#i have an absolute horror of asking for help and yet. it must be done. sometimes. i guess.

[isabelpsaroslunnen]

"Don't be afraid to ask for help!"

—me, a hypocrite

[strangersteddierthings]

Bad News First, Eddie

Part One 🦇 Part Two🦇Part Three🦇FInal Part

A continuation of Bad News First, Eddie. I am absolutely floored by the responses I received, and I will try my best to tag everyone who asked. I know it's not Eddie's part, but chronologically, Wayne's part felt right.

-

Of all the things Wayne’s been called, unobservant isn’t one of them. He’s lived in Hawkins his entire life. He knows who is who, what is what, and to keep his head down and believe there’s a cougar in the woods when he’s told.

So, when Nancy Wheeler shows up, asking questions, Wayne has answers. Is willing to give those answers because he remembers when little Will Byers went missing, and how Nancy and her friends had done more to try and find him than the entire police force of Hawkins. Nancy and her friends always seemed to be in the orbit of whatever terrible thing was happening in Hawkins these last few years.

So, foolishly, terribly, he doesn’t intervene. He thought they were like that Scooby Doo cartoon Eddie used to love; kids solving mysteries. If he’d known the true extent of the horror, he wouldn’t have let those kids go it alone. But he didn’t know then.

-

Still didn’t know the day he pretends to not know who Dustin Henderson is while swapping out Eddie’s missing poster. It’s easier than having to face someone who knows Eddie, someone who had been looking for him but failed to find him.

Until Dustin calls after him. Until Dustin speaks to him. Hands him Eddie’s necklace. Wayne can’t stand anymore, this breaks him. Dustin says he was with him, in the end. Calls Eddie a hero, said people would have loved him had they known him. It’s nothing Wayne doesn’t already know.

Eddie is his hero. He loves Eddie. And if he’d stepped in sooner, chased down these kids and asked just what the fuck was happening, maybe he could have changed the ending of this story.

-

Hawkins explodes into a hellscape days later and Wayne sets out to find Nancy Wheeler. If Eddie gave his life to protect these kids, then Wayne must strive to do no less.

Nancy’s got a good head on her shoulders, willing to accept any help offered. He can see how she’s survived this long. She gets in in touch with Hopper, who introduces him to Doctor Sam Owens and Lt Colonel Jack Sullivan.

-

He doesn’t think it’s fair that the fate of the world rests on the shoulders of a fourteen-year-old girl.

-

It’s Dustin who tells him the whole story, the night before the end. Either Eleven will win tomorrow, or she won’t, but the outcome gets decided then.

“I’m s-so sorry, Mr. M-Munson. We just… just left him there!” Dustin breaks down crying and Wayne reaches out to him, an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug. If Wayne sheds a few tears, too, well. Who can blame him?

“Doctor Owens, a word,” Wayne pulls the man aside after the kids have gone to bed. “Dustin said… my boy is just yards away from our trailer. He didn’t even get out of the park. I understand it’s an all hands on deck situation, but can anyone be spared? Can anyone bring my boy back? I’ll go myself if I have to.”

Doctor Owens, a genuinely kind man, Wayne can tell, has tears filling his eyes just at the request. “Mr. Munson, we will do everything in our power to bring your boy home.”

-

Doctor Owens pays for the headstone. Said it was the least he could do since his team failed. Wayne tries not to be bitter about it.

The graffiti starts up almost immediately. Wayne doesn’t understand why.

-

He thinks he’s caught someone in the act, grabs roughly at the perpetrator and yanks. The Harrington boy stumbles up and back, a little bit of fear in his eyes but no paint in hand. He’s holding a rag and small container of paint thinner. A quick look between Harrington and the grave, he can see the half-cleaned headstone.

He’s never spoken much with Harrington, but Dustin has nothing bad to say.

“You know my boy?” because he can’t bring himself to say ‘knew’ just yet.

Harrington looks just about as haunted as Wayne feels when he says, so quietly, “Not as well as I would have liked, sir.”

-

Wayne is observant, but even he can admit it takes longer than he thought to figure out Steve Harrington. That boy had put himself between those kids and danger again, and again, and again, and lived. Eddie did it once and… well, Wayne reckons Steve thinks it should have been him. He won’t say so out loud, but Wayne sees a lot of his younger self in Steve, knows him in much the same way he knows himself.

Steve lives with a guilt he shouldn’t; this was Eddie’s choice. His reckless, dangerous, courageous choice. And they’ve got to learn to live with it. Steve’s parents are absent, and Wayne’s nephew is gone. Without any conscious decision about it, they’ve adopted each other.

Steve wants to know everything about Eddie. Every little story Wayne can come up with. And he, well, he loves that someone wants to know. Wants to remember Eddie with him.

“Bad news. I regret not knowing him sooner,” Steve confesses to him one day as they scrub the headstone clean again.

“Good news. You know him now,” Wayne replies.

“Do I?”

Wayne can’t answer that. Not honestly one way or another. How well can you know someone from secondhand information? Steve spent a total of five days in his nephew’s company but he helps keep his memory alive. “I don’t know. What I do know is that Eddie Munson won’t be forgotten when I die. And that matters.”

-

He gets in an accident at the plant. He doesn’t remember what happened, not fully, but he knows that Steve never left his side. Demanded his come stay in his big empty house. Easier to move around in, with all the open space.

Wayne wasn’t really attached to his apartment anyway. If he was going to live the rest of his life in a home that had never known Eddie’s presence, it could at least be with someone who had known Eddie’s presence, however briefly.

-

Wayne wonders if he’s done the right thing sometimes. Indulging Steve’s need to know Eddie. At first, he thought it was fine, because learning about Eddie seemed to alleviate Steve’s guilt. But now.

He’s watching the boy fall in love with a ghost.

Helping it happen, even.

Robin and Steve aren’t nearly as quiet or subtle as they think, and Wayne’s observant. They seem to forget that Wayne’s just old, and not deaf and blind.

Or maybe, they’re comfortable enough that they don’t truly hide from him.

And it hurts his heart to think this (because he’s thinking it about his Eddie, wonderful, loving Eddie) but Steve deserves to love more than a ghost.

-

And then the kids graduate. Start to go to college. Steve acts fine, but he’s not. Wayne knows. It’s like he’s losing his purpose, but Wayne’s just as broken. Not strong enough to push Steve away. To make Steve go, too.

Honestly, he’s a little afraid that if he tried, then Steve would follow right after Eddie.

So, he doesn't. He decides he needs Steve, and perhaps even more so, Steve needs him.

-

Then, five years after Eddie’s death, the call happens. It’s about his piece of shit little brother, Wyatt. He’s gotta go, though. Because this is one last strand of Eddie. Eddie’s mother has been gone longer than Eddie, and fuck, Wyatt deserves to know. Wayne doesn’t claim to be a saint; if his brother wasn’t being released, he’d probably never tell him. He’d let him die in that prison believing his son is alive.

He doesn’t even know if Wyatt will care that Eddie’s gone. But he’s got to find out.

Steve drives him to the airport and no matter how many times Wayne says he’s coming back, Steve doesn’t seem to believe him.

-

But it’s not his shitty little brother waiting to greet him in Tennessee. It’s Eleven.

“Sorry for the lie, Mr. Munson,” she says. “I wanted to tell you as soon as I learned but Doctor Owens said that, this one time, we needed to be right before we could be honest.”

It’s Eddie. It’s Eddie Wyatt Munson, who looks at him shyly, almost as if afraid, from the apartment doorway Eleven takes him to. “Hey Uncle Wayne.”

It’s five fucking years too late but he pulls Eddie in a bone crushing hug. “I love you so much, you little bastard. Don’t you ever, ever do this to me again.”

-

Wayne learns.

They had found him, barely alive. It was better, they said, to take him away. Let the town cool down while Eddie healed, but he was catatonic for the better part of these last five years.

“Eddie woke up empty,” Eleven says softly, apropos nothing sitting next to Wayne as they watch Eddie discuss next steps with Owens. “He could be told to do things. Drink this. Eat that. His eyes never focused on anything. Doctor Owens called him a shell. I asked what that means. He said that Eddie’s body worked, but his mind did not because Eddie was not in his own mind anymore. But I knew he was in there. I had to get him back.” She reaches a hand out, waving in the general direction of Eddie’s head.

This surprises Wayne. “You brought him back?”

“Memory by memory,” Eleven says, picking at her pants leg. “Even the painful ones. Doctor Owens says every memory shapes who we are, even tough ones.”

Wayne looks at Eleven, a young woman of nineteen now, but remembers how scared and brave she’d been at fourteen.  “Words cannot express how thankful I am for you.”

“I did it for you. And maybe a little bit for me.”

Wayne makes a humming noise. Not truly questioning, but an acknowledgment of what she said. If she wants to share her reasons, he won’t stop her. He’s just not going to pry.

“I chose my friend. I chose Max.”

He knows. “You made the right choice.”

“I know. I am not guilty about it,” she frowns as she thinks about her words. “But Dustin is my friend, too, and I knew Eddie was his friend. But I cared more about Max. I had to do all I could to make it right. For you. For Dustin. For me.”

Wayne doesn’t have words, so he just pulls Eleven into a hug. It must convey all he needs because when she pulls back, she beams at him.

-

Wayne fills Eddie in on what has happened as best he can. It’s such a jarring difference, speaking to Eddie about Steve than it had been speaking to Steve about Eddie. Eddie just looks confused for most of it and doesn’t really ask followup questions, but Wayne understands. Eddie had known Steve for five days and he’s got time to really get to know Steve now. Steve thought all he’d ever have of Eddie is someone else’s memories.

“Just give him a chance, Eddie,” Wayne says.

“Give him a chance? As if I’d waste it,” Eddie breaths out, all wonder and awe and- Well, maybe Wayne isn’t as observant as he had always thought. “He took care of you when I couldn’t. He cares. I don’t think there’s a chance I wouldn’t give him.”

“How long have you had a thing for Steve?”

Eddie stutters over his words, eyes wide and wild. “That’s not- why would you think- when have I ever!?”

“You think I wouldn’t know this about you?” Wayne chuckles and lies, as if he hadn’t just watched all the pieces slot together in this moment.

“So, we’ll be living with Steve Harrington?” Eddie is blushing but he blows past Wayne’s question. “Will he… be okay with me being there?”

Steve’s been loving a ghost, is what Wayne thinks. Steve’s been in love with a ghost and this. This is a ghost story that can have a better ending. But he’s not going to make those declarations for Steve, so what he says is, “yeah. Steve and I had each other when we needed it. Now I need you, so Steve won’t mind at all.”

Eddie smiles to himself, pulling a strand of his hair to hide his face behind.

If he hadn’t just figured it out two minutes ago, that would have been a dead giveaway that his boy might be a little bit in love with Steve.

-

He calls Steve. Tells him he’s coming home and bringing a guest. Steve says that’s fine, he’ll fix up Robin’s old room into a guest room.

-

“This isn’t the way to the Harrington house,” Eddie observes from the passenger seat of the rental car Doctor Owens had paid for, to get them from Indianapolis back to Hawkins.

“Steve won’t be there. He comes here when he’s overwhelmed.”

“The cemetery?”

Wayne shrugs, “we both come talk to you. Steve always starts with the bad news, you know. I think you should start with good news. Just this once. Ah. See, there he is.” Wayne points and Eddie’s eyes follow.

Something akin to wonder passes over Eddie’s face and he all but falls out of the car before it’s even stopped.

Wayne thinks he’ll give them five or so minutes before following.

[loveandleases]

I'm already in love with your IF! I practically devoured all the asks and Im so desperate to know more lol.

What's the ROs ideas of a romantic night out/in?

~Thank you~ I'm surprised because I've already done so many lol.

დCam- He is happy as long as he is with you. If staying in, he will be ordering food. (don't ask him to cook you definitely won't get your deposit back). He will get too much and all your favorites. Then attempt to eat the majority. This will result in a tummy ache and begging you to rub it while he puts his head in your lap excuses. Cam will be content just doing this, watching absolute trash tv, or gaming. Mario Kart, please? A night out with Cam is going to be something. He wants you to have a good time. So he's going to break into the abandoned Pizza Hut. There you will see wine, some food, and a blanket. You can talk about nothing, or you can talk about everything. He's just happy with you.

დG- A night in G is cooking some of his favorite Korean dishes. You can't help. You just sit there and find something to watch or help go over some papers from work. G is happy to sit in silence or listen to you talk. They will talk too, but you must make them put their work away. On a night out, G is pulling out all the stops. Fancy restaurant, fancy food, fancy hotel room if you want...

დKara- A night in with Kara differs. What are the chances she broke something and needs your help, feel like some kind of spa treatment? Better yet, let her give you a massage. You can make a competition at it to see whose better. A night out with Kara will be bad movies and stale popcorn. She likes doing simple things because she never really got to her parents were always taking her and Chris somewhere lavish.

დM- M would have to be pulled from their work for a night out. On a night in their thumbing through notes. don't look at them. With a pencil shoved behind their ear. They know they should pay more attention to you, just one more check on this page. When they are finally present, they ask what you want to do. M will do whatever you want. Do you want to watch something? Eat something? Look at their manuscript!? No no, get away from there! It will be sweet and relaxed. You will have to drag them out. Yet once you do they are so excited. Pointing at this or that, commenting about how that building looks new, it's not. 

დIsaac- The night in is going to be at your apartment we won't discuss why. They will cook for you, it might be a lil burnt they forgot they were cooking. They will watch movies. Is horror okay? Isaac loves a good horror movie but is a chicken. They will be all over you because they didn't see that kid there they did not! On a night out you would be chauffeured around the city in their car. They will hold your hand and kiss your palms just enjoying your time together. Can pull over somewhere and have a bite, but soon they will just want to drive again.

დArdent- A night in with Ardent will be a little chaotic. The cat is always jumping out at him. Made him drop the skillet, knocking off the paper towels onto the oven burner. Once that is taken care of, prepare to be impressed. This man can cook. He made his mom's baklava recipe just for you to try. Ardent doesn't mind watching movies but he would prefer to read. A night out Ardent is taking you somewhere that doesn't have a lot of people he doesn't like the stares. A night out will be chill. He will be keeping his eye on you. Making sure no one gets too close or leers at you.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Michael Deacon

Published: Apr 3, 2024

For young people today, finding a partner of the opposite sex must be dreadfully hard. But this isn’t because of the pressure to look like an Instagram gym buff, or the horrors of dating apps, or the fact that no one under the age of 30 seems to drink alcohol any more.

It’s because these days, young men and women have got absolutely nothing in common.

Seriously. All of a sudden, they appear to have developed completely different values. It’s unprecedented. In the past, the two sexes tended to hold roughly similar views on politics. But research compiled over the past five years shows that in Britain – and indeed other Western countries – young women have become more progressive, while young men have become more conservative. And the resulting ideological gap is now staggeringly vast. 

Alice Evans, an academic at King’s College London, is writing a book on this phenomenon, entitled The Great Gender Divergence. She says it’s been caused by a variety of factors, including “social media bubbles” and “economic resentment”. Whatever the reasons for it, though, I think there is a vital point we’re in danger of missing. Which is that only one of the two sexes is strictly responsible.

Recently, the Financial Times published some charts illustrating how the gulf between young men and women has grown in each Western country. And in every chart, there is an unmistakable pattern. The political views of young men haven’t actually altered all that much. Their drift to the Right has been really quite gentle.

The political views of young women, however, have changed dramatically. Their move to the Left has been abrupt and profound. In truth, then, this cavernous ideological divide is almost entirely attributable to them.

Which is curious. Because, whenever the divide is discussed by politicians and commentators, they make it sound as if the problem is young men. They fret endlessly about how young men today are being “radicalised” by nasty Right-wing YouTubers such as Andrew Tate, or horrid Right-wing politicians such as Donald Trump. 

Yet they never apply this word “radicalised” to young women. Why not? I suspect it’s because these politicians and commentators tend to be progressive themselves. Therefore, they see no problem with young women becoming drastically more progressive. In their view, the more progressive someone is, the better. So the fault lies entirely with young men, for failing to emulate young women’s lurch to the Left.

Personally, though, I think this lurch Leftwards should alarm us all. The future of Western civilisation is already threatened by our collapsing birth rates. And this sudden ideological chasm between the sexes is only going to make the crisis worse. No one’s going to be forming couples at all any more, if, on every first date, the woman asks, “What do you think of Gramsci?”, and the man replies, “He’s the type of striker Man Utd are crying out for.”

It’s a chilling thought. So clearly something must be done. Politicians must spend less time obsessing over the radicalisation of young men, and start paying attention to the radicalisation of young women, instead.

As it happens, the Labour Party has announced that, when it’s in power, it will help to combat the influence that Andrew Tate has on boys. Surely it would make more sense to help combat the influence The Guardian has on girls. 

Otherwise, the only way young men are going to get a girlfriend is by frantically boning up on George Monbiot and Owen Jones. And if that’s what the future has to hold, perhaps Western civilisation isn’t worth saving, after all. 

[ Via: https://archive.md/WlLXk ]

==

Apparently, it's not "radicalization" when you're calling for the extermination of the Jews; so sexist and racist that you call everyone else "oppressors"; teaching kids about the objectively true mythology of metaphysical "gender" thetans; advocating for the compulsory elimination of all privately-owned property and its forcible redistribution; and/or chanting for the dismantling of society itself.

No, that's not radicalization. It's just the self-evident values of all right-thinking people.

🤷‍♂️🤷‍♀️

[itsclydebitches]

I don't know if you agree or not, but I wanted to share my thoughts. I think that the Curious Cat should have been treated better by the narrative than a two-bit villain. They were cursed and abandoned by their creators, and I think that they should at least have been able to find the answers they were seeking.

I do agree, anon. I've got nothing against two-bit villains, but it felt like a wasted opportunity to introduce this complex character and then simply kill them off. Especially since this isn't a case of the villain being generically, objectively evil.

First, the Curious Cat's motivation is something the heroes should arguably sympathize with: Oh, you hate the Gods for abandoning you? We hate them for cursing our headmaster, destroying the first version of humanity, and abandoning us too under the endless threat of annihilation! The Gods should have become the villains behind Salem post-vision, or at least morally gray antagonists to keep an eye on, yet the characters haven't even acknowledged the horrors the Gods have enacted, even when faced with a character straight-up going, "Here are the reasons I have for hating these guys."

Second, the Cat didn't do that much? At least within the grand scheme of shit that happens in RWBY. They lied and withheld information with the intent of manipulating others to do what they wanted? Yeah, they can join the club. They attacked the group? Used their powers in a horrifying way against others? That's just Emerald's story and the group was happy to welcome her into the fold. They force residents of the Ever After into a horrifying Ascension ritual that strips them of their memory and personalities? Yeeeeaah that's only a bad thing from my perspective; the show presents that as an absolute joy. The Cat doesn't even end up possessing one of the heroes, but another villain instead: Neo. They're not even spouting the usual, 'I'm going to enter your world and destroy it!' like Salem, they literally just want information. I'm not saying the Cat is good, I'm saying when pit against what other villains have done in this show they're pretty damn tame. It's another case of [insert "You can excuse ____???" meme here].

Third, they've now joined the ranks of RWBY treating mental illness as something to punish, not treat. Ironwood suffers from PTSD and is immediately considered too far gone to reason with. Ozpin collapsed in the snow under the weight of his impossible task and the group treated him with disgust and fury. Ruby undergoes a depression arc where she reaches the point of magical suicide and the group shares a happy-go-lucky hug because this tree is going to insta-"fix" her, relieving them of the responsibility of actually helping her. Now here comes the Cat, someone who suffered a "broken heart" with the implication that not getting this fixed drove them insane... and the solution to this is to simply kill them off, literally ripping them limb from limb. It's not that you can never have an "insane" villain, or that every villain with allusions to mental illness must be redeemed, the problem is that RWBY consistently dismisses and kills these characters off while simultaneously arguing, "Yes, sure, Neo can happily go into the tree after spending the majority of the story hunting the heroes and successfully getting Ruby to kill herself. She deserves this!"

...Why? I'm not asking with the implication that she doesn't deserve it (I'm a Ted Lasso fan: forgiveness for all if you're willing to do the hard work of self-improvement), I'm asking why RWBY thinks Neo is a candidate when the Curious Cat is not. Frankly (and this is by no means a new argument) it's a pretty gendered division. Ozpin is awful for his secrets, Ruby is not. Ironwood is awful in part for being military personnel, but Winter is not. Watts and Hazel are killed off, Emeralds gets a fast-pass redemption. Jaune's horror at the death of his village is dismissed as make-believe, his care for them reframed as a moral failing, and finally it's good, actually, that they died so why should you be sad? The focus definitely should have been on Ruby over Jaune, but at least Ruby's grief is justified by the narrative; she's not presented as crazy, deluded, or a secret problem for her suffering. Then the Curious Cat (canonically nonbinary but voiced by a male VA) is torn to shreds while Neo—objectively the WORST of the two, easily, like that's by no means even a debate—is set up for a presumed happy ending. There's no issue with any one of these examples with just a little tweaking, the problem lies in the trend. Ever since Volume 6 RWBY has really struggled to present mental health issues, particularly mental health issues in men, as something that's worth the time and effort to treat. Ruby got a dose of that with the 'Here, go in a tree and your depression with disappear,' but that just shows that this difficulty is a separate issue from RWBY's 'Cute women in the show get a pass no matter how horrific their actions are'—it's just that those two issues tend to overlap a great deal.

So yeah, I think the Cat deserved better. Ironwood's PTSD deserved better. Ozpin's breakdown deserved better. Oscar's crumbling sense of self deserved better (friendly reminder that this was literally "solved" off-screen with a cliffhanger). Qrow's alcoholism deserved better. Adam's heel-turn into abusive ex deserved better. Emerald and Neo deserved better than to simply be forgiven because they're fan favorites. Yang deserved a PTSD arc that didn't drop her trauma and start ignoring her anger issues (even though she got off "good" by having an arc at all). Penny deserved better than to be "fixed" by becoming human and then killed off. Again. Ruby definitely deserved better as our main character who finally, finally got to shine a bit since the early Volumes. RWBY is a show that never should have tried to grapple with topics this complex and the more it tries to dig in its heels with suicide allegories and insane cats with broken hearts, the more it exacerbates problems that, frankly, most fans would have been very willing to shrug off if they'd just dropped them half a decade ago.

[mixelation]

speaking of time travel, here's a random adventure from my tobirama/oc soulmate fic. time travel inside of time travel

It started the way many Senju family disasters started, with a large bottle of sake. 

Shizune had unearthed it from one of Tsunade’s hidden stores, and Ren had managed to steal it from her in turn. She’d poured Tobirama a glass when he’d refused to put down the ongoing research ethics board policy review. Then three glasses later, she’d somehow coaxed him out into the moonlight flooding the engawa. 

“Here’s how you guarantee no one’s going to fuck anything up,” Ren slurred, waggling her eyebrows at him. “We invent time travel. Then, we know nothing we’re doing is too fucked up because– because–”

Tobirama squinted at her as she struggled with her words. “Because our future selves would stop us?”

Ren slaps the single sheet of wood that made up the Senju family engawa. “Yes! If you really cared about the future, you’d help me–”

Tobirama drains the rest of his cup. There is already sealing paper out in the next room, from a different project Ren had gotten frustrated with and abandoned earlier that afternoon. Time travel seemed like something she’d have a much higher success rate, as she’d already done it once. 

Alcohol was the root of many Senju problems, as it destroyed wisdom while leaving all cleverness perfectly intact. That was to say, “invent time travel to prevent disaster” seemed like perfectly fair logic to Tobirama, and also completely doable. 

Two hours later, Tobirama was in the Hokage’s office, and Ren was falling on top of him. 

“Ah…” Hashirama says, blinking up from his desk.  

Tobirama is on the floor, knocked off his chair by his soulmate and feeling deeply disoriented. He can feel the hum of Hashirama’s chakra clear as day, still young and strong, and of so many old faces he’d never thought he’d see again. He blinks. It’s the middle of the day and he’s no longer drunk. He’s in his old body. No, his… young body. 

He’d managed to catch Ren when she’d crashed into him, and she blinks down at him. Her eyes are a little crossed and her elbows are digging into his ribs. She's also in a younger body, but Ren hasn’t been born yet in this time… perhaps the jutsu had tried to resolve a paradox, and it had had strange effects?

“Are you okay?” Hashirama asks, peering over the desk Tobirama has in the corner of his office. Hashirama’s voice is casual, but his chakra is tense and Tobirama can feel the telltale curls of chakra in the walls that could bloom into trees at any moment. 

From Hashirama’s point of view, Ren had just spontaneously appeared in their office and knocked Tobirama out of his chair. They’re lucky Hashirama hadn’t outright attacked. 

“It’s okay,” Tobirama says, carefully rolling Ren off of him. She seems out of it, her pupils too wide for the light. “She’s with me. Experiment gone��. odd.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashirama replies, but he does relax. 

“I think it went really well,” Ren says, waving vaguely in Hashirama’s direction. “Hello, I’m fuckballs.”

Hashirama’s face lights up. Tobirama buries his face in his hands. 

They explain the experiment. Hashirama’s eyebrows raise further and further up his forehead as they go. Tobirama’s future life is… complicated. But Hashirama knows him well, and so “my other half broke time and space, and then I broke it right back to get here” seems perfectly reasonable to him. 

When they’re done, Hashirama cocks his head to the side and asks, “So then how long are you planning to stay?”

Tobirama pauses. He blinks. Horror creeps up his spine, as his sober brain realizes that they absolutely do not have a plan to return. 

His thoughts must be painfully obvious, because Hashirama leans conspiratorially into Ren, who’s propping herself up on Tobirama’s desk, and says, “So then you really did get him drunk?”

She leans right back into him and in a stage whisper replies, “I got him so drunk.”

Hashirama tosses his head back and laughs, full and loud, and the shock of it nearly makes Ren keel over. Tobirama catches her before she teeters too far off balance. 

“I know I’m sober again because I’m in a different body,” Tobirama says. “Why are you still drunk?”

“Oh, I’m almost definitely poisoned,” Ren says brightly. She holds up her arm to reveal a small but nasty cut along the backside of her forearm, which has gone green around the edges. “Behold!”

The grin slides off of Hashirama’s face, even as Ren assures them it didn’t kill her before and it wasn’t going to kill her again. 

They haven’t agreed on who they’re going to reveal the time travel conundrum to, if anyone, and that means not calling random assistants or healers in without a conversation first. Fortunately, Hashirama himself is an accomplished healer, and so Tobirama ends up being the one to step out of the office to fetch water and clean bandages. 

Normally he wouldn’t want to leave Ren alone in an unknown situation while she was injured and her wits compromised. But Tobirama would trust Hashirama with his life, and so he very confidently steps out into the hall. 

Hokage tower is still partially under construction, and there’s hastily put up boards covering large chunks of the walls. Tobirama feels oddly out of his element, walking the familiar path down to a breakroom and kitchenette set up on this floor. He remembers thinking this was a wonderfully modern space, to store food and get fresh water without a well, and to have a gas stove for tea. He also remembers, years from now when he’s Hokage himself, a younger kunoichi remarking that his life would be much improved if he’d just get with the times and drink bagged tea. 

He’s pretty sure that the current iteration of this room keeps a refrigerator stocked with bottled water. Under his own tenure as Hokage, he’d had a young and cocky chunin whine at length about the old-fashioned ice box. 

There’s an older shinobi already making tea. Tobirama hasn’t thought about this man in years, and the nods he offers him is stiff. The man smiles back and says a generic, respectful greeting but doesn’t otherwise demand Tobirama’s attention. 

Good, Tobirama decides, opening a cabinet where they keep first aid supplies. He feels weirdly out of his element, and he doesn’t want any surprise conversations right now. 

The Hokage’s office already has its own first aid kit, but Tobirama pulls a few clean bandages to restock. He then finds a pitcher in another cabinet– chipped and probably someone’s donation, rather than bought new for the office, like most of the glasses and the two tea kettles in the room– and fills it with water. Someone has brought in hand-made sweets, and he grabs a few of those and an apple. 

When he gets back to the office, Ren is seated on his desk while Hashirama’s hands glow green over her arm. Hashirama is telling Ren a very detailed story about Tobirama licking a frog and poisoning himself when he was ten. Ren looks up at him with laughter in her eyes, even as they’re glassy from the effects of poison. 

“Here,” Tobirama says, interrupting Hashirama’s impression of whatever he’d said when high off of frog toxins. He pours water into a drinking glass. “Stay hydrated.”

“You’re really making mountains out of molehills,” Ren says, even as she accepts the glass. “I’m pretty sure I just had a fever for a couple days over this.”

“Better safe than sorry!” Hashirama booms. 

Tobirama has nothing else to do to help, so he watches his brother carefully smear a salve Mito had lovingly packed into his first aid over Ren’s arm and then bandage it tightly. Tobirama is sure Ren would make fun of him, standing over her with both arms crossed and brows furrowed like a strict teacher, if she weren’t distracted quizzing Hashirama over the salve’s contents– alliums for their antimicrobial properties, honey for wound-healing, and some herbs for analgesic purposes and to improve smell. 

Ren really does look like she’s just staggered off a battlefield. She’s obviously younger, without the soft laugh lines just beginning to take root in her face, but she’s thin and lithe in a way that screams to Tobirama too many nights in the field and not enough nutrients. Her clothes are loose, patched with brand new frays from battle, and there’s mud on her knees and a blotch of blood across her midsection. She has no apparent pain besides her arm, though, and he assumes the blood is someone else’s.

The cut on her arm is clearly from blocking a kunai. Why weren’t you wearing arm guards? is a chastisement on the tip of Tobirama’s tongue, but he already knows the most likely answer. She simply wasn’t provided with them. 

He remembers a story she told about never having shoes that were the right side and having to make them stick with chakra, and his eyes drop to her feet. Her sandals are indeed too big. 

“Here,” he says, holding the apple out to her. “You should eat too.”

Ren wrinkles her nose at him, and Tobirama reflects that perhaps it is a bit humiliating to have your introduction to the past to be injured and having people trip over themselves to help you. Fortunately, Hashirama breaks any tension there might have been by grabbing one of the sweets and shoving it into his mouth. 

“So are you spending the night?” he asks, mouth full. 

Tobirama is forced to admit that they had essentially no plan for what they meant to do in the past. They’d simply wanted to see if they could do it, and they’d picked a time of peace to prevent the urge to get involved with things. 

In other words: yes, they're spending the night. 

“No ominous warnings of wars to come?” Hashirama asks, squinting down at Tobirama. Tobirama had gotten used to being the tallest in the room, with his brother gone. 

“No spoilers,” Tobirama tells him. 

It’s tempting, though, to grab his brother’s arm and sequester him off to make moves to prevent tragedy. But he knows there’s a risk of making things worse. It’s not worth it, at least not when he and Ren still don’t know exactly how time travel works and what the dangers of introducing paradoxes are.

If they figure it out… there will be all the time in the world.

Tobirama tilts his head at Ren. “What year is that body from, anyway?”

Ren blinks a few times and pats herself down as if looking for clues. In the end she holds up her bandaged arm and says, “I think this happened when I was twenty. March, I think.” 

When she says the actual year, Hashirama’s eyes bulge and he shoots Tobirama a disapproving look. 

“Such a young bride, younger brother,” Hashirama tsks. Ren snorts. 

“It’s okay,” she says, “the time travel evened things out.”

“Come,” Hashirama says, hopping onto the balls of his feet with the energy of a teenager. “Mito is about your size. She will have clothes to borrow.”

xXx

Ren tries and fails to contain her open curiosity as they walk through the Konoha of old. It’s certainly smaller, but compact enough it feels just as busy. The streets are dirt and unpaved, and most buildings are still actively under construction. The trees still give off the air of being old growth, and she wonders if this is Hashirama’s strange jutsu or the Senju preoccupation with trees had moved them to leave some intact. 

She gets a few looks, but no one pays much attention to her when she’s firmly sandwiched between Tobirama and Hashirama. This, she thinks, is fair. She wouldn’t gawk at her either. 

The Senjuu complex is the same layout as before, but crawling with more life. She can feel that there’s even little children running around inside. Ren thinks there’s less wiring in the walls, but she’s glad the indoor plumbing is still firmly in place. 

Hashirama pauses at the gate and shoots Tobirama a nervous glance. “What do you want to tell Hisako-san?”

Tobirama frowns, and his lips part in confusion. Then his eyes widen in horror. 

“Little brother,” Hashirama breathes out, matching Tobirama’s horror but also looking like he’s fighting back a laugh. “Don’t tell me you forgot!”

“Who?” Ren asks. “Who’s Hisako?”

Hashirama’s eyes widen with understanding, and then turns his whole body away, covering his face with one hand as he goes. 

Tobirama grits his teeth. He looks unhappy, but in a way where he’s clearly aware the fuck-up is entirely his own. 

“Hisako is…” He pauses. He shifts on his feet in a way that seems uncharacteristically nervous. “My wife.”

Ren stares. She waits for the punchline. 

“We had the marriage annulled after eight months,” Tobirama assures her. 

Oh, so there was no punchline. 

“Eight months?” Ren hears herself squeak out. She’d known Tobirama’s family had tried to set him up with a series of increasingly disastrous brides-to-be, because as the second son of an important family, Tobirama was both prime marriage material and also apparently completely insufferable. But he’d never mentioned… ”Eight months?!”

“I forgot,” Tobirama admits. He sounds both ashamed and frustrated, and his face is mean and grumpy as ever. “We never consummated it, so it didn’t seem important–”

“Oh, Little Brother,” Hashirama groans, and Ren half-shrieks, “Eight months!”

Hisako greets them almost as soon as they step onto the engawa. She’s a pretty woman, soft and curvy with the heavy steps of a civilian, wrapped in a kimono nicer than anything Ren has ever owned. Despite her hair being pinned up perfectly and her lipstick being immaculate, there are bags under her eyes. She has a certain desperation about her, greeting Tobirama with overly formal language even though they’ve been married six months. 

Tobirama spares her no affection, and says, “This is Ren. She’s my soulmate. Don’t ask any more questions.”

Hashirama does a sort of microscopic grimace, but he doesn’t chide Tobirama for being the worst husband on earth. He’s probably too used to him. 

“Er, I know this is awkward,” Ren hedges. “I hope we get along.”

She gives Hisako her friendliest smile, and Hisako only looks mildly like she wants to scream. 

“Hisako-san,” Hashirama says gently. “Ren needs some new clothes. Don’t you think she’s about the same size as Mito?”

Hisako tries and fails to smooth over her frazzled expression. She leads Ren further into the house. 

“Will you be staying with us long?” she asks Ren, sounding very stressed. 

They had decided Hisako probably needed to know Ren was Tobirama’s soulmate to explain why a strange woman would be glued to Hisako’s husband. They did not decide whether or not Hisako needed to know about time travel. 

“I’m not sure,” Ren says delicately. She feels really, deeply bad for Hisako. 

Mito is seated at a desk in her room, calligraphy brush in hand when Hisako opens the door, getting down on her knees to do so like a proper lady. 

“Yes, my husband sent word,” Mito says, smiling tightly at Ren. “Why don’t you leave us, Sister?”

“O-oh…” Hisako stammers out. “Alright.”

Hashirama, by whatever shinobi art he’d sent a message ahead of them, had chosen to fill Mito in on the time travel thing. She’s very no-nonsense, tossing open her closet to pull out items of clothing, holding them up to Ren’s face with apparently the intended purpose of finding a good color for her. 

Ren and Mito might be the same size, but Mito is all delicate pale pinks and vivid red hair. They do not look similar in the least. 

“Do you have anything…” Ren trails off when Mito turns sharply to her. “Um, I don’t really wear kimono very often.”

“Really?” Mito asks, eyebrows raised. 

“It’s less common in my time…” Ren explains, halting and awkward. Mito’s clothes are beautiful. Ren would just be so uncomfortable. 

“I have some kunoichi clothes,” Mito offers, turning away from her closet for a trunk. “Are you really sure you’d prefer them?”

Mito’s battle-ready outfits involve a lot of actual armor, both metal or leather. She seems scandalized when Ren offers up the idea of just wearing the cotton bottom layers. 

“Wear the kimono for today,” Mito decides, “and I will ask some of my cousins for other options.”

Ren turns her back to change, and Mito abruptly lets out a laugh, unrefined and barking. Ren freezes, thinking maybe she’s being mocked but then Mito wheezes out her soulmark: “Your timing is shit. Leave it to my little brother to be just as rude as fuckballs.”

She laughs again, clear and filled with good-will. Tension melts out of Ren’s limbs. Mito is Hashirama’s soulmate. She might come off as an overly serious person, but she’s perfectly equipped to put up with Hashirama's exuberance. She can deal with Ren being a little weird.

“What on earth is this?” Mito asks when Ren discards her mesh undershirt. It clunks to the floor louder than it probably looks like it should, being laced with metal. 

“That’s what most people wear instead of armor in my time,” Ren answers, slipping her arms through the sleeves of a dark purple kimono. Next to her, Mito dips gracefully to pick it up. “Although that one got repurposed a bit.”

Mito sets the mesh shirt aside to help Ren arrange the kimono on her body and tie a matching lavender obi. It’s not nearly as uncomfortable as Ren was anticipating, although she wouldn’t want to fight in it. 

“It’s not an undergarment, then?” Mito asks, turning back to the mesh shirt. Her eyes glimmer in interest. “May I show my husband?”

“Uh,” Ren says. She has no idea how her shirt could be that interesting. “Sure?”

The Senju brothers are having tea on the engawa, overlooking the gardens. Hisako sits nervously next to Tobirama, and she hops to her feet to fetch cups for Ren and Mito the moment they appear. 

“Darling, look,” Mito says, holding up the mesh shirt. With Hisako having left, she says, “This is what armor is in the future.”

Hashirama seems equally fascinated. Tobirama rolls his eyes affectionately. 

“Does it work?” Hashirama asks, rubbing it between his fingers. 

“It’s more like a trade-off,” Tobirama says, very authoritatively even though he has largely rejected any new fashion trends. “It’s not as protective as full armor, but it allows for easier movement.”

“Why is this fabric different?” Mito asks, reaching over her husband to point at two strips of gray fabric going up the sides of the shirt. 

“Oh, usually you have to get them well-fitted,” Ren explains, “and I… didn’t have that option.”

Ren had, in fact, pulled that particular shirt off the corpse of a kunoichi she’d killed herself. She remembers because she’d circled back specifically because she’s thought the woman her size, and that she could maybe get some clothes she didn’t have to take in or out. She’d been wrong. 

Hisako comes back with a new steaming pot of tea and two more cups and a plate of dried fruit, and she gets paler and paler as Ren talks about peeling a shirt off a dead woman and then being mad it was too small. The actual ninja nod along, unbothered, and it occurs to Ren that not only does she have no idea how to talk to civilians, neither do any of the other people here. 

God, I must really sound like I wandered right out of the Warring Clans era, Ren thinks, running the pad of her thumb over the stumps of her missing fingers. Usually village-born ninja were a little more surprised by her complete lack of regular supplies, but Tobirama had told her his family had suffered through some of the same problems. 

(Just, you know, with familial love and dependence on one another, and not a crabs-in-a-bucket feeling of desperation.)

“Resourceful,” is Mito’s only comment on the matter. She holds the shirt up again, eyeing the way the fabric moves. “Can we see if it really works?”

“If you can fit into it,” Ren replies, “I would be happy to throw things at you.”

Mito laughs again, although outside of the privacy of her room she makes an attempt to be dainty about it, covering her mouth. 

“Um, Ren-san,” Hisako titters out, seated folded perfectly. “Tobirama-sama said you were unwell, so I made a medicinal blend…”

Tobirama-sama? Ren thinks. She knows some people call their family by such formal titles, but she wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face trying to call him that…

“Thank you, Hisako,” Tobirama says, lifting his cup to his own lips. 

Tobirama’s tone is clipped and dismissive, which Ren knows from experience is just what his casual tone sounds like, but Hisako wilts ever so much. Ren wonders if they’ve ever had a real conversation. She wouldn’t be surprised if twenty-something year old Tobirama was too socially unaware to think to engage with someone else. 

When they’ve drunk and eaten, Hisako gathers their cups and shuffles off. Ren makes the conscious choice to thank her and smile, but Hisako doesn’t look any less stressed. 

“Ren took over the garden,” Tobirama says conversationally. Or, at least, conversationally for Tobirama, which means he sounds like he’s interrupted your conversation specifically to tell you off. 

“Do you like flowers, Ren?” Hashirama asks, an indulgent smile spreading over his face. 

“Edible plants, mostly,” Tobirama answers for her. “Ren likes practical plants.”

The garden as it currently stands in front of them is indeed mostly pretty flowers, with only a small portion set aside for an herb garden. Tobirama didn’t want to word it like she thought growing flowers to have flowers is pointless though!

“I like flowers too,” Ren protests, pushing one foot forward to nudge Tobirama’s thigh. “I’m still waiting on sunflower seeds, remember?”

“Can you not eat sunflower seeds?” Hashirama asks. 

“No, she didn’t want the edible kind,” Tobirama replies. “She got fixated on rumors of a variety used as an antimalarial–”

Ren feels her cheeks go pink.

[yandere-sins]

Could I request a yandere vampire viewing humans to be nothing more than food, only to find their Darling stand out amongst the many mortals they’ve consumed over the years?Instead of draining their Darling prey dry in a few weeks like usual, the vampire decides to keep their Darling - to savor, to play with, and cherish in its own way - much to Darling’s dismay at seeing no end or escape in sight. Bonus points if the vamp bite can be pleasurable or painful, depending on the vamp’s mood, and can be used as a reward or punishment as needed. Double bonus for nsfw bits if you’re feeling up to it

I just felt like writing about bitemarks, make of that what you want. Thanks for requesting!

»»———————— ♡ ————————«« 

You winced as they put the weight of their arms on top of yours, tangling their fingers with yours. With your arms stretched out by long, silk fabric and suspended in the air on either side, you had crumbled to the ground, exhausted, drained, spent. Only making you more vulnerable than you already were. You looked up into the mirror before you and at yourself, your eyes lidded from getting no sleep ever since you arrived, and your body missing its energy, skin sunken in as if you were sick.

The vampire let out a satisfied groan, watching you through the reflection in the mirror. Of course, you couldn’t see them in return. You just felt them. You felt their breath against your cheek, the weight of their body as they leaned on you and your feeble condition, and the itching pain from the bite marks that were all over you.

When you were chosen as a sacrifice, you naturally felt the weight of the world on your shoulders. Unlike the many sacrifices you had witnessed over the years, you tried to put on a brave smile, help with the preparations, and even changed your diet. All so that the last few hours of your life would be meaningful. But in reality, you were horrified. Scared and unwilling to die. Creatures like the vampires should be flogged and not appeased with sacrifices they could eat. You weren’t cattle! You were a living, breathing human! However, now that you spent days with them, you realized that it was absolutely impossible to be anything other than a blood donor.

Over and over, their fingertips tapped on the marks they left behind from their teeth. Some started bruising, hurting under their touch. Others were still oozing crimson blood after being torn open. Your life had become much worse than that of cattle. You wouldn’t die as quickly as a cow or goat. You had to endure until you either were killed out of boredom or drained dry to the vampire’s pleasure.

“Tears ruin the taste,” they scolded you, indifferent to the feeling of helplessness and fear you were experiencing. Instinctively, like the people-pleaser you were, you tried to wipe them away, but your hands were still suspended in midair, hanging from the walls on either side of you. If only you could have had a bit of dignity, maybe dying wouldn’t have been so bad. But they restrained you like the sacrifice you were, making you look at yourself in the mirror as they tortured you.

You didn’t even want to think about what they’d do to your body after you died.

Long, cold fingers wrapped around your throat, the mild strangulation uncomfortable yet able to make you focus on it instead of everything else. Deep breaths, the villagers said. Whenever the vampire touches you, take deep breaths to keep calm. Struggling was futile anyway, and you are a sacrifice, not a wild animal. The villagers told you that as if you should be proud of your position, but how in the world could you be proud of what you had become?

One hand wandered upwards to your face, the fingers slim like spider legs, but you couldn’t help but notice that they had begun to warm up, and you assumed that was thanks to your blood. They crept up on you until you had to fear their long nails were going to pluck out your eye. Squeezing them both close tightly, you hoped to at least not experience that horror, only feeling how one of the fingers brushed by your eyelashes, wiping away the tears for you.

Blinking a few times, the hand disappeared, and you heard a very disappointed sounding, “Salty...” from behind you. Twisting your head to look back over your shoulder, you were met with the bright crimson eyes that drilled into yours, their hand slowly lowering from their mouth after they had a taste of your tears and an unsatisfied expression on their face.

“Told you it ruins the taste,” they shrugged, elegantly gesturing that they didn’t care for your tears, and you almost felt inclined to apologize.

“Please...” you muttered, finding that your mouth was terribly dry.

“Hm?” they perked up, having forgotten how your voice sounded after days of silently accepting your fate.

“Please end it,” you pleaded, close to tears again. “I-I’m ready. I don’t care what happens, but I can’t live like this anymore. Please, have mercy!”

You were tired. So, so tired. You wanted to sleep or eat. Go back to your family and see your friends again. But knowing that would never happen, if you at least could die, then you wouldn’t have to suffer anymore.

Instead, fingers wrapped around your chin, their presence suddenly in front of you. Forcing your head back, you were stared at from above, just two red orbs enveloped in darkness, and it was hard to maintain eye contact with them more than ever. “Who do you think you are? Thinking you can make demands?”

“N-No,” you pressed forth through the pain of your jaw crushing under their grip and your bruises ripping open from the strain. “I’d never dare!”

“Good.” Instantly, the vampire’s mood seemed to change back to the usual indifference, and they kneeled down before you. Their right hand brushed down your neck and along your shoulder, getting covered in the red color of your blood before they brought it to their lips, licking it off their knuckles. “I gave you these for a reason. They are a perfect imprint from me on you, so no one will dare to feed off my property. And I’m not done with you yet.”

Speechless, you wanted to say something, but the situation was simply overwhelming. Why would they want to mark you? Why was it important who you belonged to? You were just a sacrificed ready to be consumed.

A flinch escaped you as they leaned forward, and you were expecting another burning bite, but instead, lips pecked at the bite wounds tenderly, one after the other. Again and again, until the kisses became fervent, tongue lapping out, sucking at your skin. It stung and burned, and you had to bite your lip tightly as to not let out a sound. Your body grew hot and felt like it was pulling at your open skin; it was almost too much.

Until you suddenly felt hot breath against your lips, opening your eyes alarmed. With an eager tongue, the vampire tasted from the blood on your mouth before parting your lips, breaths and tongues mingling. You expected to taste your own blood, but it tasted sweeter than you could have ever dreamed about. Sweet, enticing, and hot, that’s what the kiss felt like, even though your body was struggling with the pain and the hand on your throat cutting off more air than you could take in. And yet, as if magically pushed towards the vampire, you only leaned in more, tried to get more of the sweet pleasure of their tongue. Just as surprising as it came, it ended, and you were left gasping as the vampire pulled away.

“Better?” they asked, and through your fogged brain, you weren’t sure you understood. “Don’t ever ask to die again. Remember, you are mine forever.”

With them standing up, you got a glimpse of yourself in the mirror again, and you blinked a few times at the image before you. All over your left shoulder, there was no mark left, and your skin had puffed up again, eyes wide open and awake. The vampire disappeared behind you again, but you quickly felt their arms wrap around your torso, a feeling you knew well by now. “If you’re truly that miserable, tell me. I wouldn’t know. I don’t understand you humans. But know that my help comes at a price.”

Finally, you were able to puzzle together your thoughts. The healthy feeling you had, together with your body looking perfectly fine, must be the vampire’s doing. They must have used some kind of magic or trick on you, but having exhausted themselves by doing that, that probably meant...

Their fangs protruding from their mouth, they dragged them along your supple skin, searching for the best spot to bite down. Fleshy, warm, and soft. Where the blood would spurt out from the slightest irritation. Clenching your teeth, you couldn’t help but try to fight their tight embrace, tried to get out before it was too late. But your struggles were futile, only pressing you up into their fangs until you felt them sink into you inch by inch.

Your ears buzzing and your heart racing as you were fed from, you only shut your eyes tightly, holding back the gasps and moans, not wanting anyone to think this was actually enjoyable. But the sweet taste on your tongue remained, as well as the feeling of their lips against yours, making you wonder what they meant when they claimed you for ‘forever’.

[mrs-heelshire]

Chemical Rivality.

Pairing : Kuro x NB!reader.

TW : None, pure fluff.

It have been a long week for you. On Monday morning, the chemistry teacher gave an important and long assignement to be returned the following Monday. Today Friday, you rushed to the university library at the end of your classes to work on it. This weekend, you had plans and you intended to keep it free from any school work. It was imperative to finish this assignment before tomorrow.

Working on one of the school computer in the library, everything was going just the way it should. You literally put your soul into that assignment, just to get it down and to send it today. Yet, the computer had other plans. Starting to overheat, the old school computer would suddenly shut down to only show a black screen.

" No ! No.. NO ! Don't do this to me ! "

Standing up in horror as you scream agaisnt that way too old computer, you were close to throw your fist in the screen as a tall figure leans behind you. It could have been anyone, litteraly anyone but him. But no, it was the person you absolutely didn't want to see you in a situation like that: Kuroo Tetsuro. Of course, it had to be him. It was your lucky day, definitely.

Looking over your shoulder, he silently laughed at the situation. Of course he did, it was entertaining to see you in that angry and desperate state. You must look so funny. Sarcastically speaking. He was the one you always tried to beat, the one that was at the top of your class. He was smart and he knew it. That was what you hated the most about him.

" If I help you, will you finally admit I'm smarter ? " He ask with a grin painted on his face.

Not even surprised with what he asked, you yet were surprised he could actually help you. Was it even possible ? Wasn't he just too cocky ? Unsure if you could believe him or not, you chose to give him a chance. After all, there was nothing you could do right now. It was worth the try.

" I.. I may. " You mumbled looking anywhere but at him.

" I'll take that as a yes. " shrugging his shoulders, he got to work right away.

Watching him without a word, you could swear he used some magic. It only took him around two minutes to get the computer to turn back on. Soon enough, the assignment you were working on appeared back. Everything was here, not a single word was missing. There was no way he could have done this in that short time.

" Oh my God ! Thank you so much ! "

Unconsciously jumping into his arms to hug him tight, wrapping your arms around his neck, you sincerely were relieved he made it work. For sure, you owned him a big time but it was harder to admit it out loud.

" Anytime. " He answered as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

It was only there that you realized you were still hugging him, that you both had been too close for too long. Cheeks slightly tinted in pink, you immediately pulled away from him.

" This change nothing, I'm still going to beat you. I'm still going to steal the first place."

" Love to see you try sweetheart. "

[jingyismom]

Time for more sex-cursed Lan Wangji!

a messy, self-indulgent spree imported from twt and lightly edited

explicit, wangxian, 9k, canon divergence fix-it

mild dubcon because of the nature of sex curses (but like, they do their best to communicate around it), and cw for brief thoughts of self harm, no other warnings

This curse's origin is mysterious, perhaps politically guided. Someone is trying to throttle Gusu Lan's alliance prospects by removing Lan Wangji's stellar marriageability after Sunshot. It works, after a fashion.

Wei Wuxian is in the Burial Mounds, farming and hardening his heart as the resentment worsens his health, subsisting on memories of Lan Wangji's single visit.

Lan Wangji is at home in Gusu, pining away while they rebuild the Cloud Recesses.

One day, he begins to burn up with unexplained fever.

The healers examine him quickly and thoroughly and determine first that he's been cursed. This is not entirely shocking, but it of course angers the entire sect. Next they test for the curse's nature. It turns out to be a very classic, very coarse type of love curse.

The afflicted will burn up, losing all their sense and senses, and eventually die, if their body's “needs” are not satisfied by the one it craves most.

The healers are disgusted. Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren are outraged. But Lan Wangji becomes very calm at the news.

Before, he felt anxiety. The urgent desperation of a dying man waiting to be told how to live.

Now he is just waiting to die.

For you see, the choice between throwing himself at another human being—no matter who they may be—and meeting death with dignity, is an easy one.

Everyone else privy to this information disagrees. The argument that follows is short, but heated:

"Well, Wangji?" Lan Qiren begins once the initial furor has died down. "How do you wish to...go about this?"

Lan Wangji, over-warm and aching, looks up at him from the examination bed. Gusu Lan funeral rites are ancient and immutable. He does not understand the question.

Lan Qiren purses his lips and glances around. "We must find the person first," he prompts.

Ah. The person responsible. Yes, Lan Wangji does have business with them before he dies. He stands, only swaying slightly. "I am well enough to exact justice. Let us cast the rebound."

Lan Xichen steps forward then, and gently pushes him back to sitting. "It has been cast. However, justice can wait. Your health must come first."

Lan Wangji looks between his uncle, his brother, and the one doctor allowed to be present. Surely they would not be joking at a time like this.

"I do not understand," he says.

The three exchange a look. "Breaking the curse must be our priority," says Lan Xichen.

Lan Wangji is not sure he heard correctly. But it would be cruel to give him unfounded hope. "I was unaware there was another way."

"...There is not," says Lan Xichen, his gentleness unfailing.

Lan Wangji experiences a moment of deep confusion before the horror sets in.

"You cannot mean this," he says through his shock. "Surely you cannot mean to cast aside so many disciplines at the whim of a base villain."

"The disciplines are a guide," Lan Qiren says, hands behind his back, looking into the distance, "to ensure a life well-lived. They are not meant to inspire martyrdom."

Lan Wangji's mouth falls open. He stares at his uncle, mute with betrayal. He has never heard of any such leeway before, not in regards to disciplines of such a serious nature.

"You can understand, can't you?" Lan Xichen says. "That no rule is more important than your life.”

Lan Wangji disagrees vehemently. "I would not buy my life with such behavior."

Lan Qiren huffs in irritation. "We may perform a marriage in haste, if you wish."

Lan Wangji balks at him. That his uncle should speak so flippantly of...such a thing. It is unimaginable. And besides, forcing a marriage on Wei—on anyone in this way is surely only adding insult to heinous injury.

"I refuse," he says.

Lan Xichen exchanges a look with the doctor, and sits beside him. "Perhaps the other person should be allowed part of that choice."

Ridiculous. "There is no such person." Preventing this course of action is worth one lie, Lan Wangji reasons.

"With respect, Hanguang-jun, if that were true, the curse would not have been able to take hold," says the doctor.

The use of his title feels uncomfortably ironic from a woman who helped deliver him at birth. He glares at her. She smiles tiredly in return.

"Wangji," Lan Xichen says. His tone is beginning to grate on Lan Wangji's raw nerves. "You will at least try, won't you?"

Lan Wangji stares at him in disbelief, in anger, in righteous indignation.

"Never," he says.

A hand slaps his shoulder. "Apologies," says the doctor, and the world goes dark.

-----

Lan Wangji wakes to dark wood beams dappled by lacy sunlight, and a faint smell of char in the air. His head is heavy, his limbs full of lead. He swallows around the dry thickness in his throat.

"Water," comes a familiar voice.

With effort, Lan Wangji sits up. His stomach is roiling, his mind fogged from the coma and the curse both. The doctor, crouching beside him in the carriage, offers him a bowl of water.

He takes it, and asks, "What have you done?"

She sighs.

"My duty," she says, "with the help of your brother."

She draws back the curtain at the carriage entrance, revealing a sea of black, twisted trees and gray tumbled walls.

Lan Wangji's blood freezes in his veins. He just barely stops himself from asking how they knew.

"Why," he asks instead, a much safer question.

She considers him. "Your brother said if he was wrong, he would beg forgiveness afterward. But it couldn't hurt to have an expert in resentment and curses look at you anyway."

A stab of sick embarrassment makes Lan Wangji’s stomach clench.

Has he been so obvious? Is he such a lovesick fool that anyone with eyes can see his shame?

The doctor pats his shoulder gruffly and he flinches, expecting more needles.

"Ah he's your brother, he's bound to know things you don't want him to," she says. "Come on. Out you get."

He allows her to tug him out of the carriage and onto solid ground. The air is stifling with resentment, but he is glad to be free of his bonds. Now he can look for his chance to get away.

There are six Lan disciples flanking them. He eyes them warily, wondering what they know. When the doctor pulls him out of earshot, and pitches her voice low, he is satisfied that they have not been fully informed.

"Your family and I agreed to give you a chance first," she says. "You have 24 hours to take care of this yourself. After that, I will personally tell Wei-gongzi of your brother's message. I have been assured he will not jeopardize your well-being if fully-informed."

Lan Wangji gapes at her. He does not know what he expected to happen, but it was not this...this...mercenary attempt at...forcing...

The curse has weakened him such that he cannot fly his sword. He can hardly walk in a straight line, let alone run. He has very little recourse now that everyone in his life has gone absolutely mad. His heart is racing with the adrenaline of upheaval, of fear, of impending death.

He wrenches his arm from her grasp and stalks off of the road, into the brush. She calls after him, but he does not mean to escape. He cannot manage that alone. Instead, he sits. He takes a deep breath. He sinks into meditation.

"Hanguang-jun," she calls. She approaches, hands on her hips. She sighs. "Well, if it's like that, then there's nothing stopping me from telling him right now."

She turns, and Lan Wangji feels a lurch of helplessness, when a new voice rings clear through the fog.

"Tell what to whom?"

Lan Wangji's eyes snap open. Wei Wuxian is standing on the other side of the carriage, the child A-Yuan in his arms, eyeing the Lan delegation with suspicion. Wen Ning is with him, and the Lan disciples shift nervously just looking at him, but Wei Wuxian sets A-Yuan in his arms, and he leaps away up the mountain.

"Might I assume this little party has come for me?" Wei Wuxian goes on, twirling his flute. His eyes are shrewd and cold, similar to the way they had looked when he had first returned during the war.

At the sight of him, at the sound of his voice, the curse...reacts.

A horrid, uncomfortable shiver of need runs through Lan Wangji's body alongside his own simple relief and joy at seeing Wei Wuxian again, looking relatively well. He fights it, keeping still among the weeds, hoping against hope to go unnoticed.

"Yiling Laozu," the doctor greets him with a deep bow. "We have indeed come to humbly beg your aid."

"I see," he says. "And what will you give me in return?"

The doctor hesitates, clearly discomfited by the context Wei Wuxian is currently unaware of. "We may...discuss that. Once we have informed you of the details."

Wei Wuxian hums, considering. Cold. Detached. "And if I am disinclined to—"

He breaks off. The doctor has moved so that she and Lan Wangji are both in Wei Wuxian's line of sight. Lan Wangji closes his eyes rather than see the moment of recognition, rather than feel the weight of Wei Wuxian's eyes on him, like this.

"Lan Zhan?"

Lan Wangji clamps his jaw shut. It is a struggle not simply to crawl to him.

The renewed ice in Wei Wuxian's voice when next he speaks makes Lan Wangji aware of the warmth with which he had said his name. His curls his shaking hands into fists on his knees.

"What have you done to him?"

The doctor sighs. "We have done nothing. He has been cursed, which is why we brought him here. If you—"

"Daifu," Lan Wangji interrupts, his voice thin.

She stops speaking.

Lan Wangji opens his eyes, but does not look at Wei Wuxian, not yet. If he is careful, and uses his remaining strength correctly, he can perhaps...perhaps guide the situation. Toward escape. With Wei Wuxian's help.

He may have to lie to him. He hopes he will be forgiven, all things considered.

Lan Wangji stands slowly, carefully, considering each movement so as not to reveal the state he is in.

"I will speak with him," he says to the doctor.

She eyes him. "24 hours," she says.

He does not acknowledge this. He thinks they both know it will not come to that, though his idea differs greatly from hers. He judges, from the time they have allotted and his own weakness, that he has perhaps a day and a half, total, to wait them out. Doable, if he is careful and intelligent about it.

He can manage.

He walks over to Wei Wuxian, careful to keep two arm's lengths between them. This close is already too close: a fine, constant tremor has made a home in all of his tightly-locked muscles. He feels the moment his fever begins to rise further. The sides of his throat hurt, the interiors of his ears. He wonders if his hearing will go first, or his eyes.

"Allow me to explain," he says to him.

"Of course," Wei Wuxian answers.

He sounds strange. Cold, still. Lan Wangji wants to look at him, and almost slips, but manages to stop himself. He follows him up the hill, past the wards, through the resentment that clings to them both, now. He keeps his careful distance, following behind.

"What happened?" Wei Wuxian asks, as they walk.

"A curse," Lan Wangji says carefully. "Origin unknown. The rebound has been cast. I did not wish to burden you with this, but they are...they will not listen to reason. Wei Ying, if you would but help me, I would deal with this on my own."

"Oh?"

"I...wish to seek justice. They will not allow it. But you understand. If there is another path off the mountain, if you would show me the way past them, I could—"

Wei Wuxian stops dead, and Lan Wangji, with his eyes in the ground, runs into him. 

For a blazing, agonizing moment, he is touching Wei Wuxian, clinging to him, every element in his body sighing and crying out at once in satisfaction, in the torturous need for more.

He tears himself away, stumbling back, almost falling. Wei Wuxian reaches out as if to catch him, but falters.

"Lan Zhan, you can hardly stand," he says, alarmed, "and you want to go and fight someone?"

Lan Wangji draws himself up taller again, trying hard to stop his shaking. He cannot look at him. He cannot look. He is already dying, now, just from not looking. "It is my right."

"...It is..." Wei Wuxian says at length, watching him closely. "And it still will be once you're well again. Your doctors really couldn't tell what type of curse it is?"

Lan Wangji says nothing, trying to think past the way every inch of his skin feels as if it is burning clean off. The pain of it screams through him, worse than anything he has ever felt. Wei Wuxian is still speaking, but it is hard to make sense of it. When Wei Wuxian begins walking again, slowly, it is all he can do to both follow and stay away from him. This, here, now, is worse than death. If it lasts, he certainly will not be sane when the end finally comes. He lets go of any thoughts of a dignified death.

Fortunately, by the time they reach the cool dark of the cave Wei Wuxian calls home, the pain has subsided to a distant roar. Unfortunately, he hoped never to reach this point. He tries his only play again, unable to think of any new tactic.

"Please show me the way off the mountain," he says without preamble.

Wei Wuxian is quiet for a beat. "You really don't want my help that much?"

Lan Wangji is so confused by this question, and then struck by the irony of it, that he almost begins to laugh. A shivery, jittery feeling fills his chest, and he leans against the nearest solid surface. He wishes he were wearing a loose outer layer over his blue travel robes, the better to hide his shaking. He does not know how to respond.

"You haven't so much as looked at me once since you got here," Wei Wuxian goes on, digging through strange pots and objects on a table, "so I get it. But you'll have to forgive me if I disregard your objection to the kind of work I do, when it comes to your life."

"My life, my life," Lan Wangji mocks, accidentally out loud. Why is everyone suddenly so obsessed with his life? He was ready to give it freely in the war, but chance let him keep it. What difference does giving it now in the name of keeping himself clean of shame make? Why will nobody allow him this choice?

"What shame?" Wei Wuxian asks.

Lan Wangji buckles at the realization that he has said all of this out loud. He goes to the floor, to his knees.

"Nothing," he says. "The shame of not having warded off such a simple attack."

"Lan Zhan...you want to die because you didn't defend against a curse you didn't know was coming?"

Lan Wangji lapses into silence. He has said too much already. He does not know how to get out of this. He can only...he can only stay quiet. Refuse to speak or move.

"Lan Zhan...I feel like I'm missing something here. I only want to help.”

Lan Wangji grits his teeth and stares hard at the floor in front of him. He has rarely ever felt so trapped, so utterly helpless. The extended, full-body pain is dulling his mind by the moment. The hems of Wei Wuxian's robes come into view, and it takes everything in him not to fall forward into him, to plead, to beg. His breath is hitching at random intervals now, his heart tripping as it prepares to fail entirely.

There is a soft gust of air, and an odd prickling sensation across his face.

"Now let's see—oh," Wei Wuxian says. "I...oh."

Lan Wangji wilts at his stilted, awkward tone. He knows now, surely. Can see him truly.

"So that's why you want to leave, and why they won't let you. They want me to find another way to break it, to stop you from...ah."

Lan Wangji sorts through the words, trying to comprehend them.

"Sorry," Wei Wuxian goes on. "I...it's unbreakable, otherwise. A very old, airtight spell. You...will Gusu Lan start a war with me if I do just let you go...ah, handle this the old-fashioned way?"

Comprehension dawns. And with it, a way out.

Lan Wangji rushes to agree. "They—" He cuts off. Will they? If they think Wei Wuxian has willingly let him die, rather than...

He takes a breath. Another. Forces his mind past the endless litany of pleas for relief.

"Show me the way " he says, his words breathless and short, "and then tell Lan-daifu what you have done. And why. But give me time to. Get away. And you will be safe."

Wei Wuxian pauses. "How...ah. How far—how much time?"

Lan Wangji tries hard to come up with an answer for that. His progress will be slow. But he need only find a place to hide.

"Half a day," he hazards.

Wei Wuxian seems to vacillate. "Are you sure you can make it on your own?"

Lan Wangji wants to rage. To weep. To curse himself to the heavens for being so depraved toward so endlessly kind a man. His heart hurts, even as his body strains toward him.

This lie may be the worst he will ever tell.

"I will be fine,” he says.

"Alright." Wei Wuxian sounds unconvinced. "I trust you."

Lan Wangji nearly convulses, holding back a sob. How will he ever be forgiven?

He cannot think of it. Only this, only what comes next. Only keeping Wei Wuxian safe from this mess.

"Lan Zhan?"

"Mn," he manages.

"Would you look at me, now? I haven't...used any demonic cultivation on you. It's safe, I promise I won't. I just. Can't we say goodbye properly?"

Lan Wangji has not moved from the floor. He does not move. He should try. A parting gift. Just one look.

But if he is going to leave. If he is going to succeed. He cannot.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says again, frustrated now.

Lan Wangji does not look. He is so close to freedom from the horrible pull, from the way his very veins are trying to tear themselves free to wrap around Wei Wuxian.

Wei Wuxian steps forward, and Lan Wangji's breath leaves him all at once. Suddenly, there are fingers beneath his jaw, kind but firm, tilting his chin up. He has no choice but to look.

(Inspired by this art.)

Wei Wuxian is there. Tall and strong and perfect, tiredness mixed with something bittersweet on his lovely face. Lan Wangji's entire being melts toward him, a deep, sharp tug from inside his bones, a mindless, helpless, straining need that pushes a low, wanting sound from his throat.

Wei Wuxian snatches his hand away and backs up half a step, staring at him.

"Sorry," he says, blank. Confused. "I thought it was...I didn't realize...sorry."

Lan Wangji, now that he has looked, cannot look away. He has overbalanced without Wei Wuxian's support, fallen forward onto his hands, but he cannot stop looking at him. He will look at him, and keep looking; he prays Wei Wuxian is the last thing he sees before he dies.

The most shameful part of this is that none of it is the curse twisting his thoughts. None of this is. All the curse is doing is making the way he always feels impossible to ignore.

"Wei Ying," his voice implores. He does not mean it to.

Wei Wuxian takes another step back and looks down at the bowl of powder in his hand, confused. "I was certain it was that curse," he says to himself. "If I was wrong, then maybe I could break it..."

Lan Wangji tries to scrape his composure back together. He tries. He tries. His fingers scrape on the rough stone floor. He does not reach out for him. That is something.

Wei Wuxian looks at him again, then hastily away. Lan Wangji does not ever want to know what it is he sees.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says, as Lan Wangji shakes, and shakes. "Where...where were you trying to go? I thought you...I thought you were, ah, thinking of a certain someone."

Lan Wangji's arms are weak. They are going to give out. He cannot answer him.

"I'm confused, and I...may have made a mistake," Wei Wuxian goes on, still backing away slowly, "but I just want to help. Can you tell me what was happening before, and what's happening now?"

Lan Wangji shakes his head, and the motion shatters his fragile balance. He falls, and curls tightly around himself in the dirt.

"Lan Zhan!" Wei Wuxian says, suddenly close.

Lan Wangji sees his hand reach out, then pause, and he can't stop himself from taking hold of it, just to be touching him. His body screams for it, and he gasps raggedly at the contact.

Wei Wuxian wrenches his arm free. Lan Wangji wishes he were dead.

"Fuck," Wei Wuxian mutters to himself. "I...I'm sorry. I made this so much worse, I..."

"No," Lan Wangji rasps. He cannot hear Wei Wuxian berate himself thus. His dignity has now died, and he himself will soon follow. This is all that matters. "Not your fault."

Wei Wuxian huffs, crouching beside him. "It is...at least partially my fault, at this point, I'm pretty sure. You wouldn't be...reacting. Like this. If it weren't. Is...can I...do a few more tests? To check what I got wrong, and maybe—"

"You were not wrong."

He does not mean to say it.

His need to reassure has overridden his sense, and his mind is too slow now to piece together what it will mean before it leaves his mouth. The regret once it does is instantaneous. He tries to curl himself yet smaller in the dirt.

Wei Wuxian is silent. Lan Wangji cannot stop making small, pitiful, pained sounds in the back of his throat. Everything hurts. Everything.

"I don't understand," Wei Wuxian says quietly.

Lan Wangji lies shivering on the floor, arms locked around himself to prevent any more untoward behavior. He cannot take it back. He cannot try to explain. There is nothing he could say, regardless.

"Lan Zhan...but you..."

He can hear Wei Wuxian thinking, but it only registers in the far back of his mind. The rest of his consciousness is taken up by pain, and by ruthless restraint.

"You wanted to leave to get away from me," Wei Wuxian says, finally.

Lan Wangji does not answer. He wishes he had his sword. He would use it now to end this.

Wei Wuxian begins to back away again, and Lan Wangji’s body moves without his permission. He grips the skirt of Wei Wuxian’s robes in his fist and drags himself closer, pressing his cheek to Wei Wuxian's knee.

Shameful. Wanton. The small part of himself that is still aware berates the action. But he cannot let go. He cannot move away. The only part of him that is not howling with pain is the side of his face pressed to coarse fabric.

"Lan Zhan, you…," Wei Wuxian is trying to gently pry Lan Wangji's fingers from his hem. "You wanted to leave, remember? You don't want...you don't."

"Want," Lan Wangji croaks, pressing closer. "Wanted to spare you."

"Ah, Lan Zhan...I...I'm still not sure it's that specific curse, it could...there could be other..."

"It is," Lan Wangji says, half-crawling up Wei Wuxian's leg. He wants to stop himself. It is impossible.

"Lan Zhan...you...you shouldn't—"

"Stop me," Lan Wangji pleads, nuzzling against Wei Wuxian's thigh, "Wei Ying, I can't...please. Stop me."

There is a long near-silence filled with harsh breaths, in which Lan Wangji is almost certain he imagines the light touch of fingers brushing his mussed hair back from his forehead. Then Wei Wuxian speaks.

"No," he says. "You'll die, if I do. Lan Zhan. I won't let that happen."

He touches Lan Wangji's face. Lan Wangji whimpers into him.

He knows this will break the fragile repairs they have made to their friendship. He will likely never see him again, at least not on good terms. The thought makes him feel ill. He should protest. Refuse. Flee. He can do exactly none of these things. He reaches for Wei Wuxian's wrist, to hold his hand to his face, but Wei Wuxian flinches away.

"You can't...Lan Zhan. I'm going to help you," he says, "but you have to...you can't...you can't touch me."

Lan Wangji feels another tight clench of shame. He nods against his leg. He understands: he knows any small part of this is too much to ask, let alone bearing his unwelcome, curse-fevered grasping.

"Okay," says Wei Wuxian. He slides his fingers beneath Lan Wangji’s chin again, tipping his face up.

He looks so uncertain. So beautiful in the dim light. Lan Wangji wants to weep with it.

"Lan Zhan, I know it doesn't count for much like this, but you have to tell me. You have to tell me what you need."

Lan Wangji turns his head, pressing his face between Wei Wuxian's thigh and stomach, trying to reach into him, to feel more of him, to stop hurting just enough to think. It does not work.

"You," he breathes, into the scent of earth, and stringent soap, and Wei Wuxian.

A harsh, uneven breath ghosts across his hair, and Wei Wuxian's hands grip his shoulders. He thinks he is about to be pushed away again, but instead Wei Wuxian pulls him up, pulls him close, folds him into his embrace.

Lan Wangji sobs into his shoulder, trying at once to get closer and to hold himself apart, instinct demanding, even now, that he try to conceal his obvious, disgraceful hardness. His muscles quake under the strain of doing both and neither, and Wei Wuxian smooths one hand down his back, pressing him close, pressing them flush. Lan Wangji chokes back a shocked sound.

"Shh," Wei Wuxian soothes. "It's alright."

It is not alright. It is the end of the thing Lan Wangji holds most dear.

But he does not have it in him to argue. He is shifting against him, his overheated body begging for touch, indeed for ravishment. He is mindless with it. The pain is not subsiding but slipping sideways into something more, something different, something necessary.

He is on his knees on hard stone, breathlessly held in the arms of his beloved. He has dreamt this: sweetly, hazily, with and without hope. But never like this. Never sick with remorse, with need, dying and demanding and defiling. His deepest desire twisted into a nightmare.

He whimpers again, his lips finding the soft coolness of Wei Wuxian's throat. Wei Wuxian jerks away again, and Lan Wangji fists his hands tighter at his sides, trying, trying not to overstep again.

"I—sorry," he gasps out. He will never be able to apologize enough. But he will try.

"Don't apologize," says Wei Wuxian. "I—"

He cuts himself off. Lan Wangji does not have enough sense to wonder why. In the same moment, one of his thighs gives under the strain, and he falls against him heavily. They tip over, to the floor, and he reaches out on instinct to brace them both. When he is again conscious of himself, Wei Wuxian is lying on top of him, breathing hard, both of Lan Wangji's wrists pinned to the floor in one hand. Lan Wangji arches against him inadvertently, and turns his face into his own bicep.

"Sorry, I...so sorry," he pants, his hips flexing, searching for friction. "I have...no control...”

"I know," Wei Wuxian says, "I know, I shouldn't have..." he swallows hard. "I'm going to keep you like this. Can I?"

Lan Wangji nods frantically, his eyes shut tight. He does not care. Anything that he can do to make this any less invasive for Wei Wuxian, he will do.

Wei Wuxian pulls away then, his hold still firm on Lan Wangji's wrists. Lan Wangji squeezes his eyes shut and tries to stop moving, to stop searching for touch, to stop making such a disgusting spectacle of himself, but to no avail. What feels like centuries later, he hears the telltale sounds of talisman activation. He is too far gone in his pain to look up, to see what they are. He simply lies there, pinned and writhing, his breath catching in his throat. The sounds it makes are small, pitiful, desperate.

Just like him.

Eventually, Wei Wuxian leans back over him, a considering look in his eye. His hand hovers at Lan Wangjis belt.

"I—should I..."

"Yes," pleads Lan Wangji.

He needs Wei Wuxian's skin on his skin. He does not know how discerning the curse is about what happens now, but it feels as if he will die without it. Wei Wuxian takes what looks like a fortifying breath and unties the belt. Lan Wangji, unable to help, instead hinders the process with his ceaseless movement. But Wei Wuxian manages it with deft hands, and immediately unties each layer of robes in quick succession until Lan Wangji’s chest and stomach are bare.

The cool air of the cave does not soothe his burning. It burns like ice instead. Lan Wangji shivers, an ugly whine escaping him.

"What," Wei Wuxian asks, pausing, "what is it?"

Lan Wangji shakes his head. He will bear it. He will not make demands.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says, "you need to talk to me, I...I don't want to make this even worse, or, or draw it out longer."

Something small and dark crumples in Lan Wangji's chest. He does not want that either. He will need to speak. To ask.

"Hurts," he says, rough and thick.

"Where?"

"...Not...not touching me."

Wei Wuxian makes a distressed noise and lays both his palms flat over Lan Wangji's ribs. Lan Wangji groans, pressing up into them.

"Please," he whispers, helpless. "Please."

"Oh, Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian murmurs, something sad like regret. He leans closer and slides one hand down. Lan Wangji shudders under him. "I'm just going to..."

Lan Wangji nods again, holding his breath to stop the whines from escaping the back of his throat.

Wei Wuxian unties Lan Wangji's trousers and slips his hand inside. Clever fingers wrap hesitantly around him, and he bucks up into them with an obscene moan. It is minor relief from the most consuming pain he has ever felt, and it is simultaneously the most intense pleasure he has ever experienced. All of these sensations, coexisting in his fallible human body, feel likely to rip him apart.

"Wei Ying," he moans again, when Wei Wuxian moves his hand.

He gasps for air, his body twisting into it, his whole being searching for Wei Wuxian. He makes another piteous sound, the torment of it all overwhelming. Wei Wuxian leans down against him then, his own robes open, pressing them skin to skin.

Lan Wangji sobs. It is something. It is something. The pain abates somewhat, and he sighs, turning toward him, his mouth brushing Wei Wuxian's hair. He has the wherewithal now to fight the urge to kiss his head properly, his face, anything he can reach. He holds himself still beneath him instead. And Wei Wuxian touches him, and touches him. The incomprehensible pleasure builds, and builds, until Lan Wangji cannot breathe. But it does not break.

Something almost like soft lips brushes his throat.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says into his ear, "this, is this...will this be enough?"

The pleasure is just another kind of pain, now. Lan Wangji shakes his head as sweat rolls off of him, as he tries and fails to get enough air to speak.

Wei Wuxian clears his throat. "What, then?"

Lan Wangji's body knows what it needs. But he does not want to tell.

"Come on, Lan Zhan, after all this? Don't get shy on me now."

He misses the joking tone he is aiming for, but the pure, unmistakable Wei Wuxian-ness of the tease sends a surge of genuine desire through Lan Wangji. He wraps his legs around Wei Wuxian's hips and pulls him down. Wei Wuxian breathes in sharply.

"You just...you want...but only..."

"Please," says Lan Wangji, barely voiced. "In—" he cannot say it. "Please."

"Ah," Wei Wuxian whispers, into his skin. "If—are you sure?"

Lan Wangji whines. He wishes he were not so very sure. He wishes he were not asking Wei Wuxian to do something so intimate, so extreme. He wishes Wei Wuxian had let him die before it ever came to this.

"Alright Lan Zhan, just hold—hold on," he says, and is gone.

Lan Wangji clamps his mouth shut on a scream as the agony slams back into him, worse even than before.

Not soon enough, Wei Wuxian returns to divest him of his boots, socks and trousers. Lan Wangji fights him without meaning to, trying to keep his knees curled up to his chest, trying to minimize the hurt. Wei Wuxian is briskly patient, handling him with aching care he does not deserve.

And then he is upon him, chest and stomach, hips and thighs, smooth and hard and exquisite. Lan Wangji almost forgets the pain in the rush of gratitude, of solace. Their robes trail off them both, gathering dust as they move together in halting fits and starts.

"Don't let me hurt you, Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian grits out, a strong hand lifting one of Lan Wangji's thighs by the back of the knee.

It is nonsense. He could not hurt Lan Wangji any more than this. And Lan Wangji could not stop him now if he did.

But the kindness. Even in this. Tears prick at Lan Wangji's eyes. He will miss him. He will miss all of Wei Wuxian with all of himself. He will never stop missing him. He will never move past this regret as long as he lives. How could he? Every breath he draws will be by the grace of Wei Wuxian.

Suddenly there is slick pressure against him, against his most private of places, and he gasps, loud and wretched. Wei Wuxian exhales, uneven and deep, and pushes in, in, in. Slowly. So slowly. Lan Wangji bites down hard on his lip to keep from begging for it. His arms are pinned, as are his hips, Wei Wuxian holding him steady, holding him still. Lan Wangji loses all sense. There is only the weight of Wei Wuxian, the full, stinging press of him, the searing pain, the devastating euphoria of being this close, and yet so very far in every way that counts.

Ages pass before Wei Wuxian is fully seated inside him. By then Lan Wangji's breaths are wet and shallow; scraping, desolate things. He does not know any longer what hurts and what feels good. It is all one and the same. He only knows he needs more, in some primal, wordless way.

He asks with the arch of his back, the squeeze of his thighs. He tries, somehow, to keep quiet, but fails more often than not.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says tightly, "try to relax, I'm going to move. Tell me if it...if it's right."

Lan Wangji manages a loose nod, though he barely understands.

And Wei Wuxian moves. He rolls his hips against him, shifting inside of him, and Lan Wangji groans. Each deep, short thrust pushes air from his lungs, and he lacks the strength to catch it again. It is beyond pleasure. It is ecstatic. To have Wei Wuxian around him, inside him, panting above him. A deep, villainous part of him wants it never to end. The rest of him howls for release.

He is dripping now, steadily, onto his own stomach. He can feel it pooling on his belly, unpleasantly cool. He whimpers between desperate, panting breaths, beyond words.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says, breath shivering across Lan Wangji's collarbone, "I can't...can't keep this up, you feel too—" his breath catches, and he pauses. "I'm going to finish. You need to come."

Dimly, distantly, the idea that Wei Wuxian should derive pleasure from this, no matter how perfunctory, gives Lan Wangji a perverse sort of satisfaction. It snuffs out like a candle at the nebulous thought that perhaps in another world, they could have had this for real.

In this world, the fact remains that this has gone on far too long. But Lan Wangji can do nothing about it. He meets Wei Wuxian's thrusts, leans into the pleasure, tries to gain the momentum to go over the edge. He should be able to. It should be easy. He has been so hard for so long, has been given more now than in his absolute wildest and wettest of dreams, and yet he hovers, scant inches away.

Wei Wuxian loses patience, his head dropping to Lan Wangji's shoulder. He grunts softly and fists Lan Wangji's wet cock, quick and merciless. Lan Wangji cries out, shuddering violently with the extended, expansive stimulation, worked both inside and out, helplessly, utterly unmade by Wei Wuxian's touch.

And still he does not crest. He is sobbing steadily now, ugly and jagged, and Wei Wuxian kisses his shoulder, his throat, his cheek.

"Were we wrong?" He asks, breathless. "Lan Zhan please, tell—show me, I...I can't...you...I can't lose you. Lan Zhan?"

Exhausted, Lan Wangji turns his tearstained face toward him, blindly seeking. Perhaps they were all wrong. Perhaps he will die now, like this. And perhaps it is selfish of him, but having heard those words, he finds his regret to be less than it should be. Everything, everything hurts. But Wei Wuxian will miss him, too. Of course he will. They are zhiji. This, miraculously, will not erase that. It is more than he deserves. Wei Wuxian has always been more than he deserves.

Lan Wangji heaves, and writhes, and cries.

Wei Wuxian kisses him. Soft, gloriously cool lips on his.

An odd, fleeting, hollow feeling.

The dam breaks. The pain goes suddenly quiet. Roaring to fullness in its absence is the killing swell of such a long-delayed climax. It is possible that he calls Wei Wuxian's name. It is impossible to know.

The world, again, goes dark.

-----

Lan Wangji wakes to gray light and distant birdsong. A sharp edge is digging into his shoulder. He shifts, then goes still at the deep ache in his entire body.

He remembers.

"Hanguang-jun should drink this," says a brisk voice to his right.

Wen Qing sits there, watching him. His heart skips a beat and he looks down. But he is fully clothed once more.

Her smile is wry as she holds a cup out to him. Laboriously, he sits up to take it. It is bitter, but familiar. A restorative. He thanks her formally.

She shakes her head. "No need.” She turns to go.

"Wen-guniang," Lan Wangji says. She pauses. "How long has it been gone?"

She turns to stare at him. He knows she knows what he means.

"How? When?"

She looks away. "You'll have to ask him."

The pang of loss he felt upon waking with Wei Wuxian gone speaks for him. "Will he let me?"

 He lies on the slab of rock that serves as Wei Wuxian's bed for too long. It is difficult to tell the passage of time in the Burial Mounds, but it seems slightly brighter than it had...before. He reasons that it could well be the next morning. He wonders if Wei Wuxian slept beside him, then tosses the thought away as gross indulgence. He wonders instead, as he has many times since his last visit, if Wei Wuxian sleeps at all.

First, his excuse to tarry is meditation. He works at it, simultaneously restoring his drained core and healing himself, until the discomfort fades from his every movement to just a specific few.

Once that is done, he has no reason to be idle. But the voice in his head, Wei Wuxian's blisteringly cold one that had called him his proper name all those months ago, keeps him in place. He hears it saying all manner of things in response to seeing him now.

"What more could you possibly want of me?" Wei Wuxian sneers in his mind. And he would be right to do so.

But Lan Wangji does not intend to ask anything of him ever again.

And there is the other thing. The fact that his robes should be uncomfortable, filthy, but they have been cleaned, dried, and arranged back onto his body properly. Comfortably. Almost as if—

He dares not imagine. But at the very least it does not speak of utter contempt.

So he rises. He follows the path Wen Qing told him of. And he does something foolish. He hopes.

After no short while of walking, he comes to a slightly darker, more silent corner of deadened forest. He rounds a bend and sees Wei Wuxian crouched a little ways off, and then hears high, lilting notes as if through water. The energies are strange here, and Wei Wuxian is speaking to with them in their own language.

Lan Wangji approaches until he sees Wei Wuxian go still. He says nothing. Wei Wuxian drops his flute from his lips.

"Are you well?" He asks without rising or turning.

"I am."

Wei Wuxian nods. "Your people are waiting for you."

It is a dismissal. Lan Wangji recognizes this. But he will impose just a little bit longer.

"Your core," he says. Wei Wuxian stands abruptly, still facing away, gripping Chenqing. "Can it be replaced?"

Wei Wuxian whirls to face him, anger and fear warring with the questions on his face.

Lan Wangji has other questions, too. But they do not matter. He is intelligent enough to piece together the cold, empty space where Wei Wuxian's core should be, the tired guilt on Wen Qing's face, and...

"Your scar," he says, dropping his gaze to the scorched earth.

He should not know of it. But he does, now, and he also owes a greater debt than he can ever repay. Wei Wuxian does not respond. How dearly Lan Wangji wants to see his expression. But he will not infringe on any more of his privacy.

The wind howls. He waits.

"You won't tell anybody," Wei Wuxian says uncertainly.

Lan Wangji stiffens. "I will not."

"Nobody told you?"

"Nobody.”

Wei Wuxian pauses, momentarily satisfied.

"You're not going to ask how? Or when?"

Lan Wangji would like to. He would like to know everything of Wei Wuxian, even his sorrow, his pain. But he is not entitled to those things. There is only one point that matters.

"Can it be replaced? Can the procedure be reversed?"

Wei Wuxian sighs. Lan Wangji can tell he does not wish to speak of this.

"So single-minded, Lan Zhan," he scolds, then shakes his head. "The chance of success would be small; the chance of finding a donor, much smaller."

But this is all Lan Wangji hoped to hear. It is enough. He goes to his knees, arms circled in front of his chest.

"Allow me," he says.

"Lan Zhan!" Wei Wuxian darts forward, trying to pull Lan Wangji up from the ground. Eventually he gives up and goes to his knees in front of him, pushing at his arms. "Lan Zhan, stop this," he says, panicked. "Don't be stupid, stop—Lan Zhan, you can't be serious."

"Please allow me," Lan Wangji repeats, eyes downcast.

"Stop this!" Wei Wuxian shouts. "It can't be done, and I wouldn't take it from you anyway!"

Lan Wangji flinches bodily. He had not considered...but yes. Everything in him is sullied. He bends at the waist, bowing further.

"Apologies for the offense," he says, then snaps his mouth shut. His voice is too obviously strained.

"Lan Zhan?" Wei Wuxian says, still alarmed.

Lan Wangji needs to leave. He has already overstayed. But he...he has not tried hard enough.

"This debt is too great to repay in one lifetime," he says. "Please inform this one of what he may do to begin."

Wei Wuxian sags, dragging one of Lan Wangji's wrists with him. "Lan Zhan, there is no debt between us."

Lan Wangji only just stops himself from glancing up. He does not understand.

"I owe you my life and more," he says. "You took great pains to save me, even as the situation proved me unworthy of it. I owe—"

"You owe me nothing," Wei Wuxian insists, shaking Lan Wangji's arm. "There were no great pains. Nobody is unworthy. Well...you aren't."

Lan Wangji opens his mouth to protest, but Wei Wuxian speaks over him.

"People have...desires, Lan Zhan. There's nothing unworthy about it."

"But you—"

"Stop," he says. He sounds so, so tired. "If you hadn't been...dying. If we—" He stops. "Just keep my secret," he says, and lets go of his wrist. "And live well."

Lan Wangji closes his eyes. The thought of going back to his home, his life, after this, had not yet occurred to him. It sinks him from his knees to the ground. How can he do this? How can he leave him this way?

"Wei Ying," he pleads. "I must...I must do something. I cannot...I..."

"Why, Lan Zhan?" Wei Wuxian asks, not unkindly. "You have responsibilities. People to protect, just like me. Live well, and count things even between us. Why not?"

Lan Wangji’s chest caves in. He does not make the sound clawing up his throat.

"You...truly, you must know why," he says. "After... you must know. I would not leave you in need. I could not."

"Ah, Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says sadly. He shuffles forward. Lan Wangji startles at the feel of fingertips on his cheek. "You're too good. But all I need is," he huffs, "political asylum for me and 40 friends? It's not your burden."

Suddenly yet slowly, like the first burst of sunrise, an idea reveals itself on the horizon of Lan Wangji’s mind. It is unorthodox. And likely unwelcome. But it is all he has.

"My uncle made a suggestion," he says. "When my affliction became known. It is true that he did not know what it would mean, but I would hold him to it. If it is not...hateful, to you."

"I don't know what you mean," Wei Wuxian says warily.

Lan Wangji steels himself. "You are perceived as the head of a sect. A proper alliance could protect your people, and Gusu Lan is in need of hands for rebuilding. The person who cast this curse upon me has given the perfect excuse, and made themselves scapegoat. If you would...I would not ask anything of you, if you agreed. It would be a marriage in name only, as you wish it."

Wei Wuxian's silence turns to spluttering. "M—Lan Zh—marriage?? What—how—"

"If the idea is odious, I will not mention it again. But as I said. My uncle suggested it. And under the circumstances, he cannot refuse."

"Your—he—Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, look at me. Look at me, please."

Lan Wangji looks at him. His eyes are wide. Disbelieving. Concerned.

"Your uncle would qi deviate if you even hinted at such a thing," he says. "Gusu Lan is in a precarious enough position, you don't need...I have nothing to offer in return." He pats his lower stomach, empty of spiritual energy, emphatically. “Nothing. Don't be ridiculous."

"It is not ridiculous," Lan Wangji argues, certain now that he is right. "You can offer more protection for us, and we can offer legitimacy. The person who cast this curse can be seen to have forced our hands. Has—has forced our hands."

He stops himself. He should not push this. Wei Wuxian is looking at him as if he does not know him.

"You don't want to marry me, Lan Zhan."

This gives Lan Wangji pause. It is a confusing objection, to say the least. He stares, trying to comprehend. He clears his throat. Takes a breath.

"If you are under the impression..." he stops. Drops his eyes once more. "...that the...impetus of the curse. Is the whole of the way I—”

"Demonic cultivation," Wei Wuxian interrupts. "It would be unhealthy. For you. And your elders! They wouldn't let me, not if I were...attached to your sect. To you.”

A fair concern, and one Lan Wangji has been turning over in his own mind as well. "Is this your only objection?"

Wei Wuxian casts about. "Ah..."

Lan Wangji takes one last plunge. "The elders can be reasoned with, compromises can be made. I am not concerned for my health: being near you could never be harmful to me." He hears himself, then, and amends, "Though you need not. Be near me. That is not a condition."

"You would defend this?" Wei Wuxian asks, bemused.

"Defend what?"

"My cultivation path. You..."

Lan Wangji resists a sigh. "I understand the reason, now. And I believe...if you did not object. We could work toward making it safe, without stripping you of what your hard work has created."

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says. He reaches out, then stops.

Lan Wangji stares at his hand, hovering between them. His heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his eyes, in his tongue.

"Wei Ying."

"You would let me, though?"

His tone is gently mocking. His head is cocked to the side, the edge of a smile playing across his lips. It knocks the breath from Lan Wangji's chest.

"Let you?" He asks, dazed.

"Be near you."

Lan Wangji's heart stops. It is a moment before he can respond.

"I would. Always."

Wei Wuxian takes his hand, and sighs. "You don't owe me this," he says again.

"I do," Lan Wangji counters, off-kilter. "I owe you. And I want to. I would want to, even if—"

He loosens his tight grip on Wei Wuxian's hand. He is saying too much, taking too much, being too much. He settles himself. Finds the words that matter.

"It would be a thing happily given, with no strings attached, should you wish it."

Wei Wuxian laughs strangely. "Lan Zhan, you really..." He shakes his head. "I'd marry you in an instant, you know," says.

Lan Wangji's neck hurts from the speed with which he looks up at him. Hope, warm and liquid, blooms through his limbs.

"But I can't make this decision on my own," Wei Wuxian goes on. "It's not just my life. We have to talk it over with everyone."

"Yes," Lan Wangji says, surprised, and eager now that he sees the possibility of success. Of doing something of use.

"Alright," says Wei Wuxian, a smile hidden in the corner of his mouth. "I can't promise...but it...it could work."

"It will," Lan Wangji says, certain that the strength of his conviction alone will carry them through if need be.

He feels strange and dreamlike, confused but heartened by the turn in this conversation. That Wei Wuxian can stand the sight of him, let alone wish to ally with him personally, seems too wonderful to be true. Another Wei Wuxian hallmark.

"But Lan Zhan, no more talk of strings," Wei Wuxian says.

Lan Wangji sobers and nods. It is unseemly. Of course their understanding must be a tacit one, now.

But his hand is suddenly in both of Wei Wuxian's.

"You need to stop feeling guilty," Wei Wuxian says, looking down at it. "If I were your husband...if I were. We could try all that again, but without the impending doom. We could try it again any way we like, any time—all the time—and we'd—"

"Wei Ying," Lan Wangji interrupts, strangled. His heart is in his throat. He cannot comprehend what he is hearing. His ears, his face, are on fire.

Wei Wuxian smiles down at their hands, one part shy, one part mischief. "I think we could get really good at it, if we had the chance, don't you?"

Lan Wangji stares at him. "You..."

"Mn," says Wei Wuxian, meeting his eyes.

He shines so bright, even without any core to speak of. He takes Lan Wangji's breath away.

"I take it back," Wei Wuxian says, his voice suddenly urgent. "I like strings. Mine is that if this happens, I want to be your real husband. In name, in practice, in bed, and in your heart. Because you would be, in mine."

Lan Wangji's voice sticks in his throat. He feels...he feels unreal. He does not know what to do, to say. Perhaps they never broke the curse at all and he has simply gone mad. But Wei Wuxian's fingers stroking his palm, the root-knotted dirt beneath his shins, are real. He sways, unbalanced.

Wei Wuxian reaches out. Catches him. Folds him into his arms for a second time. Lan Wangji's breath shudders out of him.

He is on his knees, breathlessly held in the arms of his beloved. He has dreamt this many ways. But never has it been so real, so full of hope. He wraps his arms around Wei Wuxian in turn, buries his face in his shoulder.

Wei Wuxian huffs. "Jiang Cheng is going to be so angry."

Lan Wangji comes back down to earth. It is true he had not thought of this. He makes to pull away. "How should—"

Wei Wuxian clutches him tighter. "I don't care," he says, "I don't care, we can manage him." He pauses, then speaks more softly. "Maybe...I could see shijie's wedding after all. Or—no. It's too soon, I—"

"Yes," says Lan Wangji. "You will. We will go together."

Wei Wuxian takes a deep breath, and lets it out into Lan Wangji's hair.

"Together," he says.

It takes several serious, and at times uncomfortable, discussions, but in the end, Gusu Lan’s Second Jade is indeed thoroughly removed from the marriage pool of the great sects. The curse caster is found and punished. And everybody else lives happily ever after.

The end.

-----

(Thank you for coming on this wildly self-indulgent journey, I hope you enjoyed it. If you’d like to read some actually nicely-polished, fleshed-out fics by me—including another sex-cursed LWJ—check out my AO3.)

[darkdevasofdestruction]

An Angel and A Demon ~ Pyramid Head x Reader

Update 2: My laptop restarted when I was in the middle of writing this, and trust me when I say it, I am positively pissed off, and I want to end my days, that's how bad of a day this was.

And I didn't leave the house.

That says a lot about today...

Update 1: But, without further ado, I was half-way writing this story, and I received this ask, and let me tell you...

helloooo, i absolutely adored the fanfics you wrote about kazan and danny🥺 could i request one where pyramid head is just really whipped for and in love with the survivor! reader but he doesnt know how to announce it to them so he brings her random ,,gifts" in and outside the trials and protecting her bc well, im pretty sure he cant speak so he doesnt really have any other options on how to express his feelings??

I live for it.

Bless you for sending me this, it's the reason I'm still sane right now.

I love you, baby-cakes.

Update 3: I want to kill myself so bad. Just smash my head on a wall until it explodes or sth. I was so happy with how this imagine turned out, only fuck fucking tumblr to just fucking delete EVERYTHING just as I was about to put the last gif and hit POST NOW.

--------

For the 5th time writing this :

FUCKMEDADDY - but this time - FUCKMYBRAINSOUTPLEASEIWANNADIE

Thanks.

-------

Hell - What was that place, anyway?

Some would describe it as an infinite ocean of flames and lava, where it's eternally melting-hot, and a bunch of hooved, horned, tailed red demons torture you with acid, with their red pitch forks, or boil you alive in their cauldron for soup. Or maybe you just get tortured by Stalin, who knows?

But never would have anyone thought that 'Hell' could look so...Normal. Well, normal in a very demolished, desolate, ravished way, but still...Normal, by human standards. Albeit, the never-ending loop of madness, anguish, agony and desperation of getting killed in different gruesome ways or fleeing for their lives and feeling a myriad of emotions pumping adrenaline through their veins so badly that their anxiety-meter skyrocketed to abnormal levels.

All this darkness, this hatred, this...Everything...It changed all the survivors. They became selfish, stubborn, rude, some even went as far as to sacrifice their fellow survivors in trials, just so they could survive. It was a complete mayhem that defied all kinds of reason, normality, morality or even ethics. Everyone became devoid of any laws that used to bind them to their humane sides, and now, you weren't sure if the killers were saner than the survivors or not.

But even in this abyss where you couldn't even see your hand in front of your very eyes, there was a little star - A beautiful angel radiating brightness and warmth, someone who was somehow able to guide everyone's straying souls with her benevolence.

In reality, she was merely a survivor, not the little lantern from an angler fish's head, but she treated everyone with such an untainted kindness...It was beautiful, and yet, unrequited for most parts. Everyone was still putting their own lives above all - And who could condemn them? - Perhaps their cowardice, for the girl preferred to save her fellow survivors as much as possible, even if that oftentimes assured her place on the hook, to be a sacrificial lamb for the Entity.

On the other hand, she rarely ended up on the hook - Most killers prefer to kill her themselves, instead of letting her become pray for the horrible Entity who tortured so many of them for refusing to cooperate - The Trapper, Evan MacMillan - He knew the best, with those hooks digging into his flesh, impossible to extract. He was the first to protect this girl. It wasn't much, but if he had to, he'd rather give her a swift, painless death, than seeing her without that serene, angelic smile on her face, as the Entity feeds on the last bits of her soul's beauty, the last parts of her humanity.

The other Killers were confused at the Trapper's actions, but little by little, they began to understand why this girl was so precious and special - And this domino effect hit Rin Yamaoka next, with Y/N stopping in the middle of a chase and taking off her jacket, just as Rin was about to butcher her with her katana, and she smiled, extending it to her. 'You must be cold' she said, realising that the Spirit was merely wearing a few bandages, not even her school uniform, or her kimono.

The ghost girl was shaken up by this, and told the others at the killer camp, but they just shrugged it off - Rin was a little girl who faced close to no kindness, they weren't surprised she was so taken aback by such a feat. That is, until Adiris, in a particularly terrible day, when everyone at the camp was staying away from her, as her profane censer wasn't able to cover the stench of rotting flesh - Y/N came over, taking out a small yet elegant glass bottle with pink liquid on it, spraying some on her - And now, The Plague smelled of roses and vanilla - 'You can come to me for perfume whenever you want, I always carry some with me!' she grinned at the Babylonian High Priestess, before leaving back to the survivor's camp site, leaving the ancient God symbol to stare with her mouth agape at the girl.

These words began to spread, and it was no surprise when the killers saw Susie clinging and begging her Legion friends to spare Y/N, for she was there to hug away her worries more than once, to tell her sweet words, to play with her hair and play the guitar whatever songs she wanted to hear, to get reminded of her home - She was so home sick that she freaked out, but now she was better, thanks to Y/N - 'I know you miss home, but sometimes, home is where your best friends are, and all three of them are here!' she tried to encourage the cute pink-haired girl who could only squeal and hug her new friend.

Even Ghostface wasn't exempt from falling to her charms, and they would often take silly selfies and mess around, making fun of the old horror movie tropes and doing lots of puns and pranks - So much that she even got his trust to be told about the Danny/Jed thing, and how he began his killer profession - 'You're a very talented photographer, Danny! You deserved all that recognition you got, both as a journalist, and as a killer!'

And very soon, Y/N found herself in the crushing arms of an overprotective Anna, humming her mother's lullaby together with walking through the forest, Y/N making flower crows for all the female killers at the camp site, and little by little, she somehow managed to worm her way under everyone's skins.

Y/N was the survivor with the highest survivability percentage, and maybe the Entity sometimes got pissed off, but at least she still got killed sometimes, so who cares? Well, that was soon to change as soon as a new Killer was added to this sick game - Pyramid Head, the terror of Silent Hill, as Cheryl, the new Survivor, called him - or The Executioner, as he was known now. He was ruthless, merciless, grotesque - He had his own criteria of killing, his own moral compass, ethics, conscience and understanding of the concept of life and death. Nothing that could compare to the visions of humans, clearly - Everything was gravitating around Divine Retribution and Justice, but the from the outside, he was nothing but a killing machine.

He would kill everyone and anyone that crosses his path, without fail.

Y/N felt like her fortune ended completely the second she found herself in the new, overly cramped map, with Pyramid Head as the killer - She couldn't help but run around like a spazzic meerkat, trying to find and fix as many generators as possible, without having to get face to face with the walking hazard...

Only to run past a stuck Pyramid Head.

Slowly backtracing her steps, she saw the mountain of a man with his metal pyramid stuck in the frames a low window which he tried to walk over. He was trashing like a raged bull trying to attack a matador, but it was clear he was getting nowhere with this.

"H-Hey, u-uhm...Need some help?" she asked in a soft, careful voice, almost like a meek cat trying to test the waters, but in return, he started groaning even louder from the wrath he wanted to unleash upon the whole world. "Okay, uhm...I think I saw a can of vaseline in one of the chests around. I'll go fetch it and I'll come back for you. Don't move." she said, only to then realise how horrible that sounded, considering the situation, and it only seemed to anger the killer. "...I'm sorry, ignore me, I'm an idiot." she slapped herself pretty harshly before bolting out of there trying to find the chest.

However, Y/N cursed herself for not having perfectly memorised the whole map by heart already, since she found the vaseline can after the 3rd chest, and then, it took quite a while to find the bloody window that got the killer stuck - And by the time she got there, she was dead tired. "Okay, I'm here, I found the vaseline! Let's try to get you out of here." Y/N muttered as she put her feet on the low window pane to get to his level. "If it's not too much trouble, could you please hold onto me? I can't balance myself with both hands occupied, and I'd rather not fall." she explained as she opened the vaseline can, only to shiver as she felt two big, strong hands getting a firm grip on her hips. It was almost...Endearing, were she not too busy trying to get the killer unstuck. She kept massaging the metal edge, trying to push and pull, also praying to whatever deity that existed in her human world that she had her tetanus shot done on time - Until finally, she was able to get hear a loud screech, like a pop, and the killer got unstuck, and in the process, he stumbled backwards, while Y/N fell down on her butt.

"Ouchie..." she muttered, rubbing her back and sides to take away the pain surging through her body. "Are you okay?" she asked, almost intuitively, without realising it at first, until she heart a low grunt that brought her back to reality. "O-Oh...! You have glass shards stuck in your side! And you're bleeding too! Hold up, let me help." she hurried to his side, while the killer merely stiffened, feeling her delicate, slender fingers tracing his body, while he heaved and slouched his shoulders from the repressed wrath. "It may sting a bit, and I'm really sorry, but I promise it will be better soon." her voice was so motherly and warm, which also resonated in her actions, as she gingerly took a water bottle and imbued some tissues with it, to wipe away the blood smearing down his skin as she extracted the glass shards, and then..."This is grandma's marigold ointment. It's really good, and it smells nice." she explained as she carefully smeared a thick layer of the yellow ointment on the biggest wounds, while the little ones were covered by smiley-flower patterned plasters. They were cute, and colourful, and they never failed to make her smile. "Okay, there we go, all better! I hope you'll feel better very soon!" her voice got a tiny bit more cheerful and upbeat.

It made the Killer think about a trillion things, as he stepped in front of her, towering over her like the Empire states building next to a smiling pomeranian. What was with this girl? Why did she help a killer? And why did he feel so...Warm inside? He could sense a foreign kind of luminosity, a naivite and innocence that he only witnessed in children and animals. This woman in front of him was untainted by the darkness and evil of the world.

It didn't matter how many hardships she's been through, or how much sadness she had to endure - Her soul remained as pure as any snowdrop, as the first snow of winter, as the fleece of a baby lamb who let out its first 'meeeeh' to its mamma sheep.

He couldn't allow this human to be maimed in any way - Not by the world, not by the Entity, and certainly not by him. - Screw the Entity, Pyramind Head kills by his own rules, and now, he was blessed to be faced with a human who bore no real hatred for her peers, or for the world, despite the horrible situation she was thrown into.

He didn't understand, obviously, especially as he remembered the myriad of abominations that lurked through Silent Hill, all of them created by the torment of humans - The very torment that distorted their own reality, which resulted in him needing to solve the purpose as The Executioner - Eradicating the world of all evil.

"Th-This sword is so heavy...H-How can you carry this around like that...?! Your muscles must be so strained and sore...Y-You really need a massage, I'm sure." she stuttered as she tried to lift the much taller and heavier sword from the ground, only for the brute to simply bend and pick it up with extreme ease, putting the girl to shame with her complete lack of strength. "Hehe...You're really strong. I'm embarrassed now." she chuckled softly, scratching the back of her neck.

Before she could leave or do anything else, Pyramid Head picked her up by the throat, careful not to hurt her or restrict her air intake - I mean, how else was he supposed to carry her so he wouldn't hurt her with his metal head or sword? - and it was pretty clear she didn't feel any malevolence from him, as she clinged on his forearm, trying to keep herself up, only to be dumped on top of the hatch, as the killer pointed towards it, so she would leave.

"O-Oh...! Thank you so much! You're really kind! I really appreciate this...I-I know it probably doesn't matter much to you, since you'll be doing this over and over again with all the survivors...But I really appreciate you for your kind gesture, and I appreciate you for being so nice with me. Thank you. Take care!" her dazzling smile lit the whole place up, but he couldn't talk, nor could he tell her how he should be the one thanking her for showing him that, despite the hundreds and thousands of years he had to roam the 'Earth' and execute the injust, miracles still existed.

As soon as she reached the survivor's camp, everyone cheered for her, asking how in the world could she have escaped the wrath of the butcher. "Oh, but he wasn't that bad. In fact, he's much more humane than I anticipated! I think he has a beautiful, blooming heart!" okay, she's lost it - the other survivors thought - but even so, she's always been a bit...Out of it, so who cares?

It took quite a while for the other three survivors to reach the camp, all bloody, in fact, like the new killer, who dragged himself with the same menace to the Killers' camp. "How the hell did you manage to survive?!" they yelled at her in utter shock, seeing that she got out of there unscratched. "Oh, you see...I found the hatch." she shrugged simply, not wanting to give away that the person who massacred those three was a soft one and he basically threw her down the hatch to her safety.

As she took a twig to roast a marshmallows, she noticed how Pyramid Head was standing much farther away from the rest of the killers - She knew that silent killers were bound to stay away from the more obnoxious one, remembering how Michael Myers almost killed Ghostface and The Legion at least a dozen times - But this time...He seemed kinda...Lonely? So Y/N took the matters into her own hands, roasted another marshmallow in another twig, and when it was done, she went to the killer's camp, calling out the lonely one's name - She has no idea why, but he actually followed her, pushing her further deep into the forest, until he was sure nobody was going to hear, see or interrupt them...

"Hey. You seemed pretty lonely out there...I thought you could use a friend. Thank you again for what you did at the trial...Here, this is a marshmallow. I don't think you've had many before...Cheryl told me of that horrible place you had to live in...So I hope this will make your day a bit better!" Y/N extended one of her hands towards him, so he could take the marshmallow - And a long, black tongue erupted from underneath the pyramid, snatching away the fluffy marshmallow and gulping it in one go.

What the hell was he turning into?

A towering man built of pure muscle, wrath and divine justice, with a pyramid representing the evil of humanity burdening his body, and a sword taller and heavier than the average human being constantly dragged in one of his hand...He now was a slave to a cute, innocent girl who was putting flower plasters on his minuscule wounds that would heal in a heartbeat regardless - He saved this girl who was now offering his these soft, squishy things that tasted overly sugarly, just like her upbeat and cheerful personality - If he could eat her, he was sure she would taste even sweeter than this - A sickish kind of sweet, that is.

She was indeed a beautiful angel in this tragic hell. But he didn't wait to snatch the second marshmallow either.

"Ah...! You liked it, didn't you? Well...Next time, I promise I'll give you more!" she grinned at him the same way a princess would to her chivalrous knight who saved her. The since he couldn't talk, silence took over them - It wasn't an uncomfortable one, per se, but it made it feel as if the conversation was over. "W-Well...I'll guess I'll see you around! Take care and I hope to see you again soon!" she waved cutely, trying to turn around back to her camp, only to feel a rough hand on her shoulder, turning her around and urging her to stop and wait for him and he went deep into the forest, leaving her alone and undefended by the potential malevolent forces of the forest.

When he returned, however, he stepped right in front of her, creating the perfect shade as he towered over her - Then he kneeled in front of her, so he would reach her eye sight, then he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and put a beautiful pink flower - As pink as the blush that started creeping on her face - He wanted to see her luminous face better, to highlight her dazzling smile and her glimmering eyes as the warm, silver light of the mother moon caressed her face.

Y/N felt her heart picking up the pace - It was beating so much faster than ever before - But this time, it wasn't out of fear or anything negative...It was something good. Something she never felt in her life, especially with her human acquaintances from back home. None was as chivalrous and gentle with her as this butcher of tormented souls - The bringer of justice, the merciless Executioner who was supposed to end the life of every living being that would cross his path.

It was insane how every Yin finds its Yang, even if that comes in the form of a little lamb of a small, frail girl, and a huge abomination of a brute man who knows nothing but death, bloodshed and carnage. It was truly crazy how opposites attract, and here she was, holding the killers large hands and gingerly putting them on her face, leaning into his touch - She felt safer now than ever in her life - Now, in the arms of an ancient killer.

An Angel and A Demon brought together in a perfect union.

As she leaned down, she touched the metal of the pyramid where she anticipated his forehead would be with her own forehead, and closing her eyes, she finally felt herself calming down. There was no need for words, actions spoke louder than anything, and she appreciated it...She appreciated him.

"Thank you." she whispered to him, knowing that yes, even though nobody else would hear it anyway, it was much more intimate than anything she ever experienced.

She was hooked.

Hope you liked my completely shameless pun, I couldn't stop it, especially after the pain I went through trying to write this...3 freaking times.

Yay.

[interlunium-opus]

Enhypen as your Best Friend: Jake edition

Check out other members’ versions too: Heeseung | Jay | Sunghoon | Sunoo | Jungwon | Ni-Ki

Is so kind, caring and selfless that he makes you feel like the spawn of evil or something.

“Jake, what the hell? You have all these cards, you could have won instead!” You shriek when you flip his cards over and discovered that he had enough +4 UNO card to flip the game over.

“Yeah, but you’d have to pick up like 20 extra cards,” he shrugs, picking up the cards to reorganize them.

“So?”

“Well, I don’t want to do that,” he mumbles before shooting you his signature megawatt smile, “Not to you at least. 10/10 would do it to Ni-Ki though.”

Always keep you at the forefront of his mind.

When he’s at the coffee shop: “Oh, I bet she hasn’t had her coffee yet,” and then he goes on to order you your usual.

When he’s at the bakery: “Oh, I bet she hasn’t had her lunch yet — gotta get her something,” and then he goes on to buy a selection of your favorite pastries.

When he’s shopping, “Oh, she really loves clothes like this — I’ll just get it for her.”

When he passes by a bookstore, “Oh, that’s the kind of book she likes,” then he quickly disappears into the bookstore to get it for you.

“What are you? Her mum?” Sunghoon would often complain as he is always the one being made to wait while Jake is busy getting you stuffs.

Quality time with him would consist of activities like baking nights; picnics; volunteer sessions and so on. Being the selfless lad he is though, he’d always take it upon himself to do the majority of the hard work (though he’ll slot in a chance to brag about himself in between especially if it concerns his strength or skills).

“Oh gosh, this is why restaurants and bakeries exists,” you complain as you rolled the dough for the umpteenth time.

“Let me,” he set down the cream he was mixing, offering to take over.

“Dude, no — you’re more exhausted than I am from your soccer practice, I have absolutely no right to compl-“

“Aww don’t worry about it. You’ve been studying all night too,” he assures, pulling a chair and beckoning you to sit down instead, “besides, I have the strength of like a hundred men so yknow things like these are peanuts for me,” he snickers.

Boi is flirty as heck though. Thank God, you have ice in your veins. Otherwise, you’d be catching feelings quicker than you can spell out his name.

“Do you want anything?” He asks as you guys stand in line at Starbucks.

You shook your head, “Nah, not a fan. I like Coffee Bean better.”

"Oh we can stop by later then," he suggests.

"It's fine Jake, we've already passed it by earlier."

Then suddenly after disappearing for some 15 minutes to allegedly take a call outside, Jake returned, oddly out of breath, with a Coffee Bean paper bag, filled with your usual coffee order.

“Dude! Coffee Bean is like what almost 8 minutes away by walk?! That's like a 16 minute return-trip or something...”

“Less if you run," he winks, “Come on, for you — anything."

Then as per his habits, he’d bite his lips as he grins.

Or that other time, during one of your baking nights:

“You know if you’re tired you can always cancel our baking night right?” You suggest as you unlock the door to your apartment.

“No way — it’s like our weekly ritual. Also it’s like therapeutic for me, a respite from all those rowdy boys at home; rowdy boys at practice and my hectic lifestyle,” he posits, placing the groceries, which he had insisted to carry, up onto your kitchen counter, “unless of course you’re tired? Then of course we can-“

“Never as tired as you’re supposed to be though — if you say so, then sure.”

“Aww,” he coos, “Seriously, if you’re tired, I’ll take over tonight.”

“No way, you’re always taking up my share of work, I feel like a freeloader.”

“Oh come on, freeloading is when it’s one-sided. We aren’t like that.”

“You must really like baking huh?”

“I mean yeah but actually, it’s not the baking per se that I love the most from our baking nights,” Jake murmurs as he help you unpack the groceries, “it’s being with you that I love the most. That’s the therapeutic part, you; making things together with you; making things for you; —“

You stopped unpacking and stare up at him, wondering what have you done so far to even deserve Jake. He stares back at you, beaming widely, “basically you.” ((Yeah he bit his lips after that))

As if there’s gravity, his hands are somewhat always on you whether it is an arm over your shoulders; his hand holding yours whenever you guys cross the road; his hand reaching yours whenever you just put a hand up to wave at him in the hallway; all the tackle hugs he does whenever he sees you; resting his head against your shoulders; and the list goes on (nothing you’re uncomfortable with though). No wonder the girls are always shooting glares at you — he’s always acting as if you guys are dating.

“Gosh, get a room!” Jay would always scream whenever he's around you two and Jake starts to get all clingy and handsy.

A good exemplary student but for you, just for you, he can make some sort of light concession. For instance, if you doze off in class, he’d cover your back.

“Oh crap, I dozed off didnt I?”

“A bit,” Jake whispers back, “Go back to sleep, I’ll wake you up once he starts moving around the hall,” he winks.

“Nah I shouldn’t, I’ve already missed out a whole page of notes,” you sigh when suddenly Jake pushes his book towards you, “Got you covered girl, don’t worry. Just get another 5 minutes of shut-eye alright? I know you pulled up an all-nighter last night.”

“I wish you’re as lenient to me as you to her,” Ni-Ki grumbles beside him.

Jake scoffs, “Nah not you bruh — you deserve being found out when you’re napping when all you do at night is playing games with Heeseung.”

Would excitedly wave at you, or send a flying kiss at you if he feels daring, during his soccer matches whenever he spots you in the crowd.

Playfully competitive in a very annoying way. “Hey, bet you can’t run faster than I can..." / “Hey, bet you can’t finish the homework within an hour..." / "Hey, bet you can’t squat more than I do...” — it’s ok though, you thought, ‘cus no human is perfect, he has to have a flaw especially when his selflessness is inhumanely off the charts.

Your study buddy! You guys are always either in the library, the class or at each other’s places — mostly to study (if you guys aren’t having your non-study-related quality time, that is). Of course, he’d get competitive eventually, “hey, bet you can’t solve question 12! I got it in just what 3 minutes?”

Boi is a coward but he would brave through anything for you (at least *try* to). That's how everyone knows you're his soft spot.

"Jake, you hate horror movies.”

“But you love the Conjuring series”

“Yeah, but I can just watch it alone. You don’t need to accompany me to the theatre for this.”

“Nah, why would I do that to you? Come on have some faith in me — horror movies are nothing.”

and then you found out from a trusted informant (Jungwon) that Jake couldnt sleep without the lights on for 1 week straight after that.

[illusionsofdreaming]

would it be okay to request headcanons with the main trio from TCF who aren't in a relationship with the (fem) reader yet but they like each other, the guys get hurt or something and the reader is so scared of losing them or was so anxious that she ended up kissing them? You can edit a few parts if you'd prefer! thank you, i know you have a lot of requests but you're the only one who writes x reader for them-

Notes: It took forever+forever but I finally gave up trying to perfect it- y'all just going to have to deal with these half baked potatos as I sob in the corner for my lack of functioning writing braincells.

+ 'nonny I know you asked for Fem reader but I'm just so used to writing gender neutral nowadays I actually forgot to write Fem reader in. Uh. I mean it's gender neutral so it should work regardless?? I'msorrypleaseforgivemeforthisblunder

Ft: Cale, Alberu, Choi Han

Cale Henituse

He’s covered in blood.

Again.

He glanced down at his shirt, once white, now completely soaked and rapidly losing warmth. The icky feeling of sticky cloth stuck on skin caused goosebumps to break out all over his arms. The lethargy that weighed on him was hard to ignore, but expected after using his ancient powers-

“Cale!”

He turned just as the full force of you barrelled into him and he staggered, unbalanced and would’ve fallen had you not pulled him back. He barely had time to protest at your rough greeting when you began frantically patting him down as if scouring him for weapons.

“There’s so much- where are you hurt?” you demanded harshly, your tone pitched higher than normal. “Raon call for Saint Jack and the others, medics- anyone that can help!”

“Y-yes! I-I will! Weak hu-human you better not die or I will destroy the kingdom!”

“Wai-“ his protests were ignored as the dragon flew off, leaving Cale dumbfounded with his jaw hanging down in disbelief. “Wait you don’t have to find the others, I’m fi-“

“Cale Henituse, if I hear you say ‘I’m fine’ I’m going to sock you to kingdom fucking come.“ you seethed. His lips snapped shut obediently, swallowing the aforementioned phrase down as a foreboding chill crept down his spine.

But I am..?

“How could you..” your voice shook even as you clung onto his soaked shirt so tightly your knuckles turned white. “You’re always doing stupid things like this…”

Cale frowned, feeling a bit indignant. Sure his plans weren’t the most thought out at times, but to call them stupid…

“If you waited for us to come, then you wouldn’t have to- why do you keep sacrificing yourself like this?”

That triggered an alarm in his head. What strange things were you talking about? The act of sacrifice were done by martyrs and selfless heroes and Cale Henituse was neither of those. He wanted to correct your misunderstanding but you were worked up and hysterical and it was with horror that he realised you were crying.

“________-“

“Don’t talk! Please, just conserve your energy- I won’t let you die, I promised the kids and the others- I won’t let you-”

The alarm bells in his head rang even louder and he fought to be heard over your rambling, “_________- no one’s dying, I’m fine-” it felt as if his heart had leapt to his throat as he stopped your fist before it could make contact. You really weren’t joking when you said you’d punch him. He tightened his hold on your wrist when you tried to twist out of his grip and swallowed nervously. “I’m not hurt _________,“ he emphasised, willing you to meet his eyes.

“Stop bullshitting me Cale- how much of a fucking idiot do you take me for? How can anyone be fine after losing this much blood-“

“It’s not mine.”

You stilled in his grasp.

“…W-what?”

He frowned. Was it really that hard to believe his words? “The blood’s not mine.” he repeated and made sure to meet your disbelieving gaze head on so that you could verify the truth in his words. “They were cut down before they could harm me. None of this blood is mine. I was not hurt.“ It was a partial lie. He did cough out some blood after instinctively activating the shield for protection but he felt that that was knowledge you’d be better off not knowing.

The coiled tension in you leaked out and Cale slowly released his grip on your hand and took a cautious step back - just in case. It was a good thing he managed to deescalate the situation before the others arrived. Just convincing one person was hassle enough and from experience alone, he knew the others weren’t as merciful when it came to learning about his injuries, regardless of severity or his protests otherwise. Cale shuddered. He really didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Ron’s cold smile again. He glanced up and saw Raon’s flying figure and he waved lazily to the dragon hoping the young one would understand that the healers were no longer necessary, it had only been a false alarm.

“..ot.”

“Hm?” He looked down, hearing you mumble but didn’t quite catch what you’d said.

He was not prepared to be yanked forward and for your lips to mash against his. There was a brief sting where your teeth had caught on his lip and the uncomfortable sensation of having your teeth clack against each other, noses in the way. He froze, like a deer caught in headlights, thoughts reeling but before he could think of acting, to push or pull you in even closer-

You let him go just as abruptly and he staggered, breath stolen, mind in absolute disarray.

Then you slapped him. Which definitely cleared his thoughts. “You idiot!”

Stupefied, he watched as you stormed off, stuck in a daze as he cradled his face where his cheek and lips tingled for different reasons.

“…What..?”

Choi Han

Choi Han didn’t know what Cale saw in you back then, a complete stranger whom they saved by chance and nursed back to health with utmost care. You, who Cale insisted was the final key to their masterplan and then asked Choi Han to act as your escort.

There were many things Choi Han didn’t understand when it came to Cale-nim’s decisions. But that wasn’t so unusual and he’d never made it a habit to question Cale’s reasoning, having learned to be patient, knowing the pieces would eventually slot together in the grand picture. So although initially wary he was of your unclear history and affiliation, he stayed by your side and did his duty without question.

And perhaps after weeks of accompanying you, he’s beginning to see what Cale saw. Though powerless and weak, you were righteous and passionate, holding true to your belief even in the face of adversaries. You were the perfect replacement for the tyrannical ruler of the country, someone capable of salvaging the crumbling system of a neglected, abused society and lifting it to new heights and glory.

With the flames of revolution ignited, everything hinged on getting you safely to Cale on the final stage. While the revolutionaries fought and acted as distractions above ground, he escorted you through the abandoned waterways.

The undergrounds were dark and cramped, incredibly disadvantageous to a swordsman such as himself. When assassins leaped out in an ambush; Choi Han didn’t hesitate. Without time nor space to draw his sword, he pushed you behind him and raised his arm to block the strike.

As the momentum of the assassin’s blade stopped, it became simple matter to quickly disarm and finish them. Having checked and affirmed that there’s no forthcoming attacks, he urged you to hurry, now worried as they weren’t expected to be discovered so soon.

Something must’ve happened, we should hurry to Cale-nim’s side-

He was halted with a firm grip on his other hand and was pulled back as he was met with your stern, unwavering gaze and declaration that you will not move another step from this spot until his arm got treated first.

Which was a ridiculous request considering they were running on a tight schedule. He frowned and his fingers flexed against the hilt of his sword as you pulled him to the side.

When none of his objections were being heard, he tried reasoning with you. The wound may look horrible, but he’d assured you he’d angled his arm just so that the blade would’ve caught on his bone rather than tendons. It was a strategic move that not only blocked momentum but also kept damage to his non-dominant arm at the minimum. He would not have bled to death nor would he be crippled from it, something that barely needed the emergency care you insisted on.

“It’s not necessary, we need to get to the tower room first.”

“The room is not moving anywhere, I’d rather not risk having you develop an infection because you neglected to care for your wound.“

He flinched when alcohol was poured on the cut and Choi Han breathed out slowly, his frustration mounting as precious seconds passed. Something in his chest stirred uncomfortably. He’s not accustomed to having others care for his wounds, having spent so many years caring for them himself whilst hiding his weaknesses from monsters in the Forest of Darkness.

“I will attend to it after I’ve brought you to Master Cale’s side, we must-“

Your eyes flashed with anger as your grip tightened painfully around his arm. “So many things have been lost to reach this stage, I’d rather not lose more on the way there.”

“Cale-“

Perhaps you’ve had enough as well as the next thing he knew, your fingers dug into his arm and he found himself yanked forward and you pressing a hard, determined kiss that stole whatever he was going to say from his lips.

“Cale Henituse,” you said sternly when you parted and picked up a roll of bandages, “can afford to wait a bit longer.” you glared at him as if daring him to argue otherwise.

Not that it was necessary, considering he’d doubt he’d have the coherency to answer anything with the way all the blood in his body was rushing to his face.

Alberu Crossman

He didn’t feel anything upon the moment of impact. Only the shocking cold of metal being slid into his side and the vicious gaze of the perpetrator pressed up to his front.

The pain ripped through a moment later and he gritted his teeth, red spilling down his lips. It hurts.

Activity bursted around him, screams of fear echoed through the ballroom as guards rushed to his side. However one voice in particular caught his attention and he looked up to catch your horrified expression, lips parted in a desperate cry.

His forehead furrowed as a strange sense of guilt washed over him- he didn’t want you to see this- but he didn’t have time to explore the feeling as his hand latched firmly on the hand which still held the weapon in his side, preventing their escape.

His smile was red, “Caught you now, rat.”

═════☩══♛══☩═════

He tousled his hair dry with a towel as he read through the reports in his hand.

Alberu was exhausted, the fight to rid his side of his enemies’ spies had always been an ongoing and tedious project. His enemies were cunning and always played things safe however their impatience this time would cost them. Now that one of their own has fallen into his hands, they can start pulling in the net.

A knock sounded on his door and he didn’t bother looking up from his reports as he gave permission. “Come in.”

“Did you manage to find any new information from them?” he asked immediately as the door opened. Anything gleaned from the assassin would be beneficial to his cause. Not that he truly expected any confessions to be given this night. Any hired killer worth their salt would know not to betray the mastermind behind a hit. But there were more than one way to find credible information aside from words torn directly from the lips of a captive.

When no answer came, he looked up and immediately dropped the papers he was reading.

“___________…”

In the aftermath of the attack and the capture of the assassin he’d been immediately escorted to the healers for first aid. With the bare minimum done he’d left quickly to take control of the situation, calming the aristocrats and giving orders to assign all guests to be escorted to a room in the palace to rest from the unexpected development - the smarter ones would know this was just a way to keep all suspects in one place, stalling for time so that his trusted aides may work to narrow down the most likely suspects. He had been meaning to find you and explain once everything settled but this time you took matters into your own hands.

Your eyes glanced at the documents he dropped. “Am I disturbing your work?”

“No,” he replied instantly, fighting back the urge to shuffle the papers behind him. “No, you’re not.”

The room lapsed into silence once more as neither of you seemed keen to address the elephant in the room.

“About tonight…” he started slowly, “they had to believe I had my guards lowered.”

The truth was, though he believed you would not have been behind the attack, you had to be tested all the same. Should it be known you’ve been partial to this plan, it would’ve given the real culprits leverage to use.

You approached him and he wished you would say something. He noted the redness in your eyes and felt a stab of guilt lodge in his chest. “It had to be believable.”

You didn’t meet his eyes and your hand hovered over where his wound had been.

He lifted the edge of his shirt up to reveal the pink scar tissue underneath. It was ugly and badly healed due to the rush he had been in. “I wasn’t in any real danger.” he said softly, staying still and resisting the urge to shiver when your fingers traced the scar.

“You’re picking up bad habits from Cale.” You said so softly he would’ve missed it had he not been paying attention.

“The padded shirt under prevented the blade from going too deep.” he explained, hoping you’d understand that he hadn’t been reckless. Everything had been planned carefully. He slowly tucked his shirt back in as you withdrew your hand, already missing the warmth you brought to his skin just moments ago.

“__________…”

You leaned in and placed a small kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Don’t do that again.” you whispered against his cheek.

He could only watch in astonishment as you turned away and exited his room.

“..Okay..” he said hoarsely to the empty room.

[forever-rogue]

if i can send another request: uh how about reader is a helper in marcus moreno's house and she thinks her feelings are unrequited bc she helps marcus get ready to go on a date. And then she has to look over missy while hes on the date and missy is like: u like him right. And reader is like: no way thats unprofessional. And missy looks at her like really? And finally reader caves and says yeah i like you. And at the very end marcus ends up confessing he does like reader and it ends happy? 😭😭

I love 1 (one) crime fighting hero/tired dad. This got real soft, enjoy!

Marcus Moreno x fem!reader; warnings: slight language

Pedro Characters Masterlist

»»————-　♡　————-««

“Thanks for doing this," Marcus' voice is soft as he calls to you from his bedroom. You remind yourself of the current situation and plaster on the best smile you could muster up. But you weren't fooling yourself - or Missy for that matter. She rolled her eyes as she passed by and headed to the kitchen table to start homework; she had a lot to say but it could wait for now.

"Its no problem, Marcus," you promised through slightly gritted teeth as you reminded yourself that you had no reason to be jealous - no reason to have feelings other than friendly for your closest friend.

"C-can you help me real quick?" there was an almost nervous quality to his voice as you made a small sound of confirmation before pushing open the door to his bedroom. Your jaw almost dropped sight; Marcus was standing in front of his mirror, looking more handsome than anyone should have legally been allowed to.

Opting to stick with his love of black on black, he was sporting a pair of well fitting black trousers and a black button that displayed the muscles of his back whenever he moved. You barely caught yourself when you realized he was holding two ties in his hand and displayed them to you.

Flitting over to him, you took both options and shook your head, tossing them into the bed. He didn't say anything but raised a brow in amusement, "no tie. Just what you have on is fine. The black on black is an excellent choice."

"Yeah?" he asked as a nervous smile tugged on the corners of his mouth, "its not too...depressing?"

"Not at all, its very se- you look good Marcus," you promised him as he let out a nervous huff of laughter, "she's going a lucky lady, and she's going to love you."

"Hmm," he mused for a moment, turning his gaze to you in the mirror and trying to read your expression. You quickly dropped your eyes, not sure if you were quite ready to cross that bridge just yet - or ever. His hands went to the top buttons and he quickly undid a few, exposing the smallest amounts of golden skin, "listen, I-"

"I should go and help Missy with her homework," you quickly cut him off before anything else could happen or heavens forbid you confessed your undying love then and there, "and you finish getting ready, mister!"

Before anything else could be said, you darted out of his room and towards the kitchen where Missy was pretending to be engrossed in a book. You knew she was keen on getting as much information as possible and had not doubt been trying to listen in. She closed her book as you took a seat next to her and offered her a small smile.

"How does pizza sound for dinner? We can even go crazy and get ice cream for dessert," you suggested and despite her attempt at a serious look her eyes lit up with excitement as she nodded, "don't worry, we won't tell your dad. It'll be our secret."

"Alright ladies," Marcus came out of the bedroom now sporting that damned leather jacket that made you weak in the knees on top of it all. It was the glasses, perched smartly on his nose that set you off though. How could one man look so good? Practically unfair. Missy nudged your leg to snap out of your little daydream as you caught yourself, "I'm headed off. I won't be back too late. Missy, I want all your homework done and bed at a reasonable hour."

"Fine dad," she groaned as she pulled her folder out of her background with the day's homework.

"And you," he turn his attention back to you as you felt a flush of warmth wash over your face, "are an absolute angel. I don't know what I'd do without you. I owe you big time."

"Don't  worry about a thing," you insisted as you motioned your head towards the door, "now go and have fun, Marcus. You deserve it."

"Thanks," there was that stupid, silly, soft smile on his face again, "see you tonight."

With a small wave, he was off on his date. There was a soft tugging on your heart and the back of your eyes burned ever so slightly. You took a breath to collect yourself and decided to ignore it all. It didn't matter anyways, Marcus was going on a date with not you, and whoever she was, she would undoubtedly fall in love with him. It was Marcus Moreno, after all, who wouldn't fall in love?

Missy watched you silently for a few moments before deciding not to bring anything up...not just yet anyway.

»»————-　♡　————-««

“You should tell him you know,” Missy said through a mouthful of ice cream - chocolate chip cookie dough with lots of brownie and fudge, her all time favorite. Your brow furrowed in confusion as you tried to figure out what she could possibly mean. Your stomach churned at the realization, “my dad - you should tell him you like him.”

“W-why would I do that?” you stammered nervously as you tried to keep your face neutral. Missy groaned at your vain attempt as it become very obvious that the young girl knew exactly how you felt, “Missy, I can’t do that. He doesn’t...he couldn’t possibly ever feel the same way.”

“Why not?” she asked as she possibly off her bowl before setting down on the coffee back and pausing the movie you’d been watching, “you and dad both like each other! You might as well tell each other and get it over with. Besides, you’re a million times better than whatever her name is that he’s on a date with.”

“How could you possibly know that?” you laughed lightly at her fervent insistence, the words that he liked you too not lost on you at all.

“Because she’s not you,” she insisted, “and dad really likes you. He’s just...too awkward sometimes. I know he just doesn’t want to mess anything up. But I’m telling you, you both need to stop being fools and tell each other you’re in love!”

“Alright, little Missy,” you groaned lightly as she smiled triumphantly - she had you hook, line, and sinker, “time for bed, it’s late anyways. Go brush your teeth and get changed. I’ll check on you in a little bit.”

“Fine,” she sighed heavily, a trait definitely inherited from Marcus, “but you know I’m right! Tell him!”

You were about to make a smart retort as you watched her giggling form disappear up the stairs but decided against. Apparently all the times you thought you were subtle about your affections towards Marcus, you were being anything but.

Shit, shit, shit. Hopefully he’d never noticed. He was a Heroic, you reminded yourself, of course he knew. But he’d never said anything, never treated you oddly...maybe he didn’t know after all. Maybe this was one of the things he was blind to. Yeah...that was surely it. Besides, why would someone like him ever like you? You were just you and he was...everything.

You’d been so lost in your conversation with Missy and now your own thoughts that you’d had heard the front door open and close. You hadn’t noticed as Marcus slowly made his way into the kitchen and overheard everything. But Missy did - she was his daughter after all, and her little scheme played out exactly out she had planned.

Sighing, you stood up and stretched, still unawares of the eyes glued to you. Marcus smiled at the little sound you made, his own heart thumping nervously as he realized what he needed to do. His date had ended early - his decision -and it hadn’t been particularly fun. His date had been nice, pretty, kind, but at the end of it all, she wasn’t you. That’s what he had wanted. Enough with the skirting around the issue - he was finally going to tell you how he felt.

Scooping the dirty bowls up, you tried to figure out just how you were going to tell Marcus about your feelings. Missy wouldn’t drop it, you knew she wouldn’t. You could just get straight out with it - direct and to the point and lay all the cards on the table.

Or was that too direct? Should you hint some more; although that hadn’t gotten you very far either....fuck. Nope you were just going to have to do it once and for all.

“Marcus - I’m in love with you,” you tested the words out to yourself to see how they would sound. Your voice was a small, soft thing, but you couldn’t deny that you liked how they sounded. Deciding that it would just take some practice to get yourself ready to say the words to him, you repeated the words, “I love you, I love you, I love you. Marcus Moreno - I am in love with you.”

As you flipped on the kitchen light, you let out a small scream and almost dropped the bowls in your hands as you finally spotted Marcus. He was quick to your side and took the bowls from you, setting them back on the counter and offering you a sheepish, but soft expression. Nothing but horror washed over you as quickly came to the conclusion that he must have heard everything single thing you’d said.

“M-Marcus,” you fumbled over your words as he watched you with a soft expression, “I-I-I didn’t hear you come in, didn’t know you were back. I was just umm...playing around. Missy, she umm, I didn’t...ughh...Oh...this is...I didn’t mean it?”

“I got back a little bit ago,” he confessed as you hid your face in his hands; yeah, he’d heard everything, “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Listen, Marcus, I didn’t mean it, it’s just...Missy thinks that we’re in love or something, and I was just messing around...” it might have been the weakest lie you’d ever told and the look on his face said that he didn’t believe a word of it. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think...he was happy, “wait - you’re back? I didn’t expect you for another hour or so.”

“Left earlier than expected,” he admitted as he tried to still the wild beating of his own heart. He took a step closer and you swallowed the lump in your throat as you tried to not completely lose the remaining grips on reality you had, “wasn’t quite feeling it.”

“Oh?” you asked softly as he shrugged lightly, “w-what happened?”

“She wasn’t you,” he echoed Missy’s words from earlier as an involuntary smile crossed your features. Holy shit - was this actually happening? No, no, no, this must be all a dream, “I should have asked you to dinner. A long time ago actually. I don’t know why I didn’t. I guess Missy’s right, I’m just an awkward uncool dad.”

“Me?” you pointed at yourself as he laughed lightly and nodded, “why on earth would you ask me?”

“Why would I...I thought it was kind of obvious by now?” he tilted his head to the side as you looked at him with wide, innocent eyes, “I mean, Missy pretty much spilled the beans...”

“Wait, wait, wait,” you looked at him nervously, still refusing to believe that this was actually happening, “you like me? Me?”

Then he whispered your name, so softly, so reverently, so gently before reaching over and putting his hand gently on your cheek, “I’m in love with you.”

“Me,” you didn’t bother to try and hide your smile as he nodded, “I....yeah. Me too. Obviously. She’d been pushing me to tell you, but I didn’t want to...”

“Mess anything up?” he finished for you as you nodded, letting out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding in, “me neither.”

“Sooo...” you trailed off and flicked your eyes back his, admiring the way the soft brown orbs stared back into your, crinkling in the corners as his dimple was on display, “ummm...I should...I should go since you’re back.”

“Is that really what you want?” he teased as you shook your head before laughing, “do you know what I want?”

“Ummm.... no?”

“I really, kind of want to kiss you,” he admitted as your heart blossomed with joy at his gentle words, “if that’s okay.”

“Yeah,” you bit your lip lightly, “I want that too.”

And then it happened, easily, fluidly, almost like you’d both been doing it forever. His hands found your waist as you tugged you close, your arms snaking around his neck as you leaned up to meet his kiss, His lips were plush and soft, and even better than you could ever have dreamed. It wasn’t some rough and brash tangle of teeth, with either of you fighting for dominance; no, this was slow and easy, intimate to its core and filled with nothing but longing and desire.

This was exactly what you’d always envisioned.

“It’s about time,” the two of you slowly pulled apart at the sound of her voice as you tried to find Missy peeking at the two of you from the foot of the stairs, “I told you both!”

Before either of you could say anything else, she darted upstairs and back to her bedroom, slamming the two shut as he pulled you close to him, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He chased your lips with his own, giving you a few more soft pecks before you grinned at each other like fools in love which, you supposed, you were.

“She’s too smart for her own good sometimes,” he sighed lightly as you touched his cheek, “but I’ll let this one slide.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Uh huh honey,” he whispered before kissing you again - it was already something he never wanted to stop doing now that he’d had a taste, “what were you saying about having to leave?”

“I don’t remember,” you teased with a kiss to his cheek.

“Stay?” he asked softly; it was a question that held a lot more meaning than just one night, or something temporary. You both knew exactly what it meant.

“Yes,” you promised, “I’ll stay.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

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[lord-explosion-baku]

Sparrow

Prince!Satoru Gojo x assassin!reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, not for long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You scared, alchemist?” You bite back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wordlessly growl back at him.

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

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

[robininthelabyrinth]

Prompt: Post-canon, Nie Huaisang drops the 'Headshaker' facade and his disciples stop pretending they think he's incompetent, and a bunch of Sect Leaders who are used to being able to step all over Qinghe Nie are suddenly faced with a cunning, brilliant leader who Takes Absolutely No Shit.

Associates - Part 1 - ao3

Untamed verse

“I’m sorry,” Nie Huaisang said, so shocked that he didn’t even raise his fan in front of his face. “You want me to what now?”

“Help,” Lan Wangji said. He was seated across from Nie Huaisang, as stiff-backed and formal as if they were having a discussion conference banquet rather than a meal in Nie Huaisang’s private quarters in the Unclean Realm.

“Yes, I gathered as much,” Nie Huaisang said. “Two questions: Help with what? And – why me?”

Lan Wangji’s brow wrinkled minutely, which for the Lan sect suggested a state of extreme stress. “Brother has entered seclusion.”

“I know that,” Nie Huaisang said, firmly ignoring the niggling feeling of guilt. If Lan Xichen hadn’t wanted to be completely wrecked as collateral damage in Nie Huaisang’s revenge plan, he shouldn’t have tried to take Jin Guangyao’s side even after he knew what he’d done.

His da-ge deserved better than that. Especially from Lan Xichen.

“I have been appointed Chief Cultivator,” Lan Wangji said.

“I know that, too,” Nie Huaisang said. “I sent you a present in congratulations, didn’t I?”

Lan Wangji gave him a dead-eyed look, which meant he’d received it.

“I thought you and Wei Wuxian would enjoy it,” Nie Huaisang protested, hiding his twitching lips behind his fan. His favorite, as always – he might switch them out on a regular basis, but he always came back to this one, the one his brother had given him long, long ago. It served as a reminder that he should trust no one, which was a concept his stupid heart had a tendency to otherwise forget. “I understand that appropriate preparation is a very important part of the proceedings –”

The dead-eyed looked turned into a glare, and Nie Huaisang coughed into his hand and stopped talking about the jade phallus and jar of lubricant that he’d sent to the Cloud Recesses in a discreet package under the guise of a congratulations gift.

He really hoped he was lucky enough that Lan Wangji had opened it in front of other people, but sadly he suspected the other man knew him too well to do that.

“Speaking of which, have you married him yet?” he asked, ignoring his hurt at not having been informed. He hadn’t expected an invitation to the happy event itself, of course; Wei Wuxian had made very clear what he’d thought about what Nie Huaisang had done – don’t associate with evil. There was a reason that Nie Huaisang had carefully returned to referring to Wei Wuxian by name, rather than casually. But not even to receive a letter informing him of it having happened…?

“I have not,” Lan Wangji said. When Nie Huaisang goggled at him, disbelieving, he shifted minutely in his seat and said, “He wanted to travel. I – could not.”

“Well, of course you couldn’t,” Nie Huaisang said blankly. “You’re the Lan sect heir. If your brother goes into seclusion, then responsibility for managing your sect falls to you – and of course you were just named Chief Cultivator – wait, are you doing both jobs by yourself?”

Lan Wangji nodded.

Nie Huaisang had a momentary feeling of sincere pity, and then the true horror sunk in.

“And you’re asking me to help you?!” he yowled. “Hanguang-jun! You can’t be serious! Don’t you know what everyone says about me? Me, the hapless ‘I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know’, the one they all call the Headshaker?”

“I know what they call you,” Lan Wangji said, stoic as ever. “I also know what they said about Wei Ying, and about Lianfeng-zun. There is not much gain in listening to what people say.”

“I don’t think those are comparable situations,” Nie Huaisang complained, but even he had to admit it was a bit of a weak response.

“No?” Lan Wangji said. “Then you are not the man who drove Lianfeng-zun into a corner with no route of escape?”

Well, when he put it that way.

“That doesn’t mean I know anything about running a sect,” Nie Huaisang pointed out. “Sure, I’ve managed, but I had –” Er-ge and san-ge do it. “- help.”

“They each had their own sects to run,” Lan Wangji pointed out in return. “You must have done much of it yourself.”

“But –”

“Nie Huaisang,” Lan Wangji said, and Nie Huaisang blinked. Lan Wangji hadn’t called him as informally as that in years, and certainly never since he became Sect Leader. “Please. As a favor to me.”

Nie Huaisang pursed his lips and looked down at his plate, reaching out and playing with his teacup.

It was a low blow, that.

Pity for Lan Wangji that low blows didn’t work on him anymore.

“We used to be friends, once,” Nie Huaisang said, not looking up. “A long time ago – do you remember? I was seven, you were eight, it was right after my father died. I slept in your room.”

He’d had screaming nightmares back then, and they were worse when he was alone. It hadn’t been just about his father, either, but his brother, the memory of fear in his eyes and bruises on his face, the desperate way he’d pleaded for Nie Huaisang to agree to go to Gusu just for a little while, the persistent worry about what was happening back home once he’d agreed, the haunting thoughts of losing him in the same way he’d lost his father…

Lan Wangji hadn’t been much of a talker back then, either, but he’d crawled into the cot they’d set up for Nie Huaisang in his room and had held his hand, right up until he’d passed out like clockwork at nine. His steady breathing had reminded Nie Huaisang of his brother, calming his nerves, and eventually he’d started confiding in him. Telling him all his fears – the secrets he’d guessed about the Nie family cultivation he only half-understood – the qi deviations –

“I remember,” Lan Wangji said.

“Later, when I came back to the Cloud Recesses to learn for the first time, I was so excited to see you again, and so disappointed to find out you were preparing to go into seclusion. When I snuck over to see you, you chased me away – and when you came out, you only spoke to me long enough to scold me about how I wasn’t obeying the rules properly. I thought you were embarrassed to be seen with me.”

Lan Wangji said nothing. He probably had been. With the benefit of hindsight and age, Nie Huaisang could even understand: adolescence was such a prickly age, and little things seemed so important.

“I was angry at you back then,” Nie Huaisang said. “Very angry – but all I did was start treating you coldly, calling you Lan-er-gongzi instead of Lan Zhan, waiting for you to remember that you liked me. And then the next year we had all those adventures together, you and me and Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian, and of course we were close again during the war. You remember, I’m sure, how we used to stay together every time you came back to the Cloud Recesses or visited the Unclean Realm, how I couldn’t do anything for the war but worry, couldn’t do anything but keep you company, but you said it helped to lift your spirits before you headed out again. I even sent you letters after what happened with Wei-xiong– with Wei Wuxian. The siege of the Burial Mounds. I knew how close you were, and I wanted to comfort you if I could...but you never responded to any of them.”

He shook his head and rolled the teacup from one hand to another.

“And then you didn’t show up when my brother died. In seclusion again! For years and years! The honorable Hanguang-jun, always thinking about his cultivation; what a good seed you are, a pride and joy to your sect. Just like everyone always said.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Lan Wangji said. His voice was very quiet, a little hoarse. “I was not well.”

Nie Huaisang shrugged. “No one ever explained, either then or thereafter. And no one else ever guessed ‘busy mourning the death of the love of your life’ was the reason, either, so I don’t know why you would expect me to.”

“You never spoke to me again,” Lan Wangji said, his jaw and throat working. He’d tried, a few times, but Nie Huaisang had looked through him as if he wasn’t there, twittering like a foolish little bird with only the most formal of addresses on his lips. “Only in passing, when you came to visit my brother.”

“As I’m sure you’ve realized by now, I’m very good at holding a grudge,” Nie Huaisang said, and put his teacup down. He knew perfectly well that he was being unfair, that he was being cruel and selfish and completely disregarding the many ways he had undoubtedly been unfair to Lan Wangji in turn through lack of consideration or otherwise. But he was cruel and selfish, his mission this past decade and more evidence enough of that, and that old pain of abandonment had lingered far past the point of reason. Still lingered, if he was being honest. “I’m sorry that you’re struggling, and for my part in it, but you’re going to have to do better than please.”

Lan Wangji was quiet, bowing his head. After a time, he said, “I was in recovery during that period. I did not learn about what had happened to your brother until – until much later. It was kept from me so as not to disturb me as I was healing...I can show you the remaining marks, if you wish.”

“That’d be something,” Nie Huaisang said, because he was a petty person like that. Because that had hurt back then, thinking that Lan Wangji was ignoring him even at that most desperate moment, hurt more than anything.

Well. Not more than anything.

Not more than losing his brother. Than finding out the truth about Jin Guangyao.

Than realizing he was the only one who could right this wrong, and that he would have to do it alone.

“If things had been different,” Lan Wangji said, and he did not lift his head. “If things had gone – otherwise. Would you have trusted me?”

Now it was Nie Huaisang’s turn to bow his head. If he had had Lan Wangji, had trusted Lan Wangji…yes, things might have gone very differently.

For Lan Xichen, at least.

“Perhaps,” he said, unwilling to commit himself but knowing that his mere lack of response said everything. “But enough about the past. Far more importantly - what about the future?”

Lan Wangji blinked at him.

Nie Huaisang sighed. “You’re right. I did learn to run a sect, at least somewhat. I may not be very good at it, but I know all the things a sect leader ought to know – all the secrets, all the gossip, how to commit to nothing while making people think you’ve agreed, who should sit next to who and who shouldn’t, what’s a trap and what isn’t, all the things you’ve never needed to care about it. Your brother made sure I knew it all, and told me many stories about things he was doing to run your sect to use as examples. As you suspected, I can probably help you, even if only in figuring out how to appropriately delegate the work.”

“But?”

“I may not be a very good custodian of it, but my sect is the only thing I have left,” Nie Huaisang said. “And you may have once been my friend, Lan Zhan, but now you’re the Chief Cultivator. Do not associate with evil. Am I to expect a freeze in trade relations? A subtle ostracization of my disciples? Will I be invited to the discussion conferences, or will people turn their faces away from me?” He shrugged. “You don’t get to play hot and cold with me anymore. You want my help, you stand by my side. No more judgment.”

Lan Wangji was frowning. “As Chief Cultivator, I must be impartial.”

“Just like the last three were? Wen Ruohan, Jin Guangshan, Jin Guangyao…oh yes, impartiality is truly intrinsic to the position, with such grand examples in your predecessors,” Nie Huaisang said archly, and this time he did open his fan. Trust no one. “I’m not asking for favoritism. Equality with all the others, and your support if someone tries to criticize me or remove me, especially for anything to do with Jin Guangyao; that’ll be enough. Well?”

Lan Wangji considered it for a long time.

It wasn’t anything personal – Lan Wangji was a contemplative sort of person – so Nie Huaisang didn’t take offense, just waited, occasionally moving to eat a little of the food.

“Very well,” Lan Wangji finally said. “I agree.”  

Nie Huaisang was ready with his next question, and also a bite of some grilled vegetables, which he swallowed down before speaking. “And if Wei Wuxian doesn’t?”

Lan Wangji’s hands tightened around his knees. “I have said I will defend you. I have not named exceptions.”

“Just checking,” Nie Huaisang said, then smiled and put some of the vegetables into Lan Wangji’s bowl. “Eat up, Lan Zhan! We’re going to have our work cut out for us.”

Lan Wangji nodded. He seemed resigned.

“If you want, I’ll even deal with Jiang Cheng for you,” Nie Huaisang said. “But it’ll cost you.”

Lan Wangji tilted his head to the side, as if it could hide how much his eyes had brightened in anticipation of that particular burden being taken off his back.

“Remember when we were kids and I asked you to do my copying for me?”

A slow blink. “You want me to do paperwork?”

“I want you to do so much paperwork,” Nie Huaisang said emphatically. He even waved his hands around in emphasis, he meant it so strongly. “I’ll tell you what needs to be done and who needs to do it, I’ll show you how to keep the smaller sects in line and how to manage conferences, but if I never see another memorial in my life it will be too soon..!”

“I think,” Lan Wangji said dryly, “that we will be able to devise an equitable division of labor.”

“Old friend!” Nie Huaisang trilled happily, holding out his arms.

“Do not hug me.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan, don’t be like that –”

“Do not hug me.”

“Don’t be so cold! How are we going to get Wei Wuxian back by your side if we don’t put some effort into making him jealous?”

“…explain.”

“Well, the way I see it –”

[scandalsavagefanfic]

Hello! I am a huge fan of ur writing. I've loved everything I've read of yours. I've read alot of what you've posted, except for a couple of the tags that are squicky for me (so I'm very thankful you tag very thoroughly). No judgement for the squick, it's just not for me. & when I'm having a bad day, I usually just go thru ur ao3 and find something to reread. I think about Therapy's Bruce & Jason every damn day. While I obvs appreciate ur darker more "problematic" content (I really vibe with some of the themes you write about bc of my own trauma, & so it's very cathartic to read about in a fictional setting), I am truly a sucker for ur more happy content. The Happily Ever After verse also lives in my head rent free. Idk more wholesome stuff just seems more special when you write it. Anyways. I would die for you. But the point of this ask is cause I'm curious as to why you don't like Urban Legends? I'm sorry if you already talked about it here or on twitter and I missed it. I was just wondering because I really enjoy your take on things and would love to hear why you dislike it. I've been enjoying it so far personally, but I am always open to DC comics criticism.

Aw thank you so much! I'm so flattered by everything you just said. You're so sweet ❤❤❤❤❤

I haven't talked about Urban Legends here or twitter (I haven't been very active in either place lately. Just a lot going on and no energy 😔) but I'm happy to do it here.

Before I start though, I just want to add a standard disclaimer and make it clear that if you like it, there's nothing wrong with that and you don't have to let me ruin it for you lol. Like what you like.

That said, since you asked...

I said this when I was talking about it on discord, that there is a difference between hope and expectation. I always hope that a new story centered on Jason (or anyone really, but things have been especially egregious for Jay for 15 years) will be good or at least treat the character with a minimal level of respect (to be honest, the bar is super fucking low). But my expectations always temper my hope, to keep it from getting unrealistic. Because my expectations are based on experience.

The long history of Jason Todd, since even before his resurrection, has been one of retroactively trying to make him "a bad seed" in order to absolve Bruce of any responsibility in his death.

I don't even expect DC or their writers to start honoring the fact that Jason was not an angry, reckless Robin (and less of the later than Dick or Tim and definitely Damian). There plenty of ways that retcon can be folded into his history and be compelling and sympathetic. And if they're going to stick with that retcon, I'm only asking that they do it in one of those compelling and sympathetic ways because Jason was 15 when he died, heroically, in one of the most selfless acts in comics, to save a woman who literally handed him over to be brutally murdered. He was 12 when Bruce plucked him off the streets, he'd been homeless and fending for himself for at least two years. I personally think that Jason's story hits harder for him and Bruce if their original, canon relationship, of Jason as starry-eyed and eager to learn and absolutely devoted to Bruce and Bruce to Jason, is preserved. But Jason's origins does leave room for a meaningful interpretation of him as angry and frustrated at the lack of meaningful results of Bruce's methods.

And that's really where my irritation at stories like Batman: Urban Legends, Cheer and Batman The Adventure Continues has it's roots.

Every time one of these stories comes out, I think (or hope, rather) that this will be the one that remembers and respects the origins of the Jason and the Red Hood, that takes into account the changed sensibilities of comics readers in the 30 years since Jason's death and the subtle, 20 year, retroactive campaign to make him the "bad Robin". The "born bad" trope is played out and literally no one likes the message it implies. That some kids are just bad eggs and there's nothing parents or the adults around them can do. Especially when it's played as the kid's fault. If Jason's time as Robin is going to be characterized by anger, then it should be rooted in anger at the social injustices he witnessed as he grew up in an impoverished, crime-ridden, area and the horrors he faced raising himself when every day was a battle for survival. There are topical, meaningful, stories to tell with that backdrop.

But those are never the stories we get.

⚠⚠ Spoilers for Batman: Urban Legends, Cheer ⚠⚠

I'm particularly disappointed in Urban Legends because for the first issue, it looked like that was the kind of story we were going to get. I was put off by the first flashback of Jason being mesmerized by Bruce's guns, and I got that feeling in my gut that it was a bad sign. Jason depicted as impatient and overconfident and the scene with the guns is heavy-handed foreshadowing that got my spidey-sense tingling. I had a inkling then (in the first three pages) of how this story was going to play out, but it was early and I could still see many narrative paths that could lead to a satisfying story. My concerns were soothed somewhat and the little flame of my hope fanned, with the flashback of Alfred scolding Bruce, with Barbara's concern for Jason. A bit of worry returned with the way Jason ruthlessly pursued an addict who didn't appear to be a dealer and with the ending of the issue. The stuff with the addict sat wrong with me but the ending was tempered some by how despicable Tyler's dad was written. The scene was clearly set so that the reader could sympathize with Jason's decision and the scene with the addict could be brushed aside as a side-effect of comics over-the-top need for constant action, so I still held hope.

Issue 2 made me uncomfortable and it's where my hope starts to take a backseat to my expectations. I can dismiss Jason's self-deprecating internal monologue as unreliable narration, except that the flashback reinforces his thought process to explicitly show that it's not unreliable narration, and should be taken at face value. Jason faces physical abuse at the hands of his mother's drug dealer and when the flashback continues later, Jason kills the drug dealer. To be clear, this is a pre-Bruce Jason. His mom is still alive. He's like... 10. He kills this guy for shoving his head into a wall and implying Jason's mother paid for her drugs with sex. This is a scene that serves a single purpose. To show that Jason has always been prone to violence.

In the spirit of full disclosure, there is the small chance the drug dealer might not be dead. But the story obviously wants the reader to think he is, and it hasn't done anything to change that yet.

Starlin already did this story with The Diplomat’s Son in 1988 and he did it infinitely better. AND that’s still technically canon. So now I’m supposed to believe that Jason lost his cool bad enough to kill two douche bags before his sweet 16? Like it’s totally normal for abused kids raised in poverty, who’ve led hard and heartbreaking lives to just... haul off and kill people? That’s bullshit, and when taken with the Jason in the third issue, who is little more than an idiot thug, this story is really doubling down on some fucked up stereotypes.

Which brings us to the most recent issue. I went into this installment with very low expectations. I thought this story was going to be about Jason, through this experience with Tyler, a young boy with a similar background to Jason's, coming to the realization that Bruce's way is the best way and that Bruce did his best by Jason.

That would be annoying (in no small part because it takes increasingly absurd levels of plot armor to keep Bruce's no kill rule relevant, let alone irrefutably right). But I can probably live with that, if only because maybe if Jason officially falls back into line with the Bats crusade, maybe I'll get stories that treat him with respect, stories that don't relegate him to comic relief, dumb brute, or a background body with no lines in a story about the Joker burning Gotham (like Jason would just fucking stand there quietly for that).

And that may still be where the story is going, Jason realizing Bruce is right.

But holy shit do I not have the right words to describe how fucking insulting and gross issue three is.

From start to finish--including the flashback--Jason is written as cruel and fucking stupid. Like straight up dumb.

The entire issue is Bruce explaining the fucking basics to Jason like it's his first day. And Jason flies off the fucking handle and terrorizes a doctor he knows isn't a part of making the Cheerdrops, beats the shit out of some random addicts, and finally, when he can't accomplish anything on his own because he's a dumb brute he calls Barbara for help and rushes in with no information where he's promptly incapacitated and must now wait to be rescued by Batman.

This panel is the least of the issues sins but I can’t screenshot the entire story but it’s representative of the tone for the whole issue (and retroactively tainted the prior two issues).

This is beyond insulting. The only conclusions Jason comes to in this issue are the ones Bruce leads him to by talking to him like he can’t make the simplest connections. And like... in this story Jason can’t make the simplest connections.

This (and the Jason throughout the entirety of this issue) is a far cry from the Jason we fell in love with in Under the Red Hood, who was competent and strategic and intelligent enough to seize control of Gotham’s underworld from Black Mask (who’s no fucking slouch, he’s the first and only person to unify organized crime in Gotham) AND elude and manipulate Bruce until the time and place of his choosing.

This is a far cry from even the Red Hood and the Outlaws Jason who is competent enough to fight the League of Shadows and Ra’s al Ghul (among very dangerous and skilled others) and smart enough to create antidotes for mind control nanotech viruses.

As he should be, by the way. Jason Todd is one of the best, most comprehensively trained fighters in DC’s stable of non powered vigilantes. He’s not irrational or hot headed. He’s pragmatic, tactically minded, and patient. He’s a detective. Right now. Has been since he was 12. Bruce doesn’t have to make him one because he already is. 

Jason is not a stupid thug who uses his fists because his brain doesn’t work. And I can’t tell you how so very exhausted I am by this narrative. 

This is actually the most egregious example of Jason’s skills and intelligence being not just undermined but dismissed entirely. Even Morrison’s Jason had some degree of competency. 

The one, single redeeming factor of this story is the art. It’s beautiful. And Marcus To is a godsend he seems to be one of only a couple of artists who remember that Jason was a child when he was Robin and I’m literally only buying this book because of him. 

Anyway, I’m sorry. I didn’t want that to come out so... um... passionately lol. I’m just very very tired. My intention with this isn’t to ruin it for you, if you like it, that’s fine. 

But this issue shot this story to the top of my "Vehemently Despise” list. 1) Batman: Urban Legends (Cheer), 2) Battle for the Cowl/Morrison’s Batman and Robin, 3) Batman The Adventure Continues.

I hope the next issues somehow salvage this dumpster fire. But I’m not expecting it.

(Damnit. That sounded harsh again. To reiterate, I’m not trying to judge anyone who enjoys it, I just personally hate it and you asked me why lol 😅)