#everyone go read 'dropping the sword' on ao3 right now do it I dare you

[rosanna-writer]

Out of the Woods (1/3)

An AU that diverges from canon after Rhysand leaves a head spiked in the garden. Aware of the unsnapped mating bond and unwilling to get between another High Lord and his mate, Tamlin hands Feyre over to Rhysand. Panicked, shocked, and desperate, Rhys scrambles to gain Feyre’s trust, find her a hiding place, and cover his tracks before returning Under the Mountain. And then learns the hard way that Feyre Archeron can never leave well enough alone.

A huge thank you to @amnevitahwritesstuff for the beta read and encouragement, and to @thesistersarcheron for dropping a casual "huh I wonder what would have happened if Tamlin knew Feyre was Rhys's mate the whole time?" in my comments section like a year ago. And a happy @officialfeysandweek to everyone!

Some text is lifted directly from both A Court of Thorns and Roses and A Court of Mist and Fury, and just a note that I've chosen not to use warnings for this fic.

Read the first chapter Here on AO3 or under the cut.

We'd been speaking of the blight, and Tamlin shot to his feet so quickly that for a moment, I thought I might have summoned it. His claws gleamed in the midday light as he snarled at the open doorway, canines elongating.

The house, usually so full of busy footsteps and servants chattering and so much life had gone silent.

The way the forest did when a raptor passed overhead.

And like a field mouse, I wanted to scurry under the table and tremble until it was safe to emerge. Or just start running and hope for the best. Lucien swore and drew his sword.

“Stand down,” Tamlin growled, all command. The voice of the High Lord. “He’s here to collect what’s his, and we will not stop him.”

“You can’t be serious,” Lucien hissed. “We’re not really going to—”

“No one will ally with us if we try to stop him. You know the laws.”

Lucien sheathed his sword, even as the baldric of long, serrated blades appeared from thin air across Tamlin’s chest. I snatched one of the knives from the table, and neither one of them made any attempt to stop me.

Perhaps because a measly steak knife would do no good against whoever was coming. Someone awful enough to frighten them, even as Tamlin slouched in his seat and picked at his nails in a vain attempt at looking unaffected.

They hadn’t been like this with the Attor. Or the naga or the Suriel or the Bogge. My grip tightened around the knife.

Footsteps sounded from the hall. Even, strolling, casual.

Tamlin continued cleaning his nails, and Lucien sat down, tension radiating off his body. He’d curled his hands into fists and bent his knees like he was ready to fight or flee a moment’s notice.

The footsteps grew louder—the scuff of boots on marble tiles.

And then he appeared.

No mask. He, like the Attor, belonged to something else. Some one else.

And worse…I’d met him before. He’d saved me from those three faeries on Fire Night.

With steps that were too graceful, too feline, he approached the dining table and stopped a few yards from the High Lord. He was exactly as I remembered him, with his fine, rich clothing cloaked in tendrils of night: an ebony tunic brocaded with gold and silver, dark pants, and black boots that went to his knees. I’d never dared to paint him—and now knew I would never have the nerve to.

He stopped in the doorway and stared and stared at me. For a moment, I could’ve sworn pure shock flashed across his features, but the look he leveled at me was pure predator. As if I were nothing more than prey to him.

“I remember you. It seems you ignored my warning to stay out of trouble,” he purred, like a cat playing with its dinner. He turned to Tamlin. “Who’s your guest?”

“Feyre Archeron,” Tamlin said. He said my name with a heavy finality, like a judge delivering a death sentence.

“Did you really just give that— that bastard her name? Lucien cried.

“Names have power. It’s Rhysand’s right,” Tamlin said.

I braced myself for an attack—slashing talons, snarling and growling. But Rhysand just laughed—a lover’s laugh, low and soft and intimate. A shiver skittered down my spine.

“A bastard? Is that really something you ought to call a High Lord of Prythian?” he said.

My heart stopped dead. This High Lord, with darkness rippling from him and violet eyes that burned like stars, could only belong to one place.

The High Lord of the Night Court had come to Spring.

With the hand that wasn’t holding the knife, I gripped the table as my knees threatened to buckle under me. Rhysand’s eyes slid to me, and his perfectly shaped lips twitched for just a moment.

But Lucien was undeterred. “This isn’t the Night Court—you have no power here. So scurry back to Amarantha’s bed where you belong.”

“Enough. If you can’t behave yourself, leave us, Lucien,” Tamlin said.

Lucien moved slowly, as if he were fighting the High Lord every step of the way. I’d never seen such anger smoldering in his expression. Rage and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a hint of betrayal.

But he obeyed. And cast one last apologetic look at me before the dining room door shut behind him. Something told me I’d just lost my only ally.

I tried not to tremble at the thought.

Tamlin turned back to Rhysand. “My apologies, High Lord. The Spring Court wants no quarrel with Night, and we won’t keep you from taking what’s rightfully yours.”

“She’ll be pleased to see the brutal war-band leader finally learned his manners. And just in time for you to join the rest of us.”

“I’m obeying the old laws, nothing more and nothing less,” Tamlin said tightly.

“Now?” Rhysand said, arching elegant, groomed brow. “They’ve been dead for centuries. I don’t see what would cause a change of that stone heart of yours after all this time.”

“What are you talking about? I burned them when— Oh, you wouldn’t know, would you?” Tamlin barked a humorless laugh, the harshest sound I’d ever heard him make.

Rhysand’s face became a mask of calm fury—terrible, fearsome, and heartbreakingly beautiful—as he stalked towards the High Lord of Spring. Tamlin raised his claws but made no other move to attack. I nearly ducked under the table to shield myself from whatever was coming, but I didn’t dare so much as breathe.

“Explain yourself.”

“I hardly believed it myself when Lucien told me he saw the mating bond—a High Lord and a human girl are far from equally matched. The clever magic of his mechanical eye doesn’t lie, but I thought it was a trick nonetheless. You and your mistress, forcing me into a war with the Night Court if I dared attempt to save my lands.”

I’d hoped they’d both forget I was there, but Rhysand turned and stared at me again. Really looked, as if he were searching for answers written in my eyes, my face, my body.

I raised the knife, though I knew he’d kill me long before I could bury it in his chest.

An invisible, talon-tipped hand pressed its way into my mind. I couldn’t move. Against my own volition, my muscles went taut, and the knife dropped from my hand and clattered against the floor.

One swipe of those mental claws and who I was would cease to exist. And I could feel them rooting around in my mind, flipping through my thoughts and memories like the pages of a book. Everything laid bare to him, no matter how private or personal.

I would have vomited if I had enough control over my body to do so.

“Leave, Rhys,” Tamlin said. “You can do this elsewhere.”

It wasn’t—I noted—a plea for Rhysand to release the magic binding me. No, Tamlin hadn’t lifted a finger. Perhaps I meant so little to him that he’d hand me over to appease a monster. Perhaps…he hadn’t cared, after all.

I would have whimpered at the thought if I’d had the freedom to draw breath. But even my heart only beat as Rhysand willed it.

“Tell me who she is,” Rhysand demanded, a slight frantic edge to his voice. The first crack in his cool demeanor.

“Feyre Archeron is your mate.”

The talons in my mind stilled but did not release their hold on me, and Rhysand’s eyes widened in pure shock. Tamlin grinned wolfishly.

Like he’d just delivered devastating news to his worst enemy.

I heard Rhysand’s voice inside my head, far softer and gentler than anything he’d said aloud. If I’d been able to move, the sound would have stopped my trembling.

Has he hurt you at all? You can be honest with me, love.

No. If anything, he’s protected me.

I felt a rush of relief—Rhysand’s relief, not my own. Whether he’d deliberately shared it with me or it had just traveled along some sort of connection between us, I couldn’t say.

Those invisible claws caressed my mind, then pulled out gingerly and vanished. My knees finally gave out, but Rhys moved with inhuman speed and caught me by the shoulders before I could sink all the way to the floor.

He hooked his other arm under my legs, cradling me against his chest. Too overwhelmed to fight, I merely tried not to sob or scream. Rhysand had seen everything—I hadn’t known it was possible to be violated so deeply in my own mind.

And yet, I had the strangest urge to bury my face in the crook of his neck.

“We’re finished here,” Rhysand said coldly. “Needless to say, if you breathe a word about her to Amarantha when we meet again, I’ll reduce your court to ash and skin your pelt for fur-lined mittens.”

He sounded like he’d go to war over me. I could barely understand it—faeries looked down on mortals, and a human girl should have been far below a High Lord’s notice.

But Tamlin had called me Rhysand’s mate. A bond so deep, it made even marriage seem insignificant in comparison, he’d once said. But plenty of husbands considered their wives little more than property—and I had no doubt Rhysand guarded his belongings jealously.

If I was no more than a thing to him, then perhaps I was a valuable one, at least.

“I have no desire to see Feyre harmed, either,” Tamlin said, though he didn’t even get up from his seat. “Take care of her.”

Rhysand inclined his head. “I’ll see you Under the Mountain.”

And with that, he carried me into the void between worlds, like a bride over a threshold.

***

We emerged in a wood. Somewhere I could feel in my bones was older—more aware—than anywhere in the Spring Court. The Night Court, perhaps. But I wondered if we’d left Prythian entirely.

“I’m sorry,” Rhysand said, before I could ask. “Fuck. I am, so so sorry.”

“Put me down. Please,” I said.

I’d almost expected him not to, but he did, moving slowly and bracing an arm behind my shoulders until I was steady on my feet. Then he stepped back and left a healthy distance between us.

His violet eyes had gone wide and wild. Desperate.

And yet…when he spoke again, his tone gentled, as if I were the feral creature that might bolt or lash out at any moment. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I believed him. But nothing else made a lick of sense, and I’d never known a forest as quiet as the one where we stood. No birdsong, no distant breaking branches, no hum of insects. It set my teeth on edge.

“Then what do you want with me?”

“My first priority is keeping you alive. There is quite a lot you don’t understand and very little time to explain. So…may I?”

The invisible talons hovered at the edge of my mind but did not pierce it. Rhysand looked at me expectantly.

The silence between us stretched on and on. But those talons did not encroach any closer. I waited to feel them slashing through the very core of myself, but…they never did.

He was waiting for permission, I realized. It set me at ease just enough to say, “Alright.”

A party, somewhere underground. A throng of fae dripping in finery—jewels, elaborate clothes, displays of wealth and power. The crowd parted, and my eyes landed on a surprisingly plain, redheaded female.

Amarantha. The woman I’d come here to kill tonight.

I gasped, realizing it had been a memory. That he had been the one intent on killing Amarantha.

Gods, hadn’t Lucien said that was the woman whose bed Rhysand warmed?

“It’s a painful memory, but one you need to see,” Rhysand said.

There was a gentle pressure against my palms. Caught up in the vision, I hadn’t realized I’d reached out and clasped his hands, and he’d squeezed back. I didn’t let go; the touch was…grounding.

It was a wonder my hands didn’t shake with rage as I plucked a glass of wine from a try proffered by a passing servant. How unfair—how monstrously unfair—that she sat here tonight in a gown of glittering rubies smiling and surrounded by sycophants, thriving and unpunished after all the lives she’d ended. The human slaves she’d killed, the soldiers she’d tortured in an attempt to break me…they all deserved justice.

I couldn’t wait to see her brain leaking out her nose.

But her mental shields were damned difficult to tunnel through. I slunk to a corner of the room, grateful for once that no one wanted to come make small talk with the High Lord of the Night Court. Breaking her defenses would take all of my mental concentration.

I didn’t bother listening to the speech as a toast. It was probably some utter bullshit about ushering in a new era of peace. No, I just kept digging, desperate for a way in. But to avoid arousing suspicion, I lifted my glass along with everyone else.

I sipped my wine and realized my mistake the second the bitter taste hit my tongue. Poison. The well of power I drew from, a vast sea of magic, began to drain away.

In the last few seconds my power was wholly my own, I wiped memories, flung out shields, and cried desperate mental warnings to my friends to stay away. And then it was done. I’d become her slave.

The memory faded, and when I came back to myself, I realized my nails were digging into Rhysand’s hands. He didn’t seem to notice or mind—his violet eyes bored into mine with single-minded intensity. “She intends to help the King of Hybern tear down the Wall and invade the mortal realm. Now do you realize the danger you’re in?”

I nodded weakly. “She’ll kill my family.”

“It gets worse,” he said, and the next memory sucked me under like a riptide.

Another party, a masquerade this time. I sat at Amarantha’s right side, and the lingering scent of what we’d done together in bed still clung to me. She hadn’t let me bathe—had wanted the smell clinging to me, marking me like a brand.

I might as well have attended the revel with a sign around my neck declaring me her whore. And if it continued to keep my court and my family safe, I’d endure a thousand more humiliations.

But I wasn’t the one she was most interested in that night. Tamlin had been foolish enough to slap her hand away when she’d tried to touch him. He should have known how badly that would enrage her.

“I’d sooner touch a human—sooner marry a human—than ever touch you,” he said, the fool. “Even your own sister preferred Jurian’s company to yours.”

The crowd tittered at that—some in shock, others in excited anticipation of the coming bloodshed. By bringing up Clythia, Tamlin might as well have been digging his own grave.

“You’re lucky I'm in a generous mood,” Amarantha drawled. Dangerous words. “I’ll give you a chance to break the spell that binds your power to me.”

Tamlin, the idiot, spat in her face. She laughed.

“I’ll give you seven times seven years before you join the rest of us Under the Mountain, my dear Tamlin. If you want to break the spell before then, you’ll have to find a human girl to marry you. And not just any girl, one with ice in her heart, willing to kill a faerie. Maybe after sending your sentries across the wall like lambs to slaughter, you’ll learn your lesson. Your courtship can only begin after she’s murdered one of your men in an unprovoked attack, killing for hatred alone. Perhaps then, you’ll understand my grief for my sister, and you’ll change your mind.”

This time, as the memory faded, another one pulled me in immediately.

In the dream, I saw a hand. A beautiful, human hand painting flowers on a table. Such a simple thing, but whoever she was, she was living in relative safety if she was painting something entirely ornamental. Something beautiful.

There was still hope.

I tried pushing back an image—the night sky. Stars and the moon. It had been so long since I’d seen an open sky, but the thought of it had kept me going for nearly fifty years. I wasn’t sure the human would receive it, but…I had to try.

“There’s more,” Rhysand said aloud, as the talons in my mind retreated again, “but that’s the gist of it. There isn’t time for me to explain the details right now.”

I just gaped at him as I tried to process all of it. The girl with ice in her heart had been me. But so had the painter from his dreams. His mate.

No wonder Tamlin had thought it was a trick—he’d known I was another male’s mate. Winning me would save his lands…only to earn the ire of the wicked Night Court.

Lucien’s words came back to me. The Night Court, of course, manages to remain unscathed.

But that was all due to Rhysand’s sacrifices. I didn’t quite understand what it meant to be mates, but I had his loyalty. That might be enough to keep me alive. And I needed to get a warning to my family, a message to flee to the Continent before Amarantha made it below the Wall.

I straightened my spine. “What are you planning?”

“To fake your death. Enough people have seen you that I’m sure word of your existence will get to her eventually. When I go back Under the Mountain, I’ll say you fled for the Wall and were eaten by some creature before you could make it home.”

As sound a strategy as any, I supposed. He’d need evidence if it was going to work. My blood, perhaps. Locks of my hair, torn up clothes with my scent still clinging to them. Anything to fake a struggle.

“I don’t know what happened to the body that belonged to the head you left in the garden,” I said, reaching for the buttons at my collar, “but if you’re in need of a mangled corpse, a faerie bled out in the manor after Amarantha took his wings. Tamlin buried him nearby.”

I slipped off my tunic, leaving me in just my pants and the thin undershirt I wore beneath it. And despite the gruesome turn the conversation had taken, I watched Rhysand’s eyes trail down towards my chest, then very quickly back up to my face.

Pig.

Rhys laughed—a real one, I realized, not the affected one meant to intimidate that I’d heard in the dining room. It might have been the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. “Oh, most definitely. But you didn’t have to think it quite so loudly.”

I tossed the tunic at his face, and he caught it handily. In an elegant movement that spoke to refined manners, he folded it over his arm like a dinner jacket.

“If we’re faking my death, where am I to hide in the meantime?”

“Here, in the forest to the east of the sacred mountain Amarantha claimed as the seat of her court. Neutral territory. In this wood, there is no High Lord, and the law is made by who is strongest, meanest, most cunning. She does not dare touch these creatures or disturb this wood.”

If Amarantha wouldn’t set foot here, I shuddered to think what monsters lurked among these trees. Something far worse than the Bogge or the naga or even the Attor.

So much for thinking Rhysand wouldn’t throw me to the wolves.

“You won’t be entirely without help,” he said, sounding almost…affronted. If he had wings, they would have rustled. But he’d clearly been listening to my thoughts again, so I couldn’t help but scowl.

A tang of magic stung my nose. I shivered at the way the spell skittered along my skin, though there was something oddly familiar about it. Like I knew Rhys’s power.

I glanced down at my arm, which had become a blur of color, like I was made of half-mixed paint. When I tried to focus on a specific part—my fingers, my elbow—my attention merely bounced elsewhere. I’d seen something similar before.

“A glamour?” I guessed.

“The scraps of power at my disposal aren’t enough to completely glamour you, but you’re…camouflaged. Not entirely invisible, but the creatures here will pass you by as long as you don’t draw attention to yourself.”

I’d manage. Out of habit, I moved quietly through the woods anyway, intent on not scaring away any game. I knew how to keep myself hidden.

A pack appeared at my feet, laden with supplies. A small tent, some rope, a flint, a bedroll, a bandana, another set of clothes. The sort of things I would have killed for when I was hunting in the woods.

“There’s no knife—she limited my magic so I’m unable to summon weapons. And I can’t give you food, either. But this should be a start,” he said.

I picked up the pack and slung it over my shoulder. “Will I see you again?”

“I don’t know,” he said, face darkening. “She rarely lets any of us out from Under the Mountain. And give it a wide berth—get too close, and her sentries guarding the entrances will spot you.”

I’d be alone in the woods—besides the more fearsome creatures, it wasn’t all that different from my life below the Wall. And at least this time, there was only one mouth to feed.

“So is this…goodbye?” I said, hating the way my voice wavered.

“For now. If you stay in the forest, you’ll be close enough that I’ll be able to reach your mind. We can speak that way when I’m not…” He trailed off, but his wince and the memories he’d just shown me spoke volumes about whatever duties he carried out in Amarantha’s hellish court.

“And you’ll answer my questions?” There was so much I needed to know.

“I won’t keep secrets from you, especially not after rifling through your mind earlier. I’m sorry for the harm it caused.”

Something told me Rhysand didn’t apologize very often. That he’d bothered, with time running so short…

“Thank you,” I said with a nod. “You should go.”

My jacket was still folded over his arm. He lifted his other hand and started to reach towards me, then dropped it as if he’d thought better of it. His fingers curled into a fist at his side.

“I’ll find you again as soon as I can,” he said. It sounded like a vow.

His violet eyes held mine until he faded completely into mist. It was just me and the moss and gnarled trees and lichen. And somewhere…the unholy creatures that called this place home.

Day after day, I’d survived and kept my family alive by stepping into the trees and putting my feelings aside. Without even a sigh, I set off to find somewhere to camp.

[michpat6]

5, 12, 17, 45 for the asks! Don’t feel pressured to answer them all, but have fun my friend 😎🕺🏼

thank you so much for the ask, @wanderingnightingale! sorry I kinda wrote an essay for these responses, I just have so much to freaking say dkgfsjhsdljghj

5) if you had to choose a favorite out of all of your multi chaptered stories, which would it be and why?

oooooh this is tough. I really like "a memory of younger days" because it helps me establish link as a person and focus mainly on him in the 'Before' era, whereas in "aftermath" the main focus is zelink as a dynamic and zelda's witchy woo in the 'After'. link, while an obviously central character and driving force in "aftermath", isn't exactly the "main" character despite being the prominent point of view. in the pre-calamity fic, im trying to give him all of the spotlight I can.

"that parting need not last forever (it's dangerous to go alone)" is an idea that I'm really proud of. I remember the morning I posted the fic I needed a title, looked up zelda quotes, and mashed two of 'em together, and when I looked at it I was like "woah. that has so much meaning and it's fucking COOL". and it is! This is the fic where I can make myself laugh with the hilarity of zelink's amnesia when the other two get too intense, and where I can get super deep when the other two get too happy.

I feel that the real answer to this question, though, is pretty obvious in that it's "aftermath". that fic is my baby and I've poured all of my brain cells and knowledge of the zelda lore into that monstrosity. I like to think my characterizations of everyone is pretty spot on, and everything down to the chapter titles has meaning, which is why im proudest of my titles for the zelda povs. ever notice how they start with princess zelda quotes and then change to another character's once they get introduced and start causing drama? deciding which quotes to pick from was SO much fun.

12) Who is your favorite character to write for? Why?

It's literally a tie between Fi or Ganondorf. are we surprised? no.

There's just something about Ganondorf that makes me go off in the dialogue department, like the best dialogue i think ive ever written. I love a good villain monologue, and because Link is a mute protagonist that's all we ever get from our resident Gerudo man, and it gives me the excuse to just shit on the "good" guys for like five pages straight.

Fi, on the other hand, makes me go batshit crazy when it comes to body language and physical tells. her whole vibe as this eldritch being that's been around for centuries but just wants to be loved is something so upsetting and honestly so pure. fi rights!

17) Post a line from a WIP that you're working on.

from a future "a memory of younger days" chapter:

"He sees flashes, moments, of babies crying for adults who never come, of little boys clad in green slaying demons, and of young, bloodied men begging for their dead mothers to hold them in the aftermath."

45) What spurs you on during the writing process?

the fact that I like what I'm doing despite how hard it is! writing makes me happy no matter how much I complain about hating it, and the added factor of posting it on something like ao3 and receiving heaps upon heaps of positive feedback, even if I personally feel like it's not my best or it's just plain bad, really helps to keep me motivated. at least someone else other than me is reading my stuff and likes it enough to keep coming back for more!

[lala-ladybug]

Healing Hands: Ch 12

Jasonette Sword Art Online AU

Read here on AO3

First | Previous | Next

Chapter 12: I fucking said please

Boots crunched over golden and crimson leaves underfoot. And if he had to walk off the path to step on them and make that satisfying noise, of course that’s what Jason Todd was going to do. He used one hand to draw his wine-red cloak a little tighter around himself against a chill breeze that threatened to tear his hood right off. The other was wrapped firmly around a steaming mug of cider, unfortunately spiced and not spiked, but delicious all the same.

He took a swig as he approached the columns of the massive library-- what was soon becoming his favorite place in the game-- and heaved the great door open. He stepped inside, leaves eddying around his feet, and inhaled deeply and gratefully.

Books.

God, he fucking loved books.

Jason was about as happy as he could be. He had just put most of his savings towards purchasing a small cabin on Level 20. It was a solo house, built on commission by NPCs who would keep their mouths shut, and far enough away from the rest of the guild (and people in general) that he could actually sleep at night. One special request he’d made was to add skylights in the whole house. Over the kitchen, the living room, especially the small bedroom. He’d toured the place when it was nearly completed, and the soft starlight it let in was just... perfect.

Afterwards, he’d spent some time walking around the crisp autumn air of Level 9. And now he was devoting the entire afternoon to reading and checking out new books. Literally what could make this day more perfect?

“So there’s this level where all the people are fish and the sea monster boss is crazy strong, no one’s been able to beat it yet--”

“Yeah well, it’s not stronger than me! I’ll kick his ass into Tuesday, just watch.”

“Kim, get down from there, you’re going to get us kicked out.”

Jason looked up from the bookshelf he’d been perusing to see some Vietnamese kid up on a table, making poses like a pro wrestler. A pro wrestler who didn’t have any muscles to show off.

Hands on hips and glaring at the boy stood a shrimp of a girl, with bright pink hair to match. As Jason raised an eyebrow, she taunted, “If you don’t get down from there, I’m telling everyone how you cried when we watched ‘Old Yeller.’”

The boy gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare.”

The girl leaned up on her tiptoes and smirked. “I would.”

Shrimpy was a blackmailer after his own heart, it seemed. Several of their other friends seemed to be milling about, and a few came over to the table Kim was on to see what the commotion was about.

“Kim, what on earth are you doing up there? Get down,” a tired, and very familiar, voice said.

“Aw, but Mari....” He honest-to-god pouted.

“No buts. Down.”

Mari? And that voice.... Jason approached the end of the aisle to get a better look, and there she was. Marinette, in all her tiny glory, holding Kim and the shrimp by their ears.

“Keeping the troops in line, I see?” Jason addressed his friend as he easily shifted his stack of five or six books to one hand to wave with the other.

“Jason!” She blushed slightly (or was that just wishful thinking?) and dropped her friends’ ears. She grinned up at him, all traces of scolding smoothed over by a bright smile. “Um, hey, what are you doing here?”

He gestured to his pile of books. “Same as you, I expect.”

He nodded to the similar stack of books sitting on the table behind her. Glancing at the titles, they were mostly about healing mechanisms in Mindscape. Odd choice, but after their near-miss at the Cyclops fort, he couldn’t blame her.

“Haha, yeah,” she gave him an awkward smile and shifted to hide the books behind her. “It’s raining back at the house today, so we all wanted to take a trip to the library.”

“It was my idea, actually,” a girl with green eyes and olive skin sauntered up to them, eyeing the books balanced in his hands. Jason flinched back and narrowed his eyes as she flipped her long brown hair and nearly hit him in the face. “I just adore old literature.”

Swallowing down the annoyance he felt, Jason sidestepped the source of it and pulled up a chair next to the seat Marinette’s books were in front of.

“I’m Lila,” the supposed-literature buff shoved a hand in front of his face, whether to shake or to kiss, he wasn’t sure. Interesting, that was the name Marinette had associated with “accusations.” Jason filed that away for later.

“I didn’t ask,” he responded coolly and opened up King Lear. It was one of his favorite Shakespearean plays, and this copy in particular was one he’d borrowed and read so much that the library gave it to him, if only so they could buy a copy that wasn’t falling apart at the seams.

The girl made a noise of indignance, but Marinette snorted, so it was worth that much at least. A few more people filtered in from the stacks, joining the group in the open space filled with tables and comfortable chairs. One redheaded girl in particular approached Marinette, glasses frames hardly masking her excitement.

“Marinette, you won’t believe it, they actually have information about all the American superheroes here! They even had a section for the French heroes, but we know all about them, so I didn’t waste my time there. Look at them all!” The girl excitedly waved behind her, where a boy with a red cap was laden with a teetering pile of books. Next to him, a blond boy was similarly weighed down, though he had a few books about local wildlife in the game balanced on top of the editorials and comic books.

“That’s great Alya,” Marinette smiled, then looked at the boys with concern. “Why don’t you guys put those down here?” She quickly cleared a space for them to place the books on her table. They gratefully deposited them and slumped down in the chairs opposite Jason.

“Whew, thanks M. Thought she’d never let us out of there,” the boy with the red cap wiped his glasses on his shirt.

“Eh, we needed the exercise!” The blond boy shook out his hands.

“Easy for you to say, Kitty,” Marinette reached over the table and booped his nose. Jason swallowed the pang of jealousy he felt at their causal interactions. And nicknames. Very familiar nicknames.

“Oh where are my manners,” her eyes widened slightly. “Jason, this is Alya,” the redhead, “Nino,” red-cap boy, “and Adrien.” Blond. Kitty. Potential enemy. “They’re my friends from lycee! Guys, this is my friend Jason,” Marinette continued on cheerfully.

Adrien beamed at him. “So this is the famous Jason who’s been stealing away our Marinette.” His positivity was practically a threat, Jason could feel how much more alert and guarded this boy was compared to their other friends. Marinette buried her head in her book, unsuccessfully trying to hide a blush that reached her ears.

“So! Jason, where are you from?” Alya obliviously cut in, thumbing through one of the very first publications on the Justice League. “I assume Mari told you we’re all from Paris.”

He leaned his chair back to balance it on two legs, replying, “Yes, she did. I’m from Gotham City, born and raised.”

Alya’s eyes locked onto him with an intensity he wouldn’t have expected. He could practically feel a million questions bubbling to the surface, and sure enough, they broke free momentarily.

“Have you ever seen Batman? Or the other Bats?” Alya practically levitated towards him but was gently pulled back by Nino.

“Easy there, Als. Sorry, she’s a big fan of superheroes.” Nino helped her settle back into her seat with a fond smile.

“Vigilantes.”

Even Marinette looked up from her book at that.

“Come again?” Alya blinked confusedly.

Jason put his hands behind his head and leaned back further in his chair. “The Bats are called vigilantes, not heroes. And there’s nothing super about them. As far as anyone can tell, they don’t have any powers.”

Alya’s eyes widened. There was a beat, then she whipped out a notebook and pen and scooched her chair closer. “Tell me more,” she said.

Jason gave her a few details, nothing an ordinary Gothamite wouldn’t pick up on, and even recounted a few incidents he’d been caught up in as a civilian. Alya avidly wrote down every detail, while Nino looked on, only half-listening. For her part, Marinette only pulled her attention away from her books when Jason talked about being in danger. She looked concerned, it was an expression he absolutely adored on her sweet face.

They were just laughing at a story he’d recalled involving the Riddler and a green screen when someone new sauntered up to them. Lila sat on the edge of their table, snatching up Jason’s opened copy of King Lear and placing it on her lap.

“Hey Jason, right? I haven’t seen you around before,” she batted her eyelashes at him. She began idly thumbing through the pages, letting them all fall open until she reached the back cover and snapped it shut.

“I’m mostly on the front lines. What is it that you do?” Jason challenged her.

She laughed and crossed one leg over the other, moving the book-- his book-- to be carelessly held aloft in one hand. “I help out around the guild, doing odds and ends, motivating our fearless warriors.” Marinette snorted, which Alya frowned at.

Lila tapped a finger to her chin. “Though, I could ask the same of Marinette. We hardly ever see you, I hope you’re not just spending all your time here reading,” she put on a faux-concerned look. Ah, so she was out to get Marinette it seemed.

“Let me correct myself. I’m usually on the front lines with Marinette. She and I make a good team,” Jason glanced next to him to catch the small smile blooming on his friend’s face. “Now may I please have my book back.” He finished flatly.

Lila took it in stride. “What’s the magic word?” She asked flirtatiously, lofting the book high in the air, above his reach.

“I fucking said please,” Jason growled, then lunged for the book. He only made it as far as her wrist though, which he barely squeezed before she gave a cry of pain and dropped it.

Of all the fucking things....

Lila cradled her wrist, which definitely wouldn’t even bruise, and started to sniffle. Alya jumped up and comforted the girl, helping her down from the table and guiding her to a nearby chair. Meanwhile, Jason gingerly peered around the table to see the mess on the floor. The book’s binding had come undone, its pages miraculously still mostly in order but no longer held together.

He leaned back with a groan. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

Marinette stood up and walked around the table to gently pick up the pages, keeping them as close to their proper order as she could. She placed them softly on the table in front of him.

“I’m sorry about her,” she locked eyes with him. She was barely taller than him like this, her standing and him sitting, and looking up at her allowed her bangs to frame her face in a way he’d never seen. She looked so beautiful, it took him a moment to actually remember he was supposed to be talking. It still didn’t fix his favorite book though.

“That’s okay. Hopefully it’ll teach her a damn lesson,” he shot a glare at where Lila sat, being waited upon by a growing crowd.

Marinette rolled her eyes as if she’d been through this countless times before. “We can only hope,” she muttered, taking her seat next to him once more. “Will you get in trouble with the library?”

He scoffed. “Not likely. They actually gave this copy to me since I wore it out so much.” He glanced around to see if anyone else was near them. Adrien seemed to have left, electing to hide rather than be coerced into tending to Lila. “It’s uh, actually one of my favorites. I’ve always had a soft spot for Shakespeare.”

Marinette’s face fell. How could she still be so gorgeous when her eyes were that sad? “I’m so sorry, I had no idea.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “W-would you like me to try repairing it for you? I um, I know how to sew and it’s the least I could do since it’s so important to you,” She had started rambling, increasingly jerky hand movements accompanying her speech, “and I can’t believe how careless she was to actually break your poor book, I mean who even does that, so if you want--”

“Yes,” Jason stilled her hands from their wild gesturing, holding them gently. “That would mean a lot.” Her soft blue eyes met his in a tentative smile. “Plus,” Jason said, releasing her hands and leaning back in his chair once more, “then I’ll owe you a favor.”

Marinette reached over to carefully slide the pages in front of her. “Oh really? And just what does a ‘favor’ from you entail?” She teased.

“Whatever you’d like, darling,” he winked at her. She rolled her eyes, but didn’t bother stopping the smile on her face.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she shot back.

He watched as she pulled out a sewing kit and began to thread a needle with thick twine. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

She shook her head, then a look of concentration overtook her smile as she began to line up the pages perfectly.

He was interested in exactly how she planned to mend the book, sure, but he found that he couldn’t look away from her hands as she worked. They were so small, yet so nimble and they handled the needle and thread with a practiced air. One delicate hand held the stack of pages steady, while the other deftly pierced their edges, doubling back on itself to secure them in place. She worked quickly and quietly, seemingly lost in her own world.

Jason was so fascinated by watching her mending, healing, that he almost completely missed Lila tearfully walking past him, only realizing she and her entourage had done so minutes afterward. He didn’t mind though, he was content to watch Marinette all day. He blinked, realizing that he was exactly that, content, here with her. He fought back a smile as she stuck her tongue out from between her lips. How he’d like to put that tongue somewhere else--

“Done!” She proclaimed, proudly snipping the thread and knotting it off. She handed the book over to him, now coverless, with a grin.

“Thank you, Marinette. Seriously,” he opened the book up to where he’d left off, testing how secure the pages felt. “You did an amazing job.”

She blushed. “Oh, thanks! If it ever comes undone or feels loose, just let me know. I was just kind of guessing since I’ve never actually bound a book before. And you may want to see someone about the cover.”

Jason stared at her. “Really? It feels perfect.” You feel perfect, he thought to himself.

“Oh, that’s great! I hope it works out well for you,” she blushed, trying very hard not to accept his praise. Well, clearly she deserved it, so that was something they’d need to work on. He found himself surprised at how easily he could picture a future with them together, showering her in compliments until she learned that they were all true.

A voice that sounded suspiciously like Dick rang out in his head, Woah there, slow down tiger. Take her on an actual date first. And another voice that sounded a lot like Bruce, If she even wants that much from someone like us. A smaller voice that echoed his own added, Someone like you. All valid points. His smile faltered a little. He would just have to wait it out and see what Marinette wanted. But he... he couldn’t be the one to initiate anything. Not when he was so broken.

He watched her struggle to stack up all her books and return them to the shelves, shaking his head fondly before grabbing more than half of them from her arms, piling them on top of his own. She smiled at him gratefully and lead the way deeper into the stacks.

No, he couldn’t ask that of her, not when she was so perfect. Flirting was all well and good, but he hadn’t expected to care as much as he was starting to. So flirting would have to be as far as he’d let himself go.

[rogue-bard]

The starting deadline had been his first gray hair. As a ginger person, it took him quite a lot longer than Fjord, who had started going all 'silver fox' by the sweet age of 20, and even Veth, who had just begun showing off a silver fringe around last year. He was, as far as he knew, the very last one. (Yasha and Essek didn't count in this comparison, for obvious reasons, and Caduceus disqualified based on dietary reasons...) But no matter how long it lasted, they had destroyed his last chance to save his parents in Aeor, and with it the only possibility to stop times' ever advancing gravitational pull on his very own sword of Damocles. There was the Time Stop spell though, and sometimes, Caleb had walked in on Essek, late at night, or early in the morning, when humans can be reasonably expected to be fast asleep, buried in Dunamancy books that specialized on time. It could have been nothing. Time was Essek's specialty, as he kept reminding Caleb. But maybe Essek, too, was trying to look for a way to stop time, in a very particular, partial way. And somehow, that thought hurt even more than pretending the Drow didn't care. Essek was making plans of torturing his lover by inviting Jester to arrive a week early for Caleb's fifty-fifth birthday – “You know she would love to help with preparations, and you will do everything in your spell book's power to finagle your way out of having to celebrate, which I won't allow this year.” – when it was there: In the mirror, in between red and orange and ginger. Caleb stared at it. “Do you think we should move Jester's and Fjord's room next to Veth's and Yeza's until everyone else arrives?” Essek's voice from the room next doors shook him out of his stupor. He sounded so lost in thought about something so mundane... Caleb twisted the thin, white strand around his palm. “Yes, we should,” he said, as he ripped as hard as he could. Only his birthday. They had still time until after his birthday. He wasn't gonna drop dead in front of his ever-young boyfriend because of a gray hair. He didn't need to leave Essek right now. Plus, when the Nein were there, on his birthday, and staying over until at least a couple of days after, Essek wouldn't be alone. Yeah. He shouldn't be alone. That was the whole point. “I think they will appreciate not being alone on the third floor.” Essek poked his head in, and Caleb saw his fanged smile in the mirror as he tried to hide the tiny sliver of gray in his hand like Essek would see it as the proof of betrayal that it was. He forced a smile on his own face, but it make his cheeks hurt. “As will you, I'm sure.” Essek let out a huff that was almost a laugh. “I could never alone,” he said. “Not when I am with you.” His cheeks still hurt. But now his eyes stung, too.

“Caaaay-leeeeb!” Jester, as usual, was very versed in using her outside voice, right next to his ear. “Oh my gosh, you're sooo old now!” He winced a bit. Weird, he was used to her voice, wasn't he? And his ears weren't bad, but they also were not what they used to be. “I am exactly one day older than 55,” he answered her warily. “Yupp, birthday's over now, birthday boy,” Veth nodded. “I'm sorry if we're in the way of you two love-birds celebrating it in a more private way.” She grinned at Essek who was standing next to him, their shoulders not even touching, but for some reason, Veth acted as if they were digging for each other's tonsils with their tongues. (As she does.) When nobody else dignified her remark with a reaction, Jester squealed: “Like making tiny ginger Drow babies that float and have really good hair and a weird accent!” “Or, you know, just fucking,” Veth shrugged. “Yeah, I don't think making babies works that way, Jester,” Fjord hummed, imperturbable by now to Veth's crass language or his wife's antics. Caduceus smiled down at the Half-Orc, a tiny glint of mischief in his eyes: “How can you be so sure?” And of course, Kingsley was right there with him: “Exactly! With two wizards, you never know. Might make tiny cat babies trying to figure out how to explode a house.” “Or explode a library trying to make soup,” Beau added flatly. “That was one time, Beauregard,” Caleb cut in at the same time as Essek said: “I still am very sorry about that. I hope you told the Soul as much.” The monk shrugged. “'s fine. Was more fun than I had there in a week.” “Also since you always come in disguise, they don't really know who you are and you can still come back and visit us and go look at books,” Yasha tried to cheer him up. “Very nice,” Veth said and gave them a thumbs up. “But back to fucking.” In the corner of his eye, Caleb could see Fjord facepalm. The blue Tiefling on his arm wasn't as merciful however: “Yes, tell us if you can make tiny floatie Eslebs! ...Cayseks?” “Through fucking,” Veth added with a nod. She was clearly trying to get a rise out of either of them. Yeza might have been looking apologetic, but he was very clearly relieved that for once, he wasn't the victim of his wife's brutal teasing. Caleb wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of blushing, but he assumed that he wasn't her prime target anyway, since he was pretty shameless when it came to these things. “I think it might be time for bed for me,” he simply said and was already turning around when he felt someone grip his wrist. When he turned to look, Essek leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek, but only to disguise the whisper in his ear: “Do not dare leave me alone with them while they are in this mood!” He couldn't help but laugh, throwing Essek's clever ruse of faking a kiss to be subtle about his plea to the wind. “You could come with me,” he suggested. “Always,” Essek promised. Leaving tonight would be cruel, Caleb decided. Maybe he shouldn't leave Essek here with them, when they would needle him day and night about what might have transpired between them that had made Caleb leave. And Essek would be sitting up while they slept, mulling over their questions, thinking that he must have missed the clues, and that it was ultimately his fault. When in reality, it was just the inevitability of Essek finding him dead in bed one day, if he stayed for too long. But even though he tried to leave early so that Essek would remember him as the man he fell in love with, rather than a geriatric, he still had years if he wanted to. He could wait a few months. “Have fun fucking!”, Jester yelled after them and while Essek refused to turn around, Caleb just gave her a wary: “Ja, sure”.

Oh look! It’s a continuation of my last ficlet from this post! And I turned it into a ~5k fanfic! (read the whole thing on ao3 here)

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Hot Mess

Prompt: Hi, so I really flippin love your writing style and I was wondering if you could write a fic of the sides just flirting(mainly Janus because we all know he's the best flirter) with each other, like in (Un)wanted chapter 1 where Janus was flustering Virgil really badly, that sort of thing. Could be DLAMP or DLAMPR I don't mind. You don't have too I was just wondering... Thanks either way!

First off, thank you so much for the prompt! Second...

Listen. Everything is awful and I don’t understand how flirting works. Ever. Actually, you know what, no. No one understands what flirting is. There have been so many fucking tests run and no one can ever tell who is flirting ever. It’s bullshit. Everything is bullshit and I’ve never understood a damn thing in my entire life and I’m sure as hell not about to start now. So.

That being said, here. 

Read on Ao3

Pairings: yes. LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR. 

Warnings: sympathetic janus & remus

Word Count: 5884

If you ask anyone whose fault is it that everyone, for some reason, starting flirting with each other, they’ll blame Janus. Even Janus. He knows what he did. It’s his fault.

Anyway, there are a few things that are a given. Everyone flirts with everyone, with the one exception of Roman and Remus. They’re brothers. It doesn’t work. Anything else is fair game. Are they being serious? Who knows. Probably. Maybe. Keeping anything straight around the Mindscape is complicated enough, for obvious reasons.

 Doesn’t mean there can’t be some level of trying to keep track of what’s bound to happen at some point.

 Patton’s flirting is both the least obvious and the most obvious. It’s super cheesy pick up lines delivered completely genuinely and the sweetest pet-names ever. But the problem is that’s not too different from how he normally is. For some reason, the Dad Coaxing Tone™ is the worst and he knows it. He doesn’t flirt nearly as often as some of the others do and he’s surprisingly sweet about it. It normally just makes them kind of giggly and slightly redder than normal. Always comes with hugs, which is never something to complain about. Cheeky comments and cheeky smiles that leave them second-guessing everything that just happened. And, of course, by the time they’re just about finished wrapping their heads around what just happened, he’s back with another line and here they go again.

 Roman.

 Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

 They should have expected this because his job is romance but fucking hell.

 His way of showing love is through poking fun at things so…all the teasing. All of it. Not just verbal teasing, even though that in itself is enough to make everyone melt into puddles, but he gets close. Like, sneak-up-and-hug-you-from-behind kind of close. Or he’ll just stand really close with a smirk as he teases them, waiting for them to give in and run into his arms. Or he’ll crowd them against the wall. Or the counter. Someone probably dared him to do this—or not, because, again, it’s Roman—but he definitely pinned Logan to the wall and didn’t let up until his grip on Logan’s wrists were the only thing keeping him standing. Also, super gushy pet-names. Like, super gushy. Like Patton, very fond of telling them how cute they are, including asking them why they’re hiding such a cute face, come on, he wants to see how adorable they are. With Janus and Logan, he makes his voice lower, taking advantage of how close that lets him get. Dramatic monologues or sneaking up and dipping them are a must. He goes full Disney Prince and doesn’t let up until they can’t even ramble anymore, smiling down at their bright red cheeks. With the others, he makes his voice very sweet, soft, and gentle. He gets right in their faces so they can’t go anywhere and riles them up until they’re a melted squirmy mess. It’s not uncommon to find someone—normally Patton or Virgil— an absolute puddle with Roman beaming, just twisting them round and round his finger. Merciless and shameless flirt. Roman is the actual worst and they all love him.

  Virgil is affectionately known as The Meme Flirter. No prizes for guessing who came up with that. He picks one nickname for each of them and just peppers it into conversation with a wink and a smirk. The master of timing. He doesn’t need to spend ages winding them up, he just picks the right moment and they’re covering their faces and squirming. Also uses the technique of being close but not close enough to touch. Sometimes he’ll team up with Roman or Logan and just be there all ‘you know he’s right’ when they look to him for help, or engage in conversation with whoever else is flirting about how red they’re getting, or how much they’re squirming. Or he’ll engage in flirt competitions. He’s way more confident about it than they ever anticipate and it always catches them off guard. He keeps an eye on them though, because he knows the others (especially Roman) can get carried away. “You don’t wanna break ‘em, do you?”

 (They do sometimes but shh.)

 For Logan, infodumping is the actual best way of expressing affection and you will not convince him otherwise. He’ll research topics so they can talk about them together if they want but if you think that is it then boy howdy you are wrong. This guy keeps notebooks on the best way to fluster each and every one of the Sides, okay. He knows his shit. He infodumps about them too, phrasing compliments as provable facts. Will pretend to be confused about why they’re getting so flustered, he’s just telling them the truth, why are you so red? It would be convincing if he weren’t purposefully making his voice as low as it can go and smirking. Also a teasy bastard. He will just ask them to do things he knows they can’t help doing when they get flustered, especially with Patton or Janus. He’s asked Janus to squee for him more often than he would like. (Liar.) Or they’ll be protesting and telling them to knock it off and he’ll just point out that ‘no one is holding you. Nor are we blocking any exits. By all means, if you wish to leave, then you may.’ Knowing perfectly well they’re puddles and puddles can’t move. But then ‘oh, you must not want to leave.’ ‘Accidental’ touches make it worse, as well as nonchalantly adding in pet-names. He’s the one who figured out that pet-names make them melt, by the way. Also figured out that firmer touches help ground them, so he offers them a deal sometimes. If they like, they can come and cuddle with him while he flirts. It gives them an excuse to cuddle and a place to hide, but that does mean he’s murmuring right into their ears. It’s a double-edged sword. When he teams up with Roman they are the worst, especially when they agree that it’s necessary to reestablish emotional stability. Or they’re bored, snickering when poor Virgil bolts out of the room from too much blush. Virgil will run away if it gets to be too much, he’s got that built into his whole deal as anxiety, but Janus…forget about it. That team-up definitely has overwhelmed the poor thing multiple times. You can’t freeze with these predators, they’ll eat you alive. They definitely teased and flirted with him until he burst into tears one time, it was…an experience.

 “Enough!”

 Roman pauses, midway through some dramatic gesture, faltering at the crack in Janus’s voice. Logan glances at him before looking back at Janus, his hands still pressed hard to his face, his shoulders tense. He takes a small step forward and tilts his head.

 “Janus?”

 He calls his name softly until he lowers his hands, unable to stop the comforting noise when he sees the tears on his cheeks. Beside him, Roman inhales sharply, only to make a noise of protest when he immediately covers his face again.

 “Janus,” he says, dropping the flirty persona immediately, “may I touch you?”

  Please say yes, please.

 He nods. Logan reaches out, gently covering his hands to coax them away, clutching them tightly.

 “Too much?” Janus nods. “My apologies, it was not my intention to overwhelm you.”

 “Nor mine, little snake,” Roman says quietly.

 “I know.”

 “Would you like us to stay,” Logan asks gently, giving his hands a squeeze, “or leave you alone?”

 Janus shuffles, his mouth drawing tight and his hands tensing. Logan is content to wait patiently for him to make up his mind, but Roman seems to have other ideas.

 “Oh dear,” he murmurs, stepping a little closer, “we really overdid it this time, didn’t we, darling?”

 “I said enough,” Janus mumbles.

 “I know, I know, I’m done,” he assures, reaching out to tenderly wipe his cheek, “I promise. Oh, oh you poor thing…”

 “Roman,” Logan chides gently, “I don’t think…”

 He trails off when Janus frees one of his hands, tentatively reaching out for Roman. Roman swoops in, gathering him into a hug so tight his fingers whiten from his grip on him. As Logan watches, Roman tilts his head slightly, beginning to pepper kisses along the side of his face.

 “I don’t understand,” he says quietly, “how…how is this not more overwhelming?”

 “I think you’re going to have to wait to ask him that, Specs,” Roman murmurs, “because I don’t know that either.”

 “Then how did you know it would work?”

 Roman looks up at him, sadness coloring his gaze. “Because a different face told me it would.”

  Ah.

 “I’m right here,” Roman says softly, rocking Janus in his arms, “I’m right here, little snake. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

 Janus all but slumps into Roman’s embrace, his head tucking neatly against his shoulder as he presses more kisses to his face.

 “I have you, alright? I’m not going to hurt you, you know I’m not.” Roman adjusts his grip. “It’s just like we always do, hmm? I rile you up and then you come here and I cuddle you right back down.”

 He pulls back to gently catch another tear with his thumb. “Just pushed a bit too far this time, hmm?”

  I rile you up and cuddle you back down.

  Like we always do.

  I’m not going to hurt you, you know I’m not.

 “I understand,” Logan breathes, “I understand now.”

 “Understand what?”

 “What’s happening.” Logan steps forward, gently resting his hands on the part of Janus’s back not covered by Roman’s arms. “And how I can help.”

 “By all means then,” Roman says, “tell us.”

 “Janus is…not accustomed to receiving compliments,” Logan begins, lightly hushing Janus’s noise of protest.

“It’s true, little snake,” Roman says.

 “Yes, and we will work on that,” Logan promises, “but that does make it easy to blindside or disarm him with comments of that nature. Hence…”

 He motions between the three of them.

 “You’re not used to experiencing affection like this,” he continues softly, “and especially not through flirting or playful teasing, which is why it doesn’t take much effort on our parts to fluster you.”

 Janus makes another noise of protest and he shushes him gently.

 “I’m not trying to tease, Janus, I promise,” he murmurs, “but it doesn’t, does it? It makes you uncomfortable because you don’t understand it, not really, so you don’t know what to expect next. We have not exactly been…forthcoming with affection in the past, have we?”

 Janus nods hesitantly.

 “This, however,” Logan continues, leaning a little more of his weight onto his hands, “is a form of affection you understand very well.”

 He steps a little closer, rubbing firm circles into Janus’s back.

 “You are a very heat-sensitive person,” he says, “and you understand how to give and receive affection in this language, so to speak. When one of us touches you while we are teasing or flirting with you, it heightens the loss of control you feel because it’s something that should be familiar, but it’s being used in an unfamiliar way.”

 “But when it’s like this,” Logan continues, leaning closer, “it’s calming. Grounding. Especially after you’ve just been in a state of higher stress. You know what we mean by it.”

 “When I put my hand on your shoulder or your back,” he murmurs, shifting his weight further onto his hands, “you know it means I’m here, right here, and I’m not going anywhere. When Roman kisses you—“ Logan smiles when Roman uses that as an excuse to press another kiss to Janus’s forehead— “you know it means he cares about you, that he won’t let anything hurt you.”

 “Look at our resident genius over here,” Roman says, leaning over to peck Logan’s cheek too, smirking when it brings a flush to his face, “aww, Logan, feeling left out?”

 “No,” Logan replies stiffly, ignoring the growing smirk on Roman’s face, “and even if I were, we have more pressing matters to deal with.”

 “No, no,” Janus mumbles, “I’m good now, I can leave, it can be Logan’s turn.”

 Roman raises his eyebrows. ‘Are you gonna let that go?’

 Logan will most certainly not.

 “I can assure you,” he rumbles into Janus’s ear, “I am perfectly satisfied with our roles as they currently stand.”

 Roman chuckles when Janus squirms in his grip.

 “After all,” Logan continues, “we have just established that this can be quite the cathartic experience for you, it wouldn’t do at all to interrupt it before it is complete.”

 “Did you just…create a scientific excuse to do this in the name of maintaining emotional stability?”

 Logan smirks. “Perhaps.”

 “You know better than to try and argue with Logan about science,” Roman adds.

 Janus swats at them half-heartedly but doesn’t protest when Roman lets him go a few moments later, pressing one last kiss to his forehead and leaving. Logan taps him gently on the shoulder.

 “Am I correct, Janus?”

 “Yeah,” he mumbles, a little red still on his cheeks, “you’re right.”

 “Good.” Logan reaches out and slides the tissue box closer. “And…thank you.”

 He looks up, confused. “For what?”

 Logan smiles. “For telling us it was too much, and for letting us help.”

 That’s the first time Logan’s able to determine exactly how best to help one of them calm down, especially after one of them is incredibly flustered. The first time he implements it is under…slightly different circumstances.

 He’s not quite sure how Virgil and Roman talked him into playing Truth Or Dare, but here he is, on the couch, Roman sprawled across the floor, Virgil perched on the back. So far he’s had to cover his ears from Roman belting the third Disney medley in an hour and he has several questions for Remus about where his good clipboard is. Then it’s Virgil’s turn again and he picks dare.

 “Are you sure, My Chemically Imbalanced Romance?” Roman asks.

 “Just hit me with it, Princey.”

 Roman taps his fingers against his chin, glancing around. His eyes land on a spot over Logan’s shoulder and he grins. Logan follows his gaze and sees Janus in the kitchen.

 “I dare you,” Roman announced, “to flirt with Patton for two minutes.”

 Virgil snorts. “That’s it?”

 Roman just sweeps his arm dramatically. “Your dare awaits.”

 Virgil shrugs, getting up off the couch and making his way to the kitchen. The instant he’s almost there, Roman scrambles up, jumping onto the couch next to Logan, almost landing on top of him, hooking his chin over the back.

 Logan raises an eyebrow. “Comfortable?”

 “Shush, Pocket Protector,” Roman says, flapping a hand, “and get your timer out.”

 Logan rolls his eyes, checking his watch and watching Virgil lean on the counter, propping his chin on his hand.

 “Hey there, cutie.”

 Patton startles, whirling around to see Virgil. “Hey! Wow, you scared me, uh, yeah, hi there!”

 “Sorry,” Virgil smiles, not sounding the least bit sorry, “can’t help it. You look like a cute little bunny when you’re startled.”

 “Oh, god, not this,” Patton mutters, turning around, his face already starting to flush.

Virgil grins, his tongue between his teeth as Patton tries to go back to what he was doing. “You just make it too easy, cutie.”

 “I do not!”

 The grin turns feral. “Then why don’t you turn around and show me that pretty face?”

 “Nope. No thank you. I’m going to stay over here.”

 “Why, afraid of proving me right?”

 “No.”

 “Then come on, cutie,” Virgil says, tilting his head, “turn around.”

 Patton leans his head back, sighing before turning around and spreading his arms. “Happy?”

 “Mm.” Virgil grins. “You’ve got such pretty eyes, Patton.”

 He stutters, his face already turning red. “Oh my god. Stop!”

 “Can’t help it cutie,” Virgil says, waggling his eyebrows and chuckling when Patton covers his face, “I’ve been dared to do this for two minutes!”

 “Good to know,” Patton squeaks, “that this is only happening because it’s mandatory.”

 “Aw, don’t be like that, cutie, you know I’ll flirt with you anyway.”

 “That is not what I meant!”

 Virgil only laughs harder. “You might wanna pace yourself, cutie, you’ve still got…”

 He trails off, looking at Logan. Logan checks his watch.

 “One minute and twelve seconds.”

 “One minute and twelve seconds left,” Virgil finishes, propping himself back up on the counter, “so…”

 The sight is entertaining, Logan has to admit. Patton goes bright and flushed, his eyes squeezing shut, mumbling little things to himself and trying not to whine every time Virgil opens his mouth.

 “Aw,” Virgil teases when he breaks and tries to bite down on his knuckle, “don’t muffle yourself, cutie.”

 “Goodness, you need to stop.”

 “I want your voice on my playlist, it’s so pretty.”

 “Why?”

 “I just said.” Virgil props his chin on his hand again. “It’s so pretty.”

 “No, why are you doing this?”

 Virgil smirks. “Because you’re so pretty.”

 And with that, Patton’s reduced to another blushy panic with plenty of muttered comments and Virgil’s standing there, grinning. It’s refreshing, seeing Virgil so confident, so sure of himself. It looks good on him.

 And, of course, Patton is objectively adorable.

 The scene is so captivating, in fact, that Logan glances down at his watch only to realize the two minutes have expired.

 “Time,” he calls, much to Patton’s relief.

 “Thank goodness.”

 “Aw,” Virgil pouts, “you’ll hurt my feelings, cutie.”

 “Nope. No more.” Patton points a stern finger at him, the effect slightly undone by his pink cheeks and the fact that he’s obviously fighting a smile. “You get out.”

 Virgil just winks and saunters back to the couch.

 “Stellar performance, Dark and Stormy,” Roman declares, giving Virgil a round of applause, “truly excellent.”

 “Well done,” Logan says, “that was quite the display of self-confidence.”

 Virgil just lifts a shoulder and lets it drop. “Eh. Easy dare. My turn now, right?”

 “Indeed.”

 Virgil narrows his eyes, glancing between the two of them. “Princey. Truth or dare?”

 “Dare,” Roman answers immediately, “what kind of prince would I be if I turned down a challenge?”

 Virgil smirks. “Alright, then. You have two minutes to make Patton redder than I did.”

 “Done.”

“Virgil,” Logan chides lightly as Roman prances off toward the kitchen.

 “Relax,” Virgil says, settling in to watch, “it’s not like he’s gonna hurt him.”

 “No, he’s just going to fluster him with the end goal of rendering him inarticulate.”

 Virgil smirks. “Exactly. Now shut up and watch.”

 “Oh, Addie,” Roman calls, smirking at the way Patton startles.

 “Oh, um, hey, Roman, um, what do you want?”

 “I just want to talk to you, Patton.”

 “Oh goodness,” Patton mumbles, already covering his face as Roman crowds him against the counter, “don’t say my name like that, that’s really mean!”

 Roman’s eyes gleam. “Dearest, if you wanted me to call you pet names instead, you only had to ask, my sweet, I’m more than happy to oblige.”

 “No!”

 Roman just smirks, bracing his hands on either side of him. “No? Then what should I call you, gorgeous?”

 Any reply is too muffled for Logan to hear. Virgil snickers as Roman sighs dramatically.

 “Fine, I’ll just have to call you by your lovely, lovely name.” He leans forward to try and peer through the gaps in his fingers. “Almost as lovely as you.”

 He chuckles when Patton whines again, spluttering like a fish out of water. “You’re so cute when you’re at a loss for words.”

 “What do you want?”

 “Oh, I was dared to make you redder than Virgil did.”

 “Why?”

 “Because you’re absolutely stunning, darling,” Roman answers easily, “and it’s stunningly easy to flirt with you.”

 “It is not!”

 Virgil snorts and Logan raises an eyebrow. Roman’s smirk widens.

 “Of course is it, cutie pie,” he coos, “all I have to do is this.”

 “N-no, don’t do that,” Patton stammers, trying to cover his face with a dish towel, only for Roman to catch his hands and effortlessly pull them out of the way, lacing their fingers together and holding them against the counter.

 “What’s the problem, sweetie?” He gently blows a strand of hair out of Patton’s face. “Is it just that I’m…right here? Talking like this to you? Is that it, honey?”

 “Mmm!”

 “Hmm?” Roman tilts his head. “What’s that, cutie?”

 “It’s not even flirting,” Patton manages, still looking as if he’s trying to sink into the counter.

 “I’m not even saying anything, cutie,” Roman coos, “and there’s nothing I enjoy better than being able to render you speechless like this.”

 Logan has to admit, Roman’s teasing is enough to make him shift on the couch, a slight flush rising unbidden to his face. Judging by the way Virgil starts fiddling with the strings on his hoodie, he’s not immune to it either.

 It really should not be that much of a surprise that Roman is one of the most proficient flirters in the Mindscape. Romance, passion, and desire all fall under his purview. And yet, here they all are, slowly growing more and more flustered.

 “Okay,” Virgil mutters just loud enough for Logan to hear, “Princey’s getting me and he’s not even trying.”

 “I concur.” Logan adjusts his tie and glances at his watch. “Thirty seconds.”

 “Come on.” Roman tugs gently at the towel in Patton’s hands. “You have to show me your cute little face, otherwise I won’t know if the dare’s over yet!”

 He finally manages to get the towel away from him and gasps, quickly reaching out to cup his cheeks before he can cover his face again. “Oh, just look at you, you’re even cuter up close!”

  “R-Roman!”

 “Yes, cutie pie?”

 “Let me go!”

 “Go where,” Roman murmurs, pushing Patton gently against the counter, “can you think of anywhere better to be than right here, in my arms, while I tease you silly? Hmm? You’re not even trying to get away, sunshine.”

 “Time.”

 Roman chuckles, stepping back, perching his hands on his hips. “What do you think, redder than Virgil’s go?”

 “Hmm,” Virgil hums, leaning over the back of the couch, “dunno. Can’t see his face from here.”

 “I’m mad at you,” Patton mutters, already covering his face.

 “Aw, no,” Roman purrs, “no you aren’t. Come on, gorgeous, if you don’t show us your face, I’ll just have to do it again!”

 “No.” Patton forces his hands down, making Roman chuckle again. Sure enough, his face is beet red, covering his skin with such intensity that for a moment, Logan worries. Then Virgil snorts.

 “Aww, he’s so cute!”

 “I know, isn’t he?”

 “Oh my goodness.”

 “Virgil,” Logan chides lightly.

 “You’re no fun, teach,” Virgil says, waving a hand, but he concedes. “Yeah, alright, Princey. You win.”

 Roman bows, sweeping his hand in a wide arc, before taking one of Patton’s hands and pressing a kiss to the back of it.

 “Thank you, sunshine.” With a wink, he strides back to the couch and sits down triumphantly. “That was fun!”

 His eyes widen when he sees Logan adjust his glasses nervously and Virgil quickly flips up his hood.

 “Don’t tell me that you got flustered too,” he teases, reaching up to poke Logan’s arm.

 “Enough,” Logan says quickly, “your turn to ask.”

 For a moment, he braces himself for Roman to not, indeed, agree, but then Roman simply pouts and tilts his head up.

 “Logan, dare or dare?”

 Logan blinks. “That is not the game, Roman.”

 “Yeah, but you’re the only one who hasn’t done a dare yet, so…” Roman shrugs. “Dare or dare?”

 “It seems pointless for me to choose between two of the same options,” Logan sighs, “but I will select ‘dare.’”

 Roman tilts his head this way and that, considering Logan. Then he grins.

 “I don’t think it’s fair if we leave Logan out,” he says to Virgil, “do you?”

 “Oh, goodness, hasn’t Patton had enough?”

 Virgil narrows his eyes at him. “So you don’t wanna have a turn?”

 Logan fiddles with his watch. “…I didn’t say that.”

 “Marvelous!” Roman claps his hands. “Oh, don’t be so shy, Logan!”

 “We know you’ve got notebooks full of ways to fluster us, L,” Virgil adds, “you’re good at it, okay?”

 Logan is quite proud of his ability to flirt, although how the others know about his research is a worrying question.

 “So,” Roman says cheerfully, “you have two minutes, but you have a harder job than we did.”

 Logan frowns and Roman’s grin widens.

 “You have two minutes to make Patton melt.”

 “Oh, Logan’s screwed,” Virgil chortles, tugging at his hoodie strings, “he’s so wound up right now.”

 Well.

 Logan gets up, adjusts his tie, and heads for the kitchen, ignoring the way Roman and Virgil scramble up onto the couch to watch.

 Patton’s leaning over the counter, pressing his hand to his forehead. He glances up when Logan enters the kitchen and pauses. Contrary to his previous statement, he doesn’t look upset or angry, simply exhausted.

 “You too, hmm?”

 “I’m afraid so.”

 Patton groans, letting his head drop onto the counter. “Did I do something? Or are you all just bored?”

 “We’re bored,” Virgil shouts, “and you’re cute!”

 “Shh, it’s not your turn anymore!”

 “Shut up, Princey.”

 Logan rolls his eyes fondly, stepping closer. Patton straightens up, waving a hand.

 “Go on. Just get it over with.”

 “And I thought Roman was dramatic,” Logan remarks dryly, “but I am not keeping you here. If you truly wish to leave…”

 He gestures toward the stairs. Patton glances between him and the stairs.

 “…really?”

 “By all means,” Logan says, lowering his voice and leaning against the wall to demonstrate he had no intentions of moving, “be my guest.”

 He watches, carefully keeping his face blank, as Patton starts to edge around the counter. He eyes the little bit of space he’s left and he can see the moment he realizes it’s not enough.

 “Okay,” he says, “I’m gonna go now.”

 “I know.” Logan tilts his head and smiles. “I’m not stopping you.”

 He stops out of his reach and stares at the gap again. One more little push, then.

 “You know…” Logan adjusts his glasses and looks Patton up and down. “You do not seem to be particularly…eager to leave, Patton.” He lets the corner of his mouth turn up into a smirk. “Could it be that…you do not wish to leave?”

 Patton takes the bait.

 As soon as Patton gets close enough, Logan hooks his foot around his ankle and blocks his exit, not bothering to hide his smirk this time. “However,” he says quietly, “I do have a task to perform.”

 “You,” Patton mumbles, closing his eyes, “are mean.”

 “Then allow me to make it up to you.” Logan moves, using his weight to push him back into the kitchen. “I have a proposition.”

 “Logan…”

 Logan smiles, leaning against the counter. “Come here.”

 “That sounds awful.” Logan raises his eyebrows. “…okay, okay, I’m coming.”

 Patton stops in front of him, his arms wrapped protectively around his waist. He does indeed look very cute.

 “Touch can be very grounding for you,” Logan says quietly, careful to keep his voice too low for Roman and Virgil to hear, “so if you like, you may cuddle with me for the duration of the two minutes.”

 “…really?”

 “Yes, really.” He holds out one hand, palm up. “Or, you may leave. I won’t stop you this time.”

 He hugs himself tighter, glancing between the stairs and Logan’s hand. He tilts his head.

 “Come here, Patton,” he murmurs.

 He takes his hand.

 He pulls Patton closer, opening his arms and letting him hug him nervously. He hugs him back, creating a little pocket of intimacy apart from the rest of the room.

 “There…” Logan leans down to whisper in his ear. “Isn’t that better? Now you have something to hold onto, something to hide your face, hmm?”

 Patton nods, his face buried in his shoulder.

 The other thing about having Patton in his arms is that he can murmur directly into his ear, which both prevents Roman and Virgil from hearing anything he’s saying and makes flustering him much, much easier. He says as much, smiling when Patton whines and tightens his grip.

 “Do you know what my dare was, Patton?” When he shakes his head, Logan reaches up to gently run his hand through his hair. “It was not, in fact, to fluster you, but to make you melt.”

 “M-melt?”

 “Yes, dear,” Logan smirks when Patton shudders involuntarily. “Do you like the pet names, little one?”

 “Logan…”

 “Shh,” he murmurs, running his hand through his hair again, “it’s quite alright, dear. Physical affection helps you relax, pet names make you feel cared for. It makes sense.

 “You are a sweetheart. No, no, don’t disagree with me,” he hushes, “you are. You care very much about how you can help other people and you do, sweetheart. It follows that having such affections be returned make you feel good.”

 He tightens his grip, cradling his head against his shoulder. “You feel good right now, don’t you, dear?”

 “…yes.”

 “Then, truly, how can you blame us for wanting to call you so many?” Logan tilts his head a little more. “You always get so flustered by it.”

 “No, I don’t…”

 “You clearly do,” he purrs, “you’re not hiding it well, dear. I can feel how warm your face is, pressed into me like that.”

 As he speaks, he feels it grow warmer still. He chuckles.

 “Oh, there’s really no need to be so embarrassed, dear,” he murmurs, “it makes complete sense. Hugs have been proven to decrease stress, reduce blood pressure, and increase the production of oxytocin.“ He smirks. “Quite the addictive drug, no?”

 Patton whines and he runs his hand slowly down his spine, pulling his hips against his.

 “You are smaller than me—“

 “Hey!”

 “—you are, which increases the feeling of protection,” he murmurs, “and safety, and thus you will relax.”

 He draws the word out with deliberate slowness, the end of it turning into a chuckle as he trembles in his hold.

 “That’s it, dear,” he says softly, “relax. Because there’s one more reason you’re going to melt for me.”

 Logan pauses, glancing up to see Roman and Virgil staring at them over the edge of the kitchen counter. He smirks and puts his mouth deliberately close to Patton’s ear.

 “You care for me, don’t you, Patton,” Logan whispers, his breath ghosting over his neck, “you do, don’t you? You care for me.”

 Patton whimpers.

 “Say it, dear,” Logan coaxes, “say you care for me?”

 “…of course I do,” comes the strangled whisper.

 “Of course you do,” he purrs, “of course you do, and here you are…wrapped up in my arms…letting me call you pet names…letting you hide your blush in the crook of  my neck…”

 He shifts one last time, making sure Roman and Virgil can see. Raising his voice slightly, he cups the back of Patton’s head protectively. He glances at his watch.

 “Ready?” He threads his fingers through the baby hairs on the back of Patton’s neck.

 “One…two…three, melt for me, dear.”

 The two minutes run out just as Patton whines and melts into a blushing little puddle in Logan’s arms.

 “Holy shit,” Logan hears Virgil mutter, “he fucking did it.”

 “I’m never underestimating him again.” Roman throws his hands up. “He did it in two minutes.”

 He tightens his grip, his nails scratching the back of his neck. “Good job, dear.”

 And if it makes him shudder and lean into him a little more, well, that’s just something else to add to the notebook.

 It’s cathartic; he can wind them up, make them all flustered, and then open his arms and cuddle them right back down, give them the reassurance of getting all worked up in a safe environment where nothing’s really gonna hurt them. Plus, if they’re too tired to protest when he peppers kisses all over them, that’s just a bonus.

 Janus—the one whose fault this is—is classic spy movie seduction. Textbook. His silver-tongue makes compliments as smooth as his scales and subtle touches that make their heads spin. Pet names, snarky comments, teasing, the lot of it. He knows they have a thing for his voice. All he has to do most of the time is get close and purr and they’re putty in his hands. Sometimes he’ll stay further away where they have nowhere to hide and just watch them squirm. Sometimes he just has to look at them a certain way and they’re gone. He is the embodiment of using the business end of your weapon to homo-erotically tilt up your opponent’s chin. Rivals Roman for how easy it is for him to make them flustered, but unlike Roman, with him, it’s a toss-up. He knows he’s a lot, and odds are, if he’s going to flirt with them, it’s more likely to be for the catharsis reason and less because they’re fun to play with. (Even though they are.) So, if he’s not having a competition with another Side or in a playful mood, he’s much gentler about it than Roman is, he’ll stop a lot sooner or pull them into his lap for cuddles. Or, like Remus, he’ll just touch them, let them hide their face in the crook of his neck, and just run his hands over them. It’s a perfect combination of grounding and flustering. Plus, warmth is good for snakes and there’s nothing warmer than a bright, flushed, flustered face. Totally doesn’t fluster people on purpose to steal their body heat.

 Remus is by far the only side where his approaches are completely different depending on who it is. Virgil is flustered very easily by his innuendos and everything, the more audacious, the better. Sometimes it resorts to the two of them having a flirt-off, the loser hiding their face while the victor cackles. Or Remus will make something that totally isn’t an innuendo into one and Virgil’s gone. For Logan, often he’ll just find him and tackle him onto the nearest surface, flopping down on top of him like a cat and listening as Patton starts verbally vomiting as he gets redder and redder. But overt sexual references make Patton and Janus really really uncomfortable, so it’s the bad kind of flustered. Instead, he’ll just find them and cuddle them and loudly explain how they are in fact the best cuddler. He finds how embarrassed they get very amusing. And if it has the side effect of summoning everyone else to a cuddle pile both because of the outrageous idea that anyone is better at cuddling than them and also free cuddles, well. Oops.

 So yeah. It’s a fucking mess.

 At least it’s a hot mess, right?

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[kiapet2]

where the two ends meet

The newly-elevated Crown Prince Roman knows two things:

First, that his brother is dead.

And second, that it is his fault.

But when Roman journeys into the witch’s forest on a quest of penitence, he discovers that there is more to the story than he could have known. What he finds there may be his salvation— or his ruin.

Takes place after @whenisitenoughtrees‘s fic thrice for another day. Can also be read on its own.

Pairings: Platonic Creativitwins, Background Intrulogical

Word Count: 4,029

Warnings: death mention, grief/mourning, blood and injury, abusive parents

AO3 Link

Nearly a month after his family buries an empty coffin, the newly-elevated Crown Prince Roman slips out from his castle room and walks alone into the forest.

Unlike past evenings, Roman does not turn into the stretch of woods closest to the castle. At this point, he could likely name every rock and tree and still not find what he’s looking for. Instead, he walks in a straight line, heading deeper and deeper into the woods.

There is said to be a witch at the center of this forest, one who preys on the surrounding villages and whom no man should approach lest he meet his end. Roman had once thought to adventure into the woods to slay such a foul creature, but his intention tonight is far different. He has need of help only a wielder of magic can provide.

And if the venture is to end in his death, so be it.

...

Roman hasn’t been walking for long when he becomes aware of someone following him. The feeling comes and goes— a tingling on the back of his neck, like he’s being watched— but as Roman scans the woods around him, he cannot detect any signs of unusual activity.

The third time he feels the presence, Roman comes to a sudden halt and places a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Show yourself, whoever you are!” he calls, then scans the trees around him for any sign of a response.

“Why have you entered my woods?” an irritated voice says from somewhere behind him.

Roman whirls around and draws his sword in a single, fluid motion.

The person standing behind him raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. Roman takes the man in: dark hair, a sharp-featured tan face, and piercing dark blue eyes that seem to peer straight to Roman’s core through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Despite the man’s simple clothing, Roman knows with a deep certainty that this is the witch.

Ignoring all his instincts, Roman sheaves his sword and holds out his empty hands in a gesture of peace.

“I have been searching for you,” he says. “I have a request to make of you, and am prepared to reward you well.”

“I don’t make a habit of dealing with royalty,” the witch says coldly.

Roman’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Yes, I know who you are, Prince Roman of Thaylar,” the witch says, “and I am surprised you would dare come here, considering your family history. You are either very brave, or very foolish.”

“Both,” Roman says, “but I mean you no harm. If you would hear me out—”

Dark blue energy forms in the witch’s hand. “I have nothing to hear from you, witch-killer. I would advise that you vacate my premises, before I am forced to take action.”

Roman swallows and takes an involuntary step back. Perhaps he should listen to the witch’s warning, abandon this fruitless quest and return to his bed.

It’s not worth it, his father had said after they found Remus’ trail leading to the forest. He couldn’t have gotten far anyways.

Roman straightens his spine and lifts his chin. He owes this to his brother— owes him so much more than this, but it’s the only thing left that Roman can do.

“I only wish to find my brother’s body,” Roman says, “So that I might bury him. Aid me in this and I will ask of you nothing more.”

The witch seems to search Roman’s face for something, his expression unreadable. Then he nods once, sharply.

“That, I can answer easily enough.”

Without another word, the witch turns on his heel and heads off into the forest. Roman hurries to catch up, biting back the urge to question where they are going. The walk lasts far longer than it feels like it should, and Roman suspects the witch is leading him around in circles so he will not be able to tell how to get into his lair. Or how to get out, some part of his mind whispers. He shoves it aside.

Finally, they reach a small clearing with a wooden cottage that looks surprisingly simple and well-kept for a witch’s lair. The witch leads Roman around the back of the house to an herb garden, stopping at a small pile of stones. For a moment Roman wonders what spell the witch intends to cast here; then the shape of the stones registers fully.

A cairn.

“I found him a little ways out from here,” the witch says. “His ribs had broken and pierced his lungs, and he’d been bleeding internally. It was a miracle he managed to make it even that far.”

Roman lowers himself to his knees and hesitantly places a hand on the upturned earth, trying to comprehend that under it is all that remains of his brother. Even now, it feels like all of this is a terrible dream, and one day he’ll wake up and Remus will be alive and driving him crazy again.

“I am sorry for your loss,” the witch says stiffly.

Roman’s chest feels tight, and he swallows past something lodged in his throat.

“He would like being buried here, by the garden,” he chokes out. “He always went on about how everyone becomes food for worms and fungus eventually. If you were to grow your strangest plants over his grave, it would have made him very happy.”

It feels wrong, to speak of his brother in the past tense.

“Might I ask what happened?”

Roman squeezes his eyes shut, holding back the tears that burn at their corners. He doesn’t deserve to cry, not over this.

“I gave him up as a witch,” he whispers. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and the words seem to grate and tear at his throat. “He trusted me with his life, and I betrayed him.”

The silence behind Roman is telling.

“Thank you,” Roman rasps, “For putting him to rest.”

He stays there, kneeling in the dirt, long after the witch has returned inside.

...

Remus cries out as he tumbles into the tower room’s wall, jarring harshly against the rough stone.

“Father,” Remus cries, “Father, wait—”

“You are no son of mine!” Father snarls, lifting Remus by the front of his shirt. “Foul demon!”

Roman’s mind screams at him to do something, to run forward and grab Remus or yell at his father to stop but instead he just stands there, frozen in horror, as in one great motion his father shoves Remus through the tower’s window and dangles him out over open air.

Time seems to slow as Father screams curse after curse in Remus’ face, as Remus clutches at the hands holding him above a dizzying drop. Remus’ gaze slides over to meet Roman’s, and for one terrible moment Roman sees in his eyes pure devastation. The agony of betrayal.

And then Father releases his hold, and Remus is gone.

Roman wakes up screaming.

He rolls over onto his side and curls up in a ball, taking harsh, gasping breaths. It takes a moment for him to register that he’s not standing in the castle tower staring in horror at the empty space where his brother used to be— the space that was right there in front of him as if Roman could have reached out and touched him but he was already gone and it was too late—

Breathe.

Roman closes his eyes and listens. In place of the screams that still ring in his head, he hears only the sound of wind swishing through trees. He reaches a hand out and feels loose dirt beneath him. He’s lying on the ground, outside. Roman opens his eyes and sees a dark sky full of stars.

Perhaps Remus is among those stars now. Would he like that? He’d probably think it was boring, to be honest. The thought brings a slight smile to Roman’s face.

Roman sits up, focusing on his breathing. It takes another moment for him to recognize where he is: the witch’s clearing, right by Remus’s... by the grave. It is dark except for the light of the moon— full, a poor omen. Roman had meant to be home by this time as the forest becomes vastly more dangerous at night, but apparently his many nights of lost sleep have finally caught up to him. There’s no use to it now; he’ll just have to wait for the light of dawn to find his way home.

Father will not be happy when Roman returns after dawn has already broken.

Roman has been much less concerned with keeping his father happy, as of late.

No, what bothers him most is why he’s been allowed to stay here at all. Considering the witch’s initial hostility to him, Roman figured admitting to turning in his own brother for using magic would result in being thrown out at best and murdered in his sleep at worst. And yet here he is, sitting in the witch’s clearing un-murdered.

Roman reaches out and touches Remus’s cairn with reverent fingers. He can’t bring himself to regret falling asleep here, dangerous though it may have been. It feels right to have slept beside his brother one last time.

“Well isn’t this sweet! Roro, I didn’t know you cared so much.”

Roman freezes. He knows that voice. But— but that’s impossible—

Roman scrambles to his feet and turns, heart in his throat.

Remus stands before him, illuminated by the light of the moon. He’s clad in the clothes he died in— Roman would know, he sees them in his dreams every night— and there’s a stain of something brown on his shoulder and neckline that Roman doesn’t particularly want to identify.

Roman gapes. “Re, what— how—”

Remus’ smile is bright, but his eyes are cold. “I think you know, Roman.”

Roman feels the blood drain from his face.

They’ve all heard the legends: spirits of magic-users who roam the earth, invested with their magical power and seeking vengeance on those who wronged them. Roman’s father once taught him the proper ways to... dispose of... witches to prevent such a phenomenon from happening. It was Roman’s least favorite lesson by far.

“There it is!” Remus cheers as the comprehension dawns on Roman’s face.

Roman falls to his knees, trembling.

“Remus,” he breathes, “Remus, I—”

He breaks off, lost for words. Roman has thought about what he would say to Remus if he had the chance dozens of times, dreamed up countless scenarios where he prostrated himself and begged for forgiveness or explained himself in a way Remus would understand. Now that he’s actually here, those dreams seem childish and futile in the face of everything that’s happened.

“So funny story,” Remus says, “I’ve thought it over and someone must have told the king about me, right? But I never practiced where anyone could see, and there’s only one person I ever shared my secret with. The person I always shared everything with. Got any idea who that could be, brother?”

Roman’s stomach feels like lead, and he can’t bring himself to look Remus in the eye.

Remus laughs softly. “That’s what I thought.”

His face twists in sudden fury and he shoots forward, getting in Roman’s face and forcing him to flinch back.

“Do you know how it feels, Roman? To have every bone in your body shattered, shards of your own ribs stabbing your insides until you drown in your own blood? Do you know how it feels to lie helpless and dying on the forest floor, knowing your corpse will stay there forgotten, with you replaced without a second thought? How it feels to be betrayed by your own twin, the one person in the world you’d thought you could trust?”

“Stop!” Roman cries, clutching at his head.

“Aw, is baby Roman too sensitive for all that?” Remus croons mockingly, pacing around him. “Do we need to protect his innocent little ears from the icky details of his brother’s brutal murder?”

Tears gather in Roman’s eyes, and he struggles to keep them from falling.

“Remus, I swear, I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“Then what did you want? Why did you do it, Ro? Did you want my throne that much? Or did you just hate witches more than you loved—”

“No!” Roman protests. “No, Remus, I could never hate you!”

“Then why?” Remus says, and the raw pain that fills his voice is so much worse than the anger. “Why did you tell him?”

Roman’s throat is tight and his eyes burn, but he forces the words out anyways. Remus deserves to know.

“Y-you kept hurting yourself. You’d come in bleeding and half-dead from experimenting with your magic and you wouldn’t see a doctor and, and I thought that one day you were going to kill yourself and it would be my fault for not stopping you. I thought if I— if I told Father, h-he would make you stop—”

Remus laughs bitterly. “You thought old daddy dearest, who has scores of magic users killed every year, would what— let me off with a warning?”

Roman flinches. “You’re his son! I didn’t— he was understanding before when I—”

“He was understanding of you,” Remus says. “You are his son. I’m sure he was thrilled at the chance to get rid of me.”

“I’m sorry.” The words force their way out in a whimper, and Roman’s stomach twists at their inadequacy.

“You’re sorry,” Remus says flatly.

Roman’s response catches in his throat, and instead he just bows his head, refusing to defend himself further. Nothing can make up for what he’s done.

Remus laughs suddenly, loud and manic. He snaps his fingers and mutters under his breath, and Roman is lifted into the air, a gentle pressure holding his arms against his sides with far more control than Remus ever had in life.

Remus gives him a vicious grin. “And what if I said ‘sorry’ wasn’t enough? What if I said I was going to have my vengeance, right here and right now?”

Roman’s tears finally overflow, and with them the pain that has been building ever since Remus went out that window.

“Do it,” he sobs. “Kill me.”

“What?” Remus says, sounding startled.

Roman bawls, not the pretty tears of the heroes in his books, but in wracking sobs that tear at his throat and send streams of tears and snot running down his face.

“Please, just kill me. I killed you. I killed you, and I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I killed you.” He cuts off with another sob. “Do whatever you want with me, please, I deserve it. I deserve it.”

The force holding Roman releases and he drops heavily to the ground. He curls up, chest heaving, and waits for the first blow to fall.

But the touch that falls on his arm isn’t painful; it’s soft and warm. It pulls him up and holds him tightly against a chest that is solid, breathing, beating.

Alive.

“I’m not going to kill you, Roman,” Remus says, his voice strangely choked, and Roman can feel it reverberating through his chest. “You’re my brother.”

Roman’s heart feels like it’s going to pound out of his chest. Remus, he’s... he... how did he—

The world spins, and Roman sees a brief flash of Remus’ worried face before everything goes dark.

...

“Roman! Roman, please!” Remus screams. He clutches at Roman’s hands where they grip his shirt, his face a mask of terror as his legs dangle over nothingness.

Roman fights desperately, screaming from deep within his mind, but his body doesn’t move.

“Why, Roman? I’m your brother!” Remus whimpers, tears gathering in his eyes.

Roman hammers at the boundaries of his mind but is helpless to stop it as his hands steadily, inexorably loosen.

Remus screams again as he slips through Roman’s fingers and falls into the darkness.

“Roman!”

“Roman! Roman, wake up!”

Roman jolts awake, his heart pounding as he gasps for breath.

“Ro? Hey, can you hear me?”

Roman blinks blearily and a face fades into focus above him. Worried red eyes, that ghastly mustache, a white streak in his hair...

“Re?” he croaks.

Remus grins. “There we are!”

“Remus,” Roman breathes. He reaches out with one shaking hand to cup Remus’s face and feels warm flesh beneath his fingers. “Are you really here? Or— or am I dead?”

Remus gives him a lopsided smile. “Takes more than getting thrown out of a tower and smashing my bones to smithereens to kill me!”

Roman surges upwards, wrapping his arms around his brother and burying his face in his shoulder.

“Hey, come on,” Remus says as Roman begins to shake, his tears wetting Remus’ shirt. “You’re going to dry yourself up if you keep crying this much. Just shrivel up like a human raisin until you end up a dried-out mummy and someone finds you like a thousand years later and wonders what the hell happened.”

The thought is so gross and ridiculous and Remus that Roman finds himself laughing through his tears.

“Gods above, I missed you.”

Composing himself, Roman pulls back and looks Remus over. He’s wearing simple, weathered clothing, his hair is an absolute mess and there are dark bags under his eyes. He’s the most beautiful thing Roman has ever seen.

“How?” Roman says, his voice cracking with emotion. “I thought you were— that I’d— How are you even here right now?”

“I healed a bit and then dragged myself here,” Remus says. “Logan did the rest.”

Remus looks back over his shoulder with a surprisingly soft smile, and for the first time since waking Roman tears his gaze away from his brother’s face to look at where they are. Roman is sitting on a cot in a simple wooden room, bare except for a small table and worn bookshelves lining one wall. The witch’s house, Roman assumes. The witch himself is standing stiffly a little ways behind Remus, his face transitioning from warm concern to dark displeasure as it moves from Remus to Roman.

“You lied to me,” Roman says. “You knew he was alive all along”.

“Technically, I never spoke a falsehood,” the witch— Logan— says coolly. “I did find Remus with the injuries I described. I merely was able to heal them, if barely.”

“We had to be careful,” Remus says. “I didn’t know, if...”

If Roman felt any real remorse for what he’d done. If he would turn Remus in again, once he found him.

Roman rises from the cot, causing Logan to dart forward in alarm. But Roman just lowers himself to one knee, bowing his head and placing a hand over his heart.

“I swear to you on my life, I never meant to harm you in any way,” Roman says. “I have regretted what I've done every day, every moment, since we parted.”

“Yeah, I got that from the whole bursting-into-tears-and-telling-me-to-kill-you thing,” Remus says. “Which was dramatic even for you, by the way.”

“People will often show their true selves during states of heightened emotion,” Logan says, adjusting his glasses. “The ruse was a logical course of action to discern your intentions.”

“And also fun!” Remus says. “You should have seen your face, Ro, it was so white! I make a pretty scary ghost.”

“You were terrifying,” Roman says honestly, which makes Remus beam.

Still on one knee, Roman turns to address Logan. “And thank you, my good witch, for saving his life. I am forever in your debt.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Logan says sharply. That and his icy glare make it quite clear that he is not as forgiving as Remus. Roman winces internally; this whole debacle is not the best first impression to make to a sibling’s lover.

And that’s what Logan is, or at least what Remus wants him to be— it’s written all over his brother’s face. Before... before, Roman would have teased Remus about it, and then Remus would probably have made some sort of lewd comment that would make Roman sputter and shove at him. They’re not quite at that point now, he thinks. Not yet.

Roman inclines his head to the witch. “You have my gratitude all the same.”

“Look at us, all making up and being friends!” Remus cheers, but Roman knows him well enough to see the lingering discomfort in the slant of his shoulders and curve of his smile. Remus isn’t as okay as he’s pretending to be.

Roman rises and clasps Remus’ hand in his own.

“Remus, I have done you a grave disservice. While I cannot take back the pain I have caused you, I can offer you back the crown. If you wish it, I will give you my blade and the clothes off my back so that you may return to the castle in my stead and reclaim your birthright under my name.”

Remus stares at him for a moment, then throws back his head and cackles. Something deep in Roman’s chest loosens at the sound; he hadn’t realized how much he missed Remus’ laugh.

“Like hell am I going back to that burning trash heap!” Remus says. “Look, getting thrown out a window sucked major ass, but finding this—” he gestures to the house around him— “is probably the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Behind Remus, Logan’s face turns bright red. Well that answers that, then.

Remus takes Roman’s other hand, meeting his eyes. “If you really want to make this up to me, go back. Become king. And change things.”

Roman bows his head once more. “I do not deserve this second chance, brother,” he whispers.

His hands tighten on Remus’s and he meets his twin’s gaze again, determined. “But I will do as you ask. I swear it, with every inch of my being: I will make things right.”

Remus shouldn’t trust Roman with something this important, not after Roman made it so clear what his word is worth. And yet, Remus nods as if satisfied and steps back.

“It is past sunrise,” Logan says. “I will not have you drawing search parties into this forest when the castle discovers you are gone.”

“I’d best be off then,” Roman says, knowing a dismissal when he hears one.

“I’ll walk you back!” Remus says.

“Absolutely not,” Logan snaps. “I will not allow you to walk that sort of distance while you are still on the mend.”

“It’s been a month!”

“And you were bedridden for weeks!”

“Logan can show me out,” Roman says firmly. “The last thing I want is you hurting yourself more over me.”

Remus’ eyes go watery. “But we just found each other again.”

Roman pulls him into another hug. “I will return, as long as you will have me.”

Remus nods into Roman’s shoulder, tightening his arms around him. They stay like that for a few moments more before they reluctantly part.

“Right, then,” Roman says. “Goodbye, for now.”

“Goodbye,” Remus says, unusually subdued.

Logan shows Roman to the door, and together they begin to walk across the clearing to the trees.

“You should know,” Logan says, “that if you break his trust again or hurt him in any way, all the guards in the castle will not be enough to stop me from killing you.”

Roman laughs heartily at that.

“I knew I liked you, Specs!” he says, slapping Logan on the back. “I’m glad Remus has someone like you looking out for him.”

Logan blinks. “Right, then. Good.”

“Wait!”

Roman looks back to see Remus standing in the house’s doorway. He looks... concerned?

“I know it’s going to take some time to be okay with what happened,” Remus says, “For both of us. But you weren’t the person who threw me off that tower. The king was. Just... remember that, okay? Remember that and come back.”

Roman nods mutedly, and the door closes.

“Right,” he says, clearing a mysterious obstruction from his throat, “let’s go then.”

With that, Roman turns and walks into the woods, headed back to the castle. Back to the duty he promised Remus he would fulfill.

And this promise, Roman intends to keep.

[nerdypanda3126]

Playing with Fire

Hope you had a Happy Valentine's Day, @bloody-no-kissu! I stepped in as your @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers secret admirer 😁💖

The prompt I chose to go with was: fantasy, the princess falls for the dragon instead – marinette is a princess and bc of a curse she is locked in a tower with a dragon (luka). while she waits for the destined knight to save her from her curse she spends more and more time with luka. they fall in love.

So I did take a few liberties on this to weave it together, but I really hope you like it! Huge thanks to @writtenbyrain for the beta read on this!  

Read on Ao3 

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Marinette had been told the story of her curse so many times she could recite it by heart. 

“You were a baby,” her dad would tell her. “A tiny little thing, still all wrapped up in diapers. And that… thing—” he always growled at that, as if the dragon she’d been found curled up with had personally insulted him. He would shake his head, and give her a pitying look. “—It stole you from us. And by the time we found you, you were already cursed… already...” he would gesture to her at that point, indicating the way she was every night as soon as the moon slipped above the horizon.

Every night she was engulfed in a blue flame that made it impossible for anyone to come near. Impossible for her to be touched. 

What she was never able to find out, though, was why. Why the dragon had apparently chosen her to curse, why it hadn’t killed her outright when she was barely out of diapers. Why she kept dreaming of sleeping safely within its coils, her fire cooled as if that was where she had always belonged. 

She knew where it lived now. Everyone knew. It had taken up residence in a lonely tower high up on the mountain. Everyone said it was guarding a valuable secret; why else would it be there? Of course, people had tried to find out, although they often came back singed and babbling. Something about a dark sorcerer or a beautiful prince or a shapeshifter or… the stories always varied. 

Finally, a reward was offered. The dragon had been a menace for far too long, the writ proclaimed. Anyone able to bring back its head would be handsomely compensated.

More people flocked to the cause: soldiers from far away places wearing shiny armor and bearing sharp, glinting swords, sorcerers with staffs and books claiming they had this method or another to calm the beast. None of them returned. 

Night after night, Marinette’s flame burned hotter, brighter. And night after night she dreamed of the dragon. She couldn’t tell anymore what was memory and what was a dream. She thought she remembered the dragon plucking her from the river she’d fallen into, breathing life and fire into her lungs, curling up around her to keep her warm until her parents found her. But that couldn’t have been true. The dragon was dangerous, everyone said so. And it had left her with this unbearable curse. 

“I’m going after it,” she proclaimed to her parents after the worst night she'd had in all of her eighteen years of bearing the curse. 

Her dreams had been strong that night. She had awoken to her mom shaking her, screaming, desperately pleading with her to wake up. Her hands and arms up to the elbows had been irreparably burned in the process. It wasn't until Marinette had struggled into consciousness that she realized she’d been burning their house down in her sleep. 

Her parents shared a look after her declaration. One of, “We shouldn’t let her, but what else can we do?” 

Marinette winced as she caught a glimpse of her mom’s burned forearms, still wrapped in bandages and salves to soothe the shiny, blistered skin underneath. Her eyes slid over to the corner where she slept, with only her silhouette outlined in the charcoal her fire had left behind. 

“I have to do this,” she said resolutely. “If there’s one good thing to come of this—” she gestured to herself and to the flames that spit and crackled around her “—it means I can’t be burned if I go at night. With the money, you can fix what happened. I'll stay in the stone tower after the dragon's gone where I can't hurt anyone else. Everyone wins," she finished glumly. 

Her dad sighed in resignation and wrapped an arm around her mom’s shoulders.

So the next day just before dusk, they packed a meal for her to take with her, kissed her fondly on both her cheeks, and waved goodbye as she started up the path. 

For it was goodbye. A sacrifice Marinette was more than willing to make. 

As she trudged up the mountain path, the forest grew darker and more foreboding. The only saving grace was that as the light faded, her flame started burning, providing her with light to see by, although she did catch a branch or two on fire as she went. She poured her water out carefully on each one, putting it out without wasting her own resources. If she ran out before she made it to the stone tower, it was entirely possible she’d burn the entire forest down, and it would spread back to her village, back to her parents’ house. 

She soldiered on, even as brambles tore at her skirt and arms, as she grew weary of walking, as she ran lower and lower on life-saving water. 

It was the dead of night when she finally reached the tower, and the dragon wasn’t anywhere in sight. She walked up to the tower using the flagstone path, admiring the well-manicured garden from afar. The tower was quiet, almost as if it was slumbering along with the dragon.

She ran her hand along the cool stone wall as she mounted the steps one by one, dreading what she might find when she got to the top. 

Halfway up, though, she ran into—well, if there was a beautiful prince trapped here, then it must be him. He was tall and pale, with a shock of dark hair and enthralling blue eyes framed by deep purple circles, as if he never slept. He seemed startled to see her at first, though she was used to that. A girl on fire was a startling sight.

But then he reached out a hand, smiling. She flinched away from him. His kind smile shifted to sympathy and he dropped his hand. 

“That’s quite a power you’ve got,” he noted easily. 

She shifted uncomfortably away from him. He didn’t seem affected by the heat she always emanated, but she was still careful not to get too close to anyone. 

“The dragon cursed me with it when I was a small child,” she said.

His head quirked sideways, as if he were appraising her or trying to remember something. When he didn’t respond, Marinette tried again. 

“I’ve come for the reward. Is it asleep?” 

“He,” the man said stiffly. “And he’s gone for now. He disappears at night. You’re welcome to come back in the morning to try your luck.”

There was a note of despondency in his tone, and he scooted past her in the narrow stairwell to continue on his way down. 

She considered continuing up the stairs, but if the dragon was gone, there was no point to it. She hesitated before she followed him—the prince, he had to be—down and back outside. 

There was a pool of moonlight in the very center of the garden, and he walked over to it and lay down as if basking in it. The sigh he let out was at once content and terribly lonely. For some reason, it pulled at her heart. She knew that feeling. She had come to terms with her curse, with her lot in life. But that didn’t make it any better when she was unable to sleep soundly without worrying about her flames burning out of control.

She came as close to him as she dared and sat cross-legged on the flagstone path. 

“You’re not… trapped here?” she asked. Every story she’d ever heard of the handsome young prince was that he was trapped, doomed, kept prisoner by the monster. 

He didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled again. “Oh, I am.” 

“But…” she glanced around. There were no fences, no guards, no magical barriers. She had walked right in, after all. “Can’t you just… leave?” 

He did open an eye at that. “Can’t you just… put that fire out?” He smirked before he closed his eyes again and settled with his face towards the moon. “I’ve been trapped here for longer than I care to remember and now…” He looked over at her again, his blue eyes glinting in the moonlight. “So are you.” 

She looked around again. Still, nothing that would prevent her, or him for that matter, from leaving. He sighed. 

“The dragon, he’s been waiting for you. That… well, some probably call it a curse, but it's more like a bond.” 

“A bond?” 

“You were a small child, you said? When it happened?” 

She nodded, and he nodded back in answer. 

“The dragon was young, too. A child in his own right. He wouldn’t have known…” He sighed and closed his eyes again. “He wouldn’t have known that if he shared his breath with a human, he’d be claiming them. Bonded with them for the rest of his life, tethered to them. Cursed to share a half-life with them.” 

“I’m… sorry... “ She struggled to comprehend what he was telling her. “You’re saying… I’ve been claimed?” 

“If I had to guess, I'd say your fire only burns at night, right? As soon as the sun sets? Maybe only while you slept at first, but it's gotten worse lately?” 

She blinked at him. Her mother’s burned arms floated back to the forefront of her memory. 

“You have a fire burning in you that’s never been yours to control. If you had stayed away from him any longer, you would’ve burnt out of control until everyone you knew and loved was dead. You’re his and he’s yours, for better or worse.” 

“I… wait… you’re saying…”

“You’re intended to be either the dragon's bride or his killer,” he finished bitterly, turning his head away from her. “Not that he has much say in the matter, either, if it’s any consolation.” 

“But if I do… kill him…” she started, grimacing at the thought, “do you think that would lift my curse?” 

“Yours and mine, too.”

“You don’t look very cursed to me,” she muttered. Other than being trapped, as he’d claimed, he seemed perfectly normal. Every bit the beautiful prince she’d heard tales of. With the moonlight falling over him, he was paler still and he looked like a marble statue that had fallen on the ground. His shaggy dark hair flopped over his ears in ragged lines, and even resting he looked tense.

To her surprise, he started chuckling, although there wasn’t any mirth to it. 

“What’s funny?” 

“Nothing,” he said, although he sat up and faced her. “I just wonder if you’ll still think that in the morning.” 

“What happens in the morning?” 

“The dragon comes back,” he said simply, and he pushed himself up to stand. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll turn in. I have a feeling I’ll sleep better knowing my savior has come at last.”

He quirked his lips in a funny sideways smile, then offered her a hand again. She shook her head at him and he rolled his eyes.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I promise.” 

She hesitated. The fear of hurting him flared strong and her fire started flickering and sputtering along with her anxiety. His eyes softened, and he reached forward, into her aura of flames. To her complete and utter surprise, his hand came through unscathed. 

“I told you, it’s okay,” he said. 

Stunned, Marinette  laid her hand in his and he helped her stand up. Her fire raced along his arm and arced over his body until he was just as engulfed as she was. But rather than being harmed by it, it seemed he was helping her with it, sharing some of the burden. In fact, when he released her, she looked down at her hands and was shocked to find that the moonlight was the only thing illuminating them. 

She looked back up at him and he smiled, although it was still tinged with sadness, and he gestured with his head to the spot of moonlight that still spilled across the grass.

She ran, giddy to be released from her curse for the first night in her entire life and fearful that it would come back before she could race back to the safety of the stone path. As she rolled in the cool grass, she couldn't help the giggles that escaped her, the pure bliss of being safe under the stars overtaking her. When she finally stilled, she sighed as she looked up at the bright, twinkling lights, unobscured for the first time. They were so clear, all the way up there, like she could reach out and touch one. She lifted her hand up and pretended she could, cupping the full moon between her hands as if she held it close.

She’d gotten so used to the flames crackling around her that without them the world seemed deathly silent. Peaceful, but eerie. 

When she sat back up and turned to look back at the path, she found that the prince had disappeared. To turn in, as he’d said, although he hadn’t told her where she might sleep.

She looked at her hands again, so foreign to her without the bright blue flames. They looked smaller. More fragile. 

Suddenly, she realized that was the one thing protecting her from the dragon. The reason she’d felt so confident in coming up here. She couldn’t be burned at night because she was already engulfed in flames. But he’d taken her flames away. He’d gifted her the ability to roll in the grass without burning anything down, sure, but he’d also stolen her protection. 

Even though her flames weren’t snapping around her, she felt the panic rise up in her chest. What if he was a dark sorcerer after all? What if it was his job to lure people here and steal their power? What if this had all been a trap? 

She stumbled to her feet and clenched her fists. He’d seemed so kind. She’d trusted him. She hadn’t thought he would steal from her.

She marched back inside, uncaring if the grass sizzled under her feet or not. The tower stairs only went up, so she followed them, winding her way up to the top, unsure of what she might say or do if she found him, but certain that she had to find him regardless.

The sound of heavy, deep breathing hit her first. It wasn’t human, that was for sure. It was something much bigger. 

She tiptoed around the last bend, her fear climbing with each step.

She held her breath as a large room at the top came into view. One wall was completely open, and there was a huge, sleek, black, serpentine figure wound tightly around itself in the moonlight that spilled into the corner. One wing was draped over its head, like a curtain.

She held her breath as she backed out of the room. 

Hadn’t he said the dragon wouldn’t come back until morning? Hadn’t he said it disappeared at night? Hadn’t he said—

She cursed the dark sorcerer, the beautiful prince, whoever he was, under her breath as she turned and tripped her way back down the stairs. He had also said she couldn’t leave, but based on the way he’d lied about everything else, that’s exactly what she would do. She would run, all the way back to her parents, to her village, even if it meant sleeping on a stone bed the rest of her life. 

As she ran towards the forest, her steps started sizzling underneath her again, and her hands started to flame up before she could stop them. Her tears dissipated before they even had a chance to fall. 

From the top of the tower, she heard a strangled cry, still inhuman, but closer to it, and filled with pain. It spurred her on, although the fire was starting to burn white around her hands, stinging her painfully, and she shook her hands, trying to put it out. The farther she ran, the more the fire seeped into her skin, making her cry out. 

There was a great whoosh of wind behind her, then footsteps, matching her pace, although more spread out. The pain was blinding, but still she pushed on against whatever unknown barrier was causing it. She cradled her hands to her chest and struggled as each step forward was now a shooting, searing, white-hot bolt of pain through her. 

Strong hands caught her from behind and pulled her backwards—the hands of the dark, beautiful sorcerer. She kicked against him, trying to pull away, but he held fast. The pain behind her eyes cleared and she realized he was taking the fire away from her again. 

“You… can’t… leave…” he huffed as he dragged her backwards. She tried to claw away from him every step of the way.

Finally, though, he’d pulled her back to the clearing and dropped her on the stone path unceremoniously. She bolted back up to her feet and he caught her around her middle and shoved her back down, moving at the same time to stand in front of her and block her path. 

“You can’t leave,” he panted again. “Or we both die.” 

“I’m supposed to believe you’re kidnapping me for my own good?” she spat and scrambled back to her feet. “And who the hell are you, anyway?” 

“Sorry. Luka. I’m Luka.” He held his hand out for her and she smacked it away. He winced. “You have every right to be upset. But listen to me. I’m just trying to protect you. You can’t leave this tower without me.” 

He was still trying to catch his breath, and she noticed for the first time that his eyes had changed to serpentine slits and there was a distinct black sheen on the backs of his hands that worked its way up his forearms.

As she watched, he grabbed her hand and shivered as she was once again engulfed in blue flames and he returned to normal. 

"We're connected," he explained softly. "We share the fire. It's mine in the morning and yours at night. Now that you've come here, you can't leave unless you're either with me or there's no fire to share, or it rips us both apart. So for your own sake, you either stay put or you kill me, do you understand?"

He released her hand, and she looked at them incredulously. That he'd taken her fire away and given it back was proof enough of what he was saying. 

"Kill you?" she asked, his words sinking in through the remnants of pain behind her eyes. "As in… you're the…the...?"

"Yes."

"But you're…" she gestured to him, to his humanness, and he shifted uncomfortably under her bewildered gaze. 

"I know. Like I said, it's yours at night. That was the first time in 18 years I've had the moonlight on my scales." 

She gasped for breath as her fire started spitting around her, casting off sparks that came dangerously close to the grass. "I can't… you're human, or half-human or… I can't… I can't do this!" 

"That's okay. Hey. It's okay." His hands hovered over hers, not quite touching her, leaving her fire with her. "What's your name? Can you tell me your name?" 

"Ma-Ma-Marinette…" she stuttered as she attempted to keep breathing. 

"Okay, Ma-Ma-Marinette." He smiled, trying to put her at ease. "Let's just take this slow, okay? Would you be willing to stay here tonight with me? We can talk more in the morning." 

"You're a dragon in the morning," she said, then a hysteric giggle burst out of her at how ridiculous that sounded. 

He chuckled with her and laid the back of his hand against hers. As her fire arced across to him, his eyes turned into slits again and his scales slid over his arm. "I don't have to be anymore." 

She gaped at him as he pulled his hand away again and slid back to humanity. 

"One night. That's all I'm asking." 

Her dream popped back in her head and she blushed even before the question was out of her mouth. "If I sleep… you know, touching you, or like, against you… would that…?" She gestured to the fire still burning around her and then to him. 

He smiled again and chuckled nervously. "Yeah, I think so. But everything's stone, so you won't burn anything down if you'd… you know, if you'd rather not." 

She considered for a moment until her curiosity got the better of her.

"One night," she agreed.

He let out a sigh of relief and gestured for her to lead the way. 

As she mounted the stone steps again, her fire—his fire, she corrected herself, he'd shared it with her—bounced off the smooth stone and flickered along with her nerves. This time at the top of the stairs, she paused to look at the room Luka had called his own for 18 years.

There was a nest of pillows piled in the corner, a stack of books with open pages fluttering in the breeze that flowed through the wide opening, a lyre leaning against the smooth wall, and bits and pieces of armor lined up along the wall like trophies. She recognized a few here and there and gulped. No wonder they hadn't returned. 

She half-turned to him, her question dying in her throat, and he pressed his lips together in a thin line.

"Tomorrow," he said, gesturing for her to continue past everything. She did, but paused before her flames touched the pillows. 

"Here," he said, and threw out a hand for her to take. Tentatively, she took hold of him and watched as he shivered and his transformation took hold. 

He kept eye contact with her as scales slithered over his arms, his hands turned to claws, wings erupted from somewhere around his shoulders, and his body elongated until it was a solid length of powerful muscle.

She slid her hand to what was about his neck and he blinked slowly at her before lowering himself to the pillows and coiling his body tightly around itself, tucking his legs in what seemed to be a familiar position. 

It was a bit awkward to maneuver herself into his coils without taking her hand off him, but they managed and he draped his wing over her, for warmth she assumed, because the breeze that was drifting in was nipping at her exposed skin. And he was warm, she realized, like having his fire returned to him made him a living furnace.

She could see it, when she twisted to look at him: a deep blue illuminating the thinner skin at the base of his neck and flaring brighter in his chest as he breathed. 

She curled into him and fell asleep with his deep, heavy breathing in her ears and his sleek scales shifting under her hands.  

[justanotherfoolhere]

I managed to write something for the KakaIru Valentine’s Week 2021!

Me: I want to write something. Maybe a double drable or a ficlet. Shouldn’t take more than an hour.

Also me: spends the whole day writing a 3k words one-shot. Ooops.

Anyway:

Title: Soulmates (I know, very original)

Rating: T (could be gen)

Pairing: Kakashi/Iruka

Wordcount: 3283

Tags: Kakairu Valentines Week 2021, Fluff, Light Angst, Soulmates, First Dates, Friends to Lovers

You can read on ao3 too!

            Soulmarks appeared around six or seven years old.  But it was not as exciting as one could imagine: as much as the tropes of 'first words they say to you', 'a cool mark where they first touch you' or even 'matching marks' or 'their favorite thing tattooed on your skin' were popular in books and films, the reality was far less thrilling.

               Words appeared on your forearm, but not the first ones they would say to you. No. The words that appeared were the ones they would say the moment they realized they loved you. It didn't even have to be words they say to you. You could very well never get to hear the words yourself, if whoever your soulmate is realized it when by themselves.

               All in all, soulmarks weren't that important. They were not reliable and, even if they were, they just made sense when your soulmate already loved you. Not that helping at all. Sure, children loved seeing the words and tracing their little fingers over them, and teachers took advantage of that to teach them proper spelling, reading, writing and calligraphy. Nothing made a kid work harder at writing something right than copying the words on their forearms over and over again.

               Adults, on the other hand, mostly ignored them. Sure, some helpless romantics (cough, cough, Gai, cough) still clung to them like a lifeline, but most people just kept going about their lives and never seeking them out.  Let life that its course and everything.

               Kakashi avoided his like the plague.

               It hadn't always been like this. As a child, he liked to daydream about his soulmate as much as his peers. Things got different when his father died though. Grief settling in, chilling his bones and washing away his childlike hopes. Things only got worse when his team died, when he saw Obito be crushed and failed on his only promise, failed to keep Rin safe. Then their sensei died too and he was alone.

               He didn't deserve love. He didn't deserve a soulmate.

               And a bitter and irrational part of him reminded him that everyone who loved him died. He'd be doing his soulmate a favor if he never met them.

              *

               People thought Kakashi was being stubborn or proud when he refused to go to the hospital after a dire mission. He wasn't. Well, not totally.

               When he was a kid, the words on his forearm sounded odd yet funny.

               Of course he'd try to shrug off a stab wound, the idiot.

               Like, him? Getting stabbed then just walking away? Sure, little Kakashi knew first hand how a ninja's life could be rough, but the idea was so foreign and ridiculous. He'd never ignore something so drastic!

               Also, it sounded like a funny thing to say when you love someone. Didn't sound affectionate at all.

               He was glad for it when he grew up. Maybe his soulmate wouldn't be burdened with loving him (sure they would like Kakashi a bit, but maybe not love him). And maybe Kakashi wouldn't even be present to hear it, since the sentence wasn't adressing him.

               Still, he didn't want to take any chances. So, since Kakashi can remember, he stitches up his own stab wounds. Avoiding getting stabbed also helped, but it was near impossible in fights with shurikens, kunais and the ocasional sword.

               He figured whoever his soulmate was, they must work at a hospital or be a medical nin. So he avoided both. Seemed like the best course of action.

              *

               It was just another day. A common, boring day. Kakashi was waiting in line to hand in his mission form (he was still scribbling some things on it as he waited) and could barely wait to be done with it, so he could drop dead on bed. The last mission was a nasty one and he had barely washed the blood off his face before coming here.

               Sure, he could procrastinate it, as he ever did, but now he had five old mission reports still blank and an increasingly annoyed Iruka who chewed him out for it. So he decided to drop the habit and actually hand in this one as soon as possible.

               His whole tired body complained about this choice, though.

               "I can't accept it," Iruka said with a thinly-concealed scowl.

               "Why not?!"

               "Well, for starters, you're still writing it," Iruka gestured to Kakashi still scribbling on the form, using the desk for support, "go home and rest a bit, Kakashi. You can give me the report tomorrow," wow, Kakashi thought, he should look really deplorable if Iruka missed the opportunity to reprimand him.

               He didn't recall when Iruka went from calling him "jounin-san" to "Kakashi", maybe sometime between their quarrels about what an acceptable form was, but it always made his heart skip a beat. A silly little crush, but Kakashi allowed his heart this treat. It's not like he'd ever act on it anyway.

               "Yeah, maybe I should," Kakashi concedes, too worn out to complain. A shame really, he wanted to see Iruka smiling at him for handing in a report in time for once.

               He manages to walk away two steps before Iruka calls him again, scowl deepening and something too akin to concern on his voice.

               "Kakashi, you're bleeding."

               "Oh, that?" He look at the growing blood stain on his vest. It didn't seem too serious in the fight, and he could barely feel it over his generaly aching body, "yeah, I just came from the mission, I'll take a look at it at home," he smiled, trying to look reassuring despite the mask covering most of his face.

               "Fine," there was a finality to his tone. Kakashi thought it'd be the end of the conversation.

               Than Iruka called someone to cover for him and, in less than a minute, he was up and grabbing Kakashi by the hand.

               Kakashi made a mental note that Iruka was fast and could move pretty silently when he wanted to. The blush on his face hidden by the mask.

               "Uh, you don't have to—"

               "I do," Iruka cut him with his best non-nonsense voice, "since you clearly can't be trusted to prioritize you own well-being, and I'm sick of watching it after every mission of yours."

               He let Iruka half-guide half-drag him, not even bothering to keep track of where they were going until he sees himself being pulled inside Iruka's apartment.

              *

               "I know it's a mess," Iruka didn't sound apologetic in the slightest, "but it'll have to make do," he gestured for Kakashi to sit on the sofa, throwing some things on the floor to make space, and went to fetch a first-aid kit in the bathroom.

               Kakashi took a moment to took everything in. The papers and books thrown everywhere, a few take-out packages littering the floor, the clothes scattered around. It was not dirty, just messy, which made sense with how much work Iruka had between teaching kids and scolding jounins. He probably didn't spend that much time here. Enough to make a mess, but not enough to tidy it properly.

               Still, it felt homey. Warm and safe.

               "Shirt off," Iruka came back, a serious expression, and motioned to his blood-soaked vest.

               "Maa, sensei, at least pay me a dinner first," Kakashi joked, attempting to both lighten the mood and conceal his own nervousness. Iruka didn't seem impressed.

               "Fine, fine," he took his shirt off, it landed with a wet thump on the floor.

               Iruka's eyes widened for a sec before he recomposed himself.

               "I can't believe you decided to wait on a line to hand me a half-written form after you got stabbed," Iruka sighed, pouring antiseptic on the wound without a warning, "whoever let you graduate in Academia is a moron. You have no sense of self-preservation. Or common sense," he admonished.

               Kakashi winced at the sudden sting of antiseptic, but accepted the scolding. It was fair enough. Despite the harsh words, Iruka's hands were gentle when he started stitching him up.

               "It was not really stabbing, just a tiny hit. With a kunai," He said nonchalant. Maybe Iruka would give it less importance if he did too, "I've had worse."

               "I don't doubt it," Iruka didn't look at him, his eyes on the task, "And most people call 'a hit with a kunai' stabbing," he said wryly.

               Ouch.

               When Iruka was finished with the stitches, he put some ointment over the wound and dressed it. Kakashi insisted it was more fuss than it was worth.

               "Just lie down and get some rest," Iruka sighed, "I'll fetch you some pillows and a blanket. Don't you dare getting up,"

               "Really, you don't have to. I'm fine, I can go and sleep in my own house."

               "I want to," and there it was, the finality to his voice that made clear not even the Hokage could get Kakashi out of that couch, "now stop being stubborn for a second and sleep."

               Kakashi complied (what other choice did he have, really?) and Iruka made sure to get him comfortable, a pillow under his head, another one supporting his sore legs and a fluffy, warm blanked tucked snugly over him.

               Kakashi was drifting off to sleep when he heard Iruka muttering to himself.

               "Of course he'd try to shrug off a stab wound, the idiot."

               Kakashi heart raced a bit, the too familiar words sounded weird now that he actually heard it. He'd have fled if he wasn't so comfortable and on the brink of sleep.

               His last thought was that he was wrong about his soulmate not liking him that much. He'd never imagined someone could say "idiot" in such a fond, loving tone.

               *

               Kakashi's half-baked plan of avoiding Iruka didn't even have a chance to be properly formed. It'd be a nigh impossible task when he woke up on Iruka's sofa, covered in Iruka's blankets, inside Iruka's house and with a very nonchalant Iruka sat on the floor near him with a new take-out bag on his lap.

               "Oh, good, you're awake," he said, putting his food down, "Hungry? I bought some ramen."

               "I— Ah," he said eloquently, "no, you shouldn't have bothered. I'll— I should head home now. Finish all that late reports and everything," he all but stumbled while trying to get up.

               There was a faint, amused smile on Iruka's lips.

               "That's okay, Kakashi, calm down," he handed him a bowl of ramen, "you can run away and never look at me again after you eat," his voice was even. It didn't sound like a joke nor a reprimand.

               Kakashi accepted the chopsticks offered to him and they ate in silence. there was still a bundle of warm blankets on Kakashi's feet and the sofa was more inviting than it had a right to be.

               Iruka didn't look bothered at all for the silence. His face was unreadable, as if he already expected it.

               Wait—

               "You knew!" Kakashi accused, pointing a finger at him.

               "I knew what?" Iruka feigned inocence, then, when Kakashi grunted, added more serious, "yeah, I figured it out some time ago."

               Kakashi was stunned by how lightly he said it.

               "How long ago? Exactly?" He narrowed his eyes. Iruka put a hand on his neck, a nervous habit.

               "Well... I kind of knew since we became sort-of-friends? But I just confirmed it some months ago," he tried to laugh it off, then extended his forearm to Kakashi's field of sight.

               There, in neat letters, was written Maa, Iruka, I already said I'll finish the reports! No need for violence.

               Kakashi kind of remembered this talk. It was so similar to all the others they had that it was hard to place exactly when this one took place. Iruka had rolled up a magazine and smacked Kakashi's nape with it, saying he would 'beat some sense of responsibility into him if he had to'.

               "There are not a lot of people who never hand in their reports and are on a first-name basis with me," he explains, "the 'maa' narrowed it down a lot too."

               "...I see," Kakashi was at a loss of words. So his soulmate wasn't a medical-nin like he thought, but a sensei with years of practice in patching up kids and adults alike.

               "Yes. Well, I, uh," this was getting more awkward by the minute, "I'll go back to work now. you can take you time before you leave. Eat, take a shower... You can hand all your late reports to someone else later."

               Iruka was already getting up to leave when Kakashi hastily grabbed his wrist.

               "Wait! Are you leaving just like that? After telling me you knew I was your soulmate for months?"

               "Well, I figured you didn't want a soulmate," He smiled, and there was no judgement there, "I wouldn't have told you, either. But, since, you know now, I guess it's okay if you want to put some distance between us," he motioned vaguely to the pillows Kakashi had knocked on the ground in his hurried attempt to leave.

               Kakashi couldn't find a good enough answer, so he watched mutely as Iruka made his way to the door and closed it after him.

               *

               Days passed.

               Kakashi thought it'd be fine. Iruka have handled everything so well. They hadn't sought each other out and, when they bumped into each other, Iruka was polite but distant. 'Kakashi' went back to 'jounin-san' or even 'Hatake-san'. He didn't act weird or sad either.

               So why did it hurt so much?

               Kakashi felt like he was missing something. Which made no sense whatsoever, because he and Iruka never were a thing to start with.

               Iruka was right, he didn't want a soulmate. Never wanted one. The lingering thought that he would hurt whoever it was or that he didn't deserve any happiness present on his mind since he was a kid.

               Yet there he was, hurting and wanting to go after him.

               He's better off without me, Kakashi reminded himself once again.

               *

               It took Kakashi almost a month to put his finger in what exactly bothered him so much. He came to two conclusions.

               One: Iruka was a good liar.

               The scene of him leaving with a smile played again and again in Kakashi's mind, haunting his dreams and following him through the day. It hurt, like being rejected on repeat, nonstop. A cruel thing, really, like his mind enjoyed torturing itself.

               But then he payed attention to details, like he should have done since the beginning. Like any good jounin would have done. Iruka left with a smile, and it looked real, but he wouldn't meet Kakashi's eyes. And his tone was too cheerful, as if he was trying to compensate for something.

               Every time he bumped into Iruka (accidentally at first, deliberately later), he saw it. The hesitance, the too-happy smile, the eyes wandering around but never quite meeting his eyes. The lingering touches and the sad look on Iruka's face when he thought Kakashi wasn't looking.

               Iruka lied to him when he said he was okay with parting ways. Lied when he said he understood Kakashi's wish, when he made it so easy to ignore everything and leave.

               Two: Kakashi had grown up.

               This one should be pretty obvious, yet it took him weeks of introspection to realize it. He had just... Grown up. Made peace with everything that happened. It still hurt, and he still caught himself sobbing after nightmares or feeling guilty, but he knew, deep down, that it was not his fault. And no one would die just for loving him. It was a childish idea.

               He spent years pushing away the idea of a soulmate, but he couldn't picture Iruka dying because of him. He knew Iruka could stand his ground just fine and, even if he couldn't, Iruka was far better than him at reaching out for help.

               And Kakashi deserved some love too. He blushed at the thought, but he knew he had to tell it more to himself. He deserved it. Iruka deserved it too, if he still wanted Kakashi after the shitty way he dealed with the situation.

               Well, just one way to find out.

               *

               "Oh, hello, Kaka— Hatake-san," Iruka smiled at him, like he always did, that fake yet convincing one.

               "Kakashi is fine, Iruka," Kakashi felt bold. Or at least maybe he would if he faked well enough, "I, uh, wanted to talk to you. In private. Mind if I pick you up after you're done working?"

               "I—," was Kakashi delusional or was it a faint rosy blush on Iruka's cheeks? "Fine, you can pick me up here in two hours. Sound good?"

               "Sounds perfect!" He grinned and with the last of his bravery added, "it's a date then."

               Iruka made a choking sound and Kakashi left with the goofiest smile.

               *

               Kakashi's place was different from Iruka's. Tidier, nothing out of place, but with a thin layer of dust on the less used things and too much free space. It wasn't as homey. Kakashi found himself missing the messy couch and thrown around clothes and books.

               "So, let me set it straight," Iruka gave him a pointed look, "you decided you want a soulmate after trying to run away and pretending nothing happened for a month. And you want to take me on a date," He briefed.

               Kakashi nodded, it seemed like an accurate description. He could unwrap all the insecurities and emotional baggage later.

               "Fine," Iruka pressed the bridge of his nose, "took you long enough. I don't even know why I try to make sense of it."

               "That easy?" Kakashi was a bit surprised, "I had prepared a speech and everything. Scribbled a half-decent poem," he threw some crumpled papers on the table. Iruka chuckled a bit.

               Good. He wanted to see his genuine smile.

               "If I wasn't willing to, I wouldn't have bothered to patch you up in the first place," He explained, "idiot," he said as an afterthough, but in the same fond tone he used before.

               Kakashi found himself smiling too.

               "Well, what about dinner tomorrow then? Anywhere you want."

               "Oh, I have a better idea," the smile on Iruka's face was a bit devilish now, "just meet me at my place tomorrow. Let's say... At seven?"

               "Deal," Kakashi really shouldn't have ignored the chill on his spine at the evil grin.

               *

               "That's your idea of a nice first date?" He whined, his wrist hurting from writing too much.

               "That's your idea of good penmanship?" Iruka retorted, giving him yet another blank report to fill, "We are almost there! Just two more," he said a bit more encouragingly.

               "We? What exactly are you doing?" He handed another complete and pristine form to Iruka.

               "Moral support," he didn't miss the slight jest on Iruka's voice.

               Accepting his fate, Kakashi sighed and prepared himself for a night of writing down mission details he just vaguely recalled whilst Iruka criticizes his calligraphy.

               "Don't sulk like that. I have some ice cream in the fridge. We can have it after you're done," he used his slightly-less-stern teacher voice. The one he used to bribe the pests to finish their homework so they could play.

               "My hand is killing me," Kakashi said with a dramatic flair, "you'll have to feed me, sweetheart," he mocked, making Iruka laugh at both the exaggerate whining and the sappy nickname.

               "You're impossible," Iruka rolled his eyes, which, Kakashi noticed, was not a 'no', "Does it mean you'll go to the hospital now after being stabbed at least?"

              "Never," he replied with a grin, "that's what I have you for now, right?"

              The glare he received wasn't enough to spoil his sudden good mood.

*

*

*

It was fun to write! And can fit in three prompts! (soulmates, first date, friends to lovers). That bit was mostly accidental I swear! It just happened.

I don’t think i’ll try my hand on other prompts, but it was fun! That’s my first time in a writing challenge. Thanks for @kakairu-rocks for the funny prompts and for answering my questions!

Also, you can thank @kakairuincorrectquotes for single-handedly giving me the headcanon Kakashi will never, ever go to the hospital after being stabbed. You’ll have to pry it from my hands now!

Bye. ♥

[bloody-bee-tea]

Resolve

We did it folks, this is follows right after Escalation and marks the end of the Rumor has it series! I hope it can live up to all of your expectations! If you want to listen to a song that could very well be Jiang Cheng’s character song for this story, please listen here. This fic is 10k long, so I suggest you read it on AO3 here. Thank you all so much <3<3

Jiang Cheng is reasonably sure he lost consciousness a few times on the flight back to the Cloud Recesses, but despite Lan Wangji’s clear wish he didn’t give him the satisfaction of dropping off the sword. Jiang Cheng would rather die standing up than fulfilling that particular wish.

Jiang Cheng is also sure that Lan Wangji planned to land at the end of the staircase that leads up to the Cloud Recesses and make Jiang Cheng walk all the way up there—something that Jiang Cheng wouldn’t have been able to do—but one look back at him must convince Lan Wangji that Jiang Cheng is really in no condition to do that.

His urge to see him prosecuted and sentenced to death while Jiang Cheng is still aware must be really strong.

Jiang Cheng is almost pathetically grateful that they are flying straight up to the Cloud Recesses, because even though he would never admit it—at least not out loud and definitely not to Lan Wangji—it lets him keep at least a little bit of dignity.

Like this, at least, he only drops to his knees once he steps off the sword. Jiang Cheng grits his teeth when he sees the satisfied look on Lan Wangji’s face, but his legs won’t carry him and despite the dagger still lodged in his shoulder, he lost a significant amount of blood by now.

Standing just doesn’t seem like a good idea at the moment.

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says, worry colouring his tone, but when he wants to step forward, Lan Wangji keeps him away with a hand to his arm.

Jiang Cheng wonders what Lan Wangji thinks he will do to his brother, but given that Lan Wangji seems intent on getting him killed today, he can guess at the picture Lan Wangji has of him.

“And what now?” Jiang Cheng snarls when Lan Wangji simply stares down at him, but he can’t keep the pain completely out of his voice.

The dagger in his shoulder really hurts like a bitch.

“And now we will decide what to do with you,” Lan Wangji calmly says and Jiang Cheng can’t help the snort that escapes him.

Yeah, right. As if Lan Wangji hasn’t made his mind up already.

“How can you still be amused by this?” Wei Wuxian wants to know and Jiang Cheng wonders just when his brother stopped being able to read him.

“Come on, Wei Wuxian, you’re usually smarter than that. There’s nothing to ‘decide on’,” Jiang Cheng tells him and he feels a sick sense of validation when Sect Leader Yao steps into the courtyard behind him.

“That’s right,” he sneers and Jiang Cheng has to grid his teeth so that he doesn’t straight up jump at the other Sect Leader. “With what we saw you do today, there is not much wriggle room for you.”

“And doesn’t that make you happy,” Jiang Cheng says, but he doesn’t even deign to look at the other man.

He is very, very sick of Sect Leader Yao right now.

“I can’t deny that it’s kind of satisfying to see you like this,” Sect Leader Yao freely admits and Jiang Cheng works his jaw at that. “It will certainly bring justice to my late right hand,” he then adds, and now that Jiang Cheng can’t let stand.

“If it brings so much justice to him, why don’t you tell me his name? Why don’t you tell me why it took you ten goddamn years to want to bring justice to him?” he demands to know but before Sect Leader Yao can flounder for an answer, Lan Wangji speaks up.

“Enough. Everyone will be able to bring their grievances with Sect Leader Jiang to me today,” he says and Jiang Cheng resigns himself to a long and arduous farce.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lan Qiren suddenly asks, having stepped into the courtyard without their notice and Lan Wangji turns towards him, bowing slightly.

“Sect Leader Jiang has been caught in the act of killing two innocent people. He will be held accountable for that, today.”

“And everything else, it seems,” Jiang Cheng drily adds when Lan Qiren turns towards him. “Everyone is here, after all,” he tacks on with a nod backwards to where Sect Leader Yao stands.

A lot of the other smaller Sect Leaders have gathered there as well and it’s only then that it really hits Jiang Cheng just how well planned this was for them all to be already here. Jiang Cheng knows that he should feel betrayed that Lan Wangji and especially Wei Wuxian plotted against him like that, but all he can feel is anger for Xie Xifeng and her wife.

If Lan Wangji had time to plan this, then he probably had the time to save her. Instead Jiang Cheng is left with two dead bodies on his conscience. 

“Wangji, what are you doing?” Lan Qiren wants to know, but Lan Wangji meets his gaze evenly.

“What is right,” he gives back, sounding so goddamn certain that Jiang Cheng would love to tell him the truth just to see him shaken to the core, but he keeps his mouth shut.

He did not save all of his people from abusive and horrible situations to just throw them back into it.

Jiang Cheng would never do that to them.

Lan Qiren stares at Lan Wangji for a moment longer, before he simply turns around and stalks away. Jiang Cheng gets the distinct impression that he wants to run—which he never thought possible—but Lan Qiren adapted a pretty quick stride.

Jiang Cheng distantly wonders if he’s going to get Lan Xichen, and if Lan Xichen would end his seclusion for this, but despite Lan Xichen’s earlier words, Jiang Cheng doesn’t count on it.

It’s easy to take a stand against his own brother when it’s in an abstract situation. It’s much more difficult to do when the case actually arises, Jiang Cheng knows that from experience.

Jiang Cheng turns away from the retreating back of Lan Qiren and his eyes fall on Wei Wuxian. He seems pained by the proceedings but it just leaves a hollow feeling in Jiang Cheng when Wei Wuxian still doesn’t speak out.

He clearly believes every last word everyone says about Jiang Cheng and Jiang Cheng didn’t know it was possible to feel that betrayed.

Jiang Cheng wonders if this is how Wei Wuxian felt before he died and if this is the punishment Jiang Cheng deserves for not helping his brother back then.

It does seem kind of just, if Jiang Cheng looks at it like that. It doesn’t make it any easier to bear, though.

“Sect Leader Yao, if you would,” Lan Wangji suddenly says and Sect Leader Yao steps up, chest puffed up like a peacock and Jiang Cheng has to fight the sudden urge to throw the dagger from his shoulder at him.

“Jiang Wanyin killed my right hand man,” he declares and then proceeds to list off a few other names.

Names, Jiang Cheng very well recognizes, because all of these people are living a happy and safe life in his own Sect now. Jiang Cheng never quite realized that so many of Sect Leader Yao’s people hated their life enough to turn to demonic cultivation but when Jiang Cheng looks at the smarmy smile on his face, he finds that it does make sense.

Once Sect Leader Yao is done, Sect Leader Ouyang steps forward. It goes on like this, for longer than Jiang Cheng cares to take note of, and he can’t deny the warmth ball of pride in his own stomach when he hears just how many people he truly saved. It’s easy to forget sometimes, when they are all wearing purple.

There are a few names he doesn’t recognize—and two he failed to save that he remembers very well—but overall, Jiang Cheng can put a face to every name.

He can’t help but to smile at it, knowing that he did right by all of these people, and of course that is when Wei Wuxian chimes in again.

Jiang Cheng should have known.

“Are you proud of what you have done?” Wei Wuxian demands to know and he sounds incredulous, but Jiang Cheng simply smiles at him, too.

“Yes, I am,” Jiang Cheng easily gives back, because all these names just mentioned are the legacy he built over countless years.

He is more than alright to die for all of them.

“He will show no remorse,” Lan Wangji says to Wei Wuxian, who has to turn away from Jiang Cheng at that.

“Because there is nothing to regret,” Jiang Cheng adds, damn well knowing how it must sound to them, and then he settles back on his heels.

His shoulder is still throbbing, he’s still steadily losing blood, but he knows that it won’t be much longer now. Lan Wangji will sentence him and then it will be over rather quickly, at least Jiang Cheng hopes for that.

Jiang Cheng is okay with that, because even keeping himself upright is getting harder by the minute now.

“We have heard all the accusations,” Lan Wangji says, and suddenly his voice carries. “And there is one disciple of the Lan Sect to be added to the list. Lan Zhi,” Lan Wangji says and hate curls in Jiang Cheng’s gut.

How dare Lan Wangji.

“Oh, now you remember him?” he seethes because what he really wants to do is lunge for Lan Wangji.

How dare he speak that name. 

“He was a patient, kind young man and Jiang Wanyin killed him when he strayed from the right path.”

Jiang Cheng has another scathing remark on his tongue when suddenly Lan Xichen steps into the courtyard.

“Do not speak of Lan Zhi, and especially not to Jiang Cheng,” Lan Xichen says and walks over to Jiang Cheng, taking a stand besides him.

Lan Qiren is not far off and despite everything, Jiang Cheng has to close his eyes in relief.

He truly underestimated how it would feel like to have someone on his side.

“Brother,” Lan Wangji whispers, bowing his head in what Jiang Cheng thinks is not at all appropriate, but Lan Xichen silences him.

“Do you even really remember Lan Zhi? Do you still remember how unhappy he was? How burdened he became here? Do you remember that it was your oversight who even enabled him to turn towards darker paths?” Lan Xichen wants to know and Lan Wangji looks with big eyes at him.

“Brother, what are you doing? You’re in seclusion.”

“I am not. Not anymore,” Lan Xichen replies, Lan Qiren’s approving nod underlining his words.

“You would break your seclusion for him?” Lan Wangji asks, and Jiang Cheng would laugh at how incredulous he sounds if he weren’t so sure that his shoulder would not thank him for it.

“Zewu-Jun,” Wei Wuxian says, and Lan Xichen silences him with a single look.

“You are attending in the capacity as the Chief Cultivator’s husband. You do not have a voice here,” Lan Xichen frostily tells Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng raises an eyebrow in surprise.

He has never really heard Lan Xichen being angry—hadn’t really thought that he was capable of that, if he’s being honest—but it’s a welcome surprise right now.

Once he’s sure that Wei Wuxian knows his place, Lan Xichen turns his attention back to Lan Wangji, who seems like he considers strangling his own brother, but doesn’t dare to make a move.

“Wangji, how can you forsake justice like this? Are you really so blinded by your hate for Jiang Wanyin? So much that you would see an innocent man accused and sentenced?”

“Innocent,” Lan Wangji repeats, his voice as disgusted as Jiang Cheng has ever heard it, and looks Jiang Cheng up and down once. “Did you even look at him? He’s bathed in the blood of the true innocents he killed.”

“Half of that blood is actually mine,” Jiang Cheng speaks up, because his shoulder is still sluggishly bleeding.

It seems like Lan Xichen only notices the dagger in his shoulder now, because he falls to his knees besides Jiang Cheng, hands hovering helplessly over the dagger.

“Wangji, why did you not immediately call a healer?” Lan Xichen wants to know, but Jiang Cheng scoffs at that.

“Please. As if he’d waste any resources on a dead man.”

Lan Xichen freezes at his words, and Jiang Cheng realizes that Lan Xichen never truly contemplated what Jiang Cheng’s sentence would be.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen says without looking away from Jiang Cheng, but his voice is noticeably colder. “What sentence are you aiming for?”

Jiang Cheng forces a smile on his face, even though he damn well knows what Lan Wangji’s answer will be, but Lan Xichen doesn’t seem to take it that well.

His hands are shaking.

“He killed countless innocents. The only sentence can be death,” Lan Wangji calmly replies, and Jiang Cheng takes a little bit of pleasure in the nervous shuffling from Wei Wuxian.

He doesn’t seem all too happy with that decision, and Jiang Cheng very vindictively finds himself hoping that it will haunt him for a long time.

Lan Xichen lets out a long, measured breath, and Jiang Cheng has to admit that he admires the resolve in Lan Xichen.

“No,” Lan Xichen says and turns back around to face Lan Wangji.

“That will not be his sentence.”

“When he is found guilty, it will be,” Lan Wangji replies, outwardly calm, but Jiang Cheng sees the almost nervous twitch of his hand.

“If, Chief Cultivator, not when,” Lan Xichen coldly reminds Lan Wangji and then turns towards Lan Qiren. “Please get a healer,” he says to his uncle, who immediately leaves.

Jiang Cheng almost wants to tell him to stop—he still doesn’t see himself getting out of this, since he is as unwilling as ever to tell Lan Wangji the truth—but he doesn’t stop him.

It really does hurt like a bitch and it would probably help with his light-headedness if the bleeding was stopped.

There is an almost uncomfortable silence in the wake of Lan Qiren’s departure, and to Jiang Cheng’s surprise it’s Lan Wangji who breaks it first.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks Lan Xichen, who shakes his head at Lan Wangji.

“I could ask you the same, Wangji,” he gives back. “You don’t even have proof and yet you already condemned a man to death.”

“Proof is there,” Lan Wangji replies and nods towards Jiang Cheng. “The dagger. The blood. The bodies.”

Jiang Cheng grits his teeth, because it would probably not do him any favours if he yelled at Lan Wangji, but he must notice the tension in his jaw, because Lan Wangji narrows his eyes at him, almost daring Jiang Cheng to forget about his manners.

Jiang Cheng will not give him that satisfaction on top of everything else.

“Is that really enough to condemn someone?” Lan Xichen asks. “You don’t know what happened. The circumstances could be different.”

“With all due respect, Zewu-Jun,” Sect Leader Yao pipes up and Jiang Cheng almost admires him for how daring he is, “but the circumstances don’t leave much to interpretation. He was the only one with them. They are dead now and he is drenched in their blood.”

“Of course that must mean I killed them,” Jiang Cheng agrees, voice saccharine sweet. “Especially since my words don’t count for much, right?”

“So if you found me in the clearing, your rabbits dead around me, their blood on me, you would assume I did it?” Lan Xichen demands to know of Lan Wangji, who immediately shakes his head.

“Of course not. Brother is different,” he explains and Jiang Cheng nods slightly.

He always knew it had nothing to do with proof or circumstances but everything to do with who he is as a person, and yet it still stings.

Especially since Wei Wuxian continues to stay quiet.

“Then at least admit that you’re not doing this for justice but out of a deep dislike for Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Xichen snaps and Lan Wangji seems as taken aback by that outburst as Jiang Cheng feels. “This has nothing to do with righteousness, Wangji, and I demand you stop this.”

“It’s not only my decision,” Lan Wangji replies, pointing at the other gathered Sect Leaders. “They all have grievances with Jiang Wanyin, and they should be heard.”

“Heard and appropriately dealt with,” Lan Xichen urges, but Jiang Cheng can tell that he’s losing faith that he will be able to convince his brother to stop this. “But not this.”

“Exactly this,” Lan Wangji decides with a nod and Lan Xichen turns desperate eyes on Jiang Cheng.

He can’t offer him more than a one shouldered shrug, because he will not throw his people in front of these undeserving people, and so his only option is to stay silent. His only option is to die.

“Wanyin,” Lan Xichen whispers, clearly begging him to speak up, to set this right, but Jiang Cheng can be stubborn on the best of days.

And this is so far from a good day.

“No,” Jiang Cheng decides and it seems like Lan Xichen wants to argue his decision, when Lan Qiren comes back, a man with a bag behind him.

“Lan Yimu will have a look at that shoulder now,” Lan Qiren decides, and he levels Lan Wangji with a look so severe even Wei Wuxian doesn’t dare to pipe up or even move.

Lan Qiren really hasn’t lost his touch since their student days, Jiang Cheng thinks and then grits his teeth against the pain, when light fingers probe around his injury.

“Can you still feel your fingers?” Lan Yimu asks him and Jiang Cheng wriggles them in reply. “That’s good,” the healer decides.

Jiang Cheng knows what’s coming next and he braces himself before Lan Yimu even speaks again.

“I’m going to take the dagger out now,” he warns Jiang Cheng, barely a second before he removes the blade from his shoulder.

Jiang Cheng bites down on a pained noise, keeps it trapped in his throat because he will not show weakness here. He has more pride than that.

He startles slightly when a hand is put to his uninjured shoulder, pouring spiritual energy into him, and Jiang Cheng is even more surprised when he looks up and sees that it’s Lan Qiren who is the one passing his energy to him.

“You have to speak up,” Lan Qiren urges him, effectively distracting Jiang Cheng from the pain in his shoulder, even though it gets better when Lan Yimu puts a numbing paste on the wound.

“No,” Jiang Cheng replies, and Lan Qiren seems to sense that his decision is final, because he doesn’t try again, even though he seems unhappy with his decision.

“It wouldn’t matter what I say anyway,” Jiang Cheng tacks on, trying to soften his words. “Xiuying won’t let them into Lotus Pier and they won’t believe without proof. Might not even believe it with proof.”

Lan Qiren clicks his tongue in apparent displeasure but he doesn’t argue Jiang Cheng’s words.

“You shouldn’t move your arm too much for the next couple of weeks,” Lan Yimu advises him, just as he’s tying off the bandage and Jiang Cheng scoffs.

“That won’t be a problem,” Jiang Cheng bitterly says, because he doubts he’ll even make it until tomorrow.

Really, for all that Jiang Cheng enjoys the receding levels of pain, it’s a waste of a perfectly good healing cream.

Lan Yimu shares a look with Lan Qiren, before he bows his head low to Jiang Cheng again.

“He was my cousin. Thank you for saving him,” Lan Yimu then whispers and Jiang Cheng can do nothing but stare at him.

Jiang Xiuying never spoke of the family he might have left behind, and Jiang Cheng never dared to ask, but of course there must still be people left who remember Jiang Xiuying from before, other than Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen.

“He is living well,” Jiang Cheng lowly gives back, even forces a small smile on his face because Jiang Xiuying is living well, and the only regret Jiang Cheng has is that he won’t see him come into his full potential.

Jiang Xiuying will make a great Sect Leader, no matter the circumstances of how he got there.

“That is enough now,” Lan Wangji interrupts them, clearly displeased that it takes so much time, and the dread settles in Jiang Cheng’s stomach again.

It was a nice reprieve, he has to admit that, but of course it couldn’t last forever.

“Wei Wuxian, how can you allow this?” Lan Xichen suddenly asks and Jiang Cheng’s head snaps up. “He is your brother. You should know him better.”

“Sixteen years are a long time, Zewu-Jun,” Wei Wuxian replies. “A lot can change in that time. People can change.”

“But not this fundamentally,” Lan Xichen keeps arguing even though Jiang Cheng knows it’s futile.

“Don’t waste your breath, Lan Xichen,” Jiang Cheng advises. “He can’t admit that the rumours might be fake,” Jiang Cheng says, not taking his eyes off Wei Wuxian, who is turning a worryingly shade of white.

“What? Why not?” Lan Xichen wants to know and Jiang Cheng huffs out a humourless laugh.

“Because if they are not true then that means I never hated him, or what he turned into. If these rumours are not true, and I never hated him, then I must have turned against him because it was the right thing to do for me at that time. And wouldn’t that be worse than me simply hating him?” Jiang Cheng wants to know, despite how much he still hates to hurt his brother like this, and the look on Wei Wuxian’s face tells him all he needs to know.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t like to broadcast it, but he does know how to read the people closest to him.

“Shut up,” Wei Wuxian chokes out, but even from the distance Jiang Cheng can see the tears in his eyes. “You hate what I did!”

“Because of the repercussions it had for us, yes,” Jiang Cheng easily replies, because he came to terms with that a long time ago. “I never hated you. Certainly not enough to kill people who followed your path.”

“And yet you’re doing that,” Lan Wangji interjects, smoothly stepping to the side to put himself between Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng.

“You can’t protect him from everything,” Jiang Cheng says, slightly raising his cuffed hands. “No matter how hard you try, there are some things no one can protect him from.”

He turns his gaze to Lan Xichen with his last words, willing him to understand that this is simply how it is supposed to go, but it seems stubbornness runs in both Lan brothers.

“No,” Lan Xichen decides and turns back to Lan Wangji. “You said he killed two innocent people. If that is true, they should hold resentment. Enough for you to summon them.”

“You want me to play Inquiry,” Lan Wangji states and Lan Xichen nods.

“Ask them what really happened. You’re not going to believe Jiang Wanyin, but maybe you will believe them.”

“They won’t come,” Jiang Cheng says with a small shake of his head.

It was a good idea, but given how they died they shouldn’t hold any resentment. Tan Chunhua might, since her death was an entirely too tragic accident, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t count on it.

“We have to try,” Lan Xichen replies, just as Lan Qiren leans down, seemingly trying to steady himself, since he’s still passing spiritual energy to Jiang Cheng, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t sense any weakness in him.

“I called onto the other Sects,” Lan Qiren whispers to him and Jiang Cheng has to suppress a white hot flash of fury at those words.

“No,” he bites out. “You leave them out of this!”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t want Jiang Xiuying to have to come back here and take a stand. He doesn’t want Jin Ling to see his last remaining family go.

They both deserve better.

“It’s done,” Lan Qiren informs him and for the first time since this all started Jiang Cheng feels the urge to fight against his cuffs.

He doesn’t want the people he loves to suffer unnecessarily, and it will be bad enough once they hear about this already, Jiang Cheng knows it. They don’t have to witness it as well.

“We’re not at their place of death,” Lan Wangji muses, effectively dragging Jiang Cheng out of his own thoughts. “Without their names I can’t call upon them.”

“Xie Xifeng and Tan Chunhua, which you would know if you had tried to help them,” Jiang Cheng informs him—rather smugly, really—and he watches with satisfaction as a sliver of doubt appears on Wei Wuxian’s face.

Jiang Cheng knows it’s wrong, but he hopes it will accompany him for the rest of his life; always at the back of his head that maybe, just maybe, things weren’t as they seemed. That maybe Jiang Cheng wasn’t the monster everyone made him turn to believe.

Lan Wangji doesn’t outwardly react as he gets his guqin out and settles behind it. He plays a few notes, before he sits and waits and when nothing happens, he plays the same sequence again.

But again, nothing happens.

“Try it again,” Lan Xichen demands but Jiang Cheng shakes his head.

“They won’t come. They didn’t die full of resentment. There won’t be anything for you to summon,” he tells Lan Wangji, but it’s Sect Leader Yao who speaks up.

“How can you be so sure? Did you destroy their spirits, too? Taking even the chance of reincarnation from them?” he demands to know and Jiang Cheng can’t even be bothered to turn his head around to him.

“Sect Leader Yao, if you know of a way to shatter a spirit on purpose in the moment of their death, please do enlighten us. You must really be a master in disguise if that is the case,” Jiang Cheng taunts over his shoulder, because Sect Leader Yao should know better than this.

But then again, it’s Sect Leader Yao. What did Jiang Cheng expect, really.

“If they won’t come, nothing can be proven. The absence of their spirits cannot be taken as a sign in favour of Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Wangji decides and Jiang Cheng almost finds it hilarious how Lan Wangji is bending himself backwards, trying to slander Jiang Cheng’s name.

“This is not justice,” Lan Qiren suddenly speaks up, his hand still a steady weight on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. “If it can’t be taken as a sign in favour of Jiang Wanyin, then it can’t be used to condemn him further, either.”

This doesn’t seem to sit well with Lan Wangji at all, because Jiang Cheng actually sees him working his jaw, and Jiang Cheng will take his small pleasures where he can get them.

He won’t have much chances for any bigger ones, after all.

“Maybe Sect Leader Yao should tell you the name of his right hand man, so you can try to summon his spirit,” Jiang Cheng tosses out there, just to see Sect Leader Yao flounder really, and he’s not disappointed when there’s a very telling silence behind him. “He’s calling for justice for him ten years after his disappearance, he must have meant a great deal to Sect Leader Yao. Surely Sect Leader Yao remembers his name?” Jiang Cheng adds when nothing comes forth.

Lan Xichen sends him a reprimanding look, but Jiang Cheng simply shrugs. Taunting Sect Leader Yao won’t change the outcome of this anyway, but it does amuse Jiang Cheng, even in a situation as dire as this, and so he simply can’t pass this opportunity up.

Sect Leader Yao continues to be suspiciously quiet, and in the end it’s Lan Wangji who saves him some face.

“We will try Lan Zhi,” Lan Wangji decides and like every time when that name is used anger boils in Jiang Cheng’s veins.

He wants to snap at Lan Wangji, wants to tell him that he doesn’t deserve to use that name, but instead he closes his eyes and wills himself to be silent.

This round of inquiry is bound to be as successful as the one before and Jiang Xiuying is not here to be hurt by the sound of his old name.

Rationally, there is nothing Jiang Cheng should even get angry about. Still, he can’t help it.

“Why would you, Wangji?” Lan Xichen asks. “Did you truly not—,”

“Enough,” Jiang Cheng snaps, interrupting Lan Xichen before he can expose Jiang Xiuying. “Enough. Don’t drag this out any longer.”

Lan Qiren’s hand on his shoulder tightens, but Jiang Cheng is tired.

Lan Wangji has his mind made up—Jiang Cheng wonders why no one else can see it—and he doubts there is anything that will make him change his opinion of Jiang Cheng.

“He is asking for his sentence himself,” Sect Leader Yao crows in victory, as if it would mean that Jiang Cheng admitted to every single accusation. “We should give it to him.”

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian suddenly says, but Jiang Cheng does not want to hear from his brother at this moment.

“Yes, you should,” Jiang Cheng bites out, forcing a smirk on his face, but before anyone can so much as move a muscle Zidian sparks to life on Jiang Cheng’s finger.

“He’s attacking!” Sect Leader Yao screams, already diving for safety behind the other Sect Leaders, but Jiang Cheng is staring at his finger in confusion.

“I’m not,” he shouts, because if he really wanted to attack any of them, he would have done so earlier, and then he watches as Zidian detaches itself from his finger and moves through the air.

Jiang Cheng follows its path with his gaze and his eyes go wide when he sees Jin Ling flying over the Cloud Recesses.

“No,” Jiang Cheng breathes out as he watches how Jin Ling expertly yields Zidian, drawing it in a graceful arch over his head before he viciously brings it down on the protective barrier surrounding the Cloud Recesses.

It splinters after one hit, and Jiang Cheng is unsure if that is because Jin Ling is truly that angry or if Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren did something.

It doesn’t matter in the end, because the barrier crumbles and Jin Ling doesn’t waste any time descending into the courtyard, stepping down from Suihua right next to Jiang Cheng.

“I hope you forgive me this trespassing, Zewu-Jun, but the disciples at the front gate wouldn’t allow us to come in. A mistake, surely, but really rather bothersome, given what is happening here,” Jin Ling smoothly says but Jiang Cheng can hear the faint tremor in his voice.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Lan Xichen immediately gives back, probably smiling with how light his voice sounds, but Jiang Cheng can’t tear his eyes away from Jin Ling.

He had been resigned to never see him again, and despite the fact that he is happy to see him one last time—not to mention how proud he is of him—Jiang Cheng really wishes he would be anywhere but here.

Jiang Cheng is just about to speak when Zidian is transferred back to his finger.

“I hope you forgive me, too, jiu-jiu, I know it is still yours, but this was an emergency,” Jin Ling says to him, not taking his eyes of Lan Wangji and clearly daring him to do anything right now.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Jiang Cheng softly says, because he thought he had been very clear in his instructions.

Jin Ling was supposed to be at Lotus Pier where Jiang Xiuying would need his help. He shouldn’t be here, watching Jiang Cheng die.

“Xiuying was very adamant,” Jin Ling easily gives back and as if on cue, Jiang Xiuying marches into the courtyard.

“I hope you will forgive us for being late, Chief Cultivator,” he sweetly says and Jiang Cheng has to admire him simply for the bite he puts into those words. “We were delayed at the front gate, but luckily we made it in time to this public trial that you surely wouldn’t dare hold without the Big Sects present.”

“You are not a Sect Leader,” is the first thing Lan Wangji says to Jiang Xiuying and Jiang Cheng immediately sees red.

“Do not speak to him,” Jiang Cheng hisses, raising up on his knees, Zidian sparking on his finger in response to his anger and Jiang Cheng is going to send it out, wound on his shoulder be damned.

“How dare you,” Lan Wangji says, and he clearly only waited for this, because Bichen is drawn and pointed at him in an instant.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen tries, tries to calm everyone down, but his brother clearly doesn’t listen to him since he advances on Jiang Cheng without hesitation and it only takes Jiang Cheng a moment to understand that Lan Wangji is going to strike him down without remorse.

When Zidian lashes out, Jiang Cheng thinks for a split second that he lost control of his own spiritual tool but then Jiang Xiuying steps in front of him, arms outstretched and sending Zidian at Lan Wangji with natural ease.

Lan Wangji deflects the hit with Bichen, but the end of Zidian curls in an astonishing display of control and manages to flick Lan Wangji on the cheek, instantly drawing blood.

Jiang Cheng knew Jiang Xiuying would be magnificent with Zidian.

“Do not dare to touch him,” Jiang Xiuying seethes at Lan Wangji, calling Zidian back to his hand, where it continues to spark, picking up on the anger in Jiang Xiuying.

Lan Wangji seems to have half a mind to turn his sword against Jiang Xiuying next, but after a lengthy staring battle Lan Wangji sheathes Bichen and gets back to his original place, a clearly distressed Wei Wuxian immediately at his side and fussing over him.

Jiang Xiuying watches his retreat with hawk eyes, clearly not daring to take his gaze off him until he is a good distance away and then he turns his look onto Zidian, now finally dormant on his finger.

He takes a few seconds before he turns around to Jiang Cheng, a question clear in his eyes and Jiang Cheng shrugs through his embarrassment.

Jiang Cheng has transferred power over Zidian to Jiang Xiuying years ago, because just like Jin Ling, he simply wanted to keep him safe. Unlike with Jin Ling, Jiang Cheng might have forgot to mention it to Jiang Xiuying.

Who doesn’t seem to take it as well as Jiang Cheng had hoped.

“We’ll  talk about this when we get home,” Jiang Xiuying threatens and Jiang Cheng is unable to keep his mouth shut.

“If,” he corrects, because Lan Wangji now seems more murderous than ever.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t like his chances, not even with Jiang Xiuying and Jin Ling here now.

“When,” Jiang Xiuying hisses and then stalks away, putting his back to Lan Wangji in a clearly disrespectful move.

It’s only now that Jiang Cheng realizes that Jiang Xiuying didn’t come alone. He walks over to a bunch of Yunmeng disciples and when Jiang Cheng recognizes them, he goes cold.

Of course Jiang Cheng knows that Jiang Xiuying would never force any of the people Jiang Cheng saved to show up here—their intention of telling the truth more than made clear by their actions—so these must be the ones that are alright with having their new identity revealed, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t have to like it.

“This is not a public event,” Jiang Cheng desperately says. “Disciples are not allowed here,” he goes on, turning back around to Lan Wangji. “I’m requesting you send them away.”

“Since you are being accused of a crime, you lost the right to call yourself Sect Leader,” Jiang Xiuying states. “I am acting Sect Leader of Yunmeng Jiang and I have every right to be here,” Jiang Xiuying bites out at Jiang Cheng and there is nothing Jiang Cheng can do to change that right now.

But the rest of his people shouldn’t be here.

“I am a newly appointed Sect Leader,” Jiang Xiuying says. “You cannot expect me to travel without due safety precautions.”

Jiang Cheng wants to strangle him for putting himself into this situation, but Jiang Xiuying looks at him like he expects it, his gaze steady and unwavering, and Jiang Cheng sinks back onto his heels, turning an imploring gaze on Lan Wangji.

“They stay,” Lan Wangji says, probably just to be contrary, even as he swipes the blood from his cheek. “There have been enough interruptions already.”

As if on cue one more interruption appears.

“Ah, am I late?” Nie Huaisang sheepishly asks from behind his fan. “I came as fast as I could, but—,” he trails off and shrugs. “Oh, good, Jiang Wanyin is still alive,” he then says when his eyes fall on Jiang Cheng and he positions himself far away from Lan Xichen. “Don’t let yourself be distracted, please do go on,” he expectantly says, when all eyes continue to stay on him, and Jiang Cheng wonders just what exactly he is up to this time.

“You have good people,” Lan Qiren suddenly whispers to Jiang Cheng and even though Jiang Cheng wants to do nothing more than wholeheartedly agree, he fears that their presence here will only make things harder on them.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes fall on Jin Ling, and it’s only then that he realizes how pale and shaken he seems and Jiang Cheng understands suddenly that Jin Ling pushed himself to fly as fast as he could to Lotus Pier, explaining everything to Jiang Xiuying, before they made their way here. Jin Ling probably didn’t rest since he flew off at the house.

And it must be like this, because if Lan Qiren only called for help when he fetched the healer, they are way too early.

“I wish I didn’t,” Jiang Cheng almost belatedly whispers but Lan Qiren only squeezes his shoulder.

“Your actions against the Chief Cultivator will be excused this once,” Lan Wangji says, voice icy and Jiang Xiuying mockingly bows to him. “It will not be enough to derail this trial. Let’s continue,” Lan Wangji declares and Jiang Cheng can’t believe how blind he truly is.

He is looking straight at Jiang Xiuying but he doesn’t seem to recognize him at all. Jiang Cheng honestly suspects that Lan Wangji is so dead set on killing him today that he doesn’t allow even the slightest doubt and so he conveniently tunes the nagging voice out.

It’s the only thing that makes sense, because otherwise Lan Wangji is just stupidly oblivious.

“Now, the accusations have been presented. Since Jiang Wanyin refuses to speak and there is no proof in his favour, who stands against Jiang Wanyin?” Lan Wangji asks and it’s worded incredibly biased towards Jiang Cheng’s guilt.

Predictably, Sect Leader Yao is the first one to speak up.

“The Yao Sect stands against Jiang Wanyin,” he declares, chest proudly puffed up and Sect Leader Ouyang steps up next.

“Baling Ouyang stands against Jiang Wanyin,” he agrees, and after that it’s just a flood of the smaller Sects declaring their stand against Jiang Cheng.

When the last one falls silent, Jin Ling doesn’t hesitate to speak up.

“Lanling Jin stands with Jiang Wanyin,” he declares, to the surprise of no one and Jiang Xiuying nods his agreement.

“Yunmeng Jiang stands with Jiang Wanyin,” he says, daring Lan Wangji with his eyes to disagree.

Everyone turns towards Nie Huaisang next.

“What do you want me to say? I don’t know, I really don’t know what to do,” Nie Huaisang says, rather predictably, Jiang Cheng thinks and Zidian sparks on his finger again.

It’s clearly reacting to Jiang Xiuying’s anger, since he’s glaring daggers at Nie Huaisang.

“For once in your life, do the right thing and say the truth,” Jiang Xiuying snaps at Nie Huaisang who looks at him over his fan, before he snaps it shut.

Gone is the headshaker and Jiang Cheng can hear Lan Xichen take a shaky breath at the reminder that Nie Huaisang is not as innocent as he seems.

“Fine,” Nie Huaisang says, his voice suddenly strong and clear. “You’re making a grave mistake, Lan Wangji,” Nie Huaisang tells him. “Qinghe Nie stands with Jiang Wanyin.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t seem surprised by these turns of events, but he also doesn’t seem to be happy about it. Once Nie Huaisang falls silent Lan Wangji turns expectant eyes on Lan Xichen, clearly expecting him to back Lan Wangji as well, now that all the smaller Sects do, despite Lan Xichen’s earlier show of support towards Jiang Cheng.

Lan Xichen’s vote will decide this, Jiang Cheng suddenly realizes, because if one of the Great Sects sides with the smaller ones, they outweigh the other three Great Sects and Jiang Cheng has a split second to doubt Lan Xichen.

He feels bad for it, even before Lan Xichen squares his shoulder.

“Gusu Lan stands with Jiang Wanyin,” he loudly declares without hesitation or doubt and Sect Leader Yao gasps in outrage as a hush falls over the crowd.

“Brother,” Lan Wangji says, clearly displeased with that, but Lan Xichen shakes his head.

“No. He is innocent of the charges you brought against him and Gusu Lan will not allow you to kill an innocent man. We stand with him,” he reiterates, underlined by Lan Qiren nodding.

Wei Wuxian has been oddly quiet; strangely enough his gaze is fixed upon Nie Huaisang and it’s not long before he speaks.

“Why do you stand with him?” he asks and Nie Huaisang flicks his fan open again.

“Because he is innocent and I have something to make up for,” Nie Huaisang says with a little nod of his head and Jiang Cheng is reminded of the conversation they had just before everything went to shit.

If this is how Nie Huaisang wants to make up for killing Mo Xuanyu then he should probably think again, Jiang Cheng bitterly thinks, even though he is aware that there is no way that Nie Huaisang can make up for a lost life at all.

“I see,” Wei Wuxian mutters and Jiang Cheng scoffs.

“You don’t see anything,” he tells him and then forces himself to his feet, shrugging Lan Qiren’s hand off in the process. “Now that this is decided, can I leave?” he asks, raising his still cuffed hands in a clear demand to be released, but Lan Wangji doesn’t move.

“Just because some people don’t find you guilty it doesn’t mean that you’re absolved. The Chief Cultivator stands against Jiang Wanyin.”

“The Chief Cultivator is supposed to be an unbiased voice. His job is to mediate between the Sects and balance the scales,” Jin Ling says, and Jiang Cheng doesn’t think he has ever heard him speak this frostily to someone before. “You’re not supposed to take sides.”

“The accusations regarding our lost disciple have to come from Gusu Lan,” Lan Xichen chimes in and Jiang Cheng is beyond grateful that he doesn’t use Jiang Xiuying’s old name. “You have nothing to bring against him, since he didn’t slight you personally.”

Lan Wangji’s grip on Bichen tightens and Jiang Cheng wonders just how badly Lan Wangji really wants him dead.

“So you just want to let him leave, knowing that he will kill again?” Wei Wuxian asks and Jiang Cheng can’t help but to jerk with his words.

It still hurts, to know that his own brother doesn’t even believe that he is innocent.

“The trust is broken,” one of the other Sect Leader agrees and they all start to nod.

“We can’t trade with Yunmeng anymore,” someone else says and Jiang Cheng closes his eyes.

Even if he does survive this, the reputation of his Sect will be tarnished, and the lives of his disciples will be unnecessary hard after this.

It’s everything Jiang Cheng never wanted.

When he opens his eyes again, his gaze falls on Jiang Xiuying who is already looking at him.

“Let them speak,” Jiang Xiuying lowly says, just loud enough to reach Jiang Cheng’s ears. “They are here on their own free will.”

Jiang Cheng takes a deep breath, because he suspected as much, but he still didn’t want to drag them into the spotlight like this.

“They shouldn’t have to,” he gives back and by now they have the attention of everyone, Jiang Cheng is more than aware of that.

“But they want to,” Jiang Xiuying replies and then smiles slightly at Jiang Cheng. “It’s not even only for your sake,” he then admits while he glares at Lan Wangji. “It would bring us great pleasure, too.”

Jiang Cheng chuckles at that, despite how everything inside him screams to bundle his people up and bring them far away, to protect them from prying eyes.

“Jiu-jiu, please,” Jin Ling chimes in when Jiang Cheng doesn’t agree to their plan and Jiang Cheng can’t help himself, he reaches out with his still bound hands to tug him closer to himself.

“Let us protect you for once,” Jiang Xiuying whispers, his voice steady and sure, and with Jin Ling’s comforting weight leaning against him Jiang Cheng finds it hard to remember why this is a bad idea.

That changes when his eyes fall on Lan Wangji again, but by then he has already agreed.

“Fine,” he mutters, casting a desperate glance towards his people.

“You are keeping them safe,” Jiang Xiuying promises. “You’re keeping them safe by protecting yourself.”

“I already said fine,” Jiang Cheng snaps, because he never did learn how to deal with the gratitude and love of his people and Jiang Xiuying smirks at him, because he knows exactly what Jiang Cheng is feeling.

He does know him too well, after all.

“We will keep them safe as well,” Lan Xichen suddenly says from right beside Jiang Cheng as he reaches out to undo his cuffs. “We are standing with you.”

“And I thank you for that,” Jiang Cheng says with a small nod before he straightens up. “Alright,” he decides. “Pardon this, Lan Xichen, but let’s stick it to your brother.”

Jin Ling snorts at his words, just as Jiang Xiuying bites back a smile and even Lan Xichen can’t hide the amusement in his eyes.

Jiang Cheng knows he will crash sooner or later; today has been a bit much with everything and the fact that he almost died today will catch up with him once he has a moment to think about it, but right now, with the people he loves behind him, he feels like he could do anything.

And if Jiang Cheng is being honest, the only thing he really wants to be doing right now is to make Lan Wangji and especially Sect Leader Yao eat their own words.

Jiang Xiuying motions for the others to step forward and Jiang Cheng recognizes all of them, of course he does. Even Jiang Sushan is there, Fu Zhihao pressed close to her side and Jiang Cheng itches with the need to send them away immediately.

Fu Zhihao barely healed and she’s still in no condition to be around older males for longer than absolutely necessary. She shouldn’t be here at all.

Jiang Cheng glares at Jiang Xiuying but he simply shrugs. He did say they are all here voluntarily, Jiang Cheng reminds himself. He just hopes it’s true as he turns towards Lan Wangji.

“Regarding the accusations made against me today,” he starts and cuts his glare over to Sect Leader Yao, who has the good grace to shrink back at the venom in that glare, “I have something to say.”

“Speak,” Lan Wangji demands, but he doesn’t sound too sure all of a sudden, doesn’t seem too happy with the proceedings, and Jiang Cheng does rather enjoy the feeling of triumph it brings him.

“I am innocent. I did not kill any demonic cultivators, nor did I torture them.”

His voice rings out in the courtyard because everyone is silent for two seconds, but then chaos erupts. The voices calling him a liar are the kinder ones, and Jiang Cheng shakes his head at them.

“And I have proof,” he continues, raising his voice so that it carries over the others.

Luo Ganting is the first to step forward and Jiang Cheng seethes with anger when Sect Leader Yao doesn’t seem to recognize him instantly.

“My name is Luo Ganting,” he says, turning towards Sect Leader Yao, his face speaking of the disgust he feels for the other man. “And I used to be Sect Leader Yao’s right hand man before Sect Leader Jiang saved me from my certain death.”

Sect Leader Yao gasps dramatically, but Jiang Cheng sees how he goes pale, how he starts to sweat and he knows there won’t be any more accusations from that front.

“I turned towards demonic cultivation when I couldn’t stand to be in Sect Leader Yao’s presence anymore and Sect Leader Jiang saved me. He gave me hope, a home, and a family. I have been with him for ten years now and I regret every year I wasted with Sect Leader Yao before. Jiang Wanyin is innocent.”

Fu Zhihao is the next to step up, Jiang Sushan hovering protectively at her back, but her voice doesn’t shake.

Jiang Cheng is incredibly proud of how far she has come in this short amount of time.

“My name is Fu Zhihao,” she starts and she keeps her eyes on Lan Wangji. “My family married me off to a man thrice my age, who insisted that I be a good wife. My hate for him was so strong that I turned to demonic cultivation without a second thought. I killed him and the child I was carrying but Sect Leader Jiang came to rescue me. I haven’t been with him for long, but even that short amount of time was better than the life I spent before.”

“In case it is unclear,” Jiang Xiuying chimes in, his voice as cutting as the glare he sends at Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji. “She is the girl you accused Sect Leader Jiang of killing during the last cultivation conference.”

Lan Wangji’s face has turned into stone but Wei Wuxian watches the proceedings with big eyes, his lips parted, the colour drained from his face.

One after one Jiang Cheng’s people step forward, telling everyone present in what ways Jiang Cheng saved their lives. It’s clear by the faces of everyone present just how much they hate this, and Jiang Cheng has to admit that he does too.

He doesn’t like to be reminded how his people suffered before, can feel his eyes burn with the mere memory of it, of how unhappy and desperate they were, and Jiang Cheng has to actively remind himself that they are doing well these days.

It’s all in the past.

When the last person steps back, Jiang Xiuying steps forward and Jiang Cheng itches to pull him back, to shield him from this. But he knows he can’t do that, understands that this is something Jiang Xiuying has to do now and so he simply watches on.

“My name used to be Lan Zhi,” Jiang Xiuying starts with, raising his hand, his white forehead ribbon tightly clenched in it, adding proof to his words.

Jiang Cheng didn’t even know he kept it.

“And I used to be a disciple of Gusu Lan.”

Jiang Cheng does rather enjoy how Lan Wangji goes pale at that and he can’t help the small, satisfied smile on his face. The shock serves Lan Wangji right after he didn’t even recognize Jiang Xiuying.

“I turned towards demonic cultivation in my unhappiness and it was Sect Leader Jiang who showed me a different way. Who listened to me and took me serious, who offered me another life, one not dictated by rules that were suffocating me. He noticed me,” Jiang Xiuying says, clearly aiming to hit low with this, and going by Lan Wangji’s flinch, he managed it well. “He gave me a new name and a new family, and I couldn’t imagine a happier life.”

Jiang Cheng itches to pull Jiang Xiuying close, make sure that this doesn’t affect him more than he lets on, but he forces himself to hold still.

When no one else steps forward, Lan Xichen speaks.

“The accusations brought against Jiang Wanyin are baseless. He is innocent.”

“Then what happened today?” Wei Wuxian suddenly asks and Jiang Cheng jerks with the reminder that there are two people he didn’t manage to save.

Jiang Xiuying seems to sense his distress, because he steps close to Jiang Cheng, a supportive hand on his arm and Jiang Cheng takes a deep breath before he speaks.

“When I entered the house, Tan Chunhua was already dead. Xie Xifeng lost control of her powers and a knife went flying, hitting Tan Chunhua in the neck. When I tried to calm Xie Xifeng down, she lost herself to her grief and in the following outburst of her powers she accidentally turned Tan Chunhua into a puppet. She stabbed me,” he recounts, pointing at the injury in his shoulder. “When Xie Xifeng realized what she had done, she chose death over life and threw herself at Sandu,” Jiang Cheng forces out, the only thing grounding him into the present Jiang Xiuying’s steady hand on his arm.

“You tried to help,” Wei Wuxian whispers, clearly not taking that revelation well, and Jiang Cheng bares his teeth at him.

“Unlike you, who arrived before me and could have done something to prevent this tragedy,” he hotly says and then turns away from Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji. “Now if that is all, I wish to return to my own Sect.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t wait for Lan Wangji’s reply to that, and his path away from this farce of a trial leads him straight in front of the smaller Sect Leaders. Jiang Cheng tenses when Lang Hanying steps forward.

“What now?” Jiang Cheng snaps at her, but she bows deeply.

“We apologize for our misconception and blind belief that led to your suffering. Please do understand that we will need some time to reconcile this new information with the image we carried of you for so long.”

“Whatever,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, because he honestly couldn’t care less—all he wants to do right now is go home—but Jiang Xiuying doesn’t seem quite satisfied with it.

“You stood against him before,” he says, a clear challenge in his voice, making sure to look every person straight in the eyes, and Jiang Cheng knows that Jiang Xiuying won’t forget that these people called for Jiang Cheng’s death.

He can hold a grudge better than anyone, Jiang Cheng has found, and he promises to only let Jiang Xiuying deal with Sect Leader Yao now. Let him sweat some more.

“We cannot stand with him, the rift between the Jiang Wanyin we thought we knew and the real one is too great,” Lang Hanying says apologetically and then turns towards Lan Wangji. “But we do not stand against Jiang Wanyin,” she declares and Jiang Cheng can’t deny that he feels vindicated.

It’s a good feeling, he finds.

Jiang Cheng expectantly turns towards Lan Wangji, who seems as if he would rather take the punishment whip again as to say the words everyone is expecting from him now.

But no one steps in, and even Lan Xichen only raises an expectant eyebrow at his brother.

“Lan Wanyin is innocent and cleared of all accusations. Sect Leader Jiang is an honoured Sect Leader and is held in the highest regards,” Lan Wangji does eventually manage to press out and Jiang Cheng wonders just what it cost him to say that.

He can’t find it in himself to feel bad for Lan Wangji.

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says unexpectantly and steps forward.

Jiang Xiuying immediately moves between them, and Jiang Cheng knows that he wouldn’t have any qualms using Zidian on Wei Wuxian as well, but Jiang Cheng tugs Jiang Xiuying back.

It’s not worth it. There have been enough meaningless fights today, and it’s simply not worth it.

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says again, and this time it’s Jin Ling who intercepts him, just as protective as Jiang Xiuying.

“Don’t you dare speak to him,” Jin Ling hisses. “There is no relation between you at all, not after today, so you should return to your husband’s side.”

It’s said with so much disdain that even Jiang Cheng has to raise an eyebrow in surprise, but when Wei Wuxian doesn’t move, he lets out a sigh.

“You believed this,” Jiang Cheng says, and all of a sudden he feels tired to his bones and yet again it’s only his own stubborn pride that keeps him on his feet and his head raised. “You believed I killed countless people, out of hate for a single person. You wouldn’t listen to reason and you would not give me the benefit of the doubt. There is nothing more to say between us, Wei Wuxian.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t wait to see the effect his words have on Wei Wuxian, turning away from him almost before he finishes speaking, but he hears the pained breath Wei Wuxian takes in the wake of his words, voiced with utter finality.

He knows it’s petty, but Jiang Cheng hopes Wei Wuxian will regret his actions until the day he dies, just like Jiang Cheng still regrets the actions he took sixteen years ago.

“Thank you for your support,” Jiang Cheng says with a small bow when he comes across Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren, who simply nod at him.

“We promised,” Lan Xichen gives back as if it is that easy, as if promises haven’t been broken countless times before. “You will always have a friend and ally in Gusu Lan.”

“Yunmeng Jiang appreciates it,” Jiang Cheng replies and then turns towards Nie Huaisang who is still watching the proceedings with hawk eyes.

“You want the position as Chief Cultivator so badly, you should get rid of the old one,” Jiang Cheng says without preamble and he enjoys the surprised look on Nie Huaisang’s face.

He’s not as unpredictable as he likes to think, especially not since Jiang Cheng saw his true face once, but right now Jiang Cheng is too tired to be angry that Nie Huaisang used his plight to his advantage.

“I’m filing an official complaint against the current holder of the position,” Jiang Cheng informs him. “I accuse him of actively withholding help to Tan Chunhua and Xie Xifeng, causing their death with it. Do with that what you want.”

“I will, Jiang-xiong,” Nie Huaisang promises and he seems way too satisfied for Jiang Cheng’s taste.

“That won’t be necessary,” Lan Xichen suddenly says, his eyes still on Lan Wangji who honestly seems shell-shocked by the proceedings today.

Jiang Cheng can’t even pretend to feel bad.

“What do you mean?” Jin Ling wants to know and it’s only then that Lan Xichen turns towards them.

“He broke several rules with his actions. He will be asked to go into seclusion for an as of yet undetermined time to reflect on his behaviour. The position of Chief Cultivator is thus vacant.”

“Do you think he will repent for what he did?” Jiang Xiuying asks and Lan Xichen slightly bows his head.

“My brother has strong opinions. It will take him time to come to terms with the fact that he was blinded by unjustified hate. Time we will give to him.”

Locked away in the jingshi, Lan Xichen doesn’t say out loud, but Jiang Cheng understands him anyway. It doesn’t feel like enough, after all Lan Wangji put him through, especially today, but Jiang Cheng still nods.

“His inactions regarding Tan Chunhua and Xie Xifeng are a different matter. He will be punished for that accordingly, since he used them to manipulate you,” Lan Xichen adds and even though he sounds pained, his voice doesn’t waver.

“That seems acceptable,” Jiang Xiuying says when Jiang Cheng can’t find it in him to answer and Lan Xichen leaves them with one last bow.

Nie Huaisang kept quiet through the exchange, fanning himself or maybe simply hiding, but Jiang Xiuying clearly did not forget about him.

“If you come after us, or Jin Ling, we will destroy you,” Jiang Xiuying promises Nie Huaisang as they walk past him, and Nie Huaisang seems to be smart enough to believe him.

“You shouldn’t aggravate other Sect Leaders,” Jiang Cheng chides him, once they made their way away from them all and Jiang Xiuying huffs.

“He shouldn’t play with my Sect Leader,” he gives back and then stops Jiang Cheng with a light hand to his shoulder. “We came here out of our own will. We took a stand because we wanted to,” he reassures Jiang Cheng who still finds that hard to believe, but who nods anyway. “And I am so giving the title of Sect Leader back to you,” Jiang Xiuying then adds with a dangerous smirk and Jiang Cheng knows there will be several loud and lengthy conversations about this.

“You were stupid, jiu-jiu,” Jin Ling says from Jiang Cheng’s other side, his voice all choked up, and Jiang Cheng can tell that there are more talks in his future on that front as well.

Given that he thought he would never get to see these two people again, Jiang Cheng is rather looking forward to it.

Bonus Jiang Cheng/Jiang Xiuying chapter

{Buy me a kofi}

[sanjisock]

puddles

ao3

i. arlong park

It does not take long for Sanji to learn that Zoro is a man who does not do things in halves.

He watches in fascination as Zoro faces Mihawk without a single moment’s of hesitation — cut in half, bleeding all over the deck, but his sword stays true still. Zoro dreams, not of being a great swordsman, but of being the greatest; either you are, or you are not.

Sanji can understand that. It is not quite different from his own, if you look at it in the right ways — you either believe in the All Blue, or you don’t. It either exists, or it doesn’t. You can’t bargain with faith.

But Sanji isn’t the same kid with the iron mask all those years ago who had nothing to lose; he has Zeff now, and a debt as heavy as a lost limb that he could never even begin to repay. He knows how much a dream can cost. He knows how much love — true love, the kind with complete and utter devotion — can cost.

Cocoyashi Village is in celebration, and Sanji finds himself tucked into a corner of the party together with Zoro, somehow untouched by the cacophony. They’re still sizing each other up, barely knowing one another past a fight and a promise to a captain. But Zoro has trusted him easily in that very fight, and right now there’s a spark in the air between them, something not entirely different from attraction .

Zoro takes a large gulp from his bottle and gestures back at the ship. “You coming?”

This could be something , Sanji thinks. Wants to try, if he’s being honest.

But Zoro is a man who does not do things in halves — he is not a man who tries . If Sanji takes the leap, this is it — they either are, or they aren’t. And if they aren’t — Sanji isn’t sure a crew as small and as tight-knitted as the Straw Hats can handle a break up, especially so early on in their journey.

(Sanji isn’t sure a heart as weak as his can handle a break up). 

“I’ll catch up later,” he shrugs, scrambling for an excuse. He suddenly feels like he’s ten again, terrified and running away. “Been wanting to check out this one recipe from that guy over there.”

“If you say so,” Zoro takes the dismissal in stride, and dumps the empty sake bottle into a barrel as he stands up to leave.

Sanji watches him disappear into the night.

+

ii. enies lobby

The Mosshead has been giving him the nastiest look ever since the ship sailed away from Water Seven, so Sanji isn’t particularly surprised when Zoro stops him on his track on the way to Usopp’s workshop.

Zoro eyes the colorful drink on the tray in Sanji’s hand like it’s challenged him into a duel, before finally grunting, “you need to stop treating Usopp like that.”

Sanji’s eyes unwittingly follow Zoro’s gaze on the drink he made for Usopp — it has five colors, three different fruits, and a whip cream on top. Entirely too flashy for the male crewmembers, usually reserved for important occasions. Sanji feigns obliviousness, still. “Like what?”

“Like he’s going to break anytime soon,” Zoro says.

“You mean nicely ?” Sanji snarls back. “Like a normal human being? Not everyone is like you, Marimo. Some people have emotions. ”

“It’s insulting , is what it is,” Zoro retorts, his whole body leaning into Sanji’s personal space, like a challenge. “There’s never a need for you to coddle him. Usopp made his decisions as a man back then, and he had to learn the consequences for it — ”

“And he has learned , Zoro,” Sanji cuts in, feeling exhausted all of a sudden, the fight leaving his body in a snap. He sighs. “Look — I get that it’s your thing, protecting our pride as a crew and all. I was on your side, remember? But it’s all in the past, and Usopp’s got your message, loud and clear.”

Sanji thinks of a little boy with the iron mask, who were forced to learn all his lessons the hard way; and what comes out next is, “I’m the cook of this ship. Let me feed him.”

Let me take care of him , he doesn’t say, but it means pretty much the same thing.

There must’ve been something in his voice, because Zoro seems taken aback; all the tension bleeds out from his shoulders, and he’s now looking at Sanji with an unreadable expression.

There’s a moment of silence, stretched long enough to the point of awkwardness, before Zoro says, “ — didn’t mean to. I mean — quite a lot of shit went down, just didn’t wanna see you — don’t overexert yourself.”

Sanji blinks. “What are you saying .”

“All this talk about taking care of people,” Zoro says, hand rubbing the back of his neck in a rare display of — what? Embarrassment ? “Why wouldn’t you let me —”

Zoro pauses there, sentence trailing off into nothing; but Sanji has always been good at reading Zoro, and he hears the words anyway.

Why wouldn’t you let me take care of you .

Sanji thinks of the party in Cocoyashi, and then hundreds of moments after that — quiet moments in the galley when Zoro helped him wash up the dishes, playful banters that Zoro could only keep up with. Countless enemies they fight side by side, together, the way he feels his heart beat in sync with Zoro’s from across the battlefield.

“Cook —” Zoro puts his hand on Sanji’s shoulder then, and the touch burns , like an electric shock; it jolts Sanji back from his thoughts, a reminder of the reality between them, the way they would fight as hard as they love, and what would that leave him, in the aftermath?

“Let me go ,” Sanji says before he can stop himself, and practically runs to Usopp’s workshop.

+

iii. thriller bark

“You’re a dumbass ,” Sanji says.

“Hn,” Zoro says, not arguing for once.

“I’ve always known you have moss for brains,” Sanji continues, fully aware he’s rambling but unable to stop himself, “but who would’ve thought you’d be this dumb. What kind of complete and utter idiot would be so fucking reckless against a warlord for the second time in his life.”

Zoro hums noncommittally.

Sanji tightens the bandage across his torso with a little more force than necessary.

Zoro makes a pained grunt, and Sanji winces at the sound; they’ve roughhoused each other countless of times before, but this is the first time Zoro can’t take something Sanji dished. It shouldn’t be surprising though, not after the wounds he has taken from Bartholomew Kuma —

“You need to learn to pick your battles,” Sanji rambles on, because he’s suddenly hit with the realization that if he stops talking he might actually cry . “Or at least employ some strategies. Ever heard of those? That’s what people with brains usually do when they fight instead of simply waving some pointy sticks against the enemy. Raise your hand a bit —” he moves to the wound on Zoro’s arm, taking greater care to make sure he’s as gentle as possible, a silent apology for the earlier mishap. “Right there. Yeah. Anyways, I was saying —”

“Sanji,” Zoro says, and Sanji stops.

It’s so unfamiliar — the way Sanji’s name rolls off Zoro’s tongue, shaped by his deep voice. It sends a shiver down his spine, Sanji’s heart suddenly rattling against his ribcage.

When he looks up, Zoro is staring back at him with half-lidded eyes, something other than pain marring his gaze.

Longing .

Sanji feels his throat dry all of a sudden.

“Sanji,” Zoro says, voice low and rasp, but steady. And then: “stay.”

Sanji drops the bandages in his hands. He can’t do this — not when he’s staring at the very reminder of what it would cost . The idea of losing Zoro, as a nakama , has already torn him from the inside; he can’t imagine what it’s like to see Zoro’s lifeless body on the infirmary bed, as a lover.

He remembers standing in front of her mother’s grave, feeling like he’s coming apart at the seams, and wanting to tear up the stitches; wishing he could just unravel after so much hurt . 

“Zoro,” he says, feeling like he’s on the verge of a panic attack, “I — I can’t —”

But when he dares himself to finally meet Zoro’s eyes, the Swordsman has lost consciousness again.

Sanji flees the infirmary.

+

iv. zou

He flips BIg Mom’s invitation to the tea party over and over again, staring at the words etched on the paper.

Groom: Third Son of the Vinsmokes, Sanji.

The words settle unpleasantly in his gut, and he swallows, trying to calm himself down. He’s no longer the same weak kid with the iron mask; he’s now a Straw Hat, and he’s going to settle his issues with his pathetic excuse of a family once and for all.

That’s all.

...so why does it feel like this isn’t going to end well with Zoro?

Thoughts of the Shitty Swordsman appear in his mind, unbidden. A scowl, definitely — maybe a few scathing words to accompany the look. Something about Sanji and his self-sacrificial tendencies — as if Zoro has any right to lecture anyone about that — or maybe some diatribe about trusting the crew to take care of one of their own.

Which is not what this is about, at all. Of course Sanji trusts everyone in the crew — trusts Luffy  to be able to take care of himself. But this is his problem, and he’s the only one responsible to fix it. There’s no need to trouble everyone with a little family problems.

(So why does it still feel like he’s running away?)

+ 

v. whole cake island

“First of all, the captain of my own ship came all this way to track me down,” he says, raising a finger for emphasis, “only for me to insult and hurt him to the best of my ability despite no resistance from him whatsoever. That means I cannot go back to your ship right now.”

Run , he remembers being ten, hearing Reiju’s voice through the prison bars. There is no turning back. Your mistakes are final.

“Second of all,” he continues, “the shitty geezer who saved my life and the home where I was raised are being held hostage in case I don’t play along. That means I cannot escape from this wedding.”

Run , he remembers thinking every time he catches sight of Zeff’s leg. This is the cost of your dream. This is the cost of your love.

“Third of all,” he says, voice rising even higher, “the evil family to which I’m related to is walking into Big Mom’s trap, and they’ll all be slaughtered in a matter of hours. They’re scum of the earth to whom I owe nothing but my hatred but I cannot bring myself to abandon them to their fate and run away!”

Run , he tells himself. Your love worths nothing. You are not worth anyone’s love.

“For these three reason,” he says, eyes avoiding Luffy’s. “I cannot return with the rest of you.”

There’s a bright sunburst of pain against his cheek, and the momentum of the punch throws him against a tree bark, shattering under the impact.

“Tell me how you really feel ,” Luffy yells. “What do you want, Sanji?”

For the first time in his life, Sanji stops running.

+

(i. wano)

Sanji didn’t notice at first, with all the flurry and chaos of the fight against Kaido; but once things have settled down, it occurs to him that Wano is a spring island.

The air is tinged with the kind of heat that barely tips over to unpleasant, uncomfortable without the unbearable fever of summer. Even the nights are wearily humid, which is why he decided to stray away from the celebration feast into the forest, and finds Zoro training alone, swinging his new sword against the wind.

They have not had a moment to themselves ever since — ever since . All of their conversations have mostly been in the heat of the battle, and Sanji isn’t quite sure if they simply did not have the time, or if Zoro has been avoiding him.

It doesn’t matter — here they are, gravitating towards each other still. As if fate herself has weaved a path for them, time and again.

He thinks he can still hear Luffy asking, in the rain: what do you want, Sanji?

“Zoro,” he says, and faces him, head on. “I am in love with you.”

He thinks Zoro would’ve been surprised, once upon a time; maybe if Sanji dared to say it under the Alabasta moonlight, or bathed by the campfire light in the Sky Islands; but now, it feels superfluous, almost redundant. It is no longer the truth that matters between them.

Zoro finally turns to meet his eyes, and sheathes his sword into its scabbard. “What do you want, Cook?”

The same question, again. He’s been running away for so long, he’s forgotten what truly matters, before the risks and the tragedies and the costs . What he truly wants .

The answer to that has always been simple.

“I want us, Zoro. Together. In whichever way you’ll have me.”

Zoro walks up and stops, right in front of Sanji. “You have me ,” he says. “You’ve always had me. It’s you who’s always —” Zoro pauses, gritting his teeth, frustration written all over his face.

“I know,” Sanji says, heartbeat rising up his throat, his ears, his mouth. “Zoro, I —”

“I need to know ,” Zoro says, hand a hair’s breadth away from Sanji’s own, but not quite touching. “I need to know if you will keep running away from me or not.”

Sanji takes the offered hand and closes the distance between them.

It is a short kiss at first, only a cling of lips — and then he feels Zoro’s free hand drifting up to cradle his face as Zoro leans in for another kiss, and another, little dips of kisses, as if Zoro needed the constant reassurance that Sanji is here, with him. And Sanji can give him that, owe him that much — he breathes into the kiss, chases Zoro’s lips and mouths at the curve of his smile.

“This is it, right?” Zoro says when they part, forehead still pressed against one another’s. “Because this is it for me, Cook.”

Sanji thinks of Zoro, who doesn’t do things in halves. Either they are, or they aren’t. And for once he realizes — not the fear or the risk, but how much of an honor it is, to be loved by this man. Entirely and all-consuming.

“This is it,” he tells Zoro, and squeezes Zoro’s hand. “No more running away.”

[silverdragon-imagines-blog]

Counter Clockwise - Chapter 3 - Dawn of the Second Day

[Here’s the next chapter of “Counter Clockwise” the second fic in my “Threatening Darkness” series. Again, I’d like to remind you to check the tags and warnings before you read this, just in case. And let me know if I need to change the tags as well. I hope you enjoy ^u^]

Warning(s): description of injuries, slight body horror, lots of Dark Link being manipulative and creepy.

Read it on AO3

The next morning, Time jolted awake, eyes snapping open to see the floor at eye level, having fallen onto his side during the night. Sitting up proved to be tedious as his back protested each movement, quiet cracking of joints sounding much louder in the near-silent room. He turned to look behind him, at the bed he had given up for the still unconscious Warriors. He had refused to take one of the others' beds, having had insisted that he wanted to be there when Warriors woke up. He couldn’t help the disappointment and worry that sprung up when he saw that the Captain hadn't awoken yet.

Time could see that the Captain had put up a fight; bruises and cuts littered his hands and face, not to mention the broken chainmail he had worn when they found him. It was a miracle that he hadn’t been more injured, though Time couldn’t figure out why Dark had gone easy on him. It put him on edge, seeing how easily the Captain had been rendered unconscious and beaten. He stood, slowly as he took in the others in the room, his hands clenching as his mind spiraled into thoughts of the other missing heroes, one worst-case scenario after another.

They were running out of time...

He looked over to where Four had lain, the smaller now sitting up in bed with his knees clutched to his chest. He hadn't said anything, had barely responded to Twilight when he had asked what was wrong. It was worrying.

Time turned back to Warriors and carefully took his hand, holding it as though the unconscious hero would shatter if he wasn’t careful.

'He's fine,' he told himself, repeating it like a mantra, but it had never been so difficult to believe his own words until now.

He gently squeezed Warriors’ hand, knowing he would not get any response despite the small hope for the opposite. He let go, turning back to face the other three. Wild and Twilight looked at him expectantly.

"What's the plan?" Wild asked. Time opened and closed his mouth, finding himself at a loss.

"We need to find the others," Twilight spoke, his gaze moving between the Captain and Four, "but I don't think we should leave them alone."

"You can stop worrying about me." Four glared at Twilight from over his knees. "I can watch over the Captain. You have more important things to do."

Time knew he was right, but he felt a pit in his stomach at the thought of leaving them without anyone else to check on them. He wanted to argue, but he knew that he would need back up if he were to look for the others, especially if Dark Link was truly behind this.

"Okay," he conceded, the other's glare softening slightly, "I trust you, but please, if anything happens, promise me that you won’t do something that puts either of you in danger."

With Four’s agreement, Time left with Wild and Twilight trailing behind him. He passed the reception desk again without looking at the woman who stood behind it. She already knew that they were going to be staying for a few days if the fact that she hadn’t called them over to her yet was any indication.

They left through the East Gate again, and with a look to the imposing Stone Tower Temple in the distance, he led the way to Snowhead.

The cold was biting, though Time didn't react. He could hear the unmistakable sound of Twilight shifting to wolf form and Wild's slate activating behind him. He pushed forward, making his way to the mountain. As they passed the cabin where the two blacksmiths lived, he heard a strangled noise of distress.

He turned, expecting a monster attack, only to see Wild, shaking and staring wide-eyed at what looked like a block of ice, small yet almost big enough to conceal what was trapped inside of it. Time knew what was trapped there, it had been an all too familiar sight back then, even though Twilight seemed confused, glancing between his cub and his mentor for an answer neither would provide.

"Th-there's-"

"I know, Cub. I'm sorry that you had to see this.” Time placed a hand on Wild's shoulder, only for him to duck away and hurriedly pull out his slate.

In a flash of blue light, Wild held a burning orange blade in his hands, and with a soft puff of snow, he dropped the weapon close to the ice. Time could see it start to melt, steam lazily drifting off it. Wild, still shaken by the sight, returned to where Time stood patiently with Twilight. With a nod from the younger, they continued up the trail, and Time noticed the way that Wild pulled his hood further over his face as they walked.

When they made it to the gap that separated the rest of the path, Time reached for his bag again. He knew that he'd most likely need to don the Goron mask at some point, but before he could pull it out, he saw Twilight take a running leap at the cliff.

"Wait-" he heard himself begin to yell, a hand reaching out just a bit too late to stop his descendant.

His fear was short-lived, however, as the wolf managed to hang from the other side of the gap, claws digging into the snow and earth to pull himself onto solid ground. He shook himself off, then turned back around to face the other two, a smug look on his face that somehow was apparent even through his wolf-form.

"I swear everyone in this group is going to give me grey hair one of these days," he mumbled, fully taking the Goron mask out of his bag.

He could see out of the corner of his eye how Wild was looking through his slate, and the gleam in his eyes was telling.

"Whatever you're about to do is a bad idea," he said, but it was too late.

Wild had another flaming blade in his hands and turned away from him to set the nearby plant life on fire. He jumped over to it, unfurling his paraglider and flying into the air on the updraft. Time watched as the other glided over the chasm, landing safely on the other side. He looked smug.

Time put the mask on, feeling the pain of the transformation once again, from Hylian to Goron. His skin hardened to rock, stone-like skin overtaking his back. In truth, it hurt less than the Zora mask had. He soon found himself beginning to roll into a ball and making the leap onto the other side. He looked to both of his companions, lightly smacking them both.

"That's for the heart-attacks you both gave me," he rumbled, the deep voice of Darmani taking over his own.

Time sighed and led the way again up the trail, managing to get rid of the snow-covered boulders that would roll towards them with a single well-timed punch. It was slow going, needing to stop for each one, but soon, they found the entrance into the cavern that led to the Temple.

With a bloodcurdling scream, a White Wolfos appeared, howling at the three intruders. Twilight growled, lunging at the monster, quickly ending it with his claws and teeth.

"Good job, pup," Time said, and Twilight shifted back, rubbing at his chin where the monster’s blood remained.

They passed through a door, into a circular room with a large platform in the center of it. Wild looked over the edge to the bottom, seeing pools of lava. Time grabbed onto the back of the Warm Doublet the other wore, pulling the other back near him.

They stood on the platform, and Time could easily see the switch that he had to stand on to take them up to the room that the Boss had been in. Twilight seemed to notice it too.

"I think I could hit it," he said, and Time raised an eyebrow as his protege pulled out a heavy-looking steel ball attached to a rather long chain from the depths of his bag of items.

Twilight began to swing the ball over his head. It gained speed quickly, and with a small grunt, the ball flew through the air, broke through the metal grate around the switch, and hit it dead on. In a second, the platform rose right to where the staircase to the Boss Chamber was.

"That was so awesome, can I-"

"No. No, you can't." Time interrupted. Wild looked on in disappointment, following behind the other while Twilight laughed behind them.

====

Four sighed from his position by the bed that Warriors was still resting on. He was on the floor, leaning against the bed frame, while his mind continued to spiral. Blue and Red had been trying to get Vio to talk to them again, to get him to explain what had happened back in the Great Bay Temple. Green was the only one who could still focus enough to take control.

It felt strange to have to do this again after so long working as one. Four voices in one body, distinct yet the same. They made up one person, and yet, each attack on their psyche seemed to break them apart more and more each time. It was amazing they could still function. Taking control during each attack was difficult, each time it affected each of them differently, with the most stable one being forced to act as though there weren’t shattered inside. He had drawn the short straw this time.

He was listening closely to the quiet breaths he could hear from Warriors. It was all he could do to keep his mind away from the other three yelling in his mind. The quiet was nice, and it was almost calming.

Almost.

The air grew oppressive, as though he was being watched. He didn’t dare to try and find the source of it, knowing full well who would be lurking in the darkened corners of the room. They seemed to grow with every passing second, extending until the room became void-like and blood-red eyes shone through the darkness.

"You know, that little stunt you pulled back there wasn't very nice."

Green tensed as Dark Link stepped into view, his form shifting to that of Four himself. His grin was sharp as he stepped closer. Green sprung to his feet, sword quickly finding its way to his hand. Dark just laughed.

"Aw, scared of me, little smith?"

"Not a chance. Now, what do you want?” Green spoke through gritted teeth, and Dark's smile only grew.

"So it's one of the pieces. Tell me, how does it feel to not be whole anymore?"

Green could feel Blue's anger welling up, his want to just stab Dark and get it over with. Vio, too, seemed to be listening in now.

"Just leave, you've done enough harm."

"Oh, but I'm not here to hurt you," he spoke, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I'm just here to offer you a deal."

"We. Aren't. Interested."

And yet, as Green spoke, the others seemed fully focused on the conversation. Vio especially seemed interested in what Dark had to say.

"Ah? But I know that's a lie," he smirked, "I can tell that the traitor piece wants to know."

Green only blinked once, and Warriors was gone. He blinked again, and he was no longer Four. He could see Blue fuming next to him, sword drawn and ready, Red behind him, clutching the fire rod tightly while his knuckles turned white. And then there was Vio at his other side, sword drawn, but no intent to use it. He still looked shaken from the events at Great Bay, but he wanted to know what Dark's deal was.

"Now that you're all together, I can get a real answer,” Dark spoke. The four looked around, trying in vain to find him in the darkened void.

"I really don’t like to repeat myself, but that Hero of the Wilds appears to have kept his mouth shut,” Dark's voice boomed, causing Red to flinch and knock into Blue.

Dark appeared in front of Green, looking similar to Wild, yet without the scars that marred the other's body and face.

"I've been around a long time, and I've seen every single one of your adventures. I know all of your secrets and-" Dark smiled wide as he got in Green's face, "-I know what it is that you desire most."

Blue swung his sword at Dark, only for him to disappear into shadows, his laugh beginning to echo through the void. Red began to tremble, getting closer to Blue for comfort. Green looked back to Vio, seeing how hard he was gripping his sword and the determined look in his eyes.

"Vio. Don't," Green spoke, snapping the other out of his thoughts.

"But there's a chance-"

"I know, but we all know it'll go sideways. There's always a catch, it’s not worth it."

"Oh my, so the little leader figured it out?" Dark mocked, and this time showed himself as a darker Four, an all too familiar form that had all of them falter. Green could hear how Vio's breath halted for a second at the sight. This was bad.

"What are your terms?" Vio asked. The other two inhaled sharply, shocked at how quickly he seemed to want to make a deal with Dark. And Dark smiled.

"I'll bring him back," he replied plainly, and held out a hand, "no strings attached... this time anyway."

Green was pushed out of the way. Vio walked towards Dark, sword lying forgotten on the ground. Blue bolted over to him, grabbing Vio around the waist in an attempt to stop him. Red was begging Vio to stop, trying to say that's not worth it. Green couldn't find the words to say.

Dark's smile only grew as Vio fought Blue's hold on him, waiting patiently. But then he stopped, his gaze looking past the four of them. There was a snap, and a flash of light exploded at Dark's feet. He flinched, surprise on his face.

A second snap and the darkness left. Four was standing, approaching the bed he had slept in earlier that morning, and behind him, he could hear loud coughing. He turned quickly, running to where Warriors was now leaning on his arm, turned towards Four.

"Captain?"

"Deku nuts," he rasped, coughing once more, "good for distractions, makes a hell of a light show, too."

"How did you-"

"Dark Link isn't subtle, I'll tell you that. The bastard deserved it."

Four found himself giggling at that, and for once, all the colors inside his head were unified. All was well.

====

The door closed behind Wild, Twilight, and Time as they entered the circular room that made up the final room of Snowhead. Time could already feel the oppressive atmosphere when they entered, putting both him and his companions on edge. They didn't know what to expect, but Time had a feeling that Dark Link would appear. At this point, it was only a matter of time.

Wild had started to walk around the room, searching for something he didn’t specify. Time merely watched as Twilight followed behind the Cub, making sure everything was fine. Time stood off to the side, keeping a grip on the Goron mask just in case.

It was eerily quiet, and every darkened crevice made him peer closer, checking to see if the damning red glow of Dark's eyes were hiding there. Of course, no matter how hard he glared at the empty pockets in the stone, there was nothing in them besides the shadows.

Wild seemed to notice how the room’s darkened pockets made the elder hero watch them closely, and he grabbed his sword as a precaution. His hand froze in place, hovering over the pommel when an all too familiar chuckle rang in his ears.

He flinched, whipping his head around to locate its source, but coming up with nothing. The other two heroes didn't even seem to react, aside from Twilight looking at him with a questioning glance. Wild merely waved him off, shaking slightly.

"Oh, Hero of the Wilds," the voice--his voice--chuckled, "it's nice to see that you still remember me, despite your faulty memory."

Wild grit his teeth, the memories of that damned deal surfacing once again. He clenched at his sword hilt again, not drawing it out just yet.

"I paid a visit to your friends earlier. Seems no one was in the mood for dealmaking," he sighed, and Wild stifled a sound of relief.

"Though I will say, the Chosen Hero and the Hero of the Winds seemed interested in making a deal." He laughed, the sound loud and dangerous in his ears. "I, of course, let them, and I gave them exactly what they wanted. Why don't I show the heroes of Time and Twilight what those two wanted?"

"Don't. You. Dare," he spat, barely registering Twilight's worried call of "Cub?" over Dark's laughter.

"You know you have no power over me, Champion."

There was an audible crack, and the three snapped to attention, the wall in the center of the room splitting open, a pitch-black portal appearing in its place. Slowly, two familiar figures stepped out, and Wild felt his breath halt as he took in the bloodied and bruised forms of his friends.

Wind's tunic was in tatters, spots of blood dotting it where he had cuts, and bruises where he looked as though he had been hit. Sky was in a similar, if not worse, shape. His sailcloth looked as though it was falling apart, and his shirt and chainmail were wrecked, blood staining the fabric and metal where his skin was visible.

The worst part, however, was how their eyes gleamed red.

Dark laughed again, and this time, the others heard it. He stepped out of the portal himself, his appearance identical to Time's own. He stopped between the two wounded heroes, a wide smile on his face as he took in the shock and anger in the other three hero's expressions. He relished in their barely concealed anger as he put an arm around Sky’s shoulders, his other hand resting on Wind’s shoulder, watching as Wild’s sword hand twitched, as though itching to grasp his blade.

"Why so upset? I brought you your missing companions, didn't I?" He smirked . "And I'll let you take them with you, no strings attached...this time anyway."

"What did you do to them?" Twilight growled, trying to hide the horror in his voice. He quickly drew his blade and glared at Dark.

"Oh, Hero of the Twilight, I merely let them make a deal with me," he chuckled, "and now they have exactly what they've always wanted."

Wild edged closer, timidly reaching out to Wind, the only thought a hope that this was temporary, that it could be fixed. The other looked at Wild, no recognition in his gaze, face blank and unchanging as the hero’s steps faltered. Dark’s smile seemed to grow.

"Here, why don't I let you have them." He snapped his fingers once, and all hell broke loose.

Wild barely had time to react, instinct alone had him unsheathe his sword in one quick movement and block Wind's blade from coming down on his head. The loud clash of steel on steel had him flinching, but Wind’s blank stare made his panic rise.

"Wind, please," Wild's voice cracked, but the other still didn't react.

Wind jumped back, landing a few feet away. Wild could see Time almost hiding behind his shield as Sky began his onslaught. Twilight seemed torn on what he should do, and Wild found himself unable to say anything, unable to call out for help. His words were stuck in his throat, his focus locked firmly on Wind as he began to launch into a spin attack, each hit on the shield threatening it to break.

"My my, whatever shall you do, Wolf?" Dark called out, appearing in front of Twilight, now taking on the form of Twilight himself. "Protect your mentor or your cub? Choose wisely, you wouldn't want to lose anyone else, now, would you?"

Twilight paled at that, thoughts running between his mentor becoming the Hero's Shade and shattered mirrors, goodbyes that never happened, and the fear of things repeating once again. The ever-looming threat of failing his cub or watching as his past becomes true with Time’s death. What was the right answer? Was there even a right answer?

Twilight heard a loud curse from Time, and a decision was made. He pushed past Dark, a chuckle echoing in Twilight's ears, and unsheathed his sword, shield slipped onto his arm. He took a swing at Sky, the other jumping back in time to avoid his blade.

"Thanks, Pup," he heard Time sigh, and he nodded.

Sky seemed to stare intently at Twilight for a moment, a flicker of blue appearing for a second before it was overtaken by red once more. The corrupted hero raised his sword, a familiar blue light causing it to shine for a moment before he swung it down.

Twilight's eyes widened for a moment. His awareness came crashing back as Sky shambled forward and he bolted to the side, knocking Time away from the beam of light. He struggled to call out to Wild, managing a strangled cry that just wasn't loud enough. He watched as the beam of light hit Wind and Wild head-on. He felt a scream building in his throat as they were obscured by the light.

Dark was cackling, though he was no longer visible, the cruel sound echoing as it slowly faded away.

There was a beat, and then the light vanished. On the ground were the forms of Wild and Wind, the latter seemingly passed out on top of the former. They seemed to be okay, and Twilight groaned with relief, the feeling replacing the rush of adrenaline. He looked back over to Sky to see him kneeling, clutching his head, with the Master Sword fallen to the ground.

Twilight raised his weapon, keeping them at the ready. But it seemed as though he didn't have to.

"T-Twi?" Sky croaked out. Time inched forward, his gaze soft but wary.

The red glare in his eyes was gone, Time noticed, and as Sky lowered his hands, he caught sight of the burns that marred his palms, the pommel of the sword seared into his flesh. Time glanced around, noticing the silence and lack of Dark Link. He slowly knelt and grabbed a potion from his bag at his hip.

"Are you okay?" he asked. Sky didn't respond, merely staring at his hands with a faraway look in his eyes.

Time sighed, motioning for Twilight to check on the other two. As soon as they were bandaged and ready to be moved, they would head back to the inn. They all needed a break.

But the idea of Dark still being around,  that he was behind all of this and that two of his boys were still missing. It did little to ease his thoughts.

There was only one place they could be.

Time hung his head and sighed again.

[michpat6]

✏️ 🗑 :33333

thank you for the ask, @mikamoony!

✏️ What is your fave fic from another writer?

oh man right now it HAS to be "Dropping the Sword" by the lovely @wanderingnightingale. it's about link and zelda having a baby pre-calamity, having to give up that baby during the calamity, and then trying to figure out what happened to them post-calamity. it's everything to me, every new update has me on my knees screaming and crying because the writing is so pristine and emotional and-gah. link and zelda's relationship and how they interact with each other and deal with what they learn about their child is so real it hurts, and the mystery of their child's life that's slowly revealed over the course of the fic is super intriguing. the twist of it genuinely caught me out of nowhere, and it makes such perfect sense that I still feel like I read each chapter with my eyes closed when we got the answer like two updates ago. it's that insane to me, and if you read the fic and go into the comments you can see my descent into madness over this story that I never want to end but that I know is building to something really, truly beautiful.

in conclusion, go read it!

🗑 What is one fic idea that you loved at first but then scrapped?

so I had a vague idea about a breath of the wild fic where, like, ten or so years post-calamity and in a world where botw2 doesn't exist, link and zelda are living their best lives in hateno when they hear that a gerudo has given birth to a son. somehow, it was a story where link and zelda have to raise a baby ganondorf. that's it, that's the fic, that's as far as I got before I realized I didn't know what I was doing at all. maybe ill go back to it down the line, but it's an idea that didn't exactly work out because I had no plan and no logic and just decided to focus on my other wips

[lala-ladybug]

Healing Hands: Chapter 5

Can you say ~trauma~?

Jasonette Sword Art Online AU

Read here on AO3

Tag list: @iloontjeboontje

First | Previous | Next

Chapter 5: Yes, Dick? You’re looking particularly dickish today

After so much commotion, the silence as they sat made Marinette’s ears ring. She and her Order were gathered in the spacious living room of Chloe’s house. After checking to make sure it was empty, she and the other miraculous holders had reassured their civilian classmates and sent them off to bed. They’d spent the better part of the day getting out of the overcrowded town. Thank Kwami they hadn’t still been travelling after the sun went down, but the noises from the woods still kept them all awake. Kagami had dug out a teapot from the kitchen cabinets and brewed several mugs for those who had needed one. No one was hungry.

Marinette’s hands shook slightly as she sipped her tea. That was another blessing, that Chloe’s VIP pass included a partially stocked kitchen to begin with. They would explore the rest of the house tomorrow, but for now, while the others rested.... They needed to talk.

She set her cup down with a sound that was amplified in the heavy quiet, then took a deep breath. “Okay....” The words felt strange in her mouth. She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Can anyone sense their Kwami?”

She looked around at the blank faces of her friends as they all tried to reach for their respective powers. Chloe’s lip trembled, but her eyes were dry. Luka and Kagami’s jaws clenched, and Adrien frowned as he shook his head.

“None of us can, then,” Luka stated evenly, finally voicing what she’d been afraid of.

Marinette bit her lip. Kagami placed her cup of tea down forcefully. “What are we going to do.” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement.

Marinette rubbed her eyes. Kwami, what could they do? They should count themselves lucky they weren’t dead yet. She could only imagine her Maman and Papa’s panic, but they hadn’t tried to pull her out, so she hadn’t....

They could still die though, if what the Game Master had said was true. If their HP dropped to zero, they would die. There was no Second Chance or Lucky Charm this time. But they were still likely among the best trained people in the game. Her mind was made up.

“We fight.” She finally said with all the confidence she could muster. “There are thousands of civilians stuck in here with us, so we need to fight for them. We need to beat the level bosses in order to advance, right?” The question was rhetorical, but Chloe nodded and Kagami blinked in affirmation all the same.

“Good,” Marinette stood up. “We will be the ones to fight these bosses. So they don’t have to. Think about it, even without our Kwami, we still have an edge on everyone else here. The faster we beat the game, the faster they can go home.”

“And us too!” Adrien jumped up with a smile. “And us too,” Marinette echoed.

Luka drained his tea and stood next. “So it’s settled then,” he put a hand on her shoulder, steady as ever.

“Indeed,” Kagami rose beside them.

Chloe stared up at them, eyes wide. “You really think we can do this?” She asked in a small voice.

Marinette looked her in the eye and said, “I know we can.” The blonde released a small sigh and stood as well. A gleam of determination entered her eye as she said, “Okay. Let’s go save everyone from this ridiculous game.”

* * *

Jason, Jaime, Cassie, and Zatanna returned to the center of town. It was nearly deserted now, the murky twilight creating pockets of shadows around the square, perfect for hiding lurking figures. But it was nothing Jason couldn’t handle. In fact, with his current mood, he damn well dared them to try.

They’d spent hours hacking away at the wild boars, Jaime even joining in as his allergies permitted him. The four had gained a few player levels and a decent amount of money and loot. But damn if it wasn’t tiring as hell.

His crossbow was much more taxing than using guns, and it used different muscles in his shoulders and arms than he was accustomed to working. He could tell the others were similarly weighed down by exhaustion. Cassie’s whip demanded an endurance she wasn’t used to without her super strength, Jaime’s throws of a handaxe grew increasingly shorter the longer they fought, and Zatanna wasn’t used to fighting with physical weapons at all. It took everything they had left to drag themselves back into town.

One of the shadows a few feet away swam with sudden movement. Jason equipped his crossbow, arms shaking with the effort of just holding it. Damnit, now was not a good time, but he’d still fight these bastards with everything he had.

He relaxed when he saw it was Dick and the rest of Team Alpha approaching. Putting his weapon away, Jason crossed his arms and planted his feet firmly. Dick better have gotten them those fucking beds for the night.

“We’re just waiting on Beta,” Dick said in a low voice. “Then we can go to the inn and regroup.” The others could regroup. Jason would be heading right to sleep. He stalked over to the brick wall Bart sat slumped against and leaned his shoulder against it. The cool roughness grounded him and kept his eyes open.

He distantly heard Zatanna telling Dick that they had made out okay in the west. Unnecessary talking when there were other players listening nearby. He swallowed against the urge to forcibly silence them that was rising in his blood. It sang with the persistent thrum of battle, unshakable as it was insistent. He closed his eyes and counted his breaths. One. Breathe out and picture a color. Blue. Breathe in. Two. Out. Yellow. In. Three. Out. Green.

He’d barely reached ten by the time Tim led his group back to join them. The song in his blood stilled for now, he pushed off of the wall and followed as Dick and Wally guided them to the inn. He hardly registered his surroundings as they entered and divvied up the rooms. He, Dick, Tim, and Wally were in one room, the girls in another, and the other boys in a third. The place seemed clean enough as he cast his tired eyes around the tavern.

They climbed the stairs to their rooms and settled in each. Dick and Tim sat on their beds talking about going to the other boys’ room-- the largest of the three-- to discuss strategy. Jason hardly heard them as his head hit the pillow and he fell asleep.

* * *

The warmth of the early morning sun on her face woke Marinette up. She stretched and yawned, wincing at her soreness. Sometimes this game was a little too realistic. In the bed beside hers, Chloe grumbled something about the girls’ room having no curtains over the window and rolled over.

Marinette gave a strained smile at that. She quietly dressed and descended the ladder from their small loft to where the rest of the girls were still sleeping, and tip-toed out to the hall.

Down the stairs was the kitchen, empty save for a softly steaming tea kettle that meant Kagami and Luka would soon be joining her. She prepared dough to make fresh croissants as she had every couple of days for the past few weeks since they’d been trapped in the game.

The thought briefly gave her pause, that they’d already been here for close to a month, but she shook it off and formed the croissants onto the baking tray. She slid them into the oven just as Kagami and Luka trailed in from the garden. They’d been harvesting the already-ripe blueberries, and laid a heaping basket of them on the countertop.

Chloe’s VIP pass had saved their lives and then some. It came with a comfortably sized house that included a full kitchen, sitting area, storage room, balcony, two massive bedrooms with enough room to house all twelve of them, a garden ready to be planted in, and stables already stocked with several horses. It really was luxurious, and if they weren’t trapped in the game, she would have found it much more enjoyable.

The property also included a small pond that had proved to give a refreshing swim after training sessions, a well, and a few acres of woods. The latter was where they did most of their monster-training. Marinette had already reached a player level of 10 just by fighting the various denizens of their backyard. The rest of the new Order wasn’t far behind her, ranging from levels 7 to 10 between the four of them.

“Good morning, Marihime,” Kagami inclined her head respectfully, then poured the tea into three waiting mugs. Luka thanked her and shot Marinette a quick smile as way of greeting.

She nodded back and stirred a generous helping of sugar into her mug. The three sipped their tea while they waited for the croissants to bake. Once they were finished and cooling, Marinette and the others donned cloaks to protect against the morning chill and started their brisk morning walk into town.

The dirt path wound down to the base of the hill where several more paths for other player houses split off the main track that they now set on. The lush grass on either side was covered in a slight blanket of mist from the evaporating morning dew. Birds chirped high above, darting between the sparse trees. The walk took about a half hour, and their tea was nearly finished by the time they arrived at the outskirts of the city.

Kagami polished off her mug and placed it back in her inventory, then rested her hand warily on the hilt of her rapier as they began encountering more people. Their destination, a news stand, was thankfully not too close to the center of town. The less people they encountered, the better.

“Get your daily paper here! New news every day! Two copper pieces for a paper, one gold for a yearly subscription.” Marinette veered towards the NPC shouting her wares.

“Hi, one paper please,” she said breathlessly, and slid two copper pieces onto the counter.

“Here you go!” The vendor, an ample woman of thirty, took the coins and handed Marinette a folded newspaper with a smile. “You know, you’re one of my best customers. I’ll give you a deal,” she winked, “how about fifty silver for a yearly subscription!”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you miss, but I’m afraid we won’t be staying quite that long,” Marinette replied. At least, she hoped not.

“Very well dear, have a lovely day!” The NPC thankfully seemed unbothered, and went back to shouting her prices to the general population.

Luka and Kagami moved from their posts of casually guarding Marinette while she dealt with the woman manning the stall. The three set off back the way they’d come, ready for another day of training and exploring the first level.

Marinette unfolded the newspaper and skimmed the headlines while they walked, trusting her companions to keep an eye out for her. However, they weren’t expecting her to stop dead in her tracks. It took a moment for them to turn around and backtrack to where she stood staring intently at the paper in her hands.

“Holy Kwami....” She said, and read the article title again. “‘Exploration team finds boss dungeon entrance!’” She read aloud.

Luka moved to peer over her shoulder and read it alongside her. “You know what this means?” He asked with a small smile.

Kagami put her hand on Marinette’s shoulder. “We are on the path to ending this.”

* * *

Jason woke up to an empty house. It had only been a few weeks since the start of the game, and his idiot brothers were out in the village. Again. He groaned at the motion of swinging his legs off the bed to sit up. Training to get used to the in-game movements was getting old.

He stood and rubbed the back of his neck, loosening some of the stiffness that seemed to have soaked into his bones. He went downstairs to the spacious kitchen to get some fruits for breakfast. With twelve people to make money and collect resources, the team had made quick work of purchasing a large house to use as a base.

Grabbing a few apples for the road, Jason traced the now-familiar path to find Dick and a few of the others in a communal amphitheater. Bart and Wally were handing out flyers near the entrances, chatting people up and trying to convince them to come listen to where Dick and Tim were speaking below.

Jason took a seat next to Artemis, near the back. “At it again?” He asked her, crunching into his apple.

She was leaning forward to prop her elbows on her knees, her chin resting in cupped hands. “Yup,” she said, popping the “p.” She sighed and sat up. “All week, and we’ve only got a handful of recruits.”

“We’re all in this together after all,” Dick was saying loudly. “So join us to help end this game! I have a plan to train recruits for taking on the first level boss.”

Jason yawned. Same old fuckin’ stupid plan. There’s just no way to make risking your life sound enticing. “The others still out hunting?” He nudged Artemis’s knee with his own.

She nodded in affirmation, looking similarly discouraged and bored. He got up and started to leave, deciding to make himself useful and join the rest of the team in fighting.

“Jason!” A shout made him stop. He looked to the sky and muttered to himself about patience, then turned to face his brother. “Yes, Dick? You’re looking particularly dickish today.”

Dick crossed his arms. “Haha, very funny. If you’re not busy, I could really use you here spreading the word.”

“Look, people just don’t want to go up against something they’ve never faced before. Hell, half these dumbasses haven’t even been in a real fight before.” He shook his head. “This is a waste of time. I’m going to fight some monsters so that I can level up and be ready for when we inevitably face the big bad without these posers.”

Dick narrowed his eyes at that. “Now hold on a minute, we have no idea what we’re going up against here. We need a bigger group before we’re ready to go up against the boss. More than half of us aren’t up to par with our special moves out of the picture, and we’re still trying to figure out the gameplay.” He held his hands out placatingly. “An exploration group just found the probable location of the boss dungeon, so that’s half the battle already. We just need to wait for more recruits and a more solid plan.”

“So how long are we supposed to wait, Dick?” Jason asked incredulously. “A week? A month? A year? How many people are going to die while we ‘figure out’ how to do something we already damn well know how to do.” He poked an accusatory finger at Dick’s chest. “We’ve been training for weeks already, we can handle this.”

“I hear you Jay, but we have no idea what kind of a threat this is going to be. We need to take our time and--”

“What you need is a fucking backbone. We’re the best hope that thousands of people have at surviving! I say we train some more and then fight the damn thing ourselves, recruits or no.” He couldn’t believe Dick. Saving people was supposed to be his schtick, not Jason’s. “Hundreds of people have already died, in case you forgot, and this is only the first fucking level. Time is a luxury we do not have.”

Dick looked ready to retort when a young boy came up to him and tapped him on the elbow. “Excuse me, mister? I’m interested in recruitment!”

Jason took advantage of the distraction and stalked off towards the center of town. What a... well, Mr. and Mrs. Grayson picked a damn good name.

If Dick wanted to know what they were up against, then fine. He’d go find out for him.

[skellebonez]

Smoke, Flasks, and Unfinished Tasks: Chapter 9

AO3 Link!

Chapter 1 Link!, Chapter 2 Link!, Chapter 3 Link!, Chapter 4 Link!, Chapter 5 Link! Chapter 6 Link! Chapter 7 Link! Chapter 8 Link!

Summary: As their time in the Calabash continues, the trio is face with three very different kinds of scenarios. Some simple, some subtle, all personal. Outside, the elders come to a realization and start to plan.

Warnings: Re-living emotional and physical abuse, psychological torment, panic attacks, blood and injury descriptions.

Author’s note: ... so it’s been... 3 weeks since I last updated this fic. Being honest, I wasn’t happy with what I had already written after re-reading it. I decided to take a week to let what I had left sit and come back to edit again, and then I realized I HATED what I wrote. So I took a second week off updating and completely rewrote everything I had in the fic so far, including this chapter. I think part of the problem was that, at the time I wrote these chapters a couple months ago, we didn’t have the special and the way I wrote the characters when the situation gets heavier felt off to me. Hopefully I have fixed this!

Chapter 9: Mix and Match

Another blink, another move, and Red Son was at the counter of his food stand that he opened for the Lunar New Year festival. Watching as potential customers passed by and looked over their options, still at the festival stall, still at the Lunar New Year festival where...

He blinked again and there was a flash of red and green flames burning in tandem, wrapped around each other and swirling around a figure clad in golden light.

When his eyes opened the visage was gone, not replaced by another change of scenery but back to same view of the festival he had seen before he closed his eyes. Another blink, and time seemed to have moved forward. There was a man standing before him and yelling and grabbing his frock and oh. He remembered this.

“Look, I wanna speak to the manager.”

It was different this time. Red hadn’t blinked, but it was like the world glitched around him in a strange kaleidoscope not unlike a broken computer monitor that made his eyes ache and skipped forward in time. Like someone was pressing the skip button on an online video and jumped over his own response. He watched as the man (was it the same man from the shoe store? he looked like him but he had only ever seen him once before so he couldn’t be sure) ran off after seeing his father, screaming into the crowd and drawing more than a few confused and concerned looks.

A skip. “Great!?” His father yelled with a growl. “I am the Demon Bull King! What would you have me be? The King of Street Food!?”

Red Son opened his mouth and there was another skip, he was right next to his father’s face when he growled at him. He’d made the mistake of mentioning the White Bone Spirit at that time, he remembered. His father had been growing more and more frustrated at this arrangement as the day had gone on and looking back on it now this was possibly the tipping point that made his father snap.

Why had he brought her up in the first place?

Another skip and Red’s head started to feel light, like he was on the verge of feeling like he would pass out but wasn’t quite there yet, and his father slammed his hands into the countertop. “Enough! I may have failed as a conqueror, but I will not be made a fool!”

Once again Red Son opened his mouth to speak and the world glitched again and he was being pulled from the food stall in the hand of his father now changed into his full size, grip almost too tight in his frustration but not tight enough to hurt him. Not physically, anyway. But Red couldn’t help feeling his chest tighten and grow cold despite the warmth that lived under his skin. He knew this was just the Calabash, knew this wasn’t really happening.

But he still knew what was to come. And regret filled his heart like ice water.

“We are going to have a talk, you and I.”

~

MK looked down at his hand, the one that had slammed into the Monkey King’s face still clenched into a fist both shaking and numb, and felt his breathing speed up more and more and his head hurt. His head felt like a steel vice was gripping it and yet like it was empty and too light at the same time, his vision blurred and he distantly heard the familiar voice of his mentor asking him if he was ok and no no he wasn’t ok he was dying.

Except he wasn’t dying, he knew that. He’d experienced this before, many times. A panic attack. He’d be fine, just needed some time to-

“Kid?”

That wasn’t Sun Wukong’s voice anymore.

MK raised his head and his eyes widened at the change in scenery. He was in Pigsy’s Noodles, not on a cliff side after training, and Pigsy had just come back from buying... something, he couldn’t remember what.

But what he did remember were the two people he had just taken his eyes off of.

“Look at us when we’re talking to you, brat!” A woman’s voice, one he hadn’t heard in person in almost two years, rang out before a hand reached out and grabbed a sizeable chunk of his hair and yanked his line of sight back to her.

“Hey, get your hands off my employee!” Pigsy yelled out, dropping whatever he had purchased to rush to MK’s side and grab the woman’s hand and pull it back flush with his head to keep her from pulling his hair out. “Who the hell do you think you are!?”

“Who do you think?” a voice that should have been less familiar now than it was.

His mother was gone. Where his father should have been stood Pigsy, no longer holding the hand in his hair but looking at him in disappointment with a shake of his head. MK looked up and...

Sun Wukong looked down at him with disdain. A look that he hadn’t even given to the Six-Eared Macaque when hey fought, one of pure malice and hatred and his hand went to yank his hair harder before the hand holding his own gripped claws of some kind into his wrist to force him to let go.

“You ungrateful little brat, why did I ever give you a chance to be my successor!” The Monkey King hissed and this wasn’t him this wasn’t his mentor this was not Sun Wukong MK repeated to himself as he felt his chest grow tighter again and he clenched his teeth with a scowl.

He turned behind him and where Pigsy should have been standing behind him, the one to catch him as he stumbled backward, stood someone else. Blurred in computer glitches and shaped with long robes and large ears and a fluffy tail and he could see that the shape of the person was smiling softly. Too softly.

The scenery had changed back to the cliff side and suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder and MK jumped and whirled around and saw the once again kind face of Sun Wukong. Marred in worry and fear and confusion. MK flinched back without meaning to.

“Bud? MK? What’s going on?”

~

Nothing had happened since Mei arrived at the festival. Absolutely nothing.

After what happened not even a few minutes ago the dragon was on edge, looking over her shoulder at every movement. She kept her hands in her pockets now, not wanting to look at them. When she did she saw red, a red no one else seemed to be able to see on her, blood from the MK that she had sliced open. It marked her, not only her hands but her clothes and face where it had splattered on her.

She didn’t dare look at her sword.

Logically she knew that it wasn’t real, the Calabash was tricking her senses as best it could. But it felt real, it felt like she had truly killed her best friend on accident and his blood was on her like a warning for others to stay away.

No one did, though. They acted like she wasn’t covered in the evidence of a murder. Maybe that was an error or maybe that was the intent. To make her feel like she was slowly going to fear everyone learning her secret. A secret that wasn’t real. Lucky for Mei she had plenty of experience pretending that everything was alright and moving forward with a smile. More than enough experience.

Something far worse was coming for her though. She could feel it. After what Princess Jade Face had said to her? This couldn’t possibly be the plan by itself.

“You’re acting weird,” Pigsy said beside Sandy and looking up at her on large demon’s shoulder as they watched the parade procession. “You’re quieter than usual.”

“Just thinking about stuff,” she answered with a shrug, easy as saying the sky was blue. It wasn’t a lie, she was thinking about stuff. Just not what the real Pigsy would have expected, or even a construct Pigsy.

“Huh...” the construct Pigsy said with a shrug, turning back to the parade. It was odd though... He hadn’t once mentioned MK like he had during the real festiv- “MK would have liked to see this.” Calabash. Reading her mind. Of course. “I miss the kid...”

So that was the angle Jade Face was playing with right now. Something simple. Something easy. The calm before the storm.

“Yeah, he would have,” Mei sad softly, not looking at the blood still running down her shirt. She watched as a ghost of a wound opened on Pigsy’s back over his clothing, like a preview image of what was to come, choosing to ignore how it looked suspiciously like her sword. Choosing to ignore how the blood seeped over his back and dissipated before hitting the ground and how she could see bits of bone and viscera she should not know the look of in person.

She ignored.

~

“You bastard,” Sun Wukong said with a hiss in his voice, baring his teeth at the Demon Bull King. “You- how could you have possibly thought that was a good idea!? In what universe would that have been the way to make him listen to you!?”

For his part, the Demon Bull King actually looked at least somewhat ashamed. Despite being larger than all of them put together the disapproving glares of Sun Wukong, Tang, Pigsy, Sandy, and even Mo seemed to do their jobs well enough.

“I make no excuse for my words or actions that day,” he said firmly, standing straight with a shake of his head. “But do not doubt that I have regretted and wished to undo them every day since-”

“Since what?” Pigsy snapped, beating Wukong himself to the punch. “Since you said them? Or since he told you to fuck off?”

“Pigsy!” Tang whispered out loudly behind him, grabbing his shoulder and moving his disproving gaze from DBK to give the other man one of worry.

“No, it’s gotta be asked Tang,” Pigsy responded, glower not moving from the larger demon. He didn’t back down, gritting his teeth with a growl of his own building in his throat for them all to hear. “Answer me you-”

“Since he told us to leave him,” DBK answered, his honesty in his tone surprising the pig demon. His face was angry, but Pigsy could tell it wasn’t entirely at him. There was anger at himself there. “Again, I made no excuses. I was blinded by power and anger before and it took much more than it should have for us, both myself and my wife, to realize what we had done. That does not change that it happened.”

“... that’s why you let him stay,” Wukong said after a moment of silence between them. “That’s why you’ve been trying to convince him to come back and why you...” He scowled more, shaking his head with a conflicted look of anger and sorrow on his face. “You’re actually trying to make it up to him somehow.”

“Poorly,” DBK also admitted in shocking honesty, sighing before he rotated his shoulders and morphed in front of them. Shrinking down to a more reasonable side, not that much taller than Sandy. “I know I have made mistakes and this alone won’t set things right, but I do care about my son.” He said ‘son’ like it was the most odd word to say, like he hadn’t said it in a long time but he finally understood what it meant. After what he had told them, it made sense. “We will help you find him, and you have my word that should he chose to return to your side we will not stop him.”

“But you won’t stop trying to convince him to give you another chance, will you?” Wukong asked, looking up at DBK. His face was neutral once again, businesslike. Testing the waters.

“No, I won’t,” DBK admitted something for the third time, nodding his head. He was serious.

Wukong turned back to the rest of his companions, three of them looking at Pigsy instead of Wukong. The two once-brother in arms looked at each other. One middle brother and one eldest. Wukong nodded to Pigsy, a silent acquiescence.

‘It’s your decision now’ the nod seemed to say.

Pigsy waited a moment, weighing his options. This had only made his disdain for the Demon Bull Family grow more... but his kids were still in danger. What was worse? Working with someone he hated to help the people he cared about? Or pushing aside help they may desperately need due to that hate?

“... Fine. But you are going to give us everything we need.”

“That can certainly be arranged,” Princess Iron Fan’s voice rang through the room, entering the room with a veritable army of Bull Clones carrying everything from tech to tables and chairs in behind her. “Where shall we begin?”

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Unjust

Prompts: Prompt for ya if u like! Ur so talented, big fan of your stories!-->>> Arthur is forced to come to grips with how little Merlin's life matters to society when Uther refuses to even discipline the nobles who beat him, dismissing Arthur with the words that will change how he sees the world forever; "Stop being so dramatic, he's only a servant. I'll get you a new one." - anon

The last fic you just wrote with h/c and merlin's duties as a servant WAS SO GOOD AND SO PAINFUL. Could we get a sequel? Maybe the knights trying to deal with the aftermath or the first time it happens again and Merlin trying to figure out what's something he's supposed to tell Arthur about v. actually his job? I don't know - anon

Ah yes more of these bois always

Read on Ao3 Part 1

Warnings: implied/referenced abuse, uther is an absolute gobshite, merlin gets hurt quite bad

Pairings: merthur, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Word Count: 2624

Arthur thought it couldn’t get worse.

Couldn’t get worse than Merlin looking at all of them with a completely serene expression on his face and telling them he’s been abused since the second he set foot in Camelot. That he could look at all of them and be absolutely sincere, calm, almost resigned about the torment he’s been put through.

Couldn’t get worse than Merlin being confused when all of the knights immediately protested, that yes, Merlin, this is systematic abuse, that has been allowed to pass unseen for too long, that there are no consequences for things like this but damnit there should be. That Merlin, somehow, knew that this was wrong but didn’t call it abuse.

Couldn’t get worse than Merlin looking at him, right at him, and telling him that Arthur has abused him, since day one, and that he doesn’t feel it’s his place to stop him. That Arthur has been complicit and has helped people abuse him because he thought Arthur didn’t care enough to help him realize that it was wrong.

No, Arthur thought they were past the worst of it.

Now Arthur tells Merlin bluntly that he’s not supposed to be the servant to any visiting knight. He’s supposed to walk them to their chambers and leave, right then. There will be other servants who will help them get settled the rest of the way. One will see to the bed. One will see to the food. One will see to the armor if, and only if, it is requested. Merlin will not spend a second more around the knights than he has to.

Merlin looks a little afraid when he tells him that and Arthur can’t stop himself from taking the man into his arms and asking him what’s the matter.

“They’ll be angry,” he mutters, studiously avoiding Arthur’s gaze, “they’ll be angry I’m not staying.”

“Then they can come and talk to me.” Arthur brushes Merlin’s hair out of his face. “But they don’t get to harm you.”

Leon enforces it the first time a knight decides no, he’s going to get upset when Merlin leaves. Leon’s temper does not flare often, nor does it flare particularly high, but he’ll never forget the way Merlin rushes to his side and tells him he swears Leon’s eyes flashed red for a second. Leon tells him later that he…persuaded the knight to be grateful that there were servants here to help him at all.

He makes sure to be nearby the next time, just to see Leon slam the knight against the wall.

Leon bustles Merlin down to the armory, passing it off as the need to clean the weapons, when Arthur knows full well it’s an excuse to hoard Merlin to themselves and keep him safe.

Sometimes Elyan takes it a step further, comes between whatever knight thinks it’s a good idea to accost Merlin in the armory and tells them back off. He makes a show of Merlin knowing exactly where all the weapons are and exactly how often one of them will come down to find him. Merlin returns to Arthur’s chambers after the first time with a soft ‘you’d really come look for me?’ Arthur doesn’t quite cuddle him to sleep that night but they don’t move from the hug for a while.

Percival, of course, turns the protective hug into an art form. The man is huge, certainly much larger than the average knight, and watching him glare at someone over Merlin’s shoulders is quickly turning into one of Arthur’s favorite past times. He’s no stranger to the way Merlin will sometimes scoot closer to someone when he’s feeling overwhelmed, but it’s something else to see Percival almost mold into shape when Merlin’s by his side. A soft word in Percival’s ear and you couldn’t drag him away.

Lancelot is never far from Merlin’s side. Merlin jokes one day that he and Arthur have some sort of alliance or pact; one of them is never allowed to be further than a few paces away from him if the other isn’t around.

“That’s not true, Merlin,” Lancelot chuckles, nudging his knee with his foot, “the two of us don’t have that pact.”

No, Arthur smiles privately to himself, the six of us have that pact.

And sometimes Merlin can’t come to Arthur. That knowledge still burns when he remembers it, but it makes sense. Arthur holds a position of power. Arthur has—whether he feels sick with regret or not—contributed to Merlin’s abuse. Arthur is not always there for Merlin the way he needs to be. But Lancelot is.

And when Lancelot isn’t, Merlin always has Gwaine.

Arthur is not too proud to admit that he and Gwaine butt heads more often than they don’t, certainly when it comes to Merlin. But where Merlin’s safety and comfort is concerned, they never fight. It is Merlin who dictates where he feels the safest, whose side he wants to stay at for a while. It is Merlin who decides where he will run when he’s upset. They never fight about it. It’s always concern—what can they do to help? When was the last time he ate? Does he want to talk about what happened? Merlin notices it the first time Arthur accidentally walks in on him lying in Gwaine’s arms and there’s nary a barb tossed between them before Arthur is softly asking if he’s allowed to stay too and Gwaine tucking him into the embrace alongside them.

“Did you two finally learn how to get along?”

“Only for you, Merlin,” Gwaine says quietly, “only for you.”

And yes, there are absolutely nights where Merlin shakes more than he usually does or one of the visiting knights makes the mistake of cuffing him where they can see and they all end up piled into Arthur’s chambers. After the knight’s been humiliated on the training field by every single one of them and blacklisted from any future tournaments.

Merlin doesn’t always ask for them, but when he does, everyone drops everything. That’s the unspoken agreement. Merlin so much as sniffles and their afternoon plans are dust. Arthur will never forget the day Percival swept into his chambers with Merlin in his arms, the other knights in a guard of honor as Merlin threw his arms around Arthur’s neck.

“Shh, shh,” Arthur murmurs, lowering them to the ground as Leon tells the guards to leave them be, “you’re safe, I won’t hurt you, you’re alright.”

That’s a promise.

So yes, Arthur thought it couldn’t get worse.

As always, leave it to his father to make everything worse.

Merlin is missing. Arthur strides out of his chambers before the guards even realize the doors have been thrown open. Merlin is missing and that’s all that matters. His armor clanks loudly in the hallway and the other people jump to the side to get out of his way.

Good.

He knocks on the door of Gaius’s chambers. Gaius looks at him like he’s just grown another head. It doesn’t matter. Where is Merlin?

“I thought he was with you, sire.”

Merlin is missing. He leaves with strict instructions to find him whenever Merlin turns up. He stalks to the armory and runs into Elyan and Percival. Where is Merlin?

“Haven’t seen him,” Elyan mutters, already rushing off, “I’ll ask Gwen.”

Percival falls into step behind him as they hustle down the corridor. Leon comes out of one of the halls and immediately assumes a position on Arthur’s left.

“What is it, sire?”

“Where is Merlin?”

Leon doesn’t say another word. If all the guards decide to flatten themselves against the wall as the three of them go by, that’s their business.

They find Gwaine muttering curses as he storms toward the tournament grounds.

“Where is Merlin?”

“If the way Godefroy was looking at him is any indication—“ and they’re already seeing red— “then we need to move.”

No need to tell them twice.

Arthur leads the charge down to the door. He throws it open and all the training knights freeze. He glares around at them, looking for Merlin, Merlin, you’re not Merlin.

“Godefroy,” comes Leon’s clipped voice, “where?”

“This way.” They turn to see Lancelot stalking toward the training ground, the other recruits parting like smoke as they storm forward.

Arthur feels it before he hears it.

Smack!

The other knights are caught in the maze of weapon racks as Arthur darts through the armory.

“Stupid, worthless boy, needs to be taught a lesson.”

Smack!

The wounded yelp makes him push faster. He rounds the corner and—

Godefroy. On top of Merlin. His hand raises to smack him again. Merlin on his back. Hands up. Defending but not defending enough.

His teeth are not bared.

His expression is resigned.

He does not spit in the knight’s face.

The knight moves to strike him again.

Not on my goddamn watch.

“Get your hands off him,” Arthur snarls, the blade singing as he pulls it from the scabbard, “get your hands off him!”

Godefroy looks up. “He’s just a servant, he needs to be disciplined properly.”

“You must not have heard me—“ why is he still too far away?— “I told you to get off of him.”

Godefroy rolls his eyes but complies, because Arthur is the prince and his word is law but that doesn’t mean the knight has to agree.

Merlin doesn’t move.

Arthur snarls again, readying his sword for an attack only for Godefroy to stand there, not readying himself for the blow.

“How dare you strike him,” he spits, “how dare you raise a hand to him.”

Godefroy says nothing.

“Are you too much of a coward to defend yourself?” Arthur hefts the sword. “Are you?”

“Arthur,” comes a steel voice from the other end of the hall, “what is the meaning of this?”

He turns.

Uther strides toward him, looking down his nose the way Arthur looks at the muck on his boots. “Surely you have some explanation for your behavior.”

“He hurt Merlin,” Arthur growls, gesturing at—oh, Merlin, why are you still on the floor?

Uther scoffs. “I understand being possessive of your property, but really, Arthur, there’s no need for such childish behavior.”

“Childish—Father, he hurt him.”

“So?”

So?

So?

Fucking so?

“He’s just a servant,” Uther says, waving a dismissive hand, “stop being so dramatic. I’ll get you another one if Godefroy breaks him.”

Godefroy steps around Arthur, looking far too smug, and leaves.

Arthur stands there, panting, as his chest roils with anger too deeply buried to come out as anything other than agony.

This. This is why Merlin didn’t believe him.

Distantly, he hears the other knights rushing down the corridor and he turns, sheathing the sword and crouching, all but ripping off his rough gloves to cradle Merlin’s head in his hands.

“Merlin,” he calls softly, “Merlin, can you hear me?”

Merlin nods, his eyes still a little dazed.

“Good. Try and sit up. Lean on me if you need to.”

By the time Lancelot rushes forward to fall to his knees beside them, Merlin is propped up against Arthur’s shoulder, his head far too red for his liking. Gwaine mutters another curse as the knights spill protectively into the hall.

“Merlin,” Lancelot calls, “Merlin?”

Merlin shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” he corrects, taking Merlin’s hand, “it’s really not.”

“It’s better me than someone else.”

Arthur buries his head in Merlin’s neck. Because Merlin’s right.

How many other servants have had to go through this? How many people has the mighty wheel of Uther Pendragon crushed underneath its weight? How many times has he turned the corner into a hallway where someone was beaten just for being a servant?

Merlin has him. Merlin has the knights. Merlin has Gaius. Merlin will be protected because they know about Merlin.

Who don’t they know about?

“This stops,” he grits out, “right now.”

“You can’t stop everyone,” Merlin mumbles, still slumped against Arthur, “you can’t, Arthur.”

“I’m the Crown Prince of Camelot,” Arthur says, holding Merlin tightly, “if I decide that there need to be consequences for actions, there will damn well be consequences.”

There are.

Merlin is shuttled back to his chambers with Lancelot and Elyan. Gwaine and Percival return to the training grounds with twin looks of determination. Arthur and Leon go straight to the steward.

The steward blinks up at them, clearly taken aback by the question. “I’m terribly sorry, sire, would you mind asking one more time?”

“The servants,” Arthur says, “how many of them are mistreated? How are they mistreated? I want to know.”

“Well, sire…all of them.” The steward fiddles with a stack of paper, moving it aside so he can lean on his elbows. “They do not have…there is not the power to protect them the way there is to protect you or the knights.”

“And how do we give them that power?”

“Come again, sire?”

“They are people,” Arthur says firmly, Leon’s unwavering presence at his side, “they are people and they should be treated as such. How do we ensure that happens?”

“W-well, sire,” the steward says slowly, “any large reforms would need the consent of the King. But there are…there are smaller ways that we can arrange for their treatment to…improve.”

“Such as?”

The steward looks at him strangely. “Forgive me, sire, but…I did not expect this behavior from you.”

Arthur shifts in the chair. “Perhaps I’ve been refusing to look for too long.”

“It is an admirable shift, sire.”

“It’s common decency. Now what do we do?”

Some knights start finding it hard to run into servants in the hallways. Some knights don’t receive chambers with proper insulation. Some knights are beaten down on the training ground over and over. Some knights find it impossible to stay.

Some knights figure out what’s going on quickly. Some knights have kind words and soft questions and thank-yous. Some knights start to push back when they see another knight be too brash, too rough, too callous.

Some knights get it. Some knights don’t.

Those that don’t either leave fast or learn faster.

Godefroy finds himself the training dummy, pelted with arrows, clubs, staffs. The other knights find he has grown cocky over sparring with whatever servants have been dragged out to the field and do not hide their interest when Leon offers to help him regain some of his prowess.

He never gets within five feet of Merlin again.

Uther is beside himself, wondering where all his servants have gone, where all his knights are going, and why no one else seems to be the least bit concerned about it. Arthur smiles privately to himself as he watches the steward explain calmly that if he wants to know what’s going on with the servants, perhaps he could try talking to them.

“After all, sire, servants are people too.”

[redorich]

We Didn’t Start the Fire (part 3)

ao3 link

part 1

part 2

part 4

part 5

Tommy has a nice day. If only Tubbo were there. :)

The wind in the End was never kind, and the same could be said of its farlands. There was never a breeze; the air was either stagnant enough to smother a human or frenetic enough to sting as it whipped across skin.

Massive towers like a blight stood on the End island in defiance of the howling wind. Some were pure obsidian, some ugly bedrock structures, and some were so palatial that Tubbo could almost pretend they had been built by humans.

“Dddo you know how Wa-tcherrrs get their power, Tubbo?”

He didn't dare turn to look at the gargantuan entity behind him. Picking at the sleeves of his green shirt, he answered, “No.”

“We eat other Watchersss,” came the void-person’s bone chilling rattle. Tubbo stiffened. It didn't matter, not when there was nowhere for him to run.

His captor reached around him, limbs like fog. It held a vaguely spherical glowing thing, arcing with pseudo-electricity. Tubbo recognized it, and his stomach dropped.

“Is that-- Tommy’s memories?” he said weakly.

“We eat other Watchersss,” his captor repeated, rattling with sick glee.

Tubbo felt the color drain from his face. “No.”

“You w-ill… consume his memmmories, and become strong.”

The Watcher brought the sphere closer, but Tubbo pushed it away. It made his fingertips tingle unpleasantly. “I'm not going to eat my friend, you sick freak!”

The sphere came close again, scraping his cheek. “You sssaid you would be good,” the Watcher rumbled.

“I won't do it,” Tubbo protested, trying and failing to attack the viscous void-person. “I won't! You can't make me!”

Looming over him, the void-person made a noise like old knives scraping metal.

“You will.”

The sphere was shoved into his face. Eye-searing pain like fire and frost and the bite of every sword he'd ever held tore through his mind. He hadn't even known minds could hurt. All he could think was everything he could think, 

Oh God.

I’ll kill this bitch-- I’ll behave.

Vive L’Manberg!-- We trusted you, Eret!

Ha, that’s a Tubbo moment-- Big Law?

A bee goes buzzing by…

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

The day was lovely. The sky was clear, the sun warm but not uncomfortably so, and beyond the grassy clearing Tommy was sat in, a wall of sturdy oak trees created a sense of enclosure. He lounged on a picnic blanket with Wilbur, attempting and failing to make flower crowns from clover flowers. Ever since Wilbur had found Tommy in his unused house, staring with eyes so dead Wilbur couldn't help but think… Well, it didn't matter what he thought. The whole server was glad to have Tommy back, and they took turns keeping him company, but none so much as Wilbur. On a deeper level, he couldn't help but feel as though it was his fault Tommy had been abducted in the first place. He knew he was trying to make up for Tommy’s disappearance and somehow absolve his own self-imposed guilt by being available for the young man whenever possible, but it seemed to be working, so. Something about broken clocks being twice right, and all that.

Wilbur tuned out the sounds of good-natured fighting-- an open clearing was as good a place as any for sparring, Dream and Sapnap had decided, and then Techno had come along and bragged about being able to do crits now which of course put a stop to everyone's plans for the day in favor of more sparring.

A shing of metal echoed through the clearing, accentuated by the sound of Sapnap’s sword embedding itself in the ground two feet away from the picnic blanket.

“Hey, watch it!” Wilbur yelped. Tommy idly sprinkled a handful of clover and grass on the blade.

“Yeah, Sapnap, watch it,” said Dream, who had been the one to disarm Sapnap in the first place.

Sapnap was at a loss for words. “Wh-- you--” he stammered angrily.

Techno drawled, “Ladies, you're both beautiful.”

Sapnap and Dream looked at each other, nodded, then in unison attacked Techno.

Amid the shrieks of three man-children, Wilbur returned to his book. Thankfully, he wasn't actually trying to read it, else the noise would have made it near impossible. The book was more of a shield, really. To cover his tired eyes, to hide his rumination. The last thing he wanted was for Tommy of all people to worry about him.

"Quit fucking tickling me!" Dream demanded. Wilbur looked up. Techno was holding Dream down, looking for all the world as though he'd rather be sleeping, and Sapnap sat on top of Dream, fingers flying evilly.

"Admit it, you lose!" Sapnap said triumphantly.

"Hell no! Suck a-- ahahaha, okay! Jesus, you win, I'll be good, let me up!"

"How do I know you won't attack us when I let you up?" Techno asked.

Wilbur heard a strange noise, and looked for the source. Next to him, Tommy was letting out a quiet, strangled whine. The crappy flower crown he'd been making for the past twenty minutes was falling apart, a bloom crushed in his white-knuckled fist.

"Tommy?" Wilbur asked warily.

"I said I'd be good, stop it!" Dream yelled, kicking out at Sapnap. Tommy trembled.

Wilbur snapped, "Guys, shut up!"

Any protests died on their lips when they heard Tommy murmur, "Tubbo..."

The men were around Tommy in a heartbeat, giving him space to breathe, but watching attentively.

"Yes?" Dream asked, "do you remember something?"

“It was going to kill me. It-- Tubbo-- He…” He drew in a shuddering breath. “He said he'd do what it wanted if it let me go. I couldn't move, I kept telling him not to, I-- It still has him!”

“What has Tubbo?” Techno asked.

“Big. Fog. Void-thing,” Tommy gasped. Wilbur placed a hand on Tommy’s shoulder to ground him, but Tommy shivered so violently that Wilbur's hand fell off his shoulder.

“Breathe, Tommy,” Sapnap said. Tommy ignored him, or perhaps didn't hear him at all.

“I can't remember.” Looking up at Wilbur, Tommy rasped, “It hurts so much, Wilbur. Why does it hurt? Why can't I remember?”

Sapnap and Techno were confused and worried for the poor boy. Dream backed away fearfully, and Wilbur felt his heart catch in his throat. Tommy was crying. Blinking moisture from his eyes, he said, “What is a Watcher?”