#same sorts of scrambling movements as a cat too. he wants Out but its for his own good so hes gotta keep going back in

[waywardsalt]

all day ive been thinking abt a shipfic swim lesson scenario where linebeck keeps desperately trying to claw his way out of the water and onto his ship’s deck like a cat trying to escape a bath and bellum just keeps effortlessly yanking him back in

[missfangirll]

If im not too late, I'd request anything for Beiyuan/Wu Xi. There are so few works out there for them :c

So, I wanted to write some XiYuan fluff and somehow ended up writing Dad!Beiyuan bonding with Chengling, Beiyuan thirsting after his husband and a sort-of-fix-it for WoH episode 36?? 😅

The plot follows the show, after episode 36, but their shared past in the novel (Qi Ye) did happen, if that makes sense? 😅 Sorry for the confusion.. The title is a Chinese poem called 蝶恋花 by Liu Yong.

Anyway, here's some XiYuan fluff/dad!Beiyuan/WoH fix-it? 😂😂

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Fandom: Qi Ye, Word of Honor Rating: General Relationship: Wu Xi/Jing Beiyuan, Jing Beiyuan & Zhang Chengling Tags: Fluff, Bonding, Beiyuan thirsting after his husband, Fix-it of sorts Words: 2565 Summary: In an inn, Jing Beiyuan and Wu Xi, together with Zhang Chengling, await the return of Zhou Zishu and Wen Kexing, who have run off to die on a mountain. Beiyuan has to care for Zishu's disciple, while being distracted by his husband.

Read on AO3

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Butterflies in Love with Flowers

Jing Beiyuan has plenty of practice waiting.

He has waited for sixty years at the Three-Life Stone, has waited for Helian Yi for six lifetimes. Has waited in the Imperial City for his schemes and machinations to bear fruit, has waited for Wu Xi. He has plenty of practice.

Which doesn’t mean, however, that he is a patient man.

Jing Beiyuan paces the inn room he shares with his husband, deliberately walking closely past Wu Xi who is sitting cross-legged at the low table reading, looking entirely unperturbed. Much to Jing Beiyuan’s dismay, that is to say, so he brushes Wu Xi’s back with the seam of his sleeve every time he walks by.

Wu Xi doesn’t react for a while, but after the sixth turn, without saying a word, he casually grabs Jing Beiyuan’s sleeve and, turning slightly, pulls him down in his lap, effectively trapping him there with both arms tightly around him.

Jing Beiyuan is a lot of things, but he's not an idiot, and he would never let an opportunity pass to cuddle his husband. With a deep sigh, he settles into the other’s embrace, leaning his head on Wu Xi’s broad chest.

“I am worried,” he admits eventually.

Stroking his hair soothingly, Wu Xi just hums in quiet understanding.

"I'm worried about the two idiots on the mountain," he adds, as if that wasn't obvious, and Wu Xi, as expected, doesn't reply. Jing Beiyuan continues, unbothered by his husband's lack of reaction. "I keep telling the little idiot," here he pauses to marvel at the fact that he distinguishes his companions merely by the grade of their idiocy, then sighs inwardly, "that his shifu and shishu are fine, that he should focus on his training in order to have something to show his shifu upon his return, but sometimes I…." He trails off, snuggling closer into the other's neck.

Zhang Chengling isn't coping well with the fact that both his mentors left with the intention to die on that mountain, albeit with different purposes in mind, and Jing Beiyuan has had to forcefully stop him from climbing that mountain himself, twice by now. For now he seems to have begrudgingly accepted his fate, although Jing Beiyuan can see his outbursts of anger for the fear they are.

He inhales deeply, willing his thoughts to calm down. All they have to do now is wait, wait for Zishu and his little maniac to return safely, and return they will, he has no doubts about it. He can’t, for Chengling’s sake.

A knock on the door interrupts the silent moment and with a groan, Jing Beiyuan clambers out of his husband’s lap to open the door, while said husband reaches for his abandoned book. The elderly innkeeper in front of him doesn’t spare a glance at Jing Beiyuan’s slightly ruffled hair, fiddling with the cap in his hands. At the other’s raised eyebrow, he bows so deep his forehead seems to touch his knees, and Jing Beiyuan has to bite back a grin.

“Yes?”, he asks magnanimously. The man shifts uncomfortably. “Your highness,” he begins, but Jing Beiyuan interrupts him with a hand on his shoulder. “I am certainly not worthy of such a noble title, my good man, just call me Lord Seventh, and speak freely. What bothers you?”

The other man bows again, not as low as before, but it still looks uncomfortable. “Your lordship,” he begins, and Jing Beiyuan sighs, hearing a slight huff of laughter from behind. Wu Xi knows of his resentment against his past life and the decorum it entailed. “Your lordship,” the man repeats, sounding increasingly desperate. “Your, umm.. The young master… He… The courtyard…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but Jing Beiyuan has a vague idea of what he is trying to say, so he just nods and breezes past the innkeeper, who hastily shuts the door and scrambles to follow him.

From the inn’s inner courtyard he can already hear a dull thudding noise that grows louder as he approaches. In the yard, next to a small wooden shack, he finds the source of the noise: Zhang Chengling, gracelessly hitting the timber wall with a training sword, his face and back sweaty, his hair in disarray, his mouth a thin line. Jing Beiyuan nods to the innkeeper, who retreats to another building, then slowly approaches the boy, keeping his distance from the sword. Leaning on the wooden wall, he stays silent, observing Zishu’s disciple. The boy has grown a finger’s breadth over the last weeks, his body starting to stretch, his face about to lose the softness of childhood. He has seen a lot these past months, Jing Beiyuan muses, and feels infinite fondness for the little idiot.

Zhang Chengling has seen him, of course, but doesn’t make any move to stop his grim assault on the shack, so Jing Beiyuan says after a while, “You might want to use a real sword when you intend to put a hole in that thing.” His teasing doesn’t gain a reaction, however, the boy still hacking away at the wood. “Chengling,” he says after a while, softly, gently, “they will return.”

“I know,” comes the strained reply, but the beating doesn’t stop. The hits seem to grow less forceful, though, and Jing Beiyuan inches closer. “If Tian Chuang had succeeded,” he adds quietly, “we would know.” He looks directly at Chengling who stubbornly avoids his gaze, but his movements slow further, until he swings the sword like a flag bearer his banner in a parade. Jing Beiyuan carefully closes the distance, intercepting the last swing with his hand, gripping the wooden sword. He notices its shaking, and it’s only a heartbeat before Chengling collapses into his arms, letting go of the sword and wrapping both arms around him in a desperate embrace. Jing Beiyuan lowers the sword, then enfolds the boy in his arms, a hand on the back of his head, and lets him sob quietly into his shoulder.

“I miss them,” the boy snuffles into his robes, his face hidden. “Sometimes I dream about them, dead and cold, buried under all that snow and I…” He hiccups, then starts sobbing again. Jing Beiyuan breathes slowly. A few days after Zishu, and then the Ghost Valley Master, ascended the mountain, there had been news of an immense avalanche that had buried a large group of people, presumably the joined forces of the Window of Heaven and the Scorpion King. But nothing had reached them since, and all of them had grown restless, even Wu Xi, even though he would never admit to it.

A hand on the boy’s back, Jing Beiyuan rubs soothing circles. “Come with me,” he says at last, “Let’s go inside and have some tea, hm?” A nod, then Chengling takes a step back, sheepishly rubbing his red eyes. “‘m sorry,” he mumbles, but Jing Beiyuan just huffs. “Never be sorry for how you feel,” he admonishes gently, putting an arm around the boy’s shoulder, subtly scooping the wooden sword up with the other hand. “Let’s have some tea and sweets, what do you say?” Chengling sniffs again, then says with the hint of a smile, “Didn’t the Great Shaman explicitly forbid us to eat sweets before dinner?” Jing Beiyuan makes a carefree gesture, then, lowering his voice, adds in a conspiratorial tone, “We have to hide it, then,” which finally makes Chengling laugh. A lighter air around them, they stroll back to the room. (Wu Xi gives them a stern look as Jing Beiyuan retrieves a bag of sweets from his sleeve, but says nothing when they share some over tea, which Jing Beiyuan secretly finds endlessly endearing.)

⚘⚘

The next morning finds Jing Beiyuan on a bench in that same courtyard, at the other side this time, half hidden under a canopy hung with ivy. In the middle of the courtyard, illuminated by the rising sun, Wu Xi is practicing his martial arts.

Jing Beiyuan admires everything about his little venom. His honesty, his loyalty, his unrestrained emotions, but watching the other train always leaves him breathless and with a dry mouth. Wu Xi, in his usual black robes, is a sight to behold: Even under layers of cloth his broad shoulders are visible, his long black braids with the silver hairpiece, the moon mirrored in a clear lake at night. Wu Xi in his robes is a force to be reckoned with. Wu Xi without his robes, in just some black pants, is… Well. Enticing enough to make Jing Beiyuan leave the bed before sunrise and watch him train, even after being together for years and having seen his husband naked plenty of times. Still, watching him move through the forms is different. His skin glistens with sweat, making the light catch on his collarbones, his abs. His movements show a raw power, a graceful intensity that always reminds Jing Beiyuan of a large tiger. He moves silently, with deadly precision, as if he wanted to sneak up on a hidden assassin. He doesn’t use a weapon, but Jing Beiyuan knows how strong he is, how fast, and is pretty sure that a sword would only slow him down.

Distractedly petting the sable that is curled contentedly in his lap, Jing Beiyuan marvels at his husband, until Wu Xi ends his performance with a graceful vault, landing on his hands and feet like a large cat. His hair, tied back only with a simple black leather cord, falls over his face with the movement, his eyes like glimmering coals behind the black curtain. It reminds Jing Beiyuan of their early days, of the time Wu Xi wore a veil, and he himself a mask of another kind. Trying to hide the slight shiver, he smiles at his sweaty husband who now approaches him. Before he can say anything, Wu Xi steps between his knees, carefully scooping up the sable, then reaching down to cup the nape of Jing Beiyuan’s neck. With a hint of restrained power, he pulls him up and into a searing kiss. Smiling against his lips, Wu Xi whispers, “Room,” and Jing Beiyuan lets himself be pulled.

It’s still early enough in the morning that they don’t have to be overly cautious, so when they shed their respective robes - and pets, Wu Xi’s tiny green snake gets set in its cage, while the sable leaps nimbly away from the commotion - Jing Beiyuan can’t suppress a giggle at his husband’s eagerness.

“What brought this on?”, he asks, a little breathless, as the other’s teeth close over his pulse point. Wu Xi stills for a heartbeat, then bites down harder, licking over the spot, which elicits a shiver.

“You,” is the answer, and Jing Beiyuan pulls away a fraction to look at his husband with a raised eyebrow. “I can’t remember doing anything out of the ordinary,” he smirks, “whereas you were--”

“You watched,” Wu Xi breathes into his neck, leaning back in. With another giggle, Jing Beiyuan lets himself be pulled to the bed.

Later, when they lay under scrunched up covers, sated and sweaty and content, Jing Beiyuan nuzzles into Wu Xi’s chest, inhaling his sharp scent.

“Would you do that,” he asks eventually, his voice quiet. “Sacrifice your life, I mean. For me.”

“Yes,” is all Wu Xi answers, firm and without hesitation. “I would. I will. Everything.” His arms tighten around Jing Beiyuan. After a long silence, the latter says softly, “But what if I didn’t want that?” He turns slightly to look up. “What if I didn’t want a life that’s bought with yours?”

Wu Xi doesn’t meet his gaze as he replies, “I still would. I couldn’t bear the thought of being without you, Beiyuan. I’m a coward, but I couldn’t. I thought I’d lost you once, and I..” His voice breaks, and Jing Beiyuan reaches up to cup his face. “You’re not. I would like to say that I would react differently, but…” He shrugs with a wry smile. “I wouldn’t. If I could save your life by giving up mine, I would. I would, and then wait for you again at the Three-Life Stone, until you came to meet me. And maybe this time, you would be the one with white hair.” Snuggling closer, he trails a finger over the other’s chest, then places his hand on his sternum, feeling the unrestrained energy underneath. Wu Xi turns his head, then cups Jing Beiyuan’s cheek, meeting him in a slow, languid kiss.

“I love you,” he breathes against the other’s lips, “I have loved you for all your lifetimes and I will continue to love you in all that follow. Where you go, I’m going, Beiyuan.”

⚘⚘

It takes almost another month until Zishu and his little-, no, his giant idiot return. On a sunny afternoon, as if they had just been out for a stroll, they saunter casually into the inn’s dining room, and Jing Beiyuan almost drops his teacup, staring in disbelief. Before he can say anything, Zishu grins - he grins! - at him and plops down into the bench opposite him, Wen Kexing at his side. Jing Beiyuan notices in utter shock that the latter’s hair has gone completely white.

“Wha--,” he starts, but now the waiter has spotted them, hurrying over. Giving their, admittedly quite ragged, appearance a cautious once-over, he clears his throat, but Jing Beiyuan hurries to assuage him. “Whatever these gentlemen desire to eat,” he declares, probably with more grandeur than necessary, “they will receive.” The waiter hurries to nod his head like a turtle, but Zishu just shakes his head. “Just cold water,” he says, much to Jing Beiyuan’s and the waiter’s astonishment, but the latter immediately scrambles off to bring them their order.

Jing Beiyuan looks scrutinizingly at both of them, then says slowly, “Welcome back.” Zishu nods solemnly, taking Wen Kexing’s hand under the table. “Sorry it took so long,” he says quietly. Jing Beiyuan snorts. “You don’t have to apologise to me,” he gestures into the general direction of the inner courtyard, “but to your silly little disciple.” Zishu at least has the decency to flinch, looking uncomfortable. But it is Wen Kexing who speaks first. “How is he?”, he asks, and Jing Beiyuan notices the cautious fondness in his voice. Shrugging, he admits, “There are good days and bad.” After a pause, he adds, more quietly, “And good nights and bad.” Zishu nods, as if in agreement, and Jing Beiyuan’s curiosity wins over. “What happened?”, he asks animatedly, gesturing to the state of their robes, then Wen Kexing’s hair. “You were gone almost two months, and--”

Zishu interrupts him, sounding incredulous. “Two months?” He casts an uncertain glance at his companion who looks equally stunned. “Oh.” Inhaling slowly, he adds, “Well, I’d prefer to tell the story only once, so where is that useless disciple of mine?” Grinning, Jing Beiyuan gestures again to the inner courtyard. “Training.” Zishu gives him a skeptical look, then gets to his feet. Ignoring the waiter who just arrived with their order, he heads for the inner courtyard. Jing Beiyuan tilts his head a fraction, looking at Wen Kexing, both smiling slightly. Then, from outside, “SHIFU!”, and a dull thud, followed by another muffled “Shishu!”.

Smiling into his teacup, Jing Beiyuan closes his eyes. Some stories seem to have a happy ending after all.

[internalsealpanic]

The Mechanics of Living part 2

Summary:  You trick Tim into going to a closed-off sector. Things go well. a/n: I will be doing a director’s cut for this is anyone is interested (by anyone I mean @glorified-red) Warnings: very slight body horror and gore 

Main Masterlist

Tim Drake Masterlist

It was easiest to just tell Tim all the facts rather than rely on the goodwill you've built in 3 years to persuade him.

There's a reason sector 4-D was cordoned off last year. For some unknown reason, a section that had been little more than a concrete wasteland started teeming with infected life.

People say it was an abomination (An unidentifiable, Tim corrected but you still think abomination captured the appropriate dramatic for that.)  that wandered in from farther in the waste. Some people say it was one of Bludhaven's beasts they let loose. You highly doubt Bludhaven was in any shape to contain whatever it is ravaging sector 4-D. After all, it wasn't in any better shape than Gotham was at the moment. You doubt it's ever been in better shape. They're like two cities constantly caught in this vortex of awfulness, looking at each other from two different sides thinking 'poor bastards'.

Sector 4-D was an easy hunting ground where young scavengers got their feet wet before they could move on. Now it was a dead zone, a dead zone with too much potential to pass up.

Like every sector, sector 4 was vast and unexplored and supposedly, there had been a library there. A building full of books and most importantly, medical textbooks.

You feel a little bad plucking at Tim's heartstrings when all you cared about was the payout. Appealing to the guy's sense of responsibility was kind of cheating but-- BUT! The specified textbooks do have stuff about bacteria and illnesses so you aren't really overstating their importance.

You try to push down the number of zeroes the man had shown you as you zip past a rusted sign.

You don't really trust anyone other than Tim to help you with this. Besides, all the other people who won't stab you after cashing in the reward probably don't know half as many words as Tim so you'll definitely need him to get the right books.

You stare at the rows of cars before you. They're overrun with weeds and vines and rust. A stark reminder that your Gotham is just a fraction of what it had been. You stop your bike in front of a taxi with a faded yellow body.

"This is it. This is where your life as an adventurer begins."

You swallow back the wave of nostalgia, letting the bike roll past it into the mess of cars to keep it a little more hidden. It isn't illegal to go to this sector yet. At least not when you checked but you really don't wanna gamble your Scavenger's license on clerical errors by either of your guilds.

Tim steps out of the sidecar, careful not to jostle Basil in his bag. You want to point out that you should probably wake the cat up otherwise you were wasting food on him but you knew better than to expect cooperation from Tim's fur ball from hell.

“So which theory about the illness do you think is the most plausible?” He asks, tucking the walkman away. You both thought it was stupid name but you didn’t really wanna question the teller. “The one that involves the least aliens.” You pause, narrowing your eyes at Tim whose hand is currently being eaten by his cat. “Or alien adjacent things.”

“So, you're one of those people who thinks the government did it.” Tim is *such* a little shit. Maybe that’s why his guild master gave him the most useless cat on the planet. Grade A my ass, you think staring at the furball nipping at his knuckles.

“Not on purpose, no.”

Tim raises a brow. “I didn't know you had that much faith in humanity.”

“Pffff, I think they just fucked up.”  

“Here, I was accusing you of being optimistic.”

“A mistake really.”

You two come to a crossroads.  A giant large yellow lantern hangs in the middle of the street, swaying listlessly in the air. It’s strange.

“Do you think the people in the old world used those to scare away the sick?”

“If they did,” he looks around, “it didn't work.”

Your eyes flit over the area.  Stone walls crumble, vegetation willing in the cracks. Still, even with the overgrowth of life, the city feels hollowed out. Nearly a decade ago, you’d first laid a hand on one of the stone arches of the city hall just down by main street. Nearly a decade ago, you felt the stone crumble beneath the pads of your fingers. Nearly a decade ago, you had come the closest to knowing what it was like having the sickness. Even one of the great cities had been reduced to a fraction of its size.

“Do you think the color of the light matters?” Tim asks, pointing again to the lamp.

You squint. You hadn’t noticed it at first but yeah, the color of the lights was different.

“Maybe,” you tilt your head, “or maybe the people from before were just idiots.”

“You just have a bad opinion of them, don’t you?”

“Like you don’t.” You shoot back, tapping your bat against your boot.

Tim rolls his eyes and shrugs.

You try to smile at that but something’s wrong. Your skin bristling, the air is stale despite the wind. You watch the lantern sway back and forth, the thin wires holding it up, fragile and precarious. A bad feeling crawls up your spine.

There’s a pressure in the air, the atmosphere turning into a vacuum.

Basil hisses, looking as vicious as he can.

The wind stops.

The skittering voices rise like the fluttering of locust wings.

A writhing mass, pulsing and menacing, blots out the horizon. It opens its maw to wheeze and the stench of rot floods the air. Your insides curdle and wilt from the intensity of the putrid odor. Once the *thing* draws another breath, the skittering begins again and this time you know where it’s from.

You can see it in the way its neck twists and undulates, its rotting flesh rippling as the fragmented voices rasp out of its throat. Its limbs, deformed, move unnaturally as it ambles towards you.

You stare at it. Your limbs unmoving. That thing *is* an unidentifiable. In all technicality, it fits the neat taxonomy laid out by experts. It is neither man nor beast. Its form corrupted beyond recognition. It’s rotting and shambling. But the thing you are looking at cannot simply be sorted neatly because it is what it is.  

A creature that god himself did not touch.

An abomination.

You splay a hand on Tim’s chest, pushing him back lightly.  Glancing at each other, you nod as you slowly step back into an alley. You quietly curse Gotham’s gloomy weather for the thing’s appearance. You thought you would have at least ‘til sundown to look for loot before having to flee to a safer sector. But when in Gotham, nothing is ever certain even the rising of the sun.

All you have to do is be quiet. Easy enough. Being silent is the first thing you learn to be in this world.

It blinks at you.

It. Blinks. At. *You.*

Your heart stops, the blood running in your veins turning into lead.

Dozens of eyes blink at you. They’re not all human from the looks of them. It opens its maw again, your muscles bunch up in anticipation of its miasmal breath. The discordant voices coming from its mouth coalesce into a horrible sob.

Tim grabs your wrist and pivots towards an alley. The sudden change in movement shocks your body awake. You scoop Basil up and bolt down the alley, letting Tim lead the way.

Desperately, You try to concentrate on the scuff of your shoes against pavement instead of the creak of limbs and the plop of flesh as it drips off the creature. The pinching of Tim’s features tells you he’s doing the same.

You round the corner, shoulder hitting brick, narrowly avoiding dozens of hands reaching for you. Basil yowls and hisses and you would apologize but your shoulder is screaming at you and goddammit Basil, we have bigger issues.  

You and Tim squeeze into a space between the buildings seemingly too small for that thing’s gelatinous form. You make the mistake of looking back only to see its limbs skitter up the building and down the other end of the alley. It smiles at you, rows of teeth glittering in the sparse light.

This was it.

This is where your life ends.

Where else is there to go?

You expect the acceptance to come in like a flood or relief. Life was hard with very little room for breath. Scraping by, tooth and nail, knuckles bleeding for every scrap of stability. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You suddenly feel so tired like the adrenaline had been keeping you together for the past few years. Acceptance should have come easy.

But it doesn’t.

You open your eyes to glance at Tim, finally resignation sets. His features are still pinched and his hand is trembling beside yours. You really did screw this one up big time, huh?

You bite your cheek.

Watching Tim’s mind work, you know you have to keep him alive. You squeeze Tim's hand. He narrows his eyes at you. You give him a crooked smile and let his hand fall.

You pivot, foot pushing against the pavement as you launch yourself to the other end of the alley.

If your estimates are correct, you can buy him 15 minutes. 15 minutes would be more than enough for him to make it back to the bike--

Tim yanks on your hood, throwing open a door. The creature howls as Tim hurls both of you into the building.

"What the heck was that?!" Tim screams.

"A Dick." You answer, rubbing your head. fuck. Tim could throw.

"No! You were being fucking stupid."

You scowl at him in the dark. "Thanks Tim. I get it."

"No, you don't!"

"Can we argue--"

The door rattles and shakes. A fist-shaped dent embeds itself on the metal door. You glance at each other before scrambling towards the very safe-looking stairs.

You fly up the steps like hell was on your heels and as far as you're concerned, it was. You wrench Tim's bag from him and you're half tempted to throw him over your shoulder as well but you're not sure the stare case can hold that much weight.

If you climb to the roof--  If you... climb... It can climb. Fuck.

You and Tim seem to come to the same conclusion as you throw yourselves into another door.

You shove a sofa in front of the door and sit on it.

"Please tell me you've miraculously come up with a plan." You hiss glancing over to Tim who's staring at the window.

He glances over his shoulder to look at you. "If I could pull off miracles, you wouldn't be so dumb."

You sigh. Ok, yeah. He has every right to be mad. It was an incredibly stupid move but it's a numbers game and yeah.

Tim runs his hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. He needs to come up with something. He glances out the window. He walks over and leans out the window.

"We should jump."

"Would you like to elaborate?" You wheeze, still not really letting go of a

"Follow me."

"Tim, I have never trusted you less in my life." You snort, quietly. But you make your way to the window.  You set Basil down and look at what Tim is pointing to. There's a dumpster filled to the brim with trash. There doesn't seem to be any infected mice in there and the road to the right is a straight shot back to the bike.

You lick your lips.

"So we're on the same page."

"Uh, if that means what I think it means then yes."

Tim lets out a breath as he opens the window as quietly as possible. You listen to the steady beat of limbs thumping against the wood. You hold a collective breath. The window clicks into place with a loud snikt.

The thumping stops.

You practically shove Tim out the window while you stare at the door. It rattles and shakes.  A screech erupts the stairwell as you jump out the window. You land with a thump, sinking beneath the mounds of plastic.

Your heart is hammering and pressing into your throat. Its beat is in sync with the steady thump of the limbs. The wet squelching of rotting flesh scraping against the rusted metal of the dumpster. You want to heave but Tim shoves a hand in your face. You gag silently. Tim's hand smells putrid from the trash.

You hold your breaths until the thumping goes away. You don't dare breathe until Basil settles down.

You fall limp against the trash. Your limbs feel like jelly. You gag. Thinking about jelly right now is probably the worst thing for your health.

Tim nudges you with his foot. You turn your body over as quietly as you can.

You watch him make shapes with his hands. You frown.   You cycle through your memory trying to remember what the gestures mean then let go of Basil when you do.

Basil rises from the trash, padding against the plastic.

When you hear Basil jump down to the pavement, you dig your way out of the trash.

"For the record, I hate your plans." You say, gagging.

"What was yours?" Tim fires back, dusting his hair.

"..."

"Just what I thought."

You're the first to climb out, holding your arms out to him mockingly. He silently threatens to curb stomp your face. You snort and tuck your hands to your side.

Thankfully, you make it to the bike without incident.

Tim tucks his body into the sidecar, occupying himself by comforting Basil. You hand him a bat as you start the bike.

"Just in case."

You kick the bike into gear as you two ride into the sunset.

You breathe a quiet breath, letting your eyes slip shut for a moment. The road is clear for about 14 breaths.  That’s all you want to think about.

At the fourteenth breath, you open your eyes to an open expanse of road, endless and breathtaking. You turn to Tim and laugh. He gives you a sour look. You’ll just buy both of you some canned pineapples later and he’ll maybe forgive you. Basil certainly does as he doesn’t participate in Tim’s sour protest, opting instead to crawl into Tim’s bag.

Then you hear it above the roar of the engine.

The skittering.

Voices like the fluttering of wings.

It screeches, the raspy cry making your skin crawl. You don’t wanna look back. You don’t want to see the unnatural movement of its body as it bounds towards you.

You kick the bike to a higher gear. The engine will hate you but you can’t repair it if you’re dead.

The bike slows down. Tim stands up raising your bat over his head, bringing it down. It does not clang. The sound is squishier and moist. Your stomach rebels. Hazarding a glance behind you, you see the writhing mass holding onto your bike.

“TIM,” you shout.

“I--” Swing “-- AM--” Swing “--A LITTLE--” Swing “--BUSY!” “THERE’S A CAN OF HAIRSPRAY IN MY DUFFLE.”  

Tim ducks down, throwing you the bat. You swing wildly at the creature, summoning up a truly impressive bout of swearing.

Tim sprang up, nearly falling off the sidecar if not for you grabbing his shirt. Tim flicked the lighter, pressing down on the nozzle of the spray, and unleashing fire on the beast. The thing cries, voice shattering as it burns. You watch its flesh burn. Oh, what a pleasure it was to see it burn.

"We are never doing this again!" Tim wheezes.

"Of definitely fucking not." You bark, kicking the bike to a higher gear. The purring of the engine sounds like music to your ears.

"We are definitely doing easy sectors by a bit." You laugh.

When you don’t hear a snarky remark, you glance to your sidecar. Tim is slumped into his seat, breathing hard. You raise your brow but turn your attention to the road.  You shake him. You shake him again and again.

Tim doesn't respond.

You pull your hand away and it’s slick with blood.

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[suddencolds]

I see you say you're taking prompts and I instantly kick down your door. I'd write this myself if I was at home rn but. Venti starting to come down with a cold but going out drinking anyways but the strong scent of the alcohol keeps making him sneeze whenever he tries to drink and people are starting to Worry

Hi anon!! First, sorry for the delay!!! Second, thank you for the prompt (which I have interpreted to take place during Windblume festival, just because. <33) I’ve run around with Venti so much recently that I feel like it’s about time that I write something for him ;w; Hope you enjoy!

—

In hindsight, all the signs were there.

Venti wakes up with the sort of deep, unshakeable exhaustion he hasn’t felt in years—strictly speaking, archons don’t need sleep, so he finds he’s rarely this tired. He catches himself almost nodding off after a conversation with Amber and has to pinch himself awake; when afternoon rolls around, he takes an indulgent nap at Windrise, only to somehow wake up twice as tired as before.

He feels restless, if anything, and it’s too cold outside for his liking, so he heads to the Angel’s Share. Kaeya still owes him a drink as payment for the lessons in poetry—besides, he’s sure the alcohol will warm him up.

It’s one of those days when the tavern is crammed full of customers. When he pushes open the door, he spends a good few seconds trying to find somewhere to sit, until Kaeya—who is predictably present—waves him over.

“Why, if it isn’t Mondstadt’s greatest bard.”

“I seem to recall you owing me one last drink to cover your tuition fee,” Venti tells him.

Kaeya laughs. “I was hoping you’d have forgotten.”

“Haha! I assure you, my memory is excellent when it comes to wine.”

Next to Kaeya is Jean, the Acting Grand-Master, which is unexpected—Venti has always seen her as someone too respectable to drink—but closer inspection tells him that she’s nursing a cup of Windblume Apple Cider, which makes marginally more sense. Then, behind the bar, is Diluc.

“It’s quite the occasion, isn’t it?” Venti says, taking a seat next to Kaeya, though something about a sudden change in temperature in the tavern makes him shiver. “Even Master Diluc is here tonight.”

Jean nods. “He wanted Charles to take the day off so he could properly celebrate.”

“It’s nothing like that. I just happened to be free,” Diluc denies—though, Venti knows that Diluc’s schedule is much less rigid than the Knights’—he gets the sense that Diluc is only here when he actually wants to be here.

“Quite the gentleman, isn’t he?” Kaeya says, giving Diluc a significant look, which Diluc pointedly ignores. “So, what do I owe you? A Windblume-exclusive Apple Cider?”

Venti suppresses another shiver. Really, the tavern feels unusually chilly. Perhaps it’s been set like this in expectation for the abundance of customers—he supposes they’d be less enthusiastic about drinking for hours in a tavern that’s stiflingly warm—but isn’t this overdoing it a bit?

“Actually, I think I’m in the mood for Dandelion Wine,” he says, clearing his throat when his voice comes out uncharacteristically scratchy. “It’ll save you a couple hundred mora.”

Kaeya nods. “Another order of Dandelion Wine, then?”

Venti leans forward on his stool, propping his arms up on the countertop, and listens as Kaeya and Jean discuss the most efficient way for the Knights to investigate some strange movements from the Fatui agents lately. They’re both excellent strategists, though where Jean is reserved, well-acquainted with the terrain and its shortcuts, Kaeya is reckless, pushing for efficiency over certainty. Diluc is listening too, even though he doesn’t offer any interjections.

It’s an enjoyable conversation to sit in on, but Venti really wishes it weren’t so cold here. His nose is running, and there’s a tickle in his nose, so sharp and so pressing that he has to—

“hiih’NKTch-uu!” He sniffles, wiping his nose absently on one wrist.

“Bless you,” Kaeya says offhandedly, then resumes speaking.

It’s only a few seconds later that he finds his breath hitching again. Such a sustained reaction must be—

“hiih… hiiIH’KScHuu!”

—the result of something he’s well acquainted with. This time, it’s Jean that blesses him. 

“Ugh, Master Diluc,” Venti laments. “Since when have you allowed cats in the tavern?”

Diluc raises an eyebrow. “I don’t. Has someone brought a cat in?”

“I didn’t see one. But something here seems to be setting off… my.... hiih!!” His nose is actually running now, and he shivers—a lost sneeze is much less unsatisfying than one seen to conclusion. “...my allergies, snf-!”

“Are you sure you want to order wine?” Jean says. “It’s a histamine, so I’m afraid it might make you feel worse, if you’re allergic.”

“It’s no big deal, hehe, just… annoying… hahh… hAHH…” Venti raises a hand to his face, his eyes snapping shut— “hAH’KTCHh-yuu!”

“Bless you,” Jean and Kaeya say simultaneously.

“snf…! Thanks, I’m not sure what’s gotten into me.” Somehow, the next breath he takes in comes in all wrong, and before he knows it he’s muffling coughs into the same hand—harsher, perhaps, than the situation justifies.

“Are you feeling alright?” Jean asks.

Venti smiles, trying for reassuring. “Don’t worry about me! I’m as well as always, snf! Perhaps someone came in with their shirt covered in cat hairs…”

“Or it could be a cold,” Kaeya offers, with a shrug. “Your face is a little red.”

“It is?” Venti asks, though he doesn’t consider the possibility seriously. “I hope it’s flattering.”

Diluc hands him his Dandelion Wine, which Venti takes from him gratefully. On days like this, he’s glad Diluc knows his identity as Barbatos—evenings like this are much more pleasant when the town’s bartenders are willing to indulge him. The burn of the alcohol is pleasant as he sips, but strangely…

...it’s not enough.

Everything’s too cold, still—frigid in a way he feels shivery and tired, even though he thinks he might actually be sweating. He takes another long sip—half out of desperation—and finds that his throat is sore.

“...Venti?”

Before he knows it, Jean is leaning forward to press the back of her hand to his forehead. Jean has always been gentle, and Venti almost protests as she lowers her hand.

“I think you have a fever,” she says.

That can’t be right, can it? “You must be mistaken. I don’t get... hiIh… hiiIH’K-sShu!... sick, snf-!”

Kaeya sighs. “You sound just like Diluc. Really, maybe hot apple cider would’ve been a better choice.”

“No,” Venti insists, shaking his head. “That’s not what I meant. I... can’t get sick.” He rubs his nose, sniffling into the back of one hand. Diluc passes him a generous stack of napkins. “I’m not supposed to be able to.”

Jean seems to catch on. “Because of your godhood?” Kaeya doesn’t seem surprised at her statement, which implies that Jean has probably told him already.

“I think so. I can’t remember the last time I’ve caught something, and it hasn’t… haHH… snf! It hasn’t ever been something I’ve had to worry about… hIIIh…” Suddenly he’s scrambling for another napkin from the stack, barely managing to unfold it before he’s holding it shakily up to his face. “hiIIHK’SCHhhew! snf-! Ugh, excuse me...”

His head protests. He blinks, his vision swimming, and shuts his eyes.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?” Kaeya says, sounding so genuine that Venti finds himself faintly surprised. He doesn’t realize Diluc’s taken his coat off until he feels the weight of it around his shoulders.

Perhaps it’s because his gnosis isn’t with him, he realizes, with a jolt. He’s always kept it on him—more inseparable, less tangible than his Vision is, but now that it’s in the hands of the eighth of the Tsaritsa’s Harbingers, maybe it means that some of the perks of godhood are gone with it, too.

“I guess so,” he admits. The tickle in his nose is back—not as incessant as it is when he’s petting a cat, but it’s there nonetheless, present and vicious enough to make him shiver in anticipation as his breath snags on an inhale. “hiiH… hiIIH... hIIHKTChh’yuu!” His shoulders shutter forward with the release, forceful enough to jostle the cups on the countertop.

“Bless—”

“HIiih…. IKKSSch’uu!”

“—you.” From Diluc, this time.

Venti blows his nose softly into the napkin and reaches for another. Will this never end? How long are colds supposed to last? Allergies, while annoying, are tolerable enough accompanied by the knowledge that a shower will get rid of them—he’s not looking forward to feeling like this for a week.

“...I have to admit,” he concedes, “I’m quite lost when it comes to dealing with things like this.”

“It’s alright. That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?” Jean says softly, setting a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay! I don’t need...”

“You should get some rest,” Diluc adds. “Keep the jacket until you’re feeling well again.”

Venti coughs. “I didn’t mean...”

Their concern is a bit embarrassing, really—as often as he fraternizes with the citizens of Mondstadt, isn’t he supposed to be the one looking after them?—but it’s strangely comforting to have the three of them fuss over him, still.

“Why don’t I order something that will actually make you feel better, instead of worse?” Kaeya suggests.

Between today and the last time they’ve been here, Kaeya has already bought him the three drinks he’s owed. Venti sniffles lightly, adjusting Diluc’s jacket around his shoulders to keep it from slipping off. “You’ve already repaid my lessons in full, so it would be unfair of me to—”

“Consider it a tip.” Kaeya raises his own glass, smirking. “To Mondstadt’s greatest romantic advisor.”

Jean clinks her glass with his. It’s sweeter than he’s used to. Despite himself, Venti smiles.

[e-milieeee]

tongue-tied (hearts entwined)—Marichat

Summary: Chat Noir has the annoying habit of sticking his tongue out whenever he's concentrating. Marinette hates that she finds it (and him) ridiculously cute.

Now all she has to do is get through the denial.

Notes: For @emsylcatac! Happy birthday, even if I’m a bit late. I know you’re a Ladynoir stan but... it’s Marichat May+Chat blepping :D 

(The last scene is also inspired by this gorgeous piece of art by @australet789! I couldn’t resist sneaking it in lol) 

Or click here to read on AO3! 

tongue-tied (hearts entwined) 

The first time Marinette notices the habit, she brushes it off.

Chat Noir sits on the balcony with her as he attempts to disentangle a ball of yarn from his body. He had claimed that no, he hadn’t in fact been chasing it and it was most definitely not his fault (meaning that it most likely was).

Now, he is wrapped like a Christmas present in neon yellow string. Marinette refuses to help him, so Chat yanks and pulls and stretches the yarn with utmost focus—all with his tongue poking out of his mouth.

Marinette watches him. He doesn’t even seem to notice her presence and only continues in his concentration. His tongue does not return to its rightful place (out of sight, out of mind)—it continues to stick out in the most obnoxiously adorable way ever and Marinette is almost tempted to tell him to shove it back in so she can stop finding him cute.

Before she can do so, Chat Noir lets out a groan. His tongue swipes over his lips and disappears, to Marinette’s relief (and disappointment). “Cataclysm,” he grumbles under his breath.

With that, he cataclysms the yarn to free himself. It falls to black dust all around him like ashes.

“What?” Chat asks when he sees her staring. “It was efficient. Don’t look at me like that.”

Marinette blinks and shakes her head. Had she found him cute just a moment ago? No, she decides. Obnoxious, maybe, but definitely not cute.

(No way.)

***

It happens a couple more times before Marinette realizes that it’s become a problem.

They’re playing video games in her room, an odd little routine they’ve developed. Chat Noir is surprisingly enthusiastic about beating her in Ultimate Mecha Strike III, which, so far, he has not been able to do.

Marinette makes the mistake of sneaking a glance at him in the middle of a match. He’s holding the controller, staring at the screen with the same intensity he often directs at akumas, and, best—no, worst of all, his tongue is sticking out of his mouth again.

She stares at him for a little too long. A little too long turns to really, really too long, because Marinette is only snapped out of her thoughts when Chat Noir throws his hands up with a triumphant whoop. “I won!” he crows at her, and Marinette turns to look at the screen in dismay.

Sure enough, he had finally bested her. The stats flash across the screen—he’d only won by a margin, but he had won nonetheless, breaking her streak of eighteen wins and zero defeats. Now, a red 1 flashes across the screen under her losses, and Marinette groans.

“No fair,” she complains. “I was distracted for a second. You wouldn’t have won if I weren’t.”

“Distracted?” Chat frowns at her. “Distracted by what?”

Your tongue does not suffice as an answer. Not unless she wants to die of embarrassment and shame. As Marinette fumbles for an acceptable reply, Chat sets down his controller and leans forward. “Admit it,” he grins, infuriously smug. “I won fair and square.”

Marinette pushes his nose away from her. Her face is burning. “I’m going to kick your ass harder next time, and you’re going to regret this.”

His grin widens. “I’d like to see you try.”

(He’s not cute. Just annoying.)

***

Chat comes by to bake when Marinette’s parents are out of town one day. He asks her to teach him how to make macarons, but it’s a far too advanced skill for his limited scope. So instead, they come to an agreement to make Chinese pineapple buns. Now, standing shoulder to shoulder, Marinette teaches him to knead dough.

He’s all wide eyes and concentration, tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth as he follows her movements. Marinette forgets about rolling her own dough in favor of watching him. His ears are sticking up straight on top of his head.

He’s so annoyingly cute.

“Okay!” Chat suddenly announces. “Is this good enough—Marinette? Is there something on my face?”

“Huh?” she looks at him, looks at the dough, looks at her own unfinished one, and promptly feels her face flush. Then, against all better judgement, Marinette blurts, “Why do you always stick your tongue out like that?”

“Like what?” Chat tilts his head slightly then sticks his tongue straight out. “Likthe thith?”

“No!” Marinette practically yelps, then throws her hands up. “Your dough isn’t ready! Stop slacking!”

He purposefully keeps his tongue out the whole time until Marinette is shaking from laughter.

(Maybe he’s cute. Slightly.)

***

“It’s called blepping,” Chat Noir tells her.

“What?” Marinette looks up from her project. “What’s called what?”

“Apparently cats do it too,” he continues. “Stick their tongue out, that is.”

“Well,” Marinette tells him, nearly tripping over her words. “You’re not actually a cat.”

“I don’t appreciate you telling me what I can be and what I can’t be,” Chat sniffs back. “Besides, it’s not a problem for anyone, so I don’t see why I can’t embrace my cat instincts.”

“Cat instincts,” she parrots under her breath. “Yeah, right.”

“Wait. You’re not bothered by it, right, Mari?”

Marinette snorts. “Who, me? Why would I be bothered?”

Chat shrugs. “See? Then it’s whatever.”

It’s not whatever, but Marinette isn’t going to let him know that. A moment later, when he’s focusing again, she catches another glimpse of the pink tip of his tongue.

Why does he have to be so cute?

(She is in deep, deep trouble.)

***

Chat’s terrible at tying his laces.

It would’ve been funny—from the way his eyebrows are scrunched, ears twitching as he fumbles uselessly with the string—if it weren’t for the fact that all of that was accompanied by the tongue poking out over his top lip. Marinette knows she should stop staring, because then she can stop finding him cute. But she keeps staring, like a whole idiot.

To her mortification, Chat looks up at her and grins when she catches her turning away hurriedly. “Is my face that great to stare at?” he asks.

“What?” Marinette shrieks. “No! I’m looking at you tie your laces. Do you seriously not know how to do them up?”

Chat pouts. “It’s hard to do with claws,” he grumbles, wiggling his fingers. Then he sticks his leg out. “You can do it for me.”

Marinette does it, only to have an excuse to duck her face so he can’t see how red her cheeks are.

It’s one of their monthly outings that Chat Noir claims essential to their friendship. He had launched into an indignant tirade when Marinette suggested they could skate at a rink, insisting that they skate in nature.

Now, at the small pond with hints of snow beginning to fall, Marinette has to admit that he made the right call. The wind nips at her nose with the slightest hints of cold, but not too cold that it’s uncomfortably so. Bundled in her own handcrafted scarf, mittens and toque, the worst of the chill is kept out. Even Chat is wearing an overcoat over his suit.

They’re far from the city; in fact, they’re far from Paris itself. The horse Miraculous is tucked safely away in one of Chat’s pockets (which, ironically, he had borrowed from Ladybug). Here, away from the buzzing and business of the city, her thoughts feel clearer than they have been in a long, long time. The snow, fresh and still falling, offers a muted sort of quiet that leaves her room to think and ponder without interruptions.

(Too bad all her thoughts just linger on Chat.)

((Or maybe that’s a good thing.))

Marinette double knots Chat’s laces. “There,” she announces, then adds, “you big baby.”

“It’s the claws’ fault!” he exclaims again. “Race you to the pond?”

Before Marinette can react, Chat grabs the hem of her toque and pulls it down over her eyes. Then, with a boyish laugh, she hears him run off, crunch, crunch, crunching over fresh snow.

Marinette scrambles to her feet, cursing him under her breath as she snatches her mittens and brushes the wool out of her face. Chat is already halfway to the pond, and with one last desperate attempt to win, she chucks her mittens at him.

They miss by a margin, landing in the snow and inciting more laughter.

“You’re a cheat!” she shrieks when Chat reaches the ice. “I hope you know that!”

“Sore loser!” he yells from the ice, already twirling easily on his skates. “You don’t see me complaining every time you win in Ultimate Mecha Strike!”

Marinette retrieves her mittens from the ground and brushes the snow from them. “You complain every single time,” she grinds out, joining him on the ice. The moment her skates touch the pond, Chat’s already darting away from her with easy grace. He glides, spins, then starts skating backwards so the smug grin is fully displayed.

“Come get me!” Chat Noir calls, sticking his tongue out. His hands are tucked behind his back, and he loops each glide, one foot behind the other with ridiculous ease. Show off.

“If you’re going to keep sticking your tongue out, then I dare you to lick that,” Marinette yells at him, pointing at the lamp pole that stands a couple of paces from them. “Bet you won’t.”

Never one to back down from a challenge, he raises an eyebrow. “What do I get if I do?”

“I’ll bake you a batch of whatever you want.”

“Oh, you’re on. Also, if a batch of cookies is usually twelve cookies, do you think I could get a batch of twelve cakes—”

“I’m taking back the bet,” Marinette mock-threatens.

“Okay, okay! I want those mooncakes we had two weeks ago! Three of them.”

She skates up to Chat as he makes his way to the pole. He tromps off the ice, skates sinking into the fresh snow and leaving deep imprints, before sidling up to the pole.

Frost spirals in small flowery patterns over the metal. Marinette grins when she sees Chat hesitate.

“Well?” she asks. “Chickening out now?”

“Never,” he grins. Then, with one swift movement, he licks the metal pole and pulls back.

Or tries to.

Chat lets out a muffled cry of distress and pain when the tip of his tongue sticks to the metal. Immediately, his hands go to wrap around the pole, pulling himself close enough until the hurt smooths off his face, soon replaced by panic. “Marinethe!” he yelps.

Marinette stares at him, her body frozen in a mixture of shock and amusement. Then the shock gives way to pure delight, and she bursts out laughing.

Chat takes it in stride. “Ha, ha,” he grumbles as she doubles over. He looks so stupid, with his tongue sticking out, gloved hands gripping the pole as his eyebrows scrunch. “Vthery thunny, Marinethe. Can you helpth?”

“You should see yourself,” Marinette manages throughout her giggles. “Oh my God, Chat, you really deserve this for not having better judgement.”

He lets out a long suffering groan. “Geth thith offth!”

“This is what people sounded like in Shakespearan times,” she continues.

Chat side-eyes her, unable to move his head any more than a bare centimeter. “Justh helpth!”

“Ooh, I got a good one. Cat got your tongue?”

He groans. “Is thith whath ith thakes for you tho maketh a joke?”

Marinette snaps a quick picture before taking pity on him. “Wait here,” she tells him. “I packed us hot tea. A little bit will be enough to unstick your tongue, probably.”

She skates back to where their bags lay on the bench and retrieves the thermos. Half a minute late, Marinette is pouring the steaming liquid into the cap, cooling it just enough, before raising it over Chat’s tongue. “Okay,” she tells him. “Get ready.”

For all his superhero experience and near-death scrapes, he actually looks scared of the tea. “Ith won’th burn me?”

“No,” Marinette reassures and raises the cup to her lips to take a sip. “See? Warm, not hot.”

Chat closes his eyes. Very carefully, Marinette pours a small stream steadily onto where Chat’s tongue has stuck to the metal pull. “Try to move away?” she suggests.

He wiggles his shoulders.

“I mean your face,” Marinette tells him drily. “Don’t be a scaredy cat.”

He scrunches his nose, then very slowly, moves his head back.

The tea does its job, because Chat unsticks himself from the metal easily. His eyes widen as if he can’t believe his luck, then lifts a cautious hand to his mouth and touches the tip of his tongue. “Ow,” he hisses. “It feels like I’ve burned my taste buds off.”

“You froze your taste buds off, but yes.” Marinette screws the lid back onto the thermos. “Lesson learned?”

“You dared me. You wanted this to happen, huh?”

She shrugs. “Can’t say I wasn’t expecting it.”

A look of playful betrayal sweeps over Chat’s face, and he lunges for her. Marinette, expecting it, scrambles out of the way just in time for him to go barrelling into a pile of snow.

By the time Chat Noir has sat up, snow tucked between his ears and all over his hair like cotton, she is already darting across the ice far, far away from him. Chat shakes the flakes from his head and slips onto the ice in one fluent movement as well.

Marinette grins as he comes skating after her. She’s not quite as confident on her skates without her transformation, but lessons and practice have done it’s good because she’s nearly as good as Chat is on the ice. For a good fifteen seconds she evades his messy attempts to catch her, but her disadvantage without her suit comes creeping up little by little until Chat finally manages to wrap a hand around her wrist.

“Gotcha,” he grins.

Then, with a little shove, Marinette crashes into the bank.

It doesn’t hurt, per say, because it’s a snowdrift he’s sent her into, but the cold is still a shock. For a moment, she stares at Chat, who’s laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world, before Marinette comes back to her senses and kicks a her leg at the blade of his skates.

Even his enhanced senses don’t help him from tumbling right into the pile of snow next to her.

One look at each other later, they’re both laughing.

(It’s nice; the time together, the easiness and lack of…everything else. It’s nice, his smile. His eyes.)

((And it’s then that Marinette realizes that she’s in deep, deep waters with no sight of the shore.))

***

They sit together on the bench, steaming tea between them, as Marinette shakes the last of the snow from her scarf and toque.

The sun is beginning to set, and the coldness has begun to creep into her bones, leaking through her overcoat. Every exhale sends little ghosts into the air, and even with the warm tea, Marinette is beginning to shiver.

Still, they’d arranged to watch the sunset, which means that she’s going to stay even if it means freezing to death.

“Let’s skate more,” Chat says. “You’ll be less cold if you’re moving.”

“I’d be less cold if you didn’t throw me into a pile of snow,” Marinette says between chattering teeth.

He gives her a sheepish look. “You got payback, at least? Come on.”

She looks at the hand extended to her. For a moment, Marinette hesitates, even if the butterflies in her stomach are doing a whole gymnastics routine and her heart’s thump thump thump must’ve quickened to at least twice as fast.

Then she takes Chat’s hand and lets him pull her to her feet.

This time, when she steps onto the ice, he doesn’t let go. Chat Noir’s hands are comfortably warm, tight around hers, and Marinette lets him lead her around the lake in a simple but graceful glide.

They skate until the sky turns from blue to gold, until the clouds dye orange and the world changes color altogether. It’s only then that Chat stops, lifting his head to the sunset. Marinette follows his gaze.

“It’s still cold,” she tells him pointedly, after a minute.

Before she knows it, Marinette is standing against his back, Chat’s arms draped lazily over her shoulders and his chin resting on top of her head. She can’t see him from where she’s standing, but she wonders if he can see her; if he can hear how her heart has jumped right to her throat and notice how the redness in her cheeks can’t be fully credited to the cold.

“Better?” he asks.

Marinette turns back to the sky, where now a brushstroke of red smears across the horizon. “Only slightly,” she replies as nonchalantly as possible.

His body shakes in a silent laugh. And so they stand on the ice, against the cold, until it all melts away to warmth.

(And Marinette thinks that even if she’s in deep waters, this sort of drowning is the best way to go.)

Notes: Fics masterlist here!

[chainsxwsmile]

What if, instead of meeting Gollum in the caves, Bilbo meets a certain Troll? (Not much is changed in canon, but this is my first fanfiction!)

---

He had landed on something soft; at least Bilbo had enough self-awareness to be grateful for that. The ample colony of sizable mushrooms softened his fall down the cavern yet the same couldn’t be said for his goblin assailant. Despite Bilbo’s own knuckles skinned raw, his hip throbbing from the fall, and all sorts of grime gathered upon his clothes, his injuries couldn’t hold a candle to the unfortunate goblin who had taken a tumble alongside the hobbit. The creature wheezed, with barely enough strength to move its head about the darkened crevice surrounding them both. Bilbo had half a mind to pity the creature, even if he had only felt its rotten teeth sink into his neck just a few moments before their fall. The edges of Bilbo’s vision still blurred, and he squinted against the lowlight— and jumped as a pair of uncannily massive eyes met his own. A skulking being, vertebrate protruding from its arched back as it stalked forward on all fours, slunk into the dim light. Instinctively, Bilbo stilled within the cover of the mushrooms, and he held his breath as the creature’s raspy voice echoed across the chasm.

“Yesss. Yes! Yes,” the creature grinned terribly, before something between a cough and choke rose from its throat. “Gollum. Gollum!” it hissed, and its spindly hands snatched the ankles of the dazed goblin. The sudden movement launched Bilbo’s former assailant into a frenzy and the goblin thrashed about, shrieking and clawing. The gangly creature returned the blows, stone in hand, strategically smashing in the goblin’s skull; the goblin went limp and the shrieks died in its throat. “Nasty goblinses are better than old bones, precious,” the spindly creature mused aloud, grunting as it dragged its prize behind it. “Better than nothing.”

Only when the horrid creature and its prey slipped from his sight did Bilbo finally remember to breathe. It came out in a shudder, and the hobbit scrambled to his feet; and quite grateful beyond doubt that his sword—still glowing a dazzling blue— buried itself beneath a mushroom cap, hidden from the terrible creature. As Bilbo’s hand steadied the weight of the sword, a metallic flash on the cavern floor caught his eye. He bent down and retrieved in his hand a ring. Golden and simple, yet starkly elegant against the cavern walls. A screeching wail far off in the distance snapped Bilbo from his thoughts, and he trekked forward, pocketing the ring and keeping his glowing sword low. “Aah, too many boneses, precious! Not enough flesh,” the gangly creature cried, and then in a harsher voice; “Shut up! Cut its skin off! Start with its head.” Against his own instincts, Bilbo slunk past the piles of bones that haphazardly littered the cavern floor, his eyes fastened to the creature perched atop a sharp rock protruding out from the cavern lake. “The cold hard lands, they bites our hands, they gnaws our feet, for rocks and stones are like old bones all bare of meat, cold as death, without no breath it’s good to eat.” In every beat of the song, the creature’s hands—armed with a sharp rock— descended upon the goblin’s head. Bilbo winced visibly at every strike and each sickening sound the blows produced. At last, the rock smashed the goblin’s skull once more that Bilbo’s sword flickered like candlelight before being snuffed out, dead.

Suddenly a booming voice growled from beyond the rock, and Bilbo watched silently as the horrid gangly creature scattered from his sight, frightened off by the owner of the voice. From the shadow beyond the lake drew a hulking figure; so large Bilbo wondered how it had managed to get into the caverns in the first place. Nearly five meters tall, the being towered over the fallen, dead goblin, sniffing it shortly before giving what Bilbo presumed was a disgusted growl. Then two glowing, beady blue eyes met Bilbo’s and the hobbit saw the beast’s posture straighten in mild surprise.

It had seen him.

The hobbit scrambled back from the water, back against the rock, and lay still as he could, hoping that the beast would either lose interest or leave. Yet not even a moment went by that Bilbo felt any icy droplet of water on his curled locks. And then another. And as his eyes glanced upward— and upward and upward more— Bilbo felt his heart stop. The beast had silently crossed the lake and stood over the poor frightened hobbit, who gaped helplessly at the enormous foe. The beast quickly lumbered down from the rock formation, hastily putting itself between Bilbo and any means of escape; the behemoth’s movement so eerily silent, Bilbo couldn’t help but start to shake. But that wasn’t even the worst part; as the beast faced the hobbit, a terribly wide grin stretched across its scarred lips. If there was any breath left in Bilbo, the sight of the toothy smile snatched it from him. Canines the size of the little hobbit’s legs flashed a deadly white alongside each pointed, razor-sharp tooth. Heavy brows lidded the beast’s beady eyes in what Bilbo could only assume to be a ghastly intrigued expression. Like a cat licking its maw and readying itself to play with a poor mouse until it was beaten dead. The thought only escalated Bilbo’s shaking, and he was quite surprised he hadn’t dropped his sword yet. This close, Bilbo could see with what he was dealing: the beast was a troll. Not a stone troll; a slate-blue color graced the creature’s rough skin, and a black mane ran down its thick, muscular neck. Its broad nose was shaped like that of a great cat’s and it idled naturally on all fours. Then it spoke, in a deep, rumbling voice that sent a shiver down Bilbo’s spine.

“Hello,” it— he— bellowed. For a moment, Bilbo could only reply with a squeak— as that was all he could get out of his throat, at first. “Y-Yes, hello,” he replied politely, backing against the solid rock and holding his sword out precariously before him. Much luck that sword would do; it looked like a toothpick to the troll! The beast neared closer again, placing his enormous face— and toothy maw— within touching distance. The troll’s nostril’s flared and a sharp exhale billowed Bilbo’s hair and elicited a rather pitiful whimper from the hobbit. Yes, this troll was much bigger than the stone trolls; and Thorin’s company was very likely on the other side of the mountain for all Bilbo knew. Oh, what terrible luck! “Never seen a tasty li’l bite like you b’fore,” the troll mused. A gargantuan hand rose up to prod at the hobbit, and Bilbo quickly reacted, swinging the sword at the giant hand’s threat. “Stay back! Stay back!” the hobbit warned sternly, though his knees shook, and the sword trembled in his hands. The troll blinked, and for a moment Bilbo wondered if the beast would decide to smash him with a fist and be done with it. Instead, a hearty — albeit blood-chilling— laugh rolled out of the troll’s cavernous throat and his terrible teeth flashed evermore brightly. “Easy there, li’l morsel,” the troll reassured Bilbo; or at least, Bilbo wondered if that was even meant as a reassurance. “Just wonderin’ what you are, is all. I don’t get much company these days.” Bilbo blinked, and then swallowed hard, his throat dry with anxiety. “My name is Bilbo Baggins,” he answered, suddenly feeling rather claustrophobic despite the enormity of cavern around them both. Suddenly the clawed hand shot forward again— and Bilbo braced himself to take its blow— until it stopped short before him, extended out in greeting. “Name’s Bruce,” the troll grinned toothily. Bilbo was fairly certain he’d have better luck fitting his whole body in the troll’s palm than successfully shaking the troll’s hand. Let alone wrapping one of his hands around the troll’s single finger. The troll— Bruce— caught onto Bilbo’s hesitation and, after a beat, retrieved his hand. “So, Bilbo,” Bruce continued, still towering over the poor hobbit. “Where’re ye from?” “I-I’m a hobbit. From the Shire.” Bilbo answered quickly, wondering when and if the troll would back away, and allow Bilbo a chance to escape. Or even just a chance to breathe. “A hobbit, eh?” The troll’s smile grew— if that were possible. “Well, I’ve never had a hobbit b’fore,” Bruce chuckled before adding, almost as an afterthought. “Well, never as company, that’s for sure.” With each morbid joke at his expense, Bilbo’s paralyzing fear metamorphosed to panicked irritability; his brows lowered and narrowed his eyes, and his mouth drew to a thin line. “Okay, look— I just want to get out of here, so if you could quit playing your games, I’ll gladly be on my way!” Bilbo pleaded. Well, if he knew how to get out of there. The various tunnels wound about the mountain in a cavernous labyrinth. “Games, eh?” The troll let out a noise which Bilbo couldn’t quite discern; it was either a low, lulling growl or a thoughtful hum. “Well, my li’l tidbit, why don’t we ‘ave ourselves a li’l wager, eh?” Bruce arched a brow. “A li’l guessin’ game, if ye will.” Bilbo furrowed his brows, tentatively. “What, like... riddles?” he asked. “Yeah! Just like that. Ye wanna get out so badly, why not make it fun.” Well, perhaps fun for you, Bilbo grumbled in his mind but considered the offer, silently. He hadn’t any clue this troll would keep his word. But if Bilbo didn’t play along... what stopped Bruce from killing him then and there? The hobbit cleared his throat. “Very well; if I win, you show me the way out of here.” “Ah, that’s the spirit, li’l bite,” Bruce grinned broadly before inching closer, ignoring the sword pointed at his face. “And what if I win, eh?” A short breath slipped out from Bilbo at the thought of such a grisly end; he wondered how this troll fancied to kill him. Perhaps like the stone trolls— maybe the giant brute would cook him alive, or sit on him and crush him, or tear the hobbit limb from limb. Bilbo shuddered before finding his words. “If you win, you can... have your way with me.” Perhaps Bilbo just needed to spare himself the details for now. “It’s a deal, then,” the massive troll replied before backing away; and for the first time in what seemed like hours, Bilbo finally grappled to catch a breath without the beast hovering over him. As Bruce backed off, Bilbo could take in the entirety of the troll without having to move his head about wildly. In the lowlight, Bilbo could vaguely catch traces of a dappled pattern along the troll’s back, shoulders, and arms that appeared like blots and splatters of ink. His toes were shaped more like plantigrade hooves than normal feet. His skin was bare, save for a weathered leather armored skirt that fell to his knees. “You go first, li’l morsel,” Bruce ordered, turning to face Bilbo before the troll reclined onto the cavern floor like a great big cat. Remembering his manners, Bilbo, in turn, sheathed his sword. The hobbit paused a moment in thought before beginning: “Thirty white horses on a red hill. First, they champ, then they stamp, then they stand still.” Bilbo watched as the troll’s face took on a mildly puzzled expression, and Bruce’s beady blue eyes flit across the cavern floors as if the answer lay spelled out the piles of bones. Yet, not a second later, the troll’s face lit up and Bruce grinned toothily. “Teeth?” he asked, and Bilbo felt his own posture deflate. Bruce, however, took it rather victoriously, letting out another deafening laugh. “Hah! Good one, li’l hobbit! Guess it’s my turn, then?” Bruce cleared his throat. “My body is a tree and my teeth are from the ground. I’m carried by the millions, and I lunge to strike you down.” Bilbo wet his lips and nodded, trying to ignore the troll’s constant, predatory gaze upon him. Body is a tree; that means it’s made of wood. Lunging to strike. Not a snake. Teeth from the ground. Not a sword. “A spear!” Bilbo guessed. The troll scoffed, though the smile betrayed him. “What, am I makin’ this too easy for ye?” Bilbo blinked, mouth opened but couldn’t quite find the right, careful words to reply. So, he continued onto the next riddle: “A…a box without hinges, key or…or lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid.” The troll’s smile faltered before a thoughtful expression—one Bilbo hadn’t imagined befalling the face of a troll—crept onto Bruce’s face. Bilbo leapt back as the troll rose from the ground; yet this time, Bruce did so slowly and nonchalantly—so much that Bilbo had half a mind to wonder if this was a trap. That the troll feigned disinterest in the hobbit and more attention to the riddles, only to turn around a snatch him up. Yet as Bilbo watched, the troll’s lips moved silently, as if reciting back the words of the riddle. The hobbit breathed shakily, impatiently. “Well?” “Didn’t think there was a time limit,” the troll retorted, arching a brow, and Bilbo drew back silently… until the troll’s eyes lit up suddenly again. “Eggs?” The hobbit sighed audibly, disheartened, and wondered how much time he’d been wasting trying to keep this beast entertained; Thorin and others were probably on the other side of the mountains by now, and presumably didn’t even notice his absence. The troll didn’t laugh this time at his win, which caused Bilbo to glance up, worriedly. Bruce lumbered back towards him, and the hobbit’s hand subconsciously reached for his sword. “My turn, li’l bite,” the troll purred, moving past Bilbo. A cloud of vocal, screeching bats suddenly took wing from the cavern walls and caught the hobbit’s attention, and he whipped around, momentarily distracted. Yet when Bilbo’s eyes returned to where the troll should have been, a gasp slipped from his mouth. How did such a massive creature just disappear? One moment, Bruce had been there, idling and hovering over Bilbo, and the next— From out of the various tunnels and shadows, the troll’s voice echoed once more, reminding Bilbo that the beast was still very much there. And watching him carefully. “The fallen li’l bat pup caught in the lion’s claws. The fledgling in a mist net. The minnow in gar jaws.” The hobbit felt his brows furrow in confusion; Bilbo hadn’t heard any of these troll’s riddles. “Well?” boomed the voice from the shadows. The hobbit shook his head. “Please give me a moment! I did give you a good long while.” Bat pup? Lion? Fledgling? Minnow? “I don’t know this one,” the hobbit confessed, in a voice louder than he anticipated. Again, the rumbling, growling hum echoed about the cavern walls. Bilbo turned about, unable to find the direction of the source. “Want three guesses, li’l morsel?” the voice crooned. Bilbo found himself nodding, against his better judgment. “Bad luck?” the hobbit guessed aloud. “Close,” the voice bellowed back. “But a bit too broad. Guess again.” Biting his lips, Bilbo racked through his brain, though anxiety threatened to cloud his thoughts. “Prey?” “Ye’re gettin’ there,” the voice crooned again. “Last guess. Last chance.” He was close—at least according to the disembodied voice echoing about the cavern walls. Bilbo turned about, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim light. Trying to pick out the massive troll from beneath the shadows. The hobbit unsheathed his sword, feeling his heartbeat accelerating with every second. “Captured prey?” The voice gave a ‘tsk’ sound with a tone of feigned pity. “Wrong.” “Well, then what is it?” the hobbit turned and turned, sword out before him. Bilbo felt hot breath on his neck and a growl in his ear. “You.”

A giant clawed hand struck out. Before Bilbo could even process the sudden blur of movement, he was on the ground, tiny bones prodding into his back. He heard the distinct clatter of metal against stone and his right hand felt vulnerably empty; his sword glinted almost cruelly just out of reach. All breath left him as the clawed hand weighed down upon his entire body, pinning him to the cold cavern floor. His legs kicked futilely, and he squirmed beneath the troll’s grasp. Bilbo could barely remember his mouth opening, but found his own voice – “No, no, no, no!” – so very far away, as if it didn’t even belong to him anymore and he was dead already. Then the troll’s terrible grin suddenly filled every inch of Bilbo’s sight as Bruce’s face steadied itself half a meter from Bilbo’s own. The little hobbit prayed that it wouldn’t be the last sight he’d take to the grave. “Looks like I win, then,” Bruce grinned triumphantly. The troll didn’t even give Bilbo any time to respond or react before the massive hand flipped him over, and Bilbo could only watch from the corner of his eye as jaws descended upon him. The poor hobbit let out a strangled scream as the enormous canines slipped beneath his chest and above his legs, and he felt hot breath spread across his captured torso. Bilbo struggled and scratched and kicked with every parcel of strength left in his body. He watched helplessly as the ground fell beneath him, as the troll raised him into the air, and the horrid realization set in; Bilbo was held— captured— in the troll’s jaws. It was almost too much for the little hobbit’s heart, and the corners of his vision blurred. Perhaps if he were lucky, he would faint and miss the pain of being torn in two by the sheer strength of the troll’s bite. Seconds felt like hours as Bruce held the hobbit in his teeth’s grasp, and Bilbo glanced about his surroundings, dazed by the attack and partially awaiting the minute that the jaws would snap together, and he’d be reduced to cuts of meat.

But the agony didn’t come.

Suddenly, Bruce lurched forward. They were moving. Forward, he thought, though vertigo set in and, for a moment, Bilbo couldn’t quite tell up from down. He could feel the points of the troll’s premolars digging into both his chest and thighs; luckily, they hadn’t pierced the skin, but would most certainly bruise later. If Bilbo wasn’t eaten before that.

“Where are we going? Where are you taking me?” Bilbo asked, breathlessly. His hands grappled at the flesh along the troll’s chin and his legs kicked weakly in protest. “Ye’ll see soon ‘nough,” the troll replied, his words muffled; this close, Bilbo could feel the deepness of Bruce’s voice vibrating through his body and it did little to calm whatever nerves he had left. The edges of Bilbo’s vision blurred, then darkened, and the little hobbit slipped out of consciousness.

Bilbo awoke with a jolt and immediately felt the teeth digging into his chest once more. The hobbit gave a shaky sigh, disappointed that it hadn’t all been a nightmare and he’d been back in Rivendell this whole time. “Oh, good! Ye’re awake. We’re comin’ up to a dodgy part in the path ahead. If it makes ye feel better,” Bruce said, shaking Bilbo from his thoughts. “Don’t look down.” Don’t look—? In the dim light, Bilbo couldn’t quite discern if the ground had fallen away, or if the cavern floor were simply a pitch black. The troll’s claw dislodged a stream of pebbles that descended into the floor, swallowed up by the darkness below. Well, that answered Bilbo’s question. A sharp ravine wound beneath both him and his captor with a width large enough for the hobbit to slip and fall through. Yet the troll’s size was so great that it was nothing more than a furrow in the middle of the road; Bruce kept his arms and legs on each side, far from the middle of the path. After moments turned to minutes and fear dissolved into disgruntled impatience, Bilbo found his voice returning to his throat. “Why aren’t you telling me where we’re headed?” “Would it matter to you?” The hobbit sighed, dejected, and grew silent. Bruce was most certainly taking Bilbo to his hoard, or his part of the cave to devour. And Bilbo figured that the troll knew that the hobbit knew this. And he hadn’t even his sword to defend himself. “So ‘ow’d ye end up down ‘ere, anyway?” the troll asked, words still garbled from holding Bilbo beneath his teeth. Self-awareness nearly caused the hobbit to scoff with sickened amusement. Here Bilbo was, dangling from the mouth of a giant troll, and the troll wanted to know his prey’s life story.   “Do you ask that question to everyone you eat?” Bilbo asked, impatiently. “Or are you just trying to fill the silence?” “The latter, usually,” the troll replied, with a shrug. “Might as well, while we walk.” “Fine,” Bilbo sighed, brow low as he squirmed with discomfort. “I… I was with a company, but I lost them in the mountains,” Bilbo said, shortly before adding, “But I doubt my absence will matter all that much.” The troll grew uncharacteristically silent for a moment and Bilbo chanced some movement to turn his head, catching a glimpse that confused him greatly. The beady blue eyes of the troll had softened, brows knit with an almost concerned expression. What was it spread across the beast’s face? Guilt that he was going to soon eat his company? Sympathy to Bilbo’s plight?

After a long moment, Bruce finally spoke again.  “We’re ‘lmost there, lil’ morsel,” the troll said solemnly. “It’s just up ahead.” Bilbo turned his head to the side, in the direction of their path. A single thin line of light sliced through the darkness. For a moment, the hobbit could only see white through the shape; yet as his eyes adjusted and the troll drew closer, he could catch colors of green and blue, and caught the scent of pine trees and crisp air. The way out. He was so close. So close to freedom that he could feel the wind of the outside world. Yet, just as the realization had settled into the hobbit’s mind, Bilbo felt the troll lurch to a stop and his heart sank. It was right there. The door was right there! Suddenly the ground rushed up to meet Bilbo as Bruce lowered his jaws to the ground. The hobbit didn’t feel the teeth pull away from him until both of his furry feet were planted on the ground. Already, Bilbo could feel the wind on his face and the warm light from the outside world dip the stark, gray stones around the entrance into a honeyed glow. Even the troll’s features shone clearer; Bilbo noticed the various scars lining the troll’s body and the odd hue of blue in the troll’s skin. He also noticed that the troll stood in the sunlight, yet Bruce’s skin didn’t transform into dusty gray rock. Which meant— Oh, Bilbo’s heart sank suddenly. Even if he made a mad dash for the exit of the cave, the troll would catch up to him. Not even sunlight could save him.

“’lright, Bilbo. Ye ready?” Bruce’s voice bellowed from behind Bilbo, and the hobbit felt his face redden. So that’s how it was going to be, then? The troll would ask the hobbit to just hold still and snap him up, when Bilbo was inches from getting out of the horrid cave? Did the troll think Bilbo would react kindly—obediently— and go quietly as he was butchered? No! Certainly not! This was too much! “You— you absolute fiend!” Bilbo needn’t care about any insult thrown towards the troll; he was going to die, anyway. And Bruce’s treatment towards his prey couldn’t be any crueler. “Is this all a game to you? Taking me all this way out of caves just to eat me? Just to have freedom be right there and snatch it all away?!” Furious, the hobbit punched and kicked at the troll’s legs, thick as tree trunks. The blows did little to move Bruce, and Bilbo doubted the troll could even feel them. If only he’d still had his sword; at least he’d give the troll some pain for the hobbit’s trouble. Only when the hobbit’s attacks persisted did a giant hand snatch Bilbo up again. Yet anger had replaced any fear still residing in Bilbo and his mouth pressed firmly into a line, defiantly glowering at his captor. “I’m not gonna eat’cha,” Bruce confessed, a guilty expression spreading across his scarred features. “Never was.” Bilbo froze, blinked, and then sputtered indignantly. Not that he wished to be eaten or killed or mangled— heavens, no! “Then why didn’t you just say so?!” the hobbit asked as the volume of his voice rose, sternly. The troll heaved a heavy sigh. “I wanted to! I did, believe me! It’s just… I heard the little cave creature followin’ us—” Bilbo blinked in confusion before memories rushed back, of stone in gnarled hand and the goblin’s broken skull. “He was gettin’ quite close to you from the shadows; I needed to make sure he thought ye were a goner.” The hobbit recalled the spindly creature, its throaty, scratchy voice as it bludgeoned the goblin to death. Bilbo could barely find his own words, bewildered. “But you said— “   “You said I could ‘ave my way with ye,” Bruce grinned, yet this time his eyes were soft. Thoughtful, even. “Never actually said anythin’ ‘bout eatin’ ye, that’s for sure.” The troll then reached behind him along his leather belt and retrieved a shining object, pinched delicately between his thumb and index finger. Bilbo’s brows rose. His sword! All this time, he’d thought the troll left it behind them in the cave. With a strange gentleness, Bruce set the hobbit down and handed the sword back to Bilbo, handle first. “Might wanna hurry ‘long then. I smell yer friends up ahead.” The hobbit blinked incredulously before accepting back his sword and returning it to its sheath. He swallowed before raising his gaze up to the giant. “Thank you,” Bilbo said, quite sincerely. “Maybe we’ll meet ‘gain, li’l bite. Hopefully under better circumstances,” Bruce said, giving a nod to the hobbit before turning back towards the cave. Bilbo gave one last look at the troll before nodding in return; and he hurried along, racing down the hill in hopes of catching up to the company.

[here4theheartbreak]

Trouble (YoonKook)

AO3 Link Here!

✩ Relationships: yoonkook (Yoongi x Jungkook) ✩ Genre(s): fluff

✩ Rating: Teen ✩ Tags: fluff, established relationship, humor, (teen for vague mention of sex at one point)

✩ Summary: Jungkook wants a kitten. And what Jungkook wants, Jungkook gets... Even if Yoongi doesn't know it.

✩ A/N: Written for Anonymous for the drabble requests, prompt #2: When did we get a cat?

✩ Word Count: ~2.8k

Yoongi had loved Jungkook for nearly as long as he’d known the man. They had met in high college, when Jungkook was still an awkward freshman trying to figure out what he wanted to do in life, and Yoongi was near his graduation, already signed with a music company in the city as a producer. Despite their first few awkward dates as Jungkook struggled to come to terms with his sexuality and get comfortable in his skin, they stuck together, moving in with one another in Jungkook’s sophomore year.

Everything was the both of them. Helping Jungkook come out to his family, the tears when his father was far less than supportive, Yoongi still remembers the way Jungkook had kissed him after Yoongi went toe to toe with the man, preventing a further fight and earning his respect in one fell swoop.

Studying for Jungkook’s exams when he felt he couldn’t learn a single thing more, working on the request for Yoongi’s contracts and listening to tracks he’d spent hours on.

Their friends laughed at them because of just how well they got along. Despite their many years together, fights were minimal. True fights, where one or the other had to walk away, could be counted on one hand. Spats were normal, but never lasted more than an hour or two before they talked it through. Agreements were easily reached, each willing to meet the other in the middle in order to maintain not only a peaceful household, but a happy relationship.

Yoongi knew he was wrapped around Jungkook’s very beautiful fingers, if he was being honest. He didn’t mind at all. Jungkook never abused the power he knew he had over Yoongi, and not once did Yoongi feel stepped on. They were equals and their relationship was more solid than most that Yoongi knew with people their age.

There was only one thing the two continually argued about. Animals.

Jungkook, from the day they moved in together, had been pleading with Yoongi to adopt a pet. First it was a dog, which was easily shut down because the apartment complex they were in did not allow dogs of any kind. Then it shifted to a cat, which Yoongi was less opposed to, but he worried they were both too busy to care for an animal. And then a snake, lizard, or bird, all of which Yoongi ixnayed as quickly as Jungkook brought them up. The idea of sharing his home with a pet was terrifying. Yoongi wasn’t exactly sure why, and even after Jungkook graduated college and began working, Yoongi still argued against the idea whenever it was brought up. It had to have been the source of at least five of their bickers per month, and not something either was willing to budge on.

The normalcy and frequency with which Jungkook normally brought up the idea of a pet was startling. And that should have been Yoongi’s first clue that something was amiss in their house. Jungkook stopped mentioning anything about adopting a pet of any kind, or even bringing UP animals. Despite the oddity of the decline, it was sort of nice, not having the same regular argument.

The second clue to something not quite being right was the sudden increase in the amount of fish - specifically tuna - and milk that Jungkook was consuming. Jungkook ate a ton anyway, so Yoongi didn’t think much about it, assuming his exercise crazy boyfriend was on some new protein or calcium diet.

The third clue should have been Jungkook’s willingness to clean the apartment. He’d always been willing to do laundry or cover certain chores, but Yoongi had been coming home from the office at the end of the day to an entirely spotless home. Though they weren’t dirty men, they were young men, and that - despite their best efforts - normally left some natural mess… But not when Jungkook set to work. Yoongi hadn’t had to pick up more than his own shoes or shirt in the past month.

Yet, despite all of these clues, Yoongi thought nothing of it. He was happy, content, and living life as well as he had ever hoped he could, doing what he loved with the man he loved.

It was a quiet Saturday evening and Yoongi was tense. He was snapping at Jungkook over the littlest things, and knew he was being a general dick.

“What is wrong?” Jungkook finally asked, rubbing Yoongi’s tense shoulders.

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, there is. Talk to me.” Jungkook nuzzled over Yoongi’s neck and ear, kissing the soft skin there gently until Yoongi shivered.

“Just this new project. It’s a tight deadline and I don’t feel like it’s good enough,” he finally admitted, letting Jungkook begin to work the knots in his shoulders loose.

“I understand. I’m sure it’s fine, baby - but I also know you have that perfectionist streak that makes you so damn good at your job. It won’t let you rest until you feel like it’s ideal.”

“Exactly.” Yoongi let his head hang. Jungkook knew exactly where to press to turn him into mush.

“Well, why don’t you go into the office tomorrow? Spend a few times working on it and see if you can get it a little closer, or at least figure out what went wrong?”

“Sunday is our— Oh…” Yoongi sighed contentedly. “Our day.”

“And I’m sure I’ll be just fine spending a few hours by my lonesome while you work on something important. I’d rather that than have you tense and unhappy during our day together anyway. We can spend tonight and tomorrow night together instead.”

“Are you sure?” Yoongi asked.

“Of course. In fact…” Jungkook let go of his shoulders and began to kiss up the curve of his neck. “Do you want to make love tonight?”

Yoongi sighed deeper, his eyes fluttering shut. “If I ever say no to that, I’ve lost my mind.”

Jungkook giggled, a deep, playful sound that went straight to Yoongi’s stomach. “Then go take a nice, long, relaxing bath and get all clean. We’ll make sure you’re so relaxed you can’t even move until tomorrow morning.”

“You are… The perfect boyfriend,” Yoongi said. “I know. Go on.” Jungkook kissed his cheek and rose, heading into their bedroom.

Yoongi headed into the bathroom, stripping down naked. He turned on the water, letting it heat up before plugging the tub and pulling out a nondescript box from under the counter. Inside were a variety of bath bombs, different makes, scents, textures, colors, and oils. It was his guilty pleasure, and only Jungkook really knew his secret. He knew the guys at work would tease him to no end. The tough rapper and producer loving the feel of silky soft lavender essential oil and bright pink bath bombs when he lounged in his tub.

Speaking of bright pink. Yoongi plucked a neon pink cat shaped bath bomb from the box, unwrapping it and smelling it. Jasmine and some other floral scents… Perfect. He went over to the tub, turning off the faucet and plopping the little cat into the steaming water. It began to fizz immediately, and Yoongi grinned to himself. He settled into the water, sighing contentedly. With half closed eyes, he batted the fizzing cat back and forth through the water, watching it pump pink and orange foam, the color slowly spreading through the clear water.

The scent was soothing and relaxing, exactly as intended, and Yoongi let his eyes drift shut. He listened to the fizzing of the bomb as he sank lower, his chin resting just above the water. His body relaxed almost of its own volition, the soothing warmth of the water and the scent of the oils working together to draw the tension out of his body. He could figure out his music, it was just a challenge. Which was exactly what he loved in his job. Nothing wrong with working a little harder.

Yoongi didn’t know how long he laid in the warm water. Long enough for the fizzing to quiet, leaving him in silence save for the steady thump of his heart, strong in his ears.

Because of that silence, the soft thud near the toilet was as loud as a snap in the bathroom. Yoongi opened his eyes, blinking a few times to clear his vision when it fell onto the toilet. Surely, he was seeing things. He remained still, squeezing his eyes shut and open. Nope… Still there.

On the toilet, carefully traversing the rim of the open seat, was a small black, brown, and orange kitten. Yoongi watched it slip, nearly landing in the water of the toilet. He tensed, ready to leap out and rescue it. It recovered, however, and continued on its trek, pausing to swipe at the water. Yoongi could feel his pulse increasing, concerned for the kitten’s safety, but worried that moving too quickly would scare it into the water if it might otherwise be able to avoid it.

“Jungkook,” he called at a voice just below normal. The kitten looked at him, seeming to realize there was a human in the room with it for the first time. It froze, as did Yoongi, hoping it wouldn’t do something stupid.

It looked at him for a while, then began its trek once more, seemingly deeming him as not a danger.

“Jungkook,” Yoongi called again, a little above his normal voice. And a third time, just a little louder so he wouldn’t scare the kitten, “Jungkook!”

“What’s up?” Jungkook called from behind the half-closed door.

“When did we get a kitten?”

There was a very pregnant pause. “What?”

“A kitten, Jungkook. When did we get a cat?”

“We… We don’t have a cat, Yoongi.”

“We don’t?” Yoongi looked at the animal and then at the closed door. “Then mind telling me what this small furry creature is that’s currently trying to avoid falling in our toilet?”

Jungkook pushed open the door quickly, rushing in.

“No!” Yoongi cried. Too late. The kitten startled at the sudden movement and fell into the toilet with an unhappy meow and splash. Yoongi scrambled out of the tub, splashing his own water everywhere. He grabbed the kitten out of the water, wrapping it in the towel he’d intended to use to dry himself.

It struggled at first, but seemed to calm when it realized it was warm and no longer under water. Yoongi sighed and turned to Jungkook, his mouth a fine line.

Jungkook stood sheepishly, his shoulders sagging. He worried his hands in front of him, chewing his lip. “I’m in trouble, huh?”

“I told you we couldn’t get a cat, Jungkook. Please, explain why I’m holding a very wet one right now?”

“Probably because she fell in the toilet…” Jungkook tried to joke, his mouth drooping when Yoongi didn’t so much as smile.

“I know you said no cats. No pets. And I didn’t… I didn’t mean to. She was dying, Yoongi.”

“She looks fine.”

“Yeah, now. When I brought her inside she was starving and shivering.”

“When you brought her in? How long has she been in the house, Jungkook?”

Jungkook lowered his head further. “A month. I promise I didn’t mean to keep her. I was going to take her to the shelter. I still planned to, I just wanted to make sure she was healthy so they wouldn’t euthanize her. I’ve been keeping her in the laundry room and letting her out while you’re at work.”

“So that’s why you’ve been so eager to clean. Keeping me from finding something cat related.”

Jungkook nodded. He looked close to tears. “I didn’t want to lie to you, but I was so scared you’d make me give her up right away if I told you. I just wanted to nurse her back to health and then I was gonna give her away. I promise. I know you don’t like animals.”

“Take her,” Yoongi said, holding the bundle out to Jungkook.

Jungkook obeyed, holding her close to him.

“Get her dried off, she’s gonna get sick with that water. I’m going to clean up the mess in here.”

“Do you hate me now, Yoongi?” Jungkook worried.

“No. Go on.”

Jungkook’s shoulders sagged. He headed out, the kitten in tow. Yoongi sighed when he was gone, grabbing another towel to begin cleaning up the water mess on the floor. He drained his bath, lamenting the wasted time he could have spent relaxing. As he cleaned the floor, he thought back to the previous twenty minutes. What a brave little animal. And so carefree, didn’t even mind being in his arms when he was clearly frustrated. As stubborn as Jungkook, clearly. He thought to the way Jungkook talked about her, so clearly in love with the small animal. A little twinge of guilt hit Yoongi. He’d been snappy. Jungkook’s explanation was sound; he probably would have done the same thing in his place. He needed to apologize.

Yoongi pulled on his sweats, walking through the apartment. He found Jungkook placing the small kitten in a carrier.

“Is that where she sleeps?” Yoongi asked.

“What? Oh, no, I had a little bed made of blankets for her. I’ll wash them, I promise.”

“Why are you putting her in there then?”

“Well, to drop her off to the shelter. They have someone available during nights most of the time. I told you I’d planned on getting rid of her once she was healthy – I’m sure she’ll be fine and adoptable now.”

Yoongi’s heart sank. “Jungkook…”

“I’m really sorry, Yoongi. I know I betrayed your trust.”

“You did. And thank you for the apology, I accept it,” Yoongi said.

Jungkook straightened up, wincing when the kitten meowed forlornly in the carrier. “I’ll be back soon.” He headed toward the door. Yoongi stuck out his arm, catching Jungkook in the chest and stopping him.

“The pet fee is one third of our monthly rent. I can pay half of it if you can afford the other half. And she’ll need to be up to date on shots, so you need to get that taken care of no later than Monday.”

“What?” Jungkook asked, his voice barely audible.

“Do I really need to repeat all that?” Yoongi lamented, looking at Jungkook out of the side of his eye.

“You’re saying we can keep her?” Jungkook clarified, a hopeful lilt in his voice.

“I’m saying feeding and the litter box is your responsibility. I don’t want to smell that, it’s gross. I’ll help with shots and buying food as you need, I know you make less, newer into your position. We can go half on getting her fixed, I’ll cover it if you can’t afford it, and you can pay me back over time.”

“Yoongi—”

“I don’t hate cats, Jungkook. I never did.” Yoongi let his arm drop and looked at Jungkook. “At first I said no because we were so busy, and then I just kept saying no. No real reason why. That wasn’t fair of me either. If I was in your position and found a sick kitten, I probably would have done the same thing that you did. I don’t fault you for having a big heart, baby. It’s part of why I love you.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I wish you’d trusted me enough to tell me right away, but I understand why you didn’t. I’m not mad. Go ahead and let her out of there, she sounds sad.”

Jungkook grinned wider, crouching down and opening the door of the carrier. The kitten peeked out. She stepped out slowly, eyeing Yoongi before trotting off.

“What did you name her?”

“Trouble.”

“Fitting name.” Yoongi crouched, holding his hand out and making a soft ‘psps’ noise to call her. She moved toward him, sniffing him before letting him scoop her up. He stroked her fur. “She’s cute. You did good getting her looking healthy.”

“I worked really hard with her,” Jungkook said, reaching out to pet Trouble as well.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a dick,” Yoongi said. “I should have been more understanding and willing to compromise on a pet.”

“I should have told you about her and trusted you to do stand by me,” Jungkook agreed. “You’re really okay with us keeping her?”

“No harm in it, really. We both work, but cats are independent. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

Jungkook went forward, kissing Yoongi gently. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He set Trouble down. “So I finished my bath,” he said, stepping up to Jungkook.

“Oh?”

“Mhm. I believe earlier there was a promise of making sure I was so relaxed I couldn’t move until tomorrow...”

Jungkook smirked, wrapping his arms around Yoongi’s shoulders. “I remember that.” He pressed gentle kisses along Yoongi’s jaw. “I should get started on that, hm?”

“Most definitely.”

Jungkook grinned. He let his arms drop and grabbed Yoongi’s hand, dragging him toward the bedroom. Yoongi laughed helplessly as he followed. He was weak for Jungkook, he knew it, and he was perfectly okay with it.

[lunarsaga]

Chapter 6: The Poison Master

Here it is, Chapter 6!

Chapter 7 is in the works, and will be going up on patreon soon! Stay tuned and follow me on Twitter for updates!

Don't forget that this is meant to read like a graphic novel, meaning the art pieces are part of the story and aren't meant to be skipped!

Also trying a new thing! "========" <- Lines like this are scene breaks "// ~ ~ ~ \\" <- and these are perspective changes!

ENJOY, MY LOVES! (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ

===========================================

“I’m going after Jakotsu.”

It was said with such confidence—the confidence of a man who had not just been struggling to keep himself from getting sliced to pieces by an undead murderer that kept trying to flirt with him—that Luna just had to wonder if it was really Inuyasha saying it. (It was, of course. She was just being sarcastic.)

“That’s funny, I thought I just heard you say you were going after that psychopath.” Luna said to the half-demon. She idly pulled her hair down from her ponytail and began to weave it into a loose braid.

“I am!” Inuyasha said, indignant. “He couldn’t have gotten far.”

“Yes, but Inuyasha,” Miroku interjected, “aren’t you worried about that poisonous gas?”

“Whaddya mean?”

Thoughtful, Miroku glanced off in the direction where they’d encountered the first of the Band of Seven. The cloud had almost entirely dispersed, but if you looked hard enough, you could still see wisps of the toxic smoke drifting into the sky. “Well, Jakotsu seemed to know something about it.”

“You’re right…” Inuyasha said, “You think it’s another member of the Band of Seven?”

“Could be…” Sango mused, “but didn’t Jakotsu seem to be in danger himself? Why would a member of his own team endanger him?”

“Infighting?” Luna guessed, running her fingers through the tangles in her hair. “They’re ruthless mercenaries, I wouldn’t expect them to be one big bloodthirsty family… Unless…” She tilted her head, trailing off in thought.

“Unless what…?” Kagome asked, looking at her sister in concern.

Luna paused another second, still deep in thought as she began to weave her hair into a loose braid. “I mean… If Jakotsu knows the guy? He probably knew that there was still time to avoid the poison. He did tell Inuyasha to get out of the way, remember.” Only Inuyasha, but still.

Inuyasha turned away from the rest of them, uncrossing his arms. “Whatever the case, I’m not letting him get away. You all stay here, and stay safe.”

“Don’t do anything stupid!” Luna called after him as he ran off.

“You’re one to talk.” Ai snorted, earning her a gentle kick from the Hunter sitting next to her.

Kagome stood from where she’d been rifling through her bag, holding a nearly-empty plastic bottle. “Ah, we’re almost out of water… I think I saw a well on our way over here, I’m gonna go fill this up.”

Luna arched an eyebrow at her sister. “Is going off on your own a good idea when there’s a bunch of killer zombies in the area?”

Kagome sighed, smiling back at her. “I’ll be fine, it’s not far. Shippo, why don’t you come with me?” Shippo grinned and jumped into Kagome’s bike basket as she got it on the road. “You should show Sango your crossbow, Luna.”

“Crossbow?” Sango asked.

“Ah, yes, I’m actually interested in seeing how it works up close,” Miroku said, “I saw you use it on Jakotsu, it was impressive.”

Luna smiled and shook her head. “Alright, be safe, Kagome.” She hoisted up the crossbow to show her friends how the arms unfolded, getting a little chuckle out of it when the two of them jumped.

“It does that all on its own?” Sango asked as Luna handed it over to her. She was unsure where to hold it for a second, but Luna showed her how.

“Yep, they’re spring-loaded, so they just pop out,” Luna explained.

Luna went on to answer all sorts of questions about it, and while Sango and Miroku (and even Kilala) seemed interested in the strange contraption, Ai had heard it all before, when Luna had first returned to this world with it. She stretched herself out, her tail fluffing itself out as she curled up against a warm rock. Mmm… warm… Her eyelids began to droop as she got comfortable there; it had been such an exhausting day already…

But as she was about to drift off, she took a deep breath, and a rancid smell hit her nose. She jolted upright with a disgusted hiss, trying to find where the smell was coming from.

“Ai?” Luna asked, “What’s up?”

Kilala seemed to pick up on the scent too—something foul was drifting in the air. The elder cat demon transformed into her full form, and Ai stood, hair bristling.

“Something doesn’t smell right.”

Luna picked up on the tension right away, and her thoughts immediately went to her sister. “God damnit, Kagome...” She hissed, going to her backpack and rifling through it.

“Kagome’s in trouble?” Miroku stood, worried.

“The smell’s coming from the same direction she went,” Ai said.

“And the smell could be that person with the poison,” Sango had already grabbed Hiraikotsu and was putting on her Slayer’s mask. “We don’t wanna take any chances—it’s too bad I only have one of these…”

“No worries, I’ve got these. Here, Miroku.” Luna pulled a medical mask out of her kit to hand it to her friend. “It won’t do much, but it’ll at least keep you from inhaling anything.”

“Thank you, Luna—what about you?”

Luna held up something from her bag: her own mask. It was a military-grade gas mask with a clear face shield, modified to fit a Hunter’s needs. “This one’s mine. It’s made specifically for Hunters like me,” She said as she slipped it over her head. She was well aware that to the locals she might look like a demon, but fuck if she cared; her sister was in danger. The first thing in hand was her crossbow, and she grabbed her ammo bag as she was taking off running.

As it turned out, they were right to call the masks, but Luna certainly didn’t expect to find an entire village choked with poison like a deadly mist. It was barely past lunchtime, and they’d already seen so much death—it was disheartening to see bodies strewn everywhere. But through the mist, they could see Shippo rolling on the ground and coughing, Kagome crouched on her hands and knees, and some weird little figure looming over her. (Well, maybe looming was a strong word. The guy was like three feet tall.)

Sango didn’t hesitate to swing Hiraikotsu; the first swing shattered the poison bottle in the creep’s hand.

“Stay back!” Shouted the little toad of a man.

“Like hell I will,” Luna snarled, aiming her crossbow at the poison master. “Step away from my sister. Now.”

Shippo was finally able to scramble to his feet, and, unsure of what else to do, proclaimed: “I’ll go get Inuyasha!” and took off running.

“Ai, go with him!” Luna said to her friend. The Bakeneko hesitated a moment, worried, but then shifted into her full form and took off after the young fox demon.

“He had to be the one behind the smoke,” Miroku said, of the poison master, “Which means he must be another member of the Band of Seven!”

The laugh that exited the little man made Luna want to vomit. “Yes! I am Mukotsu, Poison Master!”

“Then tell me, Mukotsu, someone must have resurrected you all,” Miroku continued. “Is Naraku behind all this?”

“Hehehehehe, couldn’t tell you! You’ll have to ask the Captain…” He trailed off, reaching back into the little box he was carrying on his back and quickly retrieving another bottle of poison. “Should you survive, that is!”

Luna wasn’t about to give him another second to unplug the bottle. She tried to step toward her sister again, but she only got to fire once before her vision was blocked by powerful black smoke that ejected towards them. Kilala—completely unaffected by the poison, it seemed—jumped in front of Luna to block the bulk of it.

“NO!” Luna shouted, trying to see around the giant Nekomata, “Kagome!”

Luna felt the crushing weight of helplessness almost immediately. That was her sister, helpless and about to pass out, and she couldn’t help. She couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t do… anything.

It was less than a minute until the smoke cleared, but it felt like an eternity. When she could see again, it only confirmed what she already knew: her sister had been taken. She knew her mask would’ve filtered out whatever the poison was made of, but her legs were still shaking. Not with pain, not with shock… but with pure, unbridled anger. Her lungs could only draw in sharp, furious breaths.

Lock it up, she told herself. She focused the energy buzzing around in her head on keeping herself contained—as best she could. Her face was solid as stone, and she snapped into work mode. She needed to make sure Sango and Miroku were okay—she could just see them again through the dissipating smoke. She looked them both over quickly, trying to make sure they hadn’t been affected.

“We’re alright, are you okay?” Sango asked her, “Where’s Kagome?”

“Gone.” Luna said flatly. “Let’s move. That little freak couldn’t have taken her far.”

“We should go back to where we were first,” Miroku suggested. “I have a feeling we are going to need the rest of both of your supplies.”

==============================================

When Kagome regained consciousness, she was in a completely different place. Her vision was still blurry—all she could make out was a wooden floor beneath her, and a hearth a few feet away. She tried to reach up to rub her eyes, but her arm wouldn’t move. She blinked, but her eyelids were so heavy. That was the only movement she could manage, and it was like trying to lift blocks of concrete.

My body… I can’t move…! She could feel her heart pounding in terror. She was trapped, in the worst way possible.

That guy—the “Poison Master” guy—he was a member of the Band of Seven. He’d done something… She could hear him, a few feet away from her, cackling in a way that made her stomach turn.

“We’re surrounded by a barrier of poisonous gas,” He uttered as he moved closer to her, “no one can disturb us!”

If she could move her face, she would have winced in disgust. This guy was creepy to the extreme—she knew in the back of her mind that if Luna were here, she would’ve kicked the absolute crap out of him. Kagome wanted to, too, but…

The Poison Master—Mukotsu, that’s what his name was, wasn’t it?—he kept chuckling as he grabbed Kagome’s chin. “Such a rare beauty—I’m so fortunate getting married to such a pretty girl~”

MARRIED? Kagome felt sick.

“You see, believe it or not,” Mukotsu reached up to remove the cloth mask covering most of his face, “there are some that find me unattractive.”

And no wonder, she thought as she was able to take in his full visage. He looks like a toad!

Kagome had no option but to physically abide by the “bridal preparations”; she felt like a ragdoll. It was humiliating. Surely her friends were coming—lord knows Luna would tear the countryside apart just by herself to find her, and if Shippo went to get Inuyasha? Kagome knew she was going to be okay, eventually, but she wasn’t about to just sit here and let this creep treat her like an object.

I have to find a way out of here, she thought, resolute. But how…?

She couldn’t move her head more than a little, but as Mukotsu was trying to dance her around for a “Marriage Ceremony” (gross), she caught sight of something glinting in his neck.

That has to be a Jewel Shard! If I can just get it somehow… Now she had to figure out how she was going to do that. Thankfully, the Universe provides. Mukotsu returned her to the floor after their “marriage dance”, this time directly facing the hearth, and she saw her opportunity: sticking upright out of the ashes was the fire poker. Now if I can just grab it...

Then, like a miracle, help finally arrived. “Arrived”, meaning “crashed through the roof”, but her friends and her sister arrived all the same.

“Kagome!” She heard Sango’s voice first, right next to her. Her friend helped her roll over, and from there Kagome could see her sister and Miroku: Luna had her crossbow ready to fire, pointed at Mukotsu—and she had on this odd-looking mask. Something from her arsenal, no doubt.

“Kagome, are you alright?!” That was Miroku.

There was a click as Luna drew back the crossbow’s string, ready to fire. “Get the fuck away from my sister.” Her voice was gravely steady—she almost didn’t sound like herself.

“How dare you interrupt our wedding ceremony!” Mukotsu grabbed one of his poison jars.

“Oh, so you wanna die, then!” Luna snarled.

Sango stood, quickly drawing her katana and brandishing Hiraikotsu like a shield. “Luna, leave him to me! Get Kagome away!”

No time to argue. Luna growled and stooped to grab her sister, just as Mukotsu unleashed the contents of the jar. Kagome watched Sango and Miroku stagger back, before Luna rolled her out of the way.

As the poison billowed around the room, Kagome felt her fingers regain some motor control. As her sister pulled up the hood of her flannel shirt to try to shield them from the cloud, Kagome managed to tug on it.

“The Shard…” Kagome managed to utter. “In… his neck…”

She saw the realization in Luna’s face, and the older girl nodded. “Got it, aim for the throat. Try to hold your breath, sis, I’ll have everyone out of here in a sec.”

“Those masks of yours won’t help!” Gloated the Poison Master, “This poison enters through the eyes and skin!”

“God damnit!” Kagome could only watch as her sister swore and staggered. Sango and Miroku had already fallen to the floor, and Luna was clearly not going to last much longer, either.

I have to help! Steeling her resolve, Kagome forced her hands to move. Come on, body… move! She pushed herself up just enough to grab the poker from the fireplace.

// ~ ~ ~ \\

Luna refused to crumble. She stood between her sister and Mukotsu, stumbling and shaking but still able to raise her crossbow. But with her arms getting weaker by the second, aiming steadily was getting pretty damn hard. Still, if she could just hit the bastard…

She was only able to let off one bolt, and the force of it sent her staggering backwards, until she stumbled into the wall and hit the floor. She felt sick; she doubled over onto her hands and knees, her vision drifting between blurry and straight up red. She was not going to be defeated by this lowlife.

You keep fighting, kid. No matter what happens, you keep fighting.

The voice echoed in the back of her mind, a voice she knew all too well. Her arms couldn’t hold her up anymore, but as she watched Mukotsu get closer to her sister again, she pushed herself away from the wall. Tears in her eyes, she struggled a few feet across the floor on her stomach to grab her crossbow again. She saw her sister, finally getting her strength back, stab the motherfucker in the throat. She wanted to cheer for her, but that would have to wait.

Mukotsu smacked Kagome back to the floor, which only fueled Luna’s rage. Her crossbow was ready to fire—but damn, she couldn’t see through the cloud of poison! It was starting to fog up the face shield on her mask, making it even harder to aim. But with the fucking creep trying to choke her baby sister out, she had to fight.

Dammit!

Luna took a deep breath, ripped the mask off, and got in position to aim—which was a tall order. Everything was fuzzy and she was mere seconds from passing out. She saw the light of the jewel shard (was that what that weird glow was?) and aimed for it. She only had one shot, it had to be enough. She hoped it would be enough. She let the bolt loose… and heard Mukotsu cry out.

She could barely see, barely breathe, barely move—but… wait… that glow wasn’t the Jewel Shard after all, was it? This glow was a sickly sort of green. And there was a lot of white behind it. Was she… was she seeing things? Was that….

“Kags…” Her voice was weak as she tried to crawl toward her.

“Luna…!” Kagome was still just as weak, but managed to shift toward her sister.

“Tell me, is Inuyasha here?”

Kagome turned back toward the powerful demon who stood over them, completely unaffected by the cloud of poison. Luna followed her gaze, and for a second she thought she was hallucinating; she could’ve sworn, even in her delirium, that she saw the bolt she fired buried deep in Sesshomaru’s shoulder. The end of it was letting off little sparks of purple light that quickly faded—but Luna’s vision was finally going out. She could hear her sister calling her name one more time before she fully passed out and crumpled to the wood floor.

[takeflight-hermitcraftau]

Chapter 4- Eye of the beholder

Tw: none

“Come on Grian. You need to lay down.” 

“Mumbo I’m not a child.” 

Grian was trying to get up, to go work on his base. But Mumbo practically strapped him down into a bed. “Grian. You have a fever, and are actually hot enough to cook an egg on.” Mumbo said. Grian grinned widely. 

“Thanks mate.” He said with a soft chuckle. Mumbo’s eyes widened and he smacked the sick man’s arm. 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!” He huffed. Grian looked around. Oh, when did he get into Mumbo’s base? He could hardly remember anything. He tilted his head away from Mumbo before sneezing into his arm. 

“Why...Why am I here?” He asked, “And not my own base?” 

“So I can work on mine and make sure you’re okay at the same time. Scar’s working with lava and he didn’t want someone with a fever to be near hot objects for too long. You got here after you passed out on us for a second time. So I picked you up and brought you here.” Mumbo said, standing above the newest hermit. His arms were crossed over his chest and his hip was jutted out. The position drew a giggle from Grian’s lips when he saw it, and he sighed gently. 

“So… I essentially have Mumbo Jumbo as my maid?” 

“Well. No. I’m not wearing a maids dress for you.” 

“Awww come ooon!!! It would really make me feel better.” Grian said cheekily. Mumbo sighed. 

“Positive?” 

Grian couldn’t believe his ears. This felt like Christmas and his birthday mixed into one! He had to school his shocked expression, before nodding. “Absolutely!” He said, before coughing into his elbow. “I can send you the outfit.” He said. And Mumbo was slightly confused and VERY interested why Grian had a maid’s dress on hand. He saw the sudden notification pop up on his communicator. He sighed, but when to go make his new best friend happy. 

Grian was grinning ear to ear, his eyes were glowing with chaos as he tried not to laugh hysterically. He watched Mumbo walk of into the little room behind his spawner, and laid down with his eyes facing the ceiling to let the other get dressed in peace. He could hear the mustached man complaining loudly, yelling about how he couldn’t even get the damn thing on. He covered his mouth as he listened to this, only having to wait another 15 minutes before Mumbo walked out of the little side room. 

It was short on him. Definitely so. But it was a classic esque black and white maids dress, with a very poofy skirt and a little cat head cut out into the chest, of which Mumbo had exposed. Mumbo’s black wings complimented everything nicely, the iridescent color showing in the torch light. Grian grinned widely, his eyes trailing down the others long ass legs. “D...Do you shave-?” He asked with a small chuckle, sitting up. 

Grian almost instantly fell back down again, his head spinning and his body feeling weak. “Woah there!” Mumbo ran over, the dress bouncing with his movements, “Don’t sit up okay? You might not have enough water in your system.” Mumbo said, digging in his inventory and pulling out a few water bottles and bread. “Eat and drink something okay?” 

Grian looked up and down Mumbo, grinning widely. “Yes maid~” He teased lightly. Mumbo rolled his eyes as his face went bright red. 

“What? You want me to call you master now?” He joked, and Grian laughed loudly. Or tried too, before coughing violently into his arm and groaning. Mumbo sighed, pressing a hand to Grian’s head. “Oh dear, you’re still burning up. I’ll call Iskall over to bring some ice okay?” He said, his voice gentle and full of concern. Grian nodded, turning onto his side and stretching out his wings. Mumbo looked down at the brilliant red color, and absentmindedly pet the shooter limb. He jolted when he felt Grian shudder. 

“Oh-! Sorry I should’ve asked.” He said, looking away. He knew it was rude to do it. So why did he?? Grian just laughed softly, exhaustion getting the better of him. 

“Oh no. Don’t worry. Actually… um… Can you maybe… keep going-?” He mumbled, unsure of how to phrase himself. Mumbo chuckled, sitting down on his legs. Grian folded his wings against his back again, and hummed softly as Mumbo started to gently pet them. 

Oh god, when was the last time he had such a… calm, domestic moment?? He couldn’t remember. Grian sighed, his eyes pulling to a close as his body tried to drag him into sleep. “Ah ah ah.” Mumbo’s voice cut through the serine moment. “No sleeping until you at least finish one bottle of water.” He said. Grian whined, taking a bottle and downing its contents. He heard Mumbo chuckle. 

“If you forced me into a maids dress I can force you to drink water.” Mumbo rested his head against the bed, mindlessly petting Grian’s wings whilst thinking of redstone creations he could make this season. He had an idea for a shop, but it was vague. He only knew he wasn’t it to be huge, and sell everything. Looking down at his communicator he hummed, messaging Iskall to ask if he could get some ice to help calm down Grian’s fever. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the calm atmosphere. He felt connected to Grian, in an odd way. As if they met before in a past life, or some odd romantic crap like that. 

He shook out his thoughts, looking over to Grian. The smaller hermit snored in his sleep, and he chuckled. “Goodnight Grian.” He said softly, standing up. He walked over to a mirror, looking at himself in the glass. 

“Huh. I’m not too shabby now am i?” He asked no one, twirling his hips and watching the dress bounce and spin with his movements. It was honestly a little… short, on him. It went to about mid thigh on him. But he couldn’t help but think how absolutely adorable Grian would look in this. Then his mind wandered. “Wait… why does Grian have this anyways?” He asked, looking down at it. “Ya know… I don’t wanna know.” He said softly, looking back to Grian. “But at least it made him smile.” He sighed, running a hand through his slicked back hair. “At the cost of my dignity.” He chuckled, turning around and walking back over to the sleeping man. He took the bed and water off the bed, putting them back into his bag before he sighed, sitting down next to him- crossing his legs of course he’s no heathen. 

Mumbo climbed out of his starter base to start working on his mega base, just completely chill in working with a dress on. What? It was comfortable. It let his legs breathe more. He paused after around an hour of work, hearing loud coughing from underground. He quickly flew down to check on Grian, shooting Iskall another message asking for ice. He got down and saw Grian was sitting up, coughing into his elbow. The sort of barking cough that leaves your throat sore. 

“Grian lay down, I’ll get you some healing potions.” Mumbo said, Grian shook his head. 

“Mumbo… I wanna work on my base.” He said, clearing his throat and going to stand up. His legs shook under his own weight, and Mumbo walked over and picked him up, plopping him onto the bed again. 

“Not until you’re better.” He said, and Grian just stubbornly went to stand back up again. Mumbo- absolutely not thinking about his actions- just pushed Grian back down and sat on top of him. His legs on either side of Grian and forcing him to stay down. The red winged hermit grunted at the weight, whining. 

“Uhh what do we have here-?” The two squeaked and looked behind Mumbo, seeing Iskall holding a shulker box with the a bright red, flustered face, and a slightly amused smile. Mumbo looked down at the situation just as Grian looked up, the two yelping as Mumbo scrambled to get off Grian. 

“NOTHING!” The two shouted, their faces bright red and Mumbo hiding himself with his wings. Iskall laughed loudly at the scene in front of him, head thrown back and arms around his stomach sort of laugh. The other two couldn’t help but join in. They were only interrupted when Grian erupted into a harsh coughing fit again. 

Iskall rushed over, placing down the shulker box and pulling out some towels, wrapping the ice up and pressing it against Grian’s head. The two watched as Grian relaxed, his eyes closing. “Oh that’s nice.” Grian mumbled, not even realizing he was talking. Mumbo chuckled slightly. 

“Now you better stay in bed Grian! You’re gonna pass out if you stand up again.” Mumbo fretted. Iskall glanced at him. 

“He’s been trying to do stuff?” He asked, being able to feel the heat radiating off of Grian. Mumbo just nodded with a sigh. “Alright. How about you change out of that ridiculous outfit, and I make sure Grian stays in bed.”

“I’m right here you know.” Grian huffed, but made no effort to move his head away from the cold Iskall was bringing him. God it really did feel nice. Iskall laughed, and Mumbo just rushed off in embarrassment to change out of the outfit Grian had given him. 

“Soo.. You’re into maids huh?” Iskall asked, opening his huge brown and white wings. Grian could just barely see a bit of a golden tint to them as well. He stretched out the huge things, and Grian could hardly answer his question, just mesmerized by the beautiful appendages. “Grian?” Iskall looked at him, and Grian snapped out of it. 

“Oh! Uh, no, No i’m not. I just thought it be funny. Which it was.” He chuckled, grinning widely. Iskall laughed and nodded, turning around and leaning his side against the bed. He maneuvered his wings so one of them laid over Grian; effectively keeping him down. Grian started down at the feathers. 

“Yes you can.” 

Iskall’s voice made him jump again, but he nodded, moving his arm out from under Iskall’s wing and running his hand over the smooth, fluff filled feathers. Iskall folded his arms on the bed, leaning his head against them and just closing his one eye. Mumbo came back and gasped at the sight. 

“How come I didn’t  think of that!” He asked. Iskall laughed. 

“Cause you’re an absolute spoon.”

~~~

Scar climbed down the ladder into Mumbo’s base. “Hey Mumbo how’s Grian doing?” He asked, not getting an immediate response. He turned around, and his heart practically melted. 

The three hermits were either on or leaning against the bed, the three of them asleep. Iskall and Mumbo had a wing draped over Grian, with the blond hermit asleep. His forehead was covered in a soaking wet towel, and the three of them snored softly in their sleep. Scar chuckled, quietly walking over and around Iskall. He took the cold wet towel off Grian’s head, pulling one out of his inventory and wiping off the water from Grian’s head. He opened the shulker box next to Iskall, and nodded when he saw it was completely insulated on the inside, and the ice was still perfectly frozen. 

“Oh you three, you there are definitely gonna be something huh?” He asked with a soft chuckle. He put down a shulker box of carrots he brought from the shopping district, wrote a note telling the three to eat when they woke up, and climbed back out of the underground base. 

~~~

“The avian’s are all there?” 

The beings voice echoed gently. The being in question was tall, slim, and elegant. Their voice matched this perfectly, although having a slight venom in it. The word ‘avian’ was spat out of their mouth as if it were a slur. 

“Yes you’re Watchfulness.” A man bowed before the great being, not daring to make eye contact with them. 

“STOP! PLEASE! YOU CAN’T DO THIS!” Another voice from across the room sobbed. It was a man, clad in purple and gold robes, with dark brown skin, blond hair, and baby blue eyes. He was locked in a cage, a cage specifically meant to keep him trapped. “HES MY SON I-”

“SILENCE!” The being roared, and the celled man winced, but kept his grip on the bars in front of him. “Builder. You know as well as I do that the avians need to be eradicated. Emotional attachment or not.” 

“But why?! Just because their smarter than the average human?! I-” The celled man, Builder, asked. Tears were slipping down his face. He didn’t want his son to die. 

“That is enough out of you. Guards. Send him down to the jail again.”

[artificialqueens]

The Damned, Chapter 2/14 (Branjie) - Freyja

A/N: hello!!! i’ve finally finished it! it’s here! special thanks to @freykitten for betaing - i love you so so much!!! read on AO3 if you like ;)

fic summary: Vanessa is a renowned pirate framed for stealing the Cup of Peace by the goddess of Chaos, Willam, to whom she owes a debt. Princess Yvie, her best friend since childhood, offers to take Vanessa’s place on death row in order to give her a chance to go and retrieve the Cup to prove her innocence.

Vanessa’s plan is to just flee to Fiji and away from her problems, but she soon finds she has a stowaway: Brooke Lynn Hytes, Yvie’s betrothed. She’s here to make sure Vanessa keeps her promise. She’s not here to fall in love with her, but we can’t always get what we want, can we?

last chapter: after a fraught encounter with Yvie’s fiancee, Vanessa has finally managed to sneak away and go after the Cup, the first steps towards ending the deal she’s been caught in for twelve years.

this chapter: Vanessa makes it to the tower. That’s about where things stop going well.

-

Getting into the tower is almost too easy.

The servant’s passage leads her to a small corridor, the luxury of rich, maroon carpet abandoned in favor of hard cobblestone floors and chandeliers exchanged for torches lining the walls, creating wavering shadows across the ceiling. Vanessa takes a moment to orient herself, peeking her head out to peer to the right, and then to the left. After a few minutes of seeing and hearing nothing, she steps out, careful not to let her boot scuff against the rough floor.

She’s never been in this part of the castle before, deemed too young to be trusted so near the kingdom’s greatest treasure. Yvie used to assure her that it was because they were reluctant to leave her alone with the guards stationed there, but despite Yvie’s naivety, Vanessa had known better. She’d known how little the servants meant, even back then.

She starts moving at a soft, quick pace to the right, sticking close to the wall and keeping a hand on her sword to prevent it from making noise. She can’t help but breathe shallowly, her ears straining to catch any sort of noise. She can’t hear anything but her own clothes shifting with her steps, and it only puts her more on edge.

The hall feels endless, stretching out before her, dim torch after dim torch casting it in a strange stutter. The air is too hot, stuffy from the lack of windows and movement, and Vanessa tries not to cringe at the slow bead of sweat trickling down her back.

She hates this.

Had A'keria or Scarlet been here, had this been any other time, she would have been whispering complaints, careless of the dangers of making noise and much more concerned with making her discomfort known. A'keria would have shushed her and rolled her eyes, and Scarlet would have stifled giggles, and they would have succeeded in giving Vanessa the reassurance she’d really been asking for, soothing the nerves that came with being the leader on a mission that could go wrong at any moment.

But they aren’t here, and this isn’t any other time. It’s better that Vanessa do this solo, no matter how much she craves the company of her crewmates.

She comes across a corner, eventually, more light shining off of the bricks from around the bend. Vanessa immediately pins herself against the wall, heart pounding as she listens for movement. This has to be the entrance to the tower, unless the castle is more prone to winding halls up here than it is on the lower floors, and if this is the entrance, then there has to be at least one guard stationed beside it. They were already fools for not flooding the space with guards, especially on a night with so many strangers in the castle, but they’d have to be catatonic to leave it completely unwatched.

Vanessa cocks her head, straining her ears. She can barely hear anything - was that a slow breath? A soft voice?

She keeps listening, her eyes firmly on the floor. If she holds her breath, she thinks she can hear breathing, rhythmic and deep. She risks a peek around the sharp corner of the wall, so concerned with being seen that she’s really only willing to risk putting one eye past the cover of the stone.

She finds herself staring not five inches away from the shining helmet of a guard.

She jumps, swallowing back a yelp and making a sort of choked gasp instead, scrambling back around the corner and fumbling for her sword. If she can just run it through him in time, he won’t be able to retaliate, or—

She pauses.

Or call for help. The man should have shouted by now, should be hurling himself around at her with a cry.

There hasn’t been so much as a sniffle.

She has to hold back a relieved laugh, the feeling creeping into the tips of her fingers and toes instead, making her feel like she could dance on air. She slides her sword back into its sheath, instead bending to reach into her boot, the ivory handle of her favorite knife a comfort against her palm.

She can’t believe she’s getting a second chance like this.

Coiling her body like the ship’s cat before a kill, she springs around the corner, poised to slit the guard’s throat before he can make a sound. She reaches for him, and—

He’s sleeping.

She stops short, her hand still outreached, to stare at the man slumped against the wall, dead to the world. He’s breathing deeply, long inhales through his nose and short exhales through his mouth, and he doesn’t even flinch when Vanessa stomps her foot experimentally. The guard sleeping across the wall from him doesn’t move, either, and Vanessa daintily steps over the tangle of legs blocking her path, the other guard having completely sunk to the floor in his sleep.

Vanessa stops in front of the entrance, an open doorway leading to stairs going up farther than she can see. She glances back at the two guards, her gut churning as she looks at them. Something is off.

As she looks back up the staircase, every instinct in her starts to scream, begging her to turn away and get as far away from the scene as possible. She thinks about the woman she’d run into before Brooke, the one that had looked like the goddess, and she thinks she can suddenly taste the sharp, metallic tang of magic hovering in the air.

“Shit,” she whispers, as she glances at the men again. If Eris - Willam, she’d told her to call her - has done this, then it has to have been to help her. She was stealing the Cup for Willam, after all, to repay her - maybe Willam had just wanted to speed the process along.

Even if she hadn’t done this, Vanessa can’t turn away now. Not when the key to her freedom is just a staircase away.

She sucks in a deep breath, steeling herself against the anxiety swirling in her gut, and she begins to climb the stairs, trying her best not to think about the way the torches have all been blown out, leaving the tower in complete darkness aside from the moonlight trickling in from the occasional thin window. Her nerves only get worse as she climbs, and by the time she reaches the heavy door waiting at the top, it’s taking all that’s in her not to just sprint back down the stairs and out of this goddamn castle.

She stares at the sliver of moonlight creeping under the door, mustering up enough courage to pull at the handle.

Think of your freedom, she thinks. Think of mom.

She opens the door.

The room behind it is eerily silent, the semicircle of guards lining the curved walls all in various positions of sleep, leaning against the wall and crumpled to the floor, like puppets with their strings cut. A beam of moonlight shines down from the roof, casting the room in a pale blue and lighting up the empty stone pedestal in the center like it was the moon itself. Vanessa stares at it for a moment, uncomprehending.

It’s gone.

The Cup of Peace is gone.

The cold fingers of shock numb her, allowing her to stand and stare, and stare, and stare. She can’t – if it’s not here, then where–?

She has just enough time to feel the beginning blows of disappointment and complete despair when the first guard stirs. It’s the second one that startles her into action.

“Fuck,” she hisses, stepping back out and shutting the door behind her. It slams in her panic, and she jumps again, racing down the stairs two and sometimes three steps at a time. “ Fuck! What the fuck? What in the goddamned hell ?”

She barrels down the stairs, so fast she can feel her hair streaming behind her, and she’s just about to burst out into the corridor when an arm suddenly slams into her gut, knocking her down the remaining five steps. Pain bursts in her elbow when she crashes onto the cobblestone floor, shock and a piercing ache the only things she can really focus on as she groans.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” a man says, and Vanessa manages to roll onto her back to glare at the guard who’d been waiting for her on the stairs, a smug smirk on his face. Vanessa recognizes him as one of the two sleeping guards. “Did that hurt?”

Vanessa curls her lip at him, and instead of responding, she goes for the sword at her hip, more than willing to fight her way out of this. It’s a stupid move, proof of how scrambled her brain is, because her wrist is suddenly trapped in a strong grip before her fingertips can even graze the hilt.

“Oh, no you don’t,” a deep voice says next to her ear, and she’s suddenly being jerked to her feet, so hard she’s a little afraid her arm might be dislocated.

“Fancy sleep spell of yours,” the first guard says, coming down the stairs too slowly. Too smugly. Vanessa resists the urge to spit at him. “Too bad you didn’t time it quite right.”

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t know pirates could do magic,” the voice behind her says, and the other guard snorts.

“Women,” he says, and disdain crosses his features, “especially women like her .”

This time, Vanessa does spit at him. It only lands near his feet, but she thinks the message comes across nicely. His face tells her he thinks the same.

“I didn’t cast that spell,” she says, and they both laugh.

“Yeah,” the guard behind her says, “and I’m the bloody queen.”

“Your best friend, right?” the other guard says. He’s close now, just out of reach of a kick. “Wonder how she’s gonna take this one. This is far worse than when you ran with those rubies.”

Vanessa lunges at him, but the guard behind her has her arms twisted behind her too tightly, and she’s the one who ends up whimpering in pain. “I didn’t take anything,” she grits out, looking up to glare at him, meeting his eyes defiantly.

He cocks an eyebrow. “And that’s why everyone up there is clamborin’ down here, eh? To tell us the Cup is still there, safe and sound?”

“It was already gone when I got there, you have to believe me, you have to have seen whoever—”

“I did see,” the guard in front of her says, suddenly cold. The smirk is off his face, replaced with an expression of such anger and hatred that Vanessa’s breath catches. “I saw you .”

…

They take her to the throne room.

Vanessa struggles the whole way, dragging her heels and protesting loudly until the guard not holding her threatens to stuff her mouth with his sock. She quiets, but she still goes as slowly as she can, resentment and fury bubbling up in her chest and begging to be released somehow, some way.

She’s been framed.

It’s the only explanation. Willam, fucking Willam had decided to fuck her over again, this time worse than anything she’s ever done before. It had never been enough to do the goddess’s bidding - no, she’d always had to be entertaining while she did it.

Guess she hadn’t been entertaining enough. Serves her right, making deals with the goddess of chaos at age fucking sixteen.

Ἔρις. Strife. Discord herself.

Vanessa is such an idiot.

She’s been framed, and she’s spent so much time lying and stealing shit that no one’s going to fucking believe her. The idea of freedom is laughable now. She’d thought she’d been trapped before, but at least she’d had the sea. She’ll be lucky if her jail cell has a view, luckier if death doesn’t place her with Sisyphus.

A sudden wave of fear and dread nearly buckles her knees in, and she takes a deep breath. Fuck.

Her friends. Scarlet. A'keria. They’ll get her out.

She has to believe that.

They drag her through the halls, roaming guests and stationed guards that Vanessa had missed going through the secret passage staring with wide or narrowed eyes, fury and shock radiating off of them in waves. Vanessa only has a short amount of time to wonder how they know so soon after she’s been caught before she notices that she’s not the only thing they’re staring at.

Through the wide windows overlooking the sea, dark clouds can be seen twisting over the moon and the stars, plunging the kingdom into inky blackness. They hover far too close to the suddenly violent waves, which foam white with agitation.

Vanessa is very quickly realizing that she’d never given a second thought as to why the Cup is so important, so valued. She’s beginning to think it isn’t because of the jewels rumored to be glittering on it.

Dread sinks into the pit of her stomach, her anger only a flicker of relief from it. What the hell is she about to be accused of?

By the time they reach the throne room, Vanessa’s arms burn from where they’re nearly being pulled out of their sockets, and the only thing lighting the halls are the dim, flickering chandeliers, the moon having been swallowed up by darkness long ago. There’s an eerie hush that leaves Vanessa’s heartbeat too loud in her ears, the creak of the door to the throne room startlingly loud when one of the guards pushes it open.

It reveals the party at a standstill, pale, terrified faces turned towards her in a silent accusation. Vanessa’s fear and anger burn brightly against them, and she digs her heels into the stone when the guards attempt to pull her in.

“No,” she grits out, “I didn’t— I couldn’t have —”

She cuts herself off with a grunt as someone behind her kicks the back of her knee, making her crumple and allowing the guards to drag her through the rest of the way. Her protests echo off the walls as they bring her to the king’s feet, jerking her up, so that she’s standing straight before him. It makes her sneer. The last person she wants to acknowledge is the fucking king of fools, and here she is, forced into it.

Turns out things haven’t changed so much, after all.

She tries to meet Yvie’s gaze from where she’s standing at her father’s right hand, but she keeps her eyes firmly on the ground, expression pained. She thinks Vanessa did this. Betrayal and hurt blossom in Vanessa’s belly at the thought, and the sudden urge to convince Yvie that she didn’t do it is nearly overwhelming.

She may have lost Yvie’s trust twelve years ago, but she can at least prove her innocence on this.

“I didn’t steal it,” she says loudly, looking straight into the king’s eyes and ignoring the way they crackle like lightning. It’s suddenly important that she get the first word in. “I—”

“You tricked me,” a voice hisses, and Vanessa tears her eyes away from the king’s only to meet Brooke’s, her eyes like pieces of flint. Guilt swirls in with the rest of her turmoil. “You got me to trust you, and then you used me to steal the one thing keeping this kingdom alive.”

Vanessa opens her mouth, but any and all protests die on her tongue. She had done that. Normally, she’d find her way around it - pick at the one thing that had been exaggerated and ignore the rest. But Brooke has stated it so frankly that all she has left is, “So? I didn’t steal it.”

Brooke’s lips tighten. “Yes, you did. ”

Vanessa bares her teeth, indignation flaring bright in her chest. How had she ever felt guilty for lying to this bitch? “No, I didn’t. It was already fucking gone when I got there, so maybe you should ask one of your guards why that is, and not me. ”

“They saw you .”

“They were asleep !” Vanessa shouts, and Brooke meets her flame with a cool, hard edge.

“How were they all— ”

“ Enough !”

Vanessa startles as the king slams the butt of his staff into the stone, the sharp rap of it loud enough to ring in her ears. She swallows the words that had already been dancing on her tongue in the wake of Brooke’s, and she watches with some satisfaction as Brooke’s jaw snaps shut, looking sufficiently chastened.

“I will not have bickering and accusations flying around my head when such matters are at hand,” the king snaps, glaring at Vanessa, and then Brooke. “You are famed for your diplomacy, Duchess. Is this what your queen was speaking of so highly?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Brooke mutters, and her eyes drop to the floor. Despite her composure, however, Vanessa can practically see the anger radiating off of her in waves. She wonders if no one else had ever noticed, or if she’s simply the first to get this kind of a rise out of her.

She likes the idea of the latter.

“My apologies,” Brooke offers, and she sounds just sincere enough that the king sinks back into his seat, his expression fading into one that resembles disappointment or heartbreak more than anger.

“Forgiven,” he says, and then he turns his gaze to Vanessa. It takes everything in her not to freeze under his stare.

“Vanessa Mateo,” he says tiredly, “where is the Cup of Peace?”

“I. Don’t. Know,” she says slowly, and his expression darkens at the condescension in her voice. She can’t bring herself to care. She’s taking the fall for this either way.

Fucking Willam.

“My guards claim you are the thief,” the king says, voice raising. “I will believe their word over a pirate’s, one that’s already stolen from me, no less. Now, I will only ask once again, before we start taking fingernails.”

“ Father! ” Yvie snaps, and Vanessa jerks upright at the sound of her defense.

“Words only go so far,” the king says stiffly, but some of the rage immediately leaves his face, leaving him look more haggard than fearsome. “If I can’t get the answers this way, I must resort to other methods.”

“She’ll answer you,” Yvie tells him firmly, and then she turns to meet Vanessa’s eyes for the first time since Vanessa was shoved in front of her. Yvie’s expression is imploring, and Vanessa knows what she’s going to say before she even opens her mouth. “Vanessa, please. Just tell us where you—”

“I didn’t do it,” Vanessa says stubbornly, anger making her voice rough and loud.

Yvie’s mouth flattens. “Then tell me why you left the party. Tell me why you snuck away from my fiancée. And tell me what you were doing up in that tower.”

Vanessa opens her mouth. Closes it again. She scrambles for an even halfway feasible excuse and comes up with nothing. So. The truth it is. No matter how crazy it makes her sound.

“I was…” she trails off, nerves nearly getting the better of her. She pushes past it. She’s not known for her daring for nothing. “I was goin’ after the Cup. No hidin’ that. But it was already gone when I got there, and I… I’m pretty sure I know who took it.”

Yvie’s face is a myriad of emotion, but it’s Brooke’s icy tone that answers her.

“Who.”

Vanessa swallows. She glances at the king, at the transparently skeptical expression on his face, and steels herself. “Eris.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“The goddess of chaos took our Cup,” the king repeats. “The goddess that we specifically warded against.”

Vanessa shrugs, defensive anger building up in her chest and clenching her fists. “Look, I don’t know how she got past your wards! I wasn’t fucking there, was I? All I know is that I didn’t do it, and I can’t fucking help you past that! You have to believe me!”

Anger flashes across Yvie’s face for a split second before queenly restraint covers it again. Good to know Yvie’s temper hasn’t changed. “Believe you ? It’s not hard to believe that the woman who stole what was most precious to me twelve years ago would steal what’s most precious to me now. Believing that you wouldn’t is much, much harder.”

Each word hits Vanessa like a knife, and they all sink into her up to the hilt. It hurts. It’s true.

It pisses her off.

“ Fuck you,” Vanessa snarls. “You think this is some sort of vendetta against you? I haven’t thought about you in years, though it’s nice to know that I’ve clearly been on your mind anyway.” Yvie’s expression flickers with hurt. Too bad she can’t tell when Vanessa’s lying anymore. “I took only what I needed. This isn’t any fucking different, except I got screwed over this time. I’m just as fucked as you until that shit gets found.”

“Screwed over suggests you were in on this plan,” Brooke points out, before Yvie can hurl some other insult back at Vanessa. Vanessa can’t help but be grateful. She honestly can’t tell how much more of this she can take until she starts crying. “And that someone else decided that you weren’t.”

“I was supposed to steal it for Will- I mean Eris,” Vanessa says. She glances at Yvie, memories she’d rather forget bubbling up to the surface. She softens her voice, attempting to scale herself down to ‘close to civilized’ rather than ‘completely unhinged’. It makes her realize just how sore her throat is getting from yelling. “Clearly, she had other plans. I was set up. All arrestin’ me will get you is more time for Eris to get away.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” Brooke asks, and it doesn’t escape Vanessa’s notice that she’s doing all of the negotiating, and not the king. She doesn’t know what to make of it. “Let you go and go off on a wild goose chase? Unlikely.”

“Of course not,” Vanessa snaps, her mind racing. She needs to get out of this, and it’s game over if she gets put into a max security cell - and considering the crime, it will be a max security cell. What can she say to—

Wait.

“Of course not,” she repeats, a batshit crazy idea writing itself in her mind almost as it’s leaving her tongue, “because I’m gonna be the one chasin’ the goose.”

Three identical frowns. “What?”

“Send me to get it,” Vanessa says, trying to sound confident instead of desperate. “I know where she lives - believe me, you don’t want to lose men by sendin’ them to the edge of the world. I’m the one you can afford to lose, and I’m the one who’s got somethin’ to prove. I’ll get it, and bring it back to you, good as new.”

The king curls his lip. “You’re forgetting that you aren’t trustworthy,” he says. “Promises mean nothing to pirates. You’re just as likely to go to Fiji than stay true to your word.”

Fiji. That sounds nice. Maybe she’ll go there, after all of this.

Vanessa clenches her jaw, plastering offense over the apathy she feels towards his accusation. “If there’s one thing people know about me, it’s that I always keep my word,” she tells him, hoping to appeal to Yvie’s secretly soft heart. “Yvie can attest to that.”

Yvie had been ready to throw her in a cell over false accusations not five minutes ago. If she believes this, then she’s nothing but a fool.

Fury catches onto the king’s expression like flame to spilled oil. “You have broken my daughter’s trust far too many times to—”

Yvie puts a hand on his shoulder, cutting him off. Her eyes linger on Vanessa, expression unreadable, before she whispers something into her father’s ear. His eyes widen, a scowl coming across his face almost immediately.

“ No, ” he very near shouts, and Vanessa and the rest of the onlookers jump at the sudden volume. Brooke turns to face them fully, expression full of confusion and curiosity. “I will not —”

“Father,” Yvie says. “Please.”

He stares at her for a moment, and he must see what Vanessa sees in her expression - Yvie’s not giving up on whatever it is without a fight - because he sighs, exhaustion written plainly across his features. “We will need to discuss this alone .”

Hope is a welcome warmth in the sea of emotion already churning within her, and it makes it easy to ignore the guilt that comes with it. Tricking Yvie has always been just a little too easy.

“Discuss what?” Vanessa asks, burning with the need to know, but she regrets it almost immediately when the king suddenly turns towards her, his expression alight with resentment and hatred.

“Guards?” he says, voice ringing with power.

The guards snap to attention.

“Take her to the dungeon.”

…

Vanessa gets visitors four and a half hours after she’s thrown into what has to be the castle’s nastiest, mustiest cell.

Not that she’s been counting.

In that time, she has tried seducing the guard into giving her the keys, luring the guard close enough to grab the keys from him, wiggle the bars of her window loose, and kick the uncooperative guard in the knee hard enough for him to teach her a new curse word.

She has also had four and a half hours to work herself into a broiling anger at Yvie, which is why she spits at her the minute she and her fiancée step into the cell.

It lands on Yvie’s petticoat, right in the center of one of the swirling gold patterns that line the bottom seam.

It’s not her finest moment, but god does it feel good.

“Fuck you,” Vanessa snarls, to add to the anger and hurt she can see flashing behind Yvie’s eyes. She expects Yvie to snarl back, to act on the disbelieving fury she’s wearing so plainly on her face, but Brooke steps in front of her before she can even open her mouth, forcing Vanessa to glare at her instead.

The sight of her nearly stops Vanessa’s heart.

Sometime in the four and a half hours between the throne room and her arrival at Vanessa’s cell, Brooke had changed out of her dress, exchanging her silvery gown for a dark captain’s uniform, complete with gold epaulets and a sword swinging at her hip. She radiates such command and power that for a moment, Vanessa can’t think much of anything except that Brooke’s pants are far too tight to be in proper regulation.

“Back to the wall,” Brooke says, and Vanessa obeys without thinking, taking several steps backwards until her soul finally comes back into her body and stops her before she can humiliate herself further.

“Why the hell should I listen to you?” she snaps, ignoring the flush crawling across her cheeks. She keeps her eyes firmly on Brooke’s. “I’m dead anyway.”

“Who said?” Yvie asks, and Brooke makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan.

“Really?” she asks, as Yvie walks around her to approach Vanessa. “You still want to do this? After that display?”

“What?” Vanessa asks, backing away from Yvie. Yvie gives her a hurt look - the anger from earlier having faded somewhat. It only makes Vanessa more confused. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

Yvie ignores her, instead reaching out for her again. Vanessa takes another step back, jumping a little when her shoulder hits cool stone.

Well. She ended up against the wall anyway.

“Vanjie,” Yvie says, and the nickname makes Vanessa pause.

God, she’s too fucking soft.

Yvie reaches out again, and this time, Vanessa lets her take her cuffed wrist in her hand. She only has a split second to wonder what the hell is happening before Yvie pulls a key out of her corset, the sight of it making Vanessa’s breath catch.

No way.

“What are you doing?” she asks, as Yvie inserts the key into her cuffs.

“Being an idiot,” Brooke says, and Yvie’s mouth twists in the way that means she’s pissed, but trying to hide it. She wiggles the key even harder, the old lock touchy.

“You don’t have to be here,” she says, voice hard.

“Doing this alone was out of the question,” Brooke shoots back, and Vanessa rolls her eyes, rubbing her wrist when the cuff finally pops open. She opens her mouth to ask what the hell ‘this’ was, but Yvie starts talking before she can actually say anything.

“She’s not going to attack me,” Yvie says, moving on to the other cuff.

“She just spit on you.”

Yvie pauses for a moment. “She’s not going to hurt me,” she amends, and Vanessa’s stomach twists sourly. The other cuff pops open, and Yvie steps away while Vanessa rubs her other wrist, sore from when she’d attempted wriggling out of her bonds.

“You don’t know that,” Brooke says, and Yvie presses her lips together, giving Vanessa an appraising look.

She doesn’t argue the point.

Vanessa pretends the hurt she feels is anger, and she scowls, taking a menacing step towards Yvie. She doesn’t move, instead watching Vanessa with an unimpressed, flat expression. Vanessa pretends she doesn’t feel a maelstrom of emotion at the behavior and instead continues like Yvie had scrambled backwards in fear.

“She’s right,” she snarls, and she reaches for the knife stuffed in her boot, “you don’t know that. So unless you wanna find out, you’re gonna tell me what the fuck is going on. ”

Brooke takes a sudden step forward when Vanessa slips the knife into plain sight, but Yvie holds up a hand to stop her. The arrogance of the move makes irritation twinge in Vanessa’s gut - what the hell is she thinking?

“Are you stupid? ” Vanessa snaps. “I could have this knife in your neck in less that a fuckin’ second .”

“But you won’t,” Yvie says smugly, and Vanessa has half a mind to raise the knife to the hollow of Yvie’s throat, just to teach her stupid, self-sacrificing friend a goddamn lesson.

Instead, she drops her arm to the side, and gives Yvie a sharp look instead.

Again: soft.

“One day, you’re gonna get yourself killed,” she sniffs, and in almost an instant, Yvie’s entire demeanor changes, the queen melting to reveal her friend once again.

“As long as I’m doing what’s right, I don’t care,” Yvie says, and it’s such an Yvie thing to say that Vanessa feels her own hard exterior crack a little.

“So what’s this then?” Vanessa asks, and Yvie smiles at the way her tone has softened. Vanessa once again feels a pang for what once was, longing briefly tightening her throat and catching in her chest.

“We’re here to offer you a deal,” Brooke says, and the moment shatters. Vanessa snaps her gaze away from Yvie to look at Brooke, hardening her face against the sudden hope that blooms in her chest.

“You don’t look too happy about it,” she observes, and Brooke defies the impossible by looking even more displeased.

“I’m not,” she staunchly agrees, and Vanessa snorts a laugh. She may be in a guard’s regalia, but it does nothing to hide the stiff politician beneath.

“Must be good, then,” she says, and she allows herself a smug grin. “At least for me.”

Brooke’s lip curls. Yvie rolls her eyes.

“It is,” she says plainly. “And you’re gonna fucking owe me.”

Yeah, and she’s going to pay back everything she’s stolen, too.

She can’t help the laugh she lets out, incredulity beating out common sense, which is screaming at her to just agree and do what she wants later. “Am I?”

“See?” Brooke asks, before Yvie can act on the insult that has spread across her face. She doesn’t look at Vanessa. “We can’t trust her. This is a stupid —”

“I’m still in the room, you know,” Vanessa interrupts, more than a little annoyed. She would just like to know the damn deal.

“I know,” Brooke says dryly, and Vanessa is nearly overcome with the urge to slap her.

“Are you sure? Becau—”

“Shut up !”

Vanessa slams her jaw shut at Yvie’s sharp tone, shock more than anything striking obedience into her. She notices Brooke straighten as well, and she smirks. It’s nice to see the ice crack, even for just a moment.

“Both of you,” Yvie continues, after a brief beat of stunned silence, “shut up and let me speak.” She’s clearly forcing calm into her voice, and Vanessa finds the fact that her temper clearly hasn’t changed comforting.

Brooke nods stiffly when Yvie looks at her. Vanessa only shrugs when her gaze turns to her.

“ I’m not the one protestin’ anything.”

Yvie clenches her jaw for a moment before she relaxes, letting out a breath far too forced to be born of actual calm. “Vanjie,” she says, locking eyes with Vanessa. Vanessa meets her gaze unflinchingly, shoving the grief and resentment she feels at the nickname behind steel walls. “I’m going to take your place.”

Silence stretches, the faint dripping of water on stone the only thing disturbing it for far too long.

“What?” Vanessa asks finally, her heart thudding in her ears. That’s not possible. It can’t be possible.

Is it?

“My father has agreed to let me stand in your place,” Yvie says, and her voice only shakes a little. She’s always been braver than Vanessa. “It’s the only way you can go and retrieve the Cup.”

The rising hope in Vanessa’s chest suddenly flattens. “The Cup?”

“Yes, the Cup,” Brooke snaps. “Keep up.”

“He’s giving you two weeks to retrieve the Cup and prove your innocence while I act as an insurance for the people,” Yvie continues, like Brooke hadn’t spoken. “If you can do that, we all go free and nobody dies.”

Vanessa feels a little like she’s floating. This is all so fucking absurd. “And if I can’t find it?”

“You come back anyway,” Yvie says, with far too much confidence, “and take back your place.”

Vanessa stares at her old friend, gratitude and hope and amusement swirling through her chest. Yvie thinks that she’ll come back for death?

Unlikely.

“Why?” she asks instead, and Yvie’s face softens. She’s so fucking naive. Vanessa’s heart hurts just looking at her.

“Because you’re my friend,” Yvie says. Vanessa’s chest twists. “I trust you.”

“Some would call you a fool for that,” Vanessa says, aiming for a light tone and instead falling flat.

“I don’t care.” Yvie sucks in a breath, looking into Vanessa’s eyes with intensity. Vanessa has to remind herself that Yvie can’t actually see into her soul. “You’re a good person, Vanj. I love you. And I trust you won’t leave me here to die.”

“But if I came back without anything, you would leave me ?” Vanessa asks, before she can stop herself. She needs to hear Yvie say no. She needs to hear her say I would never.

“We’ll figure it out,” she says instead, and she grabs Vanessa’s wrist. It hurts. “Listen, we don’t have a lot of time. My father—”

“I’ll do it,” Vanessa says, like Yvie hasn’t just crushed her heart between her fingers. Of course Yvie would leave her. She’s only a pirate, after all. A servant. Besides, Brooke looks five seconds away from changing the king’s mind herself. If that happens - and Vanessa doesn’t think it’ll take much - Vanessa’s two weeks will turn into two seconds. “You have a deal.”

“Swear it,” Yvie demands, like it means anything.

“I swear it.”

Yvie takes a deep breath.

“Let’s do this.”

…

Brooke ends up escorting her out of the castle.

They have to squint their eyes against the oppressive darkness of the night, the moon dull and just barely peeking out around the black, still-swirling clouds that had covered the kingdom like a thick blanket. The air is frigid, and Vanessa shivers against it, her breath coming out in small puffs of white steam.

She recalls a lyric from an old folk song, singing about how the Cup provides crops and sunlight and all things good. She thinks that maybe it wasn’t as much of an exaggeration as she’d thought.

Brooke seems unaffected by the cold, her face severe as she leads Vanessa to the gates, motioning for the guards to pull it open. The silence she’s treating Vanessa to is nearly colder than the air around them, displeasure practically poking out of her like icicles.

Vanessa’s never been great about silence.

She’s always been irked by it, finding it oppressive and boring, like it makes time stretch by infinitely. As she eyes Brooke curiously, most of her anger having been released the moment she’d stepped out of that cell, she realizes that this silence is no different.

“So, now what?” she asks, and her voice is loud in the stillness of the night. “You gonna kill me now that Yvie isn’t here to stop you?”

“No,” Brooke says, incredulous. They step through the gates. “I don’t just kill people. I’m not like you. ”

“Sure,” Vanessa mutters, eyeing the other woman. She certainly looks nothing short of murderous. “That’s why you were so interested in The Damned , right? ‘Cause you’re not like me?”

“I– we are not having this conversation,” Brooke says stiffly, and Vanessa laughs.

“Can’t hide from the truth,” she sing-songs, and it makes Brooke whirl around suddenly, her eyes aflame.

“ Listen ,” she hisses, “I am nothing like you and I never will be. I have duty and honor, you have greed and - and filth. ”

Vanessa raises her eyebrows at the outburst. So, she has a temper. “She who denies—”

“You’re insufferable,” Brooke snaps, and she whirls back around, showing Vanessa her back as she marches down the hill towards the docks.

“I could say the same to you,” Vanessa retorts, and Brooke doesn’t respond. Irritation twinges in her gut at the silence. Fuck me for trying to get along with the upper-crust, I guess.

“Besides,” she says, after a long stretch of nothing from Brooke, “I’ve got duty.”

Brooke snorts. “Of course you do,” she says condescendingly, and it succeeds in raising Vanessa’s temper.

“I have my crew to look after,” she snaps at the back of Brooke’s head. “I have a ship to clean. I have deals to uphold—”

“Like the one you just made with Yvie?” Brooke interrupts, voice sharp. “Planning on upholding that?”

Vanessa tries not to let her surprise show. “ Yes ,” she hisses, like she’s shocked Brooke would even suggest such a thing, instead of how close Brooke had actually gotten to the truth. “That one most of all.”

“Funny,” Brooke says. “I don’t believe you.”

Vanessa scowls. “You’re gonna have to.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“That’s right, you’re a duchess. You don’t answer to nobody. ‘Cept your fiance, of course.”

“You’re doing a great job at convincing me you care,” Brooke says drily, and Vanessa resists the petty urge to kick at her ankles.

“I don’t need to prove anything to you,” she sneers, and Brooke suddenly comes to a halt.

Vanessa stops herself just in time to avoid smacking right into the other woman, tearing her eyes away from her to see that they’ve reached the docks, The Damned ’s deep red hull gleaming before them.

“That’s the thing,” Brooke says, turning to look at Vanessa once again. Her expression is cold. “You need to prove everything to me.”

Vanessa just stares at her, unsure of how to respond.

Just get on the boat, and you’re home free, she thinks to herself. This will all be over soon. Fiji’s just around the corner.

“Whatever,” she says, because she’s never claimed to be the greatest wit of the seven seas. Brooke’s mouth flattens. Vanessa winks at her, grabbing the rope ladder she’d left hanging six hours ago, the rough fibers familiar under her hands.

“See you never, Miss Brooke,” she says, and she scrambles up the side of the boat, leaving Brooke standing stiffly and coldly on the rotting pier.

Fiji, she thinks, as A'keria and Scarlet rush over to her with questions burning in their eyes. And then this will all be over.

She ignores the feeling in her gut that tells her she couldn’t be more wrong, and she tells A'keria to set a course for Fiji.

She does have duty. Her duty to herself just takes precedence.

[wri0thesley]

sweetness - yandere!risotto x reader

WARNINGS: sfw. yandere warning - stalking, obsessive behaviour, gaslighting. brief mentions of abuse (reader’s father is implied to be violent towards them). blood and violence. a lot of food descriptions. reader is gender neutral! 10.3k. 

Risotto finds himself in a rainstorm one busy evening and ducks into your place of employ for a brief reprieve. Your father’s sweet shop. Risotto is the kind of man who is used to having people be scared of him - nobody ever has the courage to treat him like an ordinary human being. Nobody has ever treated him like someone normal. Not until you. He leaves with a bag full of gifts for the rest of La Squadra, the memory of you smiling, and a crush that grows into an obsession. 

It’s a coincidence that Risotto Nero ever saw you in the first place - an assortment of the misfortunes that Risotto has come to accept as commonplace in his life. He had long ago accepted that the Nero family was not one for whom luck ran in the blood - a family who did not particularly care for him, the death of his cousin when he was fourteen, ending up in an organised crime syndicate with a gun in his hand and a list of names in his pocket. 

It’s a coincidence he’s glad of. 

That, at least, is not something he ever really thinks. Things that happen to him are either annoyances or acceptable; he goes home to a quiet, empty house and he grunts when he sees his neighbours but he does not offer anything more than that. He is perfectly civil to his associates in La Squadra di Esecuzione; they, he knows, think of his stoicism and his silence as strength. They look to him like a leader, because he has had to prove himself such. When he had been given control of his team at twenty one and met Sorbet and Gelato, already over a decade older than him, he had known he had to prove himself. 

If he has left some of his humanity behind, what does it matter? Humanity is not an important trait for a killer. Better for him to clog their veins with needles and razor blades instead of worrying about the family they may or may not be leaving behind. 

The day his life changed forever, he was on his way back to his mercifully quiet apartment after a day spent giving out orders to his teammates. It had not been a kind day; the pay the hitmen get, for what they are expected to do, is laughable. Risotto is keeping his roof over his head, but it is not without effort on his part - and his subordinates are still not always quite so lucky. The newest recruit, Ghiaccio, had been practically scarlet in the face when he’d been given his share--

Risotto pauses, rubbing the bridge of his nose, a persistent ache in his temples. Ghiaccio is good at what he does - or he would not be a member of Risotto’s team - but Risotto is always left with a headache after speaking to him. The day is already on a southward spiral. The cold nips at his bare skin, the sky grey and cloudy, the pavements crowded with businessmen and women attempting to get home in the rush of the end of the day. Some of them glance twice at Risotto, leaving him a wide berth on the walkway - one or two of them even cross the street to avoid coming too close to him. 

His height and his dark eyes and his strange way of dressing put people off - but so does that way he carries himself. That dark, brooding knowledge that seems to follow him - a whisper that says; this man is involved in unpleasant business. And on the streets of Italy, that unpleasant business generally means only one thing. 

He feels the cold splash of water droplets on his skin before he realises that it’s begun to rain. He is not usually one who minds the rain - in the right circumstances, he finds walking alone in the rain quite peaceful - but these are not the right circumstances. The pavements are already growing slick as the rain gets heavier, and the people crowding all around him are searching for umbrellas, thrusting them up into the sky--

Risotto is taller than most men, and umbrellas are hardly the most social of accessories. Awkward points bite into his shoulders as people rush by him, their sights blinkered by the canvas above them, no longer concerned by what Risotto might be now that he’s not in their direct field of vision. As yet another umbrella - this one patterned with rainbows - connects with his chin, he’s forced to stop for a moment, his eyes scanning the street beside him to see if there’s somewhere that’s still open he might take shelter in. 

Ah. There. A softly lit pale blue shopfront, a hand-lettered sign flipped to “open!” in its window. Risotto grasps the handle and steps in (stooping a little when he realises how low the doorway is), a bell chiming out across the little room to announce that the shop has just received a customer. 

He takes a moment to breathe as he catalogues his surroundings. 

It is always a good idea for an assassin to know where he is. The moment his gaze flickers around the room, he’s able to put a name to the shop he ducked into for some solace from the rain and the barrage of umbrellas; this is Dolcezza, a little sweet shop that has been on this street for three years. By all accounts, it keeps a steady enough clientele, but it hardly brings in a large amount of money - which Risotto assumes is the only reason that the owner, an older man, has not been badgered or hounded about the protection fees he most certainly is not paying. 

It’s a nice place, Risotto thinks grudgingly, looking around. The walls are lined with jars of brightly coloured candies and sweet treats - a glass case at the front of the shop features some more specialised treats out in the open. Fudges and special chocolates and neatly packaged boxes of sweet assortments. There’s an open doorway, beside the cash register, where Risotto can see a large table and some silver specialised equipment and a figure in gloves and an apron bent over, clearly hard at work on the confections. A cash register sits on top of the wooden portion of the glass cabinet, and Risotto’s gaze falls upon that bit of technology, his eyes also meet the girl behind the cash register’s own wide stare. 

He is perfectly used to the flash of fear that he sees in her eyes. He sees it constantly in people on the street and sometimes when he is dragged into restaurants with other members of his team and when he goes out to buy his weekly shopping (he does this once a week, at the same store, and buys the same things). It’s to do with the set of his mouth and the ink and blood colour of his eyes - the girl behind the counter falters. She is pretty enough, he supposes, with dark hair and dark eyes and wearing a neat pinstriped dress that he supposes is a uniform of sorts. He doesn't really care about that. What he cares about is how she watches him warily, like a cat about to run if he gets too close or startles with sudden movements--

And he has spent his entire life with people being afraid of him, and sometimes the best way to cope with the knowledge you are feared is to take control of the room. He takes one slow, deliberate step towards the counter - and, like he knew she would, she jumps. 

“I-I’m s-so sorry, one moment!” She says in a babble, her voice running into one long continuous noise, and she scrambles through the large, open doorway and out of Risotto’s sight. He’s impressed that she managed to say anything, actually - still, how predictable. The smirk curves his full mouth before he can stop it, and he finishes walking towards the cash register, looking around the little place and amusing himself by imagining what kind of sweets he’d take for the rest of La Squadra. 

With any luck, the rain will have stopped before the worker has even had the courage to peek around the corner to see if he’s still there.

Sweet tobacco for Prosciutto, perhaps. The blue and white shark sweets that look like they have the most horrific texture for Pesci. Balls of bubble gum for Melone, who will pop them next to Ghiaccio’s ears to annoy the new recruit. Illuso . . . well, Risotto has never quite managed to get the measure of Illuso, who listens more than he speaks and regurgitates the gossip of other people instead of his own. Perhaps one of the small fudge assortments, to be safe. Gelato has a sweet tooth, and Sorbet indulges Gelato in everything - he’d take a bag of the heart-shaped marshmallows for those two. Apropos on account of them being lovers, which they have never bothered to hide--

He hears a raised voice from the other room, and then a figure stomps out - most certainly not the figure of the girl who had not been able to stomach his presence through her fear. And Risotto . . . well, at first, he does not know that he’s looking at his reason for living. His reward for all of the hardships he has endured. That comes later. 

All he knows is that when you look into his eyes, there isn’t a whit of fear reflected in yours, and he feels comforted and known and not like a monster for the first time in a long while. 

~

Elisa comes tearing into the back room, where you’re industriously cutting the fudge into perfect cubes, and looks like she’s seen a ghost. You sigh, raising yourself up - your father had hired Elisa after one of your last workers had gone on maternity leave, and you’d soon realised she was easily flustered and prone to making a drama out of things. You suppose that you’ll have to stay a little later tonight to make sure that the fudge is all finished - you don’t trust Elisa to do it, and at any rate, she’s not paid to do things like that.

“What’s wrong?” You ask her, keeping your temper. Shouting does nothing good, you’ve learnt. Your father might use a raised voice to get what he wants, but that just makes you even less likely to jump straight to righteous anger. “I heard a customer come in, but I didn’t hear one leave.”

She gasps a few times, her big brown eyes wide, until she hisses out;

“I can’t serve him!”

Him? You wonder if perhaps it might be an ex-boyfriend or an awkward crush, but Elisa looks far too rattled for it to be something that simple. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask, keeping your voice even. You and her are about the same age, but you know from the few friends you’ve managed to make in your life that people have a tendency to see you as the sensible one. The parental figure in any given situation. The one who keeps the rest of them calm. “Do you need me to go out and serve them?”

“No!” The response is instantaneous. She looks terrified. You wonder if this man has threatened her with a knife or something - this reaction seems over the top, even for someone like Elisa. “You can’t!”

“Elisa,” you say softly, pulling off the gloves that you were wearing for hygiene. “I’m sure he’s perfectly fine and civil. I’ll go speak to him.”

“I think he’s part of the Mafia! Of Passione!” Her words spill out all at once. 

You look at her, your forehead creasing in confusion.

“Elisa,” you say, very slowly and carefully. “What business would a mobster have in a sweet shop? Do you think he’s here to assassinate the lemon drops? Slit the throats of our barley twists?”

“You’ll see!” She insists. She’s trembling. “You shouldn’t go out there!”

You sigh softly, and you go out to see what all of the fuss is about. 

You understand when the man, stood by the cash register, his hands casually in his pockets, turns to look at you. You understand that perhaps Elisa was a little justified in being afraid of him; he stands well over six foot, his clothes . . . unusual, a scarred and muscled torso very prominently on display. His hair is pale and plastered to his forehead by the rain - but most striking of all are his eyes. Blood red irises and inky dark sclera, boring into your own gaze as you look up at his face (he’s handsome, you realise, and try and curtain the thought) and make sure that none of the brief flash of fear you do feel shows in your expression. 

Because even if he looks scary doesn’t mean he is. You know not to judge a book by its cover! And this man, you suppose, spends a lot of time being judged for his stature and his eyes and all of the things he can’t help, and you refuse to be a part of the problem. Part of you, too, wholeheartedly believes that a gangster would have no business in your father’s humble little sweet shop. 

You’d known when you’d rented this storefront that it was in an area controlled by Passione; when you’d spoken to your father, he’d assured you there was nothing to worry about - so you assume your father pays the protection dues he’s supposed to. There’s no reason for any member of Passione to step foot in here unless they were hankering for something to satisfy their sweet tooth! 

And if they are here to buy, they are a customer and not a gangster, and you intend to treat them simply as the former. Who are you to judge how one earns their bread?

“Get caught in the downpour?” You ask, cheerfully, taking your place behind the counter. “It looked pretty bad out there! I’m glad to be inside!”

You keep eye contact with him. You notice that he seems surprised, and you chalk it up to the fact that people probably don’t look into his eyes - you suppose they are a little unnerving, but the more you look at them the more ordinary they seem. Your smile does not fade a whit. 

“O-oh,” he says, and his voice is very deep and pleasant. You watch as the faintest dark flush creeps up his cheeks. “Yes. I dodged in to avoid the rain.”

You look at the clock on the wall.

“Oh dear,” you say, meaning it. You’re sympathetic; getting caught in an unexpected rain shower is bad at the worst of times, but this man appears to be in head to toe leather, and leather is never comfortable when damp. “And at this time, too! The roads are always so horribly busy with everyone getting home from work! I’m sorry you got caught up in that, Signore.”

He pauses before speaking, as if he’s really mulling over his words.

“I kept getting hit with umbrellas,” he grunts out, eventually. 

“Well, we never have too many customers around this time anyway,” you say, smiling. “I don’t mind at all if you ducked in for some reprieve from the showers! You’re welcome to stay and look around until it goes - it’s not very big, but my father and I make all of the sweets ourselves and we’re very proud of it!” You smile, and then, you wink at him. It feels like he needs a kindness, after Elisa ran out of here practically screaming. “If you want a sample of anything, just ask!”

He blinks at you, as if he can’t quite believe that you haven’t turned tail and run - and the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I think I frightened the other girl,” he says, eventually - he does not sound exactly ashamed of it, but he does sound sorry. “I’m sorry if I caused any problems for you.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” you say, lightly. “Elisa’s new here. She’s still getting to grips with everything, and I think she just got a little overwhelmed by--”

You hesitate. How do you tell this man that his very presence is intimidating? 

A smile breaks his mouth. 

“Yes,” he says. “I tend to have that effect.”

~

There is a smudge of flour - or some other powdery white substance used in baking, he knows it is not the powdery white substance he is most familiar with, at least - across the bridge of your nose, and keeping his eyes off it is proving to be a challenge. He wants to stare at your face for hours. He wants to memorise the shape of your eyes and your lips, covet the colour of your eyes - remember what it feels like to be looked at like a man and nothing more.

He’s not often lost for words, but in front of you, he finds himself faltering. It’s been so long since he has had a conversation that is just simply a conversation - even at the supermarket, the cashier looks up and looks down and scans his items without drawing attention to themselves, too fearful of whatever Risotto might do (even in the well-lit aisles of a public place, apparently) to do much else. You, though - you are before him, smile on your face, eyes directed at him, open warmth and sunniness diffusing everything you do. 

He didn’t intend to buy anything. He does not have much of a sweet tooth. He prefers the sour or the salty when it comes to consumables - but somehow, looking at your friendly open face, he cannot bring himself to leave empty-handed. Even though you had openly said you didn’t mind if he’d only come in to shelter from the rain (which he had done, after all), he does not want to disappoint you. There’s nobody else in the shop. How many customers have you had all day? 

If he buys something, and says he liked it . . . if he does that, that’s an excuse to come back in and see you again, isn’t it? 

It’s not that Risotto has a crush, he thinks - though now that he mentions it, he notices how pleasant he finds your colouring, how your curves and lines fill out your own uniform (pinstripes and aprons) so well, how he likes the way your hair is pulled out of your face - but rather that he wants, just for a few moments, to feel like he is being looked at as another person on the street. Before today, it had been a long time since he’d been allowed to feel normal. 

And if the price of feeling ordinary is a few bags of sweets and a lighter wallet, is that so high a price to pay?

And he could always buy things for his teammates!

He might not be planning on enjoying any delicacies himself, but if one of his teammates enjoys the treats . . . he smiles to himself at the sheer genius of his plan. 

“May I have some bags made up?” He asks you. “I’m afraid there are a few things I want, I’d rather keep them separate--”

“Of course, Sir!” You say, immediately brightening - even more! He didn’t think it was possible for that glow you had to get any brighter, but he’s proven wrong. “Are you buying some gifts, perhaps?”

“Yes,” he says, watching you reach behind the counter and put on a pair of thin plastic gloves. “Some gifts for my colleagues, we’ve just done rather well on a project.” He can’t stop watching your hands. He wonders how small they would look if he were to put his own beside them. If he were to take ahold of you.

(He does not say that the “project” he refers to is the murder of an influential government official whose demise had been reported this morning as due to a combination of old age and a rare blood disorder nobody had realised he’s had, one that caused a horrible iron deficiency. It’s much better that you don’t know that.)

“Oh!” You say, the smile not leaving your face, your eyes not leaving his. “I’m really happy for you! You must be a considerate boss, to want to buy everyone else presents! How many are you buying for? We have a couple of gift boxes and selections that might fit the bill, if you want to bring in a treat to share--”

“No,” Risotto says quickly, imagining the chaos that might break out if he were to provide a box for his teammates to pick and choose how they pleased. Ghiaccio would certainly accuse someone of having more than their fair share, and Prosciutto would berate Pesci for eating too many, and Gelato would definitely actually eat too many-- “I’ll get them all individual gifts, if you don’t mind.”

Your smile is infectious. Risotto isn’t certain when the last time the curve of his lips held this long. 

“That’s more than fine. I’ll make sure they’re all very nicely presented, don’t you worry about that! How many individual bags would you like?”

He pauses, counting in his head, partly not wanting you to move too far away from him and partly hypnotised by the tilt of your head and the colour of your eyes and the way your attention is focused solely on him. He’s used to not being seen - that’s his job description, after all. But you make being noticed seem . . .pleasant. Like it’s not something to be avoided at all costs. 

He’s grateful for the little game he played with himself earlier, assigning all of the sweets to members of his team. It means he doesn’t embarrass himself tripping over words and sounding unsure about what he wants, making you feel as though he’s incompetent - he watches as you take scoops out of the big impractical jars and pour them into sweet little striped paper bags, reaching behind you to pull out lengths of ribbon and cut them so they curl beautifully, neat little cards with the name of your shop attached to the shimmering tails--

You move so quickly and neatly and Risotto is duly impressed. He’d find this kind of work horribly dull; you seem to be having a good time, enjoying yourself as you tug on a ribbon that isn’t quite even and straighten the tag of Prosciutto’s sweet tobacco. He feels . . . warm, somehow, that you’re taking such care over the little bags of sweets, though he knows they can hardly be the most expensive things you sell. Risotto cannot afford the most expensive things you sell, he thinks, looking at the price of some of the chocolate assortments in satin boxes behind the glass. 

“There!” You say, stepping back and enjoying the neat sight of all eight bags of Risotto’s choice lined up on the counter. Risotto has to admit they look very neat and pretty - whilst he knows Ghiaccio will probably just tear into his bag of pretty pale blue peppermints, he hopes that Prosciutto or Illuso or someone will appreciate the work put into presentation. He knows he is - or perhaps he’s just admiring the one doing the presentation. Aren’t they the same thing, in the end? 

You tell him the total and Risotto fumbles for his wallet. It’s been a while since he paid for anything in cold hard cash - he has a fake bank card for things like groceries under a false name, but somehow he wants to ensure things here are more . . . personal. He hands over the money and his breath catches as your fingers brush his--

Did you feel that spark of electricity? That brief zip of excitement? 

“Which of them are for you?” You ask him, as if nothing has happened, waiting for your register to print his receipt. You’re thankful for your father’s insistence on pricing things in whole numbers - you’ve never had much of a brain for mathematics, and you’d felt somehow . . . discomfited by the way Risotto’s fingers had felt when they brushed your own. You’re glad to avoid touching him too much. 

“Oh.” He looks at you. “None of them are.”

You look at him, profiling him - and then, smiling, you tap your nose. You reach to one of the jars closest to you, filled with dark pinwheels the colour of this man’s scleras - you take a handful of them and pop them into one of the bags your father usually leaves for Halloween-time, black and white striped. 

“No charge,” you say, tying it with a neat little black bow. “I think you’ll like the licorice! You don’t strike me as a man who enjoys too much sweetness.” You drop it into the bag with the rest of Risotto’s purchases. “You should always allow yourself to indulge! You deserve a reward just as much as the rest of your team do!”

“I-- thank you, Signorina--”

You wave away his thanks, your cheeks pink, and Risotto decides right then and there he’s going to have to come back here, if only to see your face flush that colour once more. He knows you’re going to haunt his daydreams for days. That someone like you has existed so close to him for so long and he has been unaware. . .

“I hope you and your colleagues enjoy them!” You chirp. You point to the windows. “The rain’s stopped too! I was very glad to meet you, I hope I’ll see you again sometime--”

And you step away from him, turning your body towards the doorway, and Risotto is leaving before he shames himself by grabbing your shoulder and asking you to stay longer and just talk to him for a while. As he opens the door and the bell rings across the shop, he hears your voice:

“Elisa! He was perfectly nice, you were just being silly--”

Nice. 

He hasn’t heard that word ascribed to him in a long time. 

~ 

When Risotto hands Formaggio the prettily packaged parcel of sweets shaped like little cat faces, his subordinate looks up at him with wide eyes, as if trying to gauge whether or not Risotto is being serious about it. For one thing, gifts are not really a done thing among the members of La Squadra - for another, if Formaggio were to be handed confectionary, he would not have expected to be handed it by Risotto. Pesci, perhaps. Gelato, maybe - though he would hesitate eating anything given to him by Gelato. Illuso, maybe, if it were something elegant and not something twee--

But Risotto’s eyes are very focused and serious, so Formaggio takes the bag and drops out a confused thanks, and wonders if this is his capo’s way of poisoning him. He’s always imagined that Risotto would be sneakier than this, but maybe it’s one of those mafia honour things and he’s supposed to just eat it so that Risotto doesn’t kill him in a more painful way? Formaggio screws up his face looking down at it, and then watches as, across the room, Risotto stops Prosciutto. 

He picks out another bag of candy. Formaggio’s cat candy is tied with an orange bow; Prosciutto’s candy - Formaggio doesn’t know how to describe it, but it looks kind of like pale, sugary tobacco - is tied with a yellow one. Prosciutto looks down at it, and then back up at Risotto, and gives a halting thanks. 

A few hours later, Formaggio has ascertained that every member of La Squadra has been given a not-quite-identical bag. 

When Formaggio hesitantly puts forward that perhaps Risotto is going to kill them, Ghiaccio barks out angrily that their Capo would never do anything so stupid--

“I recognise this shop, anyway,” says Illuso, who is chewing a piece of fudge as he talks. Okay, maybe they’re not actually poisoned, then. “It’s down one of the main streets. Quaint little confectioner’s. Only been there a few years but seems to do okay business. I don’t know who owns it, but as far as I know it’s nobody who Passione or Risotto might have in their back pocket.”

Formaggio looks at the bag again, and, sighing, reaches in. His fingers close around one of the brightly coloured sweets, surprised by how hard it feels - he’d expected some kind of gummy sweet. Throwing it into his mouth, the hard candy immediately tastes sweet and warm and pleasant all at once. 

He crunches the sugar between his teeth loudly, because that is the kind of man that Formaggio is. Sorbet, across the table from Formaggio, wrinkles his nose and dutifully feeds Gelato another fluffy pink heart-shaped marshmallow. 

“Well?” Ghiaccio demands. “Are you going to die?”

Formaggio considers for a moment. Sweet strawberry aftertaste lingers between his teeth. None of the rest of his teammates who have professed they’ve already eaten some of their ‘gifts’ appear to have dropped dead where they stand yet. 

“Nah,” he says, eventually. “Don’t think I’m gonna kick the bucket any time soon. These are real good, by the way.”

“Mm,” says Melone, who pops another brightly coloured gumball into his mouth. Formaggio has heard the bubbles popping for most of the night - as Melone does it, a vein in Ghiaccio’s forehead visibly twitches. The blue haired man already looks like he’s teetering on the edge of collapse - Formaggio supposes he did not enjoy the use of the phrase ‘kick the bucket’. Ghiaccio can be a real uptight asshole. “We should ask Risotto to be rewarded like this every time a hit goes well. Really makes us feel like a team, don’t you think? I’ll give you one of mine if you’ll let me try one of yours.”

Formaggio laughs, flicking one of his cat candies across the table and catching Melone’s tossed gumball with grace, sweeping a low bow. There’s a brief hubbub on the table as Formaggio walks away, probably about who’s being allowed to try some of whose candy, and Formaggio is smirking at the chaos he’s caused as he goes to find Risotto. 

He really wouldn’t mind some more of these, actually. 

He slips it into conversation with Risotto a few days later, expecting to be rebuffed immediately - the whole thing was already so out of character for their quiet, impassable leader - but he’s surprised when Risotto doesn’t tell him to be grateful for what he has. If Formaggio didn’t know Risotto so well, he’d say that the veil that fell over Risotto’s gaze was almost . . . fond. Longing. 

After a moment, Risotto speaks. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The statement is vague, without making any promises - and yet Risotto’s tone sends a shiver down Formaggio’s spine. Formaggio himself has never been the kind of man who makes a plan and sticks to it - if Formaggio gets what he wants, it’s usually because of pure luck. But when Risotto speaks, even to say something so up in the air . . .

Formaggio gets the impression he’ll definitely be getting more of the prettily decorated bags from the confectioner’s down the main street. 

And for some reason, that certainty leaves him feeling unsettled. 

~

Risotto is a careful man. He goes into the store that you work at once or twice a week; though he quickly memorises your schedule, he makes sure to pop in every so often when you’re not working. Once, he is served by Elisa, who looks at him with wide eyes and shaking fingers and jumps when the bell rings and another customer walks in. She’s clearly been told by you that Risotto is no threat, and yet she cannot shake that human nature: fear that which you do not think you could outrun or outsmart. Risotto does not smile at her. 

Likewise, he does not smile at the older man who is working one Tuesday morning when he enters the candy-scented room to buy himself some more of the licorice. You had been right; he wasn’t a sweet kind of man, but he found himself enjoying the licorice you’d picked out for him immensely. He likes the salt and the chew of the black cables - sometimes, biting into them feels like stress relief. 

This man, he assumes, is your father. He does not treat Risotto badly by any means, but Risotto sees the way that your father looks at him distrustfully and sees that he gets much less licorice in the bag than when you (or even Elisa) weigh out the contents. 

It’s a pity, he thinks, you had to have a man like that for a father. 

When he does get to see you, it feels like all of his troubles are lifted at once. 

He had become used to the feeling of carrying all of his burdens around his heart like iron chains. He had accepted that was his lot in his life; he had accepted he was going to feel like he was drowning until he was murdered in a back alley after becoming too cocky with his stand. He hadn’t realised how bad that feeling had gotten until you’d smiled and winked and given him free candy out of the good of your heart and not because you were afraid of him, smudge on your nose and all. 

He supposes, surrounded by other men who kill for money, he had not realised that some people were just inherently good. 

Well. Perhaps not some people. In his experience, you are the exception that proves the rule. 

And that you are reduced to being a confectioner in your father’s business and working behind a cash register, doing mindless things like measuring out grams and tying ribbons makes him ache in the middle of his chest. Someone like you deserves the world. Risotto does not dislike himself - but he does not like himself either. His body is simply the prison that he lives in. Other people whisper behind their hands about what Risotto might do with a face and a body like that, what blood might stain his past, what he might do if he were given an inch of leeway and they were to take their gaze from him for just a moment--

But you do not do that. You smile at him and always put an extra scoop of the sweets into whatever he orders (Prosciutto does not like the sweet tobacco; he asks for one of the beautifully decorated boxes of candy cigarettes, and you put three into his paper bag, telling him nobody ever really buys them anyway). You ask him banal questions about his day like he’s an ordinary man. 

Once, angry about the man’s conduct on their last ‘project’,  he lets slip Melone’s name. He curses himself in the back of his brain, hating that he’s made himself vulnerable - but when, a few weeks later, you ask about whether Melone has calmed down any yet, any fear he had about you misusing the new information floats away like dust on the wind - you are simply a wonderful person who remembers things that you are told. Who cares about his life, though nobody else ever has. 

Risotto sees little things about you. Every day, he learns something new. He learns that you have no particular interest in sweet-making, but your father did not trust easily (this comes as no surprise to Risotto, even with his limited interactions with the man). He learns that you still live at home. You mention that you walk through one of the shittier neighbourhoods to get there, and that is enough for Risotto to draw a brief sketch in his mind of where you might reside--

He learns other things, too. He’s not surprised by your gentle kindnesses, but they still hit him full force in the chest whenever he gets to see one. 

It is not just him you give extra portions to, after all. Small children who come in and laboriously count out their money onto the glass, the tap-tap-tap echoing in Risotto’s brain, are rewarded with you exclaiming about how good they are with numbers and a few extra scoops of whatever sweet thing they’re hankering over. A few times, when you and he have been chatting, you’ve slipped him one of the licorice pinwheels from the jar whilst you chewed on your own delicacy of choice. 

(“Almost nobody ever buys the licorice!” You tell him, laughing. “You’re doing me a favour by eating some, really!”)

Once, a little girl comes in, sniffling. It transpires she has lost her mother in the hubbub of a busy Friday evening, and you talk to her softly and gently and fetch a chair from out of the backroom for her to sit on. You amuse her by telling her about a time you got separated from your father when you were a small child, and you give her one of the brightly coloured lollipops decorated with rainbow swirls from your display cabinet. 

When her mother eventually flies into the shop in a tizzy, she is grateful to you - and more, she’s grateful to Risotto, her eyes not once straying to his peculiar clothes or his strange eyes. To him, she is just one of the two people in this little confectioners who helped keep the light of her life safe, and her eyes are full of happy tears when she gives him a quick hug--

He doesn’t remember the last time somebody hugged him. 

Just another example of your bright sunshine rubbing off on him. When somebody is by you, he thinks, they cease to be just themselves - they are lent some of your warmth and sweetness and are made all the better for it. A little voice in the back of his brain, gnawing viciously at the knot in his chest that forms whenever you smile at him, whispers that nobody else deserves this. You are too good for this world. You must be protected and kept safe and guided away from the evils of the universe--

You give a little boy and his even younger sister who come in to browse - and admit shyly, sadness in their eyes, that they have no money, and just enjoy the colours and the smells and being surrounded by delicious things so they can imagine how they might taste - a bag made up of two sweets from every jar in the shop. 

“Don’t you lose money?” He can’t resist asking you, after the children have exchanged wide eyed looks as if they cannot believe their fortune and ran out of the door, babbling impassioned thanks. “Giving things out for free like that?”

You meet Risotto’s eyes - and in them, you see that worry that the extra sweets and the free things you slip into this man’s orders have been a burden on you - and you shake your head. 

“You never lose money on kindness,” you tell him, and Risotto remembers that for days afterwards. No.The world doesn’t deserve you. Somebody is going to take advantage of you. That voice - the one he has never been good at ignoring, the one that leads him to splattering brains on the pavement with a handgun before he turned twenty - whispers that the only place you will be safe is with him. Risotto believes it. 

He believes it even more when one night he has dropped in to buy Formaggio some of his cat candy, and you and your father are arguing in hushed whispers in the back room. You see him, and go to greet him and ask him what he wants tonight--

And your father reaches out, hands encircling your wrist, dragging you to face him too close and hissing something that, if Risotto were not intimately acquainted with listening to conversations he is not supposed to, he would have missed. 

“You’re going to bankrupt us--”

“It’s just a few sweets--”

“They’re my sweets. You’re fucking lucky you have a job at all, you ungrateful little--”

Risotto steps forward, and your father - like the coward he is - falls silent. He looks up at the imposing six foot something man with muscles the size of his head and cannot think of anything to say. Risotto’s voice is low, like the rumbling purr of a motorcycle engine when he speaks;

“Is there a problem here?” 

Your father blinks up, and you look at Risotto like he has saved you from a very dark fate - and Risotto cannot help but love that look of relief and adoration on your face. 

“No problem,” your father mumbles, and scurries away back into the other room, tail tucked firmly between his legs. 

Risotto turns his gaze on you. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, sensing that you’re about to cry or do something worse. He looks at the way you cradle your wrist protectively in one gloved hand and wonders if it’s the first time your father has ever laid his hands on you - for your father’s sake, Risotto hopes it is. He cannot describe what he would do to anyone who would hurt you more than this. 

He wants to take you away then, as you right yourself and wipe at your eyes and summon a smile for him - ever the sunny one, even when your world is raining. He envies and loves that about you. But he cannot. Not yet. 

He must plan slowly. He must earn your trust. Risotto does not rush into things. 

~

Risotto has his responsibilities. He longs to be able to devote every moment of every day to you; he wants to watch you wake up and see sunlight dapple your beautiful face, wants to see you sleep-tousled and soft in the morning. He wants to walk beside you on your way to work. He wants to cook you dinner. He wants to hold you in his arms and never let go. He wants to lock you up so that soft prettiness you have and that sweet sunshine can only be gazed upon by him and people he thinks deserves you. He wants to chain you up and keep you safe so that you might never have to interact with people who do not deserve you ever again. 

But he can’t. Not yet. 

For now, he tries to keep his longing sated by dropping into the sweet shop whenever he can. He prefers early mornings and late evenings - when you are more likely to be alone, and the shop is most likely to be quiet. He’s walked you home from your shift once, when you’d sighed that it was raining and you hadn’t brought an umbrella--

(“I owe you for the first time,” Risotto had grunted - and you, who have come to be fond of this over-protective huge man in the way one is fond of an awkward older brother, allow it. You know about your basic stranger safety - but Risotto has been so loyal in the past few months, and he’d stopped your father from shouting, and he’s never been weird or creepy towards you. You can’t help but think the man is just lonely - so you accept the proposal, although you don’t let him walk you any further than the top of your street.)

Sometimes, he lets Metallica out, and he blends into the walls behind him, and he watches you go home. He follows you and watches you go into your shitty little house that you’d tried so hard to keep a secret from him - he thinks you must be ashamed of it. The front door looks as though it’s been kicked in once or twice. The flower garden out front has gone wild. The windows are grimy, and one is smashed. The sweet shop cannot be doing so well, then. 

It’s alright, he thinks to himself. When you and he have your future together, he’ll make sure the house is perfect. You will not have to worry about vandals or criminals. You won’t walk down a street to get home that is lined with used needles and empty bottles. 

He finds out, coincidentally, it is not the first time your father has laid hands on you, and he aches for justice. That anyone would have the nerve to hurt you! That anyone could try and dull that sparkle or rain on that sunshine! 

Risotto knows he is not a good man - but he knows you are good, good, gooder than any person has a right to be. If you are his, perhaps some of your goodness will rub off on him - and if it does not, at least he will be able to ensure that you never lose it. 

It’s enraging. 

And though he promised himself he would wait . . . well. Patient men who can control themselves do not end up the capo of La Squadra. They do not end up in Passione’s employ. They do not develop stands that are suited for nothing so much as death--

And he thinks about how your father does not pay Passione’s protection fees. He thinks about how your father clearly thinks he is too good for that - thinks he is too good for you, though Risotto knows that is the opposite of the truth. His stomach and his brain and his bloodlust roar with anger, for the world to be set to rights, for your father to pay for his transgressions. 

And Risotto Nero, capo of La Squadra di Esecuzione, fool who has fallen irrevocably in love - he sets the cogs turning, and his plan in motion. 

~

It’s early Tuesday morning and you’re opening the shop today. Your father stayed late last night - when you’d woken up, he was still not in, and you assume he’s spent all night working. He does, sometimes, when he’s concocting some new flavour or messing around with some new way of doing things when the old ways have sufficed perfectly well for hundreds of years. 

You do not share your father’s passion for the art of confectionery. You’re only working this job because he hadn’t been able to find anyone else he trusted with the machines and the shop - though you do not want to spend the rest of your life here, he always guilt trips you when you mention moving away, and you’ve accepted you’re going to be stuck here for eternity. Your feet are dragging on the ground, putting off the inexorable boredom of working something you do not care about, when you hear a voice behind you. 

“You’re late today.”

It’s faintly amused - low and deep, and you turn and see Risotto. 

(You’d laughed at his name and he’d laughed too at your reaction. It’s one of the few times you’ve heard him laugh, and you wish he did it more. He always seems so serious. You feel awfully sorry for him.)

“Just putting off the daily grind,” you tell him, slowing down so he can fall into step beside you. You trust Risotto, insomuch as one can trust a customer. “Are you stopping by for something?”

“Ah,” Risotto says. “Melone has ran out of those cinnamon candies shaped like women’s mouths.”

You nod. Melone is one of Risotto’s colleagues; one of the ones he mentions a lot. You think that Melone is a ladies man, a flirt, and someone who evidently does not take his job half as seriously as Risotto himself. 

“Well,” you say, smiling still. It’s nice to talk to him. “You’re welcome to come in and wait whilst I get the shop ready, as long as you promise not to nab any of our licorice whilst my father is watching! He never came home last night, so I can only assume he’s been at the table in the back like a mad scientist.”

Risotto holds up his hand - you can’t help but notice how big they are. Sometimes, little flashes like that remind you of why Elisa was scared of him. He hasn’t eased up on showing off the skin or the black leather or the intense eyes - still, you know not to judge a book by its cover. You’re glad that you hadn’t, when it came to Risotto. You look forward to him coming in. He feels like a friend. 

“On my honour,” he says, and you laugh - and then, abruptly, the laugh dies in your throat. 

The glass door is smashed. Your neatly written sign lays on the floor, “Closed” side up. Your lip wobbles as you look down, and Risotto breathes in sharply as he sees what’s given you pause. 

“Be careful,” he intones, lowly. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“My dad--”

You step up into the building, eyes flying around the room. The jars of candies are in disarray. The bonbons are on the floor, where they must have rolled when their jar came crashing down - all around you are shards of both glass and of brightly coloured hard sugars. 

The devastation of the main floor of the shop is not what worries you, though. 

Not even the cash register, emptied onto the floor, the drawer a little way away from the body of the thing with what is clearly absolutely no money in it, makes you worry as much as the red substance that is smeared across the tiles beneath you. 

“Oh, dio mio--” you whisper, your heart beating double time in your chest. 

You turn to see that Risotto has followed you into the shop, his eyes taking in the scene around him, his shoulders hunched. He sees you looking. 

“Do you want me to wait outside?” He asks, and you feel a pang in your chest. “I’ll stay, if you need me--”

If whoever did this is still here, you think, you might find yourself glad of the offer. You nod at him, trying to force past the lump in your throat to produce anything that comes close to being intelligible. 

“Please,” you whisper, and Risotto nods and comes to stand behind you. Together, you two advance past the chaos of the shop, through the scattered sweets and the glass jars and the ribbons and bags that have been disturbed during whatever tussle took place here. You two creep through the doorway - and when you see it, your breath catches in your throat and you think for a moment you’re going to scream. 

Your father is on the floor. His chest is moving, but its faint - your eyes are drawn to the blood around his head, haloing him like he’s an angel. You have often disliked your father, hated him even - but seeing him like this still makes you feel like bile is rising in your throat. 

“Wh-who would do this?” You whisper, your hands shaking. Risotto moves slowly and carefully, inching past you (you don’t notice how warm his body is or how hard it is in your grief, though Risotto notices how soft you feel against him). He picks something up from the big wooden-and-metal table you use for rolling out hot sugar and cutting fudges and all of those things. 

(You won’t be using it for those for a while, you think. It’s horribly unsanitary now! The very thought makes manic laughter bubble to your lips, though when it comes out it just sounds like great gulps of air). 

“Passione,” Risotto says, his voice flat. He hands you whatever it is he’s holding; with shaking hands, you take the matte black calling card. There is no name on it; just a fancy design, etched in the cardstock so that you can only see it when you tip it to the light. “This is . . . their symbol.”

You know about Passione. Of course you know about Passione!

“B-but--”

“I can only assume he didn’t pay protection fees,” Risotto says. You’re grateful for the monotone way he’s speaking to you, the slow enunciation - you’re not sure if you could take emotion right now. Not when your heart is beating so frightened against your ribcage. Not when you can’t breathe. Not . . . not now. 

“I--”

“Do you need me to call someone?” 

Risotto’s voice sounds very far away. 

He repeats your name. 

“There must be someone,” he says.

Someone. 

Your father’s unconscious body. 

An ambulance, perhaps. 

But if it’s Passione related. . .

You speak, and just like Risotto’s voice, your own sounds very far away. 

“My fiancé,” you manage to say. “He’ll know what to do.”

Oh. 

You don’t know that saying this is a mistake. 

You don’t know that Risotto’s heart feels like it’s turning upside down. 

You don’t know what’s about to happen.

Poor you. 

If only you had.

~ 

Risotto has followed you and watched you and dreamt about you, tossing and turning in his sheets, wishing you were there to hold onto. He has seen your home, seen your family, seen you walk to and from work and talked to you more than he’s ever talked to anybody he wasn’t supposed to either work with or kill. And he’s never come across even the slightest mention of a fiancé. You’ve never implied that there was anyone in your life! 

His heart is vibrating. His throat is dry. His fingers twitch idly. You look up at him, eyes wide, lip trembling--

There’s a cut on your hand. You must have brushed against one of the cracked or broken jars. Risotto’s eyes fixate on the bead of dark red--

Nobody but you has ever seen him as anything but a monster. 

Nobody has ever seen past the dark storm clouds in his heart - nobody has ever even tried! You’d walked into his life, all sweetness and sweet foods and laughter and treating and touching him like he was just another human, no thoughts as to whether he was involved in shady business or whether he’d ever been at the other end of a gun. He’d seen your smiles and your laughter and the light in your eyes and thought he was getting somewhere!

Something in him snaps. 

If you’ve never mentioned a fiancé before, perhaps it’s not something you want. Perhaps it’s someone you’ve felt indebted to, like working for your father - oh, Risotto can see that easily. You’re such a bleeding heart. Too gentle and too kind for your own good, never the kind to want to upset someone. 

If that’s it, he thinks, he’s doing you a favour - and he thinks of his car, parked one block away. He thinks of the tinted windows. He thinks of his house, on the outskirts of the city. 

Doing you a favour. Taking you away from all of this. Keeping your light safe and bright and making sure nothing ever dims it. 

He crooks a finger, and you blink, woozy on your feet suddenly. The little faces of his Metallica peek out from the cut on your hand, and he imagines them in your bloodstream even now. He imagines them melding together, taking the iron flowing through you (even your blood is pretty, he thinks, as you make a distressed noise and reach out for him and he steps towards you) - and he visualises the iron disk blocking your windpipe. Your hands clutch uselessly at your throat, eyes widening and closing, a horrific noise falling from your lips--

(Oh, he’s glad he’ll only have to hear that once. You should never be in pain.)

And your eyes flutter closed, your body falling heavy into Risotto’s arms. 

Risotto is more than strong enough to carry you out of the door. A passerby sees him and you - Risotto calls out to her, and she ducks her head, not wanting to attract attention. Risotto is used to that. Risotto is used to being hurried past. Risotto has never considered it a right for people to treat him as they treat other human beings. 

“I’m going to the hospital,” he calls out, even though the woman clearly does not want to know. “Passed out.”

She hurries past, and Risotto carries your body to his car. It’s still early in the morning. Nobody but that lady is around to watch the man take your body and bundle it into the back seat. 

He eases the disk away, but continues to pull iron from your bloodstream. Better for you to be dizzy and unconscious and unaware whilst he takes you away. He doesn’t want you pounding on the doors of his car and attracting attention - or worse, realising where you two are going well enough to find your way back. 

Somebody else will deal with the mess in Dolcezza. You - beautiful, wonderful, lovely you - will never have to worry about cleaning up after your father again. 

He drives. He thinks about how safe you will be in his home. He thinks about coming home to you after a hard mission - he thinks about how your hands will feel on his shoulders, how your smile will warm his cold heart. He thinks about the brush of your lips on his - he wonders if you taste as sweet as the things you make. He thinks about your skin hot against his whilst he’s asleep, your head on his chest. 

Risotto has never entertained thoughts of a domestic life before - he’s never thought he’d ever find anyone to share it with. He’s been thrown his fair share of admiring looks, of course, but he’s seen the darkest parts of the world. Most people disgust him. 

But not you. 

You stir, groaning, and Risotto uses Metallica to draw more iron from you until your breathing evens out. 

Nearly home, he thinks - he feels almost giddy when the thought flickers in his brain. He has always thought of it as his house. It has never been a home - but with you there, in his bed, in his arms, in the kitchen or the living room or anywhere at all . . . with you there, it is certainly a home. 

One of his neighbours is out, a hosepipe in his hands. Risotto takes a moment to remember his name. Clemente. He is old and infirm - even now, he stoops, watering his garden. 

Risotto does not need to think twice. He parks his car neatly and goes to the back door, opening it to scoop you out - and Clemente looks at the man he has lived next to but never spoken to because he is too afraid, and puts the pieces together. 

Before he can scream, there are razor-blades in his throat and knives in his wrists and needles in the vital arteries pumping blood to his heart. Risotto is strong enough to drag the body to his door with one hand and support you with his other arm. 

It is not exactly a spur of the moment decision, really. Risotto thinks as he locks the door to his house behind him and carries you up the stairs, leaving the still gasping but far too weakened to move Clemente in the hallway to bleed out. 

It makes sense, Risotto tells himself, that you might be afraid at first. You do not know Risotto Nero that well. You have only ever known your life with your father. You are leaving behind all of those other people who ate at your time and basked in the glow of you that they did not deserve. He expects an acclimatisation period. 

And with fear, he knows, comes a desire to escape. He is not so selfish as to think you will not try. Risotto is a smart man. He drops you on the bed carefully, making sure your head is cushioned by soft pillows. He goes down the stairs to fetch Clemente - with the man’s body, he is far less careful, his fetching a drag. 

Clemente’s blood bubbles from his mouth, but that is unimportant. Risotto will dispose of the corpse later. 

The iron in Clemente’s body does well for forming the shutters over the window - it blocks out the natural light, but Risotto has lamps - and the light of your smile and your laugh and your voice will be enough for him. In time, perhaps you’ll win the light back. But for now, the windows are too much of a risk. 

He uses more iron to make the caged bars that come down outside and inside of the door - inside first, and a key. There is just enough left in Clemente to make the outside cage - and then Risotto is left with a shrivelled corpse. He’ll deal with that at a different time, by cover of night - he knows all of the best places in the city for such things. He has used them plenty of times. If worst comes to worst, he will take the corpse in his car to the rest of his gang and ask Illuso to toss him in a river in the mirror world. It will hardly be the first time the other man has dealt with clean-up detail. 

Iron shutters. Two locks. The bars too strong and thick to bend. 

Yes. 

He knows this will be the best for you. 

You will be away from the life that you never wanted. You will be with him - you’ll love him, Risotto is sure of it. 

No. 

You already love him! For if you do not love him, how could you bear to look into his eyes? Why would you laugh like a silvery bell when he tries to tell a joke? Why would you trail your fingers across his hand just so when you hand him his goods and his change? Why would you talk to him and not run from the blackness and the evil and the rot inside him? 

You must love him. You’ll realise you love him. 

His teammates will miss the sweets, of course. Risotto will miss his licorice. 

But that’s a small price to pay for the sweetness of your body and your mind and you, every day to come home to for the rest of your life. 

Click. Clank. Click. Clank. Click. Clank. 

He is alone in the room with you, the doors secured, no light creeping in through the iron shutters on the windows. He approaches the bed - and brave now that you and he are finally alone, he leans down and smoothes a kiss over your forehead. He lets the iron drain slowly back into your body. 

Any minute now, you will come back around. 

Any minute now, Risotto will be able to introduce you to your new life. Show you your new room. Whisper to you about the future he has already built in his head for the two of you - a rose-tinted future he’d never have been able to even imagine had you not smiled at him and given him those free licorice pinwheels. Had you not had sparkling eyes and a smudge on your nose and the sweetest laugh he had ever heard--

Oh. 

He can hardly wait. 

[jinmukangwrites]

Whumptober Day 5

Failed Escape | Rescue

Ao3

Warnings: nothing that's not tagged. Canon typical violence.

-o-o-o-o-

Dick didn't know how or when he first realized something was wrong with Bruce. Only that one night they were alone together in the cave, having sent Damian upstairs for rest and everyone else out doing their own things at their own places. He didn't know if it was the way Bruce's shoulders would tense whenever Dick came near, or if it was how clipped and angry his voice was on the comms during the rare—even for him—times he talked.

Maybe it was just a third sense located somewhere in Dick's mind, set to scream whenever his gut instinct decided that something was off. Not right.

"Bruce?" He asked, taking a cautious step forward even though he couldn't think of any reasons why he should be so cautious. Bruce tensed the moment Dick came too close, his muscles bunching like a viper, ready to strike the second it was able to. Dick realized too late that the thing he was preparing to strike at would be… Dick himself.

Dick took another naive step forward, unaware just how much danger he was in until Bruce turned from the computer and in a blink of an eye, he grabbed Dick by the hair and slammed his face on the keyboard of the batcomputer.

Immediately, blood erupted from his sinuses following the sound of a sickening snap. Tears filled his eyes because of the pain, and it was all he could do to throw his body away from the monitor to avoid getting his skull caved in by a heartless fist.

Lettered keys went flinging as Dick went rolling on the hard floor of the cave. His ears rung as bats screeched from above like some sort of audience. Excited to see who would win.

A kick came for Dick's stomach, which he was just barely able to scramble out of the way of. His heart pounded in his chest like a startled cartoon character as he forced himself to his feet, blood dripping over his mouth and off his chin. He didn't need to touch his nose to know it was definitely broken. He could feel it clear as day--the pain like two knives shoved up his nostrils.

Now that Dick was on his feet, he immediately got into a defensive posture, latching onto the first sight of Bruce through his teary vision. His heart skipped a beat at the sight before him; Bruce clutching to the back of the computer chair, his mask pulled off his face to show that the whites of his eyes were now red, pupils blown wide and mouth turned down into a snarl.

Bruce's eyes darted up from wherever he had been looking towards to stare right at Dick, but he didn't make any moves to attack. Confusion, hurt, anger, and betrayal swirled in Dick's gut like a specialty drink at a bar.

"What the hell is-" Dick started, but Bruce's stare turned intense, causing Dick to subconsciously stop mid sentence.

"Dick," Bruce grunted, his voice sounded like he'd just been strangled by a python for a few hours. Filled with gravel and sandpaper. It sounded painful. Physically… and perhaps emotionally too. Dick's rather good at reading Bruce, even though everything he was seeing right now was so… so wrong .

Then Bruce continued, gurgling out a single word that activated every single flight or fight response in Dick's body.

"Run."

Dick took a moment to catch his breath, watching helplessly as Bruce moaned painfully--clutching the chair even harder than before, as if it was no longer a way to keep his balance, but a way to keep him from going anywhere. Something very, very wrong was going on. Well, that much was obvious. Bruce didn't… he didn't hit Dick. Anymore at least. Not since Spyral... and It wasn't like anything verbal was said between the two since then. A sorry for every time Dick found himself at the punching end of a fist normally directed to the worst of the worst in the city of Gotham. But Dick could tell. Bruce regretted it. Dick had forgiven him. So there had to be… a reason for this. A reason that wasn't Bruce falling into old habits and mistaking Dick for a punching bag.

So what was it? Brainwashing? Drugs?

Dick knew Bruce told him to run, but he… he couldn’t just leave Bruce there while he was clearly fighting against something.

Slowly, he moved a foot forward, the soles of his suit’s shoes scraped against the rocky ground. He lifted his arms, hoping to look pacifying and non-threatening. He didn't know what set Bruce off, but he'd like to at least take basic soothing motions to avoid another face-to-keyboard event.

"Bruce?" Dick asked, his voice sounded way stronger than what he felt, even with the change in tone thanks to the broken and bleeding nose. He lifted his arm to his nose and used the sleeve of his suit to wipe away some of the blood. "B? What's going on?"

" Run ," Bruce snapped, causing Dick to stop in his tracks and stare wide-eyed. "I can't- it's strong- I'm fighting it but-" Bruce gasped a deep breath, his face scrunched up in what looked like physical pain. "Dick RUN . Lock me in here- I don't- arrgh- !"

And that was the only warning Dick had before Bruce was barreling forward once again, an emptiness in his red eyes that wasn't there a moment before. Thoroughly freaked out now, Dick took Bruce's advice to heart and turned tail, already mentally mapping his route to the grandfather clock and the emergency lock down on the other side. It was not the first time something sinister had crawled it's way into the cave, and it certainly won't be the last.

All Dick needed to do was make it up the stairs before Bruce caught up.

Which, like most things, was easier said than done.

He was just barely up several stairs towards the exit when a hand suddenly wrapped around his ankle. For a moment, genuine fear spiked through his chest as the hand yanked on his leg, causing Dick to lose balance and fall forward. He brought his hands down in front of him, using them to catch his fall, but the sudden velocity and movement caused his nose to pulse angrily like it had an upset heartbeat of its own, which in turn caused his head to go light-headed for a moment. A moment too long.

He twisted onto his side, kicking out with his free leg right where Bruce's hand still wrapped around Dick's ankle. Bruce growled when Dick's heel met flesh, but barely even flinched. Just yanked Dick downward, the edges of the stairs hitting his spine whith every foot dragged away from escape.

As Dick kicked again--this time at Bruce's face--he thought about his options. He could escape this grasp on him, easy, but Bruce was fast. Faster than most people, especially considering his well muscled build and weight. Dick was lighter, shorter, and quicker on his feet, but Bruce knew how to chase people that were faster than him. Bruce was always like a predator of endurance whenever he and Dick sparred, using Dick's quick movements against him until Dick was forced to take a breath. They say you can walk a runaway cat to exhaustion. It was much the same way with Bruce.

Whatever was going on, Bruce knew how to fight, even with his potentially brainwashed or controlled mind. If Dick ran back up the stairs when he got free of the grinding grasp on his ankle, there was a pretty high chance that Bruce would make it there anyways and stop Dick before Dick could lock him in.

If that happened, then Bruce wouldn't have any reason to stick around in the cave after fighting and potentially beating Dick. He'd move around the manor, looking for more fights, or for whatever this new version of Bruce wanted to look for if not just a fight, and eventually he'd run into Alfred.

And Damian.

Dick's known Alfred long enough to know the man had no issue with fighting back dirty. But Damian… Damian refused to fight Bruce under most circumstances. After that whole Joker fiasco where they were all abducted and mentally tortured by the Joker and forced to believe the skins of their own faces had been peeled off, Dick had overheard Bruce lecturing Damian on the importance of fighting back, even if the person you're fighting back against was your own family.

Dick didn't know what exactly went down that resulted in the capture of Damian by the Joker's hand, but it must have involved a Jokerized Bruce and a Damian who didn't fight as hard as he should have because he was too afraid to hurt his father.

If Bruce escaped to the manor now, like this, brainwashed or mind controlled as he is, Damian won't fight back like he should.

Dick could not let Bruce into the manor, not under any circumstances should he leave Alfred and Damian to fend for themselves against a Batman who wasn't in his right mind.

With his mind made up, he kicked one more time at Bruce, using as much force as he could within the tight range of motion he had on the stairway. His heel whacked against Bruce's jaw, forcing the man's face backwards with a snap. The grasp on his ankle loosened ever so slightly, allowing Dick to tug himself out of the hold and grab into the railing of the stairs above him. In one fluid motion, Dick was one his feet, watching as Bruce recovered quickly from the blow.

With a split second to execute his decision, he didn't even look where he was going. He just grabbed the railings and swung under the bars as Bruce's hand shot out and just barely missed gripping and tearing out a chunk of his hair. The fall to the floor of the cave wasn't long, and he was able to easily lessen the strain of the landing by rolling onto his back and jumping upright onto his feet, leaving him able to immediately begin sprinting away from Bruce. He could hear heavy footsteps pounding after him, and while that made his heart clench in a very agonizingly painful way, it also filled him with just the right amount of adrenalin to ignore how light-headed he was from the broken nose. He could barely taste the blood on his lips, his tears were beginning to dry.

Or he was just getting used to blinking them out of his eyes the more they formed. He hoped he didn't have tear streaks on his cheeks, mixing with the blood and dripping down onto the ground as he ran like he was in some sort of gore film.

He came to a skidding halt right beside the batcomputer. He didn't need to waste any time searching for the button he needed to press, it wasn't the first time they've had to lock down the cave from the inside. He smashed the emergency button just as a fist grabbed onto the back collar of his suit, dragging him back in a choking tug as the soft yellow and white lights above the cave shut down with a whirl, the color being replaced quickly by harsh and flashing eye drilling red.

A piercing alarm screamed out as a heavy arm wrapped over Dick's throat. Dick felt crushing pressure immediately begin to press on his windpipe, and with a choked cry, Dick grabbed onto the arm and bent forward with all his strength, hitting his elbows into Bruce's gut. He flipped Bruce over his back. The sound of Bruce in all his heavy armor hitting the cave ground as bats screeched and alarms blared was almost comical, but Dick didn't stick around long enough to figure out how funny Bruce thought it was.

He would be stuck down here for the next who knew how long. No way out, no way in, not until the right codes, used by the right people were used. And in this case, because Dick activated the alarm with Bruce in the cave, two codes used by any other member of the family will have to be used as a precaution. Because Damian was still young, he didn't have the clearance for that. It would have to be Alfred who put his codes in from the outside as well as somebody else.

The closest bat with shut down codes would be Tim who was currently on the other side of Gotham, probably asleep in the penthouse. Jason would probably be closer, but honestly Dick wasn't sure if Bruce gave Jason access to that level of security in the cave yet.

Hopefully the emergency texts sent out like they're supposed to. Every bat within the borders of the United States should already have their messages. In twelve hours, if the issue wasn’t resolved within the cave, bats outside the country will get a text. Twelve hours after that, the Justice League would be notified.

Dick hoped it didn't get to that point.

Tim. It would have to be Tim.

Dick ran as fast as his legs could carry him toward a particular hiding spot in the cave he'd known the existence of since he was a kid. It was just large enough for Dick to crawl through when he was still sporting pixy boots and a cape. Now it would be a tight squeeze, with Dick having grown over the years, but thankfully his body type remained small and lean so with enough wriggling he should be able to get in.

Bruce was on his tail, panting like a bloodhound on the trail of a startled rabbit. Dick didn't dare waste time and look behind him as he retreated. Bruce would only catch up faster that way. So Dick ran past the most used parts of the cave down towards where the stone became uneven and filled with puddles, stalagmites jutted upwards and the ceiling and walls became less wide.

He jumped over a small underground stream, then latched his hands around a formation of rocks that were slick with water. He then proceeded to use those rocks as hand and footholds to climb up the low hanging ceiling towards a small hole carved into the rock thanks to the centuries and centuries of running water. He dragged himself upward into the hole, wincing at how the rocks clawed into his sides and stomach, but thankfully he was able to quickly slip in before he heard the stomps of Bruce's footsteps approach ever closer.

Dick had never been more thankful for night vision than what he was just now. It made it possible for them to not waste power by supplying light only to the most used parts of the cave, which, in turn, caused dark shadows to form where Dick hid. He squeezed himself back as far as he could into the pocket of space that was chiseled into the ceiling, then watched with wide eyes as Bruce finally came into view.

He looked like a demon. A hulking, beast of man with teeth bared and fingers splayed like claws. Bruce growled and looked around the surrounding cave, making increasingly frustrated grunts the more time that passed with Dick not being found.

After a few minutes, Bruce seemed to get a mixture of too-frustrated-to-care and bored, so with a final growl, he turned cape and stalked back towards the main sections of the cave.

Dick released his breath about a minute after. His heart pounded so loudly that he was sure for a minute there that Bruce would find him by the noise alone. But for now, it looked like he was safe.

He let himself relax ever so slightly, letting the adrenalin drain to the point he could actually feel how messed up his nose was.

He lifted a hand to his nose and tapped lightly on the tender skin and bone. He winced, knowing even without a mirror or a doctor's opinion that this wasn't the kind of break you could just snap right into place. Dick was lucky Bruce hadn't slammed him down harder. The shards could have gone to his brain.

With that morbid thought, he pushed the pain aside when his communicator began to beep urgently in his ear. He poked his head out of the hole to see Bruce pacing the middle of the cave, his hands in his hair and his footsteps rushed and unsteady. Dick slowly brought his bloodied fingertips to his comm and took a deep, low breath.

"Nightwing," he muttered in answer to the beeping. He winced at his own voice. Barbara used to make fun of him saying the reason stakeouts and covert missions always went wrong whenever he was a part of them was because boys didn't know how to whisper.

Static flickered in the earpiece, the lock down of the cave causing the signals to be bounced and absorbed in the walls. He frowned and tapped the wiring, fighting a flinch as Bruce yelled angrily in his section of the cave, causing something heavy and glass to shatter on the floor.

" -ser Dick, what- --"

It was Alfred's voice. But Dick could barely make it out. No doubt Alfred and Damian were in a frantic panic upstairs, confused and worried about what could have caused the cave to go under lockdown. While Bruce restarted his pacing, Dick spoke as quietly as he could into the comm.

"I don't know if you can hear me, but Bruce has been compromised. Something is… warping his mind to be violent. Don't open the cave until you're sure whoever is on the other side can take him down. N out."

More static vibrated in his eardrums, cut off voices of Alfred and maybe Damian demanding he elaborated, but Brice was deathly still now. He stood in the middle of the main section of the cave, unmoving as a statue. Immediately, Dick felt his adrenaline begin to rise again.

That couldn't be good.

He reached up as slowly as he dared to take his static filled communicator out from his ear—which was probably something he'd regret later, but for now the noise was distracting him—and watched as Bruce's arms slowly began to move in slow, jerky movements that could only be explained by Bruce probably not knowing if they belonged to him.

Bruce flexed his fingers. Looked around the empty cave, then immediately began to remove his utility belt. Dick watched in a cocktail of confusion and curiosity as Bruce held the belt in his hands for a moment before hurling the accessory away from him toward one of the drop offs that lead to the underground rivers below.

What the hell?

Those rivers didn’t lead anywhere. There were a million different channels with hundreds of twists and turns, spelunking these caves would be like signing a death warrant. There wasn’t any telling where the belt would end up. Why did Bruce…?

And then Bruce grunted and grabbed at his hair, shaking his head, lips moving in some sort of silent fight with himself.

Whatever was controlling Bruce: Bruce was pushing back against it. Bruce lost the belt so he could insure he wouldn't use it against Dick or anyone else who eventually entered the cave.

Then, Bruce turned and stalked towards the lab tables, grunting and snarling at himself as he stuck a needle in his arm and drew blood.

Bruce was back. He was doing blood work on himself to cure whatever was going on.

Excitement and relief flooded Dick's veins, and he nearly began to exit his hidey-hole, but then Bruce proved himself to be ever vigilant and paranoid. "It's not done, Dick. Don't come out."

Dick froze at the tone. It was still glutal. But there was something laced in there that almost sounded worried and afraid.

"I don't know where you are. Keep where you are, stay silent, stay safe."

Dick longed to ask what was going on. Why Bruce was like this. Dick wasn't ever very good with being kept in the shadows, he liked his colorful suits for a reason after all. He wanted to go out and help while Bruce was in this odd period of lucidity, but for all he knew, the distance between the two could be what was helping Bruce stay sane at the moment. Perhaps the violent tendencies were activated by close proximity.

Dick was definitely not about to test that theory.

He swallowed and settled back, listening to Bruce work on his own blood, trying to figure out whatever had made him act this way and cure it.

A few minutes passed, minutes filled with Dick feeling more anxious than an opossum faced by a group of angry humans. His heart refused to stop thudding against his ribcage as he listened to the tinkling of glass and mixing liquids.

Maybe this could all be over soon. Maybe this will be just a normal Wednesday night and they'll all soon be back in bed and laughing about this.

When Bruce spoke up again, Dick knew the night could only get worse.

"Chum?" Bruce asked, and that was how Dick knew it was really Bruce talking. No evil villain or brainwashing drug had ever managed to make Bruce say that word with that much meaning. "Don't answer, but the solution will need time to become active. The… urge to become violent is becoming stronger. Like it can sense I'm trying to stop it. To avoid… destroying the antidote, I am going to try and…" a grunt escaped Bruce's throat. A deep breath. Dick wrapped his fingers around his opposite wrist. "-and sedate myself before that happens. I need you to get me to the med bay and restrain me until the antidote is completed."

Dick almost wanted to laugh out a joke. Something with a " awe, sleeping on the job while I do all the work ?" or " Gosh, B, this is the fourth time you've been hit with a mind altering drug this year !" but he choked down those words and swallowed them. He remained silent, like Bruce told him to bee, and slowly began to squeeze out from his hiding spot. As he did so, he watched with critical eyes as Bruce turned from the lab tables towards the med bay, a purpose in his step even though there was a slight lethargic drag to his bending knees. It was almost like Dick was watching a robot, one that didn't know it's own body yet and had to intently focus on each body part before it moved. When Bruce entered the med bay, Dick lost sight of him. The medical area of the cave was in its own separate room, carved into the cave and lined with layers of cement and insulation to keep it the perfect temperature for whoever was injured inside. Bruce left the door open though, so once Dick was on the ground of the cave, he was able to sneak over to the foot of the dinosaur and see just barely inside the medbay.

His heart sank at what he saw. Of course it couldn't be easy. Of course Bruce couldn't have lasted a little longer to get the sedative into his own arm.

He was just standing there, the sedative in his hands, glaring at it with an angry downturn to his brow.

Dick took a silent breath and weighed his options once again. He could go in there and try to sedate Bruce himself, or he could go back to his hiding spot and wait this out.

Bruce suddenly turned his head and Dick just managed to squish himself further behind the dinosaur to keep himself hidden. Dick couldn't see anymore, but he could hear. And what he heard was a few terrifying heartbeats of silence before footsteps began to echo around the cave walls.

Did… did Bruce know Dick was here? A pool of unease swirled in his gut; feeling something like a swarm of moths. He couldn’t honestly predict if he'd be able to fight Bruce and take him down on his own. Not with how little was known about this entire situation. He'd fight if he had to, but how bloodied and bruised he'll be after it was in the air.

Right when the sound of Bruce's booted feet slamming against the cold, stone floor became almost unbearable, Dick finally realized that those aforementioned footsteps were actually walking away from the T-rex.

With a spoonful of bravery that he dug up somewhere from his gut, he poked his head around the leg of the dinosaur.

And Dick realized that moment that he didn't have any choice anymore. Bruce was walking towards the lab with clenched fists.

The antidote.

Dick was generally known as an impulsive person. Most people, when they thought of the phrase "leaping without looking" they would oftentimes link Dick to those words.

Dick liked to think that he planned ahead more often than not. That he didn't always make split second decisions based off from adrenalin and the heat of the moment, but right now, he barely even knew that he was running until his arms wrapped around Bruce's throat—his chest going flat against the older man's caped back—and he was tugging back with all his might. Bruce's fingers which had been previously reaching for the in-process antidote hung mid air for a moment, but that moment did hardly nothing for Dick to prepare for just how quickly Bruce moved while being mind controlled.

One moment he was struggling to drag Bruce back, and the next he was in the air as Bruce used the very same move Dick had executed earlier to get out of a similar chokehold.

All the breath in Dick's lungs left in an aching whoosh as his back hit the ground. His vision swam and his nose pulsed with a newfound revenge. With lightning quick reflexes he'd been honing ever since he was a kid, he turned to his side to avoid a heel on it’s way towards meeting his jugular. No thank you, he really didn't want a crushed windpipe or broken neck today.

He sucked in a lungful of air and pushed what will definitely be a giant bruise on his back to a corner of his mind that he'll deal with later. He kicked out at Bruce, hitting the man in the shins, before he scrambled to his feet and grabbed his escrima sticks from his back. He really didn't want to use these, but with how violent Bruce was, he really didn't have a choice.

"Okay," Dick said, hyping himself up by bouncing on the balls of his feet. Bruce stood stiffly before him, eyes narrowed and blank, like the lights were on but no one was home. His body moving for him, calculating the next best step for him. "Okay. Bruce, I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I have to."

Bruce growled, and not for the first time Dick was reminded of a wild, feral animal.

Dick's body went on autopilot immediately after that. Everything became a blur of dodging and dealing blows. Bruce surprised Dick at first, but now Dick was ready. He knew what to expect. He's fought Bruce in similar situations to this before, all he needed to do was treat Bruce like he would treat any other dangerous villain. Punch until concussion. Deal blows until they're down. And don't you dare fall down first.

For a while, they're pretty even. Bruce was missing as many blows as Dick was, but when Bruce hit, he hit hard . And he played dirty. Grabbing at Dick's hair, going for his groin, looking for those tiny millimeters of a window to throw his fist through. After a particularly forceful blow to his stomach, Dick just barely managed to avoid a knee aiming for his already shattered nose by forcing himself to fall back instead of forward like his knocked out air desperately wanted to.

Dick though, he went for the legs. Most people when they fight Bruce think all they need to be is quicker and stronger than him—or have the bigger weapons. But Dick knew that Bruce had more muscle on his upper body than lower. Bruce trained his legs to carry him across the city and do amazing feats of parkour, but you're more likely to get a fist than a foot heading your way while fighting him. If Dick managed to get him down onto the ground, he had a split second chance to get him restrained and knock him out.

It was a plan more easily said than done. This… warped and controlled version of Bruce had no restraint. He didn't pull his punches, he didn't take things slow for the sake of his own body, multiple times Dick caught his fingers twitching to where the batarangs would be inside his utility belt just to remember with a snarl that he had gotten rid of the whole accessory.

However, Dick could feel the close quarter battle beginning to wear him down. Throwing punches and taking hits were exhausting. Dick was confident that by the end of this, he'll have bruises to match his suit, maybe even a few broken bones if things went downhill.

Well... more downhill.

Dick slammed his escrima into Bruce's jaw, finally landing a blow hard enough for Bruce to stumble. Not wasting the opportunity presented to him, he dove under Bruce's arms and turned the electricity of his escrima on. He was just about to slam the lightning tipped ends of his weapons down into Bruce's thighs when all of a sudden, Bruce recovered quicker than what should have been possible. Dick only had enough time to think oh no before Bruce swirled out of the way with a flick of his cape. Instead of meeting a fleshy body in his attack, he ran into the darkness of the cape, the weight and firmness of the material forced him to drop his escrima unless he wanted to shock himself. He tried to back out of the way, but then Bruce used that to his advantage. He wrapped the cape around Dick's upper body then punched violently into Dick's gut.

Immediately, all the air was knocked out of his body and his eyes widened like a bug as he started into the dark kevlar, brain struggling to come up with a plan b.

There was no Plan B. It was get Plan A right from the get go. Plan B was figuring out just how far Bruce would go. If Bruce would kill him.

The cape unraveled from his body, and Dick soon found himself being shoved blindly forward. His eyes took in information rather quickly though, and it took every hairsbreadth reflex he had to not completely hurtle himself off the main platform of the cave and down below into the white waters to follow Bruce's abandoned utility belt.

He threw his arms back and desperately dug his heels into the ground, but the world began to spin when Bruce shoved him one last time.

Somehow, within the chaos of being shoved down into the cave waters and the pain his bruised body was in, Dick managed to grab onto the ledge in just the knick of time. His legs swung below him as the strain on his fingers and biceps immediately began to burn. He hung there for an agonizingly long moment, trying to make heads and tails of the new situation he now found himself in, before a dark figure above him came into view.

Dick's never seen that angle of Batman before. All anger. Violent. Below a lifted boot. Dick winced as the sole of Bruce's shoe stepped slowly onto his right hand.

He was officially, royally screwed.

And with that thought, a million more flooded into his brain like a damn burst. He was going to die here. Bruce would kick him into the waters and Dick will never be found again. Or, when he is found again, his body will be bloated and long without a soul to occupy it.

He supposed it could be worse. Bruce could have beaten him to a bloodied pulp and left his corpse on display for whoever came into the cave next. This way, at least, no one would have to see the light gone from his eyes, like he had seen all too often in his own sibling's faces. He'll be dead, gone, untraceable. His only hope was that Damian wasn't the first one down here. The first to realize Dick was dead.

For good this time.

And that was when the complete panic set in. The thought of dying again . He knew what death felt like. He had felt it happen. He remembered exactly what it was like to take his last breath. His last blink. His last struggling move. Sometimes, he'd wake up in the dead of night, hyperventilating and in a cold sweat, wiping at his mouth desperately because he could still feel Lex Luthor there, holding his hand over his mouth and nose, forcing an acidic tasting pill between his lips.

How long would it take this time? Was the drop long enough for the water to feel like cement when he eventually hit it? Would the jagged rocks knock him out before he could really taste death again? Against his better judgement—the better judgement screaming that there was no point delaying the inevitable—he reached with his free hand to grab Bruce's ankle. He didn't want to drag Bruce down with him, but he was scared , and he didn't want to die feeling alone .

Once his left hand was crushed, he would let go.

The pressure continued to come down onto his fingers, Dick grimaced and ground his teeth. This was it, huh? These were his last moments alive?

Right when he felt something on his hand give away with a snap and he was sure that it was time to end, Batman all of a sudden jerked back, small arms wrapping around his throat in a blur of red.

Dick scrambled to keep his grasp on the ledge as Bruce stumbled backwards out of sight; he definitely had a broken finger and his biceps burned with the need to let go. His ears were ringing now, pulsing to the tempo of his heart, but somewhere above him he could hear yelling and the exchanging of blows. Fists hitting flesh. There were multiple voices as well, all yelling above each other, tones mixing with tones. He couldn't tell who was here. All he wanted to do was push past the weariness settling in his bones and heft himself up to help fight. Bruce wasn't someone you could just… fight on your own.

Dick needed to help.

He bent his arms, sweat dripping down the back of his neck, but his strength suddenly left against his will, mocking his title as an acrobat, sending him jerking down and losing the grasp he had with his right hand.

He was hanging on with one hand now, swinging dangerously, just a brush away from falling and getting lost in the underground ocean forever.

He didn't want to die. Not like this. He never expected to live past thirty, but // still . He was twenty-seven, hanging by the tips of his fingers, about to fall.

He was twenty-seven . Younger than what his parents were.

There won't be a body to bury.

He was going to die.

His five fingers trembled under the weight, no amount of adrenalin or hope could get him to climb up on his own power. He hoped Bruce and whoever he was fighting up there won't feel too bad about not getting to him in time.

He finally lost his meager grip, and for a moment he was weightless. Hanging mid air. Eyes wide behind his mask as he stared past his empty hand reaching towards the roof of the cave.

Then, everything jolted. A pair of strong hands wrapped around his wrist, bringing everything to a halting stop. He gasped, cherishing the rush of air that ran past his throat into his lungs, and looked up with wide eyes as none other than Damian hung over the lip of the drop, the edge digging into his armpits, his face turning red as he struggled to hold onto over a hundred and fifty pounds. Damian could hold Dick for a little while, but eventually he'll either fall with Dick or let go.

"Dami-" Dick gasped, his heart twisting like an abused foam ball between the hands of an anxious teen. "Dami no-"

"I won't let go," Damian spat with a fire in his eyes. "I won't."

Dick wanted to yell at him to let go and turn away. Don't watch. The last thing Dick wanted was for Damian to watch.

"Damian!" A new voice shouted, and Dick almost did a double-take at it. Jason?

"I have him!" Damian shouted, tiny, thirteen year old fingers so tight around Dick's wrist that it was almost bruising. "Hurry!"

Jason didn't answer. Or maybe he did, and it was just drowned out by the sound of battle. Perhaps pushed aside as a new hope soured in Dick's gut.

The minutes ticked, and eventually Dick managed to get his hand sporting a broken finger up to clutch Damian's little hands. He couldn't do anything other than that to help Damian hold on. There was nothing else to grab onto.

And that was the point of Robin, wasn't it? To catch Batman if he should fall?

Or maybe that was just Dick's legacy, and it dripped like ink into the ideologies of the suit until it stained the fabric red.

He didn't get much time to think about it more, because a second pair of arms suddenly came out of nowhere and grabbed onto Dick's wrists. Dick looked up into Tim's masked eyes as the two boys began to work together to drag him up. It was painful and time consuming. Hard work between two brothers. But soon enough, Dick found himself hooking his elbows over the lip of the drop-off, his brain struggling to take in the entirety of the scene before him.

Jason was kneeling over Bruce, his knee to his back as he locked cuffs over the definitely unconscious man's wrists. Duke stood a little while off, watching Bruce as if he was afraid Bruce would stand up with blood in his eyes any moment now. Steph stood behind Tim, hands outstretched to help grab onto Dick's waist and drag him the rest of the way up. Dick almost questioned how they all managed to take Bruce down so quickly, but then Cass ran up to help Dick get settled in a sitting position so her delicate fingers can brush over his swelling nose, concern pulled between her brow.

They called in the calvary.

He turned his face from where the majority of his siblings were—sitting next to him and worrying about him, asking him questions about what hurt and what happened—and he watched Alfred step up to Jason and place a hand on his shoulder before the both bent down to get Bruce on a gurney to transfer to the med bay.

And the waterworks, right in front of his family, turned on right then and there.

He felt Damian crawl into his lap and wrap his bare arms around Dick's torso. Dick hadn't even noticed Damian wasn't even dressed. He came down here in a white tee shirt and fuzzy Batman pj bottoms to help out. Through teary eyes, he could see that everyone else was in various states of dress, capes gone forgotten, masks not bothered to be put on, only the most important bits of armor applied. Dick had no idea how they all came together like this to fight Bruce and rescue Dick, but he won't question it for now.

He just sat there, trying and failing to hold back choked sobs, clutching Damian as close as he could as warm bodies settled around him.

He sat like that, in bittersweet bliss, until the wrinkled hand of Alfred settled into his shoulder.

"Let's get you looked at," he said, his face pinched in parental worry and relief. Dick sobbed out a laugh and allowed the others to get him to his shaky feet. They led him to the med bay and sat him down in a cot next to the unconscious, bruised, and restrained Bruce. A stab of worry settled in his gut, but it was quickly squashed when Alfred sat in front of him, hands with years of experience hovering above his nose with a what will we do with you now, Master Dick glint in his eyes. Dick flickered his eyes towards the open medbay doors where the others were all either hovering or assessing the damage done in the cave.

"Now don't you worry," Alfred said, bringing Dick's attention back to him. He helped Dick lay back into the cot and inserted an IV into the crook of his elbow without a second thought. He must've put the good stuff in that bag hanging above Dick's head, he immediately felt sleepy beyond belief. "Everything will be fine when you wake up again, Master Dick."

And Dick breathed a sigh—a breath that he had previously thought he would never be able to take—and let the tension in his body fall away.

Dick believed Alfred, because Alfred was always right. And the sooner he fell asleep, the sooner he’d wake up and find the world back on the correct axis again. Bruce would explain what went wrong and why he went crazy, and the others would all dramatically regale their part in the whole thing.

He let his eyes fall closed, safety and sleep working together to lull him to a comforting sheet of darkness.

-o-o-o-o-

Reblogs and comments are always appreciated

[cheryllcher]

A Merry Sprinkle Christmas

it’s christmas!! and of course i had to write something about a sprinkle-loving human :) presenting a lil very long fic of my sprinklebug au!! im overseas now so my laptop is miles away and i cant add the cut so ://

—-

“3...2...1... IT’S CHRISTMAS!”

Marinette squealed as the clocked that ticked away on the living room wall proudly displayed 12 o’ clock. There were sparkles in her eyes as she tried to decided which gift to open first while she scurried to the christmas tree from her place on the couch, making Tom and Sabine chuckle. It was always a Dupain-Cheng tradition to open a gift at midnight every christmas, and this year was no exception.

Their home had sprigs of mistletoe sprinkled (yes this is intentional :> ) around with the scent of fresh hot chocolate filling the air. Stocking hung along the pretend fireplace aka the window, custom made by one (1) aspiring fashion designer of course. The kitchen was filled with food, drinks and ingredients for the upcoming christmas party happening in less than 18 hours. (Marinette was shamelessly counting down.) The tree was the centre of attention though, bringing twinkles into the house- courtesy of the fairy lights wrapped around it. Ornaments, each unique with a story behind them, was carefully placed on some of the branches of the tree, the collection constantly growing. There was no star though, as they don’t see the need for one. Tom joked that Marinette was their star what with all the commissions she’d received from Jagged Stone and Clara Nightingale. (“Dad, no! I’m not a star!”) Marinette once tried to add sprinkles to it but they all just fell to the floor which formed a pile of sprinkles around the base of the tree that made her sad.

Marinette was a whole new level of Christmas. She was decked out in her oversized self-knitted sweater with hand-sewn sprinkles decorating it and a cat pun right in the middle. (Gummy Chat would be proud of the cat pun part) Her christmas hat was lined with fake fluffy fur and a big, fluffier pom pom at the tip, decorated with-surprise!- even more hand-sewn sprinkles. Warm fuzzy socks were on her feet, in christmas’ colours, made to look like elf shoes with again, sprinkles made of thread. Almost covered by her hat were mistletoe sprigs pinned to the hair ties that held her hair in pigtails, a huge contrast against her black hair. Tiny bells jingled away on her wrists and ankles, making sounds wherever the sprinkle-obsessed girl went.

“Hang on Marinette. We have some new ornaments to add to the tree this year,” Sabine called out to her daughter, effectively halting the jingly movements. Another tradition in the Dupain-Cheng household, putting up new ornaments if they have any new ones to introduce to their myriad of not-so-new ones. The petite woman pulled out a blob from a box on the table. How did I miss that? Marinette thought as she finally caught sight of the red cardboard cube.

“This,” she gestured to the animal shaped piece, “is to commemorate Paris’ heroes for all they’ve done for us. Sprinklebug and Gummy Chat may not know this but I think they deserve to be celebrated with our other memories on the tree considering their contributions and everything that happened this year with the akumas.” She then put it up on an empty spot on the tree. It was a black cat with a ladybug on its nose. Marinette tried to keep her tears hidden, surprised and touched at the same time. At least one of them knows, Mum.

“There’s a second one, but it’s one of your presents and it can wait till tomorrow if you choose to open another present first.”

Any thoughts of which present to pick went out the girl’s mind, scrambling to figure out which box it is in. Tom laughed at his daughter with fondness before locating it for her, booming with much more laughter as a mass of sprinkles launched for it. 5 seconds of paper tearing and a lid thrown aside later...

*Gasp* “SPRINKLES! A sprinkle shaker! I’ve looked forever for one of these and you’ve finally found one! THANKS MUM AND DAD!”

—-

Operation: Prepare for Christmas Party was almost complete by the 1 hour left mark, so Sabine told Marinette to go and prepare all her gifts and get ready for the party using the remaining time. (She knows how serious that human takes these tasks.) Marinette already triple checked everything the day before and planned her outfit, so all she was left with was hair and makeup which only takes 15 minutes. This means that she was able to sneak out the skylight as her super-secret-alter-ego to meet up with her partner as scheduled. Tikki was interrupted from admiring her present from Marinette, a mini sprinkle-themed dress, but she didn’t mind. Gift in hand, Sprinklebug soared across her city before finding the cat themed hero lounging around on the Eiffel Tower, whistling a christmas tune. He opened an eye at the sound of her landing, a grin taking over his features.

“Merry christmas, sprinkle-boo!” Chat said as a greeting, Sprinklebug returning it in a sing-song voice and a hug. The feline boy kept his eyes on the item his lady brought with her, curiosity definitely triggered. This made Sprinklebug giggle and give in to his silent request, taking hers from the centre of the roof when her friend’s tail pointed in that direction. They opened their presents together, too eager to wait another moment of say another word.

“Omg it’s sprinkles shakers with fancy sprinkles! I’ve been meaning to paint on some for fun and this is perfect! But... isn’t this an expensive brand? Chat-“

“Nuh-uh, no can do madame. I insist and you can’t say no. Also you gave me like 3 different things I should’ve gotten you more!”

They went back and forth for a bit before they burst into giggles, ending whatever “argument” they had. Chat then asked about the ornament that she had given him.

“Ornaments are sort of my family tradition, so i thought I’d make you one. Cat’s and gummy worms and a small pun too. It’s one of a kind.”

Tears swarmed in Chat’s eyes, threatening to fall. He needs to hurry home soon so that he can cry and swoon in pure bliss. He picked up golden thread when pushing away his hat so that he won’t accidentally get it wet. Inspecting it, his saw the name of his princess. Sprinklebug cursed herself mentally for not setting aside of her habit of signing articles of fashion with golden thread.

“Oh, that. I couldn’t knit myself so I commissioned Marinette to create this hat. I’m sure you’re familiar? But please don’t go asking her who I am as I did it via super suit. And before I forget, inside the bag with gummy worms is plagg’s cheese and tiny hat. Wish him merry christmas for me please.” My, what a mouthful you idiot!

“Ah, okay. Please do that same for me with Tikki. And thanks for reminding me, give her one of the shakers. It’s indicated with a little tag.”

They did a little more talking, ultimately bringing the topic back to how Sprinklebug gave Gummy Chat way more things which were also cooler and that he should have gotten more to balance it out.

“It’s really alright, minou. Seeing you smile and enjoying your present is way bigger than all the presents I gave you combined.” A warm smile was directed at Chat.

“Awwww is m’lady finally falling for my smile?” He was being a jokester and he knew it.

“You wish.”

They then parted ways at half past 5, Sprinklebug to prepare for a party and Gummy Chat to soon head over to said party. Not that either of them knew.

Sidenote: Adrien did cry and swoon in bliss for about 20 minutes once home though. Plagg just munched on the edible part of his present and asking him to stop producing “eye-pee” and check for everything before heading to pigtails’ party already.

—-

so there it is! i wanted to write about the christmas party but it’s kinda long so maybe a part 2?? but i also kinda wanna just leave it as a oneshot. hmm decisions decisions... but i hope you liked this thing that i wrote and merry christmas!!

[goddamnwritersblock]

Edda, Elizabeth, and Jade

Chapter 2

847, December 359

That woman. Edda. She was with the church and let me tell her what they were actually doing. She believed me. She told me that she had some thinking to do and left before she could even eat the meal I had made. What a gullible girl. It’s almost charming. I’ve only talked to her once and it was a sensitive topic for both of us and yet she never leaves my mind. I don’t know if that’s a bad thing yet or not.

847, December 360

I want to see her so desperately and I don’t know why. What reason do I have to be so infatuated with her? She’s just another woman! And yet… there’s something different about her that has me in its hands. Maybe if I see her again this feeling will go away.

847, December 363

Well, I finally saw Edda again. But now the feeling is stronger than ever! Why did it have to be me Freyja? Why with her? I suppose I shouldn’t question you.

848, January 002

She came to me in a panic today. She said she had converted to my religion and announced her leave and that she had nowhere else to go so she came to me. She’s in the spare room sleeping. Freyja I don’t know how much more I can take of this. I think I know what this is but I’m still unsure. Please give me strength.

With that being said and done I leave the book where it lays to clean up the mess from tonight’s meal, feeding the scraps of meat to Bjorn, and setting the bones out to dry for later use. My mind keeps wandering to her. Checking on her won’t hurt right? I nudge the door open seeing her sleeping form. I’ve never seen her without that headdress on. Now it’s strewn about across the pillow and the bed eventually falling off the edge. It was quite long actually. It’s beautiful. Long, straight and snow-white, I’ve never seen anything like it before. She stirs a bit in her sleep so I decide to leave the room. Perhaps I’ll visit the shrine.

With my warmest furs on I write a quick note to Edda which reads:

“Edda, I have left to go visit a shrine two towns over.

Perhaps you should have come with me to learn more about the gods but I am in dire need of answers to a personal issue.

I’ve left some basic recipes on the back and the locations of where to find utensils and ingredients. If I’m not back by the day after tomorrow and you have food leftover feed the meat to Bjorn and set the bones out to dry. I like to use them for many things.

Just don’t burn down the home! I mean that in a joking way, sorry.”

I pet Bjorn goodbye and walk out into the cold of winter dawn and begin my journey. I’ve only just reached the end of the small dirt path when I hear the sound of feet hitting the ground getting closer and closer. Turning around I see Edda quickly approaching trying to fasten the buttons on the fur cloak I’d gifted her.

“I saw your letter! Do you think I could come with you? I want to see what it’s like.” I do really want her to come with me and she could give a prayer if she wants to and it’ll be educational.

“Alright. When we get there please stay close. I don’t want any accidents.” As the words left my lips a big grin appeared on her face. It was a kind of joy I’ve never seen on her before. Surely it can’t actually mean that much to her, right? “Well, let’s go. It’ll be a bit of a walk.” With that, we begin walking side by side, Edda admiring the bare trees and talking about this and that. I’ve learned that she likes sweet things and she likes the different shades of green and brown. She learned I like storm clouds and stars. She told me she likes living with me more because I’m kinder than they were both in my actions and words. I’ve noticed that she flinches away whenever I raise my hand and I don’t think I want to know.

We walk a few hours more in silence, the only noise coming from animals and the freezing wind that blows occasionally. Every now and then I think I catch her looking at me with a certain look on her face. It reminds me of the looks my father would give my mother after a long day working in the fields. He would come home, give her that very same look, and hold her as close as he could until she pushed him away to share the expression. I doubt Edda would actually be looking at me the way they looked at each other no matter how badly I want her to. Wishful thinking I suppose. I must admit that I’ve been looking at her too whether I’m supposed to or not.

We finally decided to stop once the sun started going down over the mountains. Wanting to help she took it upon herself to gather wood for a fire while I hunt for a rabbit or a bird to eat. I only have five arrows in the quiver I brought so the shots need to count. After catching two smaller rabbits and returning to the camp we set up, I start preparing everything to eat later on. Edda sits next to me happily drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick. They aren’t very good. I’ve taken to whittling a small figure, I don’t know who or what it’ll be yet I’m just carving as I go. Soon after I hear a startled gasp come from the red-eyed woman next to me and when I look over her face held an expression of excitement and fear looking into bushes across from us.

“Mjoll, look!” She points at a pair of glowing yellow eyes staring back at us. With slow movements I leave my dagger and wood laying on the ground, reaching for my bow. Knocking it I take my aim. “Hey! What are you doing?” She exclaimed in a hushed voice.

“I’m going to shoot it, what does it look like?!” I match her volume as to not make whatever is in the bushes run away. It could be useful to us later on.

“You can’t do that! It’s just a fox, he's done nothing to you!” She seems to really care about it. Despite my gut telling me to shoot the damn thing I put the weapon down and watch as the fox slowly and carefully makes its way towards the two of us. Edda reaches out, letting the fox cautiously sniff and lick her open hand. She starts petting it with gentle touches, it flinches away but soon melts into the touch.

“Mjoll you have to pet him he’s so soft!”

“No.”

“You’re no fun.”

“And here we will have our first lesson on the gods. Loki is the god known for mischief and putting others in danger due to his own recklessness and personal pleasures. He’s not to be trusted and one of the forms he likes is a red fox.” She stares blankly, simply pointing to the fox that has curled up and fallen asleep. “Yes. For all you know that could be him trying to gain trust for some ridiculous scheme of his.”

“Well… If it is him then I guess I’ll just have to suffer the consequences.” Why would she think this is a good idea? I just told her it could be dangerous!

“Okay, you do that. I’m going to eat and go to sleep.” All she does is give a hum in response and let me eat alone, paying more attention to the fox. Eventually, I lay down with the last thing being heard is Edda cooing at the animal as if it were a human child.

Another day and night pass before we reach the shrine. There are not many people here which I suppose is a good thing. I whisper to Edda letting her know that I’d be praying at one of the singular shrines within the building. She simply smiled and nodded. I sit and finally start my prayer while she looks around. I mumble through my prayers for a few minutes seeking some sort of answer to why I feel like this. Why do I want to spend almost every waking moment with her, why I want to be so close to her, why do I want her to hold me in her arms and never let go? Why do I catch myself looking at her the way my father did with mother? Why is she one of the most beautiful people I’ve seen? The feelings are amazing but I hate that I can’t make sense of them. My heart always speeds up and I get almost anxious when she’s around. My face heats up as well, I always feel like I look like a red rose but one that’s starting to wilt. I feel like a very soft clay or maybe mud. I hate it. I get pulled away from my concentration by the sound of something falling. When I turn to look at what the noise was I see a statue of Freyja rolling away on the floor and Edda scrambling to catch it and put it back on the pedestal. She finally catches it and I go back to my prayers without another thought. She comes over and sits next to me simply watching as I continue my work.

”So, Mjoll. What exactly are you doing?” She asks with seemingly all the curiosity in the world.

”I’m praying to Freyja.”

”Is it for forgiveness? Like what we had to do in church?”

”No, it's a… A personal matter.” She lets out a soft ‘oh’ and looks at the floor for a bit. ”Well I’m finished. Are you ready to go?”

”I want to make prayer too. I don't know who Freyja is though.”

”She’s a goddess of things like love, fertility, beauty, gold, and cats. Women often come and ask her for help with fertility and love. They leave her offerings. I actually have some I need to put by the altar.”

”Were you asking for love? I think that's what I'll do.” My face goes red at her question and I quickly deny it. Even if she had someone she liked it definitely was not me. I walked over to the altar and opened the bag I brought with me and pulled out a honey nut cake wrapped gently in cloth and a small jar of honey cream both of which I made the day before we left the hut. The tie on the cake has a golden pendant that I have no use for anymore attached to it. I place them gently among all the other offerings of food, fine wine, mead, gold, and figures of cats in various metals and materials. I was very lucky to get everything to make them.

”Mjoll? I’ve finished.” I jump slightly in surprise, it's like she appeared behind me out of thin air. I turn and nod and with that, we start walking back home. Hopefully this time without a fox to distract her.

We return home and Edda goes straight for Bjorn to start petting him, which he thoroughly enjoys. Meanwhile, I begin making dinner which, honestly, isn't much. Just some fish and herbs which will be fried on a pan over the fire with some vegetables. I prepare the fish, herbs and the other greens before lighting the fire and cooking everything together. It takes longer than I expected it to but, eventually, it’s finished and I’m able to serve everything at the table. Before we start eating I cut off a small portion of my fish and give it to Bjorn on his own separate little wooden plate. The meal was silent for the first few minutes before I broke the silence.

“So… Remind me, what did you pray about?” Her answer came out very casually as if it weren’t actually that big a deal.

“Love.” That was it. Nothing else came out.

“What does that mean?”

“I mean the romantic kind. The kind you see between all the newlyweds. Only I’d like it to last.”

“Do you already have someone you like?” She choked a bit at the question and turned very red in the face. Perhaps it’s just because of how pale she is or maybe it really was that personal or embarrassing.

“I mean um… Maybe I do, maybe I don't, who really knows?”

“You should know Edda. After all, it’s your own feelings.” Her eyes darted around to anywhere except me. She looked at her cup, the fire, the cat, the tapestry on the wall, everything but me.

“Is there anyone you like, Mjoll?” I sat silently debating whether I should tell the whole truth or not. I decided on a partial truth, after all, it seems like she already has her eyes on someone else.

“Yes. But I doubt they’d like me back. I haven’t even known them for that long and I’m already head over heels for her- THEM! Head over heels for them!” I give a nervous chuckle and take a long drink from my cup and keep my eyes averted, hoping she didn’t hear my obvious mistake.

“You like girls too?” When I looked up at her she had a very hopeful look on her face.

“Well I like men but I’ve found myself looking at the women too. I guess I like both but I feel like I shouldn’t. It feels wrong but at the same time it feels so natural.”

“I understand how you feel.” She reaches across the table to take my hands in her own. They’re soft and delicate. Like they’ve never had to work a day in their life, yet they are riddled with small thin scars. “When I was with the church I revealed my thoughts to one of the sisters and she told me that I was being sinful, that God was sure to send me to hell if I didn’t set my mind straight. That Lucifer had taken hold of my heart and was twisting my thoughts. She told Father Williams and… Well, he did a few things that I don’t want to talk about. They all made me feel like I was an abomination but the romance I feel for women feels right.” Her voice started trembling when she mentioned Father Williams. I try and comfort her the best I can and we continue eating once she’s calmed down.

The table has been cleaned along with the dishes. It would’ve been much easier if Bjorn would stop tugging at my skirt and pawing at my legs. Once everything was put away I decided to follow him only to end up right in front of Edda. I would walk away to get more of the housework done but he kept dragging me to her. This went on for a good week. He just wouldn’t leave me alone. When he did finally give up he did the same with her for, again, a week straight but she enjoyed the attention he was giving her. And that’s when it hit me. He was acting as a messenger. Both of us had prayed for love related things. I wanted to make sense of them and to know if there was any chance of her liking me back in that way and she said that she asked for a good and true kind of love. Over the two weeks, we’d become more comfortable and got to know each other even more.

I think today is the day where I’ll tell her. I asked her if she wanted to come with me into the forest to hunt for mushrooms and other things of interest. She immediately perked up at the question and agreed quickly. In the meantime, I had been teaching her how to weave a basket which she was actually quite good at. I wish I could say I was a fast learner like she is, it took me until last summer to get the hang of it. Edda had finished it early this morning so she was ready to go. We both get ready in our own rooms, getting our boots on, our heavy dresses, our hoods, and whatnot. Bag and quiver at my sides and bow and basket in hand I walk out to the main room where she was already waiting for me. When she noticed my presence she got this big smile and a sort of softness in her eyes before she came over and brought me into a firm hug. It’s been so long since I’ve had physical contact like this that it took me a bit to react and hug her back. The height difference made it slightly awkward, with my face having nowhere else to go but her chest. My short arms also couldn’t quite reach all the way around her body. We stood like this for maybe a minute before separating.

“Well, I really liked that.” She has her hands on her hips and looked very pleased with herself. With all that said and done we leave and wander into the forest.

It didn’t take long to start finding the things we were after. We found some berries that were safe, mushrooms, some bones, things like that. The entire time we made small talk about the flora and fauna and which ones were safe and which were not. Somewhere along the lines of words, we started talking about our feelings on various things, for the most part we agree. I was thinking of when I should pop up with the things nagging me. But so far there hasn’t been enough silence between topics to actually say anything. It wasn’t until noon that the silence I was waiting for appeared.

“Edda?”

“Hm?” The noise was cheerful, the mood Mjoll was trying to get her in.

“I think I have something I want to tell you.”

“Oh dear, is it serious?”

“Yes but not in a bad way! I um…”

“Yes?”

“I think… We should pick up some oysters from the market before we go home.”

“Oh yes, that sounds great!”

She’s now talking about how we should have them what should go with it. I’m angry at myself, I don’t understand why I couldn’t do it. Perhaps it’s the fear of rejection that’s holding me back.

[chainsxwsmile]

What if, instead of meeting Gollum in the caves, Bilbo meets a certain Troll? (Not much is changed in canon, but this is my first fanfiction!)

---

He had landed on something soft; at least Bilbo had enough self-awareness to be grateful for that. The ample colony of sizable mushrooms softened his fall down the cavern yet the same couldn’t be said for his goblin assailant. Despite Bilbo’s own knuckles skinned raw, his hip throbbing from the fall, and all sorts of grime gathered upon his clothes, his injuries couldn’t hold a candle to the unfortunate goblin who had taken a tumble alongside the hobbit. The creature wheezed, with barely enough strength to move its head about the darkened crevice surrounding them both. Bilbo had half a mind to pity the creature, even if he had only felt its rotten teeth sink into his neck just a few moments before their fall. The edges of Bilbo’s vision still blurred, and he squinted against the lowlight— and jumped as a pair of uncannily massive eyes met his own. A skulking being, vertebrate protruding from its arched back as it stalked forward on all fours, slunk into the dim light. Instinctively, Bilbo stilled within the cover of the mushrooms, and he held his breath as the creature’s raspy voice echoed across the chasm.

  “Yesss. Yes! Yes,” the creature grinned terribly, before something between a cough and choke rose from its throat. “Gollum. Gollum!” it hissed, and its spindly hands snatched the ankles of the dazed goblin. The sudden movement launched Bilbo’s former assailant into a frenzy and the goblin thrashed about, shrieking and clawing. The gangly creature returned the blows, stone in hand, strategically smashing in the goblin’s skull; the goblin went limp and the shrieks died in its throat. “Nasty goblinses are better than old bones, precious,” the spindly creature mused aloud, grunting as it dragged its prize behind it. “Better than nothing.”

Only when the horrid creature and its prey slipped from his sight did Bilbo finally remember to breathe. It came out in a shudder, and the hobbit scrambled to his feet; and quite grateful beyond doubt that his sword—still glowing a dazzling blue— buried itself beneath a mushroom cap, hidden from the terrible creature. As Bilbo’s hand steadied the weight of the sword, a metallic flash on the cavern floor caught his eye. He bent down and retrieved in his hand a ring. Golden and simple, yet starkly elegant against the cavern walls. A screeching wail far off in the distance snapped Bilbo from his thoughts, and he trekked forward, pocketing the ring and keeping his glowing sword low. “Aah, too many boneses, precious! Not enough flesh,” the gangly creature cried, and then in a harsher voice; “Shut up! Cut its skin off! Start with its head.” Against his own instincts, Bilbo slunk past the piles of bones that haphazardly littered the cavern floor, his eyes fastened to the creature perched atop a sharp rock protruding out from the cavern lake. “The cold hard lands, they bites our hands, they gnaws our feet, for rocks and stones are like old bones all bare of meat, cold as death, without no breath it’s good to eat.” In every beat of the song, the creature’s hands—armed with a sharp rock— descended upon the goblin’s head. Bilbo winced visibly at every strike and each sickening sound the blows produced. At last, the rock smashed the goblin’s skull once more that Bilbo’s sword flickered like candlelight before being snuffed out, dead.

Suddenly a booming voice growled from beyond the rock, and Bilbo watched silently as the horrid gangly creature scattered from his sight, frightened off by the owner of the voice. From the shadow beyond the lake drew a hulking figure; so large Bilbo wondered how it had managed to get into the caverns in the first place. Nearly five meters tall, the being towered over the fallen, dead goblin, sniffing it shortly before giving what Bilbo presumed was a disgusted growl. Then two glowing, beady blue eyes met Bilbo’s and the hobbit saw the beast’s posture straighten in mild surprise. 

It had seen him. 

The hobbit scrambled back from the water, back against the rock, and lay still as he could, hoping that the beast would either lose interest or leave. Yet not even a moment went by that Bilbo felt any icy droplet of water on his curled locks. And then another. And as his eyes glanced upward— and upward and upward more— Bilbo felt his heart stop. The beast had silently crossed the lake and stood over the poor frightened hobbit, who gaped helplessly at the enormous foe. The beast quickly lumbered down from the rock formation, hastily putting itself between Bilbo and any means of escape; the behemoth’s movement so eerily silent, Bilbo couldn’t help but start to shake. But that wasn’t even the worst part; as the beast faced the hobbit, a terribly wide grin stretched across its scarred lips. If there was any breath left in Bilbo, the sight of the toothy smile snatched it from him. Canines the size of the little hobbit’s legs flashed a deadly white alongside each pointed, razor-sharp tooth. Heavy brows lidded the beast’s beady eyes in what Bilbo could only assume to be a ghastly intrigued expression. Like a cat licking its maw and readying itself to play with a poor mouse until it was beaten dead. The thought only escalated Bilbo’s shaking, and he was quite surprised he hadn’t dropped his sword yet. This close, Bilbo could see with what he was dealing: the beast was a troll. Not a stone troll; a slate-blue color graced the creature’s rough skin, and a black mane ran down its thick, muscular neck. Its broad nose was shaped like that of a great cat’s and it idled naturally on all fours. Then it spoke, in a deep, rumbling voice that sent a shiver down Bilbo’s spine. 

“Hello,” it— he— bellowed. For a moment, Bilbo could only reply with a squeak— as that was all he could get out of his throat, at first. “Y-Yes, hello,” he replied politely, backing against the solid rock and holding his sword out precariously before him. Much luck that sword would do; it looked like a toothpick to the troll! The beast neared closer again, placing his enormous face— and toothy maw— within touching distance. The troll’s nostril’s flared and a sharp exhale billowed Bilbo’s hair and elicited a rather pitiful whimper from the hobbit. Yes, this troll was much bigger than the stone trolls; and Thorin’s company was very likely on the other side of the mountain for all Bilbo knew. Oh, what terrible luck! “Never seen a tasty li’l bite like you b’fore,” the troll mused. A gargantuan hand rose up to prod at the hobbit, and Bilbo quickly reacted, swinging the sword at the giant hand’s threat. “Stay back! Stay back!” the hobbit warned sternly, though his knees shook, and the sword trembled in his hands. The troll blinked, and for a moment Bilbo wondered if the beast would decide to smash him with a fist and be done with it. Instead, a hearty — albeit blood-chilling— laugh rolled out of the troll’s cavernous throat and his terrible teeth flashed evermore brightly. “Easy there, li’l morsel,” the troll reassured Bilbo; or at least, Bilbo wondered if that was even meant as a reassurance. “Just wonderin’ what you are, is all. I don’t get much company these days.” Bilbo blinked, and then swallowed hard, his throat dry with anxiety. “My name is Bilbo Baggins,” he answered, suddenly feeling rather claustrophobic despite the enormity of cavern around them both. Suddenly the clawed hand shot forward again— and Bilbo braced himself to take its blow— until it stopped short before him, extended out in greeting. “Name’s Bruce,” the troll grinned toothily. Bilbo was fairly certain he’d have better luck fitting his whole body in the troll’s palm than successfully shaking the troll’s hand. Let alone wrapping one of his hands around the troll’s single finger. The troll— Bruce— caught onto Bilbo’s hesitation and, after a beat, retrieved his hand. “So, Bilbo,” Bruce continued, still towering over the poor hobbit. “Where’re ye from?” “I-I’m a hobbit. From the Shire.” Bilbo answered quickly, wondering when and if the troll would back away, and allow Bilbo a chance to escape. Or even just a chance to breathe. “A hobbit, eh?” The troll’s smile grew— if that were possible. “Well, I’ve never had a hobbit b’fore,” Bruce chuckled before adding, almost as an afterthought. “Well, never as company, that’s for sure.” With each morbid joke at his expense, Bilbo’s paralyzing fear metamorphosed to panicked irritability; his brows lowered and narrowed his eyes, and his mouth drew to a thin line. “Okay, look— I just want to get out of here, so if you could quit playing your games, I’ll gladly be on my way!” Bilbo pleaded. Well, if he knew how to get out of there. The various tunnels wound about the mountain in a cavernous labyrinth. “Games, eh?” The troll let out a noise which Bilbo couldn’t quite discern; it was either a low, lulling growl or a thoughtful hum. “Well, my li’l tidbit, why don’t we ‘ave ourselves a li’l wager, eh?” Bruce arched a brow. “A li’l guessin’ game, if ye will.” Bilbo furrowed his brows, tentatively. “What, like... riddles?” he asked. “Yeah! Just like that. Ye wanna get out so badly, why not make it fun.” Well, perhaps fun for you, Bilbo grumbled in his mind but considered the offer, silently. He hadn’t any clue this troll would keep his word. But if Bilbo didn’t play along... what stopped Bruce from killing him then and there? The hobbit cleared his throat. “Very well; if I win, you show me the way out of here.” “Ah, that’s the spirit, li’l bite,” Bruce grinned broadly before inching closer, ignoring the sword pointed at his face. “And what if I win, eh?” A short breath slipped out from Bilbo at the thought of such a grisly end; he wondered how this troll fancied to kill him. Perhaps like the stone trolls— maybe the giant brute would cook him alive, or sit on him and crush him, or tear the hobbit limb from limb. Bilbo shuddered before finding his words. “If you win, you can... have your way with me.” Perhaps Bilbo just needed to spare himself the details for now. “It’s a deal, then,” the massive troll replied before backing away; and for the first time in what seemed like hours, Bilbo finally grappled to catch a breath without the beast hovering over him. As Bruce backed off, Bilbo could take in the entirety of the troll without having to move his head about wildly. In the lowlight, Bilbo could vaguely catch traces of a dappled pattern along the troll’s back, shoulders, and arms that appeared like blots and splatters of ink. His toes were shaped more like plantigrade hooves than normal feet. His skin was bare, save for a weathered leather armored skirt that fell to his knees. “You go first, li’l morsel,” Bruce ordered, turning to face Bilbo before the troll reclined onto the cavern floor like a great big cat. Remembering his manners, Bilbo, in turn, sheathed his sword. The hobbit paused a moment in thought before beginning: “Thirty white horses on a red hill. First, they champ, then they stamp, then they stand still.” Bilbo watched as the troll’s face took on a mildly puzzled expression, and Bruce’s beady blue eyes flit across the cavern floors as if the answer lay spelled out the piles of bones. Yet, not a second later, the troll’s face lit up and Bruce grinned toothily. “Teeth?” he asked, and Bilbo felt his own posture deflate. Bruce, however, took it rather victoriously, letting out another deafening laugh. “Hah! Good one, li’l hobbit! Guess it’s my turn, then?” Bruce cleared his throat. “My body is a tree and my teeth are from the ground. I’m carried by the millions, and I lunge to strike you down.” Bilbo wet his lips and nodded, trying to ignore the troll’s constant, predatory gaze upon him. Body is a tree; that means it’s made of wood. Lunging to strike. Not a snake. Teeth from the ground. Not a sword. “A spear!” Bilbo guessed. The troll scoffed, though the smile betrayed him. “What, am I makin’ this too easy for ye?” Bilbo blinked, mouth opened but couldn’t quite find the right, careful words to reply. So, he continued onto the next riddle: “A…a box without hinges, key or…or lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid.” The troll’s smile faltered before a thoughtful expression—one Bilbo hadn’t imagined befalling the face of a troll—crept onto Bruce’s face. Bilbo leapt back as the troll rose from the ground; yet this time, Bruce did so slowly and nonchalantly—so much that Bilbo had half a mind to wonder if this was a trap. That the troll feigned disinterest in the hobbit and more attention to the riddles, only to turn around a snatch him up. Yet as Bilbo watched, the troll’s lips moved silently, as if reciting back the words of the riddle. The hobbit breathed shakily, impatiently. “Well?” “Didn’t think there was a time limit,” the troll retorted, arching a brow, and Bilbo drew back silently… until the troll’s eyes lit up suddenly again. “Eggs?” The hobbit sighed audibly, disheartened, and wondered how much time he’d been wasting trying to keep this beast entertained; Thorin and others were probably on the other side of the mountains by now, and presumably didn’t even notice his absence. The troll didn’t laugh this time at his win, which caused Bilbo to glance up, worriedly. Bruce lumbered back towards him, and the hobbit’s hand subconsciously reached for his sword. “My turn, li’l bite,” the troll purred, moving past Bilbo. A cloud of vocal, screeching bats suddenly took wing from the cavern walls and caught the hobbit’s attention, and he whipped around, momentarily distracted. Yet when Bilbo’s eyes returned to where the troll should have been, a gasp slipped from his mouth. How did such a massive creature just disappear? One moment, Bruce had been there, idling and hovering over Bilbo, and the next— From out of the various tunnels and shadows, the troll’s voice echoed once more, reminding Bilbo that the beast was still very much there. And watching him carefully. “The fallen li’l bat pup caught in the lion’s claws. The fledgling in a mist net. The minnow in gar jaws.” The hobbit felt his brows furrow in confusion; Bilbo hadn’t heard any of these troll’s riddles. “Well?” boomed the voice from the shadows. The hobbit shook his head. “Please give me a moment! I did give you a good long while.” Bat pup? Lion? Fledgling? Minnow? “I don’t know this one,” the hobbit confessed, in a voice louder than he anticipated. Again, the rumbling, growling hum echoed about the cavern walls. Bilbo turned about, unable to find the direction of the source. “Want three guesses, li’l morsel?” the voice crooned. Bilbo found himself nodding, against his better judgment. “Bad luck?” the hobbit guessed aloud. “Close,” the voice bellowed back. “But a bit too broad. Guess again.” Biting his lips, Bilbo racked through his brain, though anxiety threatened to cloud his thoughts. “Prey?” “Ye’re gettin’ there,” the voice crooned again. “Last guess. Last chance.” He was close—at least according to the disembodied voice echoing about the cavern walls. Bilbo turned about, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim light. Trying to pick out the massive troll from beneath the shadows. The hobbit unsheathed his sword, feeling his heartbeat accelerating with every second. “Captured prey?” The voice gave a ‘tsk’ sound with a tone of feigned pity. “Wrong.” “Well, then what is it?” the hobbit turned and turned, sword out before him. Bilbo felt hot breath on his neck and a growl in his ear. “You.”

A giant clawed hand struck out. Before Bilbo could even process the sudden blur of movement, he was on the ground, tiny bones prodding into his back. He heard the distinct clatter of metal against stone and his right hand felt vulnerably empty; his sword glinted almost cruelly just out of reach. All breath left him as the clawed hand weighed down upon his entire body, pinning him to the cold cavern floor. His legs kicked futilely, and he squirmed beneath the troll’s grasp. Bilbo could barely remember his mouth opening, but found his own voice – “No, no, no, no!” – so very far away, as if it didn’t even belong to him anymore and he was dead already. Then the troll’s terrible grin suddenly filled every inch of Bilbo’s sight as Bruce’s face steadied itself half a meter from Bilbo’s own. The little hobbit prayed that it wouldn’t be the last sight he’d take to the grave. “Looks like I win, then,” Bruce grinned triumphantly. The troll didn’t even give Bilbo any time to respond or react before the massive hand flipped him over, and Bilbo could only watch from the corner of his eye as jaws descended upon him. The poor hobbit let out a strangled scream as the enormous canines slipped beneath his chest and above his legs, and he felt hot breath spread across his captured torso. Bilbo struggled and scratched and kicked with every parcel of strength left in his body. He watched helplessly as the ground fell beneath him, as the troll raised him into the air, and the horrid realization set in; Bilbo was held— captured— in the troll’s jaws. It was almost too much for the little hobbit’s heart, and the corners of his vision blurred. Perhaps if he were lucky, he would faint and miss the pain of being torn in two by the sheer strength of the troll’s bite. Seconds felt like hours as Bruce held the hobbit in his teeth’s grasp, and Bilbo glanced about his surroundings, dazed by the attack and partially awaiting the minute that the jaws would snap together, and he’d be reduced to cuts of meat.

But the agony didn’t come.

Suddenly, Bruce lurched forward. They were moving. Forward, he thought, though vertigo set in and, for a moment, Bilbo couldn’t quite tell up from down. He could feel the points of the troll’s premolars digging into both his chest and thighs; luckily, they hadn’t pierced the skin, but would most certainly bruise later. If Bilbo wasn’t eaten before that.

“Where are we going? Where are you taking me?” Bilbo asked, breathlessly. His hands grappled at the flesh along the troll’s chin and his legs kicked weakly in protest. “Ye’ll see soon ‘nough,” the troll replied, his words muffled; this close, Bilbo could feel the deepness of Bruce’s voice vibrating through his body and it did little to calm whatever nerves he had left. The edges of Bilbo’s vision blurred, then darkened, and the little hobbit slipped out of consciousness.

Bilbo awoke with a jolt and immediately felt the teeth digging into his chest once more. The hobbit gave a shaky sigh, disappointed that it hadn’t all been a nightmare and he’d been back in Rivendell this whole time. “Oh, good! Ye’re awake. We’re comin’ up to a dodgy part in the path ahead. If it makes ye feel better,” Bruce said, shaking Bilbo from his thoughts. “Don’t look down.” Don’t look—? In the dim light, Bilbo couldn’t quite discern if the ground had fallen away, or if the cavern floor were simply a pitch black. The troll’s claw dislodged a stream of pebbles that descended into the floor, swallowed up by the darkness below. Well, that answered Bilbo’s question. A sharp ravine wound beneath both him and his captor with a width large enough for the hobbit to slip and fall through. Yet the troll’s size was so great that it was nothing more than a furrow in the middle of the road; Bruce kept his arms and legs on each side, far from the middle of the path. After moments turned to minutes and fear dissolved into disgruntled impatience, Bilbo found his voice returning to his throat. “Why aren’t you telling me where we’re headed?” “Would it matter to you?” The hobbit sighed, dejected, and grew silent. Bruce was most certainly taking Bilbo to his hoard, or his part of the cave to devour. And Bilbo figured that the troll knew that the hobbit knew this. And he hadn’t even his sword to defend himself. “So ‘ow’d ye end up down ‘ere, anyway?” the troll asked, words still garbled from holding Bilbo beneath his teeth. Self-awareness nearly caused the hobbit to scoff with sickened amusement. Here Bilbo was, dangling from the mouth of a giant troll, and the troll wanted to know his prey’s life story.   “Do you ask that question to everyone you eat?” Bilbo asked, impatiently. “Or are you just trying to fill the silence?” “The latter, usually,” the troll replied, with a shrug. “Might as well, while we walk.” “Fine,” Bilbo sighed, brow low as he squirmed with discomfort. “I… I was with a company, but I lost them in the mountains,” Bilbo said, shortly before adding, “But I doubt my absence will matter all that much.” The troll grew uncharacteristically silent for a moment and Bilbo chanced some movement to turn his head, catching a glimpse that confused him greatly. The beady blue eyes of the troll had softened, brows knit with an almost concerned expression. What was it spread across the beast’s face? Guilt that he was going to soon eat his company? Sympathy to Bilbo’s plight? 

After a long moment, Bruce finally spoke again.  “We’re ‘lmost there, lil’ morsel,” the troll said solemnly. “It’s just up ahead.” Bilbo turned his head to the side, in the direction of their path. A single thin line of light sliced through the darkness. For a moment, the hobbit could only see white through the shape; yet as his eyes adjusted and the troll drew closer, he could catch colors of green and blue, and caught the scent of pine trees and crisp air. The way out. He was so close. So close to freedom that he could feel the wind of the outside world. Yet, just as the realization had settled into the hobbit’s mind, Bilbo felt the troll lurch to a stop and his heart sank. It was right there. The door was right there! Suddenly the ground rushed up to meet Bilbo as Bruce lowered his jaws to the ground. The hobbit didn’t feel the teeth pull away from him until both of his furry feet were planted on the ground. Already, Bilbo could feel the wind on his face and the warm light from the outside world dip the stark, gray stones around the entrance into a honeyed glow. Even the troll’s features shone clearer; Bilbo noticed the various scars lining the troll’s body and the odd hue of blue in the troll’s skin. He also noticed that the troll stood in the sunlight, yet Bruce’s skin didn’t transform into dusty gray rock. Which meant— Oh, Bilbo’s heart sank suddenly. Even if he made a mad dash for the exit of the cave, the troll would catch up to him. Not even sunlight could save him. 

“’lright, Bilbo. Ye ready?” Bruce’s voice bellowed from behind Bilbo, and the hobbit felt his face redden. So that’s how it was going to be, then? The troll would ask the hobbit to just hold still and snap him up, when Bilbo was inches from getting out of the horrid cave? Did the troll think Bilbo would react kindly—obediently— and go quietly as he was butchered? No! Certainly not! This was too much! “You— you absolute fiend!” Bilbo needn’t care about any insult thrown towards the troll; he was going to die, anyway. And Bruce’s treatment towards his prey couldn’t be any crueler. “Is this all a game to you? Taking me all this way out of caves just to eat me? Just to have freedom be right there and snatch it all away?!” Furious, the hobbit punched and kicked at the troll’s legs, thick as tree trunks. The blows did little to move Bruce, and Bilbo doubted the troll could even feel them. If only he’d still had his sword; at least he’d give the troll some pain for the hobbit’s trouble. Only when the hobbit’s attacks persisted did a giant hand snatch Bilbo up again. Yet anger had replaced any fear still residing in Bilbo and his mouth pressed firmly into a line, defiantly glowering at his captor. “I’m not gonna eat’cha,” Bruce confessed, a guilty expression spreading across his scarred features. “Never was.” Bilbo froze, blinked, and then sputtered indignantly. Not that he wished to be eaten or killed or mangled— heavens, no! “Then why didn’t you just say so?!” the hobbit asked as the volume of his voice rose, sternly. The troll heaved a heavy sigh. “I wanted to! I did, believe me! It’s just… I heard the little cave creature followin’ us—” Bilbo blinked in confusion before memories rushed back, of stone in gnarled hand and the goblin’s broken skull. “He was gettin’ quite close to you from the shadows; I needed to make sure he thought ye were a goner.” The hobbit recalled the spindly creature, its throaty, scratchy voice as it bludgeoned the goblin to death. Bilbo could barely find his own words, bewildered. “But you said— “   “You said I could ‘ave my way with ye,” Bruce grinned, yet this time his eyes were soft. Thoughtful, even. “Never actually said anythin’ ‘bout eatin’ ye, that’s for sure.” The troll then reached behind him along his leather belt and retrieved a shining object, pinched delicately between his thumb and index finger. Bilbo’s brows rose. His sword! All this time, he’d thought the troll left it behind them in the cave. With a strange gentleness, Bruce set the hobbit down and handed the sword back to Bilbo, handle first. “Might wanna hurry ‘long then. I smell yer friends up ahead.” The hobbit blinked incredulously before accepting back his sword and returning it to its sheath. He swallowed before raising his gaze up to the giant. “Thank you,” Bilbo said, quite sincerely. “Maybe we’ll meet ‘gain, li’l bite. Hopefully under better circumstances,” Bruce said, giving a nod to the hobbit before turning back towards the cave. Bilbo gave one last look at the troll before nodding in return; and he hurried along, racing down the hill in hopes of catching up to the company.

[kloxbian]

You’re my Little Secret Chapter Six

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category: F/F

Fandom: The 100 (TV)

Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Characters: Clarke Griffin, Lexa (The 100), Octavia Blake, Bellamy Blake, Anya (The 100), Mountain Men (The 100), Raven Reyes

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe, Forbidden Love, Secret Relationship, Grounder Clarke Griffin, Sort Of, Opposite of slowburn, More tags to be added

Language: English

Words: 21,046

Chapters (as of 4/6/2020): 8/?

Previous Chapter: Lexa could feel herself seething. How dare that insolent boy treat Clarke like she was some branwada goufa who needed a caretaker. It was blatant disrespect, and Lexa had to restrain the urge to knock him in the head to see if it would put some sense into his brain.

Lexa began her return to her own camp, pondering over what it was about the skai girl that made her feel such emotions.

It came out of nowhere.

The first sign that it came was the scream, then the sound of ripping flesh. Clarke jolted awake, scrambling out of the dropship into the night.

You couldn’t see it at first; its coat was as dark as the sky. But you could see the movement. Two people sprinted for the dropship, one of them falling down at something leaped onto their back. They screamed as claws dug into their back, pulling them to pieces.

Clarke grabbed her knife, charging in the direction of the mysterious assailant. A reckless, stupid move on her part, but what else was she to do? With a yell, she stabbed her knife between the shoulder blades of the four-legged beast. It yowled, turning so fast that she lost her grip on the hilt. It was on her before she could blink.

It was heavy, she noticed as it stood on her chest, claws tearing at her stomach. Its yellow eyes gleamed in the darkness, tell-tale signs that it was a feline. With this discovery, it took a second for the pain to hit. But when it did, it hit full blast.

She couldn’t hold back her screams. It wasn’t on her for long, though - someone, some stupid, wanna-be heroic kid tackled it to the ground. She rolled over, attempting to stand but collapsing back into the dirt. She could hear the shrieks of the big cat, far too big to be normal, and the chortled wail as it died, but she was only aware of the excruciating pain, the blood leaking from her torso and soaking the ground.

In all the confusion, someone grabbed her by the armpits, pulling her back. She bit her lip hard enough that it bled. Eventually, they slipped their arms beneath her, lifting her to their chest, and the shock of pain that went through her was enough to send her spiraling toward the darkness. Hushed whispers filled her ears but she was gone before she could hear.

-

She woke up more comfortable than she’d ever been.

Unfortunately, she was also in agonizing pain.

It had dulled since she was last awake, and there was something cold smeared over her wound that soothed a bit of the heat, but it still hurt to even breathe. She groaned loudly, opening her eyes and immediately closing them. 

She heard a quiet laugh and slowly blinked awake. Sitting beside her bed, dressed in a way she’d never been before, was Lexa.

She flinched, wincing from the pain. “Lexa?” Her voice cracked harshly. “Where am I?”

“You’re in Tondisi.” She reached over to rest a hand on Clarke’s arm. “I brought you here after the attack on your camp.”

TonDC. The Trikru capital. She remembered Lexa telling her about it. “Why am I here?”

“The Skenripa did great harm to you. I feared the skills of your delinquents would not be adequate enough to care for you.” She looked at Clarke, slightly nervous but hidden behind a mask that she hadn’t seen for a while. “I had to use the ruse that you were a prisoner. I hope you do not mind.”

Prisoner? “Will I be able to leave?”

“Assuredly,” Lexa replied. “I will have you back to your people as soon as you are healed.”

“I need to get back to them now.” She struggled to sit up, the bandages around her stomach keeping her stiff. “They’re probably worried.”

“Oh, they are. They’ve sent out search parties for you. But you cannot go back to them as you are.”

“I have to.” She threw her legs over the side of the bed, gritting her teeth painfully. “There are probably a ton of injuries. I’m the only healer there.”

“Yes, but none are on the same level as yours,” Lexa argued. “The others can survive with what they have until you are fit to travel.”

“Which would be days, maybe weeks. I have to get back.” She rose to her feet, swaying unsteadily for a second before her knees crumpled. Lexa lunged forward and caught her, helping her sit back onto the bed. 

“Klark, you cannot even stand. There is no hope for you getting back to your people today.” Lexa pushed her into the furs. “Rest.”

“No, Lexa, I can’t!”

“Heda?” They both froze, Lexa’s face instantly turning emotionless. A guard peeked his head through the entrance. “Em ething ait?”

“Sha, Gostos. Em’s ogeda ona rak op.” He dipped his head respectfully, backing out of the tent.

Clarke was frozen in place. “Who was that?”

“My guard.” Lexa sat down next to Clarke, thinking carefully about how to word this. “Klark, there is something about me which I haven’t told you.”

Clarke knew that she was uninformed about Lexa’s life, very much so, but the way she spoke made it sound huge. She stiffened, nodding for Lexa to continue.

Lexa took a deep breath, schooling her face into apathy. “You have heard me speak of the commander, yes?”

“Of course. She was the one who kept us alive.”

“Yes, well…” Lexa, always one to keep things blunt, pushed right ahead. “The commander - is myself.”

It took many long moments for her words to register. Clarke’s face turned from something akin to concern to confusion. “You’re the commander?”

Lexa nodded mutely.

“But then -” Clarke inhaled long and deep, struggling to keep her mind in one place. “You were the one who spared us? Who ordered us to be watched? Who was the one observing us?”

“Yes.” Lexa pursed her lips. “You have to understand, Klark - I am revered as a god among my people. If you were to tell the other Skairku, not that I believe you would, but if you had, it is entirely possible I would be evicted from my position. To have friendly relations with what my people consider to be an enemy is sacrilege.”

Clarke thought over it all in her head, leaving Lexa waiting anxiously. Finally, she answered. “Then why tell me now? Why bring me to TonDC?”

“Because I need you. Out of all the Skaikru, you are by far the most promising. To lose you would be to lose the most powerful influence they have that is keeping them from starting a war with us.”

“Oh, so this is all about politics?” Clarke knew that it wasn’t, deep in her heart, she knew, but the way Lexa was speaking of her as if she was only cared about because of her influence- it got to her. “I don’t matter, of course not, just that you keep a handhold over my people.”

“Klark, no, that’s not all it is.”

“But that’s part of it. A big part, probably. Why would the great commander want to befriend a measly Skaikru girl?” Clarke narrowed her eyes. “It was all a part of a plan, wasn’t it? To use me as a pawn in your scheme?”

“It’s not like that at all!” Lexa reached out to take one of her hands, feeling a pang of hurt at Clarke’s rejection. “Maybe it was at first, but I trust you, Klark. In ways I should not. I consider you a friend and hope it can stay that way after this.”

God, Clarke wanted that, too. Every moment she’d spent with Lexa had been one of the best. Never before had someone treated her the way Lexa did, not like she was the daughter of Jake and Abby Griffin, but like she was Clarke. Lexa didn’t know of her past, and what she did know, she didn’t judge her on. It was a feeling she’d soaked in every time she was in Lexa’s presence. But to learn that all this time, Lexa had been lying to her-

She took a deep breath. She needed to look at this from Lexa’s side. And, even through the feeling of betrayal, she could see that Lexa was right. It was a smart move. 

But still-

No. She couldn’t.

“I don’t forgive you.” Lexa’s face dropped even more, her emotionless facade completely gone. “But I’ll give you another chance. I want to be your friend, Lexa, I really do, but I have to know that I can trust you. Even if you are the commander.”

Lexa nodded. “Of course, Klark.”

“Then get me back to my people.”

Lexa sighed. “I cannot convince you to stay, can I?”

“No.”

“Then I will have it arranged to be taken back to your people as soon as I can.”

Clarke paused at that. “You won’t be taking me back?” No, of course she wouldn't, she’s the damn commander. Then again, she had been the one watching them.

Lexa cocked her head. “Do you want me to?”

“I’d… prefer that, yes.” As much as she despised Lexa right now, she still trusted her more than anyone else that might be in the town. At least she knew her.

“Then I will. Let me inform Indra that I will be taking you back myself, and then we shall depart.” Clarke nodded, unsure exactly of what Lexa’s position as commander entailed for this, but deciding now wasn’t the time to ask. Not when it would only delay them.

Lexa left, and Clarke waited impatiently, left alone to her thoughts. Why had Lexa been watching them personally? She had scouts to do that for her. And then why had she of all people decided to try and make friends with one of the Skaikru? It would’ve been easier for her to have someone else do it. Unless she didn’t trust her people to do it correctly. 

She pondered over this for the entire time she was alone, her mind filled with questions about Lexa. If she had been lying about this, who knew what else she was lying about?

Lexa finally stepped back into the tent, walking over to the bed. “Come, Klark. If you are ready, we are prepared to leave.”

Much to her dismay, she needed Lexa’s help to make it out of the tent. With Clarke leaning heavily against her side, Lexa led them out of the tent over to the stables.

Clarke took one look at the horses and shut down. “Oh, no. I can’t ride a horse.”

Lexa sent her an inquisitive look. “Why not? They will hasten our journey.”

“I don’t know how. Plus, it wouldn’t help my injury.”

“Neither would walking the entire way there. It is a day’s walk, Klark. The horse will at least lessen the pressure placed on your injury.”

Clarke frowned, her mind searching for an alternative. “But what about crutches?”

“Crutches.” Lexa’s mouth contorted awkwardly around the word. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“They were things that you put under your arm and acted as legs. You’d step forward with them and then use them to walk.”

Lexa cocked her head. “I have never heard of such a device. Is it like your tek?”

“No, it’s… nevermind.” She sighed loudly. “Do you at least have painkillers?” “Sha. I asked a sekon to retrieve them for me earlier.”

“You mean the girl currently sprinting toward us?”

Lexa looked in the direction and had to hold back a chuckle as the girl skidded to a stop, holding out a bag of herbs. “Thank you, Tris. Do you remember what Anya told you about running through the village like that?”

Tris flushed. “That it is undignified of me.”

“Sha, it is. It could also cause harm to yourself or others. You are not a child, Tris.”

She ducked her head. “Moba, Heda.”

Lexa nodded. “Good. Now run along.”

The girl scampered off. Lexa opened the bag, plucking out two of the berries. “Eat these. They should take effect soon.”

Clarke took them from her hand and bit into them, grimacing at the bitter taste. “Now can we walk?”

“It will take longer. On the herbs, as long as you have a steady mount, your injury should be able to handle a lope. It will cut the time in half.”

Clarke bit her lip. As much as she hated the idea of riding a horse, she couldn’t deny the benefits. “Fine. But we leave them behind once we get close to camp.”

Lexa nodded. “Of course, Klark.”

A stablehand brought out two horses, a mutated two-headed mare and a large, regal white stallion. The stablehand helped her onto the horse while Lexa easily mounted hers. Lexa quickly briefed her on how to ride a horse while she guided them both through the streets, nodding politely to the guards as they opened the gates for her.

Before they could make it out of the gates, a loud boom rocked the earth. Clarke’s horse reared up, still held in place by Lexa, who had its reins in her hands. Clarke gasped at the sudden pain but quickly forgot it as she watched something come flaming down, outlined by the setting sun. A thwump so strong they could hear it from there sounded as a parachute sprang out behind it, slowing it down until it crashed behind the trees.

Lexa wrapped the reins of Clarke’s horse tightly around her hand. “Hold on.”

Clarke had to hold back a yelp as Lexa kicked her horse into a gallop. She grasped at her horse’s mane, leaning over its shoulders and watching the trees fly past in a blur. The jolts made her wince with each stride, but she could hold it together. She watched Lexa instead, the way her braided locks sailed out behind her, how the red sash flickered and whipped in the wind, the way her jacket flared out behind her. 

They rode through the setting of the sun and past the starry twilight, only stopping when the starlight dimmed so low that it was impossible to see the trees around them. Lexa dismounted, tying both horses to a tree. “I hope you are comfortable sleeping on the ground,” Lexa said, helping her off her horse. “You will have to tonight.”

“I’ll be alright,” Clarke said, hovering awkwardly. Lexa sat down with her back to one of the large oaken trees. Watching. Waiting.

Clarke leaned against her horse, eyeing Lexa back. Lexa nodded to the ground. “Are you going to sleep or not?”

“Are you not?”

Lexa shook her head. “Dangers lurk in the night. If we both slept, we might never awaken.”

Oh. That wasn’t at all worrying. Though after last night’s attack, she supposed she couldn’t argue. With slow, careful movements, she stumbled away from the horses, dropping down onto the forest floor. She hadn’t realized how much her legs ached after riding for hours, and she was thankful to succumb to sleep.

-

Clarke woke to the smell of cooked meat. She rolled onto her back, groaning as her injury stretched. Eyes opening blurrily, she could see that Lexa had lit a fire, and had a rabbit cooking over it. From the other side, her eyes met Lexa’s.

She sat up slowly, her hand reflexively clutching her stomach. Lexa smiled politely at her. “The food is just about ready. We’ll mount up immediately after. I hope to reach the new skaiship before your people do.”

The other ship! Clarke looked up at the sky, noting that it was just barely dawn. She doubted any of the delinquents would be awake. They’d probably reach it before them unless they had to ride for another couple hours. Whether she wanted her and Lexa to reach it first would depend on what was inside.

Neither she nor Lexa spoke as they ate, both avoiding the other’s gaze. Clarke clearly remembered yesterday, Lexa newfound position as commander of the twelve clans. For someone so powerful, she seemed oddly affectionate, at least toward Clarke. She wondered if that was on purpose, and if so, why.

Or maybe Lexa genuinely wanted Clarke to like her.

With such a large political divide between them, it was hard to be sure.

Back on the horses, Lexa set a slower pace, more comfortable but still speedy. Clarke was thankful for that,whether or not Lexa did it for hert. Her thighs already ached from last night’s sprint.

They reached the ship within the hour. Lexa had left their horses behind, two people falling from the trees to take them, people who Clarke now knew were Lexa’s guards. She had no doubt some were following them now. They’d probably had eyes on the ship since it landed.

The ship had mostly settled, a bit of smoke still leaking from the engine. It looked untouched. Lexa hung back at the tree line and watched Clarke approach it, a hand reaching back to settle on her sword. She had no idea what the Skaikru could send in the Skaiship.

Clarke opened the door, ducking inside as soon as she could. There were no supplies, no stores of food or blankets for the cold, but what there was…

Clarke clambered into the ship, kneeling on the adjacent seat and shaking the shoulder of the girl inside. Her helmet had been completely fogged up with her breath, cracks running all across it, leaving the face obscured. Blood leaked from the top. A concussion, most likely, if not something worse. She was alive, at least. Clarke could see that much.

The girl moaned in pain, head lolling to the side as a hand reached up to touch her head. Clarke caught it. “Hey. Leave it.”

The girl removed her helmet, shaking her sweaty hair out of her face. She blinked up at Clarke. “Where am I?”

Clarke couldn’t help a grin. “You’re on the ground.”

She helped the other girl out, first noticing that Lexa was nowhere to be seen. The next thing she noticed was Finn bursting out of the trees.

Finn froze, staring in disbelief. The other girl stared right back, a huge grin stretching over her face. Clarke hesitantly let her go, watching her waver a bit but was otherwise fine. “Raven?”

Newly-named Raven laughed. “Finn!”

They rushed to each other, embracing heartily. They spoke softly, too low for Clarke to hear, and she watched with rising disgust as they kissed. 

Breaking apart, Clarke wandered closer, listening to their conversation. From what she could gather, Raven had rebuilt the ship from scrap, coming down to the ground… to be with Finn. “I would do anything for you,” she said, voice filled with adoration. “Just like you would for me.”

At Finn’s glance toward Clarke, she knew that Finn would, in fact, not do anything for her. Not when it came down to obsessing over another girl.

Raven faltered, knees collapsing, and Finn carefully set her down. Jogging back to Clarke, she handed him a medkit. He looked at her guiltily. “I’m sorry.”

Ha. Like that would cut it. “Let’s not talk about this.”

Finn nodded, pursing his lips and turning back to Raven. She followed him. “This is Clarke,” he said. “She was on the dropship.”

Raven looked back to her, eyes widening in recognition. “Clarke? This was all because of your mom. This was all her plan. We were trying to come down together, we were waiting, but…” Raven’s smile sank. “Oh, no. We were waiting because the council was voting whether to kill three hundred people to save oxygen.”

Clarke felt her breath rush past her lips. “When?” “Today!” Pushing past them both, she stumbled over to the ship, grabbing hastily for it. “We have to tell them you’re alive!”

Ducking under the door, Raven leaned against the control panel, bending over to see the radio. She was still for a moment, unmoving, before she turned back to them. “The radio’s gone. It must have gotten loose during reentry.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, that was bad. If the Ark was going to slaughter three hundred people and they had no way to tell them otherwise? They’d stay up in the sky forever, slowly losing oxygen until there was no one left alive.

Raven cursed, pounding her fist against the side of the pod. Clarke put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey. We have someone at the dropship working on a way to communicate with the Ark. If you’re as genius a mechanic as you claim to be, maybe we can have it done before they start the killing.”

“Is it close to done?”

“I have no idea.” She looked at Finn. He shrugged. Clarke swore under her breath. “Last time I checked, no, but I’ve been gone all day. I don’t know.”

“Speaking of which,” Finn said, drawing both their attention. “Where have you been?”

Clarke pursed her lips. “The middle of the forest. Don’t ask, because I don’t know either.”

Not very believable, but it would have to do.”

“Well, let’s get going!” Raven said, grabbing Finn’s arm and pulling him. “Which way?”

Finn led her away, looking back at Clarke with perhaps the most pitiful expression on his face. She scoffed. If he thought he could get off the hook just from that, he was sorely mistaken.

She followed behind them, watching Finn and Raven talk softly, grinning like they were crazy in love. One of them was, at least.

She felt something brush her shoulder and turned, startled to see Lexa, feet planted against the side of a tree, one hand gripping a branch above her. Clarke felt both relieved and annoyed. “What, was I not walking quietly enough?”

Lexa ignored that, leaning closer. “We have a bit of a problem,” she muttered, so quietly that Clarke had to strain to hear her. “My scouts reported that one of your people had wandered a distance from camp and fell down a slope, injuring herself.”

Clarke glanced warily back at Finn and Raven, but neither were paying attention to her. “Where are they?”

“That’s the problem.” Lexa’s eyes followed hers to the other skaikru. “One of my scouts disobeyed my direct orders to leave the Skaikru alone.”

Clarke felt dread settle in her stomach. “And?”

“He took her. I’m afraid one of my people has one of yours hostage.”

Chapters 1-8 up on ao3 here.

First chapter on Tumblr here.

Previous chapter here.

Next chapter here.