#mistaken identity au

[vladdyissues]

Hi! First time asking... sorry if I did or say something inappropriate. Sorry for the anonymous as well.

But I really want to know your opinion on this idea I have, whether it aligns with their personality or if it's even possible.

I was thinking something like, it's the usual where Vlad was beaten by Danny and he became frustrated of all his fails especially the last one where Danny humiliated him, perhaps by manipulating his feelings for Madeline. So he decided to have a payback in the same nature. Planning for several days and night without sleeping he came up with a plan to screw Danny over by possessing Paulina and seduces Danny only to reveal that it was Vlad all along, thoroughly humiliating him.

So he went and donated the newest state of the art air conditioner to Casper High to be put in every class, hall, to mask the boy's ghost sense like it did with Spectra. Of course he also had a contingency plan, he is a genius after all, so he made something that would supres his ghost powers and presence in a form of a collar.

In the end Vlad possessed Paulina, Danny was over the moon that Paulina, the most popular girl in school was into him. But as time went by and he noticed that Paulina seemed different, she gave of the air of a spoiled, beauty obsessed rich girl before. But now she seemed thoughful, still a bit haughty but she seemed genuinely interested in Danny's conversation and could catch up with him even when he accidentally said something about his parents experiment.

One time there was a ghost in school he accidentally transformed in front of her, and she didn't even run, scream, or hide. She protected him by leading the others away. And Danny fell for her instantly.

(I just have to add, Vlad's brain at that moment: You fool, why did you run here to transform!? Will this thwart my plans? Don't you know everyone else is also running here? This fool!)

So Danny confessed everything to her, his identity, his family's situation and finally his feelings for her. He knows that he is not worthy of her since she is rich, popular, has a stable family and all he could offer her was himself. Danny had grew to love her.

Vlad too, ever since Danny looked at him with those sparkling puppy dog eyes and the way he and the boy could have a decent conversation without tearing each other's throats out. How whenever he tries to think of Maddie instead his through fell back to Danny. He wanted Danny to fall for him and humiliate the boy, but his plans backfired, he was the one who fell hard for the boy.

Danny was leaning if for a kiss when Vlad couldn't take it anymore and decides to tell the truth. He came out of the girl and showed himself as the unconscious girl fell into Danny's arms. At first Danny was angry that Vlad was possessing Paulina, ruining his confession when Vlad admitted, he was possessing the girl for a long time, the first time she tries to seduce Danny, it was Vlad.

The information was too much and Danny had tears in his eyes. Vlad wanted to comfort the boy but the boy had looked at him with such hatred in his eyes. "You win, Vlad. You got what you wanted so stay away from me." He left while carrying the unconscious Paulina to safety.

Vlad stood there, right hand was reaching for the boy but he placed it back to his side. He regretted his actions. He thought that as long as he explained things Danny wouldn't look at him with that much hatred, he would beat him up in frustration, yell at him but things never worked out in his favor. He should've known that he destroys every relationship he has. He could never make any intimate connection with anyone. It's his curse.

I only though of things until here but I would love to see Vlad and Danny making up. Danny realises how the one he fell for was Vlad, forgives Vlad and probably chase after Vlad who now stubbornly pushes people away after getting hurt (by his own actions)

I know its not much but If you read this or respond to it, thank you!

Not much? NOT MUCH?

Anon, you just sent one of the juciest, most fantastic, well-constructed story ideas I've ever read. It's intriguing. Compelling. Clear motivations, a stellar twist. True to character, because Danny does have a crush on Paulina in canon, and Vlad is known for being so monomaniacal that he fails to consider the consequences of some of his actions. Also he's ruthless, petty, and uses people for his own personal gain. To see that come back and bite him in the ass with the added bonus of opening his eyes to his own past mistakes is just—utterly splendid. And Danny learning the painful lesson that appearances aren't the end-all be-all of a person, that the fantasy of dating a pretty, popular girl is nothing compared to the reality of loving—and being loved by—someone who understands you deeply and truly.

It's all just 😤💪😭😘👌 so good. What you've got here is pretty much the first half or two-thirds of the story, with the climax being Vlad's reveal and Danny storming away. Then that plot rollercoaster plummets down to the abyss where Vlad deals with the repercussions of his charade and only begins to climb once Danny starts to come to terms with his feels. That resolution, when it happens, is going to be so delectably satisfying. I can almost taste it 🤤

[modernsuperhero]

Part One of my original text ramblings for the grian^4 scarian identity au! Previous post is not required reading lol. Most of it under the cut. If anyone's curious about LoreTM for it tho here it is in all its original unedited glory. IDs in alts, please let me know if I missed anything or messed a description up!

[After a brief conversational detour we returned to what Cuteguy does in his spare time.]

More in Part Two in the reblogs lmao. (Also Gray Text is @pegasister60 :) )

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippet Thursday: Mistaken Identity

Actually quite long (about 42 pages in my tiny notepad), because it's a full one-shot rather than part of a multi-chapter idea. Although that's not to say I won't add pieces later

The distress beacon had been Sig’s, but the shape lying limply in the dust was most assuredly not Sig. The gathered Wastelanders looked at each other with grim expressions: this felt like a trap.

"Circle around," Damas signed to the driver of the second car, "Check for an ambush. I'll see if it's one of ours."

"Be careful," the woman signed back. A dimple between her brows suggested that under her heavy scarf she was frowning.

"I'm always careful."

Even so, Damas took extra care in approaching the crumpled form, gesturing for Kleiver to follow him in case of attack. He'd assumed that the person -- or corpse, hard to tell at this distance -- would be larger up close. But as he drew near, the figure remained small, and slight. They were dressed like a Havenite from the Slums, wearing stained, threadbare layers of clothing. A filthy scarf and dismally battered goggles half covered matted green hair; they didn't seem to have any more protection from the sun than that. Foolish Havenite.

Two small animals lay beside the stranger, breathing shallowly. Pets? That seemed an unusual step for Haven, letting an exile take anything important to them.

Damas glanced at the stranger, but kept his attention focused on the ground, looking for Sig’s beacon. It didn't take long to find, considering it lay beside the stranger's hand. Damas picked up the beacon and turned it over in his hand. There were no obvious signs of tampering. No blood or scorching or anything else to indicate that the beacon had been taken by force.

"How did you get this?" Damas murmured, not really expecting an answer. Whoever this was, they were barely alive.

"Er...lordship?"

It was not like Kleiver to sound hesitant.

"Do you...know this kid?"

An odd question. Damas looked up with a quizzical expression and found the big Wastelander peering down at the face of the figure. Kid?

The king pivoted on his heels to get a better look at their find.

Sunken cheeks. Dark circles under large eyes. A pitiful patch of stubble that might’ve been a first attempt at a beard on an otherwise startlingly smooth face. Precursors, he was a kid, wasn't he? He could've been anywhere from sixteen to nineteen -- in his state, it was hard to tell.

"Scrawny thing, isn't he?" Damas remarked. He took hold of an iron ring strapped to the boy's chest and tried to shake off a nagging sense of familiarity in the boy's features. "A channeler, maybe? We could use one of those. Honestly, I'm impressed that he's still breathing."

He glanced up. "What makes you think I'd know who the whelp is?"

Kleiver looked back at him with an unusually uncomfortable expression. He gestured awkwardly to the boy's face.

"Well he's...I mean- well look at 'im! 'S just weird, is all."

"What's weird?" Damas scoffed and hoisted the boy up by the iron ring.

The boy's head fell back and for just a moment, something around his neck glittered in the fading sunlight. With a curse, Damas dropped him as if he'd been burned. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled back a step, swearing under his breath.

"What fresh hell is this?" he demanded.

That was where Phobos found him after completing her perimeter check: staring in horror down at a much younger version of his own face.

Phobos crossed the space between their vehicles to touch his shoulder.

"Damas?"

"I...who is this?"

"Damas." Phobos shook him gently. "Hey. Hey. Are you just going to leave him lying there?"

The king blinked and inhaled sharply as he seemed to come to. "Right," he muttered, "...right. Pho, take my staff."

"What? Oop-!" Phobos hastily grabbed at the staff Damas all but dropped. "What the-!"

In a daze, Damas knelt and slipped an arm under the boy’s shoulders.

"Gods. He really is scrawny."

He shook his head and hoisted the boy up.

"Kleiver, get the car started. And someone grab those animals!"

Phobos's eyes flicked from Damas to the half-dead castaway, and narrowed.

"Damas...who is that?"

Her husband turned to face her, a disturbed shock stamped clearly on his face.

"I don't know," he said grimly, "but he's wearing a Maridius amulet."

■■■■■■■■■■

The Rift Rider idled, ready to take Samos and the child back in time. Ready to begin the cycle of pain all over again. Jak bit his lip and folded his younger self's fingers back over the proffered amulet.

"No, buddy, you keep it," he said gently. "Try...try to remember something about your family this time. Maybe remember me."

The tiny boy pouted, then threw his arms around Jak’s neck. "Za?" He whispered in Jak’s ear, the closest he'd ever come to saying his name.

Jak closed his eyes and hugged the kid tightly. Precursors knew he wouldn't get a lot of hugs in Sandover. "No, buddy. Za can't go with you this time. You have to be really brave for me, okay? There's...there's a kid on the other side of that gate who really really needs a friend. Can you look out for him for me?"

Sniffling, the little boy let go and nodded. "Brave like you," he signed. Then, rubbing his eyes, he sat back down in the craft.

Jak took a slow breath, then looked to the younger Samos. Doubtless this version of the sage was going to withhold just as much information as the older one. Jak didn't trust him to warn Mar about Errol. And he'd be blasted if he let that swine get his hands on the amulet in any timeline.

"You know, I didn't have the amulet when I got back to the present," he said casually. "I think you locked it up for safekeeping right before we fixed the Rift Gate, but I never saw where in the house you put it."

Samos took the bait too easily. "Oof! Yes, I suppose it would be bad for the kid to meet the Baron with that thing on. Thanks for the heads-up."

All too soon, they were gone. And not long after, so was Jak, headed for Dead Town. It had been a selfish ploy, a bid to give himself some semblance of a connection to his past. He couldn't remember having the amulet yet -- but he'd had trouble remembering a lot of his early years ever since the experiments began. "Traumatic amnesia", Daxter called it.

But if the amulet was there, if his ploy had worked, then maybe he'd get something back.

It took him an hour to sift through all the debris in the old hut, even with Daxter's help. The ravages of time hadn't left many places for treasure to remain undiscovered in. But just when Jak was beginning to fear that someone had found it decades before, his hand brushed over a brick in the old planter circles that lacked the same grout as the others.

Leave it to Samos to hide such an important artifact under a giant, vicious, carnivorous plant. Had he fed it to the thing?! The amulet was down where the roots had once been!

Still, Jak could admit to a sense of relief that washed over him once the amulet was in his hand. Clearly he'd changed the past at least enough to have an emotional connection to the pendant. He tucked it into his tunic, resolving to put it on a chain the first chance he got. He wasn't going to let anyone take it from him again.

■■■■■■■■■■

The last thing Jak remembered was collapsing beside a boulder, desperately trying to stay conscious only to fail seconds later. He could hear a voice -- not Daxter or Pecker -- nearby, and as he focused on that, other sensations began to filter in.

Softness beneath him.

The smell of eco med-gel.

An itch in the crook of his elbow.

A sticky dryness in his mouth, like cotton.

And something off about his skin. He couldn't put his finger on it, but his skin felt different somehow. Cleaner? No, that didn't make any sense. Why would it be clean?

It took a monumental effort to open his eyes, and he regretted it immediately. Light stabbed into his retinas pitilessly, and Jak let out an involuntary grunt of discomfort. In response, a shadow fell over his face, shielding him from the unforgiving glare. First a blur, then a shape, a face slowly swam into focus.

"Ah, you're back with us! Thank the Precursors, that was a close one, eh?"

Jak blinked up in confusion as his brain slowly processed the presence of one of the most beautiful women he could ever remember seeing. Not that he could remember seeing that many women in his life. Her skintone was so deep that the light framing her glanced off her cheekbones in little flashes of garnet and amethyst. Coils of hair spread out behind her head in an artful halo, providing most of the blessed shade across Jak's face. He squinted up at her for a long moment, trying to determine whether he was hallucinating in the desert.

"....'m I dead?" Jak croaked, then winced at the dry soreness in his throat.

The angelic stranger laughed in surprise. "Dead? No, quite the opposite, kid. Although you got pretty close."

"Where am I?" Jak tried to sit up, and something tugged at his elbow.

Instantly, he froze. He knew the shape of a needle.

Bile crawled up his throat, and his heart thundered in his ears as he forced himself to turn his head and look.

A bag of clear fluid hung from a stand beside a cot he'd been laid on. Descending from the bag, a long tube fed the fluid through a needle secured to his arm with bandages. A high whine escaped him, and the room seemed to spin.

"Whoa whoa whoa- kid, kiddo, look at me."

The mysterious woman suddenly took his face in her hands -- rough hands. A warrior's hands.

"Ssshh, hey, you're okay. You're okay, chico. It's just saline, that's all."

"W- what-?"

"Saline. It's a...kinda like a saltwater solution you give to people suffering dehydration."

One of the calloused hands cupped the back of his head, rubbing a thumb comfortingly over stubble.

Stubble?

Jak's breathing quickened and the room spun faster.

"What-!" he gasped, and his breaths began to squeak. "What did you do to me?!"

"Hey now, breathe. Breathe." The woman began to sway back and forth where she sat, dragging him along with the rocking motion.

"Inhale with me, yeah? In and out, in and out. I've got you."

"M- my h- my h- hair-!" Jak squeaked.

The woman clicked her tongue. "Oh, ohhh, you can feel that, huh? Yeah, you were overheated. The mats in your hair were just doing damage to you, longterm. The doctors didn't have any time to waste, so they shaved it out to cool you off."

She continued to cradle his face with her other hand, offering him a full, apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry we couldn't get your okay, chico. But...I mean, you wouldn't wake up! Not even your orange friend could get a response. He gave us the go-ahead."

For the first time since waking, Jak felt something like relief. "D- Daxter?"

"Mm. The mouthy one? Yes."

"Where-?"

The woman pulled back and turned away for a moment. Jak wondered why he felt minutely disappointed by that. He wasn't that touch-starved, was he? When she turned back, she held a cup and pitcher in her hands. The sight of the water trickling from one container to the other made Jak's throat ache all the fiercer.

"Here. Slow sips now, little bird. Don't make yourself sick like your friend did." The woman settled back into her seat at the edge of the cot. She made a vague gesture with the hand not holding the pitcher.

"At least he made a quick recovery. My husband took him back up to our place. When you're cleared by the doctors, we'll take you to him."

Jak gulped down the water, ignoring his visitor's protests. It was cool, although not cold, but even that was like heaven on his irritated throat. Droplets leaked from the corner of his mouth, and the IV tugged painfully as he reached up to catch them. He didn't think he could afford to waste even one drop.

"Hey hey!" The woman reached for the cup, and Jak jerked back out of reach.

"Not so fast, chico, you'll make yourself sick!"

Jak growled softly behind the rim of the cup and hitched up his shoulders. If this lady wanted to take the water away, she'd be in for a fight.

"Whoa!" The woman raised her brows. "Calm down. The water isn't going anywhere, I promise."

"I don't know you," Jak retorted, "How do I know you keep promises?"

Now the woman began to look a little annoyed.

"Fair enough," she begrudgingly allowed. "Considering the state we found you in, am I to assume that if I take that cup you'll bite me or something?"

"I might," answered Jak coolly.

Something bittersweet passed over the woman's face and lingered there at the corners of her mouth as she forced a smile.

"Well that wouldn't be very nice of you, but I can't say it wouldn't fit with every other kid in Spargus."

Jak lowered the cup slowly. "Spargus?" he asked, tilting his head, "What's that?"

"It's home," she answered. "The city of the forgotten and the betrayed -- and the hunter."

Jak raised the cup again and muttered darkly, "Well that's ironically appropriate."

"Let's start over, huh?"

The woman leaned back and carded a hand through her teased-out coils.

"My name is Phobos. I was with the convoy that found you and your friends in the Strider Range."

"...oh."

Jak grimaced. This woman had rescued him, hadn't she?

"I'm, um. I'm Jak."

Embarrassed, he gestured to the cup, the IV, and looked away. "What do I owe you? I don't...I don't have any money."

Phobos shook her head. "It's fine, chico- er, Jak. When people come to Spargus, those who have life debts pay it back by contributing to the overall survival of their new home and neighbors, depending on how old they are when they arrive."

"How old they are?" Jak fiddled with his now empty cup awkwardly. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Phobos gave him an amused glance. "Uh...kids are kids? This isn't Haven, hey? We don't even let people take the citizen applicant training course until we know they're eighteen or older."

She scooted closer and held up the pitcher. "Cup."

"Huh? Oh-"

Jak tilted the cup toward her but didn't let go. He watched her refill it and puzzled over the idea of a city in good enough shape that kids didn't have to work. Maybe there weren't metalheads out here.

"So...do you people normally pick up half-dead people and bring them home?"

"As long as they aren't half dead because they tried to kill us, yeah," Phobos said with a careless shrug. "Strength and survival: it's the two things Wastelanders respect the most. So when we find somebody in the badlands who isn't a dried out corpse, we know we've got the makings of a tough little survivor."

Surviving was, by necessity, Jak’s best skill. But considering the kind of jobs he got when people knew that, and how it had turned out last time, Jak decided not to advertise that fact. It already nagged at him that someone had seen his scars, and the bruises from the arrest, and every other injury he'd gained in the name of helping a city that hated him. Spargus wouldn't get the same freebies.

Eventually, Phobos stood up and put the pitcher back on a low counter that extended out of sight behind a curtain. She dusted off her yellow tunic and stretched her back with a soft grunt.

"Alright. I guess somebody ought to tell Damas you're awake and talking," she said, more to herself than to Jak.

Before Jak could ask who Damas was supposed to be, something careful and calculated slipped into Phobos's voice.

"So...just you and the critters, huh? Your parents know where you are?"

Hands tightened into claws around the wooden cup.

"I never had parents," Jak growled.

One more thing to "thank" Haven for, apparently.

"Ah." Phobos's eyes widened in an oddly dismayed expression. "Sorry, I..."

"Why?"

Jak's eyes narrowed at her.

"Literally no one has ever asked if I even had parents before you. You're fishing for something. What do you want?"

Then it hit him: if the woman had seen his scars, she had seen his amulet as well. Was that what she was getting at? Probing to see if any other ill-fated Heirs of Mar existed?

"Uh..." Phobos puffed out her cheeks and blew the air out. "It's...complicated. I'm gonna let Damas take this one."

"Who's Damas?" Jak demanded.

Phobos made another odd grimace and lifted a radio from the countertop.

"Hey, Damas, the kid's awake," she said, ignoring Jak's question.

A raspy voice crackled through the speaker.

"He is? Has he said anything yet?"

"Well, he threatened to bite me," Phobos joked before growing serious. "Take it easy when you come down, he's pretty worked up. Bring the orange guy if you can."

"Understood. Anything else I should know?"

"Yeah," Phobos sighed. "He doesn't know who we are, where we are, or how he got here. I don't think you're going to get any answers out of him."

"......oh."

The guy she called Damas sounded strangely...emotional.

"Er...alright. I'll...I'll see what I can do when I get there."

Jak glowered at Phobos's back. He hated when people talked about him like he wasn't there.

Out of habit, he reached for his collar to run his fingers over his amulet. That always helped him slow down when his thoughts were racing too fast. His fingers brushed against loose linen; the tunic he was wearing were not the one he'd had on the last time he was awake. Jak's stomach felt like it was plummeting from a precipice as he finally looked down at his body. Someone had dressed him in loose, lightweight clothing. There was no sign of his own clothing.

Or his amulet.

Fighting down feelings of violation and revulsion, Jak gripped the thin sheets in hands like claws.

"Where are my clothes?" he snarled, "What did you do?"

Phobos didn't look overly concerned, which only agitated Jak more.

"They're being checked for trackers or other bugs," she said with a shrug. "Haven's been trying to find our city for years. Can't be too careful. Look on the bright side: it's probably the first time they've ever been washed."

She leaned over the cot, and Jak jerked away.

"Don't touch me!"

There wasn't much room to retreat on the small bed, but Jak tried anyway.

"Who stole my amulet?"

"Hey, calm down," Phobos raised a placating hand, but dropped it quickly when Jak flinched. "Nobody stole it."

"Don't lie to me!"

Jak was over the verge of panic now. He was alone, powerless, right back to being poked and prodded like a doll. Like a lab rat.

"What do you want?!"

Grimacing, Phobos stepped back and grabbed her radio again.

"Hey Damas? Hurry it up, will ya?"

"I'm en route."

"Good. Because he just noticed the absence of a Certain Something and he is losing it right now."

"Rot. Okay, just- rot! Try to keep him calm, I'm bringing it, okay?"

The man's voice rose and fell oddly. It almost sounded like he was running.

Phobos ran a hand through her hair and puffed out her cheeks. This was not going as well as they'd hoped. Could've been worse, she acknowledged, but this kid's reactions were giving her a bad feeling. The scars, the reaction to the IV and having been given new clothing without his knowledge, it all painted a pretty grim picture.

"Damas is bringing your amulet down," she said in what she hoped was a soothing tone. (How did one talk to agitated teenagers?! Why weren't they as easy to calm as toddlers?) "He'll explain everything, chico, I promise. Just...stay here a minute, okay?"

Jak warily watched the woman walk through the curtain, listening and counting her footsteps. By the sound of it, he was in the back of a narrow building. There was someone else up there, wherever Phobos had gone, but they rustled around opening drawers instead of speaking. If there were guards, Jak couldn't hear them. He hoped there were none. In his current state, he doubted he'd be able to fight them off.

A door slid open with the sound of a chime, and Jak stiffened as a heavier tread entered the building.

"About time!" he heard Phobos greet the person, "He's all yours."

"Allegedly," the voice from the radio answered.

"Mmhm. You're cute when you're in denial. Better get back there before the poor kid has a heart attack."

When the curtains parted, Jak was in the act of climbing off the cot to look for something -- anything -- to defend himself with. He froze, locking eyes with a weathered Wastelander covered in scars and armor. He looked like the kind of guy Sig would run with. Jak stared at the man and wondered if this was the guy who allegedly had his amulet. Were those piercings on his skull?! Despite himself, Jak wondered how the man slept without ripping whatever he used for a pillow.

"Easy, young one," the man murmured, holding out his hands as if approaching a skittish animal. "Easy. You're in no danger."

"Usually when people tell me that, they're lying," Jak retorted. He backed up, silently cursing his shaky legs, until his back touched the wall and the IV tugged painfully at his arm. "Where's Daxter? What do you people want with us?"

The armored man lowered himself to sit on the end of the cot and folded his hands in front of him. "Your friend is perfectly safe," he soothed, "Well, unless he tries to use the water wheel as a carnival ride, I suppose. But he doesn't really seem the type to do that kind of thing."

"You didn't answer my other question," Jak said pointedly. "What do you want?"

"Answers," the man -- Damas, probably -- replied steadily, "Just answers."

"Like what?" Jak edged closer to the IV, trying to relieve the horrific sensation of the needle.

Then his visitor reached into a cloth pouch at his belt and drew out a familiar shape.

"What can you tell me about this?" he asked, holding up the amulet.

Forgetting the needle, Jak lunged for the pendant. Pain lanced through his elbow for an instant, hot and dull, and he pulled up short. He'd learned long ago not to rip needles out. There would just be more if he did.

"Whoa!" Damas dropped the amulet on the sheets and reached out as if to steady Jak. "Slow down, boy, you're going to hurt yourself! You shouldn't even be standing right now!"

Jak, unfortunately, agreed. But he locked his knees and kept his eyes on Phobos's friend, just as he had on Phobos.

"Give it back," he rasped, holding out a demanding hand.

Damas frowned thoughtfully. He picked up the chain and considered it for a few seconds before dropping it into Jak's outstretched hand.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

With time-travel being too unbelievable an explanation even to those closest to Jak, he settled for the most open-ended version of the truth he could manage.

"Ancient ruins," he muttered.

The chain slipped down around his neck, and he visibly relaxed once the familiar weight rested against his collarbone.

Damas made an interested sound and folded his arms. "Ruins, eh? How did you find it?"

Evasively, Jak shrugged. "I just...knew where to look."

"And does this happen to you often? "Knowing" things?"

Hm. He might’ve been a little too open-ended there. Jak braced his back against the wall and begrudgingly clarified.

"I'm not a seer. It's just with eco stuff."

Damas nodded. "Ah! I understand. So what made you decide to keep such an odd little trinket?"

He wasn't being very subtle. Jak could do blunt too.

"It's mine. That's it. And I know what you're trying to do."

A hint of tension lined Damas’s neck and shoulders as he tried to play casual.

"Oh? And what am I trying to do, young one?"

Jak curled his lip at the man. "You're trying to get me to say I'm an Heir of Mar, probably so you can get some of his artifacts. What, do you want the Precursor Stone too? Well you're too late."

Any semblance of relaxation dropped from Damas like a cloak. He straightened, and the air filled with an undercurrent of warning. It was almost like eco -- enough that Jak wondered if the man could channel.

"Explain that, please."

It didn't sound like a request.

"What, exactly, do you know about the Precursor Stone?"

Jak gripped his amulet for calm.

"Not a myth," he said shortly, "Not meant to be used as a weapon, and not a rock."

He lifted his chin and met Damas’s hard eyes.

"I opened it. It can't be used anymore."

"Opened?!" Damas recoiled slightly. "You've touched the Stone?"

Suspicion colored his voice, but strangely he didn't seem to be getting hostile.

"Where did you find it?"

Agitated, Jak snapped, "In a tomb designed by some sadistic obstacle-course lover obsessed with "manhood", guarded by a bunch of loudmouth Oracles. Be glad you missed it."

He wondered if he was just setting himself up for problems later. If the Wastelanders knew he could speak to Oracles and traverse ruins, they'd probably make him pay off the medical care by finding artifacts for them. Story of his life.

But Damas looked shaken by the statement, not shrewd. He seemed almost to pale, and drew a hand over his face to rest over his mouth. His eyes bored into Jak's with an unsettling intensity.

"The amulet truly belongs to you, then," he finally acknowledged, in little more than a croak. His fingers pressed into his jaw hard enough that Jak wondered if the man would have fingerprints there later.

"How...how old are you, boy?"

What did that have to do with anything? Annoyed, Jak shrugged.

"Like I know? Fifteen, sixteen, what's it matter?"

"You don't...you don't know?" Damas looked even more shaken. "No one told you your own birthdate?"

Jak didn't want to talk about this. He finally slumped to sit at the head of the cot and crossed his arms sullenly.

"Y'know what, that's none of your business. Where's Daxter? I'm not saying anything else until I see him."

"I can arrange that."

Damas stood and absentmindedly picked up the wooden cup.

"You should er...try to sleep some. Heat exhaustion will leave you weak for a good several days-"

"Are you Damas?" Jak interrupted suddenly, as Phobos's attempted reassurances came to mind.

Damas turned. "Yes?"

He looked like he almost expected something else to follow.

Jak pulled his knees to his chest and rested folded arms on top of them. "The lady who was in here said you'd explain what you people wanted from me. And why you took my amulet."

The Wastelander looked, Jak thought, rather like he had just swallowed a bee. He made a few awkward hand motions -- some of it almost looked like signs -- and tugged on a tuft of hair at his chin.

"Ah...that is..."

He picked up the pitcher and splashed water into the cup clumsily. He was unsettled.

"The crest of Mar has...connotations. Doubtless you've learned by now, but when people see it they form...expectations."

Damas cleared his throat and handed the cup over to Jak.

"I removed it from you before the monks could see it and develop those expectations. I...wanted you to be able to focus on healing without the distraction of history zealots."

Well, that was marginally better than Jak had been imagining. He didn't exactly trust that the man was telling the truth, but at least he hadn't tried to sell it or something. Jak acknowledged his visitor's words with a curt nod and sipped at the water slowly. Idly, he wondered if his general age fit this city's "too young for serious work" bracket or not. After Haven, he honestly didn't know whether he hoped so or not.

Damas was staring at him. It was subtle, but intense, and Jak could feel his eyes. It made his brain itch, and he felt the urge to squirm uncomfortably.

"Are you in any pain?" Damas asked suddenly, apparently in response to the squirming.

"I don't like being stared at," Jak answered gruffly.

"...ah." Damas cringed and looked away. "Apologies. You just...look very familiar. I was trying to place whether I might have met you or someone you were related to in the past."

"Not unless you were in Haven before Praxis took over," Jak grumbled bitterly, "Or you took a tour of his prison labs in the last two years."

You're talking too much, Jak. Wait for Daxter. Why are you volunteering this information?

Well. He knew. He was scared and disoriented and angry, and he wanted to shock someone. Anyone. It was the dark eco talking.

"The labs?!" Damas dropped the pitcher with a crash. A terrible look flooded his face. "Did...was your whole family there?"

"Rot! Why are you guys so obsessed with information about my parents?" Jak was getting tired of repeating himself. "You know as much as I do! Even the freakin Oracles wouldn't tell me what the amulet meant until I got to the Tomb!"

From the front of the building, the third person finally called out.

"My lord, if you keep getting him worked up, I'm tossing you out. He's supposed to be resting!"

"I'm working on it, Petros!" Damas retorted sharply.

He closed his eyes and made a visible attempt to calm himself before turning back to Jak.

"Sorry. I know this is confusing. I am...having a difficult time finding the right words to ask the right questions." He made a helpless gesture. "Finding you, practically on my doorstep, with that amulet has upended my understanding of the world and my place in it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jak demanded.

Damas gingerly took a seat at the end of the cot again and, sighing deeply, reached into his pouch again.

"The last time I was in Haven for an extended period of time was about fifteen years ago, at the end of the last major campaign against the metalheads."

He opened his hand, revealing a second amulet of Mar in his palm.

"After Praxis betrayed me- after the hardships our city has faced over the last few years-"

He shook his head with furrowed brow.

"I- I thought I was the only one left. And now here you are, and I have more questions than answers."

Jak blinked, then blinked again.

"Well," he said in a strangled voice, "That makes two of us."

[incandescentflower]

I started this yesterday then forgot whoops. Chp 7 & 8! Making progress. probably (??) will be 10 chapters

✨Title: The Triple N Project

✨ Fandom: Bad Buddy

✨Summary: Pran stands in for Nanon in the BBS universe

✨Tags: pat/pran, wai/korn, mistaken identity, Pran pretends to be a pop idol, wip, chp 8/10?

[cuilpantielthesleepyscribe]

“Do you need me to grab your gloves?”

Cuilpantiel nodded bravely, hands in a death grip on her skirts. It was the first time since the Orc caves that she was daring to venture more than a few steps outdoors, away from the protective shelter of Imladris' buildings, and she was worried that her prostheses might get dirty.

Or worse - that if she was given too much time to think about it, she would back out again in fear.

[rin-may-1103]

The Disappointment.

This may or may not have multiple parts, depending on whether I feel like writing more. (dcxdp, demon twin au.) also based on some post I read a while ago... can't remember for the life of me who wrote it but if any of you guys do, let me know.

"This way," Mother hissed, snatching Danny's wrist tightly. Damian lagged behind, twisting his head this way and that, keeping an eye out for anyone following them.

"Quick now, we must hurry." She hissed again, her eyes darting back and forth, eyeing the small nicks and scratches she had left previously to lead them away.

Danny glanced back at his brother, watching as he scowled and defiantly lifted his head. His baby brother would die before he allowed anyone to see him defeated.

Glancing back to the path, Danny watched as Mother took down anyone who was in their way, killing without hesitation. As he watched another body hit the floor, Grandfather's muttered words from when he left dinner, ran through the back of his head, "Bring the disappointment to me after sundown. I've seen enough."

There was nowhere in the world they could hide that Grandfather wouldn't follow. They would be hunted for the rest of their short lives, hiding in fear like cowards. Grandfather would not rest until he drew blood.

"In here, Habibi, quiet now. Quickly, both of you." Mother finally let Danny's wrist go, darting across the hall to open the secret door. Danny moved to the side, signaling to Damian that he would keep watch. His brother nodded his head and quickly made his way over, ducking into the small, dark, and eerie corridor.

Mother crouched next to Damian, running her hands over his face like this would be the last time she would see it. knowing her, she probably expected it to be. No one went against their grandfather without severe consequences.

Glancing over his shoulder, Danny studied the shadows; there was a lookout patrol moving closer, which meant they only had a minute before they were discovered. Gritting his teeth, Danny darted across the hall, but instead of joining his mother and brother in the dark corridor, he pushed the wall back, leaving only the missing brick his mother had initially taken out.

"Danyal!" his mother hissed, her voice full of stern panic.

"Apologies Mother, but I can not let you do this," Danny replied, glancing to the side to see how much time he had left. Forty seconds. Crouching down, he picked up the brick and looked back at his mother. Damian stood next to her, his brows furrowed in confusion. Obviously, he hadn't figured out Danny's plan, otherwise he would have started shouting at him.

Mother stared at him for a second, her stern eyes wavering for the first time in Danny's life that he could remember. "Take care of him for me, keep him safe when I can not," Danny asked, grabbing the hood hanging around the back of his neck.

Mother's eyes teared up, but she straightened her back, her black hair framing her pretty face. "You've made up your mind then," she said, her voice low and steady. She rested her hand on Damian's shoulder, giving Danny a nod of understanding. "You are like your father, his love makes him weak."

"But," she continued, kneeling down in a bow, "You are of the demon's blood, it runs in your veins just like mine. Your actions will not be forgotten, nor will they be for nothing. You have my word, tifl alqamar. I love you, Habibi."

Danny nodded his head, unable to voice the thoughts clogging his throat. Instead, he took a silent breath, pulled his hood and mask into place, and shoved the final brick into place. Sealing off his precious family just in time to hear the guards around the corner.

Turning around, Danny silently stalked forward, drawing his shoulders back. The group rounded the corner and stopped, watching him in anticipation. Pitching his voice just slightly to the left and rolling his tongue, Danny spoke in a neutral voice, "take me to grandfather."

The two guards in front shared a look, but the ones in the back straightened up and moved aside. Marching forward, Danny passed the two hesitating guards and with a quick slice, brought them to their knees. He needed this to work, there was no room for mercy, no matter how much he hated it.

"I am the grandson of the demon head, you will respect me as you respect him. there will be no next time." Danny continued walking, pretending to not care if the two managed to follow or not. the remaining guards trailed behind him, silently observing him.

Danny was glad Mother had insisted on them matching today. otherwise, his plan would have failed long before he made it to his grandfather's door.

Stopping in front of the painted carved wood that was grandfather's door, Danny idly studied the carvings and statues around the grand hall. He remembered all the stories of how grandfather had collected them over his lifetime; grand stories of bloodshed and cunning manipulation.

His eyes settled on the one farthest away, with the least interesting story. It was considered ordinary, placed next to art worth billions. But it was Danny's favorite. It was a simple green crystal, carved like a crescent moon.

so simple, yet the most beautiful piece in Danny's opinion. He had always hoped he would die beneath the stars and his ever-faithful friend the moon. Maybe, instead of beneath them, he could die amongst them.

He would take it with him, he decided.

Turning sharply, Danny marched over to the small pedistal and plucked the crystal into his hand. Wrapping his fingers around it, he shoved it into a side pocket and returned back to his position.

They only had to wait for another minute before the door opened, grandfather's servants clearing a path for Danny to walk through.

"I see your mother did not drag you away," Grandfather mused, sitting in his large chair. His dark eyes studied Danny's form, taking in the katana on his back, and the hood and mask concealing his face. He was dressed like he would for a mission; no discernable features, no sign of who he was or wasn't. The perfect image of an assassin.

"at least you aren't a coward," Grandfather hummed, standing from his seat. He slowly pulled out his own katana, aiming it at Danny in a challenge. "no, just disappointing. but you are my blood and that earns you the right to die an honorable death. Draw your sword child, and fight like the warrior you are."

Danny bowed like he had been taught, then without another moment of hesitation, drew his sword and lunged.

He wished he could say it was a drawn-out battle of strength and minds, but it was not. for Danny was only ten years old, and his grandfather had hundreds of years of training and discipline behind him.

he gazed up at his grandfather as his knees hit the ground, his katana dropping to the ground as his hand reached up to the sword impaling his chest. Grandfather's eyes were filled with nothing but contempt, contempt for the useless boy he had just sentenced to death.

but his contempt did not bother Danny, no instead it drew a smile to his face. As much as Grandfather lorded his sharp mind over them, he had never been able to stop Danny from surprising him. So, with a burst of adrenaline, Danny allowed the small shuriken he hid in his sleeve to drop to his left hand and buried it deep into his grandfather's chest.

grandfather lunged back, pulling his katana with him, removing the only thing keeping Danny upright. Danny's body hit the ground, and with the last of his strength, he twisted his head so he could listen as his grandfather cried out in anger.

Grandfather's breath was heavy, the sound of him removing the dagger filling the silence. the shuriken was dropped to the ground with a sharp clatter, falling just a few feet from Danny's face.

"you," Grandfather huffed, "aren't such a disappointment after all. I'll grant you one last honor and keep you in the family tomb. Rest now, Damian, you have fought well."

Danny smiled, the cold feeling of blood loss crawling through his body, but not fast enough to block out the pressure of the moon crystal still in his pocket. He hoped Mother had gotten Damian out in time, and he hoped Damian could forgive him for what he had done.

[green-eyedfirework]

“No.”

“Bruce—”

“Absolutely not.  Do you have any idea what you’re proposing?”

“It’s not a proposal,” Dick said with a calm he didn’t feel.  He’d already numbed himself to the idea.  “I am not asking you, Bruce.  I’m telling you.”

“I am not letting my son walk straight into the hands of someone who wants him dead,” Bruce snapped, eyes flashing, as he shoved upright from the council table.

“And I,” Dick replied levelly, meeting Bruce’s gaze, “am not letting someone else suffer for a war I caused.”

Bruce shook his head, deflating slightly as his expression pinched.  “You didn’t cause it, Dick,” he said quietly.  “It was a set-up.  You know this.  King Slade knows this.”

Dick’s mouth firmed to a thin line.  It didn’t matter if Slade knew now that his son had been captured by extremists and tortured until he was a weapon aimed at Gotham.  It was still Dick’s sword that had ended his life.  “I killed him,” Dick said softly.  “I killed Prince Grant and Slade will never forget that.”  Never forgive that, never mind the grudging treaty created when Hive’s treachery had come to light.  “I will not let someone else take my place as a target of his rage.”

No one trusted the treaty.  Not in Gotham, not in Defiance.  The hostage exchange was the only thing grounding the flimsy sheet of paper—one noble from Defiance, one noble from Gotham, each with a permanent stay in the other kingdom’s court.

“Dick,” Bruce said slowly, “you’re the Crown Prince.”

“I’ve been removed from the succession,” Dick said, half-shrugging.  “Your advisors won’t let you reinstate me.”  Hot-headed, impetuous, reckless—whatever Bruce believed, Dick had started a war by killing a prince, and several nobles in Gotham had never wanted the son of aerialists to ascend to the throne.

“Dick—”

“You can’t stop me,” Dick crossed his arms.  This was his mess, and he was going to clean it up, whether Bruce liked it or not.

Bruce slumped back into his chair, and buried his head in his hands.  “Dick,” he said quietly, “please.”

“I’m sorry, Bruce,” Dick said, equally quiet.  “But I can’t watch someone else take my place.”

Bruce let out a slow, shuddering breath.  Finally, he spoke, “You won’t go as a prince.”

“What?”

“You won’t go as a prince.  Under your real name.  King Slade has never seen you—” That was true, once Bruce had realized why an army was at their border, Dick had been carefully guarded.  “He won’t know who you are.  We can make up a minor noble family for you.  A lordship on the other side of Gotham.”

“But—”

“Dick,” Bruce looked him in the eyes, his face grave and pale.  “He despises you.  And I will not send my son to his death, do you understand?”

Dick nodded mutely, the words ringing in his head.

He despises you.

And Slade had every right to.

~#~

It was safe to say that Slade wasn’t in a good mood.  Hadn’t been in a good mood since he’d received word that his firstborn was dead, and his initial fury had receded to an ever-simmering flame of rage, a perpetual bad temper that sent everyone fleeing.

If he’d had his way, he would’ve razed Gotham to the ground and stuck every member of its royal family on a pike before he stopped.  Unfortunately, King Bruce had managed to find evidence that the terrorist group Hive had been involved, muddying the facts to claim that Prince Richard had merely been acting in self-defense, and it had been enough to sour Slade’s kingdom on a costly war.

So now he was supposed to play nice with the kingdom his son had died in, signing a treaty that wasn’t worth the paper and ink, biding his time until he could have his revenge.  Gotham was sticking to its best behavior for the time being and Prince Richard had vanished after he’d been removed from the line of succession, leaving Slade uselessly seething.

He glared at Wintergreen as he approached the throne.  “Is that it?” he asked, gesturing to the near-empty throne room.  “No petitioners to hear today?”  Very few dared to show up, all of them showing a healthy fear of his temper.

“The Lord of Owlcourt has arrived,” Wintergreen said.  Right.  Their noble hostage.  Slade had sent Drakon to Gotham days ago with careful instructions to watch and listen but do nothing unprovoked.  He doubted that Gotham would give him an easy excuse to go to war, the kingdom wasn’t as cutthroat as its neighbors.

With the exception of its reckless prince.

“And I have to be here for that?”  He didn’t want to greet whatever sacrificial lamb Gotham had sent, he didn’t even want to acknowledge that they existed.  As minor a lord as they could find, most likely, or maybe even a merchant willing to play at being a lord for a generous payout to his family.  According to Wintergreen, Owlcourt had been a royal territory until very recently, which meant that Gotham had magicked this lordship out of thin air.

Wintergreen gave him a sharp look, but didn’t start the long lecture Slade was half-expecting.  Everyone was treating him like he was a piece of fucking glass, and Slade dearly wanted a fight.  Wanted to draw his sword and hack away until everyone that would hurt him, hurt his children, were dead.

In his imaginings, the bodies all had dark hair and golden crowns.

“The Lord of Owlcourt,” the guards announced as they opened the doors, and Slade got his first look at the noble.

Young, younger than Slade had been expecting, dark-haired and light-eyed, expression steady as he flicked his gaze around the room, not shivering or scared.  Slade flicked a glance at Wintergreen to make sure he wasn’t overthinking things.  His steward had his mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed.

Slade wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a taunt or a deliberate provocation, but if they wanted him to lose his composure, they’d have to try harder than sending a lookalike of their prince.

“Your Majesty,” the lordling dipped into a low bow.  Lower than a lord to a foreign king usually bowed.  The idea that they’d foisted a lordship on some random commoner was looking more and more likely.  “My name is Dick Grayson, and I’m—”

“The Lord of Owlcourt, yes, we did receive the message,” Slade said, cutting him off.  He made no attempt to hide his glower as Grayson straightened.  “Neither of us need to pretend this is anything but what it is.”  His noble hostage could rot in a tower for all Slade cared.  “You will obey our rules.  You will not leave the castle without permission.  You want anything, you will ask Wintergreen and he’ll see if it’s necessary.”  His steward inclined his head as Grayson darted a glance at him.  “If you’re on anything less than your best behavior,” Slade paused, scanning the young lordling’s face.  Wariness aplenty, but no outright fear.  “There will be consequences.”

“Understood, Your Majesty,” Grayson dropped into another bow.  Someone should teach him some etiquette before the whole court figured out he wasn’t a noble.  “Thank you for your hospit—”

Slade got up from the throne and walked out before he could finish.  The pleasantries had been met, and he had no intention of getting closer to a Gotham lord.  Especially not one who looked so similar to the man that killed his son.

This time, when Slade dreamed of destroying his enemies and venting his grief, the corpses looked like the young Lord of Owlcourt.

~#~

Dick had half been expecting them to throw him in the dungeons and was pleasantly surprised when he was led to a room.  Nowhere near as large as his quarters in Gotham, and the simplicity was clearly intended as a slight, but the room had a writing desk and a window, and didn’t seem overly cold.

“Your trunk will be brought up after it’s searched,” the steward said—Wintergreen, Dick remembered, cold eyes watching him with eerie intensity.  “Anything we deem too dangerous to let you have will be destroyed.”

Dick took a breath and nodded.  He hadn’t brought anything valuable with him, had correctly assumed that Defiance wouldn’t treat his possessions with any sort of courtesy.

“It should go without saying, but your best option is to keep your head down,” Wintergreen said sharply.  “Do not test the King’s temper.  War has been narrowly avoided, I suggest you try not to court it again.”

Don’t flinch, Dick chanted mentally in his head.  Wintergreen didn’t know who he was talking to.  Didn’t know how accurate his words really were.

“If there is something you require, you come to me.  You will not be assigned a chaperone or a guard, and you will be stopped if trying to enter a restricted area.  Meals will be served in the Great Hall, the library is open if you wish to read, and the training areas are usually empty in early morning.  You will not be allowed sharpened weapons.”

That was more freedom than Dick had expected.  There weren’t bars on the windows and the door appeared to lock from the inside.

“Do you have any questions?” Wintergreen asked, tone perfunctory.  Dick shook his head, throat still dry from his interaction with the King.

“Very well,” Wintergreen inclined his head.  “Lord Grayson.”  He swept from the room before Dick could breathe through the sting of the title.  No longer a prince.  Never a prince again.

He’d half been prepared for his disguise to fall apart the moment he’d reached the castle’s gates.  The steward’s eyes had narrowed dangerously when he’d seen him, and Dick had seen the way King Slade’s expression had flickered with surprise before cooling.  They might not have seen him before, but clearly they’d heard of his appearance.

He’d thought about dying his hair, but he couldn’t bank on getting the materials to keep it up in Defiance.  His only shield was a name lost to time and the prayer that they wouldn’t put it together.

Dick sank down into the chair and exhaled slowly.

It had worked.

~#~

Unfortunately, the Lord of Owlcourt was a model guest.  He’d made no demur over his sword and dagger being seized, no protest at being forced to file a formal request for every additional piece of furniture for his rooms, no complaint at being ordered to attend every meal in the Great Hall.

The last had been Wintergreen’s idea.  If it was up to Slade, he would’ve locked Grayson in a cell and thrown away the key, but Wintergreen had pointed out that Slade had sworn to treat the hostage with courtesy.

So Grayson had a decent set of rooms in the guest wing, had meals with everyone else, was allowed to roam the castle without fear of retaliation.  It helped that he was an unrecognizable face—Slade didn’t doubt that Grayson had fought in the war, his hands bore sword calluses, but no one in Slade’s court had any personal animosity with the young lordling.

It also helped that the Lord of Owlcourt was charming.

~#~ ~#~

Slade turned back when he reached the door, and had to fight his twitching lips.  Dick had spread out on the bed, curling up in the warmth Slade had left behind, and had pulled the blankets over his head to block out the sun.

Not a morning bird, then, but a cat.  Slade shook his head as he left his room, and refused to call the emotion fondness.  He wasn’t getting fond of the Lord of Owlcourt.

And what if you are? a tiny voice asked in his head.

…And what if he was.  Dick was from Gotham, true, but he would be staying permanently in Slade’s court.  No one had heard of Owlcourt in Defiance, so it wouldn’t ruffle any feathers amongst his court.  And—and Slade couldn’t spend the rest of his life wrapped up in misery.

Dick was amusing, and a challenge.  Smart and fierce and bold.  Good at politics too.  He was everything Slade looked for in a partner, and Slade had to admit that what was supposed to be a temporary relief had turned into a more permanent arrangement.

He recalled the way blue eyes sparkled as Slade pinned Dick to the bed, dark hair ruffled by the pillows—as much as Slade detested the underhandedness of the Waynes, Slade wouldn’t have gotten this if they hadn’t tried to provoke him.

For a moment, Slade tried to imagine what it would’ve been like if they’d actually sent over Prince Richard.  If Slade, or someone else, didn’t kill him, Richard would’ve probably spent the entire time locked up in his rooms, perhaps plotting how to murder the rest of them in their sleep.  There was certainly no way they would’ve ended up sleeping together.

The very thought was ridiculous.  As if Prince Richard would’ve ever—

“I volunteered.”

“My cousin.  She’s a tutor for the youngest prince.”

“I learned swordsmanship from the very best, Your Majesty.”

Slade came to a stop in the middle of the corridor.

No.

That was—impossible.

No one would ever—

Dick, on his knees, almost trembling, and the snarl of what did they teach in Gotham, that he thought Slade would ever do such a thing forestalled by his fury for the young lordling, what kind of royal family sent someone to sacrifice everything for their mistakes?

“The King is a good man,” Dick sighed, “And his family are good people.”

“It’s my duty,” Dick said quietly, “For my kingdom.”

My.

My.

But no king would ever send his heir as hostage if there was another choice.  No father would ever send his son to someone who wanted him dead.

Slade was being ridiculous.  Dick was just a noble’s bastard son with a passing resemblance to the Crown Prince of Gotham.

…Dick was a short form of Richard.

~#~

“It’s a pity,” Slade said softly, “That we don’t have Prince Richard to explain away this one too.”

The courtiers laughed.  Dick didn’t.

Slade was staring directly at him.

~#~ ~#~

Dick laced his fingers around the cup, and took another sip.  It was refreshing.  It was water.  It was something to do that wasn’t looking up at Slade, because he didn’t think he could handle looking up at Slade right now.

He’d been ready, when he approached the castle, for his paper-thin disguise to fall apart.  For Slade to kill him where he stood, and know that at least in death he kept his kingdom safe.  He—he had not been prepared to watch Slade’s face twist into hate after softening, after he knew what Slade looked like grinning sharp and victorious, or solemn, or sleepily content with the early morning sun splayed over his face.  It…hurt.

Dick took another small sip of water.  The cup was already three-quarters empty.  He wasn’t sure how much longer he could drag this out.

The door opened again, and Dick’s fingers tightened on the cup.  The boots in front of him jerked, and turned to face the newcomer, but Dick didn’t look up.  It wouldn’t make a difference.

“Wintergreen,” Slade said flatly, sounding both confused and displeased at once.

“Slade,” the steward answered in the same flat tone, “And here I was half-expecting he’d already be dead.”

Dick raised his head, bewildered.  The way Wintergreen had said that—

“You knew?”  Oh, Slade sounded furious now.  “Since when?”

Wintergreen didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by his king’s agitation, instead studying Dick as Slade growled.  “A week or so after his arrival.  Before you, I wager.”  Dick’s stomach twisted—how long had Slade known?  Dick hadn’t noticed any sudden difference in him, anything to suggest that he knew Dick was the person that had killed his son.

Before sleeping with him?

After?

“How?” Slade demanded.

“I already told you of my findings regarding Owlcourt,” Wintergreen said mildly, “But if he was some merchant’s son or a farmer, no amount of drilling in manners would’ve been able to replicate being raised a noble.  So that must mean he’s a noble.  But then why hide his real title, why give him some random royal territory?”  Wintergreen shrugged lightly, “If he looks so much like the prince, then perhaps he is the prince.”

“And you didn’t tell me,” Slade bit back.  Dick took another quiet sip of water.

“No, Slade, I didn’t tell you, because you would’ve killed him,” Wintergreen snapped back, “And started another war, hostage or not, by murdering Gotham’s Crown Prince.”

“I’m not,” rang out into sudden silence.  Dick winced, but—but he couldn’t stay silent forever.  “I’m not the Crown Prince,” he said quietly.

Slade and Wintergreen were both staring at him now.  Dick fought the urge to hide.

“We just went over this,” Slade began, but Dick cut him off.

“No, not—I was the Crown Prince.  I’m not anymore.”

Slade narrowed his eyes, but it was Wintergreen who spoke.  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The council,” Dick explained, “One of their conditions was that my adoption be revoked.”  Bruce had been furious, but his court had agreed that it was an elegant solution—if a prince had not slaughtered a prince, the consequence would never have been war—and by that time, Dick had already made up his mind to go so it had been a moot point.  “So I’m not.  A prince or a Wayne.  I—Owlcourt is a royal territory, yes, but I have a claim to it, through my great-grandfather.  My name was Grayson, before Bruce adopted me.  It—wasn’t a lie.”

Slade and Wintergreen were staring at him, silent.  Dick swallowed, and bowed his head.

“But it’s a deliberate omission,” Dick said quietly, “I understand why you’re angry.”  Still two sips of water left in the cup, but Dick put it down, before shifting forward to fold onto his knees.  “Killing me won’t start a war,” Dick almost whispered, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Another stretching silence, before boots came closer.  “Out of curiosity,” Slade said, his voice level, “How long did you think you’d get away with it?”

Dick—didn’t know.  There had always been an end date in sight.  All he could do was push it another day away.  “Hopefully long enough that tensions would’ve died down,” Dick said quietly, because he was still a hostage, and if Slade killed him without provocation, the treaty would be in turmoil.  Too soon after the war, and angry, grieving people might seize the opportunity to attack again.

Slade made an irritated sound.  “I’m not going to kill you,” he snapped, one boot nudging his knee, “Get up.”

Dick processed the order before he processed the statement, so he stuttered halfway up, nearly falling back down before he recovered and straightened fully.  Slade wasn’t looking at him, but his face was set in a glower.  Wintergreen looked…mildly amused.  Or satisfied.

[celestialscribbler]

Chapter 4: Luz Heart     Part 5

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[aziraphales-library]

Hello! I was wondering if you could recommend any identity porn fics for ineffable husbands?

Hi! You can check our #mistaken identity tag for fics like this. Here are some more to add to the collection...

Entertaining Angels Unawares by cyankelpie (T)

Thanks to some experimental magic from Upstairs, Aziraphale has a chance to interact with Crowley without being recognized. A bit of flirting couldn't hurt, right? It's not as if anyone will ever know it was him, and there is a lot he's wanted to say and do for a very long time. It isn't his fault Crowley is so good at his job.

Of Celestial Sonnets and Pitiable Poets by triedunture (T)

Crowley takes to anonymously publishing his poems with...unexpected results.

The Bookseller and the Garden by oceantears (T)

A very normal bookseller and a very human garden- uh, gardener go on a date. It goes great, as do the next few dates. As does their developing relationship as a whole. It would go even better, of course, if only those two could admit to each other that they are, in fact, not exactly human. That would explain some off the oddities, at least, without them constantly having to come up with increasingly complicated excuses. But, oh well. They have made it so far, haven’t they? That has to mean they are just really good at hiding their true identities. Right? …Right?

The Pimpernel by rfsmiley (T)

Aziraphale longs to know the identity of the elusive Scarlet Pimpernel, but Crowley, damn him, keeps getting in the way.

Readings From the Books of Ashtoreth by Quefish (E)

Vicar Aziraphale Bookman has a comfortable life. He lives in and serves the small village community of Tadfield. He enjoys contributing to local businesses, taking walks, and of course reading. His 'guilty pleasure', which gives him no guilt and all pleasure, is a series of novels by one AJ Ashtoreth. But what happens when he reaches out with an innocent bit of fanmail?

An Absence of Stars by mllekurtz (E)

A.Z. Fell is a famous (well, in his circle) Soho bookseller whose selection of volumes is the epitome of respectable (and boring) literature. One of his favourite authors is the renowned science writer A.J. Crowley, whose books on astronomy have popularized the subject — and also sell very well. Mr Fell is overjoyed when Dr Crowley accepts his invitation to do a signing of his new book in the bookshop, but their first conversation is a disaster: for some reason, Crowley does not share Fell’s distaste for romantic literature and acts very cold when the bookseller berates the author of one of the most popular romance series of the moment, Madame Ashtoreth. Little does Fell know that his favourite writer and the one he hates with a passion are the same person…

- Mod D

[profoundbondfanfic]

Hey Reddit: AITA?

Hey Reddit: AITA? by From_My_Dark_And_Twisted_Mind || @from-my-dark-and-twisted-mind Rating: General and Up audiences Word count: 4k

Dean made himself comfortable then picked up his phone, opened the app and began writing… Heartbroken and confused Dean doesn’t know what to do when a woman appears at their door claiming to be pregnant to Dean’s husband Cas. In desperation he turns to Reddit for advice.

It's a true Destiel story like any other - it has angst and hurt and miscommunication, all the drama we love to read. But there is one thing that makes this one special. For all of you Reddit fans out there (and those of you who like to see a different writing style), we present you with this interactive story that is formatted like a Reddit post.

Dean seeks your help and if you stop by to read the comments, you'll notice that most readers answer his questions and give him advice, or just a few words of comfort, which makes this story all the more fun.

It is clear how hurt and distraught Dean is throughout the story, as his updates come whenever he has a spare moment and needs to vent out, or when there's a big event regarding their little conundrum. While we mostly see how Dean feels, if you read between the lines, you'd see just how confused and hurt Castiel is as well. But thankfully, they work it out. And while the event of the story did impact their relationship a lot, I'd like to think it also made them stronger.

[tennessoui]

we're firmly stepping into clueless kit territory but modern au where obi-wan goes out to a bar to watch a basketball game with his friends from work and while he's waiting for a 3rd/4th round of drinks, he spies a very pretty and handsome guy leaning up against the counter looking bored af

and no one that pretty should look that bored, especially in a crowded and loud sports bar, so he makes his way over to the man.

"not your thing?" he asks, gesturing to the television, and the guy looks over, takes his measure, gets a hungry glint in his eyes, and says, "no, i'm not really into it, i just came with a friend" and obi-wan takes this to mean the very attractive man looking up at him beneath his eyelashes and touching his arm is not into any sport and he's quick to be like oh yeah no me neither i don't have the head for it i don't know anything about sports fuck sports 100% i hate sports (never mind that obi-wan coaches a little league, baby's-first-soccer-team part-time and loves it) and the attractive man laughs and rubs the back of his head and agrees and gives him his name and lets him buy him a drink

and they spend the night together and it's great and then a week or so later the assistant coach and league admins are all abuzz because famous (and single and hot) hockey player ani skywalker enrolled his twins in their soccer team program and obi-wan doesn't think anything of it until his one night stand rocks up to drop off his twins and they're both like :0 before going to argue in the locker room

("you said you hated sports, mr. hockey legend!!"

"i awkwardly laughed when the guy whose dick i wanted to suck said he hated my livelihood!! and you're one to talk, mr. coach of my twins' soccer team!!")

[radioactivepeasant]

Fic Prompts: Free Day Friday

It's a little follow-up to Mistaken Identity au, as per the poll results!

The first week "home" had been...stifling. The man purporting to be Jak's father wouldn't leave him alone, always checking in on him, making sure he wasn't pulling at the IV, asking him questions he just didn't have the answers to. The one upside was that Damas had finally brought Daxter to see him. Of course, it had been right in the middle of Jak's fourth escape attempt, which may have been calculated. But considering Jak was pretty sure he was going to lose his mind without Daxter, he'd decided to let it go for now.

For the first hour, neither of them had even spoken. They'd just clung to each other in silence, taking solace in the knowledge that they were both alive, and here. Damas had stood to the side, watching, like he always did. He really hadn't given up on this "I think you're my kid" business. And without blurting out everything he knew about time-travel, Jak couldn't exactly prove him wrong. Frankly, even if he did tell Damas exactly why he was wrong -- namely, that Jak had technically only been born five-ish years ago -- Jak didn't think even that would convince him. He'd probably think it was some near-death hallucination Jak had in the desert.

Daxter wanted Jak to play along; let this new city think they were long lost children returning home. Anything was better than rejection and exile! But Jak just...couldn't. First of all, he was a terrible liar. Tess often told him he couldn't bluff his way out of a paper bag. But even more pressing, it just didn't feel right, repaying an act of kindness with one of deception. Besides, what would they do when they found out it was all a mistake? Better not to get comfortable at the outset.

It was, all in all, a difficult position to be in.

"So tell me why your friend there looks like a river-cat, but has human blood," Damas finally interrupted after close to two hours of watching them sign to each other.

"He has wha-"

"I HAVE WHAT?!"

Daxter bristled and leaped down onto the cot. "Whaddya mean my blood is still human?! How did you even figure that out?!"

Damas was entirely too cheerful when he answered, "Oh, nobody knew what you were when we found you, so we did a blood test. Using the wrong medicine could've killed you, after all. The vet called it a day and went home with a migraine once she figured out all your internal organs are identical to a human's. That's probably why you can talk, I suppose."

Sputtered explanations of Daxter's plight -- talking over each other and around each other, one blaming himself and the other refusing to accept it -- took up the next seven minutes while Damas just listened with a stupid grin. Maybe because it was the most Jak had willingly spoken to him since regaining consciousness.

On the bright side, after learning that Daxter was medically still human, Phobos had brought a pair of pants for him. Maybe they were an infant's button-snap trousers, but the buttons made room for his tail and both boys were grateful for it.

After four days of tortuous boredom and the hated IV, they finally let Jak out. No one had returned his clothes -- it figured, couldn't let him have gear that would help him escape -- so he'd had to shuffle out after Phobos in slightly undersized sandals that pinched his toes. Even with Daxter's enthusiastic and highly colorful commentary on the world outside the clinic, Jak hadn't been prepared for the size of the city around them.

He'd expected something like the Slums of Haven. Ramshackle buildings of sheet metal and broken roads surrounding a few locations of importance. The market district outside of the clinic alone could have fit all of Dead Town quite comfortably, and according to Daxter that was only a quarter of Spargus's true size! Asymmetrical sandstone houses and apartments lined city walls and a network of well-kept walking paths in a variety of levels, many with baskets of colorful fruits, or racks of laundry drying on landings high above the street.

Jak had immediately wandered away from Damas and Phobos, just trying to take it all in. The air was clear -- hot, but clean and free of smog -- and tasted of salt. A child collided with him, bounced off, and continued running as other children gave chase with shrieks of laughter. Jak had never seen kids playing in the street before. Where were the guards? The soldiers? Everyone outside walked with heads held high, calling out greetings, haggling over prices. The marketplace thrummed with life and color and sound, almost overwhelming in its intensity. Haven seemed like a ghost town by comparison!

Jak strayed between vendors' stalls, trailing his fingers along split-rail counters and sturdy awning poles. Daxter leaned eagerly over his shoulder, pointing out all the ammunition and daggers and armor being made. There were piles of metal gems being weighed on scales, traded back and forth, even being set into weapons! City of the hunter indeed. It looked like everyone had gems of their own to pay with. Daxter even swore up and down he'd seen an eight year old with a handful of metalbug gems buying a satchel of seeds!

"Oye! Don't wander off like that, kid!"

Phobos caught him two streets over, peering at a rack of creepy gas masks. She sounded more amused the annoyed, at least.

"See something you like?"

"This place is so crowded." Jak shaded his eyes and tried to guess how many of the people around him were warriors.

Phobos snorted and jostled his arm with a friendly elbow. "This is nothing. You should see the Arena!"

Arena? Like a stadium? The possibility of racing piqued Jak's interest, and he and Daxter exchanged eager glances.

"What's the Arena?" Daxter asked.

It was fairly hard to miss, as it turned out. Phobos pointed them towards a structure built into what looked like a caldera, just north of the market.

"There, that's the Arena: gathering place, courtroom, race track, stage and morgue, all in one!"

Daxter blanched. "What was that about a morgue?!"

Phobos shrugged. "It's built over lava, kid. Citizen candidates have to prove they can survive volcanic activity -- and Marauders, and- well, most desert life, really -- before we let them leave the city. If they don't take it seriously enough: whoosh! Crematorium."

"....ah." Daxter cringed and slid down Jak's back until only his ears were visible over Jak's shoulder. "Hence the age restrictions."

"Hence the age restrictions," Phobos agreed. She gave Jak a little shove. "Hey, if you want to get a look at it, one of our veteran hunters managed to trap a couple metaljackets recently. The Warriors' Guild is giving a demonstration for civ candidates and younger rookies this afternoon. Kind of a "here's what you can be if you don't slack off" thing."

"Ugh. Metaljackets." Jak rolled his eyes. "Not as annoying as Stingerheads, but they're up there."

He paused.

"Do you even have Stingerheads out here? Those stupid things drive me crazy."

"Well..." with a slightly chagrined look, Phobos tiptoed to wave down a slightly dismayed looking Damas, who was apparently questioning some baffled shopkeepers as to their whereabouts.

"I mean. We used to. But then we found out that Leapers really will eat anything they can fit in their mouth. We don't have a Stingerhead problem anymore."

Phobos shooed Jak over to the now relieved Damas. "Go on, I've got work to do. You guys, I dunno, bond or something. Take Jak to see the metaljacket exhibition."

Of course, in the clarity of hindsight, she would regret the suggestion.

There were still a few hours before the event was scheduled to take place, but there were already some people camped out to get front row seats. Damas didn't seem to think that this was a particularly wise strategy, commenting as he led the boys past the stands that the campers would likely run through most of the water they had on-hand while waiting. He paused when he noticed that one of the "campers" was an old man, stretched out on the benches and snoring softly.

"Well. Peat excluded. That guy just kind of does what he wants and manages to survive anyway." Damas tugged at his lip. "Honestly, nobody's really sure how. I mean, the man ate a cobra once because he said if it bites you, biting it back cancels out the venom."

"Does it?" asked Jak.

Damas’s head whipped around to fix wide eyes on Jak. "No! No, absolutely not! He was in the healing ward for days! But he managed not to need the foot amputated and ate the rest of the snake anyway."

Daxter gagged and Jak laughed. "I wanna meet that guy."

Rightly, Damas had a bad feeling about that.

When the exhibition did begin, Jak was a little disappointed. Sure, the long gunstaffs used to keep the metalheads back were cool, but he couldn't see the weapons' details well from the box where Damas usually sat. He leaned over the rail, squinting as one woman used her staff to vault into the air and slash a metaljacket back down to the ground. Daxter, long since grown bored, was scanning the rest of the stadium. Abruptly, he sat up and smacked Jak's arm.

"Hey lookit! It's a Precursor orb!" He pointed to a familiar shape lying on an awning halfway down the Arena walls. "Somebody must've dropped it! I bet we could get that later, huh Jak?"

Daxter looked around.

"...Jak?"

All Jak had heard was "Precursor orb" and the old childhood habits came flooding back. Without a second thought, he slipped over the railing the moment Damas’s back was turned. The metal was almost blisteringly hot, but he ignored it as he climbed down footholds that should have been too small for a human. Getting the orb without falling into the Arena would be tricky, but not impossible. He just had to watch his balance.

Up in the observation balcony, Damas was a little more focused on catching up on some paperwork than on the exhibition below. He tuned out the ottsel-boy muttering in alarm about...something...in order to review a new infrastructure proposal. The faster he got this done, the more time he would have to get to know Jak.

He heard some cries of alarm down below, but ignored them. The rookies would realize soon enough that the Guild had everything under control.

"Hey boss?"

"What, Kleiver?" Damas didn't even spare a glance at his talk-box.

"Er...ain't that your brat, climbing into the Arena?"

"What are you talking about? Jak's right-"

Damas finally looked up.

"...here?"

He dropped the datapad and leapt to his feet. "Oh don't tell me-"

A quick scan of the ring confirmed his suspicions and before he could stop himself he burst out, "JAK! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

Jak paused and looked up at him from where he was leaning over the awning, orb in hand. He looked down at the orb, frowned, and looked back up at Damas.

"Is...that a trick question?"

"Get back up here before you fall and break your neck!" Damas yelled, gripping the balcony edge with white knuckles.

Behind him, Daxter sighed and shook his head. "Welcome to my world, Spikes," he said sympathetically, "welcome to my world."

[sadlynotthevoid]

It's sad that most fics with the Accidental Vigilantism tag are only BNHA fics.

Like, I want to see Jason "I don't know what being normal is" Todd go around doing lowkey and not so lowkey hero/vigilant stuff while thinking he's just being a good neighbour.

Maybe when he was a kid a neighbour helped him or saved him and went like "we're all from the Alley, we have to help ourselves. That's what neighbours are for" and he ran with it. And maybe Bruce did told him not to use Robin movements because he's Bruce Wayne's son and that's sus, but he took it too literary. Like, "helping is okay as long as I don't act like Robin" and later on he keeps with this.

Except now he's not Jason Todd-Wayne anymore, he's just Jason Todd from the next door. It's not strange if he can fight a bit, right? (He doesn't have idea what a bit is like).

More than once he ends up taking down a hideaway of a traffic ring as himself and doesn't think twice of it. He just saw someone being dragged into a van so he followed them. By feet? Why yes, he runs in his free time. Why didn't he call the police? This is Crime Alley, in Gotham. What police? How did he deal with all those guys by himself? Muscles and Home Alone shenanigans.

His vigilant identity is only safe because people either believe he doesn't have one or he's other cape. There're bets going on about which one he is.

Once, he's at college when an enormous sculpture starts falling down almost crushing a bunch of students. Almost. A moment Jason is there, talking with his friends, the next he's holding the thing from reaching the floor by its legs. What? He's a big guy and works out a lot.

Tall, dark hair, bright blue-ish eyes and Strong? That day 'Superman' is added to the list.

[cuilpantielthesleepyscribe]

“You know, I’m told there’s a handsome scholar coming with the rest of the party from Lindon…”

(@silvercrowned - my self control failed)

"Auntie..." Cuilpantiel said, half-reproaching. "What's wrong with Beleg?"

It had been some years since Cuilpantiel had tricked the Orc kidnap party. Her hair now reached to her thighs, shorter than it had been, but longer than it might have been otherwise, had it not been for Auntie Celebrían's efforts in helping her hair grow again. The cuts on her face, scalp, and ears had healed and scarred, and then the scars had faded.

Now she was known as Anglebir - Iron-Fingers, for the prosthetics that made up most of her fingers now. A scholar, a tutor, no longer a scribe. While she could still hold a pen or stylus and produce a legible scribe hand and script, she simply could not muster the coordination for the standards of a professional Elven scribe's handwriting.

What had remained, however, was her mind, and the long days of recovery had leant themselves well to devouring book after book of lore, to studying every subject she had the wits for until even her dreams were filled with the figures of philosophers past.

It had been a welcome distraction from her situation.

Now enamelled steel fingers tapped absentmindedly on the table where she and Auntie Celebrían had been having tea together.

[pookasluagh]

Unforgivable

Now out: Chapter 11 of Rapture on the Seas – Unforgivable: In the aftermath of discovery, both Zira and Crowley struggle with what they want moving forward. Excerpt:

Zira opened his mouth, unsure what was about to come out on the other side of the delicate moment, but it didn’t matter. Crowley suddenly launched himself across Zira’s legs like he was a goalie in a football match. A wet thwack sounded as a water-soaked ball smashed into Crowley’s chest, and Zira gasped as the man’s weight fell over his knees. “Oh!”

Crowley grunted and pushed himself up, grabbing the ball and tucking it under his chair. “Sorry. You okay?” he said to Zira, and at his nod, turned to the kids. “Fifteen more minutes. Don’t you lot moan at me. Told ya to calm down. You’re lucky to get that.”

He sat again, rubbing at the knee he’d landed on. His athletic trousers were torn, and a flash of a raw scrape was visible beneath. Zira managed to stutter, “A-are you okay?”

“Nghm, yeah fine.” Crowley whipped his hand away from his leg, his shoulders hunching upwards. For a moment, it clicked. Rose as Crowley. Crowley as Rose. Then Crowley reclined in his lounger again, all loose limbs and casual nonchalance, and the similarity was lost. “At least I stopped them destroying your book. Idiots.”

A feeling blossomed in Zira’s chest that he didn’t recognize. His heart was beating too fast. “Thank you,” he managed.

Fic: Human AU, fluff-and-smut, enemies-to-lovers, E rated.

[klaissance]

nobody asked but here is my pitch for a princess and the pauper klance au

Princess Allura of Altea generally likes her life. She lives in a palace with her father, King Alfor, her quirky tutor and longtime friend Coran, and her lady-in-waiting Romelle who she definitely is not in love with. Don't worry about it.

Her being totally not in love with Romelle is something to not worry about at all because actually, as of fairly recently, Allura is engaged! To a man (ew) she's never met (double ew): Prince Keith of Marmora. Their matrimony is to solidify an alliance between Altea and Marmora which, if everyone's being honest, is mostly to haul Altea out of its recent troubles. The kingdom is floundering and its people have been suffering for too long; this alliance with Marmora offers a fresh start and a royal wedding promotes economic stimulation, etc etc politics politics

Allura loves her people and her father so she's gonna suck it up and do this. But she can't and won't be jazzed about it all the time. Sometimes she wishes she could be anyone but herself, with the freedom to make selfish choices.

Anyway down in the town there is this boy named Lance McClain and he just so happens to have a vaguely similar facial structure to Altea's princess (rip this has to be a blue-eyed Lance story to work, huh) and he works at the dress emporium under Monsieur Iverson who is, frankly, an abusive boss. But Iverson is funding Lance's sister's education. The McClains need this, and so Lance pricks his fingers and works every waking hour for pennies that he never even gets to see. Lance loves his family so he's gonna do it but he can't and won't be jazzed about it all the time. Sometimes he wishes he could be anyone but himself, with the freedom to make selfish choices.

do u feel me on this guys

also Allura has five cats named Onyx, Ruby, Emerald, Sapphire, and Topaz and she loves them very much. But Sapphire has been acting strange recently...

Lance has this cat that he calls Blue that he doesn't actually have but she shows up night after night at his window and he feeds her and she lays on his lap while he works and he loves her very much

......it's the same cat *hold for applause*

anyway Romelle takes Allura into town to "run errands" or something but really it's just a date and one of Allura's last tastes of freedom before she gets hitched to whoever this Keith dude is

and Sapphire slips away and dashes through the streets and Allura chases her down and finds her perched on a windowsill in an alley being fed by a stranger who looks a little familiar and oh--

Lance and Allura finally meet and look at each other and are like woah we could definitely be siblings genetics are so weird

Bonded by their shared cat they get along splendidly and have a nice and surprisingly deep talk about their respective plights, and Allura promises to call on Lance soon

The next morning Coran and Romelle go to the princess only to find her bed empty save for a note that says she's taken the cats and run away...

The note is sus and then Sapphire shows up (from spending the night at Lance's.) Coran and Romelle know Allura would never leave just Sapphire behind, so they're immediately Not Buying It but they don't know who they can trust, and also this is a disaster because Prince Keith and his entourage are literally coming to visit today so they need to fix this asap

Romelle remembers the boy from the village who looked weirdly like Allura and she has the best/worst idea of all time...

Cue "To Be A Princess" as performed by Coran and Romelle at Lance, who by the end of the song is unclockable he's so good at princess cosplay

When "Allura" appears at dinner as scheduled, Alfor's advisor Zarkon and his shitty son Lotor are shook but they stay quiet

you guys lotor as preminger is so funny pLEASE

AND THEN KEITH SHOWS UP

Keith and his diplomat friends, The Holts, and his captain of the guard Shiro, pull up to dinner to meet Keith's future wife

Keith's a gay man he's not thrilled about this. She's certainly a handsome woman, if her portraits are to be believed, but there's nothing to be done about it. Lifelong bummer for Keith. Such is princedom.

So Keith and co. show up in Altea and they meet the princess and Keith swears she's a little broader in the shoulders and sharper in the jaw than he'd expected but chalks it up to shitty portraiture. He'll hire the court painter from Marmora when they're married.

Lance in his princess costume is like "oh lord he's fine" but then they go on a bunch of weird dates and mostly bicker a bunch because Keith hates that he's forced to be here and Lance is just sort of like that

meanwhile Allura's like busting her own ass out of the mines and lotor sings how can i refuse *hold for standing ovation*

and since Sapphire didn't get kidnapped with the other cats she's still around and Lance talks to her in the bath and is generally just being silly goofy and Keith happens to walk by and hear Lance talking in his normal tone to somebody named "Blue" and the door happens to be a little open and Keith happens to peek--he doesn't even know why he literally doesn't even like women--and wait just a fucking second that is a boy and a wig on the floor and Keith to himself is like 'um should i complain about being lied to, something wack is going on here' and then he's like 'wait I'm gay and he's hot let's see how this plays out' and says nothing LMAO

but then their little dates get way more interesting because Keith is trying to tease out this secret and also is like,, actually interested

maybe they do a horseback riding date where Lance gets to wear pants and have the big platinum wig tied back and he feels a little more like himself and he and Keith hardly even bicker anymore they just sort of have a great time together and Lance feels a little insane for this whole thing but he really likes him but he has to tell him the truth and he's literally about to admit it

but then Lotor comes back from checking on Allura in the mines and knows the princess at the palace is a fake so he calls Lance out and rips the wig off, the whole thing, and Lance is thrown in the dungeon when moments ago he was literally a hair's breadth away from kissing Keith on the mouth UGH life is so cruel

Lotor and Zarkon convince Alfor that Allura is dead and they plot to strike and stage their coup during her funeral or something idk

But meanwhile Romelle and Allura and the cats are power-lesbianing their way out of the mines, and meanwhile meanwhile Keith busts Lance out of jail and they go also to the mines to try to save Allura

just four gays and their cats standing at the mines like ok what now

they bust into the funeral proceedings and wreck Lotor's shit, Allura definitely throws him over her shoulder and skips him like a rock and they explain everything to Alfor

Lotor and Zarkon go to jail and Altea is saved even without the marriage alliance because Allura and Romelle found extra stores of quintessence locked in the geodes in the mines or whatever

Lance is now so thoroughly sponsored by not one but two royal families that his family will want for nothing ever again--his siblings are put on royal scholarship to any school of their choosing in either Altea or Marmora. Lance himself has always wanted to travel, so he does, and he writes letters to Keith the whole time and when he returns Keith is waiting for him and they do a big gay double wedding with Allura and Romelle just like in the Barbie movie <3

the end