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aalissy · 2 years

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Buttercup

Day 9 is finallly here!! Sorry it’s kinda late. I was kinda busy helping my lil sister make a decision about college haha. Anywho, I hope you enjoy this chapter! It has a lillllll bit of Marichat in it but I promise it gets to Adrienette! Also, be warned there is a LOT of Strikeback/s4 finale spoilers in this chapter! If you stilll haven’t seen that ep I strongly suggest doing so bc it’s so good :D

AO3

Marinette hummed lightly to herself as she worked on her latest design. Chat was lazily reclined on her chaise, tossing his baton up and down. Every so often she would shoot a fond glance over at him. He had started coming over more recently and Marinette found herself enjoying the quiet company. She had needed his presence after Hawkmoth had stolen every last miraculous from her lest she break down into another panic attack. Of course, Chat didn’t know that.

Not for the first time Marinette wished she could share her identity with the superhero. Unthinkingly, her eyes drifted to where the empty miracle box was still hidden away, fighting back against the wave of guilt and shame that hit her.

“So...,” Chat started and she dragged her gaze away from the hiding spot to blink over at him curiously. “Did you ever end up confessing to Buttercup?”

A bright blush lit up Marinette’s cheeks as she nibbled on her lower lip. Her thoughts drifted to Adrien for a brief moment before she tensed up, recalling just how badly she messed up when she mistook him for Felix. Shoving the panic away, she drew in a deep, calming breath. Slowly, Marinette shook her head. “N-no, I didn’t. I got so busy that I didn’t really have much time to.”

And when I thought I finally had the perfect moment to confess to him... both Lila and Chloé messed it up, she added to herself.

“But you came up with that purrfect speech and everything.” Chat frowned.

“It’s alright, Chat. It’s nothing new for me,” Marinette said with a small sigh before chuckling. “I’m just sorry I dragged you into this whole mess. My friend told me that practice would sharpen my sword so to speak.”

He threw his head back in a loud laugh at that. “What?”

She giggled too, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “I didn’t understand either. You’ll have to ask Kagami what she meant by that.”

“Wait... Kagami told you to practice a love confession on someone else?” Chat’s eyes practically bulged out of her head.

“Yes,” Marinette nodded her head while holding back snickers. “And believe it or not she got the idea from reading manga. Which is why I’m sorry for practicing on you. I thought she had read it from a Psychology book or something.”

“Wow... I didn’t know Kagami had it in her,” he muttered and she felt a brush of indignation on her friend’s behalf for a brief moment. She was about to open her mouth to scold him when Chat continued, “Regardless, I think she was right about the practice. Especially if you still haven’t confessed yet. So, I wanted to offer an idea...”

Marinette frowned suspiciously. This seemed strange. Crossing her arms against her chest, she said warily, “What idea?”

Chat bounced on the chaise eagerly, his green eyes gleaming at her mischievously. “Well, I know someone who I’m purrety certain can help with this purrticular mission.”

Rolling her eyes at the cat puns, she scoffed. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope, I’m pawsitively serious.”

Shooting Chat a fond smile, Marinette asked, “And what makes you think that this person would even want to help?”

“Trust me. They wouldn’t mind.” His lips twitched into a smirk as he gazed back at her mischievously.

Raising one eyebrow at him, she shook her head before turning back to her design. “Fine, Chat. If you can find someone who... for some reason doesn’t mind helping me with my love life then be my guest.”

“Alright,” he chirped back.

With another roll of her eyes, Marinette continued to sketch the rough outline of her work, enjoying the quiet, warmth that had settled back over the room. There was no way that Chat would be able to find someone who would even slightly want to talk about Adrien with her. Putting his promise to the back of her mind, Marinette’s tongue stuck out with concentration as she debated over adding ruffles or not.

After Chat had left and she had crawled into bed with a tired yawn, their entire discussion flew from her mind as she drifted to sleep. It wasn’t until the next day that she even remembered what they talked about.

For once Marinette was early as she slid into her desk seat. It had been hard for her to sleep lately. She swallowed a lump in her throat as the nightmare from last night flashed in her vision. Lately, Adrien’s gentle, smiling face had been turning into Felix’s cold, devilish one. Shivering slightly, Marinette slumped her head down onto her desk with a quiet groan.

She heard someone slide into the seat next to her and she quietly murmured, “Hey, Alya.”

A deep, familiar chuckle hit her ears causing her to pop her head up with alarm. Sat next to her was Adrien with a sheepish, almost nervous grin on his face. His hand came up to scratch the back of his neck as he said, “Sorry to disappoint.”

“No, no! T-that’s not... I-I mean, you’re not a disappointment... disappointing me!” Marinette gave him a wide, awkward smile, shifting slightly in her seat. She itched to smack her palm into her forehead. Just how many times did she have to stumble her words around Adrien before she was finally completely comfortable with him?

“Great!” His grin quickly grew happier as he stared into her eyes.

Clearing her throat, Marinette began to fidget with her hands. “I, uh... d-did you need something, Adrien?”

His gaze grew determined as he nodded his head. “Mhm. I’m here as a favor to a mutual friend of ours.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. Mutual friend? What mutual friend? It couldn’t be Alya or Nino... could it? With a small blink, she hesitantly asked, “Alya didn’t put you up to this, did she?”

“Nope. It’s not Alya or Nino.” Adrien stared at her pointedly, almost like she was forgetting something vitally important.

But what could she possibly be forgetting? She couldn’t imagine one of the girls putting him up to this... at least, not without calling a meeting first. Her frown deepened as she thought back. A sudden thought struck her and panic shot straight through to her heart. No... it couldn’t be... could it?

Quietly, she choked out. “You don’t mean...”

“Yep!” Adrien practically cheered even as her heart sank with dread. “I’m on Mission Buttercup now.”

Oh, Marinette was screwed. Giving him a wide, frightened smile, she shook her head quickly. “Oh no no! D-don’t worry about cat. I mean that. I didn’t think Chat was being serious a-and besides I wouldn’t want to take up any more of your time.”

“You’re not taking up any of my time. Don’t even think about that,” he waved her words off. “Besides I feel like I haven’t seen you in so long. Ever since my father canceled my trip around the world it seems like you’ve been so busy with other things. Maybe this way we’ll be able to spend more time together. I’ve missed being with you.”

Marinette gulped, wishing she could just shut her eyes and forget this whole day was even happening. Yes, she had been avoiding Adrien after the train incident. Every time she saw his face it was like all she could see was her failure.

Gnawing on her lower lip, she gazed back into his eager green eyes. There was such a happy, boyish grin on his face that she couldn’t find the will to say no. Berating herself already, Marinette’s voice cracked as she said, “A-alright.”

Adrien practically whooped with excitement. “Great! So, what do I do?”

How on earth was she supposed to tell him that just being himself was enough? Practically gasping for air, she shook her head at him. “Don’t worry about anything for now, Adrien. Project Buttercup’s been put on hold for the foreseeable future. B-but I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

There! That made enough sense... right?

Ugh, just how on earth had Chat managed to get Buttercup himself in Project Buttercup? Groaning internally, Marinette reached up to rub her temples.

Adrien’s lower lip jutted out in a small pout and she had to fight back the urge to lean in and kiss it away. “Are you sure? Chat said that you two had practiced your confession. I mean... I could always help with that too.”

Marinette’s lips parted at the idea. Her... practicing her confession on Adrien... to Adrien. Just the thought of it was enough to cause her heart to thump wildly in her chest.

Maybe you could get him to practice kissing too. A dark, mischievous voice rang out through her mind. Shaking her head roughly at the idea, she shoved aside her daydreams to give Adrien another awkward grin. “T-then you should also know that we pretty much figured that part out! Thanks for the offer though!”

His brow furrowed as he pursed his mouth, tapping his chin in thought. “There has to be something I can help with.”

“Listen, Adrien, I...,” Marinette started before she got cut off by Adrien snapping his fingers.

“I got it! What if we go around Paris and try to find the best place for you to confess to Buttercup?!” Adrien practically squirmed in his seat with excitement, gazing at her like her approval meant everything to him.

Swallowing roughly, she opened her mouth to tell him thank you, but that wouldn’t be necessary. Instead, all that came out was a strained, “Ok.”

“Great!” He scrambled up out of his seat. “I’ve already thought of some ideas. I’ll go write them down.”

Marinette simply hummed back at him, a grimace on her face as she clenched her eyes shut tightly. What had she gotten herself into? Scrubbing a hand down her face, she hoped that she hadn’t just made a stupid mistake.

#adrinetteapril2022 #adrienetteapril2022 #adrinette #adrienette #marichat #strikeback spoilers #ml s4 finale spoilers #miraculous spoilers #strikeback #ml #mlb #miraculous #miraculous ladybug #fic #fanfic

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scribbling-dragon · 3 years

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A Mistake (And A Life)

Summary:

When the green life flashes before his eyes, he grabs it with both hands and runs, without a single glance backwards.

---

Or, Session 5 has a different outcome for Jimmy

(Series)

(AO3 Link)

(5,080 words)

(Small warning for blood/injury and canon-typical violence)

The entrance he’s stood in front of is small, and as he stands there, a small chunk of the earth above his head gives way, falling and crumbling upon impact. He kicks at it a little, watching as it crumbles and breaks, scattering over the plain stone entrance.

Their home is...small. And logically, it should feel larger with one of their members gone. It seems to have only served for the walls to close further in, pressing closer and closer together until all of them inside are too close for comfort, doing everything they can to split apart.

They stand together in a circle now. He faces Impulse, with Martyn to his left and Mumbo to his right. Theoretically, he should feel safe here, among his allies. They’re armoured, ready to fight at any moment, despite the tall walls surrounding them. The walls they designed to protect them from any such attacks.

He doesn't think he’s ever seen any of them take their armour off.

He taps a little against the spyglass strapped to his hip, movements jittery and nervous as he looks around the small group, listening as the metal rattles in its casing, the amethysts shard making a melodic sound as his nails scratch against it. He doesn't ever remember learning how to make them, but the talent came to him naturally.

He considers how many more he could make with the resources he currently has, tuning the conversations out, content to sit in his own bubble of silence. Martyn pokes him in the shoulder, and he startles back to reality, hand gripping tightly around his spyglass, as though it’s some kind of weapon. It’s not. His sword hangs from his shoulders, strapped securely to his back for easy access. Easier access for one of his allies, his mind murmurs, and he shoves the thought away as best as he can. They haven't fallen apart that much yet.

“You ready for our friendship test?” He asks, grinning at him in an easy way as the other two look on, still standing in the circle they've always stood in. The circle feels too small this time, too close and closed without a fifth member. He ignores tha part of his brain telling him this is wrong.

“Yeah.” He smiles at Martyn, and if it’s a little shaky, no one comments on it. “Yeah, I am.” Martyn offers his hand out. The four green lives on his wrist glimmer in the sunlight stilll beating down on them from its low-hanging place in the sky. They seem to shine brighter when they catch the light, and he falters for a moment as he reaches out to grasp Martyn’s hand in his own.

A plan flickers to life in his mind’s eye, like a small fish in a pond, darting quickly out of sight. He steels his nerves, slowly gripping Martyn’s hand in his own. He meets his eyes as they make the transaction, watching as they fade from a deep, dark green to a lighter lime.

He takes a step back, as though he’s turning towards Mumbo. His had lands at his side as he stares down at his wrist, feeling the adrenaline and energy thrumming through his veins as he stands there, chest beating wildly in his chest.

He looks up, meeting Mumbo’s yellow eyes. They’re one that stare at him every morning from the mirror. Mumbo looks back at him; and there’s no similarity in their eyes currently. He couldn't be further from him right now. One death, and he’d be fine, one more for Mumbo and he would be exiled, destined to stare up at their towering walls. He’d be with his friend again, but at what cost?

His hand fumbles at the latch around his spyglass, shaking fingers slowly undoing the clasp, allowing it to drop into his hands. His hand curls around it, metal cool against the sudden hot and clammy feeling of his palms.

His eyes dart between Mumbo and Impulse as his plan solidifies and his route slowly begins to carve its way into his mind. He grips the spyglass tighter, before tossing it to Mumbo. The other man catches it, fumbling with it briefly, and, for a moment, he’s worried he’ll drop it. He doesn't, hands finally closing around the metal, looking up, confusion written on every inch of his skin.

“Mumbo.” He nods to him, slowly beginning to turn on his heel. “There’s your spyglass. I’ll see you boys later.” He turns on his heel, pushing off strong, his run picking up into a sprint. Pebbles fly from beneath his feet, clattering over the stone ground behind him.

He hardly pauses as he vaults over the stone wall, hand scraping against the stone bricks in a way he knows is going to sting later. He doesn't pay this any mind, feet hitting the ground. The adrenaline races through his veins, and his heart begins to beat even faster, wildly thrumming in his chest as he hears footsteps behind him.

Garbled shouts reach his ears, indecipherable over the sound of his heart thundering in his chest, threatening to leap from his throat. He glances over his shoulder, breaths already ragged as he stares back at the walls of his once home.

Three people are standing in the gateway, watching him from a distance, still shouting at him. Mumbo clutches the spyglass in his hands, hands tight around the casing as it glints in the dying rays of the sun.

He slows to a stop, completely turning on his heel and just staring at the three of them, halfway down the path they created together. The stones and loose dirt shift beneath his feet as he turns, hyper aware of everything around him as he struggles to breathe enough air in.

He glances down, bowing his head as he tries to stop his breaths from wheezing, chest still heaving, breath spreading out in front of him in the autumn air. A sharp, jagged movement ahead of him draws his gaze back upwards.

He watches as Martyn retrieves a bow, pulling the string taut before releasing it, allowing the arrow to fly through the air. He staggers back a little with the impact, hand instantly rising to clutch at his shoulder, feeling the warm, wet blood beneath his fingertips.

Martyn crouches down, and he jumps from the stone wall, landing on the stone path with a crunch. He looks up, slinging his bow across his back. Even from the distance he’s stood at, he can read the intent in his eyes, taking a short hurried step back, glancing over his shoulder as his mouth splits into a grin.

“Now, now, Martyn,” he attempts to smooth things over, taking another step back as the man continues to advance, “Let’s not be too hasty with thi-” His voice cuts off in a squeak as he ducks to the side, feet skidding across the stone as he turns to face Martyn again.

He’s holding a sword, and it’s poised to strike again, blade glinting in the fiery red of the sun. For a moment, the brief and short second that their eyes meet for, they almost seem to glint red in the sunlight.

He turns and runs, ducking beneath the thick boughs of the dark oak trees, ignoring the way the branches lash at his face, ignoring the shouts behind him that promise forgiveness, even as he continues to give chase, sword in hand.

He has no doubts that Martyn would chase him until he killed him.

He dives over the side of the hill, rolling down the last of the slope to cushion the impact, scrambling to his feet as Martyn throws himself down the hill, digging his heels in and sending cascades of dirt down towards him.

His breath catches in his lungs as he runs, and he almost chokes, stumbling forward still and shoving his way past the branch in front of him, dragging his eyes away from where his palms begin to turn red with blood, the sticky substance dripping down his palms, sliding easily off of his fingertips as he continues to run through the forest.

“I have to commit to this!” He yells back, ducking below another branch and tearing through a bush, ignoring the way Martyn seems to be drawing closer and the sun is dipping lower. He turns a tight corner, skidding a little and teetering to the side.

He throws an arm out to balance himself, allowing a moment to regain his balance, before he’s off again, through the undergrowth without a glance towards Martyn. Martyn shouts to him too, but it’s lost beneath the crackling of twigs and rustling of leaves.

“I can't!” He yells, breaths drawing shorter as he continues to run. “I just can’t!”

“What if we left together?” Martyn yells after him, and he stumbles to a halt, legs beginning to get twisted up. He turns hurriedly, righting himself as he leans against a tree, breaths coming in short hurried gasps as he faces Martyn.

He doesn't look any better than he currently does, panting and out of breath, lime eyes bright among the darker green of the forest surrounding them. “What?” He gasps out, beginning to fumble for his sword as Martyn continues to hold his, knuckles white around the hilt.

“What if we left together. Y’know? Set up somewhere away from the Southlands?”

“It’s already crumbling,” he nods a little, fingers closing around his hilt until he’s holding it in the same white-knuckled grip as Martyn. “It’s falling to pieces, it kind of has been.”

“Give me that life,” Martyn extends his hand, “And we can work something out together.” He reads the genuinity in his eyes, and he slowly extends his own hand, the small movement jostling the arrow in his shoulder. He tries not to wince at the movement.

He grips Martyn’s hand tightly, summoning the last of his willpower and pushing the life through their shared grip. Martyn pulls away, sparks shimmering around him as his eyes return to their normal dark green, four hearts on his wrist as he shakes his hand out.

Martyn looks up to him, eyes sullen and dull as he shifts his grip around his sword. He swings it up, knocking his own sword from his hand, both of them watching as it clatters to the floor between them.

Martyn steps forward, over his sword, preventing him from reaching it. He takes a step back, feeling his hands beginning to shake as he raises them. Though this time it isn't from adrenaline, it’s from a genuine fear of a person he might have called his friend, once.

“I didn't mean a word I just said.” He slashes forward, eyes still cold as his sword catches on his shirt, ripping through it to the skin beneath. He sucks in a sharp breath, watching as Martyn turns and stalks away, stepping delicately over his sword.

He stares after him, watching as he slowly disappears from view, merging with the green scenery around him. He stands there, he’s not sure how long for, watching the place he had disappeared into. He blinks, and he picks his sword up, weighing the blade heavy in one hand.

He allows his right arm to hang limply at his side, tucking it close to the rest of him as it begins to bleed. The blood is slow at first, but it soon begins to run in rivulets down his arm, a river of blood from his own veins.

He clasps a hand over it, trying to stem the bleeding, even as the sky above him grows darker, casting the trees around him into shadow. He can barely see in front of his own face, and he listens as zombies begin to groan in the distance, accompanied by the slow, rattling steps of the skeletons.

He stands still, unsure of what he’s meant to do now. He feels lost, and as he turns around, darkness coating the land around them, he realises he is. His eyes burn a little as he stares into the depths of the darkness, tears threatening to fall as he takes a stumbling step in one direction. Twigs snap beneath his feet, but he doesn't encounter any mobs, despite the noises surrounding him.

He stumbles through the darkness, bag empty of even a single torch to light his way. He allows the trees to guide him, squinting in the darkness and hoping that the moon won’t disappear behind a cloud and leave him truly in the dark.

He comes over the edge of a hill, and he squints into the small valley below. He can see lights, small pinpricks that indicate torches dotted around. At this point he would take any of the reds over bleeding to death, slowly beginning to make his way down the side of the hill, hand clutched over his arm, even as blood continues to leak from between his fingers, staining them rust-red.

He trips over a root beside the walls of the settlement, groaning a little as he crumples in on himself. He lays there for a moment, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over him, threatening to drag him under as black edges at the corners of his vision.

He rolls over onto his back, staring up at the sky above him. There are stars dotted among the clouds, some glimmering brighter than others. The walls at the edge of his vision are familiar too, but he can’t quite pinpoint where from.

He closes his eyes, feeling the weights on his limbs thicken, growing heavier as he simply thinks about moving. The energy drains from him completely, and he remains laying on his back, already finding it more peaceful than any night’s rest at the Southlands.

“Um, hello?” An accented voice speaks, and a person pops into view above him, green eyes glimmering down at him in the dark. The person smiles a little, hair falling in front of their face, even as they swipe it back from their eyes. “You just chilling on the ground?” He thinks it’s Pearl, but he can’t really make her face out as it periodically blurs before he blinks again.

“Yeah.” His voice slurs a little, and he closes his eyes again. “Just taking a small nap.” He waves his hand a little, pulling it away from his arm, trying to appear as casual as possible. No one would bat an eye if Pearl killed him. There’s no one that cares for him much anymore. He left the Southlands, he ditched...someone, going after other alliances this time.

A hand wraps around his wrist, stopping its aimless motion. “Is that...blood?” Her fingers tighten around his wrist, before slowly slipping away. She leans over him again, patting his cheek until he opens his eyes again. “Jimmy, are you hurt?”

“Mm.” He hums a little. “Think so, arrow’s still in my shoulder, and he got my arm.”

“Arrow’s still in your...Jesus, Jimmy.” She pulls out of his vision again, armour clanking a little as she moves around. He closes his eyes again, listening to the siren’s song of sleep pull him in deeper.

“Nuh-uh.” A hand pats his cheek again, and he opens his eyes with a small, discontented noise. “Up we get, loverboy.” He listens as she mutters under her breath a little, slowly working her hands beneath his shoulders and curling around his arms. She pulls him up in one swift motion, and he slumps against her as his vision goes white, then black, completely disappearing as his head spins, turning several degrees in what feels like the wrong direction.

He takes a step forward as Pearl does, trying to match his footsteps with her own, but finding his stumble too much, tripping over themselves as he tries to keep up with her brisk pace. He blinks and they're through the archway, walking down a neat and well-kept path.

Pearl grunts a little as she shifts his weight a bit, freeing a hand to open the door to their house. He’s not really sure how this is happening, finding the whole experience surreal as she half-guides, half-carries him into the house.

“Scott!” She yells, and he jumps, flinching away a little from the sound. She murmurs a short apology, both of them watching as Scott runs down the steps, foot slipping on one. He catches himself with one hand on the bannister, and sword gripped in his other.

He freezes on the bottom step, meeting Jimmy’s eyes. They stare at each for a few moments, and he marvels at how green they are, the small clips in his hair glimmering beneath the lantern-light. His gaze moves away from him, leaving him cold, even as a fire roars behind him.

“Gods above Pearl, I thought something bad was happening.” He steps off the last stair, sticking his sword into a small mount, leaving it beside the door, as though it's some kind of decoration. He begins to walk into the kitchen, pushing a hand through his hair. “I don't think eleven at night is really the time for social calls either, Jimmy.” He casts a look back at him, green eyes slightly scathing as he watches him.

Eleven? Surely it can’t be that late at night already? He only left the Southlands at just past four. Pearl shifts his weight a little more, and he feels a little sorry for her, lifting part of his weight off of her shoulders, even as he continues to lean against her.

“I don't think this is a social call.” Pearl mutters, though it's still loud enough for Scott to hear, his wings flicking a little as an obvious dismissal. The golden bands around the tops of them, keeping them bound closely to his back, shimmer beneath the light, the golden glow of the metal making them seem even more cruel in the moment.

“What was that?” Scott calls back, obnoxiously loud, “I can’t hear you. You've got to stop muttering.”

“God.” Pearl hisses out. “He never lets anything go, does he?” He shakes his head no in response, allowing Pearl to begin pulling him towards the kitchen. He doesn't tell her that he’s beginning to feel light-headed, instead focusing on the way the blood is drying on his fingers.

“In case you hadn't noticed,” Pearl gently pushes him down into a chair, “Your husband is bleeding out right now. Your medical knowledge would be appreciated.” A mug clunks down onto the counter, and Scott spins around, eyes wide as he looks between them both.

“Bleeding out? Why on earth would you bring him inside?”

“He managed to drag himself to the walls, it felt cruel to leave him outside with the mobs.”

“Whatever.” He flicks a hand at her, “Could you go grab one of our med kits. Maybe a few potions as well.”

Pearl turns away, muttering something he doesn't quite catch, but Scott obviously does, sending her a short glare. She grins at him, and his stony expression cracks a bit, a small smile being sent back to her as she hurries downstairs that hadn't been there before.

Scott’s closer to him when he looks back, hands hovering over the arrow still stuck in his shoulder. “You're really good at getting yourself into trouble, y’know?” He muses, looking up at him, a faint kind of amusement in his eyes.

“Not really my fault this time.” He shrugs, words stumbling over each other as he speaks, feeling odd as they slur together. “Martyn did this, not me.”

“Martyn did this?” Scott’s hand closes around the base of the arrow, and he feels it tug a little. “I thought you were allies?” He yanks it out, before quickly staunching he renewed blood flow with a cloth.

“We were.” He blinks the tears from his eyes, not really sure on how to feel about the fact that Scott just did that. “I stole a life from him.” Scott’s eyes dart down to his arm, two yellow lives clearly inked onto his skin.

“It sure doesn't look like it.” He can hear someone coming up the stairs behind him, but he doesn't turn, keeping his eyes fixed on Scott’s. “You still only have two lives.”

“I know. I gave it back.” A box is set down on the table beside him, several items rattling around inside as Pearl gives it a small pat, sitting in the chair beside him, crossing one leg over the other.

“Why would you give something like that back?” She asks, resting her chin in her hand. “You're only one death away from being a red, surely you want more of an insurance than that.”

“He said we would figure something out together.” It sounds stupid, and he slumps back in his chair, flinching away from the disinfectant Scott dabs on his shoulder, barely paying attention to the muttered apology. “It- it sounds stupid now, but I didn't want to be alone, even if I had three lives rather than two.”

“You could've come here.” Pearl states calmly, ignoring the short look Scott sends her, digging the cloth coated in disinfectant in a little too deeply. He pulls away from it with a small hiss. Scott doesn't apologise this time.

“You could've come here from the very start.” He mutters, fixing his eyes firmly on his shoulder, cutting the fabric away as he pulls a roll of bandages out, slowly beginning to wrap the wound. “But you wanted a break, a little change up of things.” He yanks at the bandage, tightening it around his arm and tying it off, moving onto his arm, dragging it across the table towards him.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He bites back, a little bit of anger beginning to simmer low in his stomach.

“Sure didn't seem like it,” Scott scoffs, wiping the blood on his arm away, cleaning his hand with an oddly gentle care, “Especially when they bound my wings. Did you know they stay on, even after I’ve died?” He looks up, meeting Jimmy’s eyes. It doesn't sound like a question, not one he wants to answer.

“I didn't know they would do that.” He protests a little weakly, curling his fingers as Scott begins to clean out the cut on his arm.

“But you didn't stop it either. You watched with everyone else as it happened.” He tosses the cloth aside, somehow managing to funnel all of his frustration into it, all three of them watching as it lands neatly in the sink.

Scott considers the injury for a moment, eyes glancing towards the suture needle glinting on the table. His hand passes over it, grabbing another roll of bandages, and he breathes out a small sigh of relief, one that probably doesn't go unnoticed.

“I didn't know what to do. I would have done something if I could have.”

“There was no reason for it.” Scott tugs a little on the bandage, keeping the pressure of it even.

“They let you fly free last time.” He nods, and Scott glances up, a small, wry smile slowly making its way onto his face.

“Maybe they thought it made everything too easy for me. This is just some god’s twisted way of having fun, isn't it? They want it to be entertaining, I'm sure it’s less fun for them if I can just fly away when things begin to get tough.” His voice is bitter as he speaks, and he ties off the bandage again, the work perfect, even as his hands continue to shake. “Any other injuries I should know about?”

“No. I'm, I'm all good, thanks.”

“No need to sound so grateful.” He stands, turning back to his mug of tea. He peers into it, before grimacing and pouring it down the sink, already refilling the kettle from the tap. “Tea?” He offers, and he nods quickly, watching as he places the kettle on the furnace, allowing the water to begin heating.

They hadn't had many commodities like running water in the Southlands, for such a large group they rarely got anything done, especially the important things. Most of them were living in a hollowed out cave, their towers barely liveable.

They sit in silence until the kettle whistles, Pearl absently tapping her fingers against the tabletop. Scott grabs it off the furnace as quickly as he can, pouring the water into two mugs - Pearl hadn't wanted any - and stirring them quietly.

“You two are really tense.” Pearl comments as Scott sets the mug of tea down in front of him, taking his own seat across from him at the table. There’s three chairs arranged around it, which is odd considering only two people live here.

“Thanks.” Scott mutters, taking a short sip of his tea despite the steam rising off of it. He copies the action, before pulling it away with a small grimace.

“How much sugar did you put in this?”

“At least six teaspoons, I didn't actually count. You’ll need the sugar after you've lost the amount of blood you have.”

“That’s...a lot.”

“I know. Drink up.” He raises his mug a little, as though in cheers, before taking another sip. He copies the action again, managing a little less of a grimace at the overly sweet taste.

So,” Pearl leans over the table, arms between both of them, “I'm not a marriage counsellor or anything, but you two definitely have issues you need to work out.”

“You already know most of them.” Scott states, calmly taking another sip of tea.

“That doesn't mean you don't need to talk through them with Jimmy.” Pearl motions towards him, and Scott glances away from his mug for a second. He sets his mug down heavily, wrapping both hands around it.

“Fine.” He looks away from Pearl, back to him. “You hurt my feelings when you went to the Southlands, our promises were essentially to be together forever, and you broke that by leaving with them. There was a space for you in our alliance, and you left that vacant to pursue other things, other people. You upset me, and you haven't done anything to apologise for it yet.”

“I- what?” He blinks at Scott for a moment. “Thanks for telling me?”

“You're welcome.” Scott blinks at him, expression oddly blank.

“Now what do you have to say in response to that?” Pearl looks at him now.

“Oh, uh, I'm sorry? I guess that’s the first thing that comes to mind. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I thought you didn't want to have me there honestly, you already had Pearl, and I thought that you just wanted to leave our marriage...unaddressed.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Scott groans, closing his eyes briefly as he stares at him.

“I don't know? I'm not you.” He cries.

“Okay, okay.” Pearl makes a calming gesture with her hands. “Maybe you both need to just apologise to each other, and we can go from there.”

They stare at each other for a moment, waiting for the other to go first. He’s already apologised once, Scott should at least try and make it even. Scott sighs, unwrapping his hands from around his mug.

“I'm sorry Jimmy for making you feel like you couldn't come to me. You could have come to me at any time and I would have welcomed you in, even if you were red. I don't know what I did to make you feel unloved, and I just want you to know that I would never do anything like that to you.”

“I'm also sorry for leaving you, again,” he laughs a little, and Scott smiles at him, “I want to start over with you, maybe form an alliance seeing as I'm currently fresh out of them.” He smiles a little awkwardly, looking to Pearl as well, nervous for their reactions.

“I don't see a proper reason not to. As long as you don't go running back to the Southlands as soon as things there start looking better, I think we’ll be fine.”

“I don't think I'm even welcome there anymore.” He laughs again, but this one is more bitter than before, “I don't think I’d want to go back either. It was nice, but it obviously wasn't going to last.”

“I don't mind a new ally.” Pearl smiles at him, tilting her head a little as she grins, “Strength in numbers, right?”

“I don't really have any reason to protest either.” He pauses. “Unless you threw your wedding ring away, I don't think this would work if you had.”

“Of course I didn't!” He pulls it out from beneath his shirt, waving it at Scott and watching as it slides up and down its chain, the diamond on it glinting in the light. “I’d never willingly get rid of this.”

“Welcome to the alliance then I guess.” Scott’s eyes drift past his head. “It’s currently midnight on a Thursday and I'm tired, mind if we wrap this up for the night?” He yawns, and Jimmy finds himself yawning too.

“I don't have anywhere to sleep.”

“Scott has a double bed!” Pearl provides, standing from her own chair. “You two get a good night’s rest, I’ll be next door, okay?” She disappears up the stairs a few moments later, feet pattering on the carpet as she moves away.

“I do have a double bed, if you want it.”

“I don't think I've slept in a proper bed since I got here. Yes please.” He accepts Scott’s hand, pulling himself to his feet, only stumbling a little once he stands on his own. He stands still as Scott begins to leave the kitchen, watching him go, a singular question running through his head on a loop.

“Where do we go from here?” He asks. Scott turns back towards him, their eyes meeting across the kitchen. Scott smiles at him, taking a step closer and pulling his hand into his own, palm surprisingly warm.

“How about we go from here?”

Scott’s eyes fade to a light lime, and the feeling of a new life rushes through him, leaving his heart thundering in his chest as he stares at him.

“That sounds good to me.” He grins at Scott, and Scott grins back, slipping his hand into his own and slowly beginning to guide him up the stairs.

#my writing #flower husbands #scott smajor #solidarity gaming #jimmy solidarity #last life #last life fanfic #la(falt) series #la(falt) au #juno.writes

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alienducky · 4 years

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Author Tagging Game!

Thanks for tagging me @tbehartoo!!! <3

Ao3 name: Alien_duck. Also dragoninthecloud for Miraculous Ladybug lovesquare centric stories

Fandoms: Miraculous Ladybug and My Time at Portia. I know I haven’t written any MLB for a while, but I swear, I’m going to get back to them! I want to finish Surprise at the very least, and I’m still plotting out Following Crumbs in my head, though it’s going to be wildly ooc since I stilll haven’t seen most of seasons 2 or 3 <__<;;;

Tropes: I tend towards fluff and crack mostly, because the world needs more of them!!! But I dabble in angst too sometimes.

Number of fics: 19 currently up on AO3 over both pseuds. 12 for MLB, 7 MTaP. But I’ve got another 6 in various stages of completion I’m slowly poking at, along with updates on some of the others.

Fic I spent the most time on: Finding You, but that’s a joint fic, and we’re still working on the prequel/sequel/extra bits, so I’m not sure if I should be counting it for this? I guess it’d be Back in Town if it’s me only fics.

Fic I spent the least time on: Showers. Even factoring in the drawing I did for it, it’s gotta be Showers XD

Longest fic: Finding You + Finding You Extras (144,243+ 26,178 words) for joint, then Back in town (25,855) for MTap and Consequences of a thin suit in cold weather (10,815) for MLB

Shortest fic: Showers (384, plus a picture of Noroo being traumatised)

Most hits: Just Checking. Which is a little upsetting, since it’s a Chameleon salt fic, but eh

Most kudos: Just Checking again

Most comments: Finding You with 105 threads, and then Consequences with 47

Most bookmarks: Just Checking

Total word count: 269,160. But taking off about half for FY brings it down to 197,118

Favorite fic you’ve written: Fave MLB has to be Cold Front. It’s just so damn silly, and I had so much fun writing it, and Bronte said she smiled reading it which was what I wanted at the time. Fave MTaP fic is probably Getting Home, because of Mr Fuzzybutt and Doofus

Fic you want to rewrite/expand on: Even though I just said it’s my fave, I kinda wanna redo Cold Front, and then Consequences. I feel like I could probably do better now? I wouldn’t drop random ()’s in the middle of sentences at any rate >_<;;;

Tagging: no pressure tagging @nerdnag, @dads-typo, @bronzeflower623, and anyone else who follows me and wants to but I’m not tagging because I don’t know if anyone will be bothered by me tagging them?

#tag game #author stats

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mrslittletall · 5 years

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Title: A Storm is coming (Chapter 10) Fandom: Dark Souls Characters: Chosen Undead/Dragon Slayer Ornstein Word Count: 2.985 AO3-Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16603610/chapters/45785419 Previous chapter: https://mrslittletall.tumblr.com/post/185270390139/title-a-storm-is-coming-chapter-9-fandom-dark

Summary: Tempest finds out a few things about the dragon slayer.

(Author's note: I plan to get these two back into the action soon, but for now I needed another chapter of fluff and pining ^^)

Tempest expected Ornstein to be mad, but he looked more surprised. As if he wasn't expecting Tempest to march into the bath. Maybe he just hadn't registered the situation and would get mad in a few seconds when it clicked.

While Tempest waited for Ornstein to explode, he noticed that the dragon slayer had his long hair pinned-up on his head, only the shorter bangs dangling down framing his face. Tempest could spot his muscular chest, rested his eye on the scar for a brief moment, guilt bubbling up in his stomach and then couldn't help but look farther down, while the water was steaming hot, it still was crystal clear.

And what he saw made Tempest face flush red, he could feel the nosebleed coming and before he knew it, his world had become dark.

---

Ornstein had been quick to catch Tempest with one arm when he collapsed with a nosebleed. He might be unable to truly die, but drowning from having passed out in the bathroom wasn't something Ornstein wanted to put the little Undead through.

He carefully lifted him up and brought him to the side of the pool, using the towel Tempest had seemingly brought as a pillow, carefully pushing the head through the side. The nosebleed was already ceasing.

Ornstein started to shiver. He fetched his own towel and dried himself up, planning to bind it around his waist, then remembering that Tempest was of course wet too and he quickly rubbed the little Undead dry before covering his private parts with it.

Technically he should have covered Tempest too, but they were out of towels. Ornstein already had washed him once, so he hopefully wouldn't mind. Back then, the little storm hadn't acted modest a lot.

Sitting down next to Tempest, Ornstein started to reminiscent. A situation like this had once happened to him too.

When he had broken his arm during a duel with Artorias, the master had invited him into his personal bathroom to help him clean himself up. Ornstein, who had a massive crush on the master back then, but didn't knew that the master actually reciprocated them, had waited in the bathtub for the master to join him and got completely blown away when he hadn't covered his private parts one bit, passing out with a nosebleed.

When he had came back to, the master had carefully laid him down on the ground, not unlike Ornstein had laid out Tempest right now.

This reaction could only mean that Tempest was attracted to him.

Ornstein honestly didn't knew how to feel about this.

He had to admit, he had gotten strangely fond of the little storm the last few days. He made lots of efforts during training, his cooking tasted pretty good and it was nice having some company.

Still, he was nothing more than a pawn to link the flame. Ornstein just had to escort him until this was done and then he was free to go, free to search for his master. There was no need to get attached.

Besides, he had killed Smough. Even knowing that the both of them had been a mere test for the “Chosen Undead”, Ornstein missed him deeply and still felt a grudge that his beloved was gone, never to see again.

Stilll... Ornstein knew that it was unfair to hold the grudge against Tempest. He only did what he had been told.

Ornstein sighed. He wasn't falling in love with him, right? It probably was just pity, yes, it had to be pity. That was all.

And thinking about it, Ornstein didn't mind the company of the little Undead as much anymore. Maybe he just considered him a friend? That must be it.

Still, he really shouldn't get attached. Ornstein exactly knew what fate awaited Tempest.

Speaking of him, Tempest lowly groaned and started to open his eyes.

---

The first thing Tempest noticed was the face of the dragon slayer staring at him, the second that he felt quite cold and the third, that he was indeed completely naked. He shot up, face flushed red.

“Are you awake? Maybe you shouldn't move that sudden right away, you were passed out.”, Ornstein casually said. Tempest noticed that luckily the dragon slayer had tied a towel around his waist. The naked rest of him though, still looked very desirable. Tempest quickly looked elsewhere.

“I am sorry, I didn't want to invade in the bath, I just wanted to get myself clean.”, he started to ramble. “I missed baths.”, he added.

“Well then, the pool is all yours, I feel clean enough.”, Ornstein said and stood up. “You probably want to clean that nosebleed up anyway.”

Tempest touched his nose and indeed felt the crusted blood of his nosebleed. That was even more embarrassing. Passing out with a nosebleed in front of Ornstein like this. Tempest slowly went back into the pool, glancing at Ornstein. The dragon slayer didn't make any attempts to comment further on this whole incident. Tempest gaze wandered from the towel around Ornstein's waist to his still dry hair.

“Wait.”, he shouted.

Ornstein, who almost was out of the door, turned around, giving him an impatient look.

“Aren't you planning on washing your hair?”, Tempest asked.

“With hair as long as mine it is too much of a hassle to wash it every single bath.”, Ornstein replied, calm and collected.

“I could help you.”, Tempest offered.

Ornstein stared at him a little while longer, before dropping a single “No.” and leaving the bathroom for good.

---

The next morning, when Tempest accompanied Ornstein for breakfast, he suddenly spoke: “So how did you found out?”

How rare for Ornstein to be the one to speak up. Although, Tempest felt confused, raising a brow, he asked: “What do you mean?”

“Gwyndolin.”, Ornstein said. “You came into the Dark Moon Tomb to ask for help, why wouldn't you try and ask the princess for help first while she is right there?”

“Oh, I did ask Princess Gwynevere first.”, Tempest explained. “But after I told her my whole deal, she just replied with the same thing she told me the first time. I decided to try around a bit and she was saying the same thing over and over again, regardless what I said. I had the feeling that something was fishy then.”

Ornstein simply nodded and made a hand gesture that implied for Tempest to go on with his story.

“I visited the catacombs once. I didn't do much there granted, it was mostly me running and screaming from all the skeletons, falling down several holes. However, I must have picked up something shiny on the way, because I awoke at Fire Link Bonfire with a ring in my hand.”

Tempest could hear Ornstein huff about this part of the story, he probably had called him an idiot mentally.

“I looked at the ring and recognized the symbol of the blades of the dark moon. I remembered the old tales about Lord Gwyn's last born, a goddess that punished the sinners and was able to create powerful illusions.

I also remembered the tales that Princess Gwynevere had left Anor Londo a long time ago. Her appearance here was quite strange, wasn't it?”

“You seem to be smarter than I thought.”, Ornstein mentioned between bites.

“So I figured that Princess Gwynevere is merely an illusion, created by Dark Sun Gwyndolin and where else would I search for the Dark Sun as in a place literally called the Dark Moon Tomb? When I went there with the ring, the statue of Lord Gwyn disappeared and then... then I met you.”, Tempest finished his story. “And you know the rest.”

“And you were lucky.”, Ornstein said. “That it was me standing there. Gwyndolin could have easily taken your actions as heresy and attacked right away. What they almost did.”

Tempest paled a bit at the thought of how close the Dark Sun had been to release their magic on him. If that would have happened, he probably would have gone hollow for sure.

“Thankfully, everything turned out just fine.”, Tempest said with a sigh of relief.

“Just fine. And that says the one who rushed into a fight with a dragon completely unprepared.”, Ornstein scoffed. “You better be prepared for today's training session.”

Tempest really didn't like the grin that appeared on Ornstein's face.

---

After the training and dinner was over (Ornstein didn't lie, he was pretty brutal this day), Tempest decided to read a few books and ended up in what was probably once the conference room of the knights, where he sat down at the table and started to flip open the pages of the first book.

He didn't knew why, but the wooden boards with paintings of the other knights made him feel at ease somehow. They had kind of a comforting feel to them. And Tempest didn't even knew them in person (besides Ornstein of course).

After Tempest had finished the first book, his gaze landed on the painting of Artorias, the Abysswalker.

Although hidden mostly by the hood, the smile on that painting felt so gentle and warm. Tempest started to rummage around in his belongings until he found it.

A ring with a wolf engraved on it. It was said that this ring once believed to the Abysswalker. Tempest traced the wolf on the ring, silently asking himself how the ring had landed in the Dark Root Garden. Shouldn't it had been buried with the Abysswalker? Tempest heard that there was a grave behind the sealed door in Dark Root Garden...

“Where have you found this?”

Tempest startled at the sudden voice. He turned around to see Ornstein standing in the doorway, dressed simply in a night shirt (with a sheep pattern on it, of all things), hair loosely tied in a ponytail, as if he just wanted to have it out of the way.

“Well?”, Ornstein said further, clearly growing impatient. Tempest stared down at the ring, understanding.

“I found it on a withered corpse in Dark Root Garden, a path behind a living tree, where all this strange stone soldiers are.”, Tempest replied. “I was just asking myself how it landed there. I would have thought that it would have been buried with him.”

Ornstein left the doorway and crossed the way to the table with three strides.

“Sif had it. Artorias bequeathed his sword and his ring to Sif. Judging that you have it, doesn't mean, that...” Ornstein gazes locked on Tempest, who felt like shrinking under it. Even though the face of the dragon slayer was surprisingly not intimidating, his glare still got to him.

“I just told you I found it on a corpse and it wasn't the corpse of a wolf.”, Tempest defended himself.

“Maybe Sif lost it then.”, Ornstein mused, instantly getting calm again. “And the person who picked it up didn't make it far before dying or hollowing for good.” Ornstein sat down on the table. “I would like you to give this ring back to Sif once we visit Artorias' grave. It belongs to her anyway.”

Tempest nodded. It felt like the dragon slayer meant this very serious.

“Um, what about the rings of the other knights?”, he asked, having gotten curious. The wolf ring had been the only one he found.

“The leo ring doesn't leave my finger.”, Ornstein answered and indeed, Tempest could spot it on the ring finger of his left hand. Ornstein stared at it intensely before continuing, as if the ring had a greater meaning. “The hawk ring has been given into the care of one of Gough's friend. He never told me who it was, so I don't know where it is. And Ciaran's ring is still with her.”

Huh, that last one sounded a bit strange. Was Ciaran still alive? Tempest had to admit, besides of Artorias, he hadn't heard of any deaths of the other knights. Ornstein was in front of him and still very much alive. What happened to Gough and Ciaran? Tempest gaze flickered over to their wooden board versions.

Tempest didn't expect the dragon slayer to suddenly start speaking about them.

“They make feel this room less lonely. Sometimes it is easier to pretend...” Ornstein stood up. “I have said enough.” He walked back to the door.

“Um, just one question.”, Tempest started, Ornstein turned around and made it wordlessly clear that he wouldn't wait long. “Shouldn't you be in bed?”

“Couldn't sleep.”, Ornstein sighed.

“I don't mind having some company at night.”, Tempest said. “It gets lonely quick.”

Ornstein didn't came back into the room, but he felt he saw the tiniest smile at the corners of his lips, before he turned around and left for good.

Tempest shouted one last “Good night.”, to him before he put his attention back to the books on the table.

---

The next day Tempest prepared the meal in the kitchen like usual. After a few minutes he had the feeling that something was missing and when he was turning around, he noticed, that Ornstein hadn't sneaked into the kitchen to watch him cook in the meantime. Weird, normally he would have gotten up by now.

Tempest shrugged it off, maybe Ornstein just wanted to have some extra sleep. After all, he had told him yesterday night that he had trouble sleeping. He finished cooking the meal, put the lid on the pot and seated himself down at the table, waiting.

After around an hour was gone by, Tempest started to worry. He got up, doused the fire in the stove and went into the direction where he remembered Ornstein's room was. He found the right hallway and entered the first room, only after he entered did it came to his mind that maybe he should have knocked first.

To Tempest's luck it had been the wrong room. There was nobody in there and the dust on it implied that there hadn't been anyone in there since years. Still, the room looked like it was ready to greet back its inhabitant any moment. The bed had blue sheets on it and there was a book on the night stand.

Curiosity took over and so Tempest found himself closer to the night stand and picked up the book, flipping it open, surprised to see that it was a hand written recipe book, written in the most beautiful hand writing he had ever seen. Flipping through the pages, he noticed that pretty much every recipe was of cookies or cakes, there also were some drawings accompanying the recipes, showing how the recipe should turn out.

When Tempest closed the book, he saw that it was signed with the name of Artorias. He felt a slight lump in his throat. It seemed he had wandered into the room of the Abyss Walker. And he had expected a LOT to find in this room, but not something like this.

Tempest didn't know why, but he decided to pocket the book. He surely wanted to test out the recipes in the book, but he felt a bit guilty moving it from its places.

Tempest just hoped that nobody would mind.

Tempest left the room again, going to the next door. This time he knocked. And waited. When there wasn't an answer, he knocked again, waited a short time and then opened the door when he didn't heard anything.

The worst case scenario was that he would surprise Ornstein by an activity he didn't want to be seen doing (but wouldn't he have locked the door then?), the best case scenario would be that the room would be empty again.

To Tempest relief, it was the room of the dragon slayer and he simply was still in bed, sleeping. Tempest still found it weird, he normally would have gotten up already. Even if he had trouble sleeping, Tempest felt like Ornstein was the kind who wouldn't oversleep greatly like this then. Tempest decided to wake Ornstein and stepped closer to the bed.

Now how should he go and wake an over two meter tall demigod? Tempest considered his options for a moment, but then decided that it was no use, he just had to try, so he leaned down, extened his hand and nudged Ornstein. “Um, Ornstein? It would already be time for training...”, he murmured, as if still being afraid to wake the dragon slayer.

Tempest wouldn't had guessed in a million years what happened next, because he felt himself being pulled in a tight hug. Before he even knew it, he had been completely pulled into the bed, Ornstein practically cuddling him like he was some kind of stuffed animal.

Tempest immediately felt his face flush red and also the feeling of dread started to creep into him.

“When he wakes up, I am dead.”, Tempest thought to himself. It would be the best if he managed to remove himself from this situation, gently, careful, to not wake up the dragon slayer and act like this never ever happened.

Sadly, the embrace of Ornstein was simply too strong. Tempest had no chance slipping out of it and even when he tried to struggle as hard as he could, it simply seemed to tighten the embrace.

Now Tempest wasn't only fearing anymore to die when Ornstein woke up, but also to get squished in this embrace, the dragon slayer was so strong and in his sleep he clearly didn't notice that he wasn't cuddling with whatever he thought or dreamed about it was. Tempest already mentally prepared himself for his awakening at the bonfire, when the dragon slayer opened his eyes, staring at him in what looked like a shocked expression. (Author's note: Lately I end my chapters too often on romance tropes =D ) Next chapter: https://mrslittletall.tumblr.com/post/185911951349/title-a-storm-is-coming-chapter-11

#dark souls #fanfiction #dragon slayer ornstein #chosen undead #orndead #oc tempest #littlewritesstuff

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alteriius · 6 years

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Into The Fire (Updated 3/24/18)

FANDOM: D.Gray-Man PAIRING: Allen Walker/Lavi/Tyki Mikk (Allen Walker/Lavi & Lavi/Tyki Mikk) WORD COUNT: 4,345 LINKS: AO3 | FFN

SUMMARY: Prophecies say that when the first thirteen dragons die, the fourteenth terrorizes the countryside, seeking to revive its dead brethren. It creates disciples, goads them into hunting it with the promise that what was stolen from them will be returned. "You lost your heart to me last time, what did you plan on losing this time?"

This is being updated with the second chapter in celebration of @wipweek (March 24th; Favorite WIP) and also to celebrate my anniversary and engagement to @transgenderlavi.

"Kanda, we have to do something!"

"No, we don— Gah!"

The unholy scream that follows would've woken the dead and risen them from the grave if they were close enough to any—but unfortunately, the only one near enough was Lavi and if the noise wasn't enough to wake him, the painful ringing in his ears would've been.

Scrunched up eyes peek open at the two voices, the sight of one blocked out by the eyepatch that remained over his eye. The first face he sees is a young woman no older than himself with long, black tresses that spills over her shoulder when their eyes meet and she leans down to greet him.

"Hey there," she says so soft that he barely hears her over the pained groans of her companion that isn't visible from where he lay. Amethyst-colored eyes glimmered in the afternoon sunlight as a pained smile spread across her face, though he didn't understand what was causing her so much grief.

Lavi's memory is caught in a foggy haze and the knowledge of how he'd gotten here—or where "here" was—was far out of his reach. His vision was blurry from his long nap, though he didn't remember laying down for one. Hadn't he been doing something...?

He opens his mouth to speak and a cough escapes him instead, lungs straining like he'd been swallowing fist fulls of smoke mere moments before this— oh.

Memories of the canyon and what—who—he found in it come rushing back to him at a dizzying pace. Were he standing, he’s sure the biting pain from his worsening headache would've had him on the ground.

Concerned eyes stare down at him as her companion finally returns to join her, but Lavi's attention has fallen away from the two and even the man's features go unrecorded and the distance he keeps despite being in sight goes unnoticed.

Starting to sit up, she jumps to steady his shaky movements, but he is so fixated on the feeling in his chest that he misses the words that bid him to remain still.

He knows his heart is beating out of rhythm like a song that's lost its tempo, but he can't feel it pounding against his chest like it's about to burst from it. Lavi reaches up, touches the torn cloth of his shirt and the second layer of fabric that should've been beneath it.

"You need to rest after what you went through," she says, though her words verge on inaudible as quiet as they are and as far away Lavi's mind is.

"No, I- I can't, I—"

His hand lays over the hole in his shirt, both covering the unbound cleavage and feeling the fresh scar tissue where smooth skin had previously been. Her hands weigh heavy on his shoulders; his body feels like lead as he struggles to move.

It's her companion that finally shatters the nightmare he's been having and makes it a reality.

"Your heart was stolen."

All he hears are the harsh words; he doesn't process what the young lady in front of him says afterwards. He was a draconologist. He'd been told for as long as he could remember that he had no need for a heart, but that was figurative. Being without the blood-pumping organ meant one thing: He was no draconologist now.

He was a slayer, doomed to fight dragons until he died or until his heart was returned to him—or that's what the legends said, anyways.

Lavi could stilll feel his heart beating, but it was far behind him, taunting him as if it wanted him to follow the—as if it wanted to be found.

"What— What happened to me?" he asks, trying to make sense sense of memories wrapped in black smoke. He remembered the scaled claws that had descended on him and pierced his chest, pulled his heart from its cage... In his mind, it looked as much like a fever dream as it felt like one.

Growing up, he'd heard tales of the fourteenth dragon's heart stealing ways, but an unfathomable nightmare had just become his reality.

"The same thing that happens to all of us."

Her smile falters and weakens as she speaks and Lavi's visible eye widens as he finally recognizes the clothes they wore. Garbed in coats of the purest white and hemmed with a vibrant gold, it dawns on him that these are the same people that he would now be expected to fight alongside.

"We all wake up with foggy memories, a scar on our chest and a heart that beats in the stomach of a dragon," she says, though she has no further need to explain. Lavi understands now that he's regaining his bearing, remembering the risk he took when he set foot into the dragon's home.

More than being turned into a disciple, however, he almost expected to be eaten in his entirety as a mid-morning snack for a monster.

Stories had told him that only those worthy and brave enough to face the dragon would have their hearts ripped from their chests by it. Many draconologists had been killed in their pursuit of the dragon before him, so why had it chosen him as worthy?

He didn't want this.

"What's your name?"

The question takes him by surprise. So lost in his thoughts he had been, he doesn't realize for another second that this is the second time she's asked him that.

"L-Lavi," he says, struggling with unfamiliar stutters. This wasn't a problem that had ever happened before, but panic was threatening to suffocate him. "My name is Lavi."

"Well, Lavi, my name is Lenalee Lee."

As she speaks, she draws back and makes a motion with her hand. He hears a sound like a horse neighing overhead before a gust of wind musses his hair, eyes scrunching up briefly as he raises a hand to block out the fierce wind. With eyes shut tight, he can only hear the beating of wings as someone significantly smaller than a dragon lands behind Lenalee.

A wave of terror washes over him, his eyes snapping open to see not a monster, but a—

"A pegasus?" Lavi asks, not able to believe what he's saying. Lenalee greets the black-winged creature as she procurs something from a storage pack strapped to its side, out of the way of its large wingspan.

When she turns back around, he sees a knitted, tan shawl in her hands and he wonders if that was a product she herself had created before she returned and wrapped it around his shoulders, hiding what Lavi didn't want the rest of the world to see. He barely has time to mutter his gratitude before she's helping him to his feet.

"You should come with me. There are some people that you need to meet."

Though he knows he'll never be able to fight a dragon in the same way she or her unnamed companion might, Lavi follows her lead, too exhausted to refuse.

Exhaustion had set into his bones long before she loaded him onto her steed—Koku, he learned his name was—like he was little more than cargo, though that was probably an accurate description of how all Disciples of the Holy Order were treated by the organization that housed them.

Knowing what he did, it was probably foolish to agree to accompany her to the castle that was their headquarters. His master had always planned for them to visit together so that he could navigate the Holy Order's parasitic politics that were designed to award the draconologists with as little as possible while their own organization raked in intellectual profit.

None of this was supposed to happen.

He was supposed to come here in one piece, with a beating heart in his chest and an old man screaming in his ear to play his assigned role as a "proper" draconologist—though he was more like the few others he'd met than the old man was.

And he was definitely not supposed to arrive on the back of pegasus, arms wrapped around a cute sky knight to keep himself from being blown off the creature's back.

Their descent into the courtyard is slowed by Koku's powerful wings and he finds himself unnerved by the way all heads turn to look at them, gazes focused not on the returning Disciple, but him.

He can see those near enough to him arching their brows at the sight of him, even as Lenalee slides off the pegasus and helps him do the same. Such would warrant loud complaints, if not for how tired he was and how unnerving having so many eyes on him was.

Once his feet found the ground, the murmuring begins and he wraps the shawl tighter around his shoulders, hiding his form and the scar on his chest. This was not a situation he was used to.

For him, normal was receiving the ire of dozens of strangers in the town square when he can't keep his mouth shut. The attention awarded to him now was different.

His time here could be counted in minutes on a single hand, but Lavi had already formed an opinion.

He didn't like any of this.

Lavi desired more than anything to leave this place and go back to the drawing board to find a better way to approach the dragon and probe it for information. It left a painful ache in his chest that wasn't born from the loss of what should have been there.

Through the dragon's magic alone, he still drew breath and there was no byproduct of the spell that sated his curiosity. With every step further into the Holy Order's headquarters and every sight within it, his desire to understand the dragon and its motives only grew.

After proceeding through a number of rooms that anyone with a lesser memory might call a maze, Lenalee opens a pair of large doors decorated by a stained glass painting of a dragon—the eighth, he noted—being slain.

Absently, he wondered if the Disciple pictured there still lived.

Through those double doors that depicted the first slaying of this generation of dragons was a man that sat behind a desk littered with papers that pegged him as something akin to the draconologist's chief of operations.

"Brother," Lenalee greets as she shuts the door tight behind them, leaving Lavi to wonder if that's for the sake of privacy or more to slow any potential attempt at escape. She strode up to stand next to where he sat before she gestured to him.

"This is Lavi. Kanda and I found—" She pauses briefly, glancing at him in time to see him cringe. "—him at the canyon's border."

A sigh of relief slips through Lavi's lips and he offers her a smile, which she returns with the same vibrancy.

Though she gives no more details, her chief—her brother—nods, understanding. His lips form a smile, though the depths of its sadness are something that Lavi can't hope to figure out.

"So you've been made a disciple," he says, linking his fingers together to rest his chin on his hands. Lavi knows that his words are true. For all anyone cares, Lavi is nothing more and nothing less than a disciple now and the missing organ in his chest proves as much to everyone but himself.

"I'm... I'm a draconologist," Lavi says with unfamiliar uncertainty. Never has he been forced to question who he was before. From a young age, he has been trained for one purpose and the idea of losing his very reason for living...

Two sets of eyes widen, the two other people turning to look at each other before their gazes move back to him.

"You're a draconologist?"

He repeats it as if it's blasphemous and perhaps it is. Never before had a draconologist been recorded as a victim of the fourteenth dragon. Lavi was the first.

"Yes, I am," Lavi says, though the words aren't the entire truth. After all, he's a mere apprentice. He can't claim the title like the others could; he still has to earn that. "I was so close to learning something out there. The dragon might've stolen my heart, but I can still feel it and I can feel I was about to find out somethin' important!"

He had too many questions to quietly give up, to try and kill the creature he'd been ready to die to learn more about.

"Do you really have a choice? The only way to get your heart back is to fight and kill the dragon."

"I'm still breathin'!" Lavi says, his curiosity only growing thanks to the empty space in his chest. It was a void that seemed to be filled with questions that increased in number every minute that passed. His nerves were still clawing at him, but fear was overpowered by enthusiasm and a thirst for knowledge that couldn't be sated by slaying a dragon.

This time, Lenalee opens her mouth to protest and he knows by the look in her eyes the jist of what she's going to say before the words leave her lips. And he interrupts her before they can with a smile that didn't suit a man likely to walk out of this castle and meet his doom at the claws of a Great Dragon.

"I'll figure something out."

Lavi turns to leave, smile falling the minute he turns his back on them. Worry settles over him like a beast more terrifying than the one that had taken his heart. More than ever before, he was certain that his passion would end in his death sooner than he or his master had been prepared for.

"Wait," Lenalee starts and Lavi holds his hands up before she can start. He won't be convinced; he's already convinced himself that this is the right path. That simply letting go isn't his style.

"Sorry, Lena, but unless yer gonna offer ta help me..."

"I can't help you," she says and Lavi hand drops back down to his side. He'd expected as much. She seemed kind, but she was a disciple. Her ability to work outside the confines of what the Holy Order decided was appropriate for her had a very limited scope and pushing her past that could put her in grave danger. "But I think I know someone who can."

"Ya know somebody crazy enough to hunt down a dragon besides the other disciples, while not killing it?"

He turns back to the duo in question, sees the smiles on their faces. Looks like "crazy" might be a perfect word for whoever they have in mind.

"Have you ever heard of the Noah family?"

#dgm #allen walker #lavi #tyki mikk #wip week #laven #lucky pair #fanfiction #allen writes.#tagging just in case #since it didn't appear in the tags a few days ago

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