#I meant to make this full-on angst but then it devolved into a dark fic

[emxie]

When the World Was At War We Kept Waltzing

You are the sole heir to one of the wealthiest families in the country. A charming and mysterious stranger steals your heart. What could go wrong?

Zhongli x Fem Reader

Warnings: Blood, gore, murder/massacre, violence, one curse word, slightly suggestive content, somewhat yandere Zhongli

Word Count: 3139

A/N: There are several influences that inspired this piece. Music plays a huge part in my writing, so originally I drew inspiration from Lana Del Rey, specifically her Born To Die album, which I love to pieces. Of course, this song title is basically from a Lana Del Rey song (from her Lust for Life album), except for the last word, which I changed to "Waltzing" both for alliteration/phonetics purposes, and because it fits the theme of the fic more. You might recognize influences from Hamilton and Parasite, as I also like these pieces of media. When I first started writing it, I meant to include more angst, but as I formed the story, it morphed into a darker storyline and came to involve some blood and gore. What can I say, I just enjoy writing horror. Additionally, you might notice some repeating motifs throughout the story, specifically involving color. After reading The Great Gatsby, I have been fundamentally changed as a person, and thus why this fic also contains color symbolism and repetition of such themes. Also, although it's a bit vague and I didn't specify the time period in the actual story, I like to imagine that this takes place in the 1920s (just like The Great Gatsby), and there's like the sense of grandeur and riches associated with the time period (until it all goes south with the stock market crash, but let's pretend that didn't exist in this fic).

Enough about the background. I have not gotten Zhongli yet, despite doing 30 rolls and then some, and his banner is still continuing for another week and a half or so, so I'm saving more primogems up to roll more for him. Please come home Zhongli!!!! I'm so desperate you're the one character I would pay money for. Anyways, take this fic as another cry for help from the RNG gods to give me Zhongli.

I hope you enjoy the story, and remember that if you are triggered by violence and graphic imagery, or yandere-type characters, please don't read this fic.

“Would you like to be mine, and I yours?”

That was what he had asked you on this balcony laden with brocade ribbons and your heart bursting with passion.

A breathy “Yes” passed your lips, and then he was on your lips, gripping the bodice with a ferocity bridled. You two had stayed like that under the moonlight, broken up only by the occasional crackle of a firework.

You ran your fingers over the marble balustrade. Memories danced through your mind, earning a small sardonic quirk at the corner of your mouth.

How naïve you were.

That night set in motion a series of elaborate plans, not that you were aware.

Not even a week later, he had asked your father for your hand in marriage. You watched, holding your breath, as he sat across the furnished oak table from your father. As they talked, his hands continued to move as if they were their own entity, gesticulating to convey his intense love for you.

After an hour of discussion, you watched as your father reached across the table to shake hands with your love.

He stood up, moving across the room to where you sat. His amber eyes glowed as he reached out to you, gloved hands an inviting trap. You took his hand, standing up and being pulled into a tight hug. He brushed his lips against your ear. “You’re mine, beloved.”

🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟

After another month of bliss, engaged to the man who had taken your heart in its entirety, painting it red with his raging passion for you and entreating you to his cause, the wedding was announced. And it would be a sight to behold.

The absolutely sheer size and amount of wealth your family possessed signified that this would be a legendary union for ages to come. Invites slipped into envelopes and marked with your family’s seal, a dove holding an olive branch, were sent to hundreds around the country. Day in and day out maids and ladies-in-waiting would pester you about the dress, the flowers, the decorations, the theme, the ring you wished to gift your soon-to-be husband, and a variety of other accessories.

In the few spare moments you were able to catch with your fiancé, you would find yourself within his arms, gripping onto his broad shoulders as he bent down and kissed you. Occasionally you two would get a little too riled up, and had to cut your loving short lest a servant find you. But in those several times you found yourself subject to his more intense states, you were shivering, eager to learn what it was finally like to be loved by such a fierce and powerful man. And as you grabbed onto his long black and caramel locks which trailed behind him whenever he walked, pulling him down into a rough kiss, his hands ghosting your body feverishly, you couldn’t wait to be wed.

And wed you would be. For it was the day of your holy union to the one you loved, and excitement thrummed throughout your body as you were being dressed. The maids were straightening out the final pieces of your outfit. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you could hardly recognize the person staring back at you. The intricate makeup, paired with the dramatic crimson dress that you chose, was certainly a statement. Layers of bright red fabric made a beautiful waterfall all the way from your chest to your ankles. Making the decision to dress so boldly was another way to ensure the strength and legacy of your family among the wealthy. Of course, at the time, you didn’t think much of how he had suggested you wear a certain color.

They placed the scarlet veil over your face, obscuring your vision. It was time.

You walked out of the dressing room, a couple of servants gathering the glorious gradient of a tulle train behind you. The presence of such a color caused pride to swell in your heart, and your back straightened and you felt a bit taller as you slowly stepped, in sangria-colored heels no less, towards your future.

🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟

You had arrived at the venue where the wedding was to be held. Hundreds of people, most whom you knew from previous encounters, milled around the entrance. Your maids guided you towards a side entrance, so that you would be prepared to walk down the aisle once everyone was seated.

After some time waiting, you were informed that everyone had gotten settled, and it was about time for you to walk.

Rising from your seat, you passed another mirror in the room before leaving. Glancing at your reflection, you noted how your appearance seemed to herald…something. You resembled a specter; of what kind though, would remain unseen.

🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟

Regal doors, carved with designs of divine intervention, could barely be seen beyond your veil. There was a hand clenching around your heart. You could feel your pulse speed up. This was it. The beginning of your happy ever after.

Your father stood to your right, looping your arm with his. “Look at my gorgeous pumpkin, already so grown up.” You offered a delicate smile at these words.

A grinding noise sounded as the doors opened. Music began to play as you began the slow trek to the altar. Each step felt like an eternity. There was a noticeable hush as you began to walk.

Your gaze swept over the guests. You could make out some familiar faces. They looked as if they were drenched in a red liquid due to the filtering effects of the veil.

Then you were there. Your father handed you off, and stepped to the side. Looking up, you saw him.

He was dressed handsomely, in a suit matching your dress’s vivid choice of color. The sleeves stopped just above his wrists, allowing you to focus on his hands. Black gloves still covered his hands, barring you from viewing the naked flesh underneath. A little miffed, but undeterred by such an occurrence, your eyes moved up to his face.

He possessed a strong profile. Intense golden eyes, an angled bridge of a nose, lips that were straight-set, yet still so luscious and plump (you knew from kissing them so often), and a jawline to die for.

His eyes trailed over your body, taking in the sight of how beautifully you had dressed up. Just for him.

The music ceased. Only the occasional shuffling noise could be heard from the guests.

“We gather here today to celebrate a most momentous union!” The priest announced with a wide sweep of his arms. Some polite applause ensued, before dying into oblivion again.

The priest continued on with his speech. Some of the words became lost on you. Staring into those glowing amber eyes really did make you lose track of time.

With the exchange of the rings, you gave him a black ring carved from obsidian with ruby and gold veins running through it. In return, he gave you a typical diamond ring, although the jewel was perched atop a red crown. The priest was about to conclude.

“You may kiss the bride,” he declared. Your husband leaned in, grasping your soft hands in his rough leather gloves. He placed one hand behind your back and dipped you, while flipping the veil behind your head in one fluid motion. The crowd gasped in awe at his movement.

You could finally view his handsome face, unhindered by red. He kissed you, those plush lips resting comfortably on yours, just as they did on that nighttime balcony escapade. His eyes flashed a golden brown as he did so, so fast that you missed it. Your eyes fluttered shut, basking in his unwavering attention.

You didn’t feel the veil floating back down to shield your face from the atrocities committed. Almost. The absence of his warm lips and firm grip had you opening your eyes, searching for the touch of your husband.

The world was swathed in red. The guests were asleep, draped over the chairs in awkward and unnatural positions. Your father was slumped in his chair. Standing in the middle of the aisle was your husband. You ran up to him, hiking up your dress to reach his side.

“What happened?” you inquired.

“It had to be done,” he whispered, shoulders stiff as he stared down at the ground, hands entrenched in his pockets.

“Wait, what had to be done? What do you mean by that?” You backed up, heel skidding on the marble surface almost too easily. Tumbling backwards, you landed with only the padding of your dress breaking your fall.

The sudden motion tossed your veil backwards.

It was red. Everything was red. Red. Red. RED.

A scream clawed its way out of your throat. You back-pedaled on the floor, away from the man. No longer was his aura inviting. The love within your heart was obliterated in an instant, crushed by the rising fear that swallowed every warm emotion in its dark terror.

Your hand slipped. Catching yourself on your elbows, you looked to the side. A slick scarlet substance coated your hand. You knew what it was.

Your stomach twisted into a knot at the sight, sending a wave of nausea throughout your body.

The clicking of dress shoes against the floor had you freezing in place, too afraid to do anything else. What could he possibly want? You thought that you had it all, and he had truly loved you.

He knelt down in front of you, cupping your face with a bare hand dyed garnet. You flinched as his soiled skin made contact with you. You didn’t miss the sorrow in those entrancing golden eyes as he witnessed you shy away from him.

“I had to do it, my dear dove.”

“Why? WHY?!” you yelled, slapping away his hand. “My entire family is dead because of you!”

“Now; that’s not entirely true, princess.” He gestured with a grand sweep of his arm to your surroundings. “Give a great round of applause to your regularly-scheduled assassins!!!”

He chuckled at your puzzled expression, slowly morphing to one of wide-eyed horror. Several wedding guests arose from the prone bodies around them, dressed in all black and with Gatling guns slung over their back.

“I don’t understand. What could you possibly gain from murdering my family, much less hundreds of people?” you protested.

“Angel, angel, angel.” He tsked at your confusion.

In one quick smooth motion he had wrapped his hands around your head and placed his forehead against your own. You squirmed in his hold, cringing at the feeling of life, other people’s once thriving life, coating your once perfectly-coiffed hair.

“Oh, is my dear princess a little squeamish?” His voice had deepened, sending tremors throughout your body. You felt his fingers tighten around your locks, tugging on them ever so slightly.

“A small price to pay for the keys to an empire.”

It dawned on you.

“This…this entire time, I trusted you! How dare you scheme to steal my family’s fortune!” You struggled once more, and he released his hold on you, having thoroughly soaked your hair a crimson shade.

He began to pace in front of your weakened form.

“Beloved, you know that I only have the best intentions. Believe me, I really did fall in love with you. At least, that’s all it was at first. Did you know, the idea came to me in a dream, with you by my side? You gave me the idea. You agreed to be rid of the shackles of your family’s status and expectations in order to be by my side. And that’s when I reached for the sun, love.”

You spit at his shoes.

He stopped pacing. Leaning down, hovering over your body, he gripped your chin with a newfound strength, sending jolts of pain throughout your face. “You’re lucky I love my wife so much that I would be willing to overlook a little bit of deviance, when she should be rightfully punished.” As you were forced to look up, the amber eyes you had so loved to stare into for hours on end gleamed with a vicious ambition, thirsty for vengeance and glimmering with scathing deceit.

He released his hold, and continued to pace.

“I thought to myself: why not kill two birds with one stone? Continue my original plan of marrying you, but orchestrate the death of your father to gain access to an entirely new world of wealth.”

“You bastard! I hate you!” You screamed at him, voice growing more hoarse with each passing second.

“Now darling, I don’t think that’s an appropriate way to treat your dear husband,” he mused, shooting you another glance with those damned eyes.

You shut your mouth, the obscenities coming to a halt. Something sinister lurked beneath the surface of those eyes. And if you didn’t stop yelling, you didn’t want to know what he would do.

“Now, as I was saying, once we were legally married, I would be able to get rid of your father without anyone questioning my claim to your family’s assets.”

“Then why did you kill every other person in this room?” you questioned, voice cutting into his reasoning with a bitter hatred.

“Simple. They were collateral.” He shrugged as if this were the most rational approach to take.

“Don’t give me that sanctimonious bullshit,” you spat. “You know perfectly, as do I, that there was no need to shed so much blood over an act that could have been committed in secret.” Your voice cracked as the “secret” spilled over your lips. The gravity of this atrocious event hit you straight in the stomach, twisting your insides until you felt sick.

Sinking to the floor, you began to sob, body trembling against the cold floor. This time you ignored the drying vitality crusting over the white marble, for it could no longer distract you from the terrible truth that had been unveiled. You could not escape the claws of the dead, for they were forever persistent, leaving indelible rust-colored stains that permeated your dress, your skin, and your mind most of all.

He let you cry, until you could mourn no more.

Growing quiet, you whispered one thing through a raspy voice: “Why play your ace now?”

“I couldn’t just sit by and take the coward’s approach out. I had to go all out, my love. Otherwise, I would have no right to call you my wife, and you to call me your husband.”

“And how do you plan to cover this up? This isn’t some stupid business deal you can let fall through when it no longer suits you. These are lives you so carelessly crushed. You toyed with the fate of all these people. And you will pay.” You steeled your gaze at him, glaring with all of your might.

“I won’t let that happen, dove.” In one swift movement, he drew a pistol from his suit.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! As naturally as if he were breathing, he took four shots, clean right through the skulls of each of the assassins.

“There. No witnesses besides us two. I hired the assassins from a local mafia. We can blame the deaths on them and how it was part of a larger scheme to take over your family.”

He blew the smoke off the tip of the barrel before pocketing the pistol carefully.

“I believe it is time for us, lawfully wedded husband and wife, to return to our rightful mansion. I will talk to the authorities and handle the specifics, okay? All you have to do for me is sit pretty and act scared, princess.”

He placed another rough kiss to your head, burying his face in your bloody mussed hair. You didn’t respond. He took your left hand in his and placed a delicate kiss, right below the ring he had so lovingly slid onto your finger, which was now saturated through with the runny insides of others. You didn’t respond. He ran his hands, dipped in the sacrifices of others, down the sides of your dress. You didn’t respond. He sighed.

He slid one of his arms under your bottom, and supported your back with the other. “You know, you’ll have to talk to your dear husband sooner or later, dove. I won’t have any bad behavior from my wife.” 

Muttering these final words to your despondent form, your love, the one who had buried his fangs deep into your heart until it dripped red with desire, picked you up in his arms and carried you off, his own bride, back to your home—no, our home—where no one would be there to meet and congratulate you. Where your father would no longer be. And where you would never find happiness again.

🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟🎕⽕⼟

You sighed, running your hands up and down the railing of the balcony. It had been a year since you had first kissed him. A night you will never forget, and always come to regret.

“My darling, my dove, my angel, my princess, the light of my life.” Arms encircled your waist, and he buried his face into your neck. His hands, bared to the chill night air, toyed with your thin coral nightgown.

“What are you thinking about? I hate to see you look so miserable.”

You smiled, despite the pain in your dejected and blackened heart. “Just about the night we first kissed, honey.”

He peppered kisses against your skin. “Ah, yes. That night I wanted to ravage you and steal you for myself. Yet I withheld and waited, remaining patient and anticipating our marriage with open arms. If not for that night, we would never have married and gotten our happy ending. If not for that night, you would have been plucked out of my life forever, like a dying flower. I revitalized you, darling. Look at how you glow in the moonlight. My wife, all for myself.” Chuckling, the timbre of his voice rumbled against your skin.

Placing his right hand around your waist, kneading the soft flesh underneath his fingers, and interlacing the fingers of his left hand with your right, he began to sway with you from side to side. There was no music to guide you two. Yet you still danced, illuminated only by the moon and stars.

And so was your fate. Doomed by the very man you loved. The man who had charmed you and pulled the rug out beneath your feet. The man who had shielded you from the bombs he himself had set, distracting you with promises of loyalty and extravagant gifts. While the rest of the world had raged on, he had blinded you to reality, and now you were his. The man you were to be wed to for all of eternity.

Zhongli 血红血红血红血红血红血红

[bidnezz]

Revenant [1/5]

Pairings: Magnus/Alec, background Clary/Izzy, mentions of past Magnus/Camille

Rating: Mature

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Blood and Violence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Clave Politics (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Downworlder Politics, Betrayal, Revenge, Background Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood, Angry Magnus Bane, Light Romance, Mystery, Prophecy, Minor Character Death, lots of death

Summary: 

Alec has heard the legends of Magnus Bane. He knows all the tales and he’s read all the records of his downfall. The High Warlock of Brooklyn who became so hungry for power that he began to mistreat the very warlocks who sought his help. It’s been a hundred years since then, and when a sudden rift opening between realms brings an onslaught of lesser demons, so too does it bring Magnus Bane, insatiable and vengeful for the power and people that locked him away in Edom. As newly appointed Head of the New York Institute, it’s Alec’s job to protect the residents of New York from one of the greatest Demons he’s ever faced. Only, he has no idea how, and maybe things aren't what they seem.

Art by the talented: @abby0007

Beta’d by the wonderful: @squiggly-lines-on-a-page

Read on ao3

Something to note: This fic is extremely AU. I've fitted a lot of events that we know to be canon (such as dates of events happening) to fit my story, and the past events happened around the early 1900's, until present canon time. There are also many mentions of blood and wounds and lots of death in the fic, so please be wary if that's a no for you!

Chapter One

Rushing residents and evening traffic fills the bustling streets of New York as the surrounding sky begins to darken with the dusk of the setting sun. Nightlife begins as shadows emerge from the alleyways, and doors that lead to no good open with the creak of bad decisions. The Downworld rises to the occasion, drinks in-hand and smiles plastered. So, too, do the Nephilim of the New York Institute who patrol the streets to keep tabs on those unknowing of the dangers that lurk in the dark.

Alexander Lightwood stands alone, weighted with shoulders heavy and nervous energy surrounding him in his new office. 

Head of the Institute.

The words roll around his tongue, foreign in his mouth but synonymous with him now. It feels… odd. But welcome.

A knock brings him back, a light rapping of knuckles on the thick wooden door, followed by ebony hair and dark red lips encasing a grin that could only belong to his sister. “Alec,” she calls, her grin turning wry. “Or should I say Head of the Institute?”

“I’ve seen the position lost to better people than I, let’s not jinx this.” 

“People? Yes. Leaders?” Isabelle pauses for effect as she strides towards Alec, a dramatic flair he knows to always expect. “I haven’t seen a leader yet, more deserving than you, dear brother. You can be happy for yourself, Alec. Smile, gloat, live a little. Even in the confines of this tiny room.”

Hard as he tries, Alec can’t reign in the small smile that curves his lips. He won’t gloat, he won’t yell and cheer and celebrate. That’s not him. But he will allow himself to feel pride and happiness in this small moment in time with his sister, and he’ll lock it away as a cherished memory to strengthen their bond. This is a turning point for him, a chance to uphold the Lightwood name and make his parents proud. Finally, a chance for them to see exactly the type of leader they raised, a chance to prove that it was all worth it - will be worth it. A chance for him to look upon his mother’s face and for once see something other than barely concealed disappointment and contempt.

“Hey buddy,” A low rasp calls from the opened door to the office. Jace rests against the curved door frame, arms crossed and wide smile dimpling his cheeks. “Oh,” he starts, adjusting his posture to stand perfectly upright as he offers a small salute to Alec. “I guess I should be more proper in front of our new leader, eh?”

The twinkle in his eyes and the way his smile devolves into a shit-eating grin only pulls a small chuckle from Alec, and he reaches his arm out to grip Jace’s as he’s pulled into a rough, brotherly hug. It’s warm, comforting, and when Isabelle joins in - complete.

Right here, right now… this is the turning point for Alec. No more failing, no more letting anyone down. This is where his new life as a leader begins, where everything he’s worked towards shifts into what it was always meant to be. This is what he was born for.

So then why does it feel so empty?

There's a gnawing inside of his chest, a cavern of muddled introspection and half understanding. The goal was always this, the finish line has been crossed and his direction never clearer. But under the anxiety of being freshly anointed, if Alec were to peel away the layers of doubt and worry until he’s viewing his own satisfied ego, what else would he see? Happiness, of course, to some extent. Nothing more, and nothing less. Unfulfilled pockets inside of him that yearn in wonder, and desire for something more.

A mother’s love, perhaps. To be accepted and finally seen as enough. 

Yes. An affirmation from Maryse Lightwood herself, and Alec’s sure he’ll feel that last puzzle piece locked into place. ‘But for now,’ Alec thinks to himself as he watches Isabelle and Jace enraptured in a hilarious conversation no doubt at his expense, ‘I’ve got all I need right in front of me.’

With his day just beginning in the blossoming night, Alec prepares himself for the duties and responsibilities that lie ahead of him. 

On the other side of New York as the darkness creeps heavier, something more sinister begins to tear at the fabric that separates their realm from the rest.

---

A chime echoes through the halls of the Institute odd hours later, only a precursor to the dull bang as the wooden doors slam open to reveal a crowd of people in disarray. Alec, bent over a table in the main hall with the city’s layout and a small group of Shadowhunters, turns at the commotion brow raised and senses on alert.

“There’s a demon!” someone in the jumbled mess of bodies hurtling towards Alec proclaims. 

“He’s strong - too strong,” another one says with a gasp.

Jace steps forward, hand on the hilt of his seraph blade, the other on his stele. Prepared for battle, ready for a fight. “Where?”

Three voices begin to clamor all at once in a disastrous explanation that prompts Alec to step forward and raise a calming hand in the air. The voices stop, and Jace turns to him with a question at the ready. “One at a time or we won’t get anywhere. You,” Alec points towards the least frantic Shadowhunter of the trio, “what happened?”

The man winces as he takes a step forward, favoring the right side of his body. Red stains his clothes; it paints his pale face and each of his limbs. It’s blood, Alec notes easily, dried and congealing in some spots no doubt from the cold autumn wind on the way back to the Institute, but some of the wounds still bleed fresh. His blond hair is matted to his face with sweat and ichor and his lips are caked with a mixture of all three, none of it enough to hide the burgeoning purple bruises that are blooming on his face. If the man’s body trembles, Alec says nothing of it. 

“We were patrolling near Williamsburg,” the man begins, a slow nervous lilt to his voice. “There was an unusual spike in demon activity at dusk. We overheard residents saying it was a minor earthquake, but we didn’t believe that. We suspected it was related to the demons. And it was,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to Alec and the room now filled with curious Shadowhunters. “There was a horde of them, Ravener demons. We thought it was just a basic attack, we didn’t know why they were there, but we prepared to get rid of them anyway. It was in the middle of our fight with the demons that someone else showed up-“

“Magnus Bane!” sputters the man in the middle, specks of red flying from his mouth and smattering the floor. “He’s back. He’s back and he’s here for revenge! That's what he told us!”

A gasp echoes in the silent halls of The Institute, followed by the low thrum of chatter as Shadowhunters begin to talk. To the side, Alec catches Isabelle’s gaze, stony and reserved in thought, but sparking with worry for the day’s sudden turn of events. 

“Let’s get you guys cleaned up and healed,” Alec steps forward, stele in hand and iratze on his tongue.

“I-It doesn’t work,” the blond man whispers, shaking his head and peering up at Alec with furrowed brows. “We hid in the alleyways and tried to heal. Perhaps it’s the poison from the ichor, but I suspect it’s tied to the magic that Magnus Bane hit us with that makes our healing runes null.”

More chatter from the crowd of people, louder this time, and Alec nods once before turning to the person on his left. “Clary, see to it that they’re taken care of and bandaged properly. Triple check healing runes and make sure we get a full analysis report on all your findings.” It’s an order given with a tone Alec hopes conveys exactly what he’s thinking. He needs to know what’s causing the iratze’s to not work, he needs to know if it’s just a reaction to the ichor or something altogether more threatening. More than that, however, he needs discretion. Kept under wraps, with only Alec and trusted company to know the answers. With the way Clary keeps his firm gaze and offers a single, silent nod, Alec’s sure she understands. 

“Everyone else,” Alec speaks, loud and commanding. “Back to your duties.”

The room pauses, wary and hesitant with the new information discovered and seeping into every conspiracy forming in the back of their minds. They want answers, they want clarity, they want knowledge that Alec doesn’t yet have. Resigned to knowing they won’t get any more than this, they file out slowly with soft whispers and bowed heads towards one another. 

It’s only several seconds later when he notices the hesitation spread across the injured Shadowhunter’s faces, a look shared between the three of them. They’re brimming with the words they want to speak, information they’ve withheld, just barely. Only, they’re scared and Alec’s not sure if it’s a result of the situation they’ve just encountered, or the consequences they think they’ll have to face. Quietly, Alec steps towards them and grants a reassuring nod.

“Sir, Magnus Bane-” the Shadowhunter’s words catch in his throat. Alec hasn’t heard this name in years, not since training, and it already feels exhausted. “He didn’t let us leave with our lives for nothing. He gave us a warning.” There’s another pause, ominous in nature and the patience Alec composes himself with is waning thinner and thinner by the second. 

“Go on,” Alec presses, voice carefully neutral.

“He wanted us to relay to you that this is a Downworlder affair, and for the Shadowhunters not to meddle unless they’re prepared to begin a war with Edom.”

The words come out in a single breath, rushed and trembling. He suspects it was infinitely more intimidating and terrifying than it sounds coming from three battered and bloodied Shadowhunters, but the message is clear: Don’t get involved.

“Thank you,” Alec finds himself saying, thoughts already trailing into a plan of action, mind already gearing for only two options. The first, to take an observer's role in this newfound issue of Downworld battles. The second, to raise alert to the Clave and begin to fortify the Institute for the foreseeable attack once involvement is inevitable. Or perhaps a third option is available, Alec speculates to himself. 

Diplomacy. 

There’s very little he knows of Magnus Bane, what scraps of information left of him are withheld in Clave documents. He’ll gather up what he can find, form a case to present to an angry, vengeful Greater Demon, and see if some sort of reasoning can be made.

With a sigh, Alec thumbs away the blooming headache from his temples and heads towards his office, doubt already sprouting up in the corners of his tenuous plans. Nothing is for certain, of course. Who’s to say Magnus Bane will be a reasonable man with the quivering display he left for Alec at the doors of the Institute. The only thing he knows for sure is that he’s going to get to the bottom of what’s going on and take care of it personally, Greater Demon or not, New York is Alec’s city now. 

---

Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn for decades until his banishment to Edom at the beginning of the 1900’s, was frequently described as a hedonist. Reports on him vary from year to year. Some decades he remained under the radar, shielded from the eyes of the Clave. Others, he became notorious for begetting impish troubles between the classes. The only consistency found in any and all reports of the former High Warlock is the tendency towards extravagance and self-indulgence, with a craving for social gatherings.

Leaning back in his seat, Alec traces a finger along the case of his device and focuses on two words. 

High Warlock. 

He was obviously well-liked at some point in time, formidable enough to be deemed a worthy leader, and charismatic enough to be seen as an ambassador for other Warlocks. There must have been great strength at his hands, and greater support backing him to attain the level of priority that he gained.

So… what happened?

Power, clearly, and too much of it. The same Warlocks who hoisted him up petitioned to get him banished, cried his name in the streets of Brooklyn and swore his downfall.

And they made it happen.

Warlocks from all parts of New York flocked and rallied towards Brooklyn in hopes of seeing the demise of one Magnus Bane. Clave reports account for groups gathering outside of his apartment, banding together to peel away any protection shields cast up in defense. Among them, a leader: Lorenzo Rey.

The Clave watched from the shadows, vowed to not get involved in affairs they deemed less than worthy, but insisted on documenting it all. And Downworlders are the definition of unworthy in the Clave’s eyes. 

There’s a nagging in the back of Alec’s mind, a wonder if anyone tried to help, tried to stop it. If there was another way. 

But no, Downworlder affairs need not be meddled in, especially when Shadowhunters were never involved in the first place.

With a sigh, he sets down the reports and rubs at the bridge of his nose. What makes this situation any different? Magnus Bane threatened for Shadowhunters not to get involved. He sent a message back in the form of barely living soldiers who were just doing their duty, a message sent loud, but not so clear.

“Are you going to report this to the Clave?” Isabelle’s voice pierces through his thoughts, and Alec prides himself on only showing a fraction of surprise when he turns to face her.  

“Of course I am, Izzy. It’s my duty.”

His sister peers down at him from her spot on the corner of his desk, eyes scrutinizing every emotion that flickers across his face. She doesn’t seem appeased with whatever she finds. “You can wait if you want, Alec. You can see what happens next. Try your plans first and go to the Clave later with your findings.”

Alec scoffs. “And have my position rescinded for failure to uphold the most basic understanding of status? The Clave will know everything I know, because that is what is right. They’ll know the best course of action, because they know Magnus Bane and what he’s capable of.”

Isabelle watches him for several long moments, trying to read for any hint of something to give away any of the thoughts running through Alec’s head. When she receives nothing, she nods and reaches for the handheld with the last report Alec was reading, and holds it in front of herself. She skims the words on the page, traces a slow finger from picture to picture, before settling on one that she sets down in front of Alec with a smile.

“You know, for a Greater Demon who’s here to enact his revenge on the Downworlders, he’s actually quite handsome.” Her lips pull into a smirk, and her eyes await a reaction, but Alec gives her none. He simply shrugs and locks the screen of the handheld. “He was, at least. Who knows what he looks like now after a hundred years in Edom.”

And honestly, the last thing Alec wants to focus on is the physical features of a Demon here to cause chaos. He doesn’t want to think about the picture of Magnus Bane in Clave documents, drink in hand and that perfectly tailored suit fitting his body, smiling at the photographer with his dark-rimmed eyes. It doesn’t matter what Magnus Bane looked like then, or even now. The only thing that matters now is the information he’s managed to scrounge up from every instance of this Demon’s name in Clave history, and how he can use that knowledge to his advantage. 

Magnus Bane was cunning, sneaky, and smart in the early 1900’s. He was dangerous then, and Alec’s not going to believe that Edom did anything but magnify that danger after a century of letting his anger fester.

---

Moonlight spills through the windows, casts soft light along the path Alex takes as he makes his way, resigned, towards the infirmary. 

The halls of the Institute are sparse with Shadowhunters now gathered in the training hall and library in hopes of strengthening themselves for whatever battle they foresee coming. It’s all for naught, Alec thinks to himself as he recounts the lackluster conversation that transpired between him and his parents just an hour ago, accompanied by Inquisitor Herondale. 

“You’re to remain on the outside and cease any and all involvement in these Downworlder... squabbles.” Herondale’s voice had cut sharp and left no room for questions. Squabbles. That’s the extent that the Clave had watered this threat down to. A Greater Demon, capable of stripping away their ability to heal without the use of mundane technology. A Downworld squabble. 

“Alec,” his mother’s stern voice had cut in, low and severe, “you need to make it absolutely clear to everyone that they are not to expose themselves to any fight that Magnus Bane chooses to partake in. Any patrolling Shadowhunters are there for one reason, and one reason only. To observe and record.”

Yes, to observe and record. To keep an account of what happened for Clave history. More ammunition for Shadowhunters to keep themselves separated from Downworlders, and information to add to the files of warlocks the Clave already suspects are dangerous. Fuel to the fire, all wrapped up in the innocent guise of history.

It doesn’t sit well with Alec, being a bystander to the havoc a furious Greater Demon might cause. The Clave won’t step in, they won’t be a helping hand in all of this, and Alec hates to sit on the sidelines of what could possibly be the worst decision in the history of the Accords. 

But the Clave has the final say on any Shadowhunter involvement in Downworld affairs. The Clave is every bit as responsible as Alec for whatever presides in Brooklyn in the coming days. The Clave doesn’t want to stop Magnus Bane, so why should Alec?

Alec’s fingers wrap around the cool metal of the door handle when he remembers his mother’s face, the expression she wore so unabashedly in front of him. Disappointment so thinly veiled underneath all of that carefully crafted apathy. Disappointment for the way Alec offered his solutions to Inquisitor Herondale? Disappointment in the way Alec questioned the motives of the Clave for hiding in the background when they could find an alternative to be part of the solution? Disappointment in Alec, for becoming Head of the Institute, clearly unprepared and unwelcome by even his own mother?

The smile that graced his mother’s features when he first saw her had been enough for the newly awakened pride inside of him, seeking the tiniest shred of affirmation from his harshest critic. How short-lived it was. How quickly had that pride deflated into embarrassment when he began to speak of the attack from Magnus Bane and his mother’s eye shrouded themselves in disapproval.

Perhaps he could have done something differently today. He could have proceeded with a different plan of action that would have appeased Herondale’s thirst for non-consequential knowledge, if he had only known. But now he does, and though redemption is not far off, it’s going to be an uphill battle. 

He’ll do better.

With a steadying breath, Alec pushes open the wooden doors to the infirmary and steps in.

There’s the distinct sterile scent of Iodine, and far more lines of IV that are hooked up than Alec is used to seeing. They’re a back up, mostly, for when an iratze isn’t enough, or the wounds are too infected with ichor to properly heal, but even then…

The click-clack of heels on tile brings his focus to the lithe redhead who steps towards him with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. 

“It’s not the ichor,” Clary begins, wasting no time. She’s worked with Alec long enough to know he doesn’t think highly of beating around the bush or dawdling. “I was able to analyze the blood samples enough that I could detect a magical signature on all of them. Bane, of course, but it seems that the magic is keeping the wounds from healing. They’re not re-opening, so to speak, but they aren’t clotting and the stitches I’ve made don’t seem to be helping the process either. They just,” Clary inhales a deep sigh, and expels a shaky breath. “They just bleed. Not enough to drain them completely, but enough to cause substantial blood loss. With how much they’ve already lost and how much more they’re going to lose, they’re going to need several transfusions just to stay alive.”

Alec turns to face one of the Shadowhunters laying on the cold, white bed. There are bandages around his arms, patches of gauze scattered across his body and face and butterfly bandages to keep small wounds closed. But for every bandage, for every strip of white, there’s red that blots it. Small beads of blood that pool at each line of cuts until they brim over and cascade in a slow and steady spill of red that stains the sheets beneath. 

Three Shadowhunters in critical care, while not a huge blow, only paves the way for bigger hits in the future if Alec chooses to stand in the way of Magnus Bane. It’s not a risk he’s willing to take, to bet it all on the unknown, to subject the very same people who put him in this position to the torturous death sentence of blood loss. 

“What are we going to do, Alec?”

Clary’s voice is soft when she speaks, uncertainty replacing the confidence and assertion he’s so used to hearing. Yes, three Shadowhunters isn’t a big loss, but it’s an omen chilling enough that he doesn’t want to cause panic and worry within the Institute.

“We stay quiet about this. If anyone asks, the ichor and magic is causing a unique reaction that you’re working on a remedy for. They’ll be fine.”

They’ll be fine.

Even to himself, Alec sounds scared.

“Maybe we need to find Magnus Bane, we could talk to him and ask - “

“Ask what?” Alec snaps his attention towards Clary, who frowns up at him.

With a calculated pause, she surveys the room’s occupants. “We can ask him what he’s here for, what he’s trying to gain from this.” 

“He wants whoever sealed him away in Edom to pay.”

Clary’s brows crinkle together, and her eyes focus as she undoubtedly tries to recollect any information on Magnus Bane she’s heard of over the years. There’s not much to remember, not much spoken through word of mouth besides cautionary tales and warnings on why Downworlders must always be watched. The real meat of the situation is hidden in the files of cases over the years. Cases that litter Alec’s desk, pages of text that have been ingrained into his mind.

“Maybe we could help him,” She offers, timidly.

“Help him?”

“I know it sounds crazy, us helping a Greater Demon,” Clary begins. “We work on keeping the Downworld in order so to speak, right? We make sure that danger doesn't seep through into mundane territory, and so far it is. We can seek out Magnus Bane, see why he’s after these people, who they are, and what he’s trying to achieve. Maybe… Maybe helping him will bring more peace than leaving him to his own devices.”

Clary’s not wrong, at least to Alec she isn’t. It’s the better option, to help Magnus Bane with whatever mission he’s steering towards so he can be done with it. Get him out of the way before it becomes a bigger issue with the Clave. 

But the Clave. 

“The Inquisitor doesn’t want that,” Alec explains tersely.

Clary rolls her eyes and wears a common expression of distaste so many around him always do when the Clave is involved. “They aren’t here, Alec. The Clave only cares about the Law, with no regard to how it actually applies to all of our lives in the Institute. You’re our leader now. I understand you report back to the Clave, but they don’t have to know. At least not yet.”

It’s a temptation Alec won’t entertain for longer than a brief second. Going against the Clave is not an option. They’ve been given orders, and he’ll make sure they follow them. 

“We will not go-“

Alec’s words are interrupted by the high-pitched ringing of his phone that he answers immediately.

“Isabelle?”

“Alec,” There’s a loud crash that crackles through the receiver of the phone that instantly sets him on high alert. “Alec, he’s here. Magnus Bane, he’s come to Hotel DuMort with an army of demons. You need to come!”

“Hotel DuMort? What are you even doing there, Isabelle? You were told to stay out of this, you shouldn’t be anywhere near other Downworlders with Magnus Bane around!”

“Jace and I came to -“

There’s silence as the phone loses connection, and Alec can’t help the involuntary reaction of slamming his empty fist into one of the unoccupied beds of the infirmary. “Fuck,” he spits out, before shoving the phone into his pocket and making his way towards the door.

“I’m coming with you,” Clary shouts as she rushes to his side.

“You will stay here and stick to the plan, Morgenstern,” Alec grits through his teeth. 

“There is no plan, Alec! I’m not going to sit here and twiddle my thumbs, giving people false hope when I can go with you and help.”

A moment of silence. A moment where Alec feels the heavy thud of his heartbeat in the palms of his hand where his fists are balled so tightly, before he exits the infirmary in quiet anger with Clary trailing behind him. 

---

There are screeches and screams that surround the Hotel DuMort as Alec and Clary gather closer. To mundanes, only quiet calm and the sounds of cars honking with idle engines fill the late night streets, but behind the screen of blissful oblivion lies something much darker, something far more inauspicious. 

Sparks of red shoot from one of the top floor windows, and Alec and Clary dodge the shards of glass that sprinkle down on them as they search for an entrance. Magic enchants the walls and tingles against Alec’s hand as he pushes through one of the side entrances not blocked off with deadbolts and hanging locks. It would be almost too easy for any mundane to just waltz in, and he’s sure under different circumstances this would be a red-flag for Hotel DuMort’s compliance with the Accords to be taken into question.

The room inside is dark and empty at first glance, but a gasp from Clary and the tip of his boots hitting something raised against the floor shows him that they’re not alone. 

A handful of lifeless bodies litter the floor in front of them, surrounded by darkness and sparks of electricity from the light sources that have been shot out and electrical wires exposed. Vampires. Demons. Nothing left alive.

It makes the fear of Jace and his sister being one of these figures all the more real, and he finds the weight of his feet carrying him faster towards the staircase door. Logically, he knows that’s not the case. He’d feel it through their bond if something happened to his parabatai, and he knows that Jace would throw himself into the line of fire first before he let anything happen to Isabelle. With Clary hot on his trail they race up the stairs, stamina and speed rune lighting up and fading quickly with the wave of their steles. It’s only a few quick minutes before they’re paused at the door to the 7th floor, only stopped by the body of a dead vampire blocking the entrance from the other side. With a grunt and a shove, Alec pushes the door open and they step through into a fight that’s already begun.

The sight of vampires greet them; teeth bared, claws sharp and blades in hand fighting off the demons that surround them, ash covering the floor they fight ont. Clary whispers his name, but he doesn’t turn to her, focused critically on the threats in front of them. Alec takes one step forward, close enough to the nearest vampire that he can almost get a word in, before he’s swiped at suddenly by a Ravener demon. 

He dodges the first attack with several hurried paces back and reaches for an arrow from his quiver, before the demon fizzles out before his eyes. The final blow in question is dealt by Clary, who heaves a breath and grins at Alec as she pulls her seraph blade back from the fading particles of the dying demon. It’s one miniscule victory short-lived, however, because in its place pour in three more from the broken windows that line the walls. Alec nocks an arrow into his bow quickly and chances a glance towards Clary out of the corner of his eye, who curls her lips back in a grimace and readies for a fight. 

Together, they take them out. One after another, an onslaught of demons rush and growl and shriek in attack. None of them get close enough to injure, though all of them try, and it’s not until the remaining few pull back and crawl through the windows that Alec realizes they’re not retreating for the sake of defeat.

“Upstairs,” Alec breathes, ragged. “Isabelle and Jace must be upstairs.”

“The demons are no-doubt being called back by Magnus Bane. We need to get up there.”

A hiss from the side catches their attention, a wounded vampire covered in blood and ichor. “Going up there is a death sentence. Your other Shadowhunters were already doomed before they’d even reach the top floor..”

There’s only a brief look of worry shared between them, before Clary and Alec are racing up the next staircase in search of Isabelle and Jace. Jace isn’t dead, he knows for a fact, but the possibility of Isabelle being injured fuels him up the next flights of stairs that tug at his parabatai bond. They’re close, he can feel Jace and the feelings being pushed through the bond right now. Confusion, anger, worry… Fear.

Fear of Magnus Bane?

They’re close, so close now, and Alec knows he’ll finally get answers to all of the questions and worries pouring through their minds as he and Clary push through that final door that leads them to the top floor of Hotel DuMort. 

Relief overcomes him, spreads warmth through his body as he sees the golden blond of Jace’s hair, and his sister right beside him across the room. But it’s replaced, almost immediately, when he spots the scene that surrounds them.

In the middle of the room are two figures, Camille Belcourt who Alec knows to be the leader of the Brooklyn Vampire Clan, and someone he can only presume to be Magnus Bane.The pair of them ensconced in a circle of high red flames that prevent anyone from leaving or entering. There’s a conversation happening inside of it, screaming and yelling from Camille that Alec can’t hear through the roar and heat of fire, and wild gestures from Magnus Bane, whose back is turned to he and Clary. 

Scattered around the room are clusters of vampires fighting off the unending horde of demons, unsuccessful in their endeavors. Jace and Isabelle are with them, the crack of his sister’s whip snapping louder than the crackling of fire that licks at Alec as he steps nearer. There’s no way around the fire, no way for them to get any closer even as he and Clary fight their way through the demons rushing towards them. 

So they fight, continuously with only precious seconds in between each attack for them to catch their breath and gather their strength, but Alec doesn’t tire as the ichor mingles with the sweat soaking his clothes and coating his skin. He won’t give up until he finds a way to Isabelle and Jace, and he’ll die trying if he has to.

Another demon jumps at him, and this one catches Alec at an angle that his arrow can’t quite reach in time. The knowledge of being cut hits first, followed shortly after by the pain in his shoulder. It stings and burns, not from the fire, but from the magic laced and infused deeply within the demons themselves. 

It’s a minor inconvenience, he tells himself as he reaches for the seraph blade holstered to his thigh and jabs it into the back of the demon as he dodges a second attack. It hurts, but it’s nothing he can’t stand, nothing an iratze won’t heal.

It’s a lie he knows to be true. He can feel the magic tingling against his skin where the blood begins to seep from the shallow wound. He’ll be fine for now, at least long enough to get them out of the building and back into the safety of the Institute. 

A grunt beside him brings him back into the fight and he turns to see Clary swing her weapon into the skull of the demon closest to her, while kicking another into the fire beside her that consumes the demon with a sizzling crack. It’s almost more effective to use the fire to their advantage, Alec realizes as he and Clary share a knowing look. They change tactics quickly, rushing towards the demons from the outskirts of the room, boots thudding heavily against the hardened exoskeleton of the demons as they rush towards them. The vampires nearby take note, exhausted and battered far more than the two of them, and begin to follow suit.

It’s not long before the flocks of demons that pour into the room fade into a more sparse area of coverage and everyone involved in the small battle can take longer than a moment's breath. 

Whispers and speculation fill the silence when only a few demons are left remaining, being fought off by courageous vampires with a sudden need to direct their adrenaline. In the middle of the room the fire howls fiercer, brighter and hotter as Camille and Magnus continue to occupy the center, closer than ever to each other. 

There’s discourse, still an argument being had if the curl of the Magnus’ fist and Camille’s bared teeth are anything to go off of. It’s still too loud to hear the topic at hand, something unsettling and stormy brewing between the two, but then suddenly something shifts in Camille’s incensed demeanor. 

It’s as if a switch has flipped, as if the anger has evaporated with the heat of the flames, and left in its place a barrage of tears that trickle down her face. She’s frustrated, Alec can see it in the square of her shoulders, but she’s given up the fight to Magnus. Part of him knows it’s not his place to care about the outcome of the events that are unfolding before them, that he has other more pressing matters at hand, such as getting to Jace and Isabelle. But the flames don’t give an inch of slack, and the path to them is blocked almost entirely by dead bodies and debris. 

A pale hand reaches up, contrasting shockingly to the deep tan of Magnus’ cheek where it rests, color that Alec can see isn��t just the result of the shadows from the fire. From Alec’s spot behind Magnus, he can’t see the expression he wears or the effect this gesture has on him. What he can see, though, is the tense of his back through the black blazer that fits his body, and the way he straightens out the length of himself when presented with the vulnerability of Camille. 

And Camille, for all her false innocence and shrewd manner over the years, seems genuine for once. 

With rapt attention, Alec watches every step closer she takes.He can feel rather than hear the staccato click of her heels along the marble floor for every inch of distance she closes. He should look away, he thinks in a moment of polite weakness. 

But, no.

This is a deliberate display, a show the two of them are putting on for any Downworlder, Shadowhunter, or Mundane who will watch. And so he does. 

He watches, enraptured, as Camille raises herself onto the balls of her feet, black stilettos lifting and pale arms encircling the strong shoulders of the Greater Demon before her. He watches still, as the bright red lipstick that stains her lips also colors Magnus’ cheek and smears against their skin when she ducks her head into the junction of his neck. It’s almost too intimate for him to continue watching, the moment surely too much for them to all be allowed to partake in. It feels sinful, in a way. Alec almost averts his eyes, guiltily casting his gaze downward, when he catches Magnus’ hand reflecting back to him the brightest flames through the rings that adorn the fingers curling into the dark long locks of Camille’s hair.

Most importantly, in his bashfully thorough scrutiny of the scene before him, he watches Magnus’ other hand, unnoticed and dim in the shadows of their two bodies. A hand that ignites a soft blue nearly unseen through the fire, magic that produces a wooden stake to spear straight into the unsuspecting heart laid out before him.

A gasp, a lungful of staggered breathing fills Camille as she cries out in the same silent shock Alec feels vibrating through him. Her body, lithe and slender and her deep burgundy dress darken with color as she twitches and fades before them into slow settling ash on the floor, graceful and beautiful in ways that only the leader of the New York vampire clan could manage. But Alec pays her no mind as her memory slips lower beneath the line of his vision, all the while his eyes remain steadfast on the Demon before him. On Magnus Bane.

The fire lets up minutes later, and the surviving vampires rush towards Camille with their inhuman speed, crying and bemoaning the loss of their leader with wails that echo in the silence now befalling the room. There’s a tug in the pit of his stomach, a pull that he recognizes clearly as his parabatai bond. He should follow it to Jace, to Isabelle and undoubtedly Clary who is likely already with them. He knows, logically, what he should do now. He knows what’s expected of him, and he knows what’s right. And yet… 

Now that he knows for certain his siblings are safe, there are more important matters at hand. Like the fact that Magnus Bane now stands in front of him, piercing Alec with golden eyes and the hardened exterior of a Greater Demon who shows no remorse for having just killed someone. 

Time seems to move slowly as Magnus lifts a hand and summons a portal, an endless swirl of darkness that will release him from the destruction he’s leaving behind, that will take him further from the answers Alec seeks. Magnus turns then, takes one step into the void and the flow of time accelerates so quickly that in that instant Alec doesn’t realize he’s stepping through the portal with him until the roar of magic deafens him to the sounds of his sister’s call.

[itsfrenchfornothankyou]

When Darkness Turns to Light - chapter 6

Description: Patton just wants to have one (1) nice dinner, is that too much to ask?

Relationships: platonic moceit mostly, platonic DLAMP, but like, half of them are still arguing ya know. 

Characters: Patton, Janus, Roman, Virgil, Logan. 

Warnings: negative self talk, arguing, lots of angst

let me know if anything needs tagging- or a better way of warning for stuff im still learning!

all characters in this fic are sympathetic, but they are not always paragons of good people! they are complicated and have complicated histories that are reflected in the way they treat each other

first chapter

previous chapter // next chapter

A band aid on a broken heart

 It’s been over a month since the wedding, and gradually things are returning to normal. Or… something like normal anyway.

They’ve fallen into new routines at meal times, and Patton finds comfort in them, even if it isn’t quite the same as it was before. He supposes though, that the same as before maybe shouldn’t be what he’s aiming for.

Virgil and Roman never come to breakfast anymore, and so it’s become a time for Patton, Logan and Janus to plan schedules. Not that Patton has much to contribute, but he enjoys the excuse to hang out with the two of them. he loves they way they light up while they debate, a fire igniting in their eyes that Patton has never really taken to time to appreciate before.

At lunch time Patton puts out a spread of sandwiches, and the other sides filter in and out of the kitchens, rarely stopping to talk. It’s the most familiar part of the day if he’s being honest. One time Logan walked in with his nose stuck in a book, didn’t look up, and Patton pushed a sandwich into his hand as Logan had grasped around the plate looking for one. He walked out again without saying anything, only a nod to even acknowledge that he had even noticed the other side’s presence. Patton’s heart had swelled. It was the most normal scene he had been in in a long time. after all of the awkward stumbling around each other and the stunted polite conversation, it was nice to just be comfortable existing in each other’s space.

Dinnertime has been… hit and miss. Two weeks ago he had gotten the courage to go around and knock on everyone’s doors and tell them he was making dinner and, well it could have gone worse. Roman came down, although he hadn’t spoken to them. Logan had sat with a Hanji book for the entire dinner, and Virgil had almost immediately fled the scene, barely even touching his food. As for the other two, well… Janus had assured Patton that Remus would not eat regular food, and he shouldn’t invite him, but he had still felt bad for not calling him to dinner. As for Janus himself, well he had said it was a “bad idea”. Patton hadn’t liked that answer, but Janus assured him he should be focusing on smaller goals first, rather than trying to repair Janus’ relationships with the other sides.

Since then, Patton had had varying levels of success. Some nights only Logan would show up, very rarely he would manage to get all of them into the kitchen, though it never lasted long.

One time Remus showed up and well… they had silently, and mutually, agreed not to talk about that night. The first time he had managed to coax Janus downstairs with promises of pasta and wine it had devolved into a hissing match between him and Virgil. So, better than Patton had expected.

Patton stirs the pot of pasta, wondering absentmindedly how many people will be coming for dinner. He always makes enough for seven, although he knows they’ll never have a full table. he opens the lid of the second pot, and gives the sauce a quick stir before turning it down to a simmer. Behind him someone makes a noise of deep contentment. Patton smiles. “Wow Jan, I would have never guessed you had such n-oodles of love for pasta. Tell me, is it the ravi-only way to your heart?” he sneaks a glance back at Janus to see he reaction, but the other side catches his eye with a smirk. Patton looks back at the pot too quickly to see the soft smile that crosses Janus’ face as he shrugs.

“I lived exclusively on microwave meals and chicken nuggets for the past thirty years. Can you blame me?” Janus sidles up to Patton, batting his eyes innocently as he sneaks some food out of the pot. Patton fixes him with an aghast look.

“Have you ever tried cooking with Remus?” Patton shudders at the thought. “As I said,” Janus continues. “the less chance for things to go wrong, the better.” Patton isn’t sure if he should smile or grimace at Janus, but before he can decide the door to the kitchen opens.

“Roman!” Patton cries excitedly. It’s been a couple of days since Roman last made it down to dinner. Patton wants to check in on him, see how he’s doing, talk about what he’s working on, but Roman hasn’t exactly been wanting to talk lately. “Food’s almost ready,” He says instead. “I’m making your favourite, tagliatelle!” He fixes Roman with his brightest and best dad smile, but Roman’s returning one is tight and artificial. Patton tries not to let it get to him, keeping up the happy attitude. He can feel Janus frowning at him.

Moments later, Logan comes into the room; latest read tucked under one arm. He tidies the table, but doesn’t set it. Seeing all of the empty setting had started getting to Patton, so now people just get their plates as they turn up.

Patton stars piling bowls, Roman first, then Logan, then Janus. As he’s about to fill his own he hears quiet movement, and a hush falls over the room. He forces himself not to freeze in place, instead smiling brightly at Virgil, careful not to be too loud.

“Virgil!” He beckons the side over. “Good to see you, pasta?”

Virgil hesitates, taking in the room. Janus smirks a him, and Patton spots the beginnings of what will rapidly become another petty and pointless argument. He shoots a look at the other side. Janus rolls his eyes, but takes his seat without another word.

Shoving his hands into his hoody pockets, Virgil quietly makes his way to Patton. “Sure. Sounds great.” Patton tried to keep his excitement on the inside; it’s the most that Virgil has said aloud in days.

Taking his bowl with a nod of thanks, Virgil takes a seat at the table as far away from Janus as possible, finding Logan levels of literalism in the phrase “on the edge of his seat”. Patton attempts to start a casual conversation around the table, asking Logan about the book he’s reading. As Logan lights up and begins mapping out the plot of the book, the mood lightens up a little. At one point Patton could swear he even sees Virgil smile. This all comes crashing down about halfway through dinner, when Logan asks Roman what he’s working on.

Patton sees Roman’s smile falter and slip off of his face, and it feels like a punch to the gut. Virgil tenses up across the table, but Roman just tries to dismiss the question with a wave of a hand.

“Oh you know, this and that,” he murmurs. “You’ll see it when it’s finished.” Logan frowns, but doesn’t push the matter further. Janus seems to have other ideas.

“If you’re having creative block, ignoring it is definitely going to help.” Patton winces, but Janus is making steady eye contact with Roman now, and it’s evident that he sees this as a battle worth fighting.

“What, me? Creative block?” Roman is louder now, pulling in some swagger that Patton has barely seen in weeks. “Foul fiend I- I am the embodiment of Creativity!” He sputters as he speaks. “Or course no such thing could happen to me!”

“Do you forget who I am?” Janus asks quietly. His voice barely a whisper in the wind, as though it were simply an exasperated afterthought. Before Roman can reply, he continues pushing. “Great, you definitely haven’t already had the talk about what a good idea it is to wait for an idea to be perfect before presenting it.”

“Hah! What would you know about creativity, Lie Mis?” Roman stands, waving his arms and shouting, before turning away from Janus, His voice cracks as he speaks, and Patton’s heart flutters nervously, unsure how to defuse the situation.

“Hey Kiddos,” he says. “How about we all just take a breather and stop for a moment-”

“No!” Roman shouts. “I can see that you clearly don’t need me here.” His voice hitches, and Patton feels frantic. “Since apparently he knows everything I’ll just, just-”

“Roman! That’s not true!” Patton stands at the table, and moves to reach for Roman, but the other side flinches away.

“Because everyone here is such an expert in what’s true,” he mutters.

“Roman,” Patton realises with some surprise that it’s Janus speaking, his voice softened as he lets out a gentle sigh. “I’m not-” they don’t get to hear the rest of the sentence, as Roman cuts him off with a harsh laugh.

“I don’t need any more of your lies, Deceit.” Then he sinks out. A silence echoes around the room, palpable enough to be deafening. Patton looks over at Janus, but whatever vulnerability he hard in his voice moments ago is gone, replaced with a cold hard nothing. His expression an unreadable marble.

“Well, I think that went well,” he says airily, continuing to eat. Across the room Virgil hisses at him, teeth bared. Janus simply raises an eyebrow at him. Patton isn’t sure if it’s a question or a challenge.

“Can you for once in your fucking miserable existence just fucking-” Virgil waves a hand in the air, unsure how to finish his sentence, or perhaps hoping to pull the words from the air. “Not be you!” he stands in place, shaking with anger.

“Oh?” Deceit says, smiling lazily. “And who would you like me to be?” He holds up a hand as though to snap his fingers.

“Don’t. You. Dare.” Virgil grinds out, his teeth gritted. Absently, Patton wonders if Virgil has fangs. He’s never notices them before. “You can’t just… lie, all the time, and expect people to trust you!”

Janus huffs out a breath, almost a laugh, almost… something else. “Because the truth has always gone so well for me in the past.” It’s quiet, quiet enough that Patton can hardly be sure Janus meant to say it at all.

In response Virgil simply bares his teeth again. “Like you’ve ever even tried it,” he hisses. Then he’s gone.

Patton stands, his eyes wide. He fights back tears, instead straightening up, trying to pull himself together.

“I’m, I’m going to go- go check on Virgil,” he says, fighting a wobble in his voice.

“You won’t be able to find him,” Janus replies. “Not if he doesn’t want to be found,”

“Well,” Patton clenches his fist, then relaxes. “I have to try anyway. If he does want me, I’ll be there,” just barely perceptible, he could swear he sees Janus flinch.

---

In the end Janus is right. Virgil is nowhere to be found. At one point he thinks he sees his door at the end of a hallway, but by the time he reaches it it’s gone. He lets out a cry of frustration. Normally he loves the mind palace, with it’s sprawling corridors and nonsensical patterns. If you aren’t paying attention you can walk for hours without running into anyone else.

Normally, this doesn’t work against him. when he’s looking for someone, he finds that his feet naturally take him where he needs to go. But Virgil seems to have mastered the shifting halls, and folded himself away in a corner that Patton isn’t sure how to access.

When he returns to the kitchen, he’s surprised to find Janus and Logan still there, in the middle of cleaning up after dinner.

“Oh, I was just about to get to-” but Janus interrupts him with a wave of his hand.

“It’s no trouble.”

“He thought you might need the break,” Logan adds. Janus glares at him, and Patton suppresses a smile.

“I did not say-”

“You implied, did you not?” Logan asks inquisitively. “I have been studying your dialogue, and you said-”

“There’s no need!” Janus shouts, with panic evident. The laugh that Patton has been squashing down bursts out, and Janus turns away; furiously scrubbing at the dishes in the sink.

“Fascinating,” Logan breathes. “Is only half of your face capable of blushing?” he asks, ducking his own head to get a better look at Janus’ face. “What exactly is your biology like? Are you in fact part snake, or is it appearance only? Thomas did imply…” Logan continues muttering to himself about biology, but Patton doesn’t understand any of it. He’s just happy to see that the other two sides are getting along.

Janus moves away hurriedly as he places the last dish on the drying rack, pulling off his gloves. Patton frowns.

“Janus,” he begins carefully. “Were you wearing those gloves… over your other gloves?”

“No.” Janus moves into the front room, sitting on the sofa with a thump to sulk. Patton suppresses another giggle.

Logan and Patton share a rare smile, before Logan clears his throat and announces his exit, already absorbed in his book once more before he’s even left the room.

Patton takes a seat next to Janus, and the two of them sit together in silence for a while. Janus has produces a crossword from somewhere in his cape, and is dutifully filling it in while Patton hums a tune to himself as he looks through his box of movies. It’s nice, and the quiet is only broken but Patton’s occasional suggestion of film, always swiftly followed by a sharp rejection.

The two sides have yet to actually watch a film together, though this has become something of a regular occurrence between the two of them. regular enough for Patton to know that Janus never actually solves the puzzles he brings. He does however find rather interesting solutions that definitely are not the intended answer. He always says that he simply has “his own interpretation of the rules”.

Patton finds himself knowing all sorts of little details about the other side, he realises. He knows that his favourite food is breakfast, whenever it isn’t supposed to be eaten. Pancakes at 2am, eggs and toast for lunch… and so on. He knows the other side is remarkably well read, and has a fondness for face masks, though he himself doesn’t use them. Patton’s skin has never felt clearer though. Janus is excellent at nail varnish, but terrible at applying makeup. However-

“27 dresses?” Patton tries.

“Ah yes, the love interest in that film isn’t creepy at all.” Janus rolls his eyes.

-He still hasn’t figured out what kind of TV the other side watches. Patton sighs in defeat, pushing the box away from himself for the evening. So far the chick flick category has turned out to be a total bust, and he’s ready to give up on it. he’s beginning to have strong suspicions that maybe Janus likes the types of movies that Patton doesn’t like at all, but he won’t be deterred.

“Hey, Janus,” he starts softly, but he can already see the other side tensing up. “About earlier-”

“I’m not apologising to Roman,” he replies shortly. Yeah, Patton pretty much saw that one coming.

“I wasn’t going to ask you to.” Janus looks over at him now, eyes narrow. “I just…” despite all of the time Patton has spent looking for the right way to go about the conversation, he still finds himself at a loss for words  “Wondered if… maybe you could talk? If you could get to know each other-”

“He doesn’t want to get to know me,” Janus sighs. “I’m not going to just keep on-” he cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath. Patton wants to know, but he resolves not to push him.

“Maybe if-”

“If what?” Janus looks up, exasperated. “No matter what I do, Roman has already resolved to hate me. Same with Virgil. There is nothing I could possibly do to change their minds.” There’s a bitter sort of anger in his voice, that Patton hasn’t heard before. Not the biting sharpness of when he explodes at roman, not the playful tone he took in the courtroom. There’s a melancholy to it, but resigned. Patton isn’t really sure who it’s directed at.

“I mean, the arguing can’t help though.” Patton pushes.

“It’s better than the alternative.” Janus voice softens, almost sad. Hurt? Patton reaches out a hand to lay on Janus’ shoulder, but he shakes it off. Patton finds he’s thoroughly lost his footing in the conversation, unsure of what Janus is trying to say anymore, but not yet ready to make the final push to ask.

Janus doesn’t leave, but it’s clear that he’s done with the conversation. He picks up his book, turning a new page and beginning again. There are so  many questions bouncing around in Patton’s head. He doesn’t even know where to begin to unravel the mess he’s in. He wonders what happened between Virgil and Janus, he wants to know their history, as it becomes more and more evident that they have one. How did they get here? Whenever Janus talks about Virgil, it’s almost as though he’s talking about someone entirely different. Patton doesn’t know how to reconcile the two thoughts in his head.

He doesn’t ask though. instead, the two of them stay that way for the rest of the evening; silent in each other’s company. They’re both all too familiar with being alone to willingly submit to it again. not that either one of them would ever say it. maybe some things don’t need to be said, Patton thinks. Maybe that isn’t the point. Some days it can be enough just to exist near each other

---

sorrry, i meant to have this up yesterday, but then i slept in till like 4pm and then did baking sooooo

not really quite happy with this chapter yet? but this is as good as it gets for now, so hope you like it let me know what you thought! 

tags: @booklover223 @god0fspoons @cemmy @selenechris @sweet-hibiscus-tea-art

let me know if you want to be tagged! 

[angelofthequeers]

Hold Me By Both Hands: Chapter 49

Disclaimer: I don’t own ML.

Thank you SO much to everyone that’s stuck with this fic and read it to the very end!

@smolplantmum tagged as requested :)

Chapter 48 | AO3 link

“Selfish! Selfish!”

“Don’t you love me anymore, Adrien? Don’t you love your mother? All it takes is a wish –”

Cold, numb, frozen, not Adrien, not Chat Noir, no one, he’s no one, can’t feel, can’t see, can’t breathe, help, help, someone help –

Adrien gasps and jolts when the underground garden vanishes before his eyes and is instead replaced with a dark room, with unsynced breathing and warm weight all around him. Oh. Oh. Right. He’s not trapped underground with Hawkmoth and his dying zompire mother, her skin grey and black and wizened in the nightmare that haunts him every night. He’s in Marinette’s room, in the middle of a gigantic blanket pile on the floor, with Marinette snoring into his hair, Luka clinging to his left arm for dear life, and Kagami appearing to have an arm slung around Marinette’s waist, from what he can make out in the darkness.

He’s safe. He’s safe. But every time he closes his eyes, he can’t escape: from the comatose mother who couldn’t be revived due to the degree of Miraculous damage from the Peacock, whose funeral had apparently been earlier that week, though he remembers absolutely none of it; from the father who’d been sentenced to life in prison only yesterday in possibly the quickest trial ever held, the universe stripping him of both parents in the span of two weeks, and even Nathalie, who’s taken up damage control for the company but who’s never at the mansion anymore; from the chill, the freezing cold emptiness that plagues him when he least expects it, remnants of the akumatisation that he can’t remember. Have the last two weeks even happened? Or has he just been stuck in one, long, disjointed dream, to wake up before he becomes Phantom and to realise that he has to go through this all over again?

“Are you okay, Mr Adrien?” whispers a small voice. Something small snuggles into the crook of his neck, and Adrien’s breath catches in his chest until he reaches up to feel the softness of fairy wings and realises that it’s Nooroo.

“Sorry I woke you,” Adrien murmurs. Thank god none of the others had awoken, because they’ve been jerked awake enough times lately from his nightmares and there’s no sense in them being as miserably bone-tired as he’s been since Hawkmoth’s defeat.

“You didn’t wake me,” Nooroo says. “I can feel your emotional pain, so I’ve been staying awake to keep watch over you.”

“You don’t have to –”

“I do, Mr Adrien. I’m…I’m the reason why…”

Adrien shakes his head. Careful not to wake his partners, he untangles himself from Marinette and Luka’s grips and then tiptoes over to Marinette’s bed to climb out onto the balcony through the hatch. The Parisian night air is cool but not freezing, thank god, because staying in the cold for too long now makes Adrien’s heart race for reasons he can only assume are akuma-related.

“It wasn’t your fault, Nooroo,” Adrien finally says once Nooroo’s snuggling in under his shirt. There’s a flash of black and green out of the corner of his eye and then Plagg’s joining them, wriggling in on Adrien’s other side and purring against Adrien’s collar. Adrien slumps in his seat and hugs his knees to his chest, shivering when the cool breeze brushes over his bare feet.

“But it was my akuma, Mr Adrien. If it wasn’t for me –”

“Could you help it? Could you stop Father from transforming and akumatising people?”

“N-No…I tried to sway him, to push him away from evil, but he wouldn’t listen. And we kwamis are bound to obey our masters.”

“Then how is it your fault?” Adrien reaches up to cup Nooroo with one hand, then hugs Plagg with his other hand so that his own kwami isn’t left out. “You did all you could. He’s the one who chose to do that. He’s the one who went that far to get Mother back instead of moving on like a normal person. He’s…I feel like the worst son ever for even thinking this, but I’m glad he’s gone. I’m glad I don’t ever have to see him again. And then I remind myself that he was doing the best he could –”

“Nah,” Plagg says. “He really wasn’t. If he was, he wouldn’t’ve grabbed Nooroo in the first place. And you’re not a bad person for feeling that way, kid. He akumatised you. You can play pretend all you want, but you know how violating it is to be akumatised like that. The Butterfly’s meant to empower you, not do…that. And every other friend of yours can back you up, except for Pigtails and Guitar Boy, and Hawkdick didn’t go tormenting everyone else like he did with you.”

“Plagg –”

“Adrien. Kid.” Plagg wriggles free of Adrien’s hand so that he can float up in front of Adrien’s face, his bright green eyes holding Adrien’s gaze captive. “There’s nothing wrong with admitting you need help. You tried to deal with Lila’s touchy crap by yourself and look where that got you till you listened to your friends. I get your dad’s a massive pile of dicks and taught you that you can’t speak up when you don’t like something or when you need help, but he was wrong. You got those amazing partners down there and you got friends that’ll have your back through thick and thin. Lean on ‘em, kid. They’re there to take some of the weight.”

“But…” Adrien blinks rapidly to try and quell the stinging in his eyes, but it just causes the tears to well up faster. “If I admit I need help…Plagg, I won’t ever stop asking. What if it gets too much? What if they can’t handle me? I don’t think I could bear to lose them.”

“They won’t, Mr Adrien,” Nooroo says, still snuggling against Adrien. “I’ve felt their emotions since I bonded with Master Luka. They all care so much for you and all they want to do is help. And you’ll be there to help them in return when they need help. That’s what makes you partners and best friends.”

“Okay, but even if I said you were right – which you’re not – it’s, like, one in the morning,” Adrien says. “I can’t wake them up just for my angst.”

“Why not? You’d insist they wake you if the roles were reversed,” Plagg drawls. “And the fact that you’re calling trauma angst really says a lot about your daddy dearest.” Then he phases through the floor before Adrien can even begin to process that.

“Plagg!” Adrien hisses. “No – don’t you dare – I swear –” He groans and crosses his arms. “Stupid cat. Sometimes, I wish he’d just do what I tell him to do.”

“Trust me, you don’t want that at all,” Nooroo whispers. It only takes a moment of frowning down at the kwami for Adrien to realise the implications of what he’d just said.

“Oh, no, no!” Adrien reaches up to cup Nooroo again. “No, Nooroo, I don’t mean – it’s just something I say when I’m frustrated. God, I’d never…I could never treat him like that.”

“I know, Mr Adrien. I suppose I was just…reminded of unpleasant memories.”

“Adrien?” The hatch door creaks open and a mess of black hair pokes out, accompanied by bleary grey eyes, and holy crap, how can Marinette be so beautiful even when she’s half-asleep? “Plagg said you needed us?”

“I don’t need you,” Adrien snaps. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean – goddammit, Plagg!”

Marinette’s face softens and she holds out a hand. “Come back to bed, kitty,” she says. “Even if you don’t need us, it’s okay to want us.”

“But –”

“Adrien Agreste, if you’re trying to be a martyr, I give Marinette full permission to throw you off the balcony,” calls Kagami’s voice from inside the room. Adrien can’t hold back his snort at that, and that’s the opening that Marinette needs to climb half-out of her room and latch onto his ankle.

“I’ll stay here all night if I have to,” she says. A pair of arms rise out of the hatch to slip around her waist.

“Tell us when to start pulling,” Luka’s voice says. “We’ll get this cat on a leash one way or another.”

A burst of laughter splutters out of Adrien. He fails to hold back another one, then he’s devolving into such a hysterical fit of laughter that he slides out of his seat and ends up on his back on the cool concrete. Somewhere in the middle of his breakdown, his laughter turns to choked sobs, then the dam bursts and tears start streaming down his cheeks for the first time since before his mother had disappeared.

“Shh,” murmurs a voice, enveloping him in warmth, along with arms and skin and rustling clothes all around him. “It’s okay, Adrien. Let it out.”

He’s not sure which one of his partners had said that. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Not when they’re all there for him, each one supporting him all the same but bringing different warmth, different light waves, to him. Luka’s a vivid indigo, somehow both freezing and scorching at the same time, but not the kind of freezing that threatens to pitch him into unwanted flashbacks. Kagami’s a warm gold, fiery and brilliant but also subdued enough to dim herself when needed, to avoid overload. And Marinette’s a deep scarlet, hot and full of passion, throwing herself into life with everything she has no matter her guise, much more a crackling wildfire than a hurricane now that he knows her so much better. And maybe that’s why he loves them so much.

.

“We can’t thank you enough, Chloé,” Luka says once they’ve left Le Grand Paris to head back to Marinette’s place, with the Gorilla driving closely behind them. “I’m sure Adrien’s aunt is a wonderful person –”

“No need for pleasantries,” Chloé scoffs. “Wonderful person or not, no way is Adrichat going to live with that aunt and cousin of his. As if anyone’s going to let Chat Noir move to England, especially when I’m the daughter of the mayor of Paris…”

Honestly, most of what Chloé’s saying is going in one ear and out the other for Marinette. All she can focus on is the disturbing mix of both overwhelming emotion and suffocating numbness radiating off Adrien, easily detectable even without the empathetic abilities that Luka has or the little purple brooch that’s fastened to his jacket, disguised among other pins. But Marinette doesn’t have a clue what to do. How are you supposed to help someone who’s mourning their mother for a second time and whose father tortured them and now won’t ever see them again?

“The Gorilla’s cool,” Adrien says with a weak smile. “He knows I’ll be at Marinette’s or Luka’s or Kagami’s a lot of the time.”

“Or at my hotel,” Chloé supplies.

“Yeah, that. He doesn’t really care where I am so long as, well…he knows I’m okay, I guess. Physically,” Adrien adds just as Luka opens his mouth. “Thanks for helping him get custody, Chlo.”

“Hmph. Of course.” Chloé flips her ponytail. “I’ve known him for as long as I’ve known you. I wouldn’t trust anyone else to take care of you, Adrichat.”

“Sometimes, I wonder if Gorilla and Nathalie are the only two adults who ever cared about me.” Adrien’s shoulders slump. “Mother can’t have cared that much if – if she kept using the Peacock –”

“Hey.” Marinette stops and grabs Adrien’s hand. Kagami grabs his other hand and Luka, being the tallest, just wraps all three of them in a hug on the spot. There’s a little huff from Chloé, but she doesn’t complain about being left out like she might have just a few months ago.

“You don’t have to forgive her,” Luka says. “You don’t ever have to be okay with what happened.”

“Just so long as you don’t try to be a martyr and push us away,” Kagami says. “You’re so annoyingly self-sacrificing.”

“Yep, that’s Adrikins to a tee,” Chloé drawls. “Okay, like, can I have my best friend back?”

After a few moments, Marinette, Luka, and Kagami release Adrien to let him gulp in shuddering breaths. Chloé jumps onto his back, just like when she used to tackle and cling to him, except that this time, Adrien’s arms fly back to grab Chloé and hold her securely as she wraps her legs around his waist and clings to him like a monkey.

“Are you…giving her a piggyback?” Marinette splutters. Chloé flips her off.

“Buzz off, Dupain-Cheng. Adrien and I used to do this all the time as kids.”

“I just don’t think any of us imagined that Chloé Bourgeois would enjoy piggyback rides,” Kagami drawls. Chloé pokes her tongue out in response.

“If I never see my mother again and cop her “ridiculously childish” lectures, it’ll be too soon,” Chloé says. “Thank god she fucked off back to New York. I’ve never felt this light in years, and I didn’t even realise till now.”

“Last time I gave Chlo a piggyback was when we were nine,” Adrien says, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. Chloé shrieks and tightens her arms and legs so much that he chokes until she loosens her grip. “Then she sniffed at me and said that only babies did that, but she was a young lady.”

“Are you sure that you’re –” Marinette begins.

“The only reason I won’t deck you if you finish that sentence is because you’re Ladybug,” Chloé says without even looking at Marinette. Marinette’s pretty sure that it’s more to do with not wanting to upset Adrien by attempting to murder one of his girlfriends, but she manages to hold her tongue. Just.

“Please don’t kill my lady,” Adrien jokes, but the twitch of his lips is weak. Marinette and Chloé exchange looks, then come to an unspoken truce.

“Look, Adrikins, you’re not gonna be alone, alright?” Chloé says with an uncharacteristically soft look. “It’s not just me and your fucked-up father anymore.”

“You were nowhere near as bad as him,” Adrien says. Chloé just shrugs.

“Well, you’ve also got those three. And you’ve also got the Ladyblogger and DJ Tupac. I’m not gonna pretend I know how you’re feeling, but I do know what it’s like to have a parent put you through hell. As if I’d let you be alone.”

Adrien’s lips twitch and he stops outside the bakery and sets Chloé down so that he can hug her. “Thanks, Chlo,” he murmurs into her hair.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, enough with the mush!” Chloé protests, though she contradicts herself by moving her hands to his back to hug him. “I so don’t have time for this. Unlike you, I have places to be.”

“Really? Like where?” Kagami says. Chloé raises a perfect eyebrow.

“I…may be hanging out with Kubdel,” she mutters. Kagami tilts her head with an innocent smile.

“I didn’t hear you. Could you speak up?”

“I’m hanging out with Alix Kubdel because I’ve been thinking about her since the Sanguisuga thing, okay?” Chloé shrieks. With a huff, she crosses her arms and stalks off.

“Did I do something wrong?” Kagami says as Marinette holds the bakery doors open so that they can slip inside and head on upstairs. “I was only trying to tease her as a friend.”

“I guess it just wasn’t the right time?” Marinette says. Kagami sighs and looks down.

“I wish I could “read the room” better, as most people say. Now I have to go and apologise to her.”

“You can’t exactly help not being able to read the atmosphere sometimes.” Marinette waits until they’re in her bedroom to grab one of Kagami’s hands and squeeze, and Adrien takes her other arm and pulls her close. “What matters is that you realised you messed up and you need to apologise.”

“What Mari said.” Adrien leans down to kiss the top of Kagami’s head. Her cheeks pinken and she leans into his touch with a soft smile. “It did make me want to laugh, if that makes you feel better.”

“…A little, yes. We should –”

Whatever Kagami’s going to say is cut off by a colossal roar from outside that shakes the building and nearly sends them crashing to the floor. What the heck? An akuma? But that’s not possible! Luka and Nooroo are right here!

“It’s…a lava monster?” Luka says once all four of them have scrambled up onto Marinette’s balcony and are leaning over the railing to find the source of the sound a few streets away. “But how? I haven’t even tried to create any champions!”

“Oh.” Nooroo’s wings droop as he’s joined by Tikki, Plagg, and Longg. “It’s not an akuma. It’s a sentimonster.”

Marinette’s mouth dries until it’s more arid than a desert. “A sentimonster?” she croaks. “But that’s – the Peacock creates sentimonsters, and it’s not broken anymore since Master Fu got back from Tibet –”

“Indeed,” Longg sighs. “It seems that whoever has stolen Duusu and Roaar is Hawkmoth’s ally after all. It’s possible that we will also encounter a Tiger wielder, if this Peacock has an ally of their own.”

“Just when I thought it was all over,” Adrien groans.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Marinette takes his hand and runs her thumb over the back of it.

“I mean, I was kind of expecting it. I guess I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the Peacock and Tiger were stolen. But we’ve got something that the Peacock and Tiger wielders don’t have.” Adrien takes Marinette and Kagami’s hands, and Luka grabs Marinette’s free hand. “We’ve got each other.”

“That,” Marinette says, “was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard, and I’m so exposing you in the group chat tonight.”

“But milady!” Adrien pouts. Marinette absolutely refuses to acknowledge the way her stomach flips and shivers at those kitty eyes, because there’s no way in hell she’s handing Adrien that victory. “I thought you loved me!”

“Oh my god, can you guys hurry the hell up?” Honeybee’s standing on the roof behind them with crossed arms, tapping her foot, as the four of them whirl around. “That thing’s not gonna ice itself! Shut up!” she splutters when Adrien grins at her for her joke.

“Ladybug! Chat Noir!” A slim figure with magenta-tipped brown hair and a tight magenta suit lands on the building next to the lava sentimonster. From this distance, the only details Marinette can make out are that her long hair is bunched near the end and her angular face is framed by two thick locks of brown hair. “Come out and give your Miraculouses up, or Mayura’s sentimonster and I, Felina, will destroy Paris! Where are you, Adrien?”

Adrien immediately throws himself to the ground in case the magenta girl – Felina, obviously the wielder of the Tiger Miraculous – happens to look his way.

“Looks like it’s time to introduce Morpho to the world, then,” Luka sighs. “Not that anyone will trust me. I’m pretty sure the sight of an akuma’s going to make them run the other way.”

“We did mention in our press conference that the Butterfly was in good hands now instead of evil,” Marinette says. “But yeah, I think Hawkmoth’s wounds are too deep to heal overnight. It can’t hurt to try, though.”

“We should transform before Honeybee Venoms us and throws us at the sentimonster,” Kagami says. Honeybee’s eye twitches.

“Don’t give me ideas. I’ll meet you losers there.”

Marinette grins at her partners as Honeybee leaps away. “Ready, guys?”

“But of course, bugaboo,” Adrien says from the balcony ground. “Plagg, claws out!”

“Always. Longg, bring the storm!”

“I’ll always have your backs. Nooroo, wings rise!”

Marinette’s grin widens at the sight of Chat Noir, Ryuuko, and Morpho before her. Morpho’s outfit is less formal and stuffy than Hawkmoth’s had been; his rich purple blazer is open over a button-down shirt that’s silver with black butterflies and artfully undone a few buttons down from his throat. The sleeves of both his blazer and shirt are rolled to his elbows and the lapels flare out like butterfly wings, and he also has a pair of black fingerless gloves and silver boots that rise halfway up his calves, over his tight indigo pants. His teal tips have turned the same rich purple as his blazer and, in contrast to his distressed formal outfit, his mask looks airy and delicate, with silver butterfly wings arching from the sides of his face, a silver butterfly body and antennae over his nose and forehead, and pale purple detailing that blends with the silver. The Butterfly Miraculous, now with four thin lilac spikes like wings, rests on his left breast.

“Not bad, Morpho,” Chat Noir says with his usual roguish wink. “I don’t know why you didn’t let us see this until now.”

“I was trying to get used to the fact that I had the same magic jewel as the major supervillain,” Morpho says dryly. “And it’s only the second time I’ve transformed.”

“Well, it suits you. A lot,” Marinette says. “It’s perfect for kicking sentimonster butt. Speaking of which…Tikki, spots on!”

[a-blog-just-for-sanders]

Sanders Sides fic

Okay, so this is my first fic for this fandom, and the first fic I’ve written in years. I’m really nervous about posting it, but I really enjoyed writing it and I hope some of you enjoy reading it. 

also I sent an anon to @princeyandanxiety asking for advice about tagging and they asked me to tag them so here you go, i hope you like it

Title: Reaching Out

Pairing: meant to be platonic Prince/Anxiety, but could be read as non-platonic. Also angst, lots and lots of angst, with a happy ending. 

It was 3am and, as usual, Virgil was awake. The others had gone to bed hours ago. Even Thomas, who was known to stay up just as late as Anxiety, was in a deep and dreamless slumber.

The mindscape was blissfully quiet, just as Virgil liked it. No exuberant outbursts from Patton, no endless nattering from Logan, and definitely no spontaneous singing from Roman. 

Truthfully, Virgil didn’t strictly mind their company. Patton was a funny guy, and his dad jokes never failed to make Virgil smile, even when he was feeling grumpy and sour from a sleepless night of anxious worrying. And while Logan had a habit of explaining everything he’d learned that day in excessive detail, from the plot of a new book to the mating habits of crickets, he was also a surprisingly calming presence, and had helped talk Virgil down when he was feeling particularly paranoid or stressed.

Even Roman had been trying recently, since their emotional heart-to-heart in Anxiety’s room. He had even tried talking to Virgil during breakfast that morning, complimenting his headphones. It had been awkward, to say the least. Even thinking about trying to hold a civil conversation with him made Virgil feel nervous.

Not that talking with Patton or Logan wasn’t nerve-wracking, far from it.

It was tricky, picking up on social cues or knowing when it was okay for him to sit and just listen. Sometimes they’d ask him questions, and his words would just dry up, or he’d become flustered and retort something sarcastic without meaning to.

It was in his nature to be reclusive, to need time alone, even if he usually spent most of his time alone fighting off his own paranoia.

When he did want company though, when the darkness of his room became too much even for him, he knew that Patton and Logan would be there.

Both Patton and he were the emotional sides of Thomas’ personality, like two sides of the same coin – despite their differences, and Patton’s endless enthusiasm, he had a way of knowing when Anxiety needed a hug or a distraction, and when he needed space and time to breathe.

And Logan, when he wasn’t buried in a book or his laptop, was the most observant of all the sides. At first, it had made Virgil feel uncomfortable, vulnerable, knowing that Logan could tell with a look when he’d had a bad night or just needed to be around people, to not feel alone, but now it was comforting, knowing he didn’t have to explain himself if he suddenly had to flee to his room in the middle of breakfast.

Roman was different.

Roman was loud noises and singing and creativity. He was a dreamer, full of hope and an insatiable urge for adventure and exploring the unknown.  

In a nutshell, he was Virgil’s opposite.

Sometimes it was hard exchanging a civil word, beyond ‘pass the sugar,’ without it devolving into bickering and namecalling – and the inevitable scolding by Patton or eyeballing from Logan.

And while Virgil didn’t always mean to rile him up, watching Roman’s face go red with frustration was just sometimes far too entertaining to give up.

But things were different now. Roman was obviously trying, and Virgil would need to try too – even though the thought of opening up, of making himself vulnerable, made him want to stay in his room for the foreseeable future.

He would try though. The others had come to find him when he’d ducked out, when he was at his worst and was ready to give up, and even though it was he who had to rescue them in the end, it was their words which had dragged him from his isolation.

They’d reached out, and now he would reach back.

Virgil frowned at his laptop. Staying up late always gave him too much time to think.

But he could feel his eyelids drooping, and his anxious thoughts were quieting down under the smothering weight of exhaustion.

He glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen.

04:05.

It was later than he thought.

With a sigh, he closed his laptop and crawled under his bedcovers. Cocooning himself in heavy warm blankets, he slowly drifted to sleep. Tomorrow, he’d work out how to reach out to Roman. In the meantime, sleep.

-         

What’s wrong with you?

Virgil jolted awake, heart racing. What was that?

You’re useless!

It was…anxiety?

It was a thought, but not his. Was it Thomas? Was he having a nightmare? But Anxiety had been sleeping, he hadn’t even been dreaming – how could Thomas be feeling anxious? Virgil briefly focused his mind on Thomas. But he was sleeping soundly, drained from a long day of editing.

But if it wasn’t coming from Thomas, then where?

Virgil concentrated, feeling the outer bounds of his room in his mind. He lived in the darker part of Thomas’ mind, and any anxious thoughts or feelings could eventually be traced back to his domain.

Why do you even try?

There! A thread of anxiety, spooling out from his room and to somewhere else in the mindscape. But where was it going? Closing his eyes, Virgil grabbed the thread and tugged.

With a jolt, Virgil was no longer in his bed, but in a foggy landscape. It was dark, and cold, and the fog was thick like soup. Somewhere he could hear water dripping, and the air was heavy with fear.

It was a nightmare.

For a moment, Anxiety considered turning back and returning to his bed. If it wasn’t Thomas’ nightmare, he must be in the mindscape of one of the other sides. What if they found him here? Would they be angry? Would they hate him for invading their privacy? What if they decided they didn’t need him after all? That he was just a nuisance, who was holding Thomas and everyone else back?

What if they blamed him for their nightmare?

He should leave. Now.

Anxiety turned on his heel, ready to teleport back to his bed.

But what if they needed him?

He hesitated.

He’d always tried to protect Thomas from everything and everyone that could hurt him, and he always would. It was who he was. He made Thomas stress and worry so he would be ready to flee from the danger and the monsters in the world – and he would be there to help fight them if he couldn’t flee.

The others were part of Thomas too. One part of the bigger whole.

And they needed him.

Virgil made up his mind. He took a step forward, and another.

“Hello?” his voice echoed in the fog, “…is anyone here?”

Suddenly the fog parted, revealing a lone figure curled up on the floor. His arms were wrapped tightly around his legs, and his shoulders were slumped forward, his head buried in his knees.

Virgil’s heart lurched at the familiar scene, and he strode forward, his own fear falling away. He stopped in front of the figure and crouched down beside him.

“Roman?”

Except for the faint movement of his chest, Roman didn’t react.

“Roman? Can you hear me?”

Roman’s shoulders clenched.

Virgil hesitated, and then reached out.  

“Roman, it’s okay,” he rested a hand on his knee, “it’s me, Anx – Virgil.”

Slowly, as if his shoulders carried the weight of a world, Roman lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and his face was pale and colourless.

“…Anxiety?”

Virgil nodded, and tried a smile. It was difficult, in this gloomy place.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“…what – what’re you doing here?”

Virgil’s smile dropped. What if Roman was angry?

“Anxiety?”

He would have to be honest.

“…well, you kind of – “

Why are you so stupid?

Roman flinched and ducked his head down, hiding his face.

That voice again. But where? Virgil looked around, and for the first time he noticed another figure in the distance. He was shrouded in fog, but as he walked forward the fog parted. He wore the same outfit as Roman, from his shiny boots to the red sash on his shoulder, but his face was swathed in shadow.

You’re such an idiot.

The figure didn’t open his mouth, but the voice was clearly his.

Roman began to shiver.

You should just stop trying.

The fog parted again, and another figure slowly walked forward. Like the first, he was dressed like Roman – he even walked like Roman – but his face was in shadow.

You’re a waste of space.

Another figure.

Virgil heard Roman take a shaky breath, and saw his hands clench tightly onto the fabric of his tunic.

No one wants to hear your stupid voice or your stupid ideas.

A fourth figure strode forward.

Roman began to breathe heavily. His face was still buried in his knees, but Virgil could hear him struggling, knew from seeing his trembling shoulders that Roman’s chest was tight and painful, that the air was getting thick and soupy and the fear was building.  

The shadowy figures were walking slowly, their steps measured, but they were getting closer and closer. Virgil’s heart began to race, but he took a deep breath and shook off his own fear. He knew without a doubt what he needed to do.

“Roman, look at me.”

Roman flinched and shook his head.

You think you’re a hero? You’re a failure.

Roman’s next breath caught in his throat, trapped, and suddenly he was hyperventilating, and the figures were getting closer and closer.

“Roman,” Virgil reached forward and grabbed his shoulder, “You’re safe, it’s okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Roman shook his head again, clenching his hands tighter.

“I know it’s hard, trust me I know. But you need to look at me, okay?”

Slowly, Roman lifted his head. His breaths were heavy and laboured, and his face was wet with tears.

Virgil nodded and gave a shaky smile.

“That’s it, look right at me.”

You think anyone really cares about what you have to say?

Roman twitched, and half-turned to glance at the approaching figures.

“No, don’t look at them,” Virgil said, before Roman could look away, “I need you to look at me. We’re going to get you out of here, okay?”

“…how…?” Roman gasped for breath.

“This is just a nightmare. It’s not real. None of it is.”

Roman shook his head, “But…”

“It’s a nightmare, and you’re the dreamer, remember? You can get us out of this.”

No one cares about you.

Roman recoiled, “I can’t….”

“You can. I know you can,” Virgil grabbed Roman’s hand and placed it on his chest, “You feel my heartbeat?” Roman nodded hesitantly, “I’m not scared, and you don’t have to be either, okay?”

“…okay.”

“Good. Remember what I did with Thomas? When you were in my room? We’re going to do the same now. Breathe in for four seconds.”

Roman took a deep breath.

“That’s good. Now hold it for seven seconds.”

His chest stilled, and slowly his eyes fell closed.

“Now breathe out for eight seconds. That’s great.”

Roman’s shoulders began to relax. Out of the corner of his eye, Virgil saw the figures beginning to fade, once again absorbed by the fog.

“That’s it, keep going.”

Slowly the fog began to fade to white. Virgil felt the thread of anxiety he had followed from his room fade away, as the sound of Roman’s steady breathing filled the air.

“You’re doing great – “

-

Virgil jerked awake. He was in the living room of the commons, kneeling on the floor. Beside him, Roman lay curled up on the sofa, the static from the TV lighting his face in shades of grey and white. He must have fallen asleep watching Disney movies again.

Slowly, Roman’s eyes fluttered open. He looked around the room, sleep rumpled and confused, and then he spotted Anxiety beside him and startled.

“Anxiety! What are you doing here?”

He didn’t remember. That was probably for the best.

Virgil raised a brow and smirked, “Came to watch you drool in your sleep.”

“Wait – what?!” Roman’s hand quickly went to his jaw, self-conscious.

“Ha, got you Princey,” Virgil pulled himself to his feet, “but next time, sleep in your own room. Patton won’t be happy if you catches you sleeping on the sofa.”

With a final smirk, Virgil turned to leave. He was almost at the door when Roman called out.

“Wait, Anxiety. Were you – did you?”

Virgil tensed.

“Were you in my dream?”

His heart started to race. This was it. Roman was going to be angry, and he was going to shout, and Virgil would have to run to his room because he couldn’t deal with this, not now, not after seeing those shadows and seeing Roman curled up and so scared, and he was going to be in so much trouble –

No. Stop. Breathe. Roman didn’t know, not for certain.

“Pfft, me, in your dreams? As if, Sir Sing-along.”

There, that’d throw him off.

“You were, weren’t you? You were there with me, in the fog.”

Or maybe not.

He heard Roman stand up, his blankets falling to the floor.

“You rescued me…again. Why?”

Why? Why did he think?  

Virgil turned to face Roman, who was stood in front of the sofa, his arm half stretched forwards, as if he’d reached forward instinctively when Virgil had made to leave.

“It’s what I do, okay?” Roman looked shocked, and Virgil rolled his eyes, “I look out for Thomas, and you’re part of Thomas, so get used to it.”

Virgil turned to leave again, this time determined to get back to his room and to his bed, where he could hide and pretend this whole thing had never happened.

But then he stopped. He sighed, and crossed his arms, and with his back to Roman began to speak.

“Look, Pri – Roman. Everything those shadows were saying, whatever they were, everything they said wasn’t true, okay?”

Virgil took a deep breath.

“It was all lies. All of it. You’re not useless, you’re not a waste, and you’re not an idiot. Sure, you can be a little dim sometimes, but you’re important, okay? Patton is our heart, Logan is our brain, and you, you’re the dreams. You’re what keeps Thomas hoping for the future, what keeps him creating, and dreaming – you’re what makes Thomas…Thomas. You’re important. Don’t let any stupid shadows or nightmares tell you different, okay?”

Silence.

Virgil felt his shoulders tense up, suddenly embarrassed by his outburst. It was time to leave.

“Okay, well, whatever. Goodnight.”

He was almost out of the door when he heard Roman’s voice, quiet and soft and grateful, like he’d never heard it before.

“Thank you Virgil.”

Virgil walked back to his room, and couldn’t hold back a small smile from lighting up his face.

Maybe this reaching out to Roman thing wouldn’t be so impossible after all.