#sorry for the long wait for this chapter

[sakuravalenp]

Don't eat anything else - Part 3 - DP X DC

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Masterpost

Sam had somehow fallen asleep after hours of rolling in her bed, so of course, when her phone started ringing, she was just about ready to send the thing flying across the room. She covered her ears with her pillow, hoping the thing would shut up soon enough, and cursed her past self for leaving the phone in her desk instead of plugging it to the socket that was just behind her bed. She could have already shut the thing off then, but no, she’ll have to get out of bed to do it. She was going to maul whoever decided it was a good idea to call in the middle of the night.

With a resigned huff, she got out of bed and went to the desk, stumbling over the chair because of course she hadn’t pushed it back into the space the desk left for it, and snatched the phone roughly, pulling the charger and making her pencil case fall off the desk. The clattering sounds let her know she had also left that open. She groans, and squints at her phone screen, her eyes complaining at the sudden light, she takes a look at the insistent caller: Tucker. She answers while letting herself fall into the chair.

“Tucker, it’s like two am. You better be dying, or I swear to the ancients I’m throwing your beloved PDA into a natural portal to never be seen again!”

“Check the Phantom chat.” Sam blinked. She was expecting some sort of dramatic response. Then her mind caught up to what her friend had just asked.

“Did Danny text anything!?” The call was already being placed on speaker as she took her phone off her ear and started looking for their chat server.

“You’ll have to check yourself, it’s a full text wall, I’ve just read like- the first paragraph. Just- check it out and call me back when you’ve read it all.”

Sam frowned at the beep of the call being ended. She had never hated so much that their server took so long to load. She understood why; a hidden server that went through the infinite realms? Tucker was a genius for creating it. Still, in times like this the waiting was excruciating.

Danny didn’t tell them anything about his life with Vlad. She would say it screamed red flags, but it was Vlad. The moment the man had gotten custody of Danny all the fire alarms were going off in Sam’s head, and they hadn’t stopped since.

They tried not to push much at the start. The Fentons and Jazz’s death was too fresh, so they just checked in, asking how things were going, trying not to prod. But weeks turned to months, and they hadn’t been able to see Danny, and he was not telling them anything.

They had been keeping tabs of what they could get. Danny checked in at least once a day, until he didn’t. There would be days without response, and then Danny would check in again with some vague excuse. When that became common enough, Danny stopped making up excuses and just directly checking in without explaining the absence.

His texts were useless to understand his situation, other than he was well enough to text them, so their next focus was his public appearance. There weren’t a lot of those, but they would be happy with any scraps they could get. 

Vlad had taken Danny to more than a couple of galas and some political events, proudly flaunting his heir, and yet, there were barely any photos of Danny at said events. It was up in the air whether it was due to Vlad avoiding the pictures getting out or due to how difficult it was to get a clear photo of Danny.

Nevertheless, the few pictures they did get weren’t great. He looked emaciated, lost so much weight, lost any brightness in his eyes. Still, Sam had almost cried from relief the first time they got a picture. The mind can be cruel when there's nothing to hold it back, and Sam had about a thousand terrible thoughts of what Vlad could be doing to Danny. At least he was in one piece. 

Her phone vibrated, letting her know the server had finally loaded. There was a bubble beside the Phantom group chat letting her know there were new texts. She pressed on the group chat and was indeed greeted by a wall of text. She scrolled back to find the beginning.

Hey guys, you’ll probably won’t see this until tomorrow but I needed to write this right away before I started doubting. Not that that’s really a choice at this point, not when the Waynes already left with those notes.

The Waynes? Oh, yeah, Danny had mentioned Vlad had invited them to dinner once. First visitors they would be getting. Sam had idly wondered if she would have gotten a chance to see Danny if her parents were more influential. She had never wished for her parents to be richer before. 

So anyway, the Waynes visiting kind of changed things here a bit. I may not have been really honest about how things were going here with Vlad. Though, you probably already knew that, and I’m sorry, but I don’t know if I can tell you guys. I just don’t think I can get myself to tell you, and I’m so sorry, because you’re always there and deserve the truth, but I can’t. So, let’s just leave as things hadn’t been great, and Vlad was more of a monster than we ever thought he could be. 

Sam didn’t like that, it was terribly vague. What had Vlad done to Danny that he didn’t feel he could tell them? Sure they had been dealing with Danny’s silence, but now he was straight up telling them he couldn’t get himself to talk about it. The fact that he couldn’t even explain what Vlad had done meant it was probably worse than what she imagined.

They’d faced their fair share of horrors over the years while combating the rogues, and there had never been a problem verbalizing it. Something horrible had happened. Sam was going to kill Vlad. She didn’t care what the full story was, if it was bad enough that Danny actively refused to tell them, it was bad enough to revoke Vlad’s right to existence. 

The thing is, I can’t keep this up. The Wayne’s came in, and Vlad's plans for dinner made me realize I couldn’t let this keep going. I managed to sneak a note to Timothy Drake-Wayne. Everyone knows the Waynes have connections to the Justice league.

Sam frowned. The Justice League had been shining for their absence from everything involving Amity. That absence still burned like acid. They’d begged for help. Pleaded. Amity had become a warzone more than once, and no one had come. Would they really show up just because the Waynes got involved?

I know they hadn’t been answering our calls, but now it affected the Waynes. Again, I can’t explain how it affected them, but I’m pretty sure the Waynes will make sure the Justice League gets involved. I had to tell them that Vlad isn’t human. It would only end in an apocalypse if they came looking for Vlad without being prepared. They’ll look for you guys. I told them you had the means to combat him. 

Oh shit. Was she really meeting with the Justice League? In friendly terms? After all the ignored calls, Sam had swore it would be on sight if she ever met the assholes. And if they really showed up just because the Waynes were the ones to call, Sam wasn’t sure if she could keep it civil.

I didn’t reveal myself to the Waynes, I don’t know what the Justice League stand on ghosts is, all this is already a big risk, the GIW are bad enough on their own, there’s no way we would survive the Justice League hunting us, but Vlad needs to be stopped. I need you guys to give them what they need to not be possessed, and the ectoguns that I modified, maybe an ectoshield. Nothing more, they have a good history with non-humans, but I don’t know if we can trust them to not start a hunting campaign after Vlad. Try making it clear that this is a Vlad problem, not a ghost problem. I’m sorry I’m leaving everything to you guys, I can’t do anything from this side.

Her breath trembled. If the Waynes were really able to convince the Justice league to finally intervene, they might have days. She and Tucker needed to prep everything.

Ghost attacks had become rare since the portal was destroyed, but sometimes ghosts still came through naturally forming ones. There couldn’t be a ghost attack while the Justice League was there. Not when they needed to convince them that Vlad was the exception, not the rule.

They needed to get the gear and figure out how to lie to the Justice League convincingly enough that they wouldn’t turn every ghost into collateral damage.

Because Vlad might be the monster. But the League could still be the executioners.

Still, despite all the anxiety running through her veins, Sam felt hopeful. Danny had reached for help, after months of silence he had finally reached for help, and for once there seemed to be a chance they'd see Danny again. 

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

They couldn’t continue reading the paper right away. There was no way to do it. Cass was more sensitive to people's deaths than anyone else in her family, and Bruce had focused on supporting her so he wouldn’t have to think about what he had just eaten. He had helped Cass to the bathroom like he hadn’t vomited as well. Tim had mumbled something about needing a shower, a really long shower, and left. Jason had forgotten the pretender had been bathed in that cursed soup.

He did think about taking the paper and finishing reading it himself, but green edged his vision, rage bursting under the skin, and he needed an outlet, which he didn’t have here. The punch he had thrown onto the wall had already left a mark, and this was a house they rented as Waynes, he couldn’t just trash it all.

He had worked through some breathing exercises Dick had introduced to him. He’ll never tell Dick, but they did work somewhat. It wasn’t really a surprise, Jason knew Dick had anger issues. The bastard seemed like the perfect young adult holding it together these days, but Jason was there for his teenage rebellion, and that was supposedly an improvement from how he had been as Robin. So of course the breathing exercises helped, but it wasn’t enough.

He felt like giving the wall another punch from the frustration, but he had been trying to “redirect his anger” in less violent ways lately, and this was the kind of situation where it would be better to clear his head instead of exploding. He could save the explosion for when they had that reprobate on their hands. 

His phone was pinging and Jason knew it was probably the rest of the family asking for an update. The sudden silence probably got them worried the supposed poison had been something serious, and as the only one in commission at the moment, he should be the one reporting, but he was pretty sure he would crack his phone if he used it right then. His helmet took his attention where it resided on the desk, and he made a decision.

You’re not supposed to ride while you're angry, that’s how accidents happen, but that didn’t apply to people like him. Red Hood spent most of the night in his motorcycle while absolutely furious; they knew how to ride without becoming a public safety issue. 

He grabbed his helmet and screamed before putting it on. “You better don’t read the damn note before I’m back!” And then he was on the road once again. 

He rode around the small city, making the same circle over and over again at maximum speed. Harsh changes in direction that made the adrenaline pump in his veins. It was a good outlet. At some point the green receded enough for him to think clearer. He lowered the speed a bit, and connected his helmet to the comms. The questioning screams from everyone on comms came instantly.

“Shut the fuck up. I can’t understand a single thing you are saying.” As expected, that didn’t have any effect, but a minute later the line went dead silent. Babs must have muted everyone's lines. 

“Hood, what’s the situation? Did the antidote work without problem?” Babs asked.

Jason almost laughed. Antidote. They wished it had just been some stupid poison. “It wasn’t poison, or drugs, Batman and Orphan are… physically fine.”

There was a moment of silence, then Jason could hear the crackle of a line joining the comms again. “What does that mean Todd?” Damian finally asked.

Jason could feel the rage try to creep back at the thought of what really was in the food, he pushed it back. He didn’t want to really talk about what really was in the food. Another crackle. “Little wing? What was in the food?” 

Jason sighed. Why should he be the only one in commission to report back? No, he was glad to not have been anywhere close to that hideous concoction that didn’t have a right to be called food. He turned the speed back up.

“Apparently, Vlad Masters is a cannibal. One in the habit of sharing his taste with others.” The silence in the other line was about what he expected, so was the new explosion of voices that came afterward. 

Yeah, no. Report given. They could deal with the news themselves. Jason disconnected from comms and started riding back to the house. Checking the time on the edge of his helmet screen, he saw he had been riding for quite some time. How has two hours already passed? 

He left the motorcycle in the garage. There was no one there, so Jason wandered inside. He found Tim was sitting on the sofa with his laptop in the living room, the note folded beside him. Bruce sat on a chair beside him still looking pained. Jason talked from the door.

“Did you actually wait for me?”

Tim shrugged and without taking his eye off. “Figured it would be better to read once we were all here.”

“Where’s Cass?” He asked, walking to the opposite side of the couch.

“She asked to be filled in later.” Bruce answered. “It’s better we read the rest of the note already. I can’t imagine what else Danny would like us to know.”

Tim sighed, like someone had asked him to be the one to read the letter instead of him being the one to take it upon himself. He took the note, unfolding it again, and Jason could see he was making an effort to ignore the first line.

“I don’t know who the victims are, or where Vlad gets them, but they’re recently deceased. So somewhere there must be people disappearing constantly. It may not be the same place all the time, or it may not even be the same city. Vlad isn’t human.”

“Fucking great. Just what we were missing. What is it this time? A vampire? He definitely has the aesthetic going for him.” The pretender glared at him for the interruption, but Jason thinks the situation fully justifies his reaction.

Bruce sighed. “Language. Please, go on, Tim.”

“He’s a kind of ghost.” Tim raised an eyebrow but continued reading. “I know it may be hard to believe for outsiders, but ghosts are pretty much a common occurrence in Amity Park.”

“I thought that was just a tourist trap.” Jason commented, which gained him another glare from Tim. Jason didn’t bother to acknowledge it, though, inside, he was quite enjoying getting the little shit annoyed.

Tim huffed, and lowered the note a bit before commenting. “There are quite a few claims of ghost sightings, but we couldn’t find any proof of them when we took a look at Amity while searching for a house to rent.” He turned to the computer and started typing something.

“Even then, those reports were not of great importance, mentions of seeing a figure for a couple a seconds in the corner of a room, of a shadow following them around the city, or a pale little kid running around in the cemetery.” Bruce added. “The whole city works around the theme.The biggest school is called Casper High, and most attractions are named after ghost-related puns. We concluded it was, in fact, a tourist trap.”

“So what, the kid is imagining his guardian isn’t human? Making things up to cope with the fact that he is a cannibal? That-”

“Um. Bruce, you might want to see this.” Tim interrupted him.

His eyes were wide, scanning quickly through a webpage. Jason moved close to see the screen, and so did Bruce, standing up from his chair to lean over the back of the sofa. Tim started reading titles while he passed the mouse over them. 

“Octo-Ghost Assists Kindergarten Party and Almost Becomes The Birthday Girl's Pet. First Ghost Attack of the Week in Casper High, Red huntress Captures It Before It Can Disrupt Class. Ghost Known as Lunch Lady Visits Local Restaurant and Asks for a Cooking Battle With the Owner: See the Unexpected Results. Don’t You Miss When Ghosts Would Interrupt Class at Least Once a Day? A ranting blog by Phan_number1. None of this existed when we were checking Amity!”

“How is that even possible? The Batcomputer should have pinged something if there was anything blocking the information,” Bruce says in what sounded like a monotone voice, but any of his kids could tell he’s alarmed by the fact that so much information was successfully hidden from the Batcomputer. “Try sending a link to Babs.”

Tim goes ahead to do that with the ranting blog, but honestly, Jason couldn’t care less if the oh-so-great Batcomputer missed this.

“So the kid isn’t making things up, great. Can you both have your freak-out about the information blockage after we finish reading the note?” If Tim were a super, Jason would have a hole on his front, he’s sure of it.

Babs: Why are you sending me a recipe for making ghost-themed pie?

Tim looks at the message in disbelief, and clicks on the link he had sent. The ranting blog opens, no pie recipe to be seen. Tim takes a screenshot and tries sending it, but a warning message appears, saying the file is corrupted. He tries to send an image of his gallery, it goes without any problems.

“This is weird. It’s not like any kind of blockage we had seen before. It even redirects links to a page that matches the city's theme.”

“Try sending the image through the Bat server.” Bruce says with a voice that it was more serious than Jason expected, which makes him glance back at the man. 

Bruce is glaring at the computer with a dark expression. Realization hits Tim, and he quickly tries to send the image through the Bat server. It goes through, and even Jason feels relieved at the received checkmark. 

“Okay… okay. So they’re monitoring private conversations, but the Bat server is still safe.” Tim murmurs. Then goes ahead and tries sending the link once more, with a message saying it should open the website shown in the image. 

Oracle: All that link opens is the pie recipe Red Robin. If this is some kind of joke, you know the Bat server is not for that.

Tim rolls his eyes at the response and starts writing down a response, explaining the situation to Babs.

“The link must be blocked by IP Address. Tell her to try using a residential proxy.”

“Already on it.”

Jason hates when the old man understands more about technology than he does. Damn his time in the grave. He had been working on getting up to date, and he can do some basic hacking and whatnot. Enough that he doesn’t need external help for every little thing. But he’s still so far behind. 

Oracle: I’m in. You’re also seeing all these things about ghosts?

Red Robin: Yes. 

Red Robin: Somehow they have the city under a blockage that the Batcomputer wasn’t able to detect.

“Okay. Babs can take care of investigating that. We have a note to finish reading, remember?” Jason says, reaching for the paper Tim had left beside the computer, which Tim promptly snatches back. “Hey!”

“You won’t read it outloud for everyone.”

“According to whom!?”

“Kids…” Bruce sighed, “Continue reading, please, Tim.”

The little shit looked smug for a second before going back to the note.

“Please understand that in general ghosts aren’t bad, it’s just Vlad. But ghosts are powerful, and Vlad is really powerful. This can’t be resolved through normal means. I know the Waynes have contact with the Justice League, so I ask you to please get in contact with them, and don’t get anymore involved. I doubt the Justice league is equipped for the type of ghosts we have in Amity park. My friends Samantha Mason and Tucker Foley know where to find specialized weaponry and protective devices. Please, convince the Justice League to go for them first, it would be a disaster if one of the Justice League was overshadowed by Vlad.” That’s where the letter ended.

“Overshadow?” Bruce echoed.

Tim wasted no time putting the word into Google, which, now that Jason noticed, was decorated with little ghosts. Did Amity have its own Google doodle? The definition of the word popped like any other word would, and Jason wondered if that was something else that was blocked outside the city.

“It seems to be how Amity Parkers refer to possession.” Tim said after skimming the definition.

“What do we know about Samantha Mason and Tucker Foley?” Bruce asked, already in work mode.

“Not much, outside of being known friends of Danny. The Masons are a well positioned family in Amity; they’re new money. Izzy Manson, Samantha's great grandfather, invented a machine that twirled cellophane around deli toothpicks, the patent and inheritance placed the family where it is today. Pamela Manson owns a jewelry brand that’s grown in popularity in the Midwestern elite, while Jeremy Manson is a real estate developer. They often attend galas in Wisconsin, and sometimes in other big cities. Samantha Mason is a known teen activist, and has had her fair share of incidents at galas.” Tim said, as he opened the report he had made before coming to Amity.

“Incidents?” Jason asked.

“She has a sharp tongue and doesn’t seem interested in keeping appearances. It’s well known she isn’t fond of the styles her mother gives her for the galas. In any photo she posted on her personal accounts in the last two years, she has a gothic aesthetic.”

“Ah.”

“There’s less about Tucker Foley. His mother, Angela Foley, works as a chef at a local restaurant called “A Ghost's Secret Recipe.” His father, Maurice Foley, is an IT technician for the city government. Tucker seems to take after his father in his interest in technology, and has a history of winning local programming contests.”

“There’s nothing that really screams “I know how to fight ghosts and have ghost weaponry” is there?” Jason comments.

“Well, this is the information we have while searching with the city's information being blocked. Search for Daniel Fenton on the web,” Bruce says, and when Tim enters the name, a lot of news articles come to light. “We should have suspected something when there weren’t a lot of news articles talking about an explosion taking the life of a whole family.” Tim nods to that.

Jason frowns at the screen. “Are you seeing these titles? Local ghost hunters die from mysterious explosions? Something tells me that the access to weaponry has more to do with Danny’s parents than anything about Samantha and Tucker.” 

“What did we have about the Fentons from the investigation in Gotham?”

“They were supposedly part of the tourist industry, “entertaining tourists with street shows about ghost hunting.” We were literally blocked from one of the most important details of Danny’s life.” Tim groaned. 

Bruce sighed. “Let’s try getting some sleep. We’ll try meeting Samantha and Tucker tomorrow in the late afternoon.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Late afternoon?”

“They’re teenagers. I would prefer to interrupt their class time or disturb them too late. They might not even know we plan to meet with them.”

Tim nodded, already starting with the new background check. “I doubt Masters lets Danny have his own phone.”

Jason unceremoniously closed Tims laptop, putting it aside and carrying the kid in a firefighter carry.

“Trying to rest applies to you too.”

Tim protested as he trashed, trying to get him to let go, and if the pretender had actually been serious about it, Jason may have not been able to keep a hold of him.

“I’ll tell Babs to leave the investigation for tomorrow as well. You’ll have time before we go meet Danny’s friends, so let’s rest for some time first, okay?” Bruce said with that voice he always used when he was treating them like little kids. And if Jason found it soothing, that was between his mind and himself.

Tim groans, but relaxes, accepting defeat, and the kid is asleep before Jason even makes it out the living room. Jason wonders, not for the first time, if Tims ability to basically sleep anywhere, anyway, anytime, would go away if the kid actually followed the sleeping schedule Bruce and Alfred tried imposing, instead of taking random naps around the clock. 

He’s sure the little shit will be back in front of the computer in 30 minutes. Whatever. He already did his mandatory older sibling duty by getting him to stop for a nap. 

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Next part

[chio-chan2artbox]

Step Forward - Part 3 They are going on a date!!! Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 Check out my tags for fun facts XD

Kofi

[pixelsgarage]

Tenna spamton and jevil........................... graphics........ would be cool................. blinks..... :0)

[smug-aura]

Chapter 3 is out

Hope yall enjoy, made some art.

also @sodiumpentothol

[thelonelyshore-if]

The Lonely Shore Devlog #14

( 5/1/2025 ) Chapter Three, part 2: 45,413 words Total Wordcount: 379,569 words

Hello, hello! I hope everyone had a great first day of May c:

I wanted to start off by saying thank you all so much for the kind words about the latest update! It's been an honor getting to share the story with you all, and the fact that folks are enjoying last month's update still has me feeling super excited <3

Unfortunately, life got in the way of finishing chapter 3, part 2 by the end of last month, which was my hope. I'm confident the part 2 update will be finished this month, however. I'd love to get it done over the next few weeks, but May is the beginning of the busy season at work, so we'll see what happens. There's a lot I'm excited about in this next part of the chapter...and, once it's all wrapped up, I get to move on to chapter 4, which has a ton of stuff I can't wait for.

Honestly, I don't have much to say here beyond that! I wanted to post a devlog, since it's been a bit and since I wasn't able to wrap up the next update by the end of April, but I'm feeling good about things!

I wish you all well, and as always, here's a preview for the next update <3

[theotherbuckley]

Help Me Home (chapter 4)

Bucktommy | Chapter 4/6 | Chapter WC 7K | Chapter rating T

“So,” Tommy starts, “three more weeks till your recert. You ready?” Buck has to stop himself from groaning. “I’ve been ready since I was stuck under the damn ladder truck.” Tommy gives him a look. “Evan, I’m pretty sure you had other things on your mind when there was a firetruck on your leg.” “Ladder truck,” Buck corrects absent-mindedly, Bobby’s teaching now ingrained in his mind. “I mean, okay, I was in a lot of pain, but when I woke up I was definitely only thinking about being a firefighter again.” Tommy frowns and raises an eyebrow, Buck doesn’t like the way that makes him feel. He doesn’t really understand what the problem is. “It’s okay. In three weeks, everything will be right again.” “Yeah,” Tommy smiles softly. “Unless another truck blows up.” A smirk, eyes twinkling in the sunlight. Menace.

(or Buck and Tommy meet and physio after the bombing chapter 4!)

read chapter 4 on ao3

It’s my birthday today (Feb 15th) but this is my gift to you all!!!

[mirhashi]

SEAS UNFORTUNATE SOUL

(Sorry it’s a bit short)

Chapter 4

Poseidon walked down the halls of Mount Olympus. Athena, anytime she saw Poseidon, always gave him a look. She was the only person on Mount Olympus that knew Poseidon took Odysseus.

He kept walking when he heard a particularly annoying voice: “Poseidon! There you are! I thought you would have left by now.” Zeus walked over laughing. “I was about to, until your annoying voice called my name.” Poseidon sneered, looking at his brother.

“That’s not very nice, is it?” Zeus chuckled, “Come on, let’s have a drink. It’s been forever since we had one together.”

Odysseus was walking around the palace, bored out of his mind. His body was still in some pain, but it wasn’t as intense as it would have been weeks ago.

It was late, and he was about to go to the cell he slept in, which now had a lot of pillows and blankets for him to lie in. Poseidon decided to put them there even though he denies putting them there.

Suddenly Poseidon returned, making Odysseus jump. Poseidon fell to the ground completely drunk. Odysseus winces, moving over and checking on the god. “Odyy~ I think I,” Poseidon’s words were slurred, “you’re drunk out of your mind,” Odysseus whispered before getting the god to his feet and helping him to his bedroom.

He helped the gods into the bed. “Mm, you have soft hands~” Poseidon slurred as he lay in the bed. Odysseus turned to walk out when suddenly the god's arms wrapped around him, pulling him into bed with him. “Don’t leave—“ Poseidon whined, his chest pressed against the mortal's back.

Odysseus was tense, not liking the sudden contact. But as a little time went by, he relaxed a little.

He adjusted himself into a more comfortable position with Poseidon's head against his chest.

He gently ran his fingers through the god's hair slowly. A sudden sound rumbled from the god's throat. Purring.

Odysseus's eyes widened. “Oh my, you purr?” He chuckled softly, but the god was too exhausted to care.

The next day, Poseidon woke up with the biggest hangover ever. He grumbled. He finally realized he was leaning against something warm and soft. His eyes shot open, seeing himself sleeping against Ody. He yelled, falling back off the bed.

Odysseus suddenly woke up shocked. “What’s with the yelling?” he whispered while rubbing his eyes. “Why was I sleeping against you!” Poseidon yelled, sitting up off the floor, “I don’t know; ask yourself why you didn’t let me leave.” Odysseus grumbled, getting out of bed.

Poseidon hissed to himself, getting off the floor and quickly getting changed while fixing his hair. “No one shall know I was cuddled up against you like that, you hear!” He sneered, “Oh, don’t worry, but they will know that you purr.” Odysseus chuckled, running out of the room.

Poseidon's face turned red. He ran after the mortal. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

Eleni helped get seaweed out of Odysseus's hair because Poseidon almost drowned him. “You two have been getting a lot closer,” she said, finishing up. “You think so?” Odysseus asked softly, not realizing it until now.

“Yea, some might say you two are starting to gain feelings for each other.” Odysseus shook his head. “I assure you it’s not that,” he chuckled softly.

Eleni finished braiding his hair. “I don’t even think you know that, Ody,” she said, walking out of the room.

The rest of the day Odysseus was in deep thought. He wasn’t gaining feelings for the sea god; he was in love with Penelope.

He shook his head, not wanting to think about all of that. He started to do some of his chores when Poseidon came over. He sat down and watched the mortal. “You know it’s not nice to stare,” Odysseus sneered.

“It’s nice when I’m staring at a man folding chitons completely wrong.” Poseidon chuckled. “Oh, and I’m assuming you know,” Ody sneered. Poseidon took that as a challenge.

He moved over and started to fold them. He folded them just like how his mother taught him.

Odysseus rolled his eyes. “Show-off,” he mumbled, annoyed.

From then on, Poseidon and Odysseus hung out a lot more. The nymphs and servants gossiping about the two. The little arguments they would get into were over small, stupid stuff.

Poseidon brought Ody to a little pool that was hidden under the palace. “Wow, it’s amazing down here,” he whispered, looking around. His eyes widened seeing kids running around. “It’s a nursery,” Poseidon said.

Odysseus stopped backing up. “No, no, no, Poseidon, you don’t understand. I can’t be near kids.” Ody started to panic, backing up.

Poseidon grabbed his hand. “Ody...it’s fine,” he whispered. “No, no, I killed one. I dropped him off Troy’s walls…” he whispered, his breathing picking up.

“Ody…you didn’t kill him.” Poseidon whispered, turning his head to look at a little boy who looked exactly like… “How...” Ody was shocked.

It was Astyanax.

[virapocalypse]

⚠️ Trigger Warning: Scars, Threatening

Virapocalypse Chapter 1 Pages 7 and 8

Sorry for the wait!!! Been busy as heck!!!

[godisasimp]

WHAT THE FUCK

[sweater-daddiesdumbdork]

On The Hunt: You Broke and I Shattered

Summary- 3.9k Alpha Steve x Little One. You and Steve find where Ulysses is storing his stolen goods; vibranium from Wakanda. Scouting the building, you and Steve separate and Steve struggles with this lone wolf mentality.

Warnings- Steve being upset and lashing out about your relationship with Pan. Reader goes into her heat finally and confronts Steve during it.

A/N- Okay I know it's been a while, LONG WHILE since I have posted these two. Part of me is still apprehensive about your Steve feelings. Be mad and hate him if that is the vibe! I get it, honestly, I do. I can't help but love him as strongly as I always have because I love a broken character that I created. Thank you so much @yenzys-lucky-charm for walking through this and holding my hand with them. For always giving me reassurance to continue this story. You, my dear friend, are a saint for all you do behind the scenes. Dividers made by @firefly-graphics Enjoy, and if you did, please share and reblog. I also love hearing your thoughts and rants about them.

Chapter Seven / Masterlist

It smelled bad. 

The Little Wolf’s nose wrinkled as she scouted the side of the large warehouse. You lost track of Steve after he shifted, the Alpha whisking his muzzle against the Little Wolf’s and then leapt away along the edge of the warehouse. As large as the Alpha was, he was easily able to meld into nothing when he didn’t want to be seen. A skill from many years of hunting. 

The Little Wolf weaved through the large piles of garbage and pallets, using them to keep her hidden from the multitude of cameras outside of the building. The installers had attempted to keep them hidden, but your time working with T’Challa had taught you where to look. 

The Little Wolf was also good at getting by unnoticed, the smaller stature and slinking nature could make her easily pass for a street dog that ran wild. 

The scents assaulting her were so foul and strong. The heavy acidic scent of fear permeates the stone and steel walls, making the Little Wolf’s ears lay flat against her skull, her nose wrinkling in discomfort. 

A scuffle of footsteps caught her attention, sending her into hiding with her radar-sharp ears swiveling towards the footsteps scuttling down the alleyway towards where you were hiding. 

“The shipment’s ready, just need the boss's sign-off.” You heard the man say into a phone and the Little Wolf pricked her ears to catch the last of the conversation. “Yeah, Klaue is expected in a couple days.”

He is not here yet. You mentally sighed, frustrated that there would be a period of waiting around for you and Steve.

<But he will be here soon for us. The Alpha should be coming around any moment, maybe we can get inside.> She was quiet in her movements, easing away from the rambling man whose conversation turned elsewhere, giving them no more vital information. Catching sight of the unlatched door, the Little Wolf paused, glancing around to see that no one was nearby. <Should we wait?> 

We could lose our chance. You urged her, unwilling to wait now that the opportunity of getting inside was just so available to you. 

<The Alpha…> The Little Wolf hesitated, glancing back at the direction Steve should be coming around. 

Will catch up. He can follow our trail and we might lose this entrance if that man comes back to lock this door. This is our chance to see the inside and be prepared for Ulysses. 

She finally relented, using her muzzle to ease the door open further and sneak into the dark interior of the warehouse, a sliver of light the only source into the belly of the beast. 

It was easy remaining out of sight on the main floor, various containers of weapons that all smelled tinged with vibranium littered haphazardly around and in the center of the building were cages, all emptied but you could see that they had been recently used. All providing cover even as a silent snarl flirted across Little One’s muzzle, anger simmering in your chest as well as sadness that you had been too late to save those souls from whomever they were sold too. 

Flashes of your old life, the sales floor clouding your memories while you wandered between them. The fear and pain at being dragged in front of buyers, their hands running all over your naked body and the false promises of giving you a better life if you just bonded with them. 

The vileness of it made the Little Wolf shiver and a soft barely there whine escape. <Never again.> She assured you, the fur along her back bristling in agitation. 

Never again. You agreed with her, calming once more. You escaped, you had known love and safety with your pack and with Steve. Even now with you two separated, you knew Steve still wouldn’t ever allow anyone to use you like that again. 

The Little Wolf eased closer, edging along the last line of containers holding vibranium and weapons, trying to map the building. 

There was a huff nearby and you caught sight of silver fur rows back. Steve found us. The Little Wolf stopped, the tip of her tail wagging in a greeting but the Alpha stalked nearby, his eyes blazing furiously at the Little Wolf. 

She lowered further, feeling the anger roll from him while he slid up next to her, pressing in against her for a moment just to feel her before he silently let his nose wander along the edge of the containers. 

Loud shouts just out of sight called out directions to load pallets onto the truck, making you and the Alpha both freeze for a second. The Alpha turned away and returned to the Little Wolf’s side, rumbling enough so you felt the vibrations rising off him. Not an order from the Alpha but a suggestion that it was time to go. 

You pulled back, leading the way out, and once back outside, no one the wiser, you both bolted away from the warehouse. 

It had been a while since you had returned to the apartment, Steve had been silent most of the time, both of you sketching out the warehouse's interior and tensley comparing notes with one another. But you could feel the tension crackling between you and Steve. All his responses clipped in a tone that you were just not used to from him. 

It was making your Little Wolf uneasy in your mind, pacing back and forth in a skittish way, making you feel like you were about to snap. 

You finally pushed away the notes and sketches of the warehouse, making Steve’s gaze snap to you curiously. “What’s wrong Steve?” 

His brows furrowed together and his mouth thinned with whatever he wanted to say being held back. “Nothing is wrong Y/N. We should contact T’Challa to let him know what we found.” He pulled away, going to grab his phone when you grabbed his forearm to keep him from avoiding the question. Steve stiffened, a shiver going through him and you saw his nostrils flare a bit, dragging in a breath of you. 

“Stop the bullshit Steve, you’re pissed and I don’t know why.” Your Little Wolf yipped anxiously, making you tense up all that much more. 

Clear blue eyes snapped, flaring slightly in a glowing color as the Alpha in him rose to challenge him before he turned to you with a slight bare of his teeth. “You didn’t wait for me Y/N. You charged into that warehouse alone.” 

Your hand dropped from his arm and you immediately snapped back, if you had hackles, they would be raised at the tension finally breaking. “This is what you are pissed about Steve? I was doing the mission. I don’t need your permission to do that.” A snarl emitted from you, daring Steve to bite back. “Not anymore.” 

He rose to the challenge, rounding onto you, his size a sheer force but you held tight, refusing to step back from him. “That’s right Little One, I gave you up and set you free from me.” 

A warning growl escaped you as a bit of tears threatening to well up hearing him. “That you did.”

“You have no regard for your safety, we are supposed to be hunting together and you just go into that building without me and that wasn’t the plan, I don’t care that you went in, but I didn’t know where you were, I just happened to catch your scent in the open door. What if they found you and caught you, what if I couldn’t follow you in?” He pulled away with a yank of his hand through his hair. 

You squared your shoulders, anger making your tone bite in your words. “It’s not your fucking job Steven to keep me safe. Why are you always trying to shield me?” 

“Cause Little One! It still feels like you’re fucking mine, even now while we are unbonded all I feel…” His hand slapped against his chest, where you knew his heart pounded its rhythm. 

“Well that sounds like your problem that you need to figure out. I’m not your Little One.” You tossed out, the pain searing into anger at the Alpha in front of you. “You ‘set me free’ which is utter bullshit, you don’t get to dictate how I work now.” 

It was like whiplash, his brow wrinkling as his sadness seeped through before anger masked his features once again. “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten. You remind me, you had moved on right… to him?” 

You knew exactly who he was talking about and that made those tears finally fall, your hand lifting and slapping sharply across Steve’s face hard, enough that his head turned with the impact. 

“How dare you, Steve, Pan was my friend when I was broken. My friend Steve, he was exactly who I needed when I was alone. You did this to us. You and that fucking drive to keep me safe. Newsflash Steve, my whole life I fought and I’m never going to stop. Now I’m doing it alone without you. You just thought of how you hurt me while being collared, it was NOTHING compared to what you did in that hospital room. I lost you that day and had to learn how to live without my mate because he didn’t want me anymore.” 

“Fuck Y/N, I never said I didn’t want you.” Steve’s jaw clenched tightly, but the anger from his features was gone, disbelief crowning his features now. His hand reached out to draw you in, but you stepped away, unable to handle the contact.

“You broke me that day Steve and now you don’t like this version I turned into? You have no right to be mad about that.” Your voice cracked, a shiver wracking up your body while the Little Wolf started singing in the back of your mind, her own pain breaking in the song. “I survived being used, I survived beatings in attempts to make me submissive, I survived other Alpha’s scarring me with their bites, I survived all the times they tried purposely to break me into bowing for them and being this meek little pup. But you, Steve I barely survived you.”  

You let out a breath, feeling your chest lighten as Steve stood before you like he was at a loss for words for a moment. Before you would let him say anything, you turned away to your room and let the door shut him out. Exhaustion hit you like a ton of bricks and as you crawled into your bed to sink into that dark place you yet again were hovering in, your Little Wolf crooning to you, you curled into a ball in your bed and let yourself go. 

Steve sat on the edge of the uncomfortable bed in the apartment. It had been hours since you just dropped it all on him, which he knew but hearing it come from you, how your voice became so vulnerable like you were laid open and left to pick up the pieces. To top it off, he knew he was an utter asshole for what he said to you, wishing he could take it back. But it was out there now and he knew he couldn’t take back what he said in a moment of frustration. 

There was no way to take any of the last year back, he knew he acted on instinct back then and he was wrong. All of it was wrong, but he had to live with his actions. Actions had consequences and all he could do now was live with those choices, and give you that freedom. You were right, he couldn’t be mad at what you turned into because he was a part of it all. Something in him shattered that day, hard broken shards that fed all his fears and he was still struggling to not give in to them.

It still didn’t make it easier for him, or the Alpha. The Alpha was furious with him once more. A snarling beast who lashed out to make Steve wince at the rage. But he felt he deserved it, he took each one without a snap back. 

To top the whole fuck up of a day there was a soft wail through the wall of disbelief and it hit every one of Steve’s senses.

Your heat finally arrived and right now you two were stuck together, with no way to give one another space during this vulnerable intimate time. 

And it was almost torture to Steve as his muscles cramped with restraint, resisting the urge to go to you. 

The Wolf simmered somewhere, Steve sensed him close, but he was still staying away from the conscious side. Your scent was heavy with need and that made a ping of guilt well up in him that your heat was going to be worse for you because he was there. 

If you were back in Wakanda he would slip away, leave you in peace to choose the partner you would want to help you through this. But not in the middle of a mission like this.  

<Coward> The Wolf snarled at him, his ears laid flat against his skull and showing his fangs with a snap of his jaw, jolting Steve back to his awareness of his beast. <You would run away instead of staying to take care of her.> 

His head hung from his shoulders, gritting his eyes and clenching his jaw as his own beast tried to take over, howling your song to call for you. His rut was going to be rough, more of his wolfish side coming through, the overbearing need to fuck and take care of his mate would be a whole other torture. 

“Fuck off.” He snarled loudly, aiming at the Alpha but your soft voice cut through his snarl, making his head snap up, his hair disheveled and eyes flashing a brighter color as his nose tilted up to catch your warm honeysuckle scent. 

“Steve.” Your voice was soft in tone and loud in every other way as it broke his inner battle, your hands clutching at a blanket around you, miserable looking. “She won’t stop…” 

Steve guessed, as much as his wolf was trying to take over, the Little Wolf would be too. You were so distressed-looking, shaking in the blanket even though it wasn’t cold. He straightened up, holding out a hand to you. “Come here Y/N.” He growled, unable to contain more of the Wolf coming through. 

It was all it took, the blanket fell from around you, your body to sensitive for anything on you, as you streaked to Steve, his arms circling around your waist and made you straddle his lap. Getting as close as you could be without pinning you underneath him in the bed. His clothes felt so constricting as you settled in close, tears starting to race down your cheeks while your hands slid up his chest, pulling his shirt over his head so you could get skin to skin, which he was thankful for. “I tried Alpha, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” You leaned into him, your breasts pressing against his chest as your face tucked into his neck, hiding away. 

“For what Y/N?” he let his nose press against the back of your neck, inhaling deeply. That alone made the wolf ease back, and let him regain control. Heavy calloused hands went up and down your back as you started sobbing in his neck, your thighs squeezing against him as you rocked your hips slightly to rub against him. 

“For being here with you.” You pushed against him and stared at him with sorrow and pain that Steve couldn’t stop the kisses he flushed over your eyes as more of your tears escaped, tears that he caused. Salty on his lips as they escaped into his beard. His gentleness at the moment, although both of your bodies were screaming to mate with one another, seemed to break you. 

“I’m so mad at you for doing this to me.” You dug your nails into his shoulders, rocking again as he matched your movement, pushing up to give you some relief in your grinding. “I did what you said, I left you alone and you followed me here. I couldn’t escape you with the pack and I still can’t Steve. Why do you make this impossible for me?” You hissed as your mouth sought his, while his kiss stayed gentle, you bit at him, gasping against him as your nails clawed into the muscles of his back. “You left me Steve and it broke me more than anything else that has happened.” If this was your punishment, Steve would take it. Every sharp claw and hissing bite you lashed at him. 

Steve clenched his jaw, unwilling to defend himself and his choices. He did this to you and it was the least he could do was listen. Instead, he pressed you in closer to him, touching you in all the ways he knew made you feel safe and cared for, his lips pressing against yours while you broke because of him. Your pain you lashed onto his back with your nails sharply dragging up to grasp his shoulder and rock yourself in against him once again, he welcomed the pain as he would any of your touches. 

You shook in his hold, pushing away from him enough to look at him, your anger melding into sheer pain. “Was I too weak to be an Alpha’s mate, your mate? Do you regret taking a broken and used Omega? I need to know Steve.”

This he couldn’t stand, not from you of all people. With a sweep of his hold, he twisted you to the bed, on your back while he hovered over you with a bare of his teeth at you, all the long hair falling forward around his face, making Steve look wild above you. Your hands went to cup his face, studying the man you and your little wolf still fiercely loved, your fingers pushing up to weave into his hair. “Is that what you actually believe Little One?” Steve’s tone was graveled, a mix of his voice and the Alpha growling at the same time. “Do you?” He said sharper, making you roll your body up into his solid one, giving a nod when you couldn't say anything. 

His hands caught your wrists and let his nose trace the inside on each one, you went pliant against him finally and he let his whirlwind of emotions settle. He had you and wasn’t planning on letting you go till you knew in your soul that he never would have left you because of those reasons. 

Your hands were pinned swiftly, slamming them into the pillows scattered around his bed. “Little One.” He growled when his lips descended to the soft warmth of your neck column. Kissing behind your ear with much more gentleness than how his hand caged yours over your head. “You really don’t know do you, how much power you have.” His growls were edging on violent, wracking through your body while his touch remained loving, each glide of his hand tracing your side passionate while the other encircled your wrists above your head with controlled strength, the flick of his tongue gliding on your skin and light pressure of sharpened fangs all affection in worshipping you. “How I would do anything for you. You think me walking away didn’t destroy my sanity, made the beast try to claw from his cage?” 

You whined under Steve, your heat simmering on unbearable but his words were making you want to scream. All this time he felt this way and he still managed to walk away, leaving you shattered, your fingers curled, digging into his palm keeping you pinned down. He hissed at the pain but never loosened or pulled away from you. “You still did it, you claim to protect me from you.” 

Steve rose above you, his touch on your waist going to your face, turning your head till you couldn't look away from him. So much filled his gaze locking with yours and your unshed tears of anger, frustration, and pain were mirrored in his. “Because I am weak, scared, and broken. All I could see in that moment was you dead at my feet, that I had destroyed my mate, half of my soul. Alpha’s might seem powerful, but actually, we are empty without our other halves, made to serve our packs but never finding anything beyond that. That day I almost killed mine and I was powerless to stop it." His throat bobbed, swallowing past the emotion that almost seemed to overtake him. "I made a mistake and I see that now Little One, I let fear control me, and look what it did to us. I can’t take it back and will always live with what I did. You are right, I can’t be mad about who you are now because of it, you became stronger. You don’t need me, not really. You, my mate, you have all the power. Fuck, that day I was breaking down thinking I was powerless to control myself...”  His shoulders sagged like admitting this out loud to you took everything out of him. “I should have talked to you about what I was going through instead of running.” 

You eased up the grasp of your fingers digging into his palm, allowing yourself to soften slightly under him. Pulling a hand from his hold, your touch drifted up, sliding around the curve of his neck while you silently counted every little ragged scar circling his throat. Every little barb that dug into him and controlled him. This shattered your Alpha and he was struggling to be better. "I see you Steve." You whispered up at him while letting your thumb wipe under his eyes, clearing away the moisture welling up in those sharp blue eyes.

He reached up to take your palm, curling it against his jaw while he tilted into it, pressing his lips to the center. "I see you too Y/N, I'm so sorry I pushed you away."

Your Little Wolf called out his song again while his eyes scanned over your face, feeling the change in you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, holding him closer. “I could throttle you.” You chirped with a crack in your voice and Steve gave a soft sad chuckle as his head dropped to lean his forehead against yours, giving a little sniffle.

“I know I deserve it.” 

“And what do you want now Steve?” You asked softly, almost a whisper between you two. 

The Alpha was silent, his inhales drawing you in to smother all his other senses, if he could drown in you, he would so happily. “A chance for us, to be the Alpha and your mate you deserve from me.” He pulled away to catch your eyes, such a sharp blue with tinges of yellow melding to give hints of green, the Alpha bleeding through, showing while Steve gave you the answers you sought. “To give you all of me, even the broken parts that need fixing Little One.” 

“If I said I need you to talk to me Steve, you need to let me in instead of just trying to keep me safe from the world.” Your hand twisted in his hold, sliding your fingers through his above your head. “That you won’t shut me out because you are trying to keep me safe.” 

“I will spend my life showing you I can be your partner.” This next kiss was gentle, a brush of his lips to yours as you pulled him back into your hold, his heavy weight on you making you finally feel like you were where you belonged. “And I will wait, as long as you need to be ready for us again, if that is what you want.” 

Ready to be us again… You repeated to yourself, letting his words really take hold. The Little Wolf was a calming presence now, the heat sated enough in just this rebonding moment for you two. You pushed up your hips enough to push against Steve and he instinctively released his hold on you to fall back and take you with him, letting you straddle him while he laid underneath you now, his hands caressing down till they settled on your waist, content to let you decide what you wanted from him next. “I missed you, Steve, we missed you.” 

Your touch slipped up his chest while you moved to settle in against him, ease relaxing through you as his arms slipped around you, hugging you to lay against him and nothing more in the moment. You let your cheek lay against his chest, your head tucked under his bristled chin. You could feel his words as he spoke them out loud. “We were wanderers without our home Little One, we missed you too.” 

[queenbeestars]

that annoying moment when the ratatouille rat controlling a child that helped you become god is afk so you have to delay your dramatic entrance by 10 minutes...

[dol-dogboy]

What was one event that changed your PC? Not just their appearance but their perspective on the world, or the way the town works?

Damon and Celes are a tad. Complicated to explain as well as being more focused on their backstories rather than in game stuff sooooo I’ll just go with Percy and Bowie :3

For Percy it would have to be when he finally blackmailed Leighton. At that point he had a theory already in mind, and this event was what proved that he was right— you gain power not by doing good deeds, but by lying, cheating, stealing, and throwing all morality out the window. Is Leighton horrible? Yes. Is what he’s being blackmailed with also horrible? Absolutely. But Percy doesn’t blackmail him out of some sort of want for justice. It’s because it means that he’s above consequence at school now. He can talk back to teachers, terrorize classmates, and do whatever he wants without any fear of punishment— because now Leighton fears him. (At least, in Percy’s own fantasized version of the whole ordeal he does)

Percy’s overall end goal is being at the top of this towns food chain, to be feared in a way where they can do whatever the hell they want with no consequence. To be untouchable. To always be the one in control. They refuse to be a hapless victim.

And as far as Percy is concerned, if you do good things then you’re naive. Being a virtuous and kind person isn’t rewarded in this town— even in that stupid bible thumping temple there’s pieces of shit everywhere! This belief also gets further emphasized with them blackmailing Leighton— if blackmail is so effective, then all those goody two shoes really must be struggling out there… well, sucks to suck!

And for Bowie it’s, of course, the underground farm. Yes, it changed his physical appearance drastically and made him have really bad body image issues, but it also made his anxiety about 10x worse. For years he’s been terrified of disappearing— of ending up on one of those missing posters he would catch a glimpse of during his childhood (always hoping he saw them wrong, and then being mortified to realize that they really were there when he finally left the youth ward). He always tried his best to stay safe, to not become just another Bailey orphan lost to time, to join a mass grave of people he never fully knew. But alas, he’s only eighteen, and never had his own wallet to manage before, so he ends up being a very impulsive spender… in the youth ward all the orphans had similar rooms, rooms they never got to decorate themselves, with clothes usually handed down from past wards (unless an orphan was graciously dropped off with a bag of their own clothes. Clothes that would inevitably just join the cycle of hand me downs). Bowie never had a chance to buy the furniture he wanted, or the clothes he wanted… so he was very stupid with his money. Thusly, he ended up in the underground farm.

He escaped eventually, but for a while he was genuinely terrified that he was going to be there forever— sometimes he thinks back on certain times there with a fondness, and then feels guilty that he did. Every day he puts that cowbell back on when he could just abandon it is another day he curses at himself. Just another thing that he can resent, further showing his weakness.

[tanumaskoipond]

can u pls tell me more abt the doomed yuri..... i don't care abt spoilers btw ^^

YAY. hi cor! thanks for enabling me i am happy to tell you abt the doomed yuri in natsume’s book of friends ^_^ this will be so long i am so sorry. under the cut because it is long 😭

so it’s a story between natsume reiko (the main character’s late grandmother) and a girl named morinaga souko. natsume takashi (the main character) hears this story through a youkai (a spirit/monster) named soranome, who can sometimes hear the thoughts of others, and was witness to this whole story.

reiko is like her grandson in that she’s the subject of many mean rumours due to her ability to see youkai, which others usually can’t see, and so she often spends her free time away from towns and in the woods to avoid other people. souko has just moved to a nearby town to convalesce, and she goes to sit in the woods and read (the anime has her reading the little mermaid, classic gay allegory fairytale) to hopefully avoid the worries of her family for a short while. it’s there she meets reiko, who initially is fairly cold towards her. souko is intrigued by her, and keeps returning to where they met in the hopes of seeing her again. she introduces herself to reiko, and asks reiko for her name.

reiko initially doesn’t want to give her her name, and so souko suggests a game: if reiko wins, she’ll give reiko a piece of candy and reiko can remain secretive about her name. if souko wins, reiko has to tell her her name. reiko wins, and she gets the candy.

they meet every day, and they keep playing different games as souko tries to get reiko’s name. she loses every time. they talk, too. souko mentions that she’s planting a garden, and she wants reiko to see it. reiko begins to tell her of a beautiful field of blue flowers nearby in the woods, but cuts herself off and keeps it to herself.

one day, souko is talking with reiko. she mentions how a classmate told her of a “violent, unsettling girl” in a nearby town named natsume reiko, and she (unknowingly) warns reiko to be safe from herself, since she knows she lives in that town. reiko decides she’ll tell her her name then, but she says souko’s name for the first time, and souko gets so excited that she cuts her off. reiko doesn’t tell her her name.

another day, souko suggests that they should play the first game they played, and souko finally beats reiko. she’s been practicing every single day after reiko leaves. reiko tells souko her name, right as a youkai sneaks up on them. reiko yells at the youkai to leave, and, at souko’s startled face, she backtracks a little and tells souko to go home.

for the next two days, reiko shows up where they usually meet, and souko isn’t there. reiko considers this par for the course for her life, and gives up. she assumes souko must be put off by the rumours, and doesn’t want to be around her. she invites the youkai, soranome, who was witnessing this entire thing go down, with her to see the flower field she once wanted to show souko. when she’s asked if it’s really okay that she’s showing him instead of souko, she replies that it doesn’t matter who she’s with. if it’s beautiful, it’s beautiful no matter what. she then challenges soranome to a game, and if he loses, he has to give reiko his name, written on a slip of paper. he loses, and his name becomes the first name bound in the “book of friends,” which effectively makes him subject to her every whim. but reiko leaves, and never comes back to that forest, and she never calls his name for anything.

the next day, souko shows up. she had been sick due to the rain and presence of youkai, and couldn’t make her way to their usual spot. she waits every single day for reiko, but reiko never returns. soranome, who she can’t see, waits with her. but by the time it’s winter, souko… (did she die? give up? we don’t know, but they never see each other again.) (it is, i think, suggested that she dies of her sickness. her surname, morinaga, means “to wait/keep a promise forever,” so i think she kept waiting until her death)

soranome, when he tells this story to natsume takashi, tells him outright that souko loved reiko (soranome read her mind), and she wanted more than anything to be able to call each other by name. (he also calls these her “most secret thoughts”)

natsume takashi thanks him for telling him this story, and offers soranome’s name back to him. when he returns his name (freeing him from the servitude of the book of friends) he sees reiko’s dream that she had when she was sleeping next to soranome in the field of flowers: souko calling reiko’s name, and their hands are outstretched towards each other.

[misslisamiray]

After another stupidly long hiatus, I'm finally uploading the newest chapter of Down With the Rickness! Pic is not... super relevant to the chapter, but I needed one that had Rick, Morty and Jerry in it. And despite having a LOT of saved images from the show, this was 1 of 2 which fit that description. Just kinda pay Beth no mind here since she's only mentioned in this chapter and not actually in it, yet I couldn't bring myself to crop her out.

Anyway, I'll post the Ao3 and ff dot net links later - probably after work. For now, new chapter is below the cut!

After a few more seconds of stunned silence, Morty sighed and admitted, “I was just trying to help. Maybe I did get carried away and fall down a couple of weird rabbit holes – that guy who yells about viruses not actually existing really does pop up everywhere – but it’s ‘cause I’m worried about you.”

“I keep telling you, you don’t have to be. I warned you this wasn’t going to be pretty, didn’t I? *Cough!* Make no mistake, I’m sick and miserable, but I’ll be alright in a few days. And that’d be true whether you Velcroed yourself to me like you’ve decided to do, or left me alone in the garage like I wanted.” Rick grumbled. Morty kept staring at him, but didn’t say anything, so he added, “Besides, with all the shit we’ve been through, I don’t get why this is freaking you out so badly.”

“I’ve never seen you sick before. I don’t like it.” Morty replied quietly, turning so he wasn’t facing Rick anymore.

“You don’t like it? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly having the time of my life with it myself.” Rick scoffed. He blew his nose and was about to say more, when he heard Morty’s barely audible addition of “It’s scary.”

“Scary? Aww Morty, come on. You’re *SNIFF!* really making mountains out of molehills here. Y’know you’re not doing either of us any favors with this overthinking shit, right? You’re just making my headache worse and getting yourself closer to developing your first ulcer before your 18th birthday.” Rick complained. However, the anger was draining from his voice.

“Maybe. It’s just…I just got you back to normal. Now this happens. If you’re not lying, then yeah, it’s nothing. A minor nuisance, sounds worse than it is and all that. But I can’t shake the feeling that you are lying about how bad this is, Rick, and…”

Rick had been tired already, but as the realization of just how worried Morty was about him sank in, he suddenly felt 10 times more exhausted. The anger and annoyance was gone – well, except about his flask being empty. Rick was currently very annoyed about that. He struggled to come up with a response, while Morty was trying to bring himself to voice the rest of his thoughts.

Their shared struggle was cut short when Morty tried to say something, but all that came out was “*Ah-ah-Achoo!*”  followed by a surprised, “Oh.” Rick sighed and slapped his forehead.

“C’mere, buddy. Let Grandpa check something.” He placed a hand on Morty’s shoulder and stuck the thermometer in his ear.

“Ow! Careful, Rick! Hey, that reminds me. We should check yours again, too.” Morty promptly pulled the first thermometer out of his pocket and stuck it in Rick’s mouth. Rick rolled his eyes, but didn’t object. The ear thermometer beeped first.

“Hmmm. Perfectly normal 98.6. Good for you.” Rick observed, mumbling around the thermometer. He was clearly jealous.

“Well, except for little kids, most people don’t get fevers when they have a cold.”

“Which means some of us do, if you’re trying to use that as an argument for my having something worse.”

“Stop talking or it won’t take the reading right. You should anyway, since you hardly have any voice left.” Morty instructed. Rick nodded, reluctantly agreeing. The thermometer beeped a few seconds later.

“101.1. Rick, that’s higher than it was this morning. You are getting sicker.” Morty worried, a fearful look in his eyes.

“Huh. No wonder I feel even worse.” Rick said, a little surprised by the new information. Seeing how those words instantly increased the worry on Morty’s face, he quickly backtracked with, “It hasn’t gone up that much. And a fever isn’t considered dangerous in an otherwise healthy adult until it hits like, 104, 105. Mine’s well *SNIFF!* below that. Come on, stop staring at me that way.” Morty did not, in fact, stop staring, and Rick had to look away. A few seconds later, he heard sniffling alongside him.

“Fucking hell, don’t cry. There is no part of this situation worth crying over. Oh. You’re not.” Rick said, looking over his shoulder at Morty. The boy’s nose was running, and he was trying to stop it but having no luck. Rick handed him the tissue box, muttering, “Well, good. I guess. If these are my only choices, I’d rather deal with sick kid than crying kid.” Morty blew his nose, and then the room was quiet except for the TV and rain.

“You still don’t believe me, do you?” Rick asked after a moment.

“I want to, Rick. But no, I don’t.” Morty answered.

“Fine. I have an idea. Come on.” Rick sighed, forcing himself to get up again. He grabbed Morty’s arm and pulled him up, too. Morty started to object, but decided to let Rick drag the two of them back to the garage.

“First thing’s first.” Rick grumbled, picking up a bottle of blue liquor with alien writing on the label. He took a long swig from it and grimaced – he’d forgotten how much this stuff burned going down even without a sore throat. He still contemplated refilling his flask with the liquid, but quickly shoved it aside, deciding some ordinary whiskey would be better. Flask full and shoved back in his pocket, he decided to finish the small amount left in the bottle.

“Come on, Rick. Did you really drag me back into the drafty old garage just to watch you get drunk? You need to go back to bed. And since you took my phone, let me use yours to call Mom again.” Morty complained, shivering a little and wrapping his arms around himself. Noticing that, Rick removed the top 3 blankets from the pile he was struggling to keep wrapped around himself and clumsily draped them around Morty’s shoulders.

“That’s not the only reason. But I agree with you. It’s freezing in here, and we’re leaving as soon as I’m done proving my point. *COUGH!* *COUGH!* Where’s the stupid thing?...” Rick groused, searching for something on, then under his workbench. After a moment, he found what he was looking for – the floating cubes from earlier, and the small computer that displayed their test results.

Rick pressed a few keys, and the “WARNING! WARNING! INFECTION DETECTED! INFECTION DETECTED!” alarms started to go off again, flashing lights included.

“Shut up! We know that part already!” Rick snapped, frantically pressing more keys to hurry up and get to the next stage. The alarm stopped, and three out of five cubes began levitating. Rick grabbed one out of the air, hitting a button to deactivate it, and tossed the unneeded cubes back under the workbench. One of the remaining two floated over his head, while the other hovered above Morty’s.

“Analyzing subject: Rick Sanchez!”

“Analyzing subject: Morty Smith!”

Rick drummed his fingers against his hip impatiently, eager for this to be over.

“Analysis complete. Subject: Rick Sanchez.”

“Analysis complete. Subject: Morty Smith.”

“Status: INFECTED! INFECTED!”

“Status: INFECTED! INFECTED!”

Rick and Morty both covered their ears as the cubes loudly announced their simultaneous findings.

“Ugh, tell us something we don’t know. Rick, you really *Cough!* need to make some serious adjustments to this system once you’re feeling better!” Morty complained, yelling to be heard over the cubes.

“Well aware of that, Morty. *COUGH!* *COUGH!* Come on, you stupid things. Let's get to the info we actually need.” Rick muttered, grabbing the cubes out of the air and handing Morty his. A small needle emerged from each cube to take blood samples from the two of them.

“Beginning analysis Stage 2: Identifying infection type.” the AI droned in unison with itself as the cubes processed the samples. 

“Infection type: Viral. Virus origin: Earth. Infection risk level is low, but contagion level is high. Beginning final virus identification now.” the computer system continued. Morty covered his ears again, while Rick resisted the urge to do so.

“Analysis complete. Infection in both subjects identified. Which subject would you like to display results for first?” the AI asked, thankfully no longer talking in stereo with itself. Rick grabbed Morty’s cube and pressed a button on it.

“Displaying test results for subject: Morty Smith. Infection identified as: A strain of rhinovirus, also known as the common cold.” the computer informed them both, displaying the results on the screen.

“Okay, I get it.” Morty sighed, sounding tired and defeated. He tugged on Rick’s arm and asked, “Can we please go back in the house now?”

“In a minute. Just in case you get it in your head that by total coincidence, you’ve caught a cold at the same time I’m suffering from at least two completely unrelated *COUGH! *COUGH!* diseases, we gotta do mine, too. Not like you didn’t already see my test results earlier today, but what *URP!* ever.”

Rick switched Morty’s cube with his own, and after a few seconds, the AI announced, “Displaying test results for subject: Rick Sanchez. Again. Infection identified as: A strain of rhinovirus, often referred to as the common cold. Which I already told you this morning. Just because you don’t like the answer, doesn’t mean repeating the test will get you a different one.”

Rolling his eyes at his computer’s sarcasm, Rick quietly asked Morty, “There. You satisfied now?” Morty nodded, and the two of them headed back into the house. They both collapsed onto the couch, sitting in opposite corners. Except for some coughs and sniffles, there was silence between them.

Rick broke it by asking, “So… pretty anticlimactic, huh? *Achoo!*” His voice was barely above a whisper now.

“Yeah, but that’s *Achoo!* a good thing.” Morty sighed, adjusting his blankets.

Rick tossed him a pillow and asked, “So, how are you feeling?”

“I’m… not sure? Like, not terrible, but not great, either. *Cough!* My throat’s a little scratchy and my head feels all fuzzy. Mostly I’m just tired and cold. This how yours started?”

Rick glanced sympathetically at Morty and said, “Yeah, pretty much. With any luck, it *SNIFF!* won’t get worse for you. Shouldn’t, since colds are usually so minor. Plus you’ve got youth on your side. Then again, that never did me any favors, so there’s no guarantee it *COUGH!* will for you, either.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I was the kid who always seemed to get hit worse by whatever bug was going around my stupid school than anybody else did. I told you my not dealing well with being sick isn’t a new thing.” Rick explained with an annoyed shrug.

“Sounds rough. I don’t think I’m like that. I mean, when was the last time I missed school because I was sick, and not because of you? It’s *Achoo!* been a long time. Can’t say I remember it happening much before, either. So good for me, I guess?” Morty commented, trying to picture Rick at his age or younger.

Rick nodded in agreement, then complained, “Y’know, despite being a germ magnet growing up, I somehow didn’t get the fucking chicken pox until it went through Beth’s preschool. Ugh. Now that was terrible. You’re young enough you just got the shot and never actually had it. Trust me, you’re lucky.” He scowled and shuddered a little at the memory.

Morty giggled at that mental image, then said, “Uh-huh. Aw geez, isn’t it like, kind of dangerous to get that as an adult?”

“Eh. Can be. Especially if you end up with secondary skin infections from uh, not listening when your wife tells you scratching with a busted robot arm is a bad idea.” Rick admitted sheepishly. Morty laughed a little more at that. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him that Rick had listened to reason just as badly 40 something years ago as he did now.

“Stop trying to picture it. *COUGH!* Anyway, that ordeal was hell on Earth for a solid month, but I recovered just fine. You see the point I’m trying to make here, Morty?” Rick grumbled, pretending to be annoyed by Morty’s amusement even though that had obviously been the point of telling that story.

“I guess.” Morty replied quietly, worry furrowing his brow again.

“What? Morty, you’ve seen my stupid test results twice now. Don’t tell me you think I fabricated them, or it’s another part of the detection system being broken?” Rick asked crossly.

“*SIGH!* No, I’m taking all that at face value. You have a bad cold. Nothing worse. It’s just… never mind.” Morty said, flipping through his notes again.

“Don’t do that shit. Whatever you’re gonna say, just say it.”

“Well, I read that complications from colds are rare, but they do happen. Especially if your health isn’t great to begin with, or you’re, you know, older. Like, I can’t shake this worry you could still get your wish and end up with pneumonia, Rick.” Morty admitted.

“Jesus Christ, Morty. Will you let it fucking go already?! What do I have to do to snap you out of this once and for all?” Rick yelled, setting off another series of coughs and instantly regretting raising his voice that much. Once the coughing subsided, he drank the rest of the water Morty had brought him earlier, tried to say something else… and discovered he couldn’t.

“It’s okay. We’ll talk about it later once you feel a little better. Morty told him, forcing a smile. Rick nodded, realizing he wouldn’t know what to say if he could talk. Another episode of the fishing show came on. This time, Gene-With-A-Beard was listing facts about tuna.

Just then, Jerry entered the room, saying, “I heard the alarms going off again. Does that mean the Mimicking Disease finally moved onto copying some other illness? I was a little scared to come check. Not to mention confused because I thought I still heard coughing. What’s going on?” Rick slapped his forehead, now even more annoyed he’d lost his voice.

“Dad, for the zillionth time, Rick lied about that. The alarms were just going off because we had to run the test again, and… *ACHOO!*” Morty tried to explain.

Caught off guard and further confused by the sneeze, Jerry asked, “Wait, you’re sick now, too?”

“Yeah, I caught Rick’s cold. It’s *Sniff!* not a big deal. Hey, Rick, gimme the tissues back.” Morty sighed, in no mood to deal with his father’s cluelessness. Rick handed him the nearly empty box.

“Let me get this straight. The whole scary, turns from one mystery disease to another at the drop of a hat illness, really was just a cover for having a cold?” Jerry asked, turning his attention to Rick.

Rick nodded, glaring at Jerry, while Morty said, “Yes, Dad. I told you that hours ago.”

Ignoring his son and staring intently at his father-in-law, Jerry continued, “And this cold is doing this much of a number on you? You’ve looked worse every time I’ve seen you today, Rick. That cough sounds brutal.” Unable to do anything else, Rick just continued glaring at Jerry, hating every second of this more than the last. He grabbed the tissue box back from Morty.

“Rick lost his voice. Just leave him alone and ask me if you have any more dumb questions, okay?” Morty said wearily.

“Seriously? I wouldn’t have thought Rick could even get a cold in the first place. I guess that’s why I didn’t listen to you earlier, Morty. But there’s no like, built-in robot voice to talk for him in case of a situation like this? That’s… surprising.”

“Maybe, but none of Rick’s implants are working.” Morty admitted. 

Rick gave him an absolutely furious glare, mouthing and trying to yell, “What the fuck?!”

“What? Dad knowing that changes nothing, Rick. Besides, Mom should be home soon. I hope. And she’ll pick up on it after spending two minutes with you.” Morty pointed out. Rick wanted to argue, but quickly realized he couldn’t, both because of his laryngitis and the fact Morty was right. He angrily turned away from both Morty and Jerry, burrowing into his blanket pile.

“Holy shit, really? Is that like, a normal thing that happens when he gets sick?” Jerry asked, clearly surprised by this new information.

“Yes, really. And I don’t know if it’s normal or not. Rick wouldn’t give me a straight answer. But that *Cough!* doesn’t matter right now, Dad. What does is now that you finally know what’s going on, you can help us. Like, actually help. Not come up with some harebrained, save the day with anime plan, then go sulk for hours when you realize that won’t do shit.” Morty answered.

“Right, right. You both need medicine. More tissues, obviously. Have either of you even eaten today?”

“Not much, no.” Morty said. Rick just shrugged angrily under his blankets.

“I’ll make soup. But I should probably go to the store first before it closes.” Jerry said.

“Yes, you should.” Morty agreed. Jerry put on his jacket and was about to head out the door, when something occurred to him, and he turned back towards the kitchen.

“Dad, you’re going the wrong way. Please don’t get sidetracked again. It’s really important you just go to the store now.” Morty sighed, worried his father was getting distracted by another nonsense idea.

“In a minute, I promise. I just have to check if there’s any ingredients I’m missing. While I’m doing that, you two write down what you need when I go shopping.” Jerry replied. As he disappeared into the kitchen, he added, “Actually, maybe only Morty do that. Sorry, Rick, but I’m not going on any errands to planet Flim Flam or the Garblygook dimension for you tonight.” Still unable to reply to that verbally, Rick stuck one hand out from under the blankets to flip Jerry off. Morty grabbed his notebook – at least Rick hadn’t portalled that to God knows where – and started writing things down. A few minutes later, Jerry came back, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs on it.

“It’s not going to cure you or anything. I mean, no one can cure the common cold. Though come to think of it, Rick, I’m really surprised you can’t. I mean, you’d think that would be easy compared to making clones or that gun that kills a person by making their organs fight each other, but…” Jerry began. Rick tried to kick him, but, not taking into consideration that he couldn’t see where Jerry was, only succeeded in kicking over the coffee table.

“Dad, shut up! You do kinda have a point, but now is not the time!” Morty interrupted, righting the tipped over table. That done, he asked, “What have you got there? Please don’t tell me it’s some olde timey home remedy your great-great grandparents swore cured everything, even though no one they knew lived past 40.” Under his layers of blankets, Rick laughed silently at that.

“Yes and no. But since you’re both being so ungrateful, maybe I shouldn’t give this to you.” Jerry scoffed.

“Look, Dad, it’s been a long day. And between Rick thinking he could fix this by making the germs people-sized, or people germ-sized, and the crazy shit I found online, I’ve had it with… unconventional cold remedies, okay? I just want you to go to the store and come back with *Achoo!* actual medicine.” Morty sighed.

Jerry’s expression softened, and he replied, “As I was saying, it’s not a cure, but this tea will make the two of you feel better. It has honey from my bees. And I guess this counts as an ‘olde-timey home remedy’, but for your information, honey has been scientifically proven to help with coughs and sore throats. I made sure to put a lot in yours, Rick.”

“Thanks, Dad. Here.” Morty said, grabbing the mug Jerry had placed in front of him and handing him the small shopping list. After thinking it over for a few seconds, Rick uncovered his head, sat up a little straighter and turned around. Still glaring at Jerry, he grabbed his mug of tea and took a sip.

“I’m assuming the only reason you’re not thanking me is that you can’t talk right now, so you’re welcome.” Jerry said smugly. Rick ignored him, grabbing the shopping list and pen. After scribbling down a few things, he shoved the list back into Jerry’s hand.

“Is your writing always this messy, or just when you don't feel well? What am I looking at here, Rick?” Jerry asked, trying to puzzle out Rick’s terrible handwriting. Morty took the list and looked it over. After a few seconds, he said, “He just wants you to get cough drops, but not the strawberry flavored kind. There’s like a paragraph about why those suck, and then ‘Try not to fuck this up, Jerry. I know that’s hard for you, but try.” Morty handed the list back to Jerry, who headed for the door, grabbed an umbrella, and finally left to go shopping. Once he was sure Jerry was gone, Rick quickly downed the rest of his tea. Alone again, he and Morty sat there, half listening to the television.

[guqin-and-flute]

Holding Me Holding You–Ch. 7 [3zun Raise Jingyi Prequel]

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6]

[Ao3 Link]

[Holy shit, how has it been 2 years since I last updated this fic?? ANYWAY HELLO HI I MISSED YOU. We're keeping the baby, guys. CW: Disjointed, slightly nonlinear narration; negative self talk; more talk of battle aftermath, bodies (gross but no more graphic than prev chapters), and death; focus on lots of trauma to do with death and grief; general Twin Jade parental trauma; vaguest mention of child death, in that he repeatedly tells himself there isn't one and remembers part of his nightmare about Wangji/A-Fu dying]

Who are you?

‘Wen Baiqi.’

What must be done for you to rest?

‘Say goodbye. Tell her goodbye.’

It’s raining in Qishan. It’s nothing like the rain in Gusu.

Who are you?

‘Hei Xuecen.’

What must be done for you to rest?

‘All my fault all my fault ALL MY FAULT--’

This rain isn’t crisp, but disconcertingly warm. It doesn't bring life. It soaks into the ground, milling the dirt back into the blood and gore bloated mud of that night, sucking at their feet. Reeking of putrefaction. It coats Xichen’s tongue and throat.

Who are you?

Each time, there is a chance he will receive a reply from the Yiling Patriarch himself. 

‘Ye Qian.’

He never does.

What must be done for you to rest?

‘Never apologized--’

What would he do if he did?

Who are you?

What would Zewu-jun do? Clan Leader Lan?

What must be done?

Would he soothe his spirit?

Who are you?

Ghostly fingers pluck at his sleeves constantly. 

Who are you?

‘Nie Zixing. Never knew him, tell them--’

When he had first arrived, the bodies of Wei Wuxian’s Wen contingent still hung from the gate to the battleground. Or what remained of them. After scavengers, time, and the elements had had their turn. Swaying in the warm, wet breeze along with carrion birds’ cries and the distant tunes of the guqin language. Grisly pendulums. Dripping.

There is no small boy among them. He had hoped against hope, but now he knew for sure. This secret is tucked deep, deep down beneath his heart.

Who are you?

The corpses on the ground are Wen. They are Lan. They are strangers. They are Da-ge, lying bloody on the floor of the Scorching Sun Palace. They are A-Zhan.

"We should burn them like they did to our people. Scatter their ashes, so they will never rest." A venomous whisper from his own disciples, a young man, face twisted in rage.

(“They’re killing everyone,” he had choked his sobs into A-Yao’s arms. “My people--my family are all dead and I did nothing.”)

A-Yuan had been so, so pale against the sheets. So tiny compared to the infirmary bed.

“These people?" Xichen’s voice is quiet. "These cultivators that studied healing? Miles and miles from Qishan?”

Silence.

“Did they destroy our home? Did we fight them in Sunshot?”

Too little, far too late.

There is no small boy among them. There isn’t.

A-Zhan, gray and slack, eyes glassy, head lolling--

He pushes the dream-memory away.

Who are you?

‘Jin Mingni. 

My father--’

"We will bury them and hold the proper rites, as we have the rest of the fallen. And I will ask you to swear yourselves to secrecy regarding their exact resting place. In case anyone later shares your thinking.”

‘Zhou Sanniang. Never wanted to come. Save me.’

“Help me bring them down.”

There may be no small boy among the Wen, but he sees corpses all day, every day. They're in his dreams. He cannot stop seeing them. And he cannot stop seeing a boy (Afuyuanzhan) among them, from the corner of his eye.

He can never quite catch the face before he realizes there is no one actually there.

A skeletal hand is unearthed when they lift a body--a remnant of the Sunshot Campaign, years before. There were plenty of partial skeletons from that time that the Yiling Patriarch had raised to fight them. It seems some didn't have the strength to fight their way out from the mud. The death here has layers. A slow growing mountain of violence and dead and blood instead of stone. The building of the Burial Mounds’ successor.

Do the Burial Mounds have as many crows? Is it a feasting ground, as this has become?

They carry the quiescent dead, cover them with cloth, lay them in rows. Those whose spirits have passed on easily. They lie with their Sect members--when they are able to discern who they are. Still, fields of undyed cloth mounds, waiting to be retrieved by their loved ones, if they still live. Somewhere out there, there must be people still alive, families whole and happy, living in the sunshine. Somewhere.

Who are you?

His fingertips bleed from days playing Linhai and Liebing.

What must be done for you to rest?

Even those here that are living shamble like the dead--the rogue cultivators, his Lan disciples, the handful cultivators from other Sects, all here for the same goal, all hollow eyed and pale. He is supposed to be here for morale. 

They work deep into the night, far from familiar, ingrained rules about schedule and tidiness, here. Adrift.

What must be done--?

The fierce corpse is not a powerful one, merely tenacious. Shuoyue snakes out. It crumples immediately with a muted splurch into the muck, halved.

‘Tell her I loved--’

The top half of the corpse writhes, still scrabbling for him. The sound it makes from its ruined face is horrid. It's a wonder it can sense his yang qi at all; no eyes, no nose. Its robes are a splotchy black and rusty brown-red, but the Lan ribbon around its forehead manages to show a ragged white through it, here and there.

The talisman sears, blinding. It is enough. The body slumps for the last time. He can settle into that mud, summon Linhai from his qiankun bag for the Songs of Rest.

Who are you?

‘Lan Ruicai.

Show them all--’

The blood of the walking dead is no longer life-hot, but the same, unnerving lukewarm as the rain. He cannot feel it. He can’t tell where it’s stained him until he reaches his tent each night. 

He is efficient. He is in control.

The rain here doesn't cleanse anything. It hasn’t stopped for days.

Everything is the same color; the sludge, the thick haze of lingering resentful energy, palms, boots, the hems and knees of robes. That old clotted wound color. Dirt repelling talismans can only do so much before they are overpowered by the sheer weight of yin energy permeating everything. Stained.

There's no use cleaning. He tries anyway.

‘I was so scared, so scared--’

Who are you?

Sometimes, the spirits do not answer. Sometimes, they speak first, before he can even start the questions, raking the strings repeatedly in their anguish. Sometimes, they try to tear the guqin from him, try to rend his clothes, squeeze his throat. Sometimes, banishment is the only way. 

The sudden shrieks and roars at night startle everyone from sleep. If Wangji was well, he would be here. He is known for going where the chaos is.

Is that what had led him to this? To Wei Wuxian? An affinity for soothing chaos? For chaos itself?

Who are you?

‘Don’t know. Want to go home--’

"I can't anymore, zongzhu, I-I--"

"It's alright. Return to the Cloud Recesses. You’ve done enough."

Sometimes, he wakes in the night to find that he is in the middle of dressing, having no memory of doing so, a clump of cleansing talismans clutched in his numb hands. He has cut down so many fierce corpses, he’s lost count.

Who are you?

Food is tasteless glue in his mouth.

Who are you?

Every night, he is sure to take the medicine that gives him no dreams.

‘Oh gods oh gods ohgodsohgods--’

Every night, he prays that he has not left Uncle overwhelmed, that his people are being cleansed and healed back home, that Wangji has stopped bleeding, that A-Yuan is healing, that A-Fu is….

Who are you?

(What right do you have?)

What must be done?

He has been here for days that run into one, long, dark, meaningless drain. 

‘Son. Baby. Where is he?'

Who are you?

‘Pan Liu.’

His raw fingers pause on Linhai’s strings, still humming. Rain patters quietly on the hat that shields his face from it.

He knows that name. How does he know that name.

There have been plenty of others he had recognized among the dead, from different Sects and his own, from childhood, from Cultivation Conferences, from class. But each time, he must pull himself back to that life to remember, away from the rain and the red and the dead.

He can’t place it.

What must be done for you to rest?

‘My baby. Safe.’

The spirit is a thin wisp of light, playing about the strings, shining on the dark wood. Focused. Waiting.  

Who is your son?

‘Lan Fu.’

His mouth is dry.

("A-niang?" A hopeful little voice. The memory of a crumpled form in the blood-churned muck, a shoe print between shoulder blades….) 

It is cruel, endlessly cruel that he is the one alive. That he is the one sitting in the mud across from this poor young mother’s spirit. That he is the one with blood enough in his hands to leave rain blotted stains on the strings as he tells A-Fu’s mother; He is safe.

(Shrieks of raw sound as they carry him away. Echoing off the trees. Reaching back for him.)

A hesitation. Then, ‘Who are you?’

Lan Xichen. Zewu-jun.

‘Zongzhu.’

He will be safe. I swear. 

‘...Safe.’

Rest, now.

‘...Rest….’ The notes are quiet, exhausted. Longing.

Then, silence. That pale light is gone. 

She is gone.

He sits, still and silent as the soft caverns in the clotted mud continue to patter around him. His face is wet--mist and rain and blood. He almost wishes it was tears. 

He aches in a new, terrible way, now.

Oh, little one. You were so loved.

He has been witness to both sides, now, of this small, destroyed family reaching for each other through the dark. And how useless he has been in the task of bringing either of them lasting peace. 

To bring anyone lasting peace. 

(Useless.)

And do you serve anything so fiercely that it would be your last thought, taken across into death? 

It is irrelevant. The soul quieting ceremony had been performed on them as children, with all the other inner disciples. He will not linger as a ghost, even if he were to be struck down by a fierce corpse this instant.

He finds himself trying to remember if his mother had ever mentioned having had such a ritual performed on her….

Selfish. You would have your own mother suffer and linger as an unquiet ghost for some sort of twisted confirmation that you were loved? 

Xichen remembers childhood before the death of his parents. The infinity of all of it. It probably never crossed A-Fu’s mind to beg her to stay with him. (“No, no go! P’ease!”) She had always returned before. 

The memory of A-Fu clinging to his hands so tightly he had drawn blood with his nails is inescapable. 

During that final farewell at the Jingshi, A-Huan too had had no idea it would be the last time he would ever see his mother’s face. He didn’t know what creeping death looked like, then. She was simply her, smiling, twinkling at them.  He had kissed her cheek and taken Wangji’s hand and waved to her through her ornately carved window screen as Uncle led them away. Wangji had always been the one to pull back, to fuss over leaving. Uncle had always made sure that Xichen set a good example for him.

The snowy day she had left this world, cold and dry, so far from the warm wet muck he was in now, something in him hadn’t believed it. Hadn’t believed that someone could just…no longer exist, just as suddenly as a storm might blow over the mountain summit with no warning. 

He saw her so sparingly, it seemed impossible that she wasn't just simply waiting in her front room for them to visit with a smile and open arms.

How? he had asked. When? Why?

Uncle had said that it was not for children to know. This pulled it even farther into the unreal, stretching his comprehension. It felt like a dream, a lie. A story. But if he could just see her…if he could just prove that this was some sort of…misunderstanding--

(Xichen had never asked again after that first refusal sat in his gut like a chilly stone. He suspected that Wangji had not either. Even now, decades later, he still did not know how his mother had actually died. 

He suspected enough, however. 

He knew it was sudden. He knew it was unexpected. He knew no one spoke of it. He knew it had broken his father beyond any hope of repair. Uncle had not volunteered the information, even now, when they were both grown. And Xichen will not allow useless rumination. Rule 60.)

 He remembered he hadn’t been able to stop crying. A-Huan had always hated crying--he always tried to hide away and not bother anyone with it, but this had been constant. 

Uncle had squeezed his shoulder and spoken softly, and reminded him after hours of stopping and starting that he must not grieve in excess, that he would make himself sick, that he was agitating Wangji, that he needed to calm himself, death was a natural passing, like the moon or a river, one must not let their emotions control them.

But still, that something in him that just knew it wasn't true waited until it was dark, until curfew set in and the snow lit the night full-moon-bright, reflecting the stars and lanterns. He had pulled on his boots and slipped from his window, cautiously darting across the paths of the Cloud Recesses in just his pajamas and his blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders, shivering from more than the cold. 

This had to be a trick that he didn’t understand; a joke or a punishment for something he had done wrong. When he figured out what to apologize for, he would be able to see her again. 

The fear of being caught breaking the rules was washed away when he crossed beneath the familiar bower wound with skeletal winter vines. His mother’s house stood dark. All around it, snow was churned and broken, as if many people had been there. In all his memory, no one else had ever visited the Jingshi. The door was unlocked. 

It opened onto emptiness and moonlight. 

Everything was gone.  Her plants. The blue cushioned couch. Her desk and papers. Her dragon incense burner. Her tall candlesticks. Her big, thick, round rug they laid on and played games. The pictures he had painted for her.

He had drifted, stunned, through the shell of his mother’s home. The only proof that she had ever even been there were the scratches on the floor from where furniture had been dragged. That, and the scent of her that still lingered underneath the smell of whatever they had scrubbed the floor and walls with. They had erased her completely. Like she was never there in the first place.

Then it had settled on him like a cloak of lead, dropping him to his knees; the understanding, the true deepness of what this meant.

She was really gone. Forever. 

The ‘always’ was gone. The ‘next time’ and promises. That warm, constant presence on the rim of the Cloud Recesses, the visit that marked his days as cyclically and surely as the sun had simply...vanished. In just one moment, the world was made completely lightless. Incomprehensible. It had a hole ripped in its center, cold and inescapable.

She would never brush back his hair and kiss his forehead. She would never pout when she lost a game. She would never squinch up her nose and do an accidental snort-laugh.

If he had only known that it could happen so fast…if he had only known that people could leave so quickly and completely, he would have taken something. A set of her dark, weighty chopsticks, one of her bracelets, a letter; anything. But there was nothing.

Somehow, he had found himself in front of the Hanshi, his feet numb, his face and hands frozen. Thinking back on it, he couldn’t remember what his 6 year old self had planned. He wasn’t sure that there had been a plan. Maybe he had just wanted a parent. Maybe he had been seeking out the one adult that might have cared as much as he did that his mother was gone. Uncle didn’t understand--A-Huan and A-Zhan had always known that he didn’t like her. He was always polite, because that was important, it was in the rules--but he was always stiff and short. He frowned the whole time--every time--picking them up. He hated talking about her.

But the father he had hardly met, that distant, hidden figure--he had married her. He had loved her.

He would care.

The Hanshi, too, had been dark--and he panicked. Had his father left--or died like his mother and no one had told him? He had yanked the door handle--and to his shock, it slid open. He had been expecting a lock like the one that he saw being done up behind them when he and A-Zhan left the Jingshi. (A choice, not a prison, he had realized as he got older. Not in the same way, at least. Other things kept Qingheng-jun bound.) 

It was dark inside, curtains drawn, vague shapes of things illuminated by the light creeping in behind him. He stood in that doorway, frozen in body and mind, unable to trespass that much farther. It smelled unfamiliar and sharp. He had never been in his father’s home before. 

It was so dark.

He had called into that darkness, choked and quiet; “Fuqin?“ 

Silence. 

“...Diedie?”

(“They made choices. These are consequences,” is all Uncle had told him when, younger, he had asked why both of his parents were locked away from him and refused to say more.

Afterward, A-Huan had always been afraid that he might accidentally make those same choices, that he would be kept from his brother and his Uncle and nannies for it. Because no one would tell him what those choices were, he studied the rules obsessively so he could be sure to follow every single one. So he would never be locked up.)

There was a rustle, a clink. A shape had formed in the shadows, someone sitting up from being slumped on a table. A pale hand swayed into the pool of silver moonlight, pointing. The voice that followed had been rough, slurred like a mouthful of rocks. “You are not supposed to be here. Go.”

A-Huan had fled as fast as his numbed legs could go. Stumbling, breaking through the crust of snow, falling and rising and falling, back up through his window to collapse on the floor. His breath had burned in his lungs as he coughed and sobbed as quietly as he could, hot tears stinging his frozen cheeks.

Not quietly enough, though. A-Zhan had eventually crept into his room and curled up next to him on the floor without a word, arm wrapped around his middle.  When A-Huan had rolled over and held him more tightly than he had ever held anything before, he realized that A-Zhan was the only part of his mother he had left in the entire world.

And now, what did A-Fu have left of his parents, of a life he knew? 

A story, at the very least. A reason. A goodbye. The truth. It was all he could offer. It was all he had left for the boy. These other spirits and their wishes can only be passed along to others, if they were attainable at all. But this, this he can do; this, he can set right. To make absolutely sure that her will is found and executed, that the family who cares for her son is told the story of her last farewell, so he will know, too, in time. 

So a son will never have to wonder.

This much peace, he can provide. With those who can bear this place no more and an endless caravan of cloth draped bodies, he returns to Gusu, leaving behind Qishan’s bleeding sky.

-

The quiet of home stuns him. There are no screams, no groans echoing down the mountain. The trees don’t muffle sounds of sword or talisman sizzle, merely birdsong and wind. There is beauty here, something he hadn't known his soul craved like water in a drought until he saw it in rich blues, blooming whites, lush greens. The coolness, the clarity of the water and the touch of leaves. Nothing here is red-brown. All that bleeds is hidden away behind pale bandages and pale walls.

It's almost too much. 

(His hands feel filthy, no matter how many times he scrubs them. Discontent among such blessings is an insult to those that can no longer come home to them. He will kowtow in the shrine for this disrespect later.)

Time has meaning once more. In theory. There are places to eat, to rest. 

(It hardly makes sense to him anymore, despite the schedule being as familiar as the stone beneath his feet.)

Home, in the Hanshi, surrounded by familiarity and comfort, sitting at his desk as the incense burner next to him delicately permeates the air with sandalwood and the trees outside rustle and no one screams at all, he holds Pan Liu’s will in his hands. It is a brief, frail little thing in the face of such sorrow. It must have been hastily written after her husband’s death, as she willed A-Fu and her remaining possessions to the care of her younger sister. Who upon brief investigation of his ever growing list of the dead was found to have been killed in the battle against Wei Wuxian as well. The sister, yet unmarried, had no will of her own--probably too young to have begun to even consider death as a real possibility before life and Wen and war swept their way in. Their house had been one destroyed in the Wen’s sacking of the Cloud Recesses, their personal possessions few. No one else remained of their immediate family.

Pan Liu clearly had not expected to die before she could update it.

In his heart, somewhere, he had known that something like this was the case; that A-Fu was truly alone. Xichen had carried him for days and no one had come looking? No one had wondered where he was, wanted him home safe, with them? 

He had not wanted to look directly at this, at the time, knowing he would have to give A-Fu back to that loneliness, that uncertainty. Even though A-Fu is not the only child in the Cultivation World or even the Cloud Recesses with the same fate, it had been…different. He couldn’t have said why--still can’t--but it had felt like a betrayal to the boy. A loss, savage and personal. Even when he knew any other choice came nowhere close to making sense.

Still. Even he and Wangji had had their uncle and the small, rotating cadre of minders that were familiar to them. He saw his mother once a month and knew his father was there, somewhere, out of sight. There had been a thread connecting them to their parents and the life they could have had with them. 

A-Fu has none of this. 

And yet he still cries, still calls out, because he trusts that someone he knows will come. Of everything in these last few days, this is what is almost too much to bear, a knife stuck in his ribs that gouges with every breath. He does not feel sadness or regret; only pain. Everything else has been out of reach for a while now.

The rattle of his door opening onto seeping sunshine and fresh, bloodless air has him looking up. His Uncle steps over the threshold. “You’re back,” he says warmly by way of greeting as Xichen rises.

“Shufu.” He bows, then offers him his customary seat, more out of habit than necessity; this teatime visit was a familiar ritual in a life not too long ago.

 They take their places at opposite ends of the low, square table at the center of his sitting room as Xichen opens his tea cupboard. “It’s been a while since we have been able to simply sit and have tea together,” Uncle observes, easily.

Yes; nothing has been right or normal for a long time. “Mn.”

When he continues to set out the cool porcelain cups and the dark pot with no further elaboration, Uncle watches him work, expression a thoughtful blur in his periphery.  “...The library is not where I expected your first stop to be.” 

He sounds only mildly curious, but Xichen knows that it is unspoken approval that he had not gone straight to Wangji.

He hesitates, then continues his methodical ritual of movement. “There was a time-sensitive matter that I wanted to attend to.”

In truth, after the bath he had taken upon his return--where he had had to call for 3 rounds of water (Do not be wasteful, Rule 23; broken) before it was no longer clouded dark with dried blood and mud and rot--Xichen had stood on the Hanshi’s front porch, staring down at the blindingly white path before him, forking off through the trees. 

His heart had tugged him one way and his cowardice in the face of pain another. The thought of seeing more bodies just lying there, of seeing those dear to him--Wangji, A-Yuan, those in the infirmary--suffering while he could do nothing to prevent it was….

It was not something he was capable of, at present. Just for now. Just for these first few hours. It was selfish, but true. And so, he had gone to their records room in the library to request Pan Liu’s will. Pain had won. His heart was weak, choosing the easier duty.

Unable to stop himself, though he knows it will cloud his uncle’s relaxed and pleasant demeanor, he asks; “Is Wangji…?” He trails off. 

Awake? Improving? Well? …Alive? A sharp internal rebuke at this last. Do not exaggerate. Rule 671. Uncle would not be so calm if things were dire. He is angry, not cruel. He would have been told.

(A heavy hand on his shoulder. An empty house. Churned snow.)

He would have been told.

Uncle’s face does, indeed, darken. “Hmph.” A mirthless, scornful snort. “He wakes on occasion. He refuses to speak, refuses to acknowledge anyone. He is simply lengthening his own punishment.” Uncle eyes him, adding, “You should be able to talk some sense into him. He always has listened to you best.” 

‘And so how could you have let this happen? How could you have let him do this?’ 

(When will you stop being angry and start being afraid for him?)

Xichen lowers his gaze to the dark wood of the table and scoops the tiny, furled up leaves of the tea into the pot, the smokey green scent tickling his nose

It’s true. Of everyone--their caregivers, teachers, and relatives, Wangji has always responded to him best. He would not always necessarily disobey outright, but he might frown or hesitate before complying or pretend not to hear--especially if he were called to come away from Xichen’s side. “Your class is this way, xiao-gongzi,” the minder would call and A-Zhan would continue his resolute little stride beside him, hand squeezing tighter around Xichen’s fingers the only indication he had heard anything at all. 

It was when Xichen squeezed back and knelt down to straighten his robes, smiling up into his serious face, saying, “It’s alright, ZhanZhan; I’ll ask if I can come out early to pick you up, mn? Go on, be good,” that he would allow himself to be led away with no further fuss.

 He had been the only one who could finally convince him that kneeling in the rocky ground every month when they should have been visiting their mother would not force anyone to bring her out to them. The first time, he had asked him to come in, come home. But knew his brother. He was not surprised when he silently refused to even show he had heard him. 

And so he hadn’t asked again, never having the stomach to fully destroy the hope that he would be let back into the Jingshi if he just waited long enough. 

But Uncle had become frustrated, their teachers and nannies muttering. They were impatient with his refusal, seeing it as disobedience. They didn’t see his mourning, only his stubbornness. So A-Huan had had to protect his brother's soft heart from those that didn’t understand. “We can kneel together, back at home,” he had whispered, his fingers screwed tight around A-Zhan’s cold hand. “I’ll wait with you as long as you want. But niang would--” his throat had caught and he had wrestled his tears from his voice. “Niang would hate if you got sick, sitting out here in the cold all day.”

A-Zhan’s dark eyes had bored into him, thinking. Reason and punishment and demands from adults had not moved his stubborn frame one inch, month after month after winter-to-spring month. 

Then, finally, this second and last time, A-Zhan had listened to him. Whatever it was about him was what finally got his little brother slowly, stiffly to his feet to hobble back home with him. Xichen remembered that he hadn’t felt relieved at all. He just felt like he had taken their mother from him all over again.

“I will speak with him, shufu.”

 Uncle nods, then heaves a sigh. “What news is there from Qishan?”

Mechanically, as if operating his own mouth from across the room, Xichen relays numbers, movements, and times. He almost reflexively scolds himself for lying; the mundane description of dry duty and the lived horror so far from one another that they were entirely irreconcilable. Just words passed across a shining table over fragrant tea, cool wind brushing the sun-pale windows serenely with tree shadows

When he reaches the final fate of Wei Wuxian’s executed Wen contingent, Uncle approves. “It was wise to swear the disciples to secrecy. This has all gotten so inhumane. Denying them burial was an unnecessary cruelty,” he says heavily as he shakes his head, eyes closed in weariness. “I pray that we are done with this madness at last, with that Wei Ying finally taken care of. What a mess.”

There is silence. Xichen cannot fathom what his response to that could possibly be. Should possibly be--as Wangji’s brother, as the Lan Clan Leader, as his uncle's nephew. As Wei Wuxian’s…what. Friend? 

…As one who cannot delight in his death, in any case. 

Despite the period of kneeling before the Jingshi, Wangji had never been a troublemaker growing up. He was always the Jade who grasped the Lan way of life more easily, molded himself to the rigidity of the rules with that same stubborn tenacity. 

It was Xichen who failed in that, who smudged the black and white lines to gray, bent them so they were slightly more comfortable around him; bearable--once he discovered that they could be. 

He was the one who accidentally got drunk trying to see if he could filter out alcohol with his core, he was the one to kiss Mingjue first in the Jin Gardens during a Cultivation Conference. The one to urge his brother to befriend a talented teenager who was gleefully and repeatedly stomping all over their Clan’s ancestral rules.

He was the one who had told Wangji to step outside his rigid view of the world, to see people for their hearts. And then Wangji's own heart had been torn out. As his uncle said; Wangji had always listened to him best. This much would never have happened without Xichen's deliberate meddling. 

All those years ago, when Wei Wuxian had first cannonballed into their lives, Xichen had just wanted Wangji to be happy. To have friends. Alone didn’t always mean lonely, but he knew he saw it in his brother. Saw Wangji with peers who were merely in awe of his talent, who respected but did not like him, love him, know him, want to spend time with him. He knew the difference, no matter what Wangji showed the rest of the world. The older he got, the less he smiled--the soft, secret ones that so many others failed to see. Xichen had missed them, dearly. And so he had pushed.

Everything that has happened sense feels as if it’s unshakably all his fault.

As the tea is poured, they speak; it passes over him like clouds. Which elder is still in which stage of recovery. The smith they called to repair swords and assess the spirits of those now without a handler. 

Something touches him.

 “Xichen!” 

His hand burns. He is on his feet. Shuoyue’s naked blade buzzes, ready in his hand. He does not remember moving. Every fiber of cloth on his skin feels alive and writhing. Blood courses. Scalding tea is cooling, dripping from his knuckles.

The touch had been spiritual, not physical. From the corner of his awareness and the Cloud Recesses boundary wards at once; a warning, tasting of wild metal (close to blood, so close). 

The Western Wards, crossed.

“Do not unsheathe your blade in a residence!” Uncle’s face crinkles from shock to a wince. “And contain yourself, this is not a battlefield.”

It takes a moment. His killing intent is up, streaming from his core like a river of blades, of blood. 

Sucking in a breath, he takes the torrent in internal hand and yanks it back, firmly, like the reins of a horse, winding the silk rope of it over again and again in the palm of his concentration, until the thrum of it eases. The pressure that had filled the room with the promise of death ebbs. Shuoyue hums warm, expectant. When he does finally sheathe her, the connection between them flickers, confused. 

Above his hammering heart, he hears Uncle continue, frowning, “I felt it, too. Was it someone passing outward or inward?”

His tongue, his mind is mud-stuck slow.

Focus. There is no battle here. You are home. Get a hold of yourself.

“...Outward. Less resistance. Nothing powerful.”

Oddly, at this Uncle’s frown deepens, shadows of concern replacing mere puzzlement. “Hmm. Those were in the West…far….” After a moment of thought, he rises.

As he steps out the door and calls for a servant from the Hanshi’s porch, Xichen continues to try to pull in slow, deep breaths.

Have you regressed to being such a novice that you cannot control your own qi? Your own battle intent? Are you a child? Though his uncle's voice is low and his attention is divided, the words ‘searchers’ makes it through the pounding blood in his ears. Strange.

When Uncle slides the door back open, Xichen asks, “Searchers?”

His silhouetted form hesitates, framed by the sunlight that pours in behind him and dazzles Xichen’s eyes, leaving his expression briefly in shadow. “...Yesterday evening, a child managed to wander into the woods alone.” A spike of cold worry threatens to heighten the wild surge of energy within him once more as his uncle continues, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “We have had several teams scouring the backhill and the whole of our land since then. They are young enough that their spiritual signature isn’t strong enough to register on normal tracking talismans.”

“Why was I not told?!” 

It burst from him, harsher from shock than he had meant and Uncle blinks, pausing in settling himself back onto his seat, brow furrowed.

But he cannot bring himself to care about disrespect, just now. Any child alone and lost is terrifying, awful. There is something, though…something about his tone, his expression that has breath caught in Xichen’s throat as slow, glacial horror creeps up from the depth of his gut. He is avoiding specifics. 

Why.

 “It is being handled already; why would I distract you from your duties? You’ve only just returned and you must--”

“Who. Which child.”

He huffs in irritation, brow furrowing further. And he shuts his mouth, lips compressing.

Xichen no longer needs an answer.

Behind him, he can hear Uncle’s voice raised in startled alarm, but he is already out the door, already leaping from the porch onto Shuoyue. The wind howls in his ears as shoots upward, speeding west to where he had felt the wards ring within him. To where A-Fu has just crossed beyond their safety.

He knows. He doesn’t know how, but he knows.

Xichen can barely breathe around the air battering his face and his own terror. The shrieking sky threatens to rip him from Shuoyue’s blade. Everything at once feels heightened, his awareness expanding to notice how chilly it is despite the sun, how the damp of the wind tearing at his hair and clothes tells of rain in the past day, how dark the woods look beneath the thick canopy blurring by below his feet. He had been alone and cold and terrified, out all night. Had the boy been trying to find his mother? Xichen? The thought made his gut writhe within him.

(They peel his little fingers from Xichen’s sleeve as he clutches and screams…)

Please please please please please

How could this happen? How could he have ever allowed this to happen? There were rivers, cliffs, steep slopes of scree, ponds, caves, animals--gods, animals alone would--

He is well enough to move, to cross the wards.

If it was him. If it were not a strong enough spiritual animal to trigger the alarm. 

There is no boy hanging among them THERE IS NO--

The invisible boundary rears up in his senses, mere seconds full tilt sword ride from the Hanshi but so, so far for a tiny child, wandering in the night. Beneath the canopy, before Shuoyue even manages to drop to a reasonable height and speed, he has already leapt off, landing at a sprint. Internally, the memory of the disruption in the web of the spell warps around his spiritual awareness like a broken arch as he crosses in that exact place. The ground is not suddenly more treacherous, the trees no more menacing, but beyond the relative safety of the Cloud Recesses, his hammering heart sees the whole world is a death trap for this little child.

(He cannot bear to see a tiny body, he can’t, he can’t--)

Skidding to a stop, he wheels in place, eyes scouring everything at knee level and below. “A-Fu!” his throat is pinched, his mouth bone dry. “A-Fu?!”

The ground cover is thick with bushes, shrubs, trees both young and fallen. The sun shines spots into his eyes through the swaying leaf cover above, dappling the floor with shadow and light, dancing, blurring. Silence. Even the birdsong had stopped when this strange being had suddenly crashed into their peaceful little clearing. He sucks in a breath to call again--and then he hears it.

There is a small child crying somewhere nearby. 

Quiet and hoarse but unmistakable.

He isn't slow, gentle, or cautious or anything that a terrified child might need right now; something else has a hold of him, now. He blindly crashes through the brush towards the sound, half skidding down a slope until--until! There! 

A blur of white amongst tree roots halfway down, a curled shape and-- “A-Fu!”--a little face, smudged and red cheeked and tear stained raises and his little eyes light with recognition and he scrabbles, fumbling and crawling out as Xichen tears back up the slope--slips, rights himself--and reaches and the boy throws himself off the lip of the hollow and into his arms, colliding hard with his chest like his heart coming home. 

He staggers, momentum and sudden weakness buckling his knees. A gnarled tree catches his side and he slides them down into the huddle of its roots, curled around him. Against his chest, wrapped in his arms, A-Fu is damp and chilly. He is covered in muck and sticks and burrs but he’s alive--alive--safe and hiccuping and piteously hoarse, tangling his hands through Xichen’s hair as he clutches him back, gasping.

He can breathe. He can finally breathe again.

Some unnameable agony, like some wild beast, is thrashing, welling up, bursting from his chest. It shakes him, tearing at his throat, his heart, his lungs, burning. It’s not relief. It's not fear. It’s…

Heedless of stitches cracking and bursting, he yanks his thicker outer robes open and over the child, tucking him deep into the pocket of warmth. He can feel him shivering, his tiny heart speeding.

He had forgotten that his head is so warm, that his hands are so tiny, just how real his weight is in his arms. When he buries his nose in the baby fluff of his hair, under the dirt and musty forest chill is that wild-sweet child smell he remembers from carrying him for days beneath his chin--and long ago from when Wangji was young. 

He tries to pull back to check him for injuries, for bruising, but he latches onto his neck and sobs. Mere minutes before, Xichen had never wanted to hear another scream again--but now he wishes A-Fu’s cries were as loud as the first day he held him, deafening and demanding, sure and strong in their conviction. These sobs are private, weak, exhausted little things. Not calling for attention. No longer certain of a trusted adult’s return.

“P’ease,” he croaks and that pain, that pressure bears down on Xichen and it feels like drowning; it feels like dying.

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’m here,” he whispers back, thick and choked (that thing inside him that aches, that wails, that loves is strangling him), and he draws up his knees, he wraps his robes tighter and rocks and rocks them both as it breaks--all of it, calving and crashing and surging and molten and ugly and broken--and he wants to beg ‘scream, little love, scream your heart out; someone is coming, someone will always come,’ but he doesn't have enough breath as it tears from his locked throat in silent sobs, because with unworthy hands and heart, he holds this blameless little life that has wandered through the halls of his heart leaving muddy fingerprints, and does the cruelest, most selfish thing he can ever recall doing. 

He realizes that he cannot let him go again. 

[only-lonely-stars]

Orange is the New Black (Chapter 5 - The Orange Ninja)

[Chapter 4] // [Chapter 5 - you are here!] // [Chapter 6] – (FFN) (AO3)

Part of @ninjago-fic-fest!

Summary:

A rift opens in the sky above Ninjago City just as Cole continues his track record of falling from tall places. The place he wakes up in isn't the same as the one in which he fell... and who's the kid with a man bun who looks just like him?

Chapter summary:

Cole faces off against Lord Garmadon for the… however many-th time.

The sound of city life was rudely interrupted as deafening engines roared. With them, tires screeched on the pavement, leaving dark streaks in their wake. All of Ninjago City shook from the sound, paired with the clashing of metal and dull, heavy explosions punctuated by the elements. 

Flames and ice broke the sky. The earth rumbled. Lightning lit the world, flashing. Waves from the canals splashed wildly.

Unwitting pedestrians, hoping not to be caught in the crossfire, watched in amazement.

The whole city was punctuated with color and motion, too much to track with the naked eye. In fact, there was nothing quite like Ninjago City during a Garmadon attack (no matter how many Pilates studios and mini-golf courses were trampled in the heat of the moment).

“How’s our favorite—and only—city doing?”

News crews hovered as the story developed below them. Safe in their many-storied tower, reporters gushed over the Secret Ninja Force, live on large flat-screens mounted on the outsides of the first three floors. Their amplified voices made window panes shake.

“The Secret Ninja are here to save the day, once again!”

“Will our rescuers ever stop being so elementally exciting?”

“Elemental or fundamental?”

“Ha ha! Robin, you are a hoot.”

“I know, I know. Would you look at that, Michael, isn’t that something? Who’s that guy in the sushi mech?”

Cole looked up, distracted from all the chaos, and unwittingly looked right into a camera. The screens behind it were showing a live feed: his confused expression was plastered across the city.

So much for anonymity.

Instead of showing his annoyance at the suddent surveillance, Cole smiled and waved, pretending this was all completely normal.

“Is that a new ninja? We’ve never seen something like this before! Who are you, new guy?”

“I’m C– uh, called Orange. The Orange Ninja!” He gave a two-fingered salute like Jay often did, a gesture he’d mocked in the past—and ignored the resulting twinge of homesickness. “Don’t get used to me, okay?”

“He’s paying attention. Wow, what a day for Ninjago City! A new ninja—and there’s the main event!”

Cole looked up as the cameras panned, revealing Green coasting in on his green dragon mech. He coiled through the sky in a complicated swirl, mechanical scales flaring out behind the mech’s fire-breathing head. Cole watched the display with a wry smile. Knowing Lloyd, it was to get people’s attention—his father’s, the city’s. Especially with what Cole knew about him now, the latter. 

Lloyd is a ham in any universe, especially when there are cameras.

His reckless turns reminded Cole of when his Lloyd had been learning to ride the Ultra Dragon. Back then, each fall gained him another full-body bruise. He’d struggled to reach the reins with his stubby arms. Until the dragon got used to him, and he to it—along with a convenient, magical, tea-related growth spurt—those bruises were a daily occurrence. Watching his little brother get injured so often had been awful.

But… this wasn’t his Lloyd. This world’s Lloyd was confident and single-minded when he wore his ninja mask, even though he was as determined as the one Cole knew. It was a shame he didn’t act that confidently the rest of the time, when his green armor was missing.

The TVs were still watching the fight, narrating each step, and Cole let himself be brought back into the present moment.

“Our new ninja friend seems to be watching Green. What do you think, Robin?”

“Well I’d love to know what’s going on with this new member of the Force, but it seems like Orange has incoming! Just look at that swordfish mech!”

The screen shifted to show what was behind Cole.

He turned, a sinking feeling in his stomach. An enormous bipedal mech was marching down the street, right at him. Yes, it was designed after a swordfish, but not any fish he knew. Cole had never seen a fish with a bandolier of missiles strapped across its torso, or one that was able to move that fast, even at top speed—and rapidly coming closer and closer to mowing him down.

Worse, the driver was familiar.

Lord Garmadon was at the controls, and as soon as he saw Cole, he cackled. Loudly. “Found you!”

Cole abandoned all thoughts of his newfound stardom. He raised the stolen sashimi sword into a block, hoping against hope that his mech would hold up to some hand-to-hand combat. “Hey, you big bully! I’m hungry for some swordfish spring rolls!”

Garmadon raised one arm, brandishing a large cannon on its underside. “Who are you, new guy? Don’t tell me that stupid green upstart got another guy just to annoy me.”

“I’m your newest problem,” Cole blustered, stalling for time. “You can’t have Ninjago City, now or anytime. You’re Garma-done.”

Garmadon stared at him.

Cole stared back.

Garmadon laughed. “Oh! Oh, kid, that was terrible. You think I haven’t heard that stupid pun before? Wow, really– it’s impressive how bad of a first impression you can make!”

Cole laughed with a bravado he wasn’t sure he had. “I don’t care about first impressions with bullies.” He glanced at the cameras that were following at a distance. “Take notes! Bullying is never cool. Bullies are… not ninja.”

It felt so strange to use ‘ninja’ as an adjective like the Secret Ninja Force did. It was so kitschy! …But based on the excited chatter from the huge TV screens, the commentators seemed to react well to it. Cole rolled with it and turned back to Garmadon. “So! You want to try me as your appetizer?”

“Please. You’re barely more than a mouthful.” The mech’s enormous eyes rolled around in their sockets—ew, weird. “I’ll keep it simple, new guy. Just get out of my way, and I’ll go easy on you.”

“Not gonna happen. This city isn’t yours to take over.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t share the same opinion. And neither do my generals! Speaking of which, how did you get one of their mechs?”

Cole stepped his mech back into a combat stance. This Lord Garmadon seemed more willing to gloat than Cole’s—that was more dangerous at times, but an opportunity as well. “Care to find out?”

Garmadon waved him off, beginning, “Oh, no. I’ve got better things to do—”

BAM!

It came from the side. A missile hit the swordfish mech, knocking it over and causing a small explosion which sent the eyes spinning wildly. Three more followed it, sending pieces of the mech flying. The bandolier broke, swinging first to a jaunty angle, then entirely falling off Garmadon’s mech.

Cole laughed as the green dragon mech swooped in overhead. “Great aim, L– Green!”

Lloyd laughed, voice crackling over the comms. “Good work, Orange! Let’s push him back to the beach!”

“Oh no you don’t,” grumbled Garmadon, already getting back up. Never to be outdone, he raised his cannon, firing… fish? 

They aimed true, and one hit Lloyd straight in the face. 

He toppled over, falling hard into his mech’s hull, barely hanging on as his dragon swerved crazily. It banked into a deep turn, and Lloyd managed to climb back into the cockpit.

“I’m okay,” came his voice over the radio, groaning. 

Cole breathed a sigh of relief, then turned on Garmadon with a deeper fury. “I can’t believe you just did that to him!”

“You can’t believe it?” Garmadon laughed, sounding more than a little confused. “Shoot my nemesis in the face? Of course I shot him!”

“You shot—” Cole broke off his words, suddenly realizing his mistake, and changed his tune. “You shot a teenager!”

“Uh-huh? Again, what’s not to get?”

“A teenager. As in, pick on someone your own size! Do you see what you’re doing to the Secret Ninja Force? They should be dealing with their personal problems, schoolwork, dating! Not fighting off a warlord who wants to take over their home!” 

The irony of his own words wasn’t lost on Cole, but Garmadon had no way of knowing it. He—and his now one-eyed mech—stared at Cole for a minute.

“You’re… not a teenager, are you?”

“No, I’m not. I’m an adult like you. So you should fight me, and leave that poor teen alone.” Cole brandished the sashimi sword again, dialling up the mech’s power levels and ignoring how the engine whined with protest. “One on one, mano a mano.”

“Yeah… sure. Man o’ whatever.” Garmadon leveled his fish gun at Cole, his mood shifting to something more sinister. “Winner gets Ninjago City.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Winner gets direct access to Ninjago City Tower?”

“No way.” Cole took one step forward, then another. “I win, and you go back to your puny little island. You win, and then you get to try beating up the kids who spend their homework time dealing with an overgrown trout.”

Garmadon gasped. “A trout?! I am a mighty tuna! General Four, make my next mech a tuna!”

Cole didn’t catch any reply, but Garmadon apparently heard something, because his expression became furious. He shifted his mech into gear, a little more menacing, a lot less carefree. “You know what, kid? Deal! I'll enjoy crushing you.”

Cole rolled his eyes. “Sure, if you can manage. I've fought worse.”

The swordfish mech advanced on him, cycling new clips of fish into its miniguns. Cole had just enough time to sidestep the projectiles, and he took the chance to rush forward, thrusting his sword at Garmadon.

Garmadon danced back. “Woah! Don’t you know that thing’s pointy?”

Cole ignored the jab, instead cutting down to strike the mech’s legs. The sword glanced off the inside of the swordfish mech’s left leg, but it fell onto one knee. Garmadon yelled in surprise and fired wildly, hitting a nearby building. A few fish splatted against Cole’s cockpit—they were harmless, if not for the dynamite strapped to their backs. Cole reached up, grabbed them in one clumsy hand, and tossed them up to explode in midair.

“Woah,” his oddly quiet newscrew audience echoed. “Fireworks!” 

Cole rolled his eyes and went back on the offense. “Leave this city alone, Garmadon!” 

Garmadon stepped back once, twice, and caught the blade between his mech’s hands before it could strike his open-air cockpit. “There’s no way you’re from here. Who are you?”

“Nobody important. I’m from out of town, and you—” Cole wrenched the blade free— “are getting on my nerves!”

He drove the blade home, just underneath Garmadon’s cockpit, and twisted.

Garmadon yelled, jumping back, and hit one of his many buttons. The flashing around the body of the mech fell away, leaving only the skeleton of its mechanics, with none of the fishy decorations. It looked like Master Chen’s theatrical chair, having grown legs to walk around and generally annoy people in more locations than before.

Freed of Cole’s sword, he immediately backpedaled, making room between them. “Look what you made me do! My mech is ruined! Next time, I’ll destroy you!”

Cole narrowed his eyes, not letting his blade fall quite yet. “Next time. Do you surrender?”

“Look at my mech. What do you think?” It spread its hands wide, showing off an impressive lack of weaponry—if you ignored several guns mounted on each wrist, shoulder, and hip. “I’m unarmed!”

“Liar.”

“Calling people names isn’t very nice!”

“Lying to people isn’t very nice either. Lose the guns.”

Garmadon glared at him, red eyes flashing. Even so, to Cole’s amazement, he pressed a few buttons that sent the wrist-mounted guns tumbling to the ground.

“All of them.”

“Ugh,” Garmadon groaned. It was quite an accurate mimic of teenage irritation, paired with how he spitefully pried the rest of the guns off his mech and tossed them on the ground, too. “Is that good enough for you?”

“Sure.” Cole raised the sword to point at him. “Get lost, Garmadon! You’re not wanted here. Next time you come to Ninjago City while I’m protecting it, I’ll do worse than that!”

Garmadon raised his mech’s hands in surrender. “Yeah, I get the memo. Next time I come here, I’ll make sure you’re not here, weirdo!”

Cole rolled his eyes at the stalling, but held his tongue. Garmadon was backing away, and finally turned his back before sprinting toward the canals, yelling at the top of his lungs. “Generals! Back to the volcano! And make me a tuna sandwich!”

Cole followed, ignoring the backing track of cheers and praise from the large TV screens. He made sure Garmadon got to the canals, and then watched as he regrouped with his fishy minions—man, this dude really cared about theatrics and costuming. Cole watched until Garmadon’s crew finished collecting, then began sailing back to the distant volcano.

Just like that, Lord Garmadon was gone.

“Orange!” Other Cole’s voice rang out over the radios. “How did you do that?!”

 “I just scared him off. Nothing bad.”

“He never turns tail like that. You must have scared him pretty badly,” Other Kai added, sounding impressed. “Maybe we should’ve made people think we were adults!” 

“You wouldn’t be able to keep that up for long,” Nya prodded.

“I’d be an awesome adult! I’m practically an adult already.” 

“Sure, bro, sure.”

“Um, I hate to break up the joking,” Jay chimed in, “but we were in the middle of something when the Garmadon Alert went off? Maybe we should, uh, go back to base?” 

“Sounds cold to me,” Zane chimed in for the first time.

“Do you mean cool?” 

“Yes. I know the teen slang.” 

Cole reached up and massaged his temples, trying to stave off a headache. “Green, what’s your status? Want to lead us back? I don’t know the way from wherever I am right now.”

A few moments passed before he got a reply. “Look up.” 

There was the green dragon mech, with Green sitting back in his rightful place, waving. Cole let out a sigh of relief and set off in pursuit. 

No rest for the weary.