. “So you agree with Pryor and Jeffreys about the skeleton-first construction, then?”

Percy blinks. Pryor and Jeffreys had written The Age of the Dromon, arguing that the ram, which had been a key feature of Roman liburnians, had gone away in ancient ship construction because of developments in how they built the hull. Right. “Yes,” he says. “The skeleton-first construction is a lot stronger than the, um,” shit, what was the name for this, Leo had only told him about a million times--oh! “Mortise-and-tenon!” He nearly shrieks. “The mortise-and-tenon method. It, um, it wears out a lot more quickly than the frame, so… yeah.” He clears his throat.

He nods. “Very interesting.” 

Percy stares. Can this guy say anything else? 

“This is very well done, young man.”

Oh. “Thank you,” he says. 

“Who are you working with?” 

“Um, June Bauer?” He winces at the accidental question. 

He frowns. “I’m not familiar with her work. Where does she teach?” 

What a loaded question. “Uh… New Rome University.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s--she used to teach at Northwestern, if that helps. Um, retired,” Percy says.

The frown stays, but at least he doesn’t ask any more questions. “Hmm. Well, this is excellent research, nonetheless. I look forward to reading your dissertation.” Then, distracted by something else, he wanders off, chin still attached to his hand. 

“Who was that?” Annabeth asks. 

Percy shrugs. “Beats me. Also, what’s a dissertation?”

“It’s like a senior thesis, but, like, five hundred pages long.”

Five hundred?! “Fuck me.” 

“Maybe later,” Annabeth smirks. “It looks like you’ve got company.”

Sure enough, a smallish group of four people are approaching, led by Dr. Chase, making a beeline straight for them. “Here we are,” Dr. Chase says, gesturing. “This is the project I was telling you about. Percy, would you mind going over your poster for us?”

“No problem, Dr. C,” says Percy, smiling his least-grimace-y smile. 

As one, the adults all turn to look at him, faces politely blank, expectant.

Percy swallows. “So,” he begins, “um, this research is about the development of ship construction in the Roman empire…”

He trips up on some of the words, and at one point, he sees Dr. Chase squint in the way that usually means that Percy is speaking too fast, but all in all, he doesn’t totally fall flat on his face. His audience looks engaged, nodding along as Percy moves from point to point, and no one accuses him of being a giant fraud, which is pretty nice. 

At one point, Percy turns to the poster to indicate a specific point on his ship diagrams. When he turns back, his audience has suddenly multiplied, four people turning into a whole goddamn crowd. Each person gives him their undivided attention almost unblinking.

His mouth goes dry. “Um…” 

Dr. Chase, bless him, saves his ass once again. “Would mind starting again from the beginning, Percy?” he asks, a little bemused himself at the amount of people that had suddenly appeared. 

Silence stretches on for a moment, the muffled noise of the rest of the conference like a dull roar in his ear. 

Annabeth, behind him, coughs. 

“S-sure. No problem.” 

Swallowing, he closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose. Why, oh why did he let Dr. Bauer talk him into doing this again?

He pictures the tides of Long Island Sound, gentle and rocking, unhurried and unbothered, tries to match his breathing to them. When he opens his eyes, unfortunately, the crowd hasn’t disappeared. Everyone is still staring at him. 

But Annabeth stands next to her dad, flashing him a big smile and two huge thumbs up.

Percy relaxes. He’s got this.

“Okay,” he says. “So, about the middle of the first millennium CE, ship construction went through a couple of major developments…”

This time goes much, much more smoothly. He’s not sure what it is--though it’s probably Annabeth, her face fixed in a gentle smile as she watches him speak. Gods, what did he do in a past life to deserve someone as amazing as his girlfriend? 

That’s the only reason he can do this. Hell, that’s the only reason he even thought to do this. If he didn’t have Annabeth there, encouraging him, cheering him on, he never would have had the confidence to put himself out there like this. She’s there to pick him up when he doubts himself, there to listen when he can’t explain himself, there to give him feedback when he needs to practice. 

She makes him feel so strong. She makes him feel like he can take on the world--or at the very least, that he can impress a handful of academics.

And they certainly seem impressed with his talk so far. 

“Excuse me,” says a nasally, pinched looking older British guy, face lined as though he lived his life in a state of perpetual squinting. “I find your conclusions to be suspect--wouldn’t the frame method be more susceptible to breaking than the mortise-and-tenon?”

Well, most of them, anyway.

Percy shakes his head. “You’d think, but no. If you look at the study by Steffy, you’ll see that the three-finned ram from the Athlit wreck was designed specifically to break the mortise-and-tenon hull by causing the planks to flex, so that they’d dislodge the joinerys right next to them. A blow like that can cause the wood to split right down the middle.” A blow like that had sunk Sherman Yang’s ship when they tested it out on the lake at camp last summer, the naiads practically hurling him out of the water so quickly Percy didn’t even have to dive in to save him.

“How were you able to do these strength tests?” asks another listener, an older woman with a thick Hungarian accent.

“Hands-on battle simulations,” Percy replies, easily. “We took our models and tested them in as accurate a simulation as we could make.”

“And how big were these models?” 

Percy holds his hands apart, a vague, entirely inaccurate estimate. “About thirty meters, give or take.”

Her eyes widen. “How on earth did you get your hands on such a large ship?”

Percy freezes. “Uh.”

Oh, shit.

He had forgotten--most people didn’t have dads who could summon shipwrecks from the bottom of the sea, dropping them off at Camp Half-Blood with nothing but a sand dollar and one or two exhausted, pissed off hippocampi who had had to drag them all the way there.

“Um,” he stammers, licking his lips, thinking fast--c’mon, Percy, think! “I…” He swallows, panicking. “I… b… built one.”

In the corner of his eye, Annabeth facepalms.

Simultaneously, every mouth in the crowd drops--in shock, outrage, and even excitement. “You built one?!” the woman yelps. 

Oops. “I had help,” Percy says, quickly. 

Annabeth adds a second hand to her facepalm.

“Where?” The first man asks, his bushy brows flying above the rim of his glasses.

“At my… summer camp…” 

Dr. Chase sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I mean,” Percy chuckles, shrugging his shoulders, trying not to sweat too obviously, “it was either that or lanyards, am I right?”

Dr. Chase, thank Athena, raises his hand, ready to step in. “What Percy means to say, I believe,” he says, attempting to draw their attention, “is that--”

“That’s amazing!” says another woman, probably a grad student attendee based on the fact that she’s wearing jeans. “Do you have pictures?”

Oh this is not good. “Um, not--not on me, but--”

“I do.” Annabeth takes out her phone, holding it up to the person next to her.

Percy blinks. “You do?” He doesn’t remember her taking any pictures.

She shoots him a look, two parts exasperated and one part “shut up and let me handle this,” with just a dash of fondness in the mix. Pointedly, she looks at him, eyebrows raised, indicating that he should continue.

Oh. She’s using Mist. And he needs to keep their attention on him so that they buy it. “Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Any more questions?” 

His audience placated for now, passing around Annabeth’s phone, he manages to finish up his presentation. After fielding a few more questions, people start to peel off, distracted by other posters and presenters in the ballroom. When everyone has finally wandered away, Dr. Chase comes up and pats Percy’s shoulder awkwardly. “Nice work,” he says, and he seems like he means it. “A little touch-and-go there for a while, hm?”

“A little.”

He chuckles. “Still, you should be proud. I don’t know how many undergraduates would be able to handle that kind of pressure.”

“I mean,” Percy says, shrugging a shoulder, “it’s about on par with leading an army. Maybe a little less.” Honestly, maybe even a little more stressful. If a monster had decided to attack the convention center and interrupt his presentation, he probably would have been relieved.

He’d been worried for a moment that he’d undone all those years of work in making Annabeth’s dad like him. And that he’d be charged with some sort of academic fraud, for the whole “I have a boat” thing without proof. Thank the gods for Annabeth, as always.

She’s looking at him now through narrowed eyes. She at least can’t be surprised--that was far from the dumbest thing she’s ever seen him do. At least his “I spent most of my time at magic greek mythology summer camp” covers are normally better than hers. As someone who spent his formative years in the real world, he’s usually pretty good at keeping the demigod thing under wraps. 

“Come on,” she says, grabbing his hand. She pulls him off, through the dispersing crowd, lacing their fingers together, sweet and intimate, out of the hall and then down another one, and through a smaller corridor. Bringing them up to a little door, with a shake of her wrist, she pulls out her Estruscan keyring bracelet. About several of the keys have found themselves used in various misadventures, vanishing once their purpose is fulfilled, but her favorite key is still there. And, just like a clever child of Hermes, it can pick just about any lock. 

Inside is just an empty room, a little staging area surrounded by tiered desks going up, no more or less remarkable than any of the other conference rooms they’d visited before. 

“What--?” His question is cut off by Annabeth’s mouth on his. 

Surprising, but definitely not unwelcome.

It's a while before they separate again. “You’re so good at this,” she tells him, unbuttoning his shirt.

He runs his hands along the lines of her flanks. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he grins. He’d practice kissing her all day long if he could. 

She smiles, shaking her head. “No, not this,” though she does lean in for another kiss, pulling at his lower lip with her teeth. “I know you’re good at this.” They break away, Percy pulling her shirt over her head, Annabeth shucking off his. “But history. Presenting.” She runs a finger over his chest, kissing his cheek, headed towards the sensitive spot on his jaw. “Gods, you’re so smart.” 

Something about the praise vibrates through his chest. She doesn’t sound surprised, or anything, just--turned on.

“You had all those crusty academics eating out of your hand. Just, so impressed by you, knowing you know way more than they do about naval history. When you were explaining the--” Her compliment is cut off with a moan, as he leans down and starts sucking on her throat. Her blouse has a high neck, so he feels no guilt for using his teeth.  

“Watching you today, gods.” Her breath is labored as his fingers play at the waistline of her skirt. “And then thinking of you defending your dissertation.” He bites at her jugular, and she lets out a long, deep moan. 

“I don’t know what that means.” Do academics fight each other? Like, with weapons? He’s pretty sure he can take most of the people he met today. 

“It means you get to show off how smart you are,” Annabeth says, grasping his shoulders, pulling him in for another kiss. “I was born the day my dad defended his. Gods, it's going to be amazing to watch you go.” She yanks his belt out of his pants, tossing it to the floor. 

They miss the panel on recent translation efforts. But Percy can’t say he minds one bit. 

And when Annabeth presents him with a positive pregnancy test two months later, Percy definitely knows he made the right decision. 

4) 

He almost doesn’t realize he’s having a dream-vision at first.

It has been literal years since he’s had a demigod dream. Hell, it’s been a long while since he’s had a dream, period--being a new dad to a one-and-a-half-year-old saps too much of his energy to even think about dreaming. Once Junie is put to bed, when he’s out, he is fucking out, and he does not have the brainpower to spare to manifest any messed up subconscious fears.

Which is why when he blinks open his eyes, taking in the too-bright colors of the Parthenon and the gleaming shine of the bronze statues which are somehow all looking at him--also, you know, how the Parthenon is complete, standing as it did thousands of years ago, and not crumbled into ruins--he knows, immediately, he is being contacted by a god.

And only one god in particular would bring him to Athens.

Without even checking, he heaves himself up off the ground, folding into a kneel. “My lady Athena,” he says, “can I ask for what quest you’ve brought me here?”

“Impertinent as ever, Percy Jackson,” rumbles the goddess, but Percy doesn’t think he can sense any ill will towards him. He hopes, anyway. “Perhaps I have summoned you here for a social visit.”

“Perhaps,” he says, choosing his next words as carefully as possible. “But I assume you have too much to worry about to randomly check up on your daughter’s boyfriend.”

He lifts his head, catching her expression--stoic as always, but maybe with just the barest hint of a smile. “You assume correctly. You have become, contrary to my initial expectations, very wise in the time that I have known you.”

“Thank you.” He knows better than to do anything but accept the compliment for what it is.

“I have observed your work as a scholar in recent years, and I must say that I am surprised, yet pleased, that you have chosen to pursue such a path. I had not thought you to be suited for a world of old men and dusty papers.”

He grits his teeth. Don’t rise to the bait, don’t rise to the bait, don’t rise to the bait--

“I understand, as well, that though you and my daughter have,” and here her careful composition cracks, just the slightest, the tiny lift of her lips falling, “made a child together.”

Percy swallows. He figured, you know, in the abstract, that Athena would know about Junie, but hearing her say it out loud is… well, he’s just glad that Dr. Chase has always liked him. “Yes, my lady.”

“It is customary in your time to marry prior to childbirth, is it not?”

“It is.” Oh, fuck, is she going to smite him for that? “I--that is to say, we, Annabeth and I, we, um, we definitely want to get married, but, Annabeth kind of…” 

He trails off. He can’t tell Athena, goddess of war, that his daughter pissed off the queen of heaven! And if he does, he definitely can’t imply that it was because she was being too stubborn!

“I know well of my daughter’s history with my father’s wife,” Athena says, smoothly. “I come to you now with an offer of peace.”

Percy straightens his back. Peace?

Raising one graceful arm, Athena turns, indicating the structure behind her. “Look upon my temple,” she intones. The white marble shines even more powerfully against the blue and red paint, intricate scenes and figures ringing the top of the columns. “In the time of Pericles, it was built to commemorate the victory of Hellas over the armies of Xerxes the Great. It was to be the shining beacon of our world, a triumph of our power and influence over the race of men.”

The race of men might have had something to say about that, he thinks to himself.

“But it was not to be,” Athena says, mournfully. “As our influence waned, so too did our temple, until its might was all but forgotten.” 

Before his eyes, the paint fades away, ceilings and columns collapsing, the destruction of the Parthenon playing out in front of him. 

“Some two hundred years ago,” she says, her voice taking on a darker, more dangerous tone, “a grave insult was paid to the ruins of my ancient sanctuary.” Like curtains falling on a stage, darkness swallowed up the structure, swift and impenetrable. “Many treasures were taken from my temple, stolen, by foolish, greedy men, spirited away far to the north, where they have languished in unworthy hands.”

He narrows his eyes. She can’t possibly be talking about--

Athena turns back to him, her eyes blazing, somehow twice as tall. “Retrieve my treasures,” she commands, war personified, “return the prizes of Athens to their rightful place, and I shall give you my support against my father’s wife.”

“You…” Percy leans back on his haunches, staring dumbfounded up at the goddess. “You don’t happen to mean the Parthenon Marbles, do you?”

“Yes.”

“The ones in the British Museum.”

“The same,” she says, imperious as ever.

Fantastic. “Welp,” Percy says, slapping his thighs, scrambling up. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to decline. Nice seeing you, by the way. I’ll tell Annabeth you stopped by.”

Her sharp gazes pierces him, full of fury. “You dare to refuse my support?”

He snorts. “When it means trying to get the UK to give the marbles back, absolutely. Do you know how stubborn they are about this?”

Lightning flashes behind her, nearly blinding him. “You will regret this,” Athena says, dark and foreboding. “You may have your father’s goodwill, but the queen of Olympus is clever and cunning, her displeasure swift and merciless.”

But Percy still shakes his head. “When Annabeth and I get married,” and it’s definitely a ‘when,’ it’s just a matter of when precisely, like after Junie can sleep through the night maybe, “I’d rather take my chances with Hera than try and untangle that particular can of olives.”

A growl, and a snap of her fingers, and Athena disappears.

With a start, Percy wakes up. Junie had gotten her chubby little hands around his nose, and had decided to pull.

“Ow, ow, Junie, hey,” he squawks, attempting to dislodge her grip from his face. “Hey, I’m awake, it’s okay.”

She laughs, illegally adorable, her grey eyes sparkling, squeezing harder. 

“Okay, okay,” he laughs along with her. “You got my nose, you win.”

As if she were waiting for him to admit defeat, she lets go, clapping her pudgy toddler hands together. 

“That’s right,” he picks her up, raising her above his head. “Barely sixteen months old and you already know how to take me down, don’t you? Just like your mommy.”

She smiles, waving her little fists.

Gods he loves this little monster.

Junie really is the best parts of both of them. She’s got her daddy’s hair but her mommy’s brain, quick and sharp and painfully adorable. She’s already learning to read Greek, Annabeth sitting her in her lap and sounding out vowels together, Annabeth taking her finger and tracing it over the letter shapes. This kid absorbs information like a sponge, which Percy can only assume is the natural conclusion of taking a son of Poseidon and a daughter of Athena and mixing their DNA together. 

Thinking about his dream, he frowns. “What do you think, Junie,” he asks his toddler. “Should I take her up on her offer?”

The baby says nothing.

“I mean,” he tilts his head, “Greece has been trying to get the marbles back for two hundred years. UNESCO has top lawyers on this. What does Athena think I can do?”

Junie blinks at him.

“On the other hand, I do really love your mom,” he admits, “and I really want to marry her. You’d like that, right? To have your parents be married?”

There’s no way she can understand what he’s saying, but she moves her head like she’s nodding. Or maybe she does understand. She is Annabeth’s daughter after all. 

Percy sighs. Dammit.

Time for a new project, he guesses.

***

Several months, a college graduation, and one relocation to Boston later, Percy growls, hurling his pencil at the wall. Mother fucker. Fuck the British Museum, fuck his tiny laptop screen, and fuck the Italian prick who decided to have the least ADHD-friendly handwriting of all time. 

Why the hell is he doing this again? Like, seriously. Why in all of Hades is he, an inexperienced, snot-nosed, first year master’s student deciding to tackle the return of the fucking Parthenon marbles of all things. Like, what is wrong with him? 

Roughly scrubbing his fingers through his hair, Percy stands up. He has to go for a walk, clear his head, or he might actually explode. 

Then he catches a glimpse of the photo pinned to the fridge.

Percy’s mom had taken it, a candid of Percy and Annabeth and Junie on a sunny day in Central Park. There, in perfect 1080p, Junie is laughing, at what he can’t even remember, her pudgy fists yanking on Percy’s hair, while her mother and the love of his life does nothing to extricate Percy from her grip, her face screwed up so hard she had tears in her eyes. 

Percy had talked a lot of shit to the goddess of war’s face, but truth be told… Hera still terrifies him a little. Which, he assumes, was her goal all along, but it would be nice to marry Annabeth without fear of something going terribly wrong--or, gods forbid, something happening to Junie. That simply was not a risk he was willing to take. Percy is content to spend the rest of his days as Annabeth’s life-partner and roommate, if it means that the queen of the heavens won’t have a reason to take out her issues on his children.

Even if the engagement ring in the back of the pantry is gathering dust. 

Sunlight, wan but warm, falls in from the window, landing perfectly on his pile of open books. “I know, I know,” he growls, speaking to the air, rubbing his face so it doesn’t get stuck in a permanent glare. “I just--I just need a few minutes, okay? Let me go down the block and get a coffee or something. Two minutes, Lady Athena.”

The light fades. Percy takes that as an acquiescence, angrily scribbling a note. He’s not sure when Annabeth and Junie will be back, but even angry as he is, he doesn’t want to worry them.

Snatching up his jacket, he slams the door shut, stomping out of his apartment building and down the streets of Boston. He must be accidentally doing his wolf stare, because people are practically flinging themselves out of his path as he hurtles down the sidewalk. Literally--some girl is walking her husky, and the poor dog actually whimpers, cowering as Percy rounds the corner. 

Coming to a stop, Percy slaps his hands over his face, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. 

He might be in over his head a little.

Sighing, he looks to his right. He’s standing outside of a Starbucks. 

Percy doesn’t drink coffee, Annabeth does. And he knows exactly how much of a coffee snob his girlfriend is. Starbucks? Overpriced, overrated, over-sweetened garbage.

He pushes the door open, sliding up to the counter. “I’ll take a… iced mocha, I guess,” he says. “Large.”

“No problem,” chirps the barista. “I’ll have that out for you in a minute.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

One thing Starbucks does have going for it, though, are really good napkins for doodling.

Slumping down in his uncomfortable metal chair, elbows resting on the hard, faux-wood table, Percy takes out his pen, and doodles aimlessly on the brown napkins. No, not that pen. Just because it can write doesn’t mean that Percy wants to risk slicing his face open every time he has a stray idea. Completely out of the blue, Annabeth had gotten him a nice set of pens, and ever since then, Percy always keeps one on him. Now, if he could just remember to use the little notebook she had gotten him, too.

Percy is not an artist by any stretch of the imagination. He doesn’t have an image in mind, just lets his pen move, drawing endless chains of triangles and stars, nebulous shapes which form themselves into Greek letters. After he catches himself writing γλαυκῶπις for the eighth time in a row, he sighs, dropping his pen, and picks up the cup, taking a sip.

Yuck. At least the chocolate outweighs the coffee taste a little.

Gods, and their cups are always, like, drenched from condensation--not that Percy can feel it, but there’s practically a whole other drink on the outside of the plastic, dripping all over Percy’s pile of doodle napkins. That must be why they give out so many.

Grumbling, he mops up the mess, ink smudged into a blue-brown slurry.

He stops. 

He squints at one of his doodles. 

Not that anyone else could tell, but Percy had apparently been trying to recreate the signature of Ottoman sultan Selim III, the guy who had supposedly authorized the Earl of Elgin to take the Parthenon Marbles. Percy had been staring at copies of his signature all damn day, trying to tell if it had been forged or copied, but classical Arabic was just so far beyond anything he could even begin to wrap his head around. It was gorgeous work, but even looking at it made Percy’s eyes swim.

This particular doodle is not his best attempt. It looks nothing like the signature. It’s smudged, blotchy, but in a way that’s… weirdly familiar. 

Snatching the napkin up, Percy bolts from the Starbucks, leaving his mocha behind.

Taking the steps of his apartment building two at a time, he bursts into his kitchen. His set up is exactly how he left it, books spread out all over the table, laptop shut and laid askew, the dry, half-eaten remains of his morning muffin on a plate on top of his encyclopedia of illuminated manuscripts--except for one book, the one on Ottoman history of the nineteenth century. It’s been opened, its pages facing the door, in the exact opposite direction of all the other books. 

“Hello?” he calls into the apartment. “Anyone home?”

No response. 

Percy approaches the table. 

From the pages, Selim III stares at him, his portrait rendered in black and white, sitting just above a figure of his signature, his tughra. 

Percy picks up the book, squinting. 

The signature is crisp, clean, a work of art all by itself. 

He looks at his napkin drawing. Blurry and smudged.

Opening his laptop, he pulls up the scans of the documents in the British museum, zooms in on the letter’s seal.

Blurry and smudged.

Percy stares. 

It… can’t be that simple, can it?

In a daze, he fires an email off to his new grad advisor. Hopefully he won’t mind Percy sticking his nose in where he doesn’t belong. Hey Dr. T--was looking at the Parthenon marbles docs in the BM (don’t ask) and I noticed this weird smudge on the tughra. Lazy scribe, maybe?

And he closes his computer.

Later that night, while he puts Junie to bed, he gets a response. not sure. sent it to a colleague for a closer look. 

He can’t even be bothered to really think about it though, not with Junie looking up at him with Annabeth’s eyes, and asking for another book. “Alright, kiddo,” he acquiesces, settling in beside her. All her story books are in ancient Greek, and at age two, she’s starting to recognize the letters. “Which one are you thinking?” 

“Daw-fins, daddy,” she says, smiling.

“Dolphins, eh? Getting Mr. D on your side early, I see. As smart as mommy.” He leans down and kisses her forehead before he starts to read her the story of the sailors and their sudden dolphin madness. 

***

“Huh,” Percy says to himself a few weeks later, as he and Annabeth are chilling on the couch, watching some Netflix.

His advisor has forwarded him an article from the BBC (New evidence suggests Elgin documents to be forgeries) with an accompanying note: Amazing catch! 

“What is it?” Annabeth asks, nudging him with her elbow--a feat, since she also has an armful of a squirmy Junie to deal with.

“Update in the Parthenon marbles thing.”

That gets her attention. Anything Parthenon-related does. “Really?”

He shows her his phone.

Her eyes go wide as saucers. “Damn.”

“Yep.” He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he feels his lips pulling at the sides of his mouth. 

“My mom is probably your biggest fan right now.”

He starts. “What did you say?”

Turning back to the TV, she still manages to cast him a weird look. “I said, my mom will probably love you for this.”

A beat, then Percy practically somersaults over the couch, darting into the kitchen. Wrenching open the pantry door, he shoves his hand behind their collection of flours, fingers grasping for--

“If you’re looking for any more sacrificial cookies,” Annabeth calls after him, “we burned them all when Junie got a cold.”

“Remind me to make some more,” says Percy, pulling out his prize. It’s a little dusty, streaks of flour clinging to the blue velvet. “I have a feeling we’ll need them.”

“Oh yeah?” She chuckles. “What, did Olympus put in a special order?” 

Percy slides back down next to her, ring hidden in his closed fist. “Can I have the baby for a sec?”

Eyes fixed to the screen, Annabeth passes her over. Junie’s hands automatically reach for his nose, ready to grab, but Percy places the ring in her grasp instead, kissing her forehead. “Hey, babe?” he asks Annabeth, handing her back. “I think our daughter has something for you.”

Annabeth takes her without a second glance. 

Then she does take a second glance.

Ring closed in her pudgy toddler fist, Junie holds it out to her.

Annabeth gapes. 

“So,” Percy says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, “quick confession: I wasn’t just working on the marbles for fun.”

Annabeth just stares. Junie babbles.

“Your mom told me that if I helped get the marbles back, she’d back us against Hera if we ever got married. So…” He trails off, waiting for her response. As close as he is, he can see the tears start to well up in her eyes--a good sign. “Shall we?” he prompts.

“Oh thank all the gods.” Annabeth is crying, because she's Annabeth. And because she's Annabeth, she also wastes no time in transferring Junie to her other side, and holding out her hand so Percy can slide the ring on her finger. “I was so worried I'd have to have Chase on my Masters’ diploma, too.”

5)

Percy is making sauce when his phone lights up. He hits speaker. “Hey.”

“Hey man,” comes the tinny voice of Magnus. “Sorry I missed your call earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Percy says, “I figured you were dying or something.”

Magnus’ eye roll is almost palpable. “Very funny. What’s up?”

Bringing the spoon to his lips, he blows on it, taking a taste, before reaching for the salt. Needs way more. “Do you happen to have any Varangian guards in Hotel Valhalla?”

“Varangian guards? Uh, maybe. Probably. Why?”

“I’m doing a thing on the attempted reconquest of Sicily,” he says, lowering the heat a little to a simmer, “and I’m having some trouble piecing together the Battle of Montemaggiore. Know anyone who was in it?” 

Magnus hums. “I’ll ask around. Anyone in particular you’re looking for?”

Rifling through their little spice cabinet, he makes a mental note to get a new thing of hot sauce, tipping the rest of it into the pot. “If you have anyone who fought under Harald Hardrada, that would be great.”

“Hardrada? I’m pretty sure he lives on the fifth floor.”

Percy nearly drops the bottle. “No shit?”

“Big dude, long mustache, writes poetry?”

“Yes!” He picks up the phone, grinning from ear to ear. “Do you think I could come up and talk to him sometime?”

“Sure, but I thought you were doing something on Homer’s identity?”

He groans. “Backburnered for now until she stops driving me crazy.” No matter how many times Percy tells her, he can’t just drop the “Homer was actually an Egyptian woman” bomb without some serious evidence backing that up. And forgery is not one of his strong suits. Hence the need for a different topic for the time being.

“Has everyone ever told you your life is weird?”

“No, why do you ask?”

His phone suddenly vibrates, shocking him so badly he nearly drops it into the saucepan. Almost home, texts the love of his life, a shot of serotonin directly into his bloodstream. V hungry

“Sorry, Magnus, but I gotta run. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem. Say hi to my cousin for me.”

“Can do.”

“And make sure you pick a date soon! Sam needs to know so she can schedule her flight home.”

“Soon as I can.” You know, when his brain isn’t melting from grading undergrad papers. And making sure Annabeth and Junie are fed. And that Annabeth doesn’t lose herself in graduate school. And finding Junie a new preschool after she destroyed a classroom last month because of a monster. His toddler is a badass. But he’s a little worried she’s gonna follow Mommy and Daddy’s example as far as school goes. 

Sometimes, he thinks that their wedding just won’t ever happen. With Athena on board, he figured it would happen sooner or later, but time just… keeps getting away from them. Which isn’t the end of the world. A lifetime at Annabeth’s side is all he really needs, Mrs. Jackson or no. But he’s seen the silver fabric she weaved for her wedding dress. It would be a shame for all that hard work to go to waste.

And, yeah, he wants to see his little Junie dancing down the aisle flinging seaweed before her mother. He wants his mom to cry a little and he wants all his friends to be there to celebrate with them. Is that so much to ask? 

Speaking of his two favorite girls--”We’re home!” Annabeth calls from the hallway. “Junie, go say hi to daddy!”

Her bare feet slapping against the floor, his daughter comes toddling in, making a beeline for him. “Hey, kiddo,” Percy says, scooping her up. “How’s my best girl?”

“She’s just fine, thanks,” Annabeth says, setting her work bag down on the table. “Tell me I don’t have to wait for dinner--Margie kept me for the entirety of my lunch break, and I am starving.” 

“Just gotta make a salad and we should be good to go.” But he makes no move to finish chopping vegetables, entirely too enraptured with the way Junie smiles when Percy sticks his tongue out at her. “Let me guess,” he says. “Does my best girl want some olives?”

“Peas,” Junie says. 

“Oh, you want peas instead?”

She giggles, waving her arms. “Elaia, daddy!”

“Fine,” and he kisses her nose. “Extra olives for you.”

“Chip off the old block,” Annabeth says.

Handing her back to her mother, Percy sighs. “When am I going to get a kid who likes anchovies?”

“I’m doing my best here, okay?”

***

Hardrada is… not what he expected.

“Reputation isn’t that bad.” Hardrada is saying. “The production isn’t what it should be, but lots of her lyrics are still on point.” 

“The production ruins it,” Percy insists. “And as a follow up to 1989? It's just bad.” 

“And what about Lover?”

“What about Lover?”

“You can’t argue with the genius of that one.”

“It is terribly inconsistent,” Percy shoots back. “Yeah, ‘The Archer’ and ‘Daylight’ and ‘Miss Americana’ are sublime, but ‘ME!’? Come on!”

“Are you one of those people who thinks she peaked at Red?”

“Red is a bop from start to finish,” Percy fires back. “But she definitely peaked at folklore.”

“Thinking she peaked at folklore is just pedestrian when ‘tis the damn season’ exists!” Hardrada yells, drawing his axe, which is then promptly flung over Percy’s head. 

As the only mortal in a room full of armed, excitable, undead Taylor Swift stans, Percy beats a hasty exit, Magnus and Jason covering him as he flees, because they’re just so thoughtful like that. Percy’s pretty sure he saw Magnus take an arrow to the knee, going down in a heap, before he shuts the door to the hotel, finding himself in a Forever 21. 

Looking over his notes later as he gets back to his apartment in the North End, he frowns. They had spent… approximately twenty minutes talking about Sicily before getting solidly off track. Who knew an eleventh century viking would have such intense feelings about pop music? 

And now he’s singing “seven” to himself as he unlocks the apartment door, because it's a good song, and because it made him think of Annabeth. And he always wants to think of Annabeth. 

“Hey, babe,” he calls into the apartment, toeing off his shoes. “I’m back!”

He gets no response.

Percy looks up, confused. “Annabeth?”

“In the bathroom,” he hears, faintly. 

“Everything okay?”

“Yep! Totally fine!” she says, unconvincingly. 

“Alright,” he calls back. “Let me know if you need something.”

Moving Junie’s toys out of the way, he drops down onto the couch, grabbing his laptop. Hopefully he can make some sort of sense of the… notes… that he got from Hardrada. Though he’s probably going to have to trek out to Beacon Hill again, which, while not really out of his way, does mean he has to hike a bit from the Park Street station through the Commons, which makes him super sweaty and out of breath. It’s just embarrassing, walking into a hotel full of the greatest warriors of Valhalla, and Percy can barely handle a hill. 

However, he’s not so out of practice that he can’t sense Annabeth coming up behind him. “You good?”

“What do you think about getting married by the end of the month?”

“Sure,” he says, pecking at his computer. Damn autocorrect ruining all the Norse names. He keeps forgetting to download the right language package he needs. “But I thought you wanted to wait until after you turned in your portfolio?”

“Well… I might not be able to fit in my dress if we wait much longer.”

That gets his attention.

Percy turns around, slowly. Annabeth is grinning, holding a thin little piece of plastic with a circle on the end. She wiggles it. 

“Is that…?”

“Yep.”

“Oh.”

Her smile falls. “Are you mad?”

“What? No!” Percy slides his computer off his lap, twisting around to face her, up on his knees. “No, no, not at all. I’m not mad.” She slings her arms around his neck, pregnancy test warm against his skin. “I just…” 

Eyes warm, she looks into his, unafraid. “What is it?”

“It’s…” It’s silly, is what it is. But this is Annabeth. If he can’t tell her, who can he tell? “I just feel bad that I’ve gotten you pregnant twice before getting married.”

“Well, at least I’m not nineteen this time,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “But maybe we wouldn’t have this problem if you weren’t such a horndog.”

Percy snorts. “Me? What about you, Annabeth ‘3 AM anal before my first lecture’ Chase.”

“Jackson,” she corrects.

“Huh?”

“It’s Annabeth ‘3 AM anal before your first lecture’ Jackson.”

Grinning, he presses his mouth to hers. After all this time, she still smells like lemons, her lips soft and warm. “Not yet it’s not.”

“Then let’s make it happen.”

And, well, Percy can’t think of a better plan.

+1

Jamie hisses. “Fuuuuuck,” she whispers, the sound dropping like a stone in the dead lecture hall. “Goddamn shit fuck ass.”

And the worst part is, she’d actually spent a lot of time preparing for her Latin midterm. She’d made flashcards, she’d drilled noun endings, she’d even slept with the textbook under her pillow for fuck’s sake. 

Typical--the moment she sits down to take the test, it all goes out the window. 

“Legistne carmen longum de Troiano,” she reads under her breath, as though saying it out loud will unlock some hidden secrets of the cosmos. 

Nope. Nothing. The multiple choices remain as inscrutable as ever.

“Psst.” 

Jamie looks up. 

There’s a four year old staring at her. 

“Hi,” Jamie says. 

“Hi,” says the four year old. Junie, her name is, she thinks. 

Mr. Jackson, Jamie’s Latin TA, will bring his kids to class with him sometimes--his wife works full time, and Jamie guesses that they can’t afford a babysitter. She’s a cute kid, quiet, usually sitting in the corner of the lecture hall, drawing or even knitting, sometimes with her little sister playing with toy ships next to her. 

Now, she’s still staring at her. “What’s up?” Jamie asks.

“Bello,” says Junie.

Jamie blinks. “Sorry?”

“Legistne carmen longum de bello Troiano.” 

She squints down at her test sheet, attempting to visualize her flash cards. That’s… “Bello” is the right answer.

The fuck? The fucking four year old can speak Latin? “Thanks,” she whispers. 

Junie beams at her.

Darting her eyes to the front of the lecture hall, Jamie spies her professor, Buck, completely conked out at his desk, his chest rising and falling with his snores. Percy is nowhere to be seen, his laptop open at his chair. “What’s the next one?” Jamie turns her paper so that Junie can see better.

“Pluto Proserpinam infelicem cepit,” she announces, perfectly accented.

Jamie points to the one after that.

“Rex qui pontem fecit erat Ancus Martius.”

“Awesome.” 

The door to the lecture hall opens. Jamie whips around in her seat, startled, and sees her TA, walking down the steps. From the corner of her eye, Junie disappears, booking it to her dad, who scoops her up without missing a beat. “Hey kiddo,” he murmurs, smiling crookedly. “Were you bothering my students?” Then he glances at Jamie. “Sorry about that--hope she wasn’t too annoying.”

But Jamie shakes her head. “It’s fine.” Dammit. 

Still smiling, Percy makes his way back down to his seat. Junie grins at her over his shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around her dad’s neck.

At the beginning of the semester, Professor Buck had droned on and on about Mr. Jackson, about how he was one of the best up-and-coming classics scholars in the world, how he could have had his pick of PhD programs, and how NYU was lucky to have him. He got first pick of assistantships this semester, apparently, but had volunteered to teach Latin 1001, and they should all be grateful, because he had done some beautiful new translation of Virgil for his Master’s thesis, and they were all going to learn a lot from him. 

Turning back to her exam, Jamie snorts. Of course a guy like that would have a kid who could speak perfect Latin. 

She really should have just stuck with German instead. 

[halfagonyandhope]

when the skies catch fire │ch. 19

first chapter (x); previous chapter (x)

Over the next week, the rains taper and then disappear. The lavender grasses flourish.

And the first recruits arrive.

There are more recruits than Satine had expected, but not as many as she’d hoped for. Still, their presence lifts Satine’s spirits. Rehabilitation of the Temple quickens considerably thanks to their efforts.

There is Sana, a Twi’lek medical engineer who sets to work on the med bay almost before she can introduce herself.

There is Walker, who left behind his clone brothers and the war after his battalion’s fire killed innocent civilians. He tells Satine later that he dreamed of growing life, not extinguishing it, and he volunteers to be the right hand of Odessa, a Zabrak botanist tasked with planting and nurturing the first crops. Those crops, Satine notes with relief, are expected to be ready for harvesting a few standard days before their food rations run out.

There are others who trickle in. The small base grows large enough that they decide on a cover story - a sap farm established by refugees - for that inevitable time when the Dantooine locals begin to question where the new arrivals are headed.

And Satine finds herself somehow spearheading it all. The newly-minted rebels look to her for guidance, for order. It is a natural role to slip back into. Satine realizes that Bail knew what he was doing.

So each day, she wakes as Obi-Wan kisses her forehead before he heads into the fields to work, leaving early to avoid the worst of the midday sun. Some days, she’s the reason why he’s late.

He certainly doesn’t complain.

He occupies her thoughts as she floats wherever an extra pair of hands is needed - sometimes in the med bay, reassembling droids, and sometimes in the hangar bay, assisting their Wookiee technician, Chewbacca. After supper, Obi-Wan, Satine, and Ahsoka retreat for training.

One night, Obi-Wan activates his lightsaber, sets it to its training mode, and hands it to Satine.

She’s proud when her hands shake only slightly as she grips it.

Ahsoka notices. “Think of the saber as a primarily defensive tool,” she says. “That was the intention of the first Jedi who used them.”

Satine nods. This does help, but she can’t help but wonder how many lives have been cut short by the very weapon she yields.

Obi-Wan and Ahsoka teach her the basic stances. Satine had learned some of this, of course, during her year on the run with Obi-Wan. Her muscle memory is as good as her eidetic memory, and the lessons she’d learned then, she’s not forgotten. 

But the stakes are higher now.

After a few days, she’s advanced to basic sparring. Ahsoka faces her, green blade activated, her shoto saber still on her hip. Obi-Wan watches from the side, one arm crossed over his chest, his other hand at his chin.

Satine remembers the first lesson. She reaches out into the Force, drawing on not only Obi-Wan’s teachings but also the sword fighting techniques she’d mastered in her youth.

And though she’s not anywhere near Ahsoka’s skill level, and though she knows Ahsoka is taking things slow, Satine manages to parry and dodge all of the incoming blows.

Even the more tricky ones.

Ahsoka raises an eyebrow as she deactivates her saber. Her skin shines with sweat. “How did you do that?” she asks, intrigued. “You did remarkably well for someone who is not Force-sensitive.”

Satine’s chest heaves as she catches her breath. She glances at Obi-Wan as if to ask, Should I tell her?

He gives the smallest of shrugs. It’s up to you, my dear.

Satine deactivates Obi-Wan’s lightsaber and tosses it to him. He catches it smoothly. Satine swallows. “I am Force-sensitive,” she says. “Albeit temporarily.”

Ahsoka’s brow furrows. “What do you mean ‘temporarily’?” she asks. “Is that even possible?” She looks from Satine to Obi-Wan and then back.

“It is,” Satine confirms.

“How long will it last?” asks Ahsoka, still lost.

“Approximately nine months,” says Obi-Wan. His face is deadpan until Ahsoka looks over at him, and then he smiles softly.

Ahsoka’s not lost any longer; when realization hits, she screeches and throws her arms around Satine. Then she lunges for Obi-Wan, pulling Satine with her so she can hug them both at once.

“A baby!” she squeals. “I’m so happy for you, Master. You’re going to make an excellent father. And you, Satine - an extraordinary mother.”

Obi-Wan chuckles, and Satine returns the hug. “Thank you, Ahsoka.”

Ahsoka draws back. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” says Satine. “A little nauseated at times. But happy.” She glances at Obi-Wan, who takes her hand. “Very, very happy.”

---

The next day, Satine is tasked with cataloging the archives quarter. While some of the texts remain legible, many have been lost to time. Hopeful that a conservationist may be able to salvage their contents, Satine stores them as best she can, protecting them from further deterioration.

The holotexts are similar, though more can be accessed than are corrupted. Someday, she will go through them all, learning what she can. Today, however, her back and ankles cry out for rest.

Suddenly, warm arms envelop her from behind, taking most of her weight. Satine leans back into Obi-Wan. His hands rest over her abdomen, and her hands rest over his.

“My dear,” he whispers, kissing her neck.

She sighs contentedly.

She feels him smile. “I feel electrical impulses,” he murmurs. “Cardiac cells beginning life.”

Her pulse skips. Will every day of this pregnancy feel more and more like a miracle? She hopes so.

Satine turns in his arms, meeting his eyes. “I love you,” she whispers, hands reaching up to his shoulders, his neck.

Obi-Wan leans down to kiss her. He speaks his love for her against her lips.

[lord-explosion-baku]

Sparrow

Prince!Satoru Gojo x assassin!reader

Warnings: violence, swearing, suggestive themes, dubious themes, blood

A/N: request numero dos is done! It’s kinda silly, but I think it’s pretty fun! I think it can be read as pretty lighthearted, even if it gets a little violent! it’s a little different that what was originally requested! I had the elements for a sword fight set up, but it wasn’t working out the way I wanted it to, so I took a slightly different route! theres still fighting though! I hope you like it!

It’s been a long journey to get where you are now, silently scaling the castle towers towards the prince’s bed chambers. An extra long journey, considering how many royal guards have been posted on top of kingdom rooftops. Like a shadow in the night, using nothing but the black elements to mask your presence, you’ve managed to slip by them, as well as the gatehouse soldiers, undetected, leaving only four men incapacitated, and not a vestige of your presence. All this sneaking around has been a trying job thus far, but it’s almost over now. You’re about to finish what you came to do.

Light as a feather, quiet as a dormouse, you swing your body up and over the limestone-clad palace window. The room is adorned with priceless artwork watched over by gilded ceiling paintings. Framing the biggest bed you’ve ever seen is a corona with royal blue drapery that hangs down to each corner. In the center of the bed lies the sleeping and wonderfully unaware prince.

His body is lopsided, and only partially covered by silk sheets. One of his feet hangs off the bed. Tousled white hair sticks out in every direction while still managing to frame his admittedly attractive face. Long white eyelashes. Peaceful and full lips. He’s young, you think, although you’ve been aware. But seeing him in the flesh solidifies the thought: you are about to be the end of his short life.

However, this mission comes with little remorse. There have been rumors that the Royal Gojo Family has been dabbling in alchemy for over a century now. To you, there is nothing more disgusting than the use of the unnatural sciences. It’s ungodly. And even then, this kill shouldn’t matter much since you can call it what it is: a job. This is what you do. Do as your master commands, kill without question, leave no trace, get paid, repeat. It helps that there have been rumors specifically centered around your charge; rumors that Prince Satoru is a complete and utter womanizer.

Well, not for long.

The bed doesn’t shake the least bit as you climb on top of him. The prince sleeps soundlessly and doesn’t stir when you situate your thighs over his firm hips. Normally, you’d simply slit your target’s throat, quick and easy, but since there are those rumors about the use of alchemy, you need to work a little differently tonight. To kill an alchemist user, one will have to pierce them directly in the heart with a silver blade. You don’t particularly believe that the prince is a user; his focus has primarily been on balls and parties and other social events, but you’d rather be safe than sorry. So, your primed weapon of choice, a silverlined dagger, slides up your sleeve and into the palm of your hand. You grasp its hilt, then line it parallel to his heart, pull up, and plunge it in.

Rather, you would be plunging it in, if it hadn’t been for the swift-acting hand wrapped tightly around your wrist.

“Drop it.” The low, sleep-crackled utterance sends shivers up your spine. Acting fast, you use your free hand to push on the hilt, your strength against his, but it doesn’t budge a centimeter, and instead, both of your wrists are captured by the prince. His grip tightens, squeezing you so harshly that you feel the tips of your fingers tingle, but you don’t relinquish your weapon.

Vibrant blue eyes blink up at you, narrowing into a scowl. You try pushing harder, ignoring the fact that his eyes seem to glow in the darkness, ignoring the fact that they are the prettiest eyes that have ever gazed at you, ignoring the fact that those pretty eyes are now trailing down your body. Your skin burns at the attention. You can’t let yourself believe that he’s checking you out in a life or death situation, but then you figure it’s in your head when he says, “if you wish to keep your wrists intact, you will drop. Your. Dagger.”

Surrendering is not an option. It’s either kill or be killed, because even when you choose to not kill, your termination will be absolute. You will be tried by the king with his son at his right side, then you will be hanged for your crimes. So with shaking hands, you attempt to exert more pressure, trying to keep your breath steady to not raise a commotion.

Surprisingly, the prince chuckles. “Has a little sparrow flown through my window to try to kill me?”

In one fell swoop, Satoru manages to flip you onto your back, his hands bringing your wrists down on the side of the bed, forcing you to drop the dagger to the floor. He eyes you speculatively for a moment, then his mouth turns up into a half-grin.

“A woman, no less.” He muses incredulously. Then his eyes dart back down your body, and by the way his grin widens, you’re sure he actually is checking you out. “Are you supposed to be some kind of peace offering?”

What an odd man. Although you've just made an attempt on his life, he’s smiling down at you like you’re some kind of acquaintance—no, friend.

“I mean…sending a beautiful woman to my bedchambers says a lot, wouldn’t you agree?” Prince Satoru asks after taking in your dumbfounded expression. “Not much for words?” He asks. “That’s okay, little sparrow. We don’t need to talk.”

You gasp when he begins to lean down, eyes trained on your lips. Without a second’s hesitation, your feet meet his bare chest, and with all of your might, you kick off, throwing him back a couple meters. You flip back onto the floor and attack him with throwing knives while you search for your dagger. If he is in fact an alchemist, your other weapons won’t do much damage, but could slow him down if you could manage to hit him.

“You’re strong,” Satoru gleefully appraises, dodging another one of your throwing knives, and catching the other. He throws it back at you, but you manage to duck behind the corona curtain at just the right time. “And fast.”

The dagger is under the bed. You grab it, gulp some air, then use the curtain as a distraction before charging at the prince, using the same swiping technique your master has taught you. Your blade cuts through the air with one swipe, and another. You’re barely missing him, and it’s frustrating because that goofy grin stays plastered to his dumb, pretty face!

In a moment’s notice, he grabs your outstretched arm, pushing down on a pressure point that has your limb lock up. “But you’re messy and unrefined,” he says as a hand slides up your arm. Now behind you, he places his free hand on your waist, moving you into a stance similar to what your master has shown you. “Don’t you fret, little sparrow. It’s nothing a little polishing won’t fix.”

His breath is hot and fanning your ear. Your stomach knots when he squeezes your waist, and to your utter horror, his lips graze down to your neck, tongue sliding over your skin. “Mmm…sweet.”

“What! Are you—?!” Bouncing away from him, you cover your slick neck with one hand while the other continues to point the dagger outwards. What’s even worse is that he doesn’t look the least bit jaded!

He laughs. “Even your voice is cute!” In the dim light of the room, you can see pink beginning to bloom across his cheeks. “Won’t you speak more? Say my name, pretty please.”

“Prick,” you hiss, once again charging forward.

“Do you kiss your master with that mouth?” Satoru begins using his arms to block and redirect your attacks, until he’s twirling you around as if you’re dancing and not trying to kill him! You fume, hating the fact that the prince knows you have a master to begin with. “I should hope not. The only person I’d have you kiss is me!”

He dips you down low, your dagger somehow tucked between the junction of your arm, and very smoothly places his lips against yours. You’ve been kissed before, but never in such a way that made you feel like floating. Like gravity ceased to exist. Like you were falling into a black hole that you didn’t want to claw out of. Prince Satoru Gojo’s kiss is different. It’s light and it’s heavy. It’s heaven and it’s earth. It’s a blessing and a curse.

He hums into you, making the knot in your belly tighten. For a moment, you don’t struggle. Instead, your lips part, and you allow the prince to cup your face to pull you in deeper, tasting you, relishing you. You wind your fingers through the soft strands of his starry hair, and lose yourself in the moment. When he breaks the kiss, pulling away with an expression you can only call beguiled, his thumb moves along the bottom of your lip. Your mind is the fog that clouds the streets at night. It doesn’t mean anything to you when you kiss the tip of his thumb, but when that grin you hate so much comes back, your body erupts in blusterous rage.

Realizing what you just allowed to happen, you snap at his hand. He pulls it away just in time for you to reach for your weapon and slice it across his chest. You push him back, only allowing yourself a second to collect yourself before aiming the dagger at his heart. He catches your wrist before it makes contact.

“So passionate,” he says with a smile, but through gritted teeth. “I must admit, this has been the most fun I’ve had in my bedchambers in a very long time. You might even be spoiling all the fun that the future entails as well. And I don’t even know your name yet. How sad.”

Satoru throws you against the wall, pinning your dagger-wielding arm against one of his extravagant paintings. He nods towards your weapon. “Throw that away.”

“You scared, alchemist?” You bite back.

“I’m only afraid you might hurt yourself, little sparrow. Sharp objects are dangerous, you know. Wouldn't want to clip your wings.” He winks. “And you should be referring to me as your royal highness. I am a prince, afterall.”

“With the dark craft that you and the royal family use, you’re no higher than me.”

Satoru chuckles. “Won’t you please tell me your name? Or at least join me in bed before you insist that I need to be killed.”

“This is not on my insistence.” It’s a slip, but it’s a big one. You’d cover your mouth if your hands were free.

“So, who sent you?” The prince prompts. “It can’t be a scorned lover. Hmmm. The Fushiguro clan? Pshh. No. They’d do it in person.” He flashes his teeth, omniscience glowing in his beautiful blue eyes. “Master Suguru Getou?”

You suck in a breath and he reads it all too well.

“I already know,” he purrs, lips brushing against yours. “Your fighting style is very similar to his. I’m just surprised he sent somebody with so little experience. It certainly proves how much of a coward he is.”

Your blood boils. How dare he insult your master to your face! Satoru Gojo, the sleazy prince and a lowly alchemist. He is scum compared to Master Getou.

You ram your head into the prince’s. Pain shoots down your spine, but you ignore it and thrust your dagger forward. Satoru grabs your arm and pushes it down, and soon, you scream after hearing a tearing sound, and feel a very sharp stinging at your side. Sticky warm fluid seep through your fingers at your side. It’s not a deep cut, but it’s just enough to make you bleed.

“Oh no,” Prince Satoru says in earnest. “Oh, this was my mistake. Dear sparrow, that was a reflex of mine. I didn’t mean to—“

There’s a knock on the prince’s chamber doors, followed by someone’s low voice asking, “your highness, are you well? I heard screaming.”

Shit. This is it. You’re dead. Sure, the prince wants to play with you, but anyone else will have your head in a heartbeat if they see what you’re doing. You should say your prayers now and kiss the world goodbye. You’re sending a silent apology to Master Getou when Satoru lifts you up and carries you to his bed.

“Sir Nanami?” The prince calls while he throws the sheets over both you and him. He climbs on top, pressing his chest into yours. The side that’s injured seers with pain, so you let out a little whimper the moment you hear footsteps enter the room.

“Don’t tell me you have a woman in here,” the man groans. “You know the king has forbidden any partner of yours from walking through these palace doors until further notice.”

“She flew in through my window, actually,” Satoru slyly admits. “But she’s no ordinary woman. She’s very special to me.”

Both you and the knight scoff at the same time, though you hope he doesn’t hear you. If he can believe this charade, perhaps you can get on with your night. And once you kill the prince, there will be a knight who will think that his murder is nothing but a lover’s quarrel gone wrong.

“I see.”

You’re staring at Satoru’s chest, and you realize that his wound from earlier is nearly healed. If you had any doubts about the Gojo family using alchemy, they’re out the window now. You run a fine finger across the red line that contrasts against his ivory chest, feeling the smooth bump where you’d cut him. Will it scar? you think. Disappear completely?

The prince squirms and grabs your hand. “That tickles!” He exclaims, bringing your hand up to his mouth to pepper kisses all over it. Even though the attention burns the back of your neck, you let him, since it’ll only convince the knight that the two of you are in fact being intimate.

Finally, Satoru says, “did you need something, Sir Nanami, or are you ready to confess your voyeuristic sins?”

Sir Nanami sighs, but you hear him back up a few paces. “Then, nobody’s hurt, your highness?”

“No,” Satoru says dubiously, “however, if you could fetch the healing medicines, that would be appreciated. She’s a little feisty!”

You slap his chest and he yips playfully back at you. It would be good fun if the two of you weren’t enemies.

Once the knight leaves, you’re quick to slink out of the bed, albeit wobbly. Dots of blood line his sheets, the sight making you feel a bit dizzy, but it doesn’t stop you from picking up your weapon.

“You don’t tire, do you?” Satoru asks impishly. “As admirable as that is, I simply cannot allow you to try to kill me anymore! You’ll get more hurt!”

“You’re nothing but a dirty alchemist.” You weakly thrust the dagger forward, nearing the window.

“Well, and a dashing prince, but that’s besides the point.” Satoru steps forward and you step back, your legs hitting the window’s wall. “Your master is no better.”

You bare your teeth at him. “Don’t you dare say a word to me about my master!”

“Please, little sparrow, you’re injured. Step away from the window and let’s bandage you up.” He reaches a hand out, and you swipe through the air, splicing his palm. More blood falls to the floor. Unafflicted, Satoru says, “you can’t hurt me.”

“Then let me leave, so that when I return, I can hurt you!”

There’s a purse on his lips. A pensive pause. Then the prince raises both of his hands, one of which is already healed, in defeat.

“There’s a medicine man who lives south-east from the gatehouse,” he says. “His name is Kiyotaka Ijichi. He’ll be asleep by now, but he’s a bit of a pushover and a sucker for a lady in distress. If you wail a bit outside his house, he’ll come out to offer you aid.”

“I don’t need anybody’s help,” you spit as you begin climbing out the window. You half-expect him to push you then. It’s a wonderful opportunity, one that you would seize if you were in his position. But the prince just watches you begin your descent.

“Do try to not bleed on any of the garden flowers,” he calls.

You wordlessly growl back at him.

“Oh, and little sparrow! Should you return here tomorrow evening, or perhaps the next night, or even a week or a month from now, shall I prepare red or white wine for you?” Prince Satoru offers you a charming smile. “And would you like there to be a violinist present? Anything to set the mood?”

Once you’re on your feet, you glare up at the beaming prince. He’s far too confident, but you make a mental promise to ruin that confidence someday, somehow. You don’t answer him, like you’re sure he doesn’t expect, but you allow him to watch you disappear into the black from whence you came.

[cdroloisms]

so... the red banquet, huh?

im not going to lie, i was cheering on the eggpire the entire time (/lh) - what can i say, something abt the demon possessed resident evil crew just speaks to my heart. theyre FUN, ok? 

anyway, a lot of people were theorizing abt what c!dream showing up at the banquet could look like - and, well, i thought i’d write my version of it. this takes place in the “guard dog au” developed primarily by a gc im in on twitter (@stabbysideblog being the main originator of it, do check sunny out !!) - the basic premise is post-getting the revive book from c!dream, c!quackity continues to get his, uh, “use” out of him by basically treating him as a bodyguard/guard dog as he goes around the server - which should probably give you a pretty good idea of how this is going to go :] 

tws: death, grief, implied torture, starvation, abuse, blood, murder, unhealthy relationship, dehumanization, possession, trauma, mental illness, violence, dark content, dark imagery, emotional distress, mental instability, pandora’s vault/prison arc, c!quackity critical (not really, but a very dark portrayal of him) 

A strangled sob claws its way up Puffy’s throat as she watches Foolish fall.

He drops in a spray of golden ichor in the crimson, brilliant green eyes trained on hers, jaw slack in horror, pain, dipping to the ground and whiting out before he’s even fully collapsed. The others’ screams hardly even meet her ears; all she can see is her son, falling, her son, dying, her son, that same sunlit kindness still held in the curve of his lips in this room that knows nothing but pain and betrayal, gone gone gone gone-

Because of her.

Ant’s still staring at her, pupils thinned to needles from the brightness of the lava at their backs, ears alert but stance entirely calm as he twirls his sword, still dripping gold. His mouth is moving but she cannot hear anything above the ring ring ringing in her ears, the world swirling and blurring dangerously from the tears gathering in her eyes and spilling over her cheeks, Ant’s eyes polished rubies where there had once been a cloudless sky. Bad gestures at the crowd, pushed back towards the lava’s fire in their fear, leaving her to stand in the middle of the room as one desperate dying scream, the egg, standing as a silent witness to it all-

“Bad-” a flash of blue, and there’s someone standing in front of her, shoulders pulled back, a diamond sword glittering their right hand, “Stop it.”

“Quackity.”’

Bad snarls, tail whipping back and forth; Puffy takes a step back, then another, shoulders still shaking in grief for her son, for her friends, for everyone who’s about to lose their lives in this twisted realm of crimson and hellfire. There is no fear on Quackity’s face though he stands unarmored, and for the first time in this awful day something like worry flashes over Bad’s face. There’s history here, she realizes - what did Bad say about Quackity attacking? - but none of this is making sense, not the self-assured way Quackity is carrying himself, wings relaxed and folded at his back, not the simmering unease making itself known in the foreign cadence of Bad’s voice.

“Oh my gosh, look at what you’ve done,” Quackity says, voice almost patronizing, like a parent stumbling in on the mess their child has made out of their bedroom, “this is impressive, I’m not going to lie, this is quite impressive.” Puffy swallows thickly, hears the shuddering gasp of someone behind her - Fundy, probably, or Sam - as Quackity’s voice drops. “You have to stop right now.”

“Stop?”

“This whole Egg thing is just getting out of control - you just killed a man,” Quackity stalks across the netherbrick floor like he has all the time in the world, ignoring the crossbows that the Eggpire has trained on his back, guarded only by the off-white shirt he’s wearing, an untied tie hanging limply around his neck. She sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth - my son, they killed my son, she means to say, but the words stick to the walls of her throat and only escape her lungs in another series of wracking sobs. “Is that what you wanted to do, Bad?”

He laughs - laughs, of all things, and there is something here that Puffy is missing, that isn’t clicking through the muddied fog of grief hanging grey and suffocating around her head, but Quackity is speaking again and she can’t think about it all, not now, “-and I’m not gonna have it anymore, Bad.”

He slips over by the crowd, eyes glancing all of them huddled in one fearful mob over the tables, eyes dark and daring and cold; the Eggpire keeps their eyes trained on him, Bad’s eyebrows furrowed, Ant’s muzzle twisted in a snarl. Puffy watches, their words passing over her like water skidding against the surface of a rock splitting a stream in two, heart thudding in her ears, marking out the heartsick beats in this poisoned melody - one-two, her-son, her-son, her-son-

He stops in front of her in the middle of monologuing, eyes trained on her own like he’s trying to tell her something. His eyes flick down and she follows their gaze to his other hand, the one not clasped around a sword handle, watches as he gestures vaguely in the direction of the Eggpire. She frowns, confusion cutting through the grief - what is he trying to say? - and Quackity sighs, index finger slashing in the air in the shape of what might be an A as he spins on his heel to walk back towards Bad and the others.

“So how about we just stop playing?”

Quackity smiles, teeth white and glittering from the lava’s glow even as the Eggpire surrounds him, pushes him back against the wall. Bad seems to hesitate, hand clasped around the trigger of a crossbow he keeps pointed at the other’s head; when he speaks, he almost sounds mournful.

“I can’t,” he mutters, quiet, stepping forwards as his shoulders straighten, pushing Quackity back in a motion that the others are quick to follow. Puffy watches, an awful sinking feeling falling through the hole left in her chest by the sight of her son, falling, her son, dead - watches as Quackity’s wings open, shine golden in the lava’s light - what is he planning?

“You know why I can’t stop.”

Quackity heaves a heavy sigh through his lungs, “Bad- you and all your buddies here, drop your weapons, and leave. Let all of these people go.”

“Or what?” Ant’s voice is sharp, but Quackity barely pays him a second thought, swinging a glare at his head and cutting him off.

“I’m not talking to you,” he laughs, dismissive, “I’m talking to Bad.”

“No-” Puffy watches as Bad’s hand tightens on his crossbow, punctuating the word with a step forward. “You put your weapon down. If you wanted to stop us?” He’s too close to Quackity for Puffy to make out either of their faces, crossbow bolt aimed and ready to send straight through his skull. She stiffens, sees from the corner of her eye as the ones beside her look away, and resigns herself to the inevitable spray of blood on brick - not again not again don’t make me watch again - “You should’ve brought more than just yourself.”

Quackity laughs.

“I did,” his voice is dangerous in its levity, making Bad, then the rest of the Eggpire step back as his wings spread open further, watching with bated breath and wide eyes as a swarm of white descends from a hidden hole in the wall, “Or, well, I did the next best thing. I brought my worst enemy.”

“What?”

“Alright Quackity, where’s this Egg thing?”

Technoblade jumps down into the room in a familiar purple-black blur of expertly enchanted netherite armor, form impeccable despite the seeming exhaustion in his voice. At his feet, a pack of wolves gather, pace, muscles coiled and clearly ready to strike; he rolls his shoulders back, signature fireworks loaded into his crossbow, and the crowd behind Puffy immediately breaks into shocked murmuring and soft cheers.

On Quackity’s other side, someone else flips into the room, wearing a suit of all things, crisp and well-pressed; Purpled grins, entirely too gleeful as the Eggpire presses back further, held off by the dogs swarming and growling at their feet.

“Purpled- we hired you!”

“To be frank with you, Bad, a sword appears in Purpled’s hand and he flips it casually, blade thin and gleaming, “Quackity just had the better price.”

“We- we still outnumber you!” Bad’s voice is a near-scream in its desperation, his tail lashing back and forth as he shifts his weight forward, “It’s four against three- we’ll still win-” Despite herself, Puffy’s mind spins; either way, they’re still at a disadvantage from sheer numbers alone, never mind Quackity’s lack of armor. Maybe if they all work together, they’ll be able to sufficiently stop them, but there’s no way she can see this ending in anything less than a bloodbath-

“I didn’t want for it to come to this, Bad,” Quackity’s voice drops low and sweet, the sincerity in his tone belied by his glittering eyes and jagged grin. The shift in tone sends a shiver down her back, has even his allies shifting uncomfortably in what seems to be confusion - Puffy catches something like a murmured no from Sam, behind her, before Quackity whistles, loud.

It all happens too fast for her to follow; one moment, the Eggpire is standing, weapons raised and ready to fight; the next, and there is a new netherite-clad figure in the middle of the room, signature sparks of purple from a pearl still glittering around them, axe buried into Antfrost’s chest. The room devolves into shrieks as his body dissolves, Bad gasping sharply and something dark bubbling in Puffy’s chest - good - as the newcomer in the room moves over to Ponk, bloodstained axe swinging in a downward arc, only barely stopped in time by a diamond sword catching on the crook of the blade.

“Go!” Quackity’s voice rings out above the chaos, and Techno and Purpled - seemingly shaken from their shock - fly into motion, fireworks bursting in flashes of red and black that send Puffy blinking out stars from her eyes, Purpled moving to match blows against Hannah and Techno’s army biting at the ankles of the Eggpire leader. Around her, people scream in relief, cheering as the Eggpire, clad in eggshell-blue, are pushed back one by one, hindered by a shifting wave of teeth and claws and clashing blades and netherite moving smoothly over the uneven floor - Bad screams, “RETREAT!”, and they disappear into the wall.

Purpled curses; “I’m going after them.” Puffy watches, still reeling, as he dives into the corridor that Bad had revealed, a flash of purple and blue melting into the shadows; the mystery figure - still hauling a heavy, bloodstained axe, nearly dragging against the floor - moves forward as to follow.

Quackity snaps his fingers, and the figure stops, turns, immediately moving to the winged man’s side. Behind her, Puffy can make out cheers, gasping, hysterical sounds of relief; she can’t join them, feels nothing but the shuddering weight of her grief pressing further on her lungs as the adrenaline fades, head dizzy with Foolish’ sharp gasp in pain, Ant’s yowl of agony. Her eyes flick to the side, catch on Sam pacing, muttering under his breath; when his eyes meet hers, they widen in something like - alarm?

She shakes her head; she can’t think about all of that, right now. Her hooves stumble over the vines and rot strewn over the floor, carrying her forward to the glitter of gold on red, to where her son had fallen and she could do no more but watch with a scream caught between her teeth.

A hand lands on her shoulder- “I’m sorry we couldn’t make it in time.”

She whirls around; Quackity’s looking down at her, face twisted in sympathy. Behind him, the armored stranger looms, hair long and tangled, helmet keeping their face in shadow and hiding their features from view. There’s something distantly familiar to them, in the way they shift from one foot to the other, something that makes her eyes narrow and throat tighten-

“Who are you?” The words tumble from her mouth, making Quackity freeze, jaw snapping shut, the figure behind him tensing almost imperceptibly under their armor. “Who-”

Quackity’s eyes are dark, piercing; she can’t read them, the flat line of his mouth as confusing as it is frustrating. His eyes flick up to somewhere over her shoulder before moving back to her own

“How rude of me,” He smiles, gold tooth glinting, “I didn’t even introduce our special guest.”

His right wing presses against their back, and they drop, immediately, to their knees, making her step back in shock. Quackity’s hand slips easily under the edge of their helmet, ripping it off with little care and letting their hair fall in a wave of dusty browns over their face; he pulls the strands back roughly, revealing the paleness to their skin, the hollows in their cheeks-

“Dream?”

Her breath shudders in her chest, eyes snapping up to Quackity, still smiling, hand still pressed against the back of his skull. Dream’s face is pale, thin, clawed with new scars that highlight the jut of his cheekbones and the dullness of his eyes. He looks up at her, eyes glassy, skin almost grey, and for a moment she’s looking at Foolish, eyes unseeing in death, the luster of his skin stolen like the air from his lungs, and she nearly screams.

“Puffy, Puffy,” Quackity murmurs, almost kind, “It’s alright, see? Everything’s fine now.”

“He- he’s supposed to be in prison,” she hisses, not missing how he flinches, not missing how even that is hindered by the hand braced against his head. He looks strangely small kneeling at Quackity’s side, dwarfed by the netherite he’s wearing; even with an axe strapped to his back, the blade still wet with crimson and reeking of iron and decay, he hardly looks like the villain that had terrorized the server, the son she could no longer recognize in the midst of the bridges he burned.

“Oh- don’t worry about him,” Quackity shrugs, wings fluttering, “It’s all being done with the Warden’s permission, Puffy, I know what I’m doing.” As if to prove his point, his hand tightens on the other’s hair, tugging his head back by the roots; Dream hardly even reacts, simply letting himself be manhandled, throat bare and exposed to the air, similarly criss-crossed by scars. “He’s perfectly well-behaved now, you see?”

Her throat closes, the pit in her gut torn open by the sight of her son with a blade skewered through his heart only growing wider, hungrier, by the dullness in the eyes of the other. Foolish’ death had happened too fast for her to react: one moment, he was staring at her, eyes mournful in goodbye; the next, he was a tumble of gold and green and blue against the floor, half of his name still not having left her lips. Dream’s head swivels to hers, face entirely blank; there is nothing quick written in the gauntness of his face, more scar tissue than skin, in the shadows under his eyes or how they seem to stare, unseeing, in the long, knotted strands of hair twisted over Quackity’s knuckles. He looks like he’s been dying, slowly, for months, and the screaming cry of YOU FAILED ringing in her head in Ant’s voice only grows louder.

“What did you-” the words scrape roughly against the inside of her mouth, “What did you do?”

Quackity shrugs, letting go, and Dream’s head tips forward to stare at the floor. “What had to be done.”

He clicks his fingers again, and Dream stands, falling behind Quackity with his shoulders pulled up to his ears. Quackity hands him back his helmet, keeping his hand stretched out, palm up, even after Dream takes the netherite and fastens it back over his head. Puffy watches, heart stuck in her throat, as Dream fiddles with something by his throat, pulls out a thick coil of iron chains, pressing the end to Quackity’s outstretched hand - the other side, she realizes, fastened around his neck.

Her breath stutters when he looks back at Quackity, gut roiling at the familiarity - it’s an imperfect copy of the way he used to look at her, a skittish shadow at her tail, all awkward smiles and fidgeting hands. Only now, his eyes don’t dance with the same light, his lungs shivering in fear instead of wheezing laughter; she watches as his head follows Quackity like he’s the only person in the room, a duckling imprinted on the nearest person and ready to follow to the ends of the world and further, and her heart shatters all over again.

“Anyway,” Quackity’s eyes soften, lips curled in sympathy, “My condolences, Puffy, for your son. It really is a tragedy.”

She watches him leave with tears in her eyes, a sob once again caught in her throat. The images overlap - Foolish, smiling under the sun’s glow, sitting on the roof of his summer home - Dream, grinning in the treetops, eyes as green as the leaves surrounding him - Foolish, falling in a spray of ichor and a gasp of pain, Dream, grey-eyed and silent, dead as the crimson rot surrounding his beaten body-

My condolences for your son, Quackity’s words echo in her skull, and not for the first time, she laughs miserably, tears falling from her eyes.

Which one?

[fleursdemeduse]

Remembrance AU: Fighting For the Right Side

Warnings: Nightmare [Depiction of child death] ; Mention of death ; Allusion to mass murder and bombs

Words: 3.3k

You were quick to settle into your position in Pogtopia. Every day was primarily spent with Techno, but it was relaxing. You farmed, took trips to the bastion you two had met at, he protected you in fortresses, you two even went mining together. He was a comfortable constant in your world. Even when the voices got to be too much, you were with him. But that might have been what caused it all in the first place.

Settling into the small alcove Tommy said you could use, you decided that you could take this brief moment of quiet to read. You felt safe in the ravine, so much so that you had shed your armor back in Techno’s hidden stronghold.

Once sat in front of the fire, you tossed another small log in the flames. You'd have to go find more wood tomorrow but this was enough; The fire burning was bright enough you didn't need to light a torch and waste extra materials they might need, and the air warm enough you only needed a small throw blanket for added comfort to cuddle during the parts of your book the suspense physically got to you.

And so you got comfortable. You relaxed against the wall and you opened your book. Page 47.

Suddenly, sounds bombarded the child - a mad rustling, and then, twit twit, echoing over and over. They were familiar sounds, not particularly frightening, but unplaceable. A heartbeat was louder than anything else and the small nine year old could only wish that the sound were quieter. That everything was quieter.

The maze was an overgrown thing. Something so large that anyone who encountered it knew they could never escape. The shadows kept moving though; rushing faster than legs could ever hope to outrun. Faster and faster they crawled like vines all around. And soon the child was engulfed. Darkness spread to every limb, smothering wails that spilled from parted lips. There were no cries for help or alerts to any who would listen. Soon, nothing remained.

The crash had startled you awake. Your nightmare releasing it’s hold from you at the sudden sound. You relaxed quickly, however, seeing Wilbur in a heap next to the stairs. He must have fallen again. You pressed your lips together, remembering Techno’s words. “We used to have railin’s but Wilbur, he just really enjoyed fallin’ to his death.”

The brunet slowly got up and pat himself off before looking up at you and smiling. A smile like that could have made sunflowers turn to revel in its glow.

“Oh, hey. Sorry for waking you.” His voice was soft, probably to not wake anyone else if they hadn’t already been awoken already.

"Don't worry about it. It wasn’t a very good dream.” He nodded at you in understanding. “What were you doing out? On a secret mission?”

The teasing smile on your lips grew bigger when his smile soured and he scoffed, grumbling to himself about how every mission was technically a secret one.

Yours fell away when he started walking off, his softness darkened with the thought of what happened during his outing. You hesitated. You didn’t want to wake Techno. You two were only just growing closer and you didn’t know how the hybrid reacted to missing out on the little sleep he was actually getting. But you didn’t want to be with your thoughts. Despite not being even remotely close to the man now leaving you behind, you reached out for him. “Hey Wilbur?” He turned to look at you. "Can you stay? Just for tonight, please. I don't want to be alone after that."

You watched his brown eyes brighten and a boyish grin overtake his lips. It reminded you of Tommy’s. You briefly wondered if his mood always swung this dramatically. “I'll stay for as long as you need." He made his way to sit with you and you added another log to the fire, sitting up so the rock digging into your spine shifted away. Wilbur sat across from you, his presence immediately making you relax.

"So, Mr. Leader," You taunted once more, "What was the secret mission?"

In the coming days, you and Wilbur spent more time together. He’d tell you the most random facts about himself whilst you two worked, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pay it any mind.

-

"Hey [y/n], guess what?"

"Hm?"

"I was born on September 14th. That makes me a Virgo."

-

"Did you know I can play guitar?"

"I think everyone knows that about you, Wilbur. Why do you ask?"

"I just thought you might wanna hear me play you something sometime..."

-

"You know, I was once married to this wonderful salmon named Sally. You remind me of her sometimes."

-

“With you on our side, [y/n], I know that we’re going to win L’manburg back. And I promise you’ll have a spot in my cabinet.”

It was decided. Techno and yourself would attend the festival while Wilbur and Tommy hung back and watched from a safe distance. You were nervous. A bad feeling grew like a stone in your stomach as they all prepared.

"Hey [y/n], come here a moment, will you?" Sighing as you stood from the chest you were going through, you felt your back pop in a few different places and you hissed before walking to where Wilbur stood. It was silent in the ravine, everyone just as anxious about the festival as you.

"Yeah?" You asked, resting a hand on his arm as you peeked around him at the paper on the table. It was a map of Manburg with “x”s scattered across it.

"Are you prepared?" He glanced down at you, watching the crease in your eyebrows deepen as you examined the plans.

"Mhm." You hummed, finally looking up at him. His eyes were so warm when they looked at you, just like Techno’s. Even if he didn’t have a smile, they were always filled with that same warmth that made you feel important. The two were more like brothers than either cared to admit. "Why?"

"Can I tell you something and you keep it a secret from Tommy and Techno?" Everything around you felt like it had stilled. Everything waiting for the other shoe to drop. The stone suddenly felt heavier.

"What is it?” He continued looking at you and you found it almost hard to breathe. "Wilbur?"

His hand reached to cup your cheek gently. They weren’t calloused like Technoblade’s. They were the hands of a poet, of a musician, of someone whose hand reached for the quill not the sword. They smelled of gunpowder. Your heart felt like it was in your throat when you realized what all of those “x”s were.

“You would risk letting all those people die just so you could have L’manburg back? Why?”

His voice came out hoarse when he finally brought himself to speak. "Because if I can’t have it, no one can, [y/n]. I'm so sorry."

Your lips trembled. You thought of all of the innocent people who would never see it coming. You thought of Tommy and Techno, getting ready in another part of the ravine who wouldn’t know until it was too late. You thought of the man before you who probably felt like he was doomed to keep repeating this action again and again. When had blowing something up ever worked in his past lifetimes? He had to know that this was crazy, right?

Wilbur continued to stare at your frightened face for a moment. He looked so serious. His dark eyebrows drawn together and lips turned just the slightest bit downward. But his eyes? The warmth that filled them seemed to be slowly draining and being replaced with dark melancholy. You hated that look on him and drew your hand up to hold the one cradling your face. “You don’t have to do this, y’know. There is always another way.”

Wilbur stepped forward, pulling you into an embrace that smelled of cedar and leather. His hand left your cheek to instead hold your head to his chest. You didn’t like this hug. This hug felt like he knew things were going to go horribly wrong and he didn’t want you to see the aftermath of it. “If there were one, we would have found it by now.”

Your hands gripped the soft material of his trench coat and you pressed your face into his sweater. You didn’t want this. You were happy to help where you could, but you didn’t want to be a part of the destruction of a nation. You just wanted to help your friends overthrow a tyrant. “I wish I were as brave as you, Wil.”

The soft huff of a chuckle reverberated through his chest as he squeezed you tighter. “Did you know that that’s the first time you’ve called me something other than my name?” His voice was uplifted at the end. He almost sounded happy by the thought. It was squashed when he sighed, pressing his face into your hair. “I wouldn’t call it bravery, though. Still, I promise that we’ll all end up on the other side of this together.”

You tilted your head up a bit to look at him. “Where else would we be?”

He didn’t answer you, just held you tighter.

If there was one thing Wilbur couldn’t describe himself as, it was good.

In previous lives, he had been a cruel, sadistic god. He forced hundreds of people to compete for his entertainment. They were rats, moles, ants, sometimes even just humans while he played the part of omnipotent creator. He had been a king sometimes, or a hero. And time and time again, he was just an older brother. But no matter what, he couldn’t seem to save the people who loved him the most. He couldn’t protect the ones who looked up to him; be it because he found sick joy in their deaths, or because he wasn’t strong enough.

He never felt strong enough.

When Technoblade had told him of the strange person whom he had met in the nether, he almost brushed it off. There was no way he had met someone whom he hadn’t shared at least one lifetime with. There was no such thing as new players who weren’t just NPCs.

However, when you stepped into the ravine, inventory absolutely filled with different items that you just willingly handed over to the pink haired hybrid with a smile, he was utterly floored. The curve of your lips, the tone of your voice, even the look in your eyes were all new to him. He had never once met you.

He approached the two of you with hurried steps, wondering what kind of trick you were playing, only to freeze when you turned your gaze to him. He could hear his own blood rushing through his ears and, for a moment, he wondered if you could hear it too. The expression you wore unnerved him. It was as if you had seen every lifetime, every possibility. Yet you still had the nerve to smile shyly at him. When you waved at him in silent greeting, he knew Technoblade had been completely correct in his assumption. Your lives were missing from your wrist.

You were an investment.

But no one made him feel as powerless as you did.

You were able to try things over and over and over again. You weren’t held back by memories of mistakes or fears. The tiny flits of trauma they all seemed to feel were just… absent in your being. You were unapologetic about running errands in Manburg and doing reconnaissance whilst you were out, seemingly unafraid during the recounts you had given him of meeting Schlatt and Tubbo for the first time.

And this seemed to hold true in your interactions with Tubbo. He didn’t treat you with the same feral energy he shared with Tommy or the attitude he put forth for his leaders. When you weren’t spending almost every waking moment with Technoblade, the soft murmur of your soft voices being heard through the stone walls that led to the farm, you were interacting with one or both of the teenagers that helped fuel the rebellion. Tubbo told you about new ideas he had, or described to you his day, or even just explained to you things that even he himself knew he would have trouble understanding, despite Tubbo being the one to explain them. Wilbur noticed that you just did that. You listened patiently while someone talked, despite the knowing look in your eye that made him feel like you already knew exactly what they were about to say. And this seemed to carry over into your relationship with Tommy.

You paid rapt attention to the blond, reminding him that even if he was still technically a child, that doesn’t mean he didn’t deserve to be listened to. The oddest part he found, though? Tommy actually returned the favor in kind. It wasn’t so much that you would go on long-winded tangents and he’d be forced to sit there and listen. It was that when you asked or told the sixteen year old to do something, he did it without too much of a fight. That’s not to say he wouldn’t talk back to you, he did almost every time, but it was the point that he would still do what you said without much hesitation. And every single time, Wilbur felt the sharpest stab of envy.

He had questioned Tommy after the first couple instances of it happening before him. He had cornered the very person who had been his younger brother in many previous lives against the cold stone wall on one of the walk ways while you and Techno were out gathering things from the nether and demanded to know why. However, the young soldier just shrugged in response. “They just usually have very fun ideas.” He had stared long and hard at the blonde, the other fiddling with the hem of his dirty shirt. He made a mental note to ask if you’d be willing to do laundry for them when you next went to Manburg. “That and…”

“And?” Wilbur had immediately prompted, knowing the time he had to question the younger was running short.

“They just have that tone of voice. And something makes me feel like I should listen when they tell me to do something.” Wilbur rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to berate him. “Sometimes it feels like they know way more than they should. Like they already know what’s going to happen.”

The brunet’s words died on his tongue.

They all felt like that.

But if you knew so much, why did you never talk about any of your past lives like the rest of them did? If you knew what was going to happen, why were you so patient and let them make mistake after mistake?

The thought sat bitterly at the forefront of his mind as he pat himself off, having fallen off the side of the walkway yet again. He almost regretted removing the child-proofing, but he was an adult, and he didn’t need them, and he certainly wasn’t going to recant his insistence that they didn’t need them. He turned when he heard shifting and saw you slumped against the side of the ravine.

In the dim lighting, you looked different. You were cuddled under a thin blanket, eyebrows furrowed and mouth pressed into a pout that reminded him of a child. He must have awoken you. You looked rather cute like this, though.

He smiled at you despite himself. He was still a little hesitant about being around you. He didn’t need help in his daily activities like Technoblade, he didn’t need a guiding hand like Tommy, and he felt plenty listened to daily, unlike Tubbo.

But somehow, he didn’t feel as loved as you were.

“Oh hey, sorry for waking you.” The words had slipped from his mouth before he had had a chance to stop them. Now he’d be forced to converse with you. He watched your eyes look away from him, even in the dim light.

"It wasn’t a very good dream.” You didn’t have good dreams? What was there to have a nightmare of? He tucked that piece of information away for later, your eyes were back on him. “What were you doing out? On a secret mission?”

His mood immediately dropped, especially when he saw the mocking grin that planted itself on your face. It was as if this were a game to you. “Every mission we pursue is a secret one, you of all people should know that.”

The grin just grew and he felt his chest tighten. How could you act so lax when you seemed to know exactly what happened when he was out there? He turned to walk back to his desk to write about the events that had transpired and quell his anger. He wasn’t truly upset with you, he knew that, and he didn’t want to take that out on the one person that seemed to be holding together his fellow usurpers, but you almost irritated him. His soft steps reverberated through their base.

“Hey Wilbur?”

His steps faltered. Despite your previous mood, you suddenly sounded so small. Afraid. He looked at you from over his shoulder and was surprised to see your extended hand.

“Can you stay for tonight? I don’t want to be alone after that.”

A new feeling sparked in him.

You wanted him? The one who had been so helpful for everyone else, to the cause, even to him on occasion, needed his help? How bad had your dream been? You looked so distraught, so powerless. He didn’t feel so weak when you looked at him like that.

“I’ll stay for as long as you need.” Your eyes held a warmth that could rival the fire in front of them. You moved to feed it and he sat across from you. You two weren’t close in either sense of emotionally or physically.

When had that changed?

He felt compelled to check up on you more after that night, use you as the investment that he believed you to be. No one in Manburg knew of your status, and he was planning on using it to their advantage.

Or, he had been.

But you made him feel safe about sharing things about himself. You were easy to talk to, easy to work around, easy to listen to. You would have been so easy to use.

Maybe that’s why he told you of the plan he and Tubbo had come up with.

You had found your way into much more than his good graces, just like the rest of them, and he didn’t want you to get caught in the crossfire. You were so susceptible to influence, he feared you’d start to see him as a villain. He knew what people would say about him. He wanted you to know his thoughts and feelings before you could be tainted by their remarks.

He had shared memories with you before. They all had. Words seemed to fall unencumbered whenever you were around and they were all victim to it. But you hadn’t judged any of them on the actions they had taken in their previous lives. You didn’t even judge them on the actions they had taken in this one. Despite this, he was still scared you’d be turned against him if he wasn’t the one to tell you.

“I think everyone deserves a chance to prove themselves.”

It was his turn to prove that they were fighting for the right side.

[space-city-traffic]

yet again im back on my bullshit so... (gazes with mixed feelings at the TV show Firefly) i could fix him.

my extremely long thoughts about my Own Personal Good Version of Firefly (with plenty of spoilers for the show and the movie) under the cut:

things that are getting axed first thing no question:

out with the whole “let’s add in a thin veneer of Chinese cultural aesthetics out of context for ~flavor~” deal. just no.

instead, let’s hire some actors from a bunch of different cultures and work with them to figure out how their characters would bring those cultures into space with them!! and also hopefully bring some experiences with immigration/alienation/travel into it, since the Whole Core of Firefly is about how humanity always brings our doomed and silly and stubborn and unique warmth with us even into the cold void where nothing is familiar or homey in the slightest.

let’s respect our sex worker character shall we?

i do appreciate that Inara’s work as a companion is described as legitimate and well respected in the show. however please stop having your captain and hero call her a wh*re every five seconds against her clearly expressed wishes and portraying this as just a totally acceptable thing

let’s be more respectful of our characters of color and also have some more diversity, shall we?

others have put it better than me but yeah, the way Zoe and Book are treated is very uncomfy, and the rest of the show is depressingly monochromatic. come on let’s do better.

stop the weird confederacy hat tips

again others have pointed these out with much more thoroughness than I could, but the names of some characters and locations, as well as some of the language used to describe the browncoats, has uncomfortably confederate vibes. instead i propose we very Clearly tip our hats to the Alliance equaling space capitalism instead! you can’t go wrong with space capitalism as a villain.

don’t! make! the! psychotic! character! violent!

listen i love River Tam with my whole heart. but you should absolutely not portray your only character with psychosis as violent because of that psychosis!!!!!!! and yeah, a huge part of her character is that her brain got fucked up by the alliance and so she hallucinates and is also a super ninja. but like. she doesn’t need to be a super ninja for her character to work, okay? the crew does not need to be scared of her for her character to work, okay??? more on this later bc it would take a lot of care and nuance to make her character work but i really think it can be done

things we are absolutely keeping:

found family tropes my fucking beloved

this should be self evident. this is why the show is as appealing as it is despite its flaws, at least in my eyes.

malcolm reynolds, the knight in dusty armor

there’s something so appealing to me about what Mal stands for. because at his core is this ridiculous, silly, stubborn, doomed devotion to what he thinks is important and right, a romantic idealism thinly covered by cynical cowboy platitudes that he thinks make his bleeding heart totally invisible. and he is so obvious and entirely incorrect. bless. this is a man who will do anything for his family, who charges into swordfights to defend his friend from a man who wants to turn her into an object despite having no clue how to hold a sword. at his worst, he starts brawls in bars just for the martyr’s thrill of being persecuted for supporting the right; at his best, he inspires downright religious belief from his crew because he represents a romantic and chivalrous and doomed dedication to the right thing over any practical concerns. and then he throws a “selfish” quip over it with 100% confidence that everyone fell for his clever distraction and believes him to be a dirtbag. he’s oblivious and ridiculous and god he makes me want to be a better person because he’s just so goddamned sincere. stupid, but sincere. 10/10 himbo. <3

Mal and Inara ultraslowburn friends to enemies to friends to lovers to enemies to friends to lovers to friends to...

there’s nothing i love more than a ship that’s just two people who know each other way too well, and they’re each the only one who knows the other well enough to call them out on their bullshit. the way Mal and Inara interact in the show sometimes makes me uncomfy but like. the core of their relationship has to stay.

space western aesthetic

i need the cows on a spaceship scene to stay like i need air okay

that sweet sweet religious shit

mal, who lost his faith in gd and a whole lot else during the war. who lost his faith in himself, and now feels he has to hide the part of him that still wants to be good, because he knows he can’t be anymore, and he feels like it’s embarrassing for a guy like him to want something so unattainable. who takes a preacher on board, and the preacher has lost something, too. the preacher has his own past, and his own questions. but not questions like the observant neurodivergent girl, the one who wants to interact with and understand this thing that’s so important to him, but it just doesn’t click with how her brain works and she feels like something needs to be fixed, either the Bible or herself. and Mal takes care of them all, and slowly, he begins to find gd again, not in a prayer but in humanity. humanity doesn’t need to be fixed, like the alliance thinks. the shining imperfect strawberry sweetness of it in his family’s smiles is something to be worshiped and served and devoted to. and he finds he has something to believe in again. (and his crew find that he’s given them someone to believe in, too. and maybe suddenly he’s a saint.)

and finally, my brilliant ideas as to what i would like to add:

TRANS WOMAN KAYLEE RIGHTS

listen her femininity is so important to me okay? it’s so thrilled about everything that’s pretty, from dresses to the spaceship’s electric innards, and it’s so non-traditional and grease stained until it’s not and it’s pink and ruffly and twirly, and she never sees any of it as a contradiction, because none of it contradicts, it’s all just her! her gender is warmth and love and prettiness, feeling pretty and appreciating the pretty and making her friends’ days pretty too.

i want us to find out she’s trans in that episode with the ball, and i want us to find out alongside Mal who just never asked or never realized. Kaylee gasps and squeals at the dress in the shop window and Mal makes an off handed, ill considered comment, and then... someone yanks him aside and hisses a few very significant words in his ear. and suddenly he remembers what the blue white and pink she painted all over the engine room means, and he knows he has something to make right. so he buys her that dress himself and lets her know just how pretty she looks, and when he walks into that ball with her displayed on his arm like something precious, he looks the proudest out of any man there. and she notices. for a few seconds, of course, until there’s chocolate, and ‘nara, and a chandelier—and some horrible girls, but she’s used to that, until—suddenly, she finds her people. a group of old men who light up when she jokes about compression coils and whack presumptuous boys who ask her to dance. they adopt her as a treasured granddaughter, and Mal is beaming at her like a proud dad, and she finds that one of her new elderly friends gazes a little too long at her bracelet, and so she gives it to xem and teaches xem a few new words, and... it’s a good day, huh? it’s a really good day. (of course, then the captain has to go and punch somebody in the face, but it was a real nice party up until then.)

also she and Simon are both transhet t4t im correct and you know it

time for a better River Tam

the first thing we’ve established is that this version of her is not unpredictably violent and the crew is not scared of her!!!! it makes no sense to take a kid who’s primarily brilliant, experiment on her brain, give her telepathic powers....... and tack on the fact that she also has super strength and speed and dexterity and what not, AND say that they programmed her to be super violent. no! no. not only is that extremely harmful rep, that’s also just stupid.

instead!! my version of River is in fact not terrifying to the crew, but is actually the one they feel safest around. River has always been totally blunt, she was one of those kids you could tell realllllly early was autistic, and she doesn’t like being disengenous at all. so you can always trust her to tell the truth and not play weird passive aggressive games or have any hidden agenda, which makes her just a really chill person to be around. also, one of her longtime special interests is music and dance, so whether or not she’s nonverbal on a given day, there will always be some sort of beautiful sound when she’s around. she does have the singing voice of a dying crow unfortunately but that’s ok bc Simon’s is even worse and they’re both incredibly competitive so you’ll at least get free entertainment out of the affair.

my version of River does have psychosis and hallucinations because of the trauma of the experiments, and they are really troubling to her. she and Simon work together to find ways to cope and meds that help, and it’s a process, but there are some things that help.

the only thing she gained from the academy was the ability to hear people’s thoughts and sense the future a little bit. and yeah, that led to her picking up a few spooky secrets at the beginning, which, yikes. and for a while, it was hard to figure out which voices were real and which were hallucinations. but around her friends, she always feels safe to ask “did you just think about triple cheese burritos or was that just a me thing?”, and they’ll always tell her the truth no matter how embarrassing their thoughts are, bc it’s important to all of them to respect her and help her sort accurately through what’s reality and what’s not. and bit by bit, she gets better and better at figuring out what kinds of things tend to be telepathy and what kinds of things tend to be psychosis, and that each one feels a little different. and because of the trust and respect and support of her found family she’s able to do that in a safe environment!!!

trans man Simon rights

listen i wanted to keep him as just a side note on Kaylee’s list but he is my son and he’s important to my heart so here goes

out on the outer rim where Kaylee’s from, gender ain’t much of a big deal, there’s an individualistic quality to life out there, and so if the trail you blaze is the trail of a woman or a man or neither or both, that’s respected even in the rare cases where it’s not outright encouraged. but in the inner planets, where competition and connections and public faces and family names are everything, you have to be what’s expected of you to survive. you can’t change your brand, you can’t be anything other than what your family planned for you since before you were born, it’s incredibly hard to survive in such a hyper competitive environment, and so your very identity becomes just a tool in how to market yourself for better success.

needless to say Simon (just as autistic as his little sister and also very trans) fuckin hated it there. but he was very good at it. correction: he was very good at his very specific field of STEM, good enough to where people stopped talking about how cute he looked in bows and started talking about how impressive his work was from a very young age. and his work had no gender. he could be whatever he wanted to in equations. so that was where he could express himself, and gd, he got so much praise for it, he never wanted to stop.

not until he discovered that his sister needed him, and ran away, and needed a disguise, and realized... suddenly, every stifling rule and prying eye was a million miles away. he was freefloating, freefalling, with none of the charted paths he’d been following all his life... so you know what? fuck it. he’s always enjoyed the name Simon. and since it’s not on any legal records, it’ll make him just that much more untraceable.

and on Serenity, starting over with new people who never knew him before his transition feels like an unbelievable blessing that just dropped right into his lap. he has to keep up the secrecy, he has to make sure they never find out who he used to be, because gd, it’s so nice when they look at him and say his name right, and he doesn’t know if he can handle losing that, not when it’s so new and so important to the person he’s finally becoming. but then one day, the unthinkable happens, the wanted posters for his arrest have an old name on them, they’re looking for the Tam sisters, and... nothing changes. the crew of Serenity could not give even a tenth of a percent of a fuck, and it doesn’t seem like they even know they’re supposed to. huh. that’s new. Simon could get used to that, he thinks.

i’m sure there’s more i could add, but it’s 4:30 in the morning now, so if more occurs to me, ill simply add it in a reblog tomorrow. if you’ve read down this far, i am in love with you. please let me know your Better Firefly ideas, too, bc im always down to yell about this show!!!

[kuroo-shitsurou]

Shooting Stars (Childe x Fem!Reader)

note: honestly, no one asked for this. this is obviously self-indulgent, but god FUCK do i love that ginger fatui man so much.

word count: 2.6k

"Careful now."

Childe's voice was calming, much like the gust of wind that blew past your hair. You saw his hand in front of you and you gladly grasped it, heart racing at the idea of falling to your death. The wind was calm and the air was refreshing, but there was nothing light about the pit in your stomach screaming at you to just carefully glide back down to the foot of the mountain you two were climbing.

"You aren't going to die, dear." He laughed, amused at the sight of your face.

"And what if I do? Childe, this isn't funny!" Your knees were planted firmly on one of the floating rocks just above Qingyun Peak. You grimaced at how the moss scraped against your bare knees, but you felt paralyzed with fear at the thought of falling because you knew better than to trust your clumsy nature.

"I'm not letting you fall. Trust me!" The genuine concern and reassurance in his voice was masked with his charming playfulness, and you couldn't help but sigh and stand up to follow him up to the floating island up ahead.

Childe requested to occupy your entire day earlier that morning, saying something about him showing you a beautiful sight that's sure to take your breath away. You agreed, entertaining his idea of a beautiful sight. After sparring with him in the golden house, eating a sumptuous lunch at Wanmin Restaurant, then sparring with him again, you two headed over to Qingyun Peak. The sun was about to set, and your eyes were mesmerized by how the purple hues above your head covered the entirety of Liyue.

The golden hour was nearly over, and here you were, scared out of your mind, with Childe leading you up a path of floating rock chunks that you were sure would collapse if two of you stepped on one at the same time. However, much to your surprise, they didn't.

"I've got you, okay?" Your companion's voice rang in your ears, and you didn't notice that he stepped down from his current platform to take his rightful place beside you. His right hand was still holding yours, and he used his free hand to rub gentle circles on your lower back to comfort you. You breathed in his scent- a mix of dried sweat and blood with a hint of his perfume clinging to the fabric of his collar. It was a familiar scent, something that soothed you despite being thousands of feet in the air with no stable architecture to calm your nerves. You just had to trust that the Adepti architectures knew what they were doing when they built this pavilion.

"Okay," You whispered to him.

Surprisingly, the climb was easier than you initially expected. It did help that Childe was almost carrying you the rest of the way, but leaning into him was inevitable and unavoidable. It wasn't because you wanted to be buried deeper into his chest while he held you close to the point that the exposed skin on your lower back was starting to burn because his clothed fingers were just lingering there. No, definitely not that. You were simply prioritizing your safety.

"See? It wasn't that hard, right?"

"You could have told me that we'd be heading to the pavilion. I could have mentally prepared myself for the climb."

"Mentally prepare? I'm quite sure that clinging onto me the whole time put you at ease, hm?" You wanted to wipe the smug grin off his pretty face.

"Shut up before I make you, fatui."

He let out a hearty laugh, throwing his head back and clutching his sides.

"You're honestly too adorable for your own good." He stepped closer and moved the hair out of your face as you felt another strong breeze blow by.

"I said shut it!" You felt a rush of heat spread across your cheeks as his eyes scanned your flustered figure.

"Here, take a seat." He motioned to the stone seat facing the sunset. "I did tell you that I'd show you a beautiful sight tonight."

"I trust your taste, so it better be worth it."

"When have I ever lied to you?"

You shot him a look. As you were about to open your mouth to speak, he quickly interjected with a defeated sigh.

"Don't even answer that." You could only chuckle as he sat down beside you, inching closer and closer until your shoulders were brushing against each other. This wasn't really the first time that you and him have been this close with each other.

You and Childe have a... complex relationship, simply put. It's not like you were dating, but the way he treated you- with respect, with care, with love; You wanted to melt in his arms as easily as you could fight him with your sword. You weren't really sure if Childe had romantic feelings for you because he never really talked about it, but you could only go off on his actions, and they directed to the one conclusion that he did have feelings for you.

However, as your former partner in research, Albedo, once said, "Do not assume unless stated otherwise. Logic and officiality back facts as much as they debunk assumptions." In reality, it was so easy to understand. Theoretically, it was easier. However, now that you were there in that position where all signs pointed to Childe having romantic feelings for you, you didn't know what to believe in.

Did you want to trust your gut instinct, or did you want to wait until Childe made it official and clear? It was a mindboggling situation for you because you also found yourself enamored by him.

Why... Why were you even enamored in the first place?

Maybe it was because you adored how he talked about his family. You could just listen to him for hours on end as he fondly tells you the tales of his adventures with Tonia, Anthon, and Teucer. It was the way that his deep cerulean eyes lit up whenever you asked about short anecdotes about his family that he could comfortably share with you. He adored his family so much that it made you feel... jealous. Aether was your only family, and you were still on the pursuit to finding him, so you were envious of how Childe could still visit his family back in Snezhnaya if he wanted to. You? You weren't even sure if your brother was still in Teyvat.

Maybe it was how he always tended to your wounds after each time you sparred. Although Childe claims that he's nothing more than a bloodthirsty hound who wishes for nothing but power and glory, he really can't stand seeing you with an open wound or a bleeding nose. While Childe is primarily the reason behind your injuries, he'd also be the first to bring you gauzes, band-aids, and medicine from Bubu Pharmacy. You'd always be touched since he tends to you first before he paid any mind to the bruises and cuts that adorned his skin.

"Your health is my priority, comrade. After all. who else could match my skills in combat if not you? That's why you better take care of yourself, or better yet, allow me to take care of you instead." His words echoed in your head, and you blushed, realizing the possible implications of his statement.

Maybe it was his surprisingly sharp memory. Though Childe could never compare to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor's Consultant, Zhongli, he would often shock you at how he remembered things so well- especially when it came to you. One time, for your birthday, he bought you a necklace with your birthstone as the main gem adorning the fabric. You only ever mentioned your birthday once, and it was at an awkward moment during Hu Tao's birthday celebration, that's why you didn't think Childe would remember it at all.

"I pay attention to you more than you think, dear. I also happen to store things in my memory bank if they're that important to me." You remembered how he laughed as he insisted on putting the necklace on for you. Your hand instinctively latched on to the beautiful gem resting on your chest.

Maybe it was the way he called for your name. Whether he said your name in a battle cry, as a greeting, or in the middle of him teasing you, you were absolutely intoxicated with the way that your name rolled off his tongue. The way the syllables just always seemed so right when it was Childe who spoke them. Often, he would call you comrade, dear, or another endearing nickname he managed to create on the fly. However, when he spoke your name, it was always magical for you.

"Happy birthday, dear _____. I hope you enjoy this present!"

"It seems as though you've defeated me today. No matter, _____. I'm sure I'll triumph over you tomorrow."

"You look lovely as always, _____. Want to spar with me?"

"_____."

"_____."

"_____."

You were snapped out of your little daze. Your name being called over and over again wasn't just a hallucination caused by your infatuation with the eleventh harbinger. He was actually calling for you.

"Hey, _____? Are you feeling okay?" You blinked a few times before you realized that his blue eyes were practically puncturing your own. They were glazed over with concern, a sign that he had been calling you for a while now.

"O-Oh, I'm sorry!" You jolted, straightening your posture. "I was just fascinated by the sky, is all. I didn't mean to startle you."

"The sky, you say? Were you really thinking of the sky? Perhaps you were thinking about me instead?" His tone was teasing, a little more relaxed now that he knew you weren't feeling ill.

"The sunset was lovely. Although I see it everyday in Liyue Harbor, viewing it from up here in the pavilion is truly sensational. Thank you, Childe." You spoke, ignoring his attempt at riling you up. Of course, you were also ignoring the fact that he hit the nail right on the head with his guess.

"You didn't deny it, girlie." His voice was like a melody in your ears, a sweet harmony that made you feel elated. Anyway, why would you deny it? You were a woman of principle, which means you detested lying. It doesn't count as lying if you neither confirmed nor denied his guess, right? Right, keep telling yourself that.

"Don't flatter yourself." Your curt reply was met by another laugh.

"It should be anytime now," His words met the wind and your unknowing ears.

"What is?"

"Let's just wait for a few moments. I took you up here to see something more than just the sunset, after all." He gave you a wink, to which you just huffed and turned your crimson face.

A few moments passed, and Childe was already bouncing his leg up and down; Something you knew he only did when he was anxious or frustrated about something.

"Is something the matter?" You asked, watching his face grimace.

"Ah, perhaps my predictions were wrong." He stood up to stretch. "We were supposed to see something more than just the sunset, but perhaps Celestia just didn't want our little date to go as smoothly as I initially planned."

Hang on.

Date?

This was a date?

Your heart was racing and your mind began to fill itself with unanswered questions, but Childe knew better than to keep you waiting more than you already were.

"Hey, darling?" Your stomach dropped at the use of this nickname. "Do me a favor. Focus on the sky and don't look away until I say so."

You gave him a nod, unable to form the words that would suffice as a comprehensible sentence. He had you tongue-tied with just a simple nickname.

He walked away from where you were seated, just a few paces to your right and a couple of steps back. He was far enough to the point where you couldn't see him in your peripheral, but close enough for you to hear the jiggling of the adornments and chains on his clothes. You knew that sound even if it came from a mile away. You had it memorized by heart because of how many times you heard it before your sparring sessions began.

He took out his bow and was aiming to shoot an arrow.

Admittedly, there was a little voice at the back of your mind warning you about the potential danger just a couple of feet away from you. However, you decided to fight against it, knowing that the "potential danger" was just Childe. He'd never hurt you, right?

Despite the trust that you put in the ginger, you still closed your eyes as you heard him release the string of his bow. The quiet whizz of the arrow flew by your head, and when you realized that he wasn't shooting at you, you carefully opened your eyes to see a bright blue arrow shooting across the sky.

Your mouth went agape at the consecutive hydro-infused arrows flying across the velvet sky bedazzled with stars. The moon's glow illuminated the scenery, which made the setting all the more romantic and intimate. The vibrant hues of green and blue mixed with each other in the sky, creating an aurora borealis.

You were marveling at the number of arrows crossing the sky.

They were like shooting stars, except... they reminded you of Childe.

Though you knew they were only faux shooting stars, you closed your eyes.

"Archons, if you could be so kind, please allow me to be with him." You whispered to yourself.

You then opened your eyes to see the last arrow slowly fading away from your vision, and the hydro vision holder you loved so much sheepishly standing in front of you.

"I thought that the shooting stars would be visible tonight, that's why I asked you to come with me up here. Turns out my predictions were wrong. Maybe Scaramouche was right about the stars being a lie." He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

You giggled and looked at him, signaling to continue what he had to say.

"Although they were fake, I hope you liked them. I brought you here so that we could wish on the shooting stars together." His face was growing red, and you wanted to run up and hug him, if only your pride would stop getting the best of you.

"I loved them, Childe. Thank you for asking me out here today." You stood up and gave his hair a light ruffle, laughing at how he mocked you for doing so.

"So, what did you wish for?" He asked, taking a few steps closer to you.

"W-Well, uh," You began to stumble on your words, which caused you to involuntarily take a step back. With each step you took, Childe did too.

"Hmm?"

He managed to back you up against the pillar in the middle of the pavilion, and was enjoying the face you made as he trapped you between his arms.

"F-For good health! Yes, good health!" Yes, lying was against your principles, but you couldn't just say straight to his face that you wished for a relationship with him now, could you?

"Good for you then. You wanna know what I wished for?" His face came extremely close to yours, and you could feel his breath on your cheek.

"Wh-What is it?"

"You."

Your eyes once again met his deep blue orbs and they softened when he was staring straight into your soul.

"Can I kiss you?"

You gave a light nod, and he finally closed the gap between your lips.

Albedo was wrong.

You can definitely believe an assumption if the signs were obvious enough.

Omake;

"You totally wished for us to be together right?!"

"Oh, for the love of the Tsaritsa, please shut up!"

"You totally did!"

"I am seriously going to push you off."

"You're so mean, girlie!"

In the name of Kimura Ryohei being the VA of Childe and Kise from Kuroko no Basket

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Faded

Averykedavra prompt: okay, first of all, can I be added to your taglist? I love your fics! secondly, if you're open to prompts (apologies if you're not) could you write some logan-centric hurt/comfort? with roman and maybe Virgil comforting him? no pressure, but thanks!! and again your fics are absolutely incredible

Thanks for the prompt babe you’re an icon ^_^

Read on Ao3

Warnings: Logan’s not feeling so great, so self-doubt, self-esteem issues, all that jazz

Pairings: depending on how you want to read it, logince, analogical, possible prinxiety, analogince, or just hella platonic. My aro ass doesn’t know anymore you choose

Word Count: 4237

When a Side's role is disregarded, their door fades from the hallway.

Logan...do the others really need Logan?

Or just Logic?

 “Neato! So you're making your little factoids optional this time around.”

 Thank Archimedes the little pixelated boxes didn’t allow for much dynamic character interaction.

 Logan swallows and tries to keep going, growing more concerned that the lump in his throat would make it impossible to speak. But he can do this. For Thomas, he can do this. He has to.

 “Oh, I’ve got this one, guys!”

 ‘IGNORANT’ flashes up in front of him in big, red letters. Almost immediately he can hear the scoldings of Thomas and Patton followed by Roman’s mumbled apology but it’s too late. The word sears itself into his brain and he can’t see anything other than the choice that they’ve made.

 He swallows again. Alright. He’ll speak directly to the audience. Thomas has to listen to them eventually, doesn’t he?

 …well, maybe, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting every time he pops up with something and it’s completely ignored. He tries to appeal to Patton’s sense of humor. He tries to give Roman something when he can’t find the right words. He tries to give Thomas something, anything.

 Then he gets overexcited and pushes Patton into the blinds.

 The second Roman’s sword flashes out and slices him neatly in two a searing bolt of pain spreads to his arms, to his chest, to his throat. He knows logically—he knows everything logically—he can’t be hurt by that. It isn’t him. He is not connected in any way physically to these lowdowns.

 So why are his hands shaking?

 This is so ridiculous. He is Logic. He should not be working like this, he should not be reacting like this. This is logically the next step, he must simply not be out of the adjustment process yet. Which is ridiculous in and of itself, has he not mentioned several times over that the presence of the others imbeds Thomas’s ability to think rationally and calmly about the issues they have to face? Has he not himself wondered that if he were not so…undone by being in the same room that he finds it difficult to keep going when he needs to? Shouldn’t this be better?

 “You know I'm- I'm not doing a really great job explaining this philosophy. Um, Logan?”

 Patton? Logan pops up.

 Patton smiles—smiles?—at him as the box appears at the bottom of the screen. From this angle, he can’t see Roman or Thomas. What’s happening? Why hasn’t he been paying better attention?

 Why can’t he focus?

 “What would a real philosopher think about what I'm saying here?”

 Oh. Oh, no. This isn’t going to be good, is it?

 “Well, Frederich Nietzsche really wouldn't have been thrilled with anything you've had to say, primarily because pity seems to be at the center of your idea of ‘putting good into the world.’”

 “Th-that's not what—“

 “Nietzsche famously rejected the notion that pity was a virtue.”

 “Okay,” comes the quiet mumble that, really, should’ve told him to stop talking now, he wasn’t being useful anymore.

 But no. Logan was never very good at being quiet, now was he?

 “He once claimed that pity ‘runs counter to the instincts that preserve and enhance the value of life…’”

 Last chance, Logan, something in his head whispers as something else flashes in the corner of his vision.

  ‘Skip all.’

 But they would never do that, right? They knew, somewhere, because Thomas knew, that you had to listen to Logic. You had to listen, at some point, because if you didn’t, what did you have? They would shake their heads or grumble in annoyance, or cut him off when he’d been talking for too long or ask him to be quiet, but they’d never skip him entirely, cut him out of the conversation, would they?

 Patton’s finger presses the button and something of unyielding cold wraps around Logan’s neck.

 He flails as it yanks, jerking back awake with his eyes open, out of the boxes, out of the video, at his desk, staring at the screen as his lowdown program blocks him out.

 No.

 No!

 What happened? Why did they—is he—can he—

 Why didn’t they want to listen?

 Logan’s fingers fly over the keyboard in front of him, searching desperately for an answer. Maybe he programmed this wrong. Admittedly he’s a little new at programming so he could’ve messed something up that disconnected him. Maybe Patton clicked it by mistake. Why was there even a ‘skip all’ button to begin with? He doesn’t remember programming that. And what was it that wrapped around his throat?

 His hand goes to his neck at the mere memory of the horrible thing that yanked him out. He winces when his fingers slide of patches of warm, inflamed skin. It…it actually hurt. It left a mark.

 What—

 The instant his lowdown pops up with his face, he knows.

 It shouldn’t hurt. Really. This shouldn’t hurt.

 Now perhaps Deceit could see what it was like to be Logic. Or at least to try and be Logic.

 Now perhaps…perhaps he may have someone to talk to.

 No.

 Deceit was, in fact, far better at being Logic. Within an instant, he’d gotten the conversation to his side, gotten the others to listen, to think about what they were saying instead of just following on blind faith.

 Of course.

 Because it wasn’t Logic they didn’t want to listen to, was it?

 It was Logan.

 Logan closes his eyes. Alright. He can adapt to this. He can…he can work with this. He just has to figure out how.

 He turns away from the computer, stands, and carefully makes his way across his room to the nightstand, where the emergency first-aid kit sits tucked in the drawer. He will patch himself up, best he can, and then figure out what to do.

 He’s too distracted to hear Roman’s terrified shout.

  “What have you done with Logan?”

———————————————————

A few hours after filming stops, there’s a very soft knock on Logan’s door. He doesn’t move from his desk, nor does he pause in his typing. False sympathies and empty comforts have never been very appealing.

 …and he is just the slightest bit worried that he won’t be able to resist the urge to slam the door in Patton’s face.

 Footsteps moving away sound from outside. Good. It’s better this way, isn’t it?

 The lowdowns didn’t work. Well, they did…but they worked a little too well, didn’t they? Instead of being less invasive, they just…cut Logan’s contributions out entirely. They let Logan be taken. They were good for Logic, not Logan.

 Logan’s head turns to the wall where he has two lists tacked up. Standing, the desk chair scraping behind him, he picks up the marker.

 His job is to be Logic. Therefore, if he is failing at that job, he must find a way to be better.

 The list on the left has ‘LOGIC’ written in large, block letters. On the right, ‘LOGAN.’ Isolating the key characteristics of each concept will help to shift himself properly into the role he must play. Logan’s eyes scan down the ‘LOGIC’ list.

 LOGIC:

Emotionless

Useful

Rational

Necessary

Welcome

 The end of the word ‘welcome’ is smeared. Logan looks down at the marker. His hands had shaken so much as he added that last word…why? It was true; logic should be welcome in any conversation, that’s why is it so useful, that’s why it has so many of the other characteristics that it has. Logic should be wanted, regardless of the subject matter, because of what it could do. It had felt so small of Logan to add the word, even when it was the correct course of action. Was it not implied by the others that it should be wanted?

 That…that he should be wanted?

 Unconsciously, Logan twists the cap of the marker back and forth as his eyes dart over to the ‘LOGAN’ list.

 LOGAN:

Irritating

Invasive

Emotional

Easily dismissed

Unwanted

 If he had any doubts about whether or not these qualifications were inaccurate, each had cemented their place on this list after today.

 Logan’s hand flies to his neck again, grazing over the bandages he’d wrapped around himself, only to stutter to a halt when his fingers met the fabric of his tie.

 His tie.

 Hadn’t—he’d—he’d been so sure he’d been doing this right. He dressed well, he spoke carefully, he did his research, why—why was it so easy for them to say he was—to think of him as—

 …why didn’t they want to listen to him?

 He tried. He tried so hard to be what they wanted, what they would listen to, to appeal to each and every one of them to make sure he was still fitting in enough to be heard. Logic had to be heard, that’s one of its most important qualifications.

 As his fingers fumble and catch around the knot, it pulls taut and for a moment he’s thrown back into the feeling of Deceit’s crook around his neck.

 Oh.

 Oh, that’s right…he…Deceit—or, well, Janus, now—didn’t he...he was…Logic isn’t the problem.

 Janus’s Logic made them listen. Janus’s logic made them pay attention. Janus’s Logic was wanted.

 Logan’s fingers slide off his tie in a numb haze.

 His hand falls limply to his side.

 He stares at the lists.

  Irritating.

  Invasive.

  Emotional.

  Easily dismissed.

 There is a reason none of these qualifications have come up when he considers pure Logic.

 A wave of cold rushes over Logan. His knees wobble. His hand staggers out for something, anything to grab onto, to hold, to stop himself from collapsing under the weight of what he just realized, to stop it, to stop it, to stop—

 He hits the ground with a thud.

 The words beat into his head over and over as he lies there, frozen, cold, so cold, curled up by his bed with something wrapped tightly around his throat and his glasses staying stubbornly on his face so the words remain in perfect focus.

 It is not Logic that is the problem.

 The others can use Logic.

 The others can listen to Logic.

 The others can want Logic.

 They just don’t want Logan.

 Logan curls closer around himself as it starts to become very, very cold. That…this can’t be right, he must be missing something. He’s emotionally compromised right now, he’s not any good at being Logic, maybe—maybe that means he’s doing it wrong, he has to be doing this wrong, there’s no way they could—they need him, don’t they? They need Logan, they have to listen to him, they—they—

 Unbidden, a whine escapes Logan’s throat. It burns as it rings around his empty, cold room. He covers his face with his hands.

 Even his cheeks feel icy cold.

 Someone will notice, he tries frantically, someone will notice if I never show up again, someone will notice if I—if—if—

 But they didn’t notice. Not today.

 Not until it was too late.

 Outside, in the corridor, a dark blue door begins to fade into the wall.

———————————————————

“Logan? Logan!”

  Bam, bam, bam.

  “Logan!”

 Frantic hammering against the door jolts him awake. Immediately he winces as something in his neck catches. How—how long has he been like this?

 “Logan, please, open the door, we—we can’t open it!”

 Oh…the others have noticed…should go open the door.

 Wincing again, Logan rights himself, sitting up with his back leaning against the bed, blinking through his fuzzy glasses. Why are they so filthy?

 …oh, he must’ve been crying.

 How emotional.

 “Logan? Logan can you at least say something?”

 “I’m gonna break this door down.”

 “No!”

 Well, yes, Logan does not want his door broken down. Groaning, he stands, making his way over to the door that—wait.

 Why…why is his door so…pale?

 The knob looks almost translucent as he reaches for it, his pulse hammering as his fingers close gently around where it should be. He takes a deep breath and carefully, carefully, turns it.

 “Logan, thank god, I—“ Virgil cuts himself off with a choked gasp as he stares at Logan. “…L? What…what happened to you?”

 “What do you mean?” The instant it comes out of his mouth he knows what Virgil means. He sounds like his throat is actively attempting to cut itself off with every breath.

 A choked whine comes from behind Virgil. Logan’s eyes dart over to see Roman a sickly pale, staring at Logan, horrified.

 “…S-specs? Specs, I—Logan, oh, no, can I—can we—“ Roman reaches for him, only to freeze and quickly pull back his hand.

 Another wave of cold settles over Logan and his hand falls through the doorknob.

 “Logan,” Virgil murmurs, “can we come in, please? I, uh, we wanna talk to you for a moment.”

  Why would you want to talk to me?

 “…of course.” Logan steps aside and lets them pass, looking down at his hand.

 It’s still a hand, but it looks…thinner. He can tell where it isn’t, if that makes sense.

  When has Logan ever made sense?

 Virgil sits down on the floor, next to his bed. Roman hovers near the door, wringing his hands together as Logan carefully pushes the door closed.

 “I’m sorry, Logan.”

 Logan’s eyes widen as his head jerks around to face Roman. Roman gives him what may be the smallest smile he’s ever seen before taking a deep breath.

 “I’m sorry,” he says again, the sincerity making the cold burn in Logan’s chest, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It—it was stupid of me to press the ‘ignorant’ button and it was not my intention to hurt you. And I...slashing your box was wrong too. I just saw Patton get hurt and I—”

 He cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. 

 "I'm sorry, Logan," he repeats, softer this time, "for all that I have done to hurt you. I want to be better about it."

 Oh. “…thank you, Roman,” Logan says carefully, “I appreciate your apology.”

 Roman gives him a nod. Logan looks at Virgil, whose head still rests against the bed, staring at the two of them.

 “Is this what you wanted to discuss?”

 “Sort of, but…uh, Logan, you…you’re not looking so great, bud.” Virgil shifts, looking to Roman, who nods and takes a seat on the floor too, leaving a space between them. “Will you come sit with us?”

 “…of course.”

 Logan sits gingerly between the two of them, his gaze fixed on the outlet in the wall opposite them. He hears the rustling of fabric as Virgil shifts, and sees a little white in the corner of his eye as Roman scoots a tad closer.

 “So,” Virgil murmurs after a second, “I guess this video was…hard.”

 Roman huffs quietly. Logan nods. “Yes.”

 “Can you tell me what happened?”

 “Have the others not already told you?”

 “I’d like to hear it from you too.”

 Logan takes a deep breath, ignoring the way the cold burns the inside of his lungs. “I attempted to implement a new strategy for how I interact with you and the viewers. Instead of appearing in person, I chose to use a series of lowdowns so the information would appear in a non-invasive way.”

 There’s a moment of silence.

 “…keep going, L.”

 “They were…not as well-received as I had anticipated.”

 A flash of movement and a stifled noise make him look over. Roman fiddles with the hem of his sleeve right in front of his mouth, obviously having cut himself off. He glances over.

 “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, “I didn’t want to interrupt. Please, continue.”

 “I, er…” Logan swallows, something about the movement of Roman’s fingers holding his focus captive. “I hurt Patton.”

 From his other side comes a sharp intake of breath. Logan looks away.

 “I hurt Patton. I could not do my job properly. I had compromised the conversation. A ‘skip all’ button appeared and…”

 “Patton pressed it,” Virgil finishes when Logan doesn’t speak, “he told me.”

 Logan doesn’t say anything. The crook manifests around his throat again and he shudders.

 “…Logan,” Roman’s worried voice says, even as it sounds like it’s coming from underwater, “Logan, did…what did that do to you?”

 “Janus,” Logan croaks, “he—his staff, it—I—“

 “Hey, hey,” Virgil croons, reaching for the hands that tug persistently at his collar, at his bandages, when did they get there?— “don’t do that, L, you’re gonna hurt yourself, stop that…”

 “Logan, can I hold your hand, please?”

 Logan lets Virgil tug his hands away from his neck. It—why—what’s happening?

 Why are Virgil’s hands so warm?

 Judging by Virgil’s expression, he’s as concerned about the stark difference in temperature as Logan is. Several emotions flit across his face before Logan can name them until they both register Roman’s question. Roman holds his hand out, all but pleading for Logan to let him.

 “Please,” he whispers, his hand starting to tremble, “please, Logan, may I…can I just hold your hand?”

 “Why are you so worried,” Logan wants to ask, “what is it that makes you so insistent about holding my hand?”

 Instead, when his voice is barely about a strangled whisper and his first attempt makes his hand phase completely through Roman’s, the question emerges as a stifled scream.

 “Shh, shh,” Roman whispers, moving in as close as he can, trying to curl his hands around where Logan’s should be, “it’s okay, it’s okay, we’ll—we’ll figure it out, Logan, we’ve got you, it’s okay—“

 Roman burns.

 “R-ro—“

 “Easy, Roman,” Virgil mutters from behind him, “take it easy, you’re gonna freak us all out.”

 “I know, I know.” Roman clutches the air of Logan’s hand tightly. “Okay…okay, Specs, we gotta…we’re gonna take some deep breaths, okay?”

 No, no, it hurts when Logan does that, what’s…

 He does as bid. The air whines in protest as he slowly breathes in and out, in and out, focusing on Roman’s thumb rubbing small circles into his hand. Roman seems to calm a little as he watches, bringing Logan’s hand close enough to cradle it in his lap as they breathe.

 “Good,” Virgil manages, still clutching Logan’s other hand tightly, his own voice shaking slightly, “okay, now we’re all just gonna calm down, yeah? Just…nice and calm…”

 Logan has no idea how long they sit there, on the floor, only that after a few more deep breaths, it no longer hurts. Roman’s hand no longer burns, it’s just warm. Virgil no longer trembles, he’s just there.

 “My apologies,” he manages, “I did not mean to be so…inconvenient.”

 Roman’s cry of protest is quickly accompanied by: “hey, no, none of that, Logan, you’re not being inconvenient. It’s been a hard day for all of us.”

 “But was I not—“

 “No,” Roman interrupts gently, “I’m sorry for interrupting, but…no, Logan. Nothing that happened today was your fault. Absolutely nothing.”

 “…I’m the one who hurt Patton.”

 “That was an accident and you didn’t know it was going to do that,” Roman says firmly, “and it was our fault we didn’t listen to you. So much that you felt that was your only option.”

 Logan swallows. “…what about Janus?”

 “What about him,” Virgil prompts, “the fact that he…came into the video?”

 “It was my lowdowns that enabled him to do so.”

 “And we pressed the ‘skip all’ button,” Roman says. “And I’m the one who gave him tips on how to impersonate the rest of us better.”

 Roman is right, even as Logan begins to feel cold again. Still, he opens his mouth.

 “I…I’m not…I can’t…it…”

 “Logan,” Roman says quietly when Logan can’t seem to find the words, “none of us are angry with you. I’m certainly not angry with you, and I’m…I’m sorry about everything that I may have done and have done to give you the impression that I do not hold you in the highest esteem possible.”

 Logan’s mouth drops open in shock.

 “I think you overdid it a little there, Princey,” Virgil chuckles.

 “But it’s true,” Roman insists, still cradling Logan’s hand in his lap, “Logan, you’re…you’re so important. And if I have done anything that makes you think I don’t care so much about you, then I…I will do everything I can to fix this.”

 What?

  What?

 “You…but we..we fight,” Logan manages weakly, “all the time, you…you disagree with me every chance you get, how—“

 “I told you on movie night,” Roman says, the corner of his mouth tugging up, “I poke fun at the things I love.”

  Love.

 Logan’s brain stutters to a pause.

 “You’re my family, Logan,” Roman continues, oblivious to the fact that Logan.exe has stopped functioning, please try again later, “and I…you are so clever, so sharp, so good that of course I want to talk to you about things. I respect your opinion so much and I want to hear everything.”

 “Yeah, if you ever stop teaching us stuff I might actually start crying and never stop.”

 “Virgil!”

 “What, like you’re any better?”

 “Of course not! I would be devastated!”

 “Wait, wait,” Logan mumbles, “you—you what?”

 “L,” Virgil calls softly, still chuckling a little as Logan turns to look at him, “L, we care about you so much. We wanted to give you space, especially after today, but…dude, you know we need you, don’t you?”

 “You need Logic,” Logan mumbles, “you…of course you need Logic.”

 “We do,” Roman confirms as the cold threatens to open up in Logan’s chest again, “but we also love Logan.”

 “You have got to stop throwing that word around,” Virgil murmurs, “you’re gonna send him into a full-blown freak-out.”

 “But we do, Virgil. We do love him, so much, and if he doesn’t know that…”

 Roman squeezes a surprisingly solid hand in his lap.

 “…then we have to remind him.”

 Virgil huffs, scooting closer. “Yeah, well, that’s easy enough.”

 No, no, it very much is not.

 Logan’s brain is still struggling to come to grips with the first thing Roman said, about poking fun at the things he loves. He hasn’t come close to tackling the fact that Roman just said they loved him.

 And Virgil agreed.

 “This…this doesn’t make sense,” Logan says weakly, “this doesn’t make sense.”

 “What doesn’t make sense?” Virgil’s hand is a warm weight against his side. “That we love you?”

 “…y-yes?”

 “Oh, sweetheart,” Virgil murmurs, “what makes you so convinced that you’re unlovable?”

 “I…I can’t…I am emotionally compromised. I cannot do my job properly. I will not be as useful as you—“

 “Do you need to be useful to be lovable?”

 “Don’t you?”

 “No,” he says firmly, pressing Logan between the two of them, “no, you don’t, Logan. We love you for you, not for what you can do.”

 “Don’t leave us, Logan.” The sheer amount of pain in Roman’s voice aches. “Not because you think we won’t want you.”

 A horrible laugh bubbles up in his throat. “And here I thought you were going to leave me.”

 “Never,” Roman promises, “never.”

 “We did threaten to break down your door because it was starting to fade from the hallway.”

 “…I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

 “You don’t need to know right now, we’ll help you.”

 “I don’t know how good I’m going to be at this.”

 “We’re all working on things, it’s okay.”

 “But I—“ Logan swallows heavily— “I don’t know if I can stop believing that I…that it is just Logic you want and not Logan.”

 “If it makes you feel any better,” Roman calls, squeezing his hand, “I still struggle with that too.”

 Logan’s eyes widen. “You what?”

 “Believe that you only keep me around as long as I make things that you think are useful?” Roman smiles sadly. “Yeah.”

 “But you’re—you—Thomas would not be able to exist without you!”

 “Wouldn’t he?”

 “No! It’s not just—Roman, you’re so much more than Creativity, if you weren’t here, we…” Logan takes a deep breath and swallows. “Something would truly be lost if you weren’t here.”

 He stops.

 “…oh.”

 “Yeah, Specs,” Roman whispers, “‘oh.’”

 “…oh.”

 “Come here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, opening his arms and letting Logan fall into his embrace, “don’t you leave us, okay?”

 Virgil drapes himself over them, wrapping his arms tightly around Logan’s waist. “We’ll figure it out, L, but you gotta stick around, okay? Don’t—well, try not to worry about whether or not you’re being the perfect Logic. We want you.”

 “…promise?”

 “I promise.”

 “I promise too,” Roman murmurs, letting Logan rest against his chest, “now why don’t we all get into something more comfortable and we can have another look at your neck?”

 “Yes. That sounds…good.”

 “And Logan?” Logan cranes his head up to look. “If you ever stop teaching us things and telling me about stuff I will start crying.”

 Despite everything, Logan smiles.

 “Don’t worry,” he says quietly, the chill finally beginning to thaw, “I’m not going anywhere.”

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[stuckontheslowpath]

You might have seen me going through this blog, lol, sorry for the spam likes. It's just the fact that I am sooo in love with this au?? And the way you've written this? *chef's kiss* I love me some time-travel gone wrong. It's making my brain go brrrr.

Question? So Impulse was the one who was primarily in charge of defence and stuff right? So that means he got good at craft, maybe even good enough that he can hold his weight in any PvP tournament. What if he best one of the Hermits that good in PvP? How will people react? How will the Z and the T of team ZIT react??

Have I said how much I love this Au? Because I do, I really do. Anyways, time to stop talkin hehehe.

-Time

[sheepishly crawls out of the pit of finals week, moving, and health issues] I think it's my turn to apologize now, I Definitely did not mean to make you wait so long ^^; I'm glad you enjoy it! I can't take credit for the original premise, but I think I've put my own spin on it well enough. (Time travel gone wrong is one of my favorite scenarios, so I couldn't just let this go.)

As for your question... well, one thing turned into another and then it turned into a whole oneshot. That's responsible for most of the delay, actually, I didn't have much time to write.

It's not quite the scenario you proposed (I couldn't see Slow Path!Impulse willingly agreeing to PVP, nor anyone else trying to press the matter, so I had to play with it a bit), but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

Title: Combatant

Word Count: 2920

Content Warnings: temporary character death, panic attacks, non-graphic violence

Summary: Impulse is good with an axe these days, though he doesn't like to use it. No-one expected to find out just how good, especially not like this

Combatant (A Slow Path Oneshot)

No-one can say Impulse was bad at the practical side of life, Before. Maybe his main focus was on redstone, but the ridiculous feats he got up to off-world with Skizzleman are enough to lay doubt to rest. But he’s been… different, since he started sticking with the self-declared Hippie Trio like they were glued together.

His movements are more intentional, the first thing in his hotbar is an axe, and there’s a shield in his off-hand more often than not. They can’t startle him anymore, either, even if they try. Surprise him by word or deed, sure, but no-one has seen him startled by anything in his surroundings for months.

The turning point, everyone agrees, comes when False approaches him in the shopping district to ask a question. What she wanted, no-one remembers anymore. It feels shallow and unimportant compared to what happened.

The hermits, on the whole, aren’t what you could call good at lighting up their builds. It’s just one zombie, hiding from the sun between the buildings, that catches their scent and shambles their way. False deals with it in seconds and turns back to Impulse, mouth open to speak and her sword still in hand.

She’s in the perfect position to see him completely shut down, his expression turning smooth and empty. The next moment his axe is in his hand, swinging her way with a strength and confidence she didn’t expect from easygoing Impulse.

And the thing is, False isn’t just good at combat, she’s specifically good at PVP. She’s used to fighting other players (anticipating how they think and move, so different from mobs). And her armor and weapons are top-notch.

But she’s wearing Elytra instead of a chestplate and she can’t reach her rockets. It’s while she’s trying to get them out of her inventory—because she doesn’t want to fight back, not when she doesn’t have the full picture, not when Impulse is fighting like he’s scared instead of like he’s having fun—that Impulse manages to hit her, his axe catching her side between the straps of her elytra.

Her armor absorbs most of the damage, the strike itself is dulled to feel like a blunt-force impact as all weapon attacks are, but the sheer force of the blow still sends her staggering back. She moves with it, retreating further and regaining stable footing.

Impulse follows, keeping her on the retreat.

“Impulse, what are you doing?”

He doesn’t respond, only continuing to approach. He’s not even looking at her, not really—his gaze is focused on her gleaming diamond sword.

Like that, she begins to understand.

She takes a few quick steps back to open space between them and raises her sword, and Impulse leaps back to avoid an attack that never comes. But before she can follow through and throw her sword away, other hermits arrive, drawn by the commotion.

She glances over at them for a moment, but it’s a moment too long. There’s movement in the corner of her eye, and she turns back just in time for Impulse’s axe to crash into her chest, his entire body weight behind it as his feet touch dirt a moment later.

He pivots the moment he has the traction to do so, bringing the axe around again. It’s a weak blow, too fast to build up full strength, but it’s enough.

She tries to smile at him, so maybe he’ll know she’s not upset, but doesn’t know if she succeeds.

FalseSymmetry was slain by ImpulseSV.

~

His hands are steady and his breath is even. His mind is empty of thoughts, only vague, wordless concepts remaining. All he knows is there’s a threat.

Many threats, or at least many potential threats. Too many figures moving in his peripheral vision. He doesn’t recognize any of them, not entirely, though they seem familiar somehow.

None of them are Daisy or Rose so it doesn’t matter. Not right now. Right now all he needs is to stay safe, find his friends, and protect them.

~

Tango is restocking his rocket shop when the message comes in: FalseSymmetry was slain by ImpulseSV. At first he thinks it’s an accident, even with all the odd things that have been going on with Impulse and his “fellow hippies” these days, but the sheepish apology he expects never appears.

<FalseSymmetry> Impulse, are you alright?

There are replies, ranging from curious to concerned to consoling to congratulatory, but nothing from Impulse himself. Not even a single letter.

<FalseSymmetry> Can someone check on him? We were near iTrade. I’m on my way from my base.

<TangoTek> omw

He’s moving before he even finishes typing that short reply, abandoning his restocking without hesitation, dread and alarm mingling into a ball of awfulness in his gut. Something is wrong. He keeps glancing at the chat as he walks, speeding up with each new message from someone who isn’t Impulse.

By the time Zedaph’s name pops up, half a dozen messages later, he’s jogging.

<ZedaphPlays> I’ll be there as soon as I can.

It’s not hard to find Impulse once he gets close. There’s a small crowd of hermits near iTrade—he doesn’t look long enough to tell who—and past them, Impulse stands with his back to the wall, enchanted diamond axe in hand. His head is constantly moving as he tracks the motion of everyone present, and his expression is completely empty.

False’s armor, weapons, tools, and other assorted items she’d been carrying are scattered across the ground in a messy spread near Impulse; in the echoes of memory he can almost hear Impulse laugh and call it a yard sale, but in the present his friend is still and silent. Her mask sits directly at Impulse’s feet, staring up at the sky.

Someone puts down a shulker box to collect False’s things and Impulse jumps, shield swinging up to cover him from an attack that never comes.

Tango steps forward, reaching for him, and Impulse turns so fast it’s almost dizzying just to watch; his eyes meet Tango’s, devoid of recognition, and it aches deep in his chest.

Impulse doesn’t lower his shield, shifting his grip on his axe as if he’s preparing to attack.

Tango lowers his hand, tucking both hands into his pockets, and Impulse relaxes the slightest bit, axe drifting back down to a less immediately-threatening hold. Why—

Zombies approach with grasping hands stretched towards their prey, ready to drag them back towards gaping, starving mouths. No passive or peaceful creatures reach out. Does Impulse think he’s a threat?

That thought stings, but he puts it aside. It’s not personal.

“Impulse, buddy, can you hear me?”

There’s no response, not even the tiniest shift in his expression. It’s as if Tango hasn’t spoken at all. Then he remembers that nickname he’s heard between the “hippie trio” once or twice. It can’t hurt to try.

“Orchid?”

That gets his attention, shield dropping to a relaxed hold as some of the tension bleeds from his arms and shoulders.

“You’re safe here,” he tries again, stepping closer but keeping his hands safely tucked away.

Impulse shakes his head, but doesn’t move away or ready his shield or axe again. Before Tango can ask why not, he finally speaks.

“Too open,” Impulse says, voice rough, and goes silent again.

For a moment, Tango hesitates. He doesn’t want to make the situation worse. But if it’s open space and exposure Impulse is worried about—

He grabs the first blocks he finds in his inventory—stone bricks—and inches around to Impulse’s left. His friend tracks the motion, watching Tango from the corner of his eye but keeping his face turned towards the larger cluster of hermits in the distance.

He startles again when Tango places the first block right up against his left side, but not so violently as when the shulker box had been placed. After that, he keeps still while Tango places blocks around him until there are walls covering his left and right and a ceiling above his head.

With each new bit of shelter, a little more tension—a little more fear—drains away.

He leaves the front open, not wanting to make Impulse feel trapped. He can cover that angle with his shield, anyway.

“Tango?” Impulse asks, voice trembling, and Tango has never been so glad to be recognized.

“Yeah?”

Impulse’s axe vanishes back into his inventory, and he flexes his hand a few times—the knuckles are still white from how tight he’d been holding it—before reaching out and grabbing Tango’s arm.

There’s something sharp and aching about the way he puts away his axe before his shield.

“Tango,” he says again, almost like he’s trying to fix the name in his mind. “Where’s—are Rose and Daisy safe?”

It takes a moment for those names to click, but when they do Tango smiles—a brittle thing of sorrow and broken glass. Typical Impulse, worrying about everyone else first. And of course it comes back to the “hippie trio”. Everything does, these days.

There’s a story there, one with trauma at its core, and Tango hates being forced to stand helplessly to the side watching it continue. He’s been waiting for Impulse to speak—everyone has been waiting for those three to speak—but after this they might need to press the matter a little harder.

“They should be,” he begins, and watches Impulse’s panic bloom because should is not are, speaking faster in an effort to head off another breakdown before it can begin. “But we can message them right now and check.”

And he does exactly that, stepping closer and turning so Impulse can see the readout from his communicator. Affectionate warmth takes root in his chest as Impulse lets him.

<TangoTek> Grian, Ren, everything alright over there?

<GoodTimeWithScar> I thought we were worried about Impulse, is something wrong there too?

<Grian> Can he see the screen?

Of course Grian understands without having to be told. Those three can practically read each other’s minds, they understand each other so well.

A tiny seed of jealousy sprouts at the idea that the new guy, who’s only been here for a year, knows one of Tango’s best friends maybe better than he does. He stomps it out with ruthless determination; what matters now is helping Impulse, not competing over who knows him better.

(He’ll have to face it later, before it ruins things he loves, but now is not the time.)

<TangoTek> yes

<Grian> We’re safe, Orchid. In the basement. Come find us when you can, we’ll stay put until we see you.

With that, some of Impulse’s remaining panic drains away—not all, but most. There’s real clarity in his eyes now, real recognition when he looks at Tango, real relief at the lack of danger.

Real horror when he takes a wobbly step forward and nearly trips over False’s mask.

~

False’s face smiles up at him from the ground. For a long moment, he wonders what she’s doing down there; then understanding pierces the veil of cotton fluff and static clouding his mind, and it dawns on him that isn’t her face.

It’s her mask, the token of her existence left behind after her death at the hands of another player.

Did he—

He drops his shield, ignoring Tango’s alarmed questions, and scrambles for his communicator. There, further back in the chat, lies the damning evidence in clear black and white.

FalseSymmetry was slain by ImpulseSV.

He killed her.

~

Impulse is shaking when Zedaph arrives, and he knows his friend. (Even if something big has happened, even if Impulse has changed, he’s still Impulse and Zedaph will never not know him.) That isn’t fear. That’s grief and guilt and a dozen other undeserved emotional condemnations, all pointed inward.

By the time he reaches his friends, coming to a stop to stand beside Tango, Impulse is crouched under the scant cover of a one-deep shelter, one hand clutching his communicator so tight Zedaph is genuinely concerned the screen might have cracked, the other holding False's mask as carefully as if it were made of snow. His eyes are fixed unwaveringly on the painted ones of the mask, wide and distraught.

Zedaph exchanges a quick glance with Tango—mutual confusion, a sharp frustration at not knowing how to help, if you’ve got any ideas go right ahead.

So he does. He steps forward and reaches out—slowly, giving Impulse time to move away even though his friend doesn’t seem to notice he’s there—and lays one hand gently on Impulse’s wrist.

For a moment his world narrows to dark eyes that gleam with unshed tears as Impulse looks up at him, as fragile as he’s treating False’s mask and somehow small in a way he can’t describe. Then he seems to fall back into himself, and sensation returns.

He speaks before he can think it might be a bad idea. “She’s alright, you know.”

“I killed her.”

“You did,” he agrees, and doesn’t acknowledge Impulse’s flinch. (Doesn’t ignore it, he would never want to ignore his friend’s distress, but acknowledging it here is unnecessary and possibly unhelpful.) “But she’s alright.”

And part of Zedaph wonders what happened to teach Impulse that death is something traumatic, something to be feared. Respawn is reliable, and unless something glitches no-one feels the pain. Death is a setback, an inconvenience—most people are more bothered by the chance of lost items than death itself, except as a matter of pride. (Part of him doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to contemplate the pain his friend has suffered, but he silences that part.)

He doesn’t have to wonder for long.

“She’s alone,” Impulse replies, sharp with pain and grief, and a realization that tastes like despair settles into Zedaph’s chest with an almost physical ache.

“She’s not,” he replies, the sorrow blooming in his bones turning his voice gentle. “False woke up in her base, messaged the chat, and started coming back this way. She should be here any minute.”

Impulse shakes his head, just slightly, and the absolute certainty on his face breaks Zedaph’s heart.

“Impulse,” he begins, hesitantly, wondering if he should even ask at all, “what does death mean to you?”

Impulse flinches again, as violently as the last, and his poor communicator is finally freed from its service as a stress ball, vanishing back to his inventory. Instead, he grabs Zedaph’s sleeve and tugs him closer, as if he can’t bear to be by himself.

“Death means isolation, lost, thousands of blocks from anyone who loves you, wandering blindly into the rising sun as you try to get home, watching the chat and seeing the others trying to reassure you, knowing they’re sad and scared and not being able to help, hurrying back as fast as you can and still being too slow, terrified something is going to go wrong before you make it back. Death means alone, Zed, and I—I put False through that, she doesn’t deserve that—”

“You didn’t,” he interrupts gently, and Impulse’s stare pins him in place like a rat before a serpent, only he doesn’t feel endangered. “You killed her, yes, but that is not what she experienced.”

“How—”

“False woke up in her bed in her base. You know her base, it’s very nice. Even if she’d woken up at world spawn, she would have had supplies to get to her base within the day. At her base, she has enough spare gear to tide her over until she’s able to recollect or replace everything she had here, including spare elytra and rockets, and if she didn’t someone who does would loan her some. She isn’t stranded in the middle of nowhere with nothing in her inventory and no help coming, Impulse, and she’ll be back any minute. I promise.”

A starving desperation lines Impulse’s pale face, laced with poisonous doubt. He wants to believe, that much is obvious, but it’s equally apparent that he doesn’t. Not yet.

That’s okay. It’s the truth, and it will be proven soon enough.

As if on cue, a rocket fires in the distance, signalling False’s return. Her boots hit stone only a few paces behind Zedaph, and he knows it’s her without turning because Impulse suddenly looks like he’s seen a ghost.

He still hasn’t let go of her mask.

“Impulse, are you alright?” she asks, stepping forward. “You never answered me in chat, I was starting to get worried.”

Impulse lets go of Zedaph’s arm—lets False’s mask disappear into his inventory—and staggers out from his makeshift shelter, passing between Zedaph and Tango as he stumbles towards False, as unbalanced as a newly-grounded flyer who hasn’t found their land-legs yet. He stops before reaching her, staring like he can’t believe his eyes, and reaches out slowly only to stop himself a moment before he actually touches her.

“You’re back?” he asks, hoarse voice barely audible. Then, a moment later, a statement: “you’re back.”

False glances over Impulse’s shoulder and meets Zedaph’s gaze, and she must see something on his face because her eyes turn sad. She looks back at Impulse, and when she smiles it’s a terrible, fragile thing of grace and kindness and some unnameable softness. “I’m back,” she repeats evenly, and steps in to hug him.

For a moment Impulse freezes in place, like he’s been turned to stone. Then all at once he hugs her back, shaking anew with the force of his tears even as not a whisper of sound escapes him.

False holds him and lets him cry.

“I’m back, Impulse,” she murmurs into his hair. “I’m back.”

[eveningstar1516]

Rise of the Demon King ~ Chapter 9

Rise of the Demon King

Fic: Multi Chapter Paring: MC x Everyone (Mostly Lucifer) Type: Angst with a Happy Ending Total Word Count: 26,758 TW: Major Character Death, Reader gets stabbed with a sword through their chest so..., Abusive Parents, Past Child Abuse, Demon Hunters, Loss of Control Summary: You’ve done it. You’ve finally done it. You’ve managed to anger the demon king. Now you hold your head high as he hands down your sentence. AO3 Portal: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27065362 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~A/N: I gotta Discord server guys! It's primarily Obey Me but other fandoms are welcome as well. It's kinda baby and dead so me and the other members are looking to revive it and we'd love for you to come join us. A roleplay area is included :) https://discord.gg/F3YEmDZCPS Please remember to read and accept the rules once you join for access to all the channels. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Previously: “Of course, what are big brothers for. Anyway, about my payment, maybe you can forget about the money I owe ya?” Groaning, Levi started walking faster, leaving Mammon and his whining behind as he made his way back to the safety of his room. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 9 - Not So Different After All (1754 words)

You were practicing your swordsmanship in the garden clearing when Michael approached you. You’ve been living with the council for 3 decades by now and was confidently running them like Lucifer used to. This left you little time for yourself and you cherished these moments to yourself. That doesn’t mean you don’t like teasing Michael from time to time.

“Good afternoon Y/N”

“Good afternoon to you too Mike. What’s up?”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” “Just be glad I don’t call you that at work. Anyway, how can I help you?”

“May I join you?”

“I don’t see why not, but on one condition. If I win, tell me why you despise Lucifer and why you refuse to call him by his new name. If you win, I’ll answer 2 questions with complete honesty, no restrictions on the type of question.”

Michael visibly stiffened at this. He contemplated this for a moment then agreed. He summoned his sword and stood opposite of me in a ready position. I matched his stance and parreyed off with him, signalling the start of our match. Michael started with a calculated quick strike to my neck. I brought my sword up to block his strike and tried to twist it from his grip but he pulled back and made a quick swing toward my left leg. I jumped up and switched to offence striking for his sword arm trying to land a hit. He saw this and backed away. This continued on for a few minutes. Michael attacking and me blocking and returning the favour. After a few more strikes, I saw an opening, he shifted his legs a little too wide. I dropped my weight and swept his feet out from under him. Before he realized, he hit the ground and I was standing above him, my right foot on his sword arm and my sword by his throat.

“Looks like I won.” I withdrew my sword and extended my arm to help him up. He grabbed my hand with a distasteful look on his face, ashamed at making such a mistake and losing to someone with less skill and combat experience than him.

“Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

Handing him a towel and some water I sat under a date tree and took a sip from my own bottle.

“Lucifer. I took an interest in it after seeing him practise one day and he took it upon himself to teach me, his excuse being that I should know how to protect myself if I insisted on taking up a blade. Enough of that, you lost, now can you tell me why you despise Lucifer so much?”

Michael took a seat next to me and leaned back against the trunk.

“You mean other than the fact that he went against Father, started a civil war, killed numerous angels, abandoned his duty, embraced the very sins that father forbade us from committing, birthed a demon of wrath, and willingly bowed down to the demon prince and still serves him to this day like a loyal lapdog all because he couldn’t take care of Lillith enough to keep her from trying to break one of our laws to save a human? No, no reason.”

“Wow, and I thought humans were the masters at holding grudges.” I took a swing of my water.

“Think about it, at the root of all that, Lucifer did it to protect his family, to protect his little sister. He may have embraced and embodied the sin of pride, but he pushed all of it away to save her. You don’t really think he serves Diavolo just because he asked him to? His pride would never allow it, and yet he does because by doing so, he can protect his family and the ones he loves. Isn’t that a virtue in Father's eyes, protecting loved ones no matter what you need to sacrifice?”

“Well yes, to an extent. You are supposed to do that, unless it means you defy him. If protecting your family results in you turning your back to him, he’d tell you to leave them behind.”

“Why do you keep calling Lucifer "Samael"?”

“That is the name Father gave him, that is the name I will call him. Samael was my brother and I don’t want to remember him for the destruction he caused but for the moments we shared as brothers. He was the pride of the heavens. Despite that, he embodied humility. He never took advantage of his authority. He always made sure the minority were heard. He worked himself to the point of exhaustion as Father's right hand. He never let the praise get to his head. Despite all that, he still embodied pride. He would never ask for help insisting that he could take care of things. He still took in his siblings and raised them, despite the burdens that were already placed on his shoulders. I used to look up to him and saw him as a role model. I accepted the fact that he is no longer an angel and is now a completely different being. In my mind, Lucifer and Samael are 2 separate creatures. I will remember him as Samael, my brother and best friend and Lucifer as the demon serving Lord Diavolo.”

“Would it make you feel better if I told you that they aren’t that different from each other? Samael may have taken all the burden and worked himself till he passed out from exhaustion, but Lucifer still does that. I can’t tell you the number of times I would enter his study just to find him clinging to consciousness trying to finish the never ending paperwork for both the Devildom and from his brother's antics. He does his best and works himself to the bone to make sure that his family has a roof over their heads, enough food to eat which I got to tell you is hard considering they are living with someone who embodies the sin of gluttony. He works himself to make sure that Diavolo doesn’t do the same and can focus on running his kingdom and school without having to worry too much about what goes on behind the scenes. Even with all those responsibilities he took, he still makes sure to be there and protect his family. He raised Satan as a first time father with no knowledge on demonic children. He always set aside some time each week, no matter how busy he is to spend some time with the rest of us. He may be harsh, but he isn’t heartless. He may look incapable of it, but he is very caring and compassionate towards the ones he holds close to him. He is still very much the Samael you knew, he just looks a little different.”

“Was your intention just to tell me these things so that I wouldn’t act distasteful to you or Samael?” “No, I just wanted you to see things from an outsider's perspective, nothing more.”

With that, I got up and left Michael in the garden to think about what I had said as I went to shower and finish up any outstanding work before dinner.

In the Devildom After they lost Y/N

After they lost Y/N, Asmo could barely function. Some days, he would lock himself in his room and not come out for days on end. When Beel would come and drop off some food, Asmo would always insist he just leave it outside the door. When Beel would come back to collect the plate, he found that only a small portion was eaten and that more than half of the food was left. They would never find out that it was because he was unintentionally starving himself and that he was dropping his self care routine. Other times he would leave for days on end and when he did eventually come home, he was either stoned or drunk out of his mind, but he always had a lingering scent of sex on him. It continued on like this for weeks before Satan found him. Asmo had just come back after being missing for a week and once again refused to leave his room. This time, Satan insisted on delivering his food. He needed to check on his little brother no matter how much Asmo didn’t want him to. When he got to the door he knocked and announced he was coming in. Without waiting for a reply, Satan broke the lock on the door and was greeted with an emotionally exhausted and physically wrecked Asmo laying face up on his bed. Tears streaming down his face. Satan closed the door and looked around the room noticing how everything was thrown around and the state of what used to be one of the most organized rooms in the house, now looking like a hot mess. Carefully, he cleared a spot on his dresser, making sure nothing got damaged in the process and set the tray down. Next he went to the washroom, equally messed up, and located a washcloth. He ran it under some warm water and went back to Asmo, carefully wiping away any tears and smudged make-up. Slowly, Asmo opened his eyes to look up at the soft expression on Satan’s face. He turned his head the other and screwed his eyes shut.

“Asmo, look at me.”

When he didn’t turn his head, Satan asked again, a little softer and put a comforting hand on his shoulder to ground him.

“Asmo, can you please look at me?”

Slowly, Asmo turned his head towards Satan and reluctantly opened his eyes. Satan gently lifted him up and pulled him into an embrace. Asmo couldn’t take it anymore and broke down on Satan’s shoulder. Satan rubbed soothing circles on Asmo’s back and stroked his tangled hair, grounding him. Eventually, when Asmo stopped crying, he pulled away from Satan with a sad smile on his face. Satan cupped his right cheek.

“It’s alright, we all miss them too. It’s ok to break down. When was the last time you took care of yourself?”

“I don’t know,” Asmo mumbled.

“That’s alright. Let’s get some food into your stomach first.”

Satan spent the rest of the night by his brother's side, cleaning his room and slowly, step by step, bringing back how his brother usually looked like. A glowing masterpiece, worthy of both envy and praise.

[petri808]

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Inukag Royalty Au

The shapeshifter hauled in a disheveled human male and forced him to his knees before his king. “Here he is your majesty.”

“Please spare me! I needed the money for my family.” The man begged.

“Great job Shippo!” Inutaisho thanked the kitsune yokai soldier. He then turned his attention to the human. “I am not swayed by your excuses, for I am sure if you’d gained such valuable information, King and Queen Higurashi would have rewarded you greatly for it, but instead you aligned with an enemy. Shippo, keep him sequestered until they arrive…”

In the Higurashi castle, parts of the building were kept off limits to staff under the guise that the Inutaisho and his family did not want to be disturbed because they didn’t know if there were any other spies lying in wait. The only ones allowed in were hand-picked, namely Sango as Kagome’s attendant and two others that both women agreed were loyal to her. Between the servants, they made sure the royal families were attended to. From the Inu’s side, Miroku served as a temporary help because he was human and could blend in easier. The subterfuge that started when they’d snuck Kagome back in on day one, held up very nicely.

The two royal families passed the couple of days in wait by getting to know each other better. Until now their dealings have been strictly business, so learning about each other’s personal sides would aid in creating a comfortable union. Even Prince Sota was taken with the extroverted Princess Rin, because he’d never had a younger sibling to play with before. Queen Higurashi couldn’t help but be proud as she watched her daughter continuing to tutor Rin even though Kagome would no longer be the child’s attendant, instead taking on a big sister role in guiding her development. The Queen lovingly teased about how wonderful a mother she’ll become soon enough. Of course, that kind of a statement left both Kagome and Inuyasha embarrassingly flushed, to the amusement of both sets of parents. Though in truth, she had thought about it, and was excited to start a family of her own with the prince.

It had been understandably frustrating to be kept sequestered for a few days now as they waited. Of course, her new husband and friends kept her occupied, but she couldn’t wait to be completely free to resume a normal life without fear. This whole mess was something Kagome was still processing. When she’d run away, she knew there was bound to be consequences, but never could have imagined this would be it. She still worried that Naraku would hurt her family, but Inuyasha and his father convinced her they’d never let it happen. The Inu kingdom was bigger, stronger, and the bastard King simply didn’t have a chance. As expected, scouts tasked with keeping an eye out for Naraku, notified the king and queen of his arrival by morning. The stage was set, and within the next 24 hours this whole nightmare would finally be over for Kagome.

When King Naraku arrived, he brought with him a small garrison of soldiers, a standard practice for protection. That alone told the Inutaisho, King Naraku still believed nothing was wrong. The foreign King, his personal guards, along with an advisor were the only ones to actually enter the castle itself, while the garrison were set up just outside of the walls and met by Higurashi soldiers. However, once Naraku was beyond their view, his entire garrison was surprised and surrounded by the Inutaisho’s forces before they knew anything had gone terribly wrong. A few soldiers put up a fight, but because the Inutaisho’s forces were made up primarily of yokai, the humans were outmatched and easily routed.

The foreign entourage was led into the throne receiving room where King and Queen Higurashi sat on their thrones. Flanking them were standard accompaniments, Prince Sota, guards, and the royal advisor off to the side.

“Ah, King Naraku,” King Higurashi acknowledged the man. “Right on time.”

“I’m not here for pleasantries.” Naraku huffed in annoyance that Kagome was nowhere in sight. I’m here to collect on our contract. Now produce your daughter at once!”

“My apologies.” It was bristling to be spoken to in such a manner, but King Higurashi played along just like they’d prepared for.

At the sound of Naraku’s voice, the Inutaisho and his son, Prince Sesshomaru stepped out from behind a veiling curtain, along with Shippo and a human male being held in chains.

Surprised and angered, Naraku went into a rage, acting as if he knew nothing. “What is the meaning of this?!”

Inutaisho stepped forward, glaring at the other King. “Deceit,” he growled back, “that’s what this is! How dare you intercept and intervene between our two kingdoms royal communications?!” he gestured towards the Higurashi’s.

“Tch!” Naraku narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! The marriage arrangement I have with them has nothing to do with you.”

Inutaisho’s eyebrow raised. “Oh? But it does. You recognized Kagome during your visit to my kingdom and realized something was amiss. And since the only people who knew about our children’s arrangement were us, including the amended contract, the only way you could have known of any changes is you secured a spy which we caught in this castle.”

“Are you accusing me of espionage?! I did no such thing! I am a King and yet you speak to me like a peasant! This is an outrage!”

“Shippo,” Inutaisho gestured for his guard to come forth. The kitsune yokai followed his ruler’s instructions, dragged the man in chains forward, pushing him down to his knees before them. “This man has confessed to taking money from you. He is your spy! Do you deny this?”

“Tch, it doesn’t matter if he was,” Naraku crossed his arms. “Spies are a part of our world. You of all people know that! Your son screwed up and my contract is still binding. You cannot stop my marriage to Kagome.”

“Yes, he made a mistake, but as for your contract, that is where you are wrong. There are always consequences when do such underhanded things. You see, as part of the Inu/Higurashi contract, the Inu kingdom swore to protect this one from threats. You threatened them with attack if they did not agree to the contact therefore evoking my response.” Inutaisho grinned menacingly. “Your spy may have given you information, but not the full details and that is where you messed up.”

“Bullshit!” Naraku took a step forward. “You can’t do that! You can’t stop this deal!”

Inutaisho’s grin widened. “It’s already done.”

Naraku’s jaw dropped, when Inuyasha and Kagome stepped out of a side door dressed in matching royal wear and crowns. Inuyasha stayed slightly forward of his wife just in case something happened, his hand readied upon the hilt of his sword. The princes eyes were crimson and his yokai markings on full display, showing he was ready and willing to do anything to protect his wife.

“They are already married,” Inutaisho spat at King Naraku. “Your garrison has also been captured.” He narrowed his newly crimsoned eyes in a death glare. “That just leaves you four. Now you have a choice. Leave quietly and never set foot in either kingdom ever again or die here and now. And believe me, I would be happier if you choose the latter.”

Naraku took two steps back, realizing he was completely outnumbered with no option but to comply. “I will have my vengeance,” he growled. “Outnumbered now, but I will get my revenge!”

“Then perhaps I should settle it now!” Inutaisho pulled out his sword in a rage, followed promptly by his son’s Sesshomaru and Inuyasha who’d advanced forward as well. “Tis but a long time since I’d had to resort to violence, but for you we will gladly do so! Kings like you are a disease in our world and are not fit to wear a crown! You have two seconds to comply or meet the end of my sword!”

“Your highness,” Naraku’s advisor stepped forward to address his King. “Inutaisho is right. We have no chance against his forces and must think about our own kingdom.”

“Listen to him,” Inutaisho growled. “Or I will subsume your little kingdom by force, just like you’d threatened to do to the Higurashi’s.”

Naraku shook his advisors hand off his shoulder in a huff, but he knew that man was right. It infuriated him to be so powerless. His hope of marrying Kagome was just the first step in a plot to eventually take over the Higurashi kingdom to expand his own. Now he’d never have that chance. “Fine,” he growled. There were other ways and other kingdoms to go after. “I’ll leave.”

“Remember,” Inutaisho glared, “one false move will end with death, now take your entourage and leave these lands for good!”

“And my garrison?” Naraku glared back unwilling to show weakness.

“Consider their capture as punishment for your crimes.”

More yokai guards were signaled for and led Naraku’s group out of the castle, and out of the territory. Kagome finally breathed a sigh of relief; this chapter was over.

[heavymetalchemist]

I agree w/ some points u made in ur meta abt jiang cheng, but wwx wasnt just a sworn brother. they literally grew up side by side and yet he was wilfully blind to wwx's nature that should have made jc trust him: wwx's goodness, his tenacity, his selflessness. jc knew him and yet in his grief and anger and haste to blame someone he pours it all on his brother who, as selfless and self-loathing as he is, accepts all the blame. It's not abt the lie, but that jc chose to believe the lie.

I’m guessing this is in response to this post and to clarify, Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian ARE brothers, and I didn’t mean to diminish that by comparing the blind trust to Lan Xichen and the Venerated Triad.

However, here’s the thing, like, what lie are we talking about? Because the lie I’m referring to in that post is multifaceted:

Your golden core has been restored by Baoshan Sanren

I’m totally fine

I can absolutely control all this resentful energy and this new cultivation method isn’t hurting me at all

I don’t carry my sword any more because I don’t feel like it, even though it is very publicly rude of me not to

You cannot rely on me to help you run the sect because I am off in a tavern drinking all day, stumbling home drunk, but again, I’m totally fine and have nothing to discuss with you about my mental state at all, I swear I am just a fun-loving guy!

I have said before on my blog that I don’t like good person/bad person dichotomy, for a number of reasons, but primarily because it implies a static state of being and causes a willful blindness to harm people cause. People are complex, and while I do think intent matters, it’s not magic. Wei Wuxian gives up his golden core for Jiang Cheng, with all the good intentions in the world, but he does this without consulting Jiang Cheng, lying to him about it, drugging him to perform experimental surgery, dealing with the trauma of three months in the burial mounds and not having a core alone and absolutely refusing and rebuffing every overture Jiang Cheng makes trying to figure out what’s wrong with him, causing a lot of political problems with his behavior that Jiang Cheng then has to smooth over (and the Jiang sect is in a very fragile place, politically), then busting into a prison camp and killing ALL the guards with a fierce corpse and running off to the burial mounds with the last of the Wen cultivators.

And even with all of this, Jiang Cheng still defends and cares about him, they have that entire staged fight after Wei Wuxian insists on leaving the Jiang sect, which to Jiang Cheng is a betrayal of his promise to be with him in leading the sect, but Wei Wuxian does not tell Jiang Cheng about the whole surgery thing so he really doesn’t have a clue about how much Wen Qing and Wen Ning did for him (although, of course, if he had known about it he would never have let them do it, I’m sure).

From Jiang Cheng’s perspective, how is he supposed to trust in this goodness and selflessness? WWX is throwing the Jiang sect under the bus. WWX is not helping rebuild the sect, he’s drinking all day. (Of course he’s traumatized, they’re ALL traumatized, but he’s not talking about it so how can JC help?) WWX murders a bunch of Jin sect cultivators, running off with a bunch of prisoners of war, from the sect that attempted a full-scale genocide of the Jiang sect. (And to be clear I do not condemn this action and think that Blood Feuds Are Bad, however, in context this is a world where blood feuds are a very real thing. Personally I like the AU where they get Nie Mingjue on their side, as the Nie sect actually has a lot of power that the Jiang sect simply doesn’t, and therefore they can protect the Wen remnants that way. But I digress.)

Not to mention, WWX is using demonic cultivation, corpses are running around, he’s thrumming with resentful energy. Not a good look.

And then Jin Zixuan gets his heart punched out. In CQL there’s a second flautist, but in the book he simply loses control (the control he SWORE he had) and even in CQL it’s not like we find out about the second flautist until the end. How is JC supposed to trust in WWX’s goodness when he’s just murdered his brother-in-law? When he’s abandoned his family and sect for the people that murdered them? (YES I know the Dafan Wens weren’t involved in actively killing people but this is the whole blood-feud-thing, audience knowledge is not character knowledge, etc.)

And then at Nightless City, WWX loses control AGAIN (or at least appears to), three thousand people get murdered, Yanli dies, and JC STILL can’t actually stab him. JC was DESPERATE for any sort of explanation or reason of why this was all happening, but over and over WWX said it was fine, and the real takeaway for JC by the time Nightless City rolls around is - this man is not the boy I grew up with, this man is no longer my brother, my brother would NEVER do this would NEVER hurt Yanli, so it can’t be him any more.

It’s not unlike knowing someone who becomes addicted to drugs. Someone you knew and loved becomes an alcoholic and their whole life goes up in flames and then they’re drunk driving and then they kill someone doing it, and how long are you supposed to sit there while they destroy themselves, telling yourself that you know they’re a good person on the inside?

Now all that said, on the OTHER hand, if you’re talking about the lies that the other sect leaders were spouting, about how WWX was speaking against JC, about how he doesn’t respect him, etc?  You are SO right and it pains me so much that JC didn’t have the ability to stand up to those assholes and say “He’s my brother, shut the fuck up” a la Yanli to Zixun at Phoenix Mountain. Even with all the crap going on in the background, it was obvious to the other (older!) sect leaders that WWX was very powerful and very close to JC and they deliberately tried to undermine the Jiang sect and I hate them. That plays into a lot of the trauma that JC personally has but yes, I think that’s one of the failings that haunts him - how could I have listened to their poisoned words at all?