#and that’s a least 2 chapters before they get proper nasty

[asexualasshat]

Purposefully writing slowburn so you can put off dealing with the sex scene that is unfortunately necessary to the plot? An asexual birthright

[forestkniight]

I'll Be Seeing You

✯ Chapter 1 ✯ Chapter 2 ✯

Thank you guys so much for your patience! With college and rehearsals in the way, I don't have much free time, but I hope you all enjoy it!

Pairing: Fizzarolli x Reader

Warning: Cursing, Violence, Attempted Kidnapping

Word Count: 3.7K

I’ve heard of affairs

That are strictly platonic

But diamonds are a girl’s best friend

You walk around the stage, entirely in the music, in this character you’re portraying. The audience hangs onto every word you sing, which surprised you when you first started working here. You hadn’t expected so many sinners to want to listen to something that wasn’t about sex or violence. Considering the number of people who often listen to the radio, you should have known. 

And I think affairs

That you must keep liaisonic

Are better bets

If little pets get big baguettes

You look at the audience and notice a few familiar faces and some new ones. You wink at an older regular who only came to hear you sing because it reminds him of when he was alive on Earth. You continue to look out in the audience as you start heading down the stairs towards everyone. Your eyes land on someone who the character you're playing would chase. He looks rich enough. 

You slowly strut over as you continue singing. You see his eyes, all four of them widen when he notices you coming directly towards him—poor thing. You look at his table and notice the empty seat across from him. Strange. 

You finally reach him, slide a finger under his face, and lift it to look at you. You feel him swallow before you quickly drop your hand and spin to your left, moving to stand behind his chair. You grab the chair with your right hand while the left is outstretched. 

I don’t mean rhinestone

But diamonds are a girl’s best

You spin to your left against the chair, so you end up falling in the gentleman’s lap, sitting sideways. 

Best friend

While you sing the last two words, you quickly tap two fingers against your lips before lightly tapping your fingers once on the stranger’s cheeks. You notice a slight blush on his face as you stand and return to the stage. You would typically kiss your target’s cheek, but this man looks red-faced enough with your attention on him. 

“So good to see all of you lovely folks here tonight,” you say breathlessly in the microphone. 

The crowd cheers, and you smirk. Being up on stage was healing. You weren’t that little child stuck in the rafters anymore. You commanded attention now. 

“While I would love to stay out here performing for you all night,” you hear sounds of disapproval before you can even finish. 

“Now, now, you can come down and see me any time, but tonight, we have a set of talented musicians ready to get you out of your seat and onto the dance floor instead. But I can’t leave you all without one more song,” you giggle as your back faces the audience. 

You slowly turn around with your eyes closed. The warmth of the spotlight touches your skin, and you smile brightly as you bring the microphone to your lips. 

Prim and proper, the girl who’s never been kissed

You open your eyes and turn so your side profile faces the audience, putting on a show. You hear a couple of whistles as you sing. 

Well, I’m tired of being pure and not chased

You turn back to face the audience and drag your hand from your thigh to your stomach, between your chest, and up your neck until your hand flourishes. You knew it was slightly suggestive, but you would be lying to yourself if you didn’t accept part of the reason you were hired. Even if you didn’t believe it some days, you were easy on the eyes, making audiences especially susceptible to your performances. 

You continue singing the song, mainly focusing on everyone sitting closest to the stage. By winking at them, you give special attention to those placing money on the stage. Some respond shyly, while others, your least favorite, get this nasty look in their eyes as they smirk at you. A similar feeling to one you’ve felt before. A feeling that makes you feel small. You shake your head as you head down the stairs of the stage once more. 

I wanna sing songs like the guy who cries

I wanna be horrid, I wanna drink booze

As you sing that line, you notice one of the bouncers on break in the audience and smirk. You take a drink from the beer in front of them before giving them a wink, to which they laugh and shake their head. 

You turn away to continue giving everything into your final song for the night. You turn around and notice the stranger from earlier, and you decide he will be the last person you tease for the night. 

And whatever I’ve got, I am eager to lose-

You didn’t even reach his table before you felt your heart drop. Across from him was a face you hadn’t seen in years. Blitzo. Blitz. His confused eyes stare up at you. He doesn’t recognize you. You quickly turn back to the stranger to try to make the sudden stop in singing make sense. 

“Sorry, pretty boy. I didn’t know you were a taken man,” you force a giggle as you quickly make your way back up the stage. 

You turn to the pianist.

“Sorry, sweets. Let’s take it where I left off,” you smile sweetly, and the pianist returns the smile and nods. 

I wanna be evil, little evil me

Just as mean and evil as I can be

The room erupts in a cacophony of cheers as you take your bow. You gesture over at your pianist, who also bows to the room. You turn back, and you smile as you take another bow. You look out to the audience as they beam up at you. You dare another glance at Blitz, except he isn’t looking up at you directly. He’s looking at something lower. You raise your eyebrows before looking down, and you see it. Your locket must have slipped out like it typically did during performances, except you never really had to worry about it…until now. 

He looks back at you with an undistinguishable expression, and you try to look away while keeping a smile on your face. You cannot freak out now. You just have to get off the stage, and then you can go home. 

“Thank you, thank you! Now, please help me welcome our next performer,” you yell out as you take a final bow before calmly walking towards the opening curtains. You smile at the next performer before the curtain closes, leaving you again in darkness. 

There is absolutely no way. You begin walking back towards your dressing room and think about what you saw. He looks different. He wasn’t a teenager anymore, that’s for sure. Neither were you. You noticed that he had burn marks on his face, but it was still his face. It’s hard to forget the face of one of your best friends, even if it does look slightly different. 

You sigh as you change out of your outfit and into comfier clothing as you take off your makeup. If you are lucky, he didn’t even recognize you. The look he gave you was probably because his date told him that you chose him as your target of some very minimal flirting. While looking directly at the locket around your neck. But also, the spotlight is extremely bright, so maybe you imagined it all. Yeah, that was it. There was no need to panic. Everything would be okay. You smile at yourself in the mirror to convince yourself of that. You’re interrupted by a knock on the door. 

“Um, hello,” you call out as you turn to face the door. 

You were never typically bothered after a performance. 

“Are you decent? Can I come in?” 

Stage manager.

“Uhh, are you by yourself,” you ask hesitantly. 

“Yes?” 

You roll your eyes at your behavior. You’re being so paranoid.

“Sure, come in,” you say as you turn back to face your mirror. 

The stage manager walks into your room before closing the door. 

“Good job out there tonight.”

You shoot her a smile through the mirror’s reflection.

“Thanks, kid.”

“So…weird that you asked if I was alone. Were you expecting guests in the audience tonight,” the stage manager asks while looking down at the clipboard in her hands.

You feel your heart drop. You are hoping this conversation wasn’t leading where you thought it was. 

“No.”

The stage manager looks surprised.

“Oh! That guy you sat on was asking to see you. His name is,” the stage manager looks down at her clipboard again. “Stolas.”

You drop your makeup wipe.

“As in the prince?”

What in the hell is Blitz doing with a prince? How could you not recognize him? To be entirely fair to yourself, it could be pretty dark towards the back of the club…is what you’re telling yourself. 

“I guess? He was insistent that he needed to see you,” the stage manager says while leaning towards the door, listening to the music outside.

“Was he with anyone?” 

“No, ma’am,” she shifts as she gets antsy to return to her post, “plus, if he is a prince, as you said, and he’s interested, you’ll get your wish of getting with someone rich.”

You raise your eyebrows.

“You know I just sing ‘Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend,’ right? I don’t apply it to my real life. I don’t value wealth over meaningful relationships,” you explain.

You see the stage manager’s cheeks turn red. 

“I’m sorry,” she starts, but you wave her off. 

“Send him in,” you sigh as you work on fixing your appearance again.

So much for being comfy; maybe the finger kiss was too much. You hear the stage manager sigh and make eye contact with her through the mirror, raising your eyebrows. 

“Look, between you and me, there was someone else with him, but he told Stolas to say it was just him because you wouldn’t agree to see them if you knew he was there,” she exclaims. 

You feel like you’re going to be sick. You didn’t think you could do this tonight, especially since today seemed to have more blasts from the past than usual. 

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter.

You become hyper-aware of your breathing and raise your hand to your chest. You can not do this tonight. You quickly turn towards the stage manager, who looks concerned.

“Look, kid, Emmie? That’s your name, right,” you ask as you turn to face her. 

She seems shocked that you know her name, and she nods. 

 “I need your help, Emmie. I need you to cause a distraction and lead them away so I can slip out of the back doors. Please, I just feel a little under the weather, and I don’t feel like I’m in a good place to talk to people tonight,” you beg as you feel tears start to pool. 

You are trying so hard not to cry in front of this poor girl, but you will if it means she feels bad for you. Luckily for you, that wouldn’t be necessary. 

“Of course, ma’am. I have the phone number you gave us for emergencies, and the moment I manage to lead them away, I’ll text you. Do you have any recommendations for getting them out of the backstage area?” she asks.

You think. You must be clever because Blitz has already experienced your disappearing act once. 

“Tell them I typically go out to watch the show by the bar, and they should wait for me there. Tell them that drinks are on me,” you whisper, unsure of yourself. 

She nods, and she smiles sympathetically. 

“Good luck,” she says as she walks out. 

Now, all you had to do was wait. Would they buy it? More importantly, would Blitz buy it? You wouldn’t be surprised if he suddenly knocked on your dressing room door. 

What would you even say? Sorry for running? You weren’t. If you would have stayed, you would have been stuck there for the rest of your life. But on the other hand, you would have had your friends. You look down at your locket and open it to look at your young friends before closing it again. You look at yourself in the mirror. No. You wouldn’t have had them. They would have moved on without you. 

You notice that you must have still had some mascara on since there was a barely visible trail going down your cheeks from the few tears that escaped. You go to grab tissues to wipe them off when you get a text from Emmie.

Maybe: Emmie

EMERGENCY! YOU NEED TO LEAVE NOW!

ONLY HAVE MINUTE!

EMMIE BTW!

You stare at your phone in horror, decide not to question her, grab your bag, and immediately take off. You exit your dressing room and beeline to the backdoor exit. You see Emmie standing by, holding the door open. What a saint. You speed walk, and she looks slightly panicked as you reach her.

“No time to explain, just go,” she rushes out.

You didn’t have to be told twice. You nod, and you exit the club. You hear her close the door behind you and take in your surroundings. You are currently in an alleyway, which is slightly terrifying. You turn your head to the right and see one of the bouncers smoking. He watches you, giving you a nod, which you return. You begin walking to your left to get to the front of the building. The line to get in has gone down, but some people are outside. Some of them had too much to drink. 

You begin walking back to your apartment. You should have brought your car tonight. The streets are lit up, but you feel you're being followed. You glance across the street to the reflection in the windows and see someone a couple of feet behind you. Not the prince or Blitz. You feel chills run down your entire body. This couldn’t happen again.

“How did this even happen,” Fizz whispers as he hugs you, trying to calm you down while Blitzo tries his hardest to clean your wounds.

It was late at night, and none of you should have been up. You would get a good yelling at if you were caught being up. 

“I- I- They were following me for a while, and they pushed me when I was in their way,” you cry as you try to stop the body-wracking sobs.  

“Why would you go out by yourself in the first place,” Fizz hugs you tighter as you cringe away from Blitzo’s hands.

“You guys left without me. You said we would go get pizza together after the show.”

You look up at Fizz and Blitzo, who share a look. 

“Papa said you were feeling sick,” Blitzo whispers. 

They both look down at you as you start crying harder—such big emotions for your tiny body. Blitzo moves to put bandages on your cuts. It wasn’t even the fact that you were left behind. It was the day as well. 

“I finally,” you hiccup. “I finally reached ten years like you two, and it’s no fun,” you whisper as you feel yourself calming down again. 

Fizz and Blitzo look at each other again.

“Next time, you won’t be alone, okay,” Blitzo assures you as he takes your hand. 

“We’re sorry,” Fizz says, moving his hands over your eyes. “We still got you something.”

Your hear movement, and your tail moves excitedly, causing Fizz to giggle. You feel someone’s presence before you, and Fizz moves his hands from your eyes. 

“Happy Birthday,” Fizz and Blitzo silently yell. 

In front of you is a pizza in the rough shape of a heart. The pepperonis spell out ‘Happy Brithda.’ You giggle as you notice the misspelling. 

“Blitzo was in charge of the words. I chose the shape,” FIzz explains with a slight blush on his face. 

You take the pizza box from Blitzo before closing it and setting it to the side. Blitzo’s smile drops, and Fizz looks sad. 

“Didn’t you like it,” Blitzo mumbles. 

“Of course, silly. I just needed to put the box down to do this,” you say as you throw yourself at both boys, wrapping your arms around them. You all giggle as you nearly make them fall backward. 

“Alright, alright, what’s your birthday wish,” Blitzo asks excitedly while pushing you back. 

“I can’t say it out loud, or it won’t come true. I heard a sinner say that,” you exclaim as you mime a zipper over your mouth.

“It’s not the same rule for us,” Blitzo argues.  

“How do you know that Blitzo?” Fizz asks.

“Because I know things.”

You and Fizz share a look before looking back at Blitzo, who was waiting expectantly.

“Fine, Blitzo. I wish we’d be friends forever,” you said while pointing your tongue at him. 

“Boring. I would wish for my own tent so I don’t have to share anymore.”

“Blitzo, that’s mean. I think your wish is good,” Fizz beams at you. 

“I think so too,” you whisper as you all continue talking the night away.

Maybe the sinner was right. It was bad luck to say your wishes out loud. You start walking a bit faster when you hear the steps getting closer. You are so close to your apartment, but you know you can’t exactly run towards it for safety reasons. Maybe you are being paranoid, and this stranger is just walking in the same direction that you are. You remember that a coffee shop is open 24/7 across the street from your apartment, and you decide that maybe waiting there would be the wiser option. 

You cross the street since the coffee shop is on the other side and hear the same steps follow. So much for walking in the same direction. You had to guarantee your safety one way or another. You decide to fake a phone call with someone meeting you. 

“Oh,” you exclaim loudly as you continue walking as if you got a call you weren’t expecting. 

“Hey! I’m almost at the coffee shop. Are you there already?” you beam into your phone.

You realize how fucked you would be if you got a real call. 

“Perfect! I’ll be there in a few, love,” you say as you pretend to hang up. 

You strain your ears to hear the footsteps, and you nearly take off in a sprint when you hear them closer than before. Okay, a phone call was a bad idea. You prepare yourself to run when you feel someone roughly grab your hand, jerking you backward into a chest.

“I think you’re going to be late for your little date,” the stranger growls into your ear.

You feel fear creeping up and paralyzing you to the spot. This was definitely a lot worse than getting pushed to the floor by a couple of assholes. 

“Aww, cat got your tongue? It didn’t seem that way back in the club,” he hisses at you.

You raise your eyebrow as you look back at him, and you immediately recognize him as the guy who tipped you and looked at you like a piece of meat when you winked at him. Well, crap. 

“Look, man, I don’t want any trouble,” you plead as he chuckles.

“Oh, that’s perfect.”

You need to find a way to escape. You try to think, but your brain goes empty. This day has been a fucking nightmare. You suddenly feel his filthy hand over your mouth, and he starts dragging you towards a darkened alley. Tears begin to prick your eyes, and you try to yell. 

“Shut the fuck up, you bitch. No one is going to save you,” he growls as he digs his nails into your skin. 

Your muffled sound of pain is not loud enough for anyone to hear. No one is going to save you. You have to save yourself. With all the strength you can muster, you elbow him in the guts, which causes him to loosen his grip on you. You immediately push out of his arms and run across the street. You debate calling out for help, but this is Hell. You are risking putting yourself in more danger if you scream for help. At this point, the club might be the safest place for you. 

You continue running, and you pass your apartment building. You desperately want to run in but know it won’t end well. You are halfway to the club when the stranger tosses himself at you, causing you to fall forward.

“What the fuck,” you yell as you feel your knees scrape roughly on the sidewalk. 

This was familiar. The stranger lands next to you, so you roll away from him before trying to stand. However, he is quick on his feet this time and slams your body into the wall next to you. Your head hits the wall, and your vision blurs. You feel a searing pain in your side as you realize he must have had a knife on him. 

“Mother fucker,” you cry out as you try to stand, but you’re so disoriented. 

You slip down the wall as your tears start falling. You want to run. You want to go home. You feel yourself growing weaker. You almost don’t notice the lack of action coming from your attacker. Maybe he was trying to catch his breath. You should use this moment to run. You try to stand weakly from your spot on the floor when you feel a soft hand on your shoulder. 

“Hold on, darling. You’re badly hurt. It’s okay, you’re safe, but I wouldn’t recommend standing,” you hear from your side. You turn to look at who is beside you, only to be met with Prince Stolas. You watch him look away at something behind you, and his eyes hold anger. You see his mouth moving, but everything is spinning. 

“Prince Stolas,” you weakly beg. “I just want to go home. I’m so tired.”

He looks down at you, and his gaze softens. He brings you closer as he strokes your hair. 

“It’s alright, just stay awake for me,” he whispers. 

“I can’t,” you cry as your eyes get heavier. 

You start seeing black spots in the corner of your eyesight. You’re definitely going to pass out. The last thing you feel before your vision becomes dark is someone grabbing your hand tightly.

Songs mentioned: Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend, sung by Marilyn Monroe, and I Want To Be Evil, sung by Eartha Kitt.

See you all in the next chapter (which may or may not already be written)!

[hurpdurpburps]

Otherside Picnic Manga Yuri Club Special Story 4 English Translation

SPOILER WARNING: This is an expansion of Toriko and Sorawo's first fight in File 4 - Time, Space and a Middle-aged Man in Vol 1 of the novels.

Written by: Miyazawa Iori

Translated by: @hurpdurpburps

-

Chapter 4: Ikebukuro, Cafe Meal For One

I sat there in a daze for a while, staring at all the food sitting on the table.

Taco rice. Chocolate and sour cherry cake. Matcha terrine. A “tart of the day” [1] topped with plenty of raspberries. A large cup of caffè latte. A pot of grape tea and a teacup.

The afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows shone a spotlight on the seat across me. Toriko, who had been sitting there a moment ago, was no longer here. We had gotten into an argument and she’d ended up leaving the cafe.

"Phew…"

Slowly, I straightened up from the back of my chair which I’d been leaning against, then I picked up a spoon and plunged it into the plate of taco rice.

"Hargh…" a sigh of frustration escaped from my lips as I mixed the taco meat, lettuce and tomato.

Our messy conversation had begun just as the food arrived, which led to most of it being left untouched. I glared at the empty seat across me again. Toriko's habit of over-ordering without thinking about the consequences meant that I usually ended up overeating whenever we went out for a meal. I began eating the taco rice with a vengeance, as if to vent my anger at Toriko, who had abandoned her post and ran away.

I recalled my conversation with Toriko as I chewed on lettuce.

Maybe I shouldn't have said anything after all, about Satsuki-san being dead already…

… No, I was sure the topic would’ve come up eventually. Satsuki-san was Toriko’s sole reason for going to the Otherside. Things were bound to derail if they went on like this.

Which was why I didn’t regret saying what I said.

Or at least that was how it should’ve been.

I finished the taco rice in one go, put down my spoon, then rinsed my parched mouth with tea.

Three untouched desserts remained.

Seriously, what the hell is up with her way of ordering? At least eat one of them before you go.

I simply couldn’t bring myself to leave food unfinished on the table after it's been served, and Toriko seemed to find that amusing.

What a nasty piece of work. [2]

The tea I'd ordered was served in a pot, so there was still about two cups’ worth left. I poured myself a refill and started on the matcha terrine. I’d thought terrine was some kind of finely chopped vegetable or meat dish solidified with agar, but what was on the plate was much more chic than I had imagined. When I took a bite, the rich, bittersweet matcha melted in my mouth.

Hmm, this would pair better with coffee than tea…

Toriko's latte caught my eye just as the thought crossed my mind.

Did she touch her drink? [3] She did… But there's almost all of it left, what a waste…

… … … … … … … … [4]

Argh. Whatever. I'll take it.

I reached out, grabbed the cup of latte, and took a sip.

"Tsk."

It was still hot. I checked my lips with the pad of my middle finger for any burns. Then I brought the cup to my lips again [1] and took a cautious sip this time, making sure to blow on it. Just as I expected, the latte paired perfectly with the lingering sweetness in my mouth. It seemed Toriko hadn't added any sugar.

But even now, I was still troubled. I didn't know how to process my feelings.

This might’ve been the first time in my life that I'd gotten into a proper argument with someone in such a manner. And by that, I meant… in the sense that the other party wasn't an enemy. I wouldn't be fretting so much if it’d been an enemy. Or rather, there wouldn't have been an argument. I would’ve either left the place immediately, or thrown hands in a fit of rage.

Another thing that was frustrated me was the fact that I’d ended up getting scared. The Otherside was an important place to me as well, and I didn't mind exploring it with Toriko. Which was why I’d wanted to tell her to be more careful and not just play things by ear, but as I spoke, it'd dawned on me that I was afraid.

Strange. Have I always been this weak?

Here I was, more hesitant that I thought I’d be, in the face of the unknown world that I’d been pining for so long,

Though it’s true that the Otherside is a scary place…

My conversation with Toriko had shed some light on a few things.

The main reason for my reluctance was probably because I wasn’t going to the Otherside simply for exploration’s sake, but rather to look for Satsuki-san, who meant nothing to me.

I would’ve been fine if we were exploring together without any of that unnecessary baggage.

"… Ah."

Noticing that my hand had stopped, I picked up my fork. There was still half of the terrine left, along with an entirely untouched tart and cake. I had a long way to go.

Also, it just occurred to me that I was going to be paying for everything.

That woman…

I'll never forgive her.

My anger rekindling, I stabbed my fork into the terrine with renewed determination.

TL Notes

General note: I adopted a more 'literary' prose style to match the tone of the novels. Hence, the translation in this series will be significantly more liberal than my usual analytical posts. Feel free to ask me anything.

[1] In the official English localisation of the novel, this was mistranslated as "Japanese tart". The translator most likely misread 「本日のタルト」 as 本日 (today) is 日本 (Japan) flipped backwards.

[2] The phrase used here is 意地汚くて悪かったですね。Which is a bit vague as 意地汚い can refer to either mean or gluttonous behaviour, but there is no subject to determine who this adjective is describing... Based on the flow of the monologue I decided that Sorawo complaining about Toriko was more likely than making a self-deprecating joke. Suggestions / alternative interpretations are welcome...

[3] The Japanese expression used in both moments is 口つけ, which directly translates to "putting [one's] mouth on [it]". I dunno about you, but I'm choosing to interpret this as Miyazawa making a deliberate choice to insinuate that Sorawo was (sub?)consciously aware of the implications of her actions here.

[4] Usually I shorten excessive punctuation but Miyazawa specifically included 8 sets of ellipsis here so it seemed appropriate to preserve it lol.

List of Yuri Club's Otherside Picnic Short Stories [my translations]:

1. Shinjuku, The First Meet-Up (新宿、初めての待ち合わせ)

2. Hasshaku-sama Epilogue (八尺様エピローグ)

3. Ochanomizu, The First Afterparty (お茶の水、初めての打ち上げ)

4. Ikebukuro, Cafe Meal For One (池袋、ひとりカフェ飯)

5. Naha, After The Big Job (那覇、大仕事の後)

6. Ishigaki Island, A Dazed Vacation (石垣島、呆然のリゾー��)

7. Mercedes AMG, The Backseat (メルセデスAMG、後部座席)

8. Otherworldly Elevator, On The Way Back (異世界エレベーター、帰路)

9. Kozakura Mansion, Pizza Party (小桜屋敷、ピザパーティー)

10. Ikebukuro Bookstore, Meet Up (池袋の書店、待ち合わせ)

11. Hannou, In The Car From The Station (飯能、駅からの車中)

12. TBD

[everydayzeus]

"It's all Shit, Ted" - Chapter 2

Word Count: 1997

Warnings: Brief descriptions of a panic attack. Self Loathing.

Chapters: Prologue, 1

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ted Lasso and his bloody mind games. His constant back and forth is making Jamie’s head spin. After two days at home spent staring at the ceiling or mindlessly watching random videos on his phone, he gets the call that Ted has changed his mind once again, Richmond wants him back. Forcing himself to get off the couch takes more effort than he expected and he has to lean against the wall as his vision fades. Alright, first food, then shower. One prepackaged nutritionist-approved meal later he hops into a near-scalding shower where he scrubs shampoo against his scalp and doesn't even bother to glance at the conditioner before shutting off the water.  Jamie finds himself staring at his reflection in the mirror in his bedroom, his hair is limp and his under eyes are darker than normal. He thinks about that night, standing around a burning trash can with the team, his team. He knows this won't be easy, he’ll be on thin ice with everyone, one wrong move, and Lasso will kick him to the curb without hesitation just like before. As he looks himself in the eye he makes up his mind, this time around it'll be different, he’ll work himself to the bone if he has to, and he’ll prove to them that he has changed.  

His hands are shaking. Why are his hands shaking? He’s Jamie fuckin’ Tartt, why won’t his hands stop shaking? He goes to twist them into the bottom of his shirt but stops himself, instead, he grips the strap of his bag tightly with both hands. 

Remember Jamie, one of eleven. Don’t fuck it up. 

He has walked into this building hundreds of times, and he never really thought about it too much, but this time as he swings the doors open and walks down the hallway it feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest. He’s waiting for someone to pop out and admit that this was all a joke and obviously, there wasn't room for a self-absorbed prick like him. Yet here he is just a few minutes later, putting his bag down in his new locker in the corner of the room and glancing at the office door. The blinds are lowered and the door is closed but he can see light peeking through the cracks. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose, might as well get this part over with. He raises his fist to knock when the door to the locker room slams open.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He nearly jumps out of his skin as the kid drops the boots he was holding. 

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” the kid quickly leans over to grab the dropped boots. “I didn't mean to scare you, I just wasn't expecting anyone in here so early.”

“Nah, you’re alright mate. You must be the new kitman yeah?” He reaches out his hand. “I’m Jamie” The kid quickly pulls the boots under his arm and shakes Jamie's hand. 

“Will. I mean. Yes. I’m Will, the uh, new kitman, and you’re Jamie Tartt.” Well, at least one person doesn't completely hate his guts. Will gives him a quick smile and begins to walk toward his original destination when the door behind Will slams open again causing both of them to jump.

“Will.” It’s Nate, Jamie doesn’t think he’s ever heard him sound so nasty. “What part of basic organisation do you not understand? Did I not explain the proper way of setting up the boot room?” His eyebrows are raised to his hairline as he glares past Jamie. 

“Yes, I just—” 

“I don’t want to hear it,” Nate interrupts. “Just fix it. Now!” As Will rushes out of the room, Jamie tries to catch his eye but his head is down as the door shuts behind him. Jamie turns back to find Nate’s eyes are now on him, he waits for Nate to turn his anger on him but instead, he just scoffs and walks into the office, leaving the door open behind him. Lasso and Beard greeted Nate as he walked in, there was now a smile on his face, and the disdain from earlier was nowhere to be seen. Ted glanced over Nate’s shoulder and his smile grew as he noticed Jamie hovering at the doorway. 

“Well lookee here, Jamie’s back!” He slides his chair back to stand up as Jamie takes a single step into the office, not quite ready to risk literally overstepping. “It sure is mighty fine to see you, Jamie, wasn’t expecting you here so early, but nonetheless we’re glad to have you back.” Fucking mind games. The same man who sent his ass back to Manchester with no warning, the same man who three nights ago told him there wasn’t a place for him here is standing in front of him with his dumb American grin spewing this crap about how glad he’s back.

“Uh, yeah sure Coach,” Jamie glanced at Beard only to avert his eyes when he met his dead-eyed stare. "Just thought I’d get some extra trainin’ in. Can’t let meself go too much now can I?” 

“Aw well, we won’t keep ya then. The rest of the team’ll be here in an hour for trainin’ so don’t work yourself too hard.” Ted’s voice sounded sincere but Jamie pushed that out of his mind as he gave a wave to the coaches and headed back to his cubby, closing the door behind him. After changing into his kit and popping his airpods in, Jamie headed to the weight room looking into the boot room as he passed, he couldn’t help but think it looked better than he remembered. What was Nate going on about?

***

Well, that apology went about as shit as he expected. As the team walked past him out of the locker room they either refused to look in his direction or glared daggers into his soul. He heaved a sigh, ignoring Ted’s attempt at a smile, and headed out to the pitch. They’ll play and he will have a chance to show them he still has what it takes. What he wasn’t expecting was to get his ass kicked by his own team, sure, tackles are fair game, but usually, they try not to injure each other too badly. That goes out the window when it comes to Jamie, he spends most of the game on his ass, being knocked down by the lads every chance they get and he can’t exactly blame them for it. Sam’s tackle throws him head over heels, slamming his left shoulder into the ground and making his arm buzz. Again, he can’t blame Sam for stepping over him, just like he had done before, so he ignores the tingling going down his arm and forces himself to his feet and back into the game… He is knocked down 90 seconds later before his foot can even touch the ball, and as he jumps back up he can feel his ankle protest, he prays he only rolled it and not anything worse. 

Finally, the coaches let them take a break to head inside for a few minutes. Jamie watches the team head back in and sits on the side, pretending to re-tie his boot until he’s alone. He can feel bruises forming all over his body, and after a quick glance, he can see his right ankle has doubled in size. It must be sprained after all. There’s still a few more hours of training left, and the rest of the team will be back out with the coaches any minute, he’s not sure if he can continue with how sore he is but he doesn't exactly have a choice. He doesn't blame the lads for being rough, he deserves it, and if this is what it takes to stay at Richmond, he can suck it up. Putting his head in his hands, he tries to focus on his breathing and his left leg begins to bounce as his breathing stutters. His hands migrate to his hair, knocking his headband off his head, and begin to tighten on the strands and once again his heart begins to pound against his ribcage. His panic is interrupted by the sound of a door opening at the end of the tunnel and the team heading back to the pitch. Jamie quickly picks up his headband and slides it back into his hair, he can feel a few tears sliding down his cheeks and wipes them away quickly, just managing to pull himself together as the lads reach the pitch and begin stretching once again. None of them so much as glance at him, except for Will who smiles at him as they pass each other. Back to it then.

***

“Congratulations Isaac.” Ted shouts “That smart mouth of yours just earned you and the entire team ten laps! Let's go.” The team moans and begins to argue with their coach, “Guess what? Make it a thousand laps!” He waves them towards the edge of the field and they begin to jog. Jamie can feel his ankle protesting every time it makes contact with the grass but he presses on. He knows what Lasso is doing, despite what everyone seems to think, he isn't stupid. Ted came barreling out onto the pitch, grumbling and setting up a myriad of exhausting drills. He’s trying to get them to focus their anger on him instead of Jamie, a nice idea but Jamie doesn't need Lasso to fight his battles for him. If the team wants to hate him and toss him around a bit during training so be it, the other option is he isn't on the team at all and it’s not like he’s never played a little bruised up before. 

The last few months have not treated Jamie well. Between that stupid reality show and his time spent with no job or friends, he has been neglecting himself. He’s lucky if he can choke down at least one meal a day let alone sleep through the night, which means running ten laps is putting pressure on his chest that he hasn't felt in years. He should be able to run circles around these guys without breaking a sweat but instead, he is trying to hide his heavy breathing just four laps in. By the end, however, they are all doubled over and hyperventilating, a few of them are trying to force water down after expelling their breakfast on the side of the pitch. It would appear that whatever ghost that possessed Ted Lasso today has no pity for them and forces them right back into drills. He spends the next thirty minutes being screamed at for even the smallest mistakes and it has them all ticked off, Isaac looks about a second away from knocking Lasso into the wall but what throws Jamie for a loop is the sad look on Dani’s face. The guy normally has a huge grin permanently glued to his face but instead, he looks like he may burst into tears, and with that, Jamie is done. He knows he’s on thin ice with the coaches, but there's no way this can continue. 

“Alright Coach we get it,” Jamie somehow managed to keep his voice firm despite the anxiety welling up in his chest. “Just stop yellin’ at everyone.”

“Ok. Ok, you know what Tartt?” Lasso questioned, “Practice is cancelled. Hit the showers, all of ya” Lasso waved them off once again and headed back over to Nate and Beard. The team passed by Jamie, a few of them offering a quiet thank you, Dani gave his shoulder a squeeze in gratitude and Jamie had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from crying out in pain. Something was definitely wrong with it after his fall but Jamie ignored it as he made his way inside behind Sam.

[inkyquince]

The Other Miguel (Part 1/2)

characters. Miguel O'Hara (Spiderverse)

content warning. nothing much in this chapter, the next chapter is the nasty one (hint, baby trapping, noncon). Reader has the ability to get pregnant, but its gender neutral, either way, it's implied that spider radiation gave you a hyperfertile hole (so either fpreg or mpreg is able to take place). There's more... Talking about twilight-new-moon type depression, some angst, verbal altercations. There's some puppy love and a light hearted sex scene in here too. That, and the hint of darker intentions. Also you read this and you get to know how much of a nerd inky is about spiderman, there's characters and lore dropped that is very much comic book based.

words. 6k.

Joining the Spider Society was the greatest privilege you had ever been given in your life. You didn’t think they’d ever really accept you, being as new as you were to the position as the friendly neighbourhood spider. Especially when it came with the scrutiny of being the… “Second” one. The next one. The protege. The one mentored for far too short before he died. When Peter died. Freak accident. You were there. You held him as he died. 

And that’s when you met him. Among the collapsed building, the strange villain that glitched and spasmed and seemed to throb through the thin strings of reality, still gearing up to attack you. Something seemed to slice through the air next to you, a gash appearing, swirling and malevolent. At least at the time. Then he walked through. Gait predatory and sure, towering over you, where you were sitting in the dust and rubble, with a body in your arms that struggled to draw breath. 

“We’ll handle it from here.” 

And he did. Miguel liked to handle things his own way. He handled the villain easier than your Peter had. He handled the situation. He handled you. His broad, clawed hand encompassed your entire wrist as he pulled you up onto your feet. Telling you that he’ll contact you later, and congratulating you on the new position. You had a feeling he was being sarcastic. 

He left then. You were left behind with a lingering promise that you weren’t alone. You were also left with the body of your mentor. You begged and begged him to hold on, Just a few more minutes. But he couldn’t. Not for you. Fuck, not for the ambulance, not for his fucking girlfriend, what’s-her-face, Betty, and not for the entire fucking city who needed him more than they needed you. 

“It was a shock.” Betty had sniffed at the podium, his casket in front of her. “I knew he was private about things but-” 

But. But. But. Peter Parker was Spiderman. He had been Spiderman. He was alive. He had been alive. Betty had confided in you that she had begun to think Peter just didn’t like her. Which was dumb. She was like his first proper girlfriend and she was worried that he didn’t like her. She was mulled over breaking up with him and now she was crying because she didn’t know that all that time away, he was fighting for the city. Fucking Betty. Even Jamieson was gruff as he spoke about Peter. 

You didn’t get to say anything about him. You didn’t get to walk there and cry for him, like Betty did. Like MJ did. You didn’t get to take a breather and grip the podium, like his Aunt May. You didn’t get to get choked up and stare ahead, like Jonah. Even Eddie Brock was allowed a few soft words, his eyes looking wet and wide. 

You didn’t get to walk up there and talk about how Peter found you. He helped you. He compared the spider bite he got with yours. You didn’t get to smile and share stories about how he made you watch the Matrix first before talking about the leap of faith you had to take. When he teased you for your suit design, before squawking like a bird when you found his notebooks of his own first designs. 

No. You got to sit at the back, as the little friend Peter made at some sort of function or whatever. Photography, or some sort of hobby class. No one asked. You were just there one day. His little friend. Not the person he saved and spent weekends, nights, lunchtimes with. So, you stood by everyone else as they buried him. You left the third bouquet of flowers on the grave, you were the twelfth person to offer condolences to Aunt May. You were the last to leave. Long after Betty and May, you were still there, sitting at the back, on the bench. Eventually, he came to join you. 

Miguel sat down, towering over you even seated. 

“It had to be like this.” He eventually said, something heavy in his voice, as if he had any idea. 

“Go fuck yourself.” You dragged your sleeve over your face. Not that it did anything. The tear tracks would need to be scrubbed away by bleach. They would have to be dug out of your skin with nails and knives and claws. 

He tensed up, as if struggling to not snap at you. Probably doesn’t get a lot of back talk that wasn’t light hearted teasing. 

“... I’m sorry.” He tried again. 

You wanted to punch him. If he had come earlier, then Peter might still be alive.  Then he’d still be here. Taking pictures of himself as you snorted at his elaborate set ups. Ducking Betty’s questions. Going to Aunt May’s every Sunday. Teaching you. Being with you. 

Your silence seemed to agitate him. Good. 

“I wanted to… Extend an offer to join our group.” 

You repeated the earlier request for him to go fuck himself and stood. Rubbed at the tear stains tattooed onto your face at this point and you walked off. He watched you go. 

A week later, you were in his dark ass office, being shown around at the different villains and Spider people. You even got another look at the villain that took your Peter from you. Shocker. Fucker. Hell, you knew your own universe’s Herman. Nice guy. 

So life went on. 

You help out when you can. You saw Miguel. You went home. You cried. You mourned on and on. The hurt never felt like it lifted. You miss your Peter every day. There were others around, other Peter’s, but they weren’t yours. Even when some recognized you as that “sweet kid”, or something like it, in his voice, in Peter’s voice, it did nothing but make tears prick at your eyes. It was fucking unfair. So many Peter’s and none of them yours. 

Life went on, and you watched it go. The flowers bloomed without him, the days changed without him, and someone sat next to you in photography class… Without him. 

Worst of all, it was him. Your Miguel. No, not yours, but your world’s. Younger. Not as beefy. Leaner. There were no lines curving along his eye, and he was looking at you. Spider Miguel looked at you darkly, as if you were two steps away from pissing him off and he was warning you not to. There was always something glimmering. 

Your Miguel’s eyes crinkled as he shot you a smile. Asked if you had a pen he could use. Uttered a soft thank you as you handed one over. 

It was nice. Seeing him like this. As if it let you in on a secret, on someone he might have been once upon a time. A light hearted guy that was kinda… Whiny. Instead of becoming tense, with his teeth gritting when you teased him, he’d scrunch his nose and he’d fucking whine at you. He’d say he wasn’t, but the way his tone would shift higher when he wheedled you to knock it off. It was kinda cute. Made you want to ask Lyla if the other Miguel had ever been like that. If he ever had to whine at another Spiderperson for pointing at him or something. 

“What’s that smile for?” Your Miguel caught your attention as he idly filled up your kettle. 

“Hm?” 

“That smile. I feel like you’re making fun of me in your head.” He eyed the jar of coffee you bought especially for him. 

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m making fun of your pretentious ass coffee.” 

“Not pretentious.” Miguel eyes you darkly, but there’s something light in them. Of course, there was also that whine tilting at the end of the sentence. Cute. 

“So pretentious.” 

“Is not.” 

You smiled at him. 

“There you go. Making fun of me in your head again.” He muttered. 

You kinda wanted to fuck him. You’d wonder if he’d whine as much in bed as he did staring at your cabinet, with your ensemble of hot drink sachets and bags. 

You shook your head, the back of your neck feeling hot. Don’t be gross, you chided yourself, this was Miguel. A Miguel. You knew two. Sleeping with one will make you look at the other all weird. What if your Miguel fucked really badly and then you’d quietly think about how the other Miguel is a two pump chump through every damn meeting. Worse, if he fucked really good. How were you supposed to concentrate if you knew your gut that he could make you cum three times in a night. 

Glancing up, you caught your Miguel looking at you over the rim of his coffee cup, dark eyes glinting. His lips quirked when you noticed him. As if he knew what you were thinking. Which, of course, he didn’t, at least not all of what you were thinking. No, that would blow his entire fucking brain up. 

His bottom lip cushioned the rim of his cup as he took another sip. His eyes glimmered. Yeah. He at least knew you were thinking about fucking him. At least half as much as he was thinking about fucking you. 

Well, according to the buzzing coming from your back pocket, that would have to wait. 

“Alright. I’ve got to get this. Pour your pretentious coffee into a to-go cup and get out.” You shot him a grin and his dark eyes turned brighter. 

“Oh fuck you.” 

He wished. Then you wished. God, you wished you stayed behind for a fuck as the other Miguel ground you into the dirt beneath his heel. Not literally, but Christ, that man could wear down a boulder into a pebble. 

Other Miguel always seemed to take particular issue with you. Fuck, maybe his idea of getting you to join this damn team finally bit him in the ass. His ambivalence at first might have been ground into flat out dislike, except he did more or less talk to everyone the same way. He just seemed especially short with you at times. 

You did have sympathy for the guy. Overworked, probably underpaid, but then again, that would be him shooting himself in the foot. He ran the entire thing, didn’t he? Underpaid himself… Did you even get paid with this job? How much did you make an hour-

“Are you even listening to me?” Hot breath washed over your ear as Miguel leaned down to growl to you. 

You froze up a bit, real… Well, not deer, but a shitting rat in the driveway as the car reverses… In the tail lights. Yeah, shitting rat in the tail lights. Less dignified than a deer. 

“Yeah. Sure. Sorry. Yeah.” You tilted your head at him, given he wouldn’t be able see the placating grin you shot him.    

“Then what did I just say?” He folded his arms and cocked his hip to the side. 

“Something something, don’t fuck up again or I’ll kick your ass?” 

Miguel took a moment to stare at you with that inscrutable mask but apparently you were more or less on the mark. You already knew what he was going to say the moment you fumbled your attack and instead went tumbling ass over heels to the side. Miguel was forced to divert from his path to grab you at the last moment. Hell, his entire hand could just grab your waist and actually keep a hold of you. Fling you like a ragdoll into the air after a beat of a second, with him towering over you, chest heaving as he stares down at you. Just a second, he was close, and protecting you, and holding you firm, like the first time he did when you met him. Then he threw you. He knew you would easily swing to safety, but still. 

Your hip tingled where his broad, clawed hand had held you tight. Like a brand seared into your skin. You cocked your hip a bit, as if trying to throw off the feeling of his hand, and his angular spider mask eyes seemed to follow the movement. Or he could be looking at the mess around you. Rubble and collapsed building, with the dimension breaking villain, a Goblin maybe, tied up to the side. 

“Could have been hurt.” Miguel muttered, sounding gruff. 

“You mean someone else could have been hurt. A civilian could have been squashed into an innocent-life-pancake.” 

“No.” He snapped, his broad shoulders tensing up further. You could see the fine line of his muscles through the suit. “You.” 

The word hung in the air, just like the day you two first met, and the dust hung in the air, suspended in time. You bloodied, Peter wheezing at your feet, and Miguel watching. The moment broke a second later, but the memory was imprinted in your mind. You could taste that moment in the air, now. 

“You.” Miguel repeated. 

You understood. One Spiderman died on his watch, and he was going to make sure he didn’t have his protege’s death on his conscience too. It was already littered with graves. Tightly packed graveyards had the tendency to flood when it rained. You doubted he would enjoy the bones drifting down his stream of thought while he was busy. 

“... He…” You tried, feeling the words get caught up in your throat, as if cobwebs tied your vocal chords together. “It wasn’t your fault he-” 

“I know.” Miguel snapped at you, suddenly back in your face, fanged teeth bared like an animal. “I didn’t fail Peter.” 

His emphasis on the “I” gave you pause. As if he was not the person in the equation to blame. 

“... You think I-” 

“I don’t think. I don’t think anything of you.” He folded his arms. The words tumbled from his lips, as if he couldn’t wait to get them out, but his eyes blinked as if he was bewildered. 

A part of you hoped he misspoke, that he just meant he didn’t think you were to blame for the situation, but his immediate response, that he didn’t…. Well. It wasn’t like you two were friends. Mentor and student, even if you had started to crave that with him. That leadership that your Peter gave you. No, it was stupid of you to look for the friendship you had with your Miguel, with the other one. The other one that let your Peter die. 

“... Great. Thanks.” You turned away and dusted the dirt off your suit, shoulders hunched.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.” He huffed, shifting his weight as he cocked his hip so the side again. “I’m not to blame for him dying. He was injured when I got there. You, however-” 

“Yeah. Me. I let him die. I hear you.” You hated that your voice sounded brittle. Tight, like you were about to cry. 

“You-” 

“I know!” You finally snapped, your throat getting tighter. “Fucking hell, I get it.” 

Miguel’s shoulders tensed. You kicked a piece of rubble and fiddled with your watch. 

“Let’s just ditch this conversation while we can.” You eventually mumbled. 

“Don’t you dare walk off while I’m talking to you.” Miguel snarled, the rest of his body tensing up. 

You ignored him, as the blinding orange and red lights of the portal slashed through the air next to you, opening up the way back to your own dimension. He took another step towards you, his hand reaching up to slip a thumb underneath his mask. You couldn’t argue with him, not with your Miguel’s face looking at you, tired and aged.  

“Pretty disrespectful.” Goblin agreed, somewhat muffled. 

You started, having completely forgotten your surroundings, and the Green Goblin tied up, snug and tight off to the side. Miguel was just as startled and ripped his hand away from his own mask. With his attention back on the villain, he turned away from you and you slipped away. Back home. 

Empty apartment. No Peter. Just you. You and your phone buzzing with a message, a simple request to come over. Not so alone maybe. 

“-you.” 

“Huh?” 

“... C’mon, don’t make me repeat it.” Your Miguel scowled at you. You’d think he was pissed, if not for the darkening blush dusting his cheekbones. You felt kinda bad, having zoned out while he was talking, the other Miguel’s vast back tense in your mind’s eye. Your Miguel cleared his throat a bit, and shifted on the sofa seat next to you, this time turning to look at you head on.

There was a beat of silence. He sighed. 

“Mierda.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “I like you. There. Get to bare my soul twice now.” 

You blinked. 

“Like friends?” 

“I’m going to leave.” Miguel grumbled, the tips of his ears a deep red at this point. He started to get up but you grabbed the sleeve of his grey jacket. 

“Miguel, wait…” You tried to calm your suddenly racing thoughts, flitting between how much you wanted to tell Miguel that you felt the same, and about the ethics of the situation, that this was an alternate universe version of a man that was your boss and didn’t seem to like you. 

What the fuck would you do? If you found out that other Miguel had found a different universe’s you and started going out with them? How would you feel? Not that your feelings could ever match Miguel’s, you could barely even understand HIM most of the time. 

You chewed on the inside of your cheek for a moment, fingers curling into his soft sleeve. Miguel watched you, getting a bit antsy. You were too lost in your own thoughts to notice the simmering look that entered his eyes, and he started to lean into you. It was like you blinked and suddenly he was face to face with you, his nose gently bumping against yours as his dark eyes looked into yours. You don’t even know what he saw in your expression that gave him the courage. A matching look of barely controlled heat? A somewhat doe eyed blink up at him? Or your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as his hand dragged along the back of the sofa, just so his finger tips could skim yours? 

It didn’t matter. Whatever he saw gave him courage, and barely a second could pass before he leaned in fully, his hand coming up to cup your chin. His fingers were smooth, warm against your skin, gently dragging his thumb over the edge of your jaw. 

It was nice. It was good. It was an innocent kiss, his lips warm and soft against yours. You could feel his breath tickle your cheek as he angled for a deeper kiss. So sweet. It made you remember back to kisses with high school boyfriends, chaste and eager. You sighed into it softly and Miguel leaned in further, a hand slipping to graze his fingers over your knee. 

After a few more blissful seconds you both parted, Miguel’s ears a dark red, but now there was a triumphant glint in his eye as he looked over you, like a hunter casting his eye over his freshly snagged prey. And you? You made your choice. 

“Hey, Miguel?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I might just like you too.” 

Miguel’s shaky exhale of breath came so fast it almost sounded like a moan. His fingers against your face lost their soft grip, instead cupping your jaw with intent as he leaned back in. 

This kiss was not as sweet and innocent as the first one. His tongue immediately slipped between your lips, just to drag greedily over your front teeth. The fingers skimming your knee stopped their idly skating, and instead began to firmly squeeze your upper thigh. You were foolish to believe that your Miguel wasn’t as suffocating in his presence as the other Miguel. The way he greedily pushed against you, his hand abandoning your face to press against the sofa back behind you, chest to chest… He encompassed you. As his teeth teased your bottom lip, biting into it gently and tugging, you could finally see how he could become the man you knew, the Spiderman with the fangs of a beast, and the clawed hands of a predator. It was always lurking, in the way he appraised you, and in the way he was currently tugging at your shirt, a poacher skinning the elusive creature he had spent months stalking from the brush. 

The lines between your Miguel, the soft eyed, gentle man you had met in a class, and the other one, the one with a beast crawling underneath the suit of a hero and the skin of a man, were blurring. Your Miguel was just a few steps away from becoming just like the version that saved your life. 

If your Miguel noticed how hazy you were getting, he said nothing, but the curve of his smile said it all. His ministrations were going straight to your head, as his lips kissed from yours, down your throat, to focus on making marks against your skin. 

His lithe hands dragged over your freshly bared skin, thumb lightly ghosting over your nipple before pressing down on it and rolling the sensitive tissue between two of his fingers. He was skilled, his hands experienced, and his tongue devilish as it tasted the skin that he pinched between his teeth. You didn’t even notice that you were practically malleable in his grasp, your own fingers simply gripping his jacket, head tilted back as your breath came too quickly. You didn’t care, you needed this. You needed to just lay back and let him have his way. Every day you forced yourself to move, to work, to think, and your Miguel seemed more than okay with taking charge over you. 

You didn’t object when he pushed you down on the couch, towering over you as he roughly tugged his own jacket and shirt off, to be thrown and forgotten on the floor. 

“You’ve got a really pretty pair.” Miguel said, almost conversational, as he dragged a hand over your chest, thumb flicking your nipple before dropping a kiss to your sternum. 

“Well, so do you.” You lightly teased back, reaching out to smack his own pair of tits, but he grabbed your wrist, instead pressing your fingers against his mouth, dark eyes trained on yours over them. 

With one hand dragging over your stomach slowly, as if he was stroking over a pet’s belly, he parted his lips to taste your fingers against his tongue, dragging the hot muscle over the length of your digits. His teeth gently grazed the tips. He was also greedily undoing the buttons to your trousers, able to yank the garment down, trapping your thighs together, with just one hand. 

He pressed another open mouthed kiss to your fingers before dropping your hand in favour of restoring his full attention to your trousers. To be fair, you could return the favour. The fucking monster already tenting in his trousers was a sight to behold. There was a small dark patch at the tip. Your stomach flipped when you realised it was precum. This man was desperate to fuck you. He hid it too well, the way he had hungered, but his body was unable to lie in this moment. The way he shifted, the way his lips were slightly parted, the way his tongue dragged over his bottom teeth as he finally got your trousers off and tossed them to the side. Miguel didn’t even seem aware of the rush of breath that escaped him at the sight of your underwear, using one big hand to palm at your crotch greedily, yet almost clumsily. 

He moved to peel down your undergarments, but you slipped your leg up from between his thighs and firmly pressed your foot against his chest. 

“Not so fast.” You teased, but the way his dark eyes shot up to yours, flashing with something fiery, made your throat dry. 

Just like the other Miguel. Didn’t like being interrupted in his mission. Almost made you smile. 

“Your trousers shouldn’t be on right now.” You swallowed and finally continued, shooting him a shaky grin. 

Miguel’s eyes softened again and he snorted, rolling his eyes. He dragged his palms over your hip bones again before straightening up and beginning to undo his belt. 

“Such a little pervert.” He murmured, a lopsided grin tilting at his lips. 

“Hey, just trying to level the playing field.” You quipped back, but you couldn't deny that your eyes were hungering for the sight of your Miguel, completely bare, just for you. 

He deigned to ignore you as he finally wrestled his belt off and glanced around for a bare piece of floor, not yet littered with clothes. He stuck his tongue out a bit as he tossed the offending garment, and managed for it to snag onto the front door handle for only a second before dropping down. 

“Missed.” You smirked. 

“Didn’t. The door handle fumbled the catch.” Miguel eyed the item before continuing to unbutton his trousers. 

“Still counts as a miss I think.” 

“It fucking does not.” 

“Does t-” Your teasing died on your tongue as he yanked his trousers down to his thighs. 

Of course the man didn’t wear underwear. Obviously threw the entire idea of boxers out the window when he made up his mind that today was the day he was going to confess to you. His foresight was better than the other Miguel’s damn hindsight. 

It was unfair how fucking perfect his cock was. Precum slipping down, riding along the veins down to his swollen balls. The head of his cock dark, almost painful looking. It twitched a bit as your knee brushed past the tip, bobbing a bit as Miguel gave up on trying to get his trousers fully off without moving from his knelt position on the sofa. Resigning himself to his own trapped thighs, he playfully swatted your foot away from his chest and went back to peeling down your underwear. 

Despite not being pressed against his skin anymore, you could still feel his breath hitch in his chest. 

“Pretty.” He dragged his hand against your inner thigh and gave it a squeeze. “Real pretty.” 

His thumb greedily stroked along the hot skin, enjoying how you squirmed and sighed as you drifted over the sensitive flesh before arriving at your hole. Just dragging his finger over it had you squirming. But his intense attention on you, vulnerable and open to him, had a thought squirm into your head and burrow down. 

“Hey, Miguel?” You caught his attention again, his soft eyes meeting yours. “... Do you have a condom?” 

Some Spiders became infertile from the radiation poisoning. Others got hyperfertile. One guy laid eggs. You really didn’t want to find out in which category you fell into, not right now. 

His thick eyebrows rose a bit, before twitching. 

“Yeah, sure.” He fussed with his trapped trousers, pulling his wallet out and digging around just to toss a length of wrapped condoms down onto your stomach. 

“Wow.” You snorted softly. 

“What?” 

“You were THAT sure you were going to get lucky after confessing your crush?” You grinned at him, idly picking them up and dangling them. 

“Oh, shut up. I always have them in there.” Miguel rolled his eyes and used the moment to finally kick his trousers all the way off before getting back into position and swiping them from you. 

“You ALWAYS have them with you?” You teasingly pressed your foot against his broad chest again, idly dragging it down to his stomach before counting each individually wrapped condom. “What, you walk around, hoping to get to fuck nine times?” 

Miguel neatly grabbed your ankle, pulling you down more to rest it on his shoulder, dragging his fingers along your shin. Nefarious glint in his eyes. 

“Why are you asking? Jealous?” 

The accusation had you flushing, your cheeks heating up immediately as he sneered in triumph, pressing a kiss to your ankle. 

“Shut up.” You grumbled and Miguel gave a husky laugh in response. 

He considered the matter settled, using his teeth to rip open the foil to one of the condoms. With a low breath, he rolled the material down, over his cock, to the base before tossing the foil, letting it flutter down, onto your shirt. Miguel tossed the rest to the side, in easy reach for when there was inevitably a round two, and shot you another teasing smirk. 

“Happy?” 

“On Cloud 9. Not even God could strike me down now.” 

Miguel rolled his eyes and grabbed your other ankle to place it on his shoulder, pressing down a bit as if to make sure you won’t shift it away. 

“Perfect. Now, let me prep you before God waltzes in through the front door and punishes you for safe sex.” You managed a snort before he grabbed your waist and dragged you against him properly, so your ankles were shifted down his back and your knees rested on his shoulders. 

With you closer, Miguel got to wind his arms around your middle and hoisted your entire body up, so your back was no longer touching the sofa, and you could feel his hot breath rushing over your sensitive hole. You couldn’t even take a moment to swear, when his tongue was on you. 

The feeling of his hot, wet muscle dragging over you shocked your system. It had been so long since you slept with someone, meaningful relationship or one night stand, it didn’t matter. You had been wrapped up in your own personal cloud of sadness, you couldn’t even think of sex. So long without a warm body next to you, and now Miguel’s scorching one was hunched over you, his tongue lapping hungrily over your hole before pressing the tip inside, just enough to make you gasp and arch your back. 

“A-Ah, fuck!” You hissed out between your teeth, arching your back as he lapped at your hole, dipping the tip in every now and then. 

“Relax.” He murmured against you, one of his hands pressing on your stomach, manoeuvring you properly, making sure you couldn’t even dream of wriggling away from him. “Relax for me. Can’t fuck you if you won’t fucking relax.” 

Miguel’s tongue was brutal. Tasting you, wriggling deeper inside of you, one hand on your stomach, squeezing the flesh with the other one groping at your chest. Using his nail to press down on a nipple before using the pad of his thumb to ease the sting of his pinch. He kept swapping his hands, always needing one hand on your chest and the other on your stomach. Lavishing them with attention and relishing the feeling of soft flesh at his mercy. But there was only so much a hot blooded man like him could take, with his cock straining and precum smearing against your back.

Giving your glistening hole one last kiss, he slowly lowered you so your back was flat against the couch again. Miguel took a moment to drink you in fully, a fine sheen of sweat cascading down your body, your hole spread and ready, and most delectably, the blissed out look on your face. 

Cute. As if you had no idea what was coming, what he was dying to do to you. Like this was the highest level of pleasure he was going to bring you to tonight. Miguel leaned down to press a kiss to your stomach before shifting his weight. The cute gasp you made when he nudged his wrapped cockhead against your hole nearly killed him. 

Leaning down, his broad hand slipped around the back of your neck, pulling you in for a soft kiss, turned sharp with his teeth hungrily biting down on your bottom lip, tasting your tongue, your flesh. With your tongue trapped between his teeth, he slowly pressed his cockhead in, pressing close to swallow down any whines you made. The push inside was slow and methodical, drinking in the feeling of your tight, warm hole around his throbbing cock. He had spent too much time thinking about this moment, so much time with his hand cupping his balls, and his tongue trapped between his teeth as he scrolled through your pictures. It was biting him in the ass now, the feeling of his balls aching so badly that he felt like he was about to burst. Miguel refused to fucking cum when he just bottomed out inside of you, like some virgin. 

He stayed inside of you, nibbling and sucking at your lips gently, both desperately buying enough time not to fucking cum at the first thrust, but also drinking in the feeling of getting to taste you like this. Everything he had dreamed of, and more. 

“I think…” You murmured after a moment, Miguel’s kisses trailing down your jaw. “I think we might have to use all nine of those condoms.” 

You felt him snicker against your skin and he slowly pulled out, waiting just a moment before slamming back inside of you, deep enough for you to arch your back. 

“Feeling that ambitious?” He murmured, before dragging his tongue up, over your pulse point. “Might regret that. Gonna be the fucking sorest in the world after all that.” 

“So cocky.” 

“I aim to hit the expectations I set for you.” 

The second sorest person in the world, well, in a world, was second Miguel. Worse, it was an emotional soreness. His body ached from the fight and chest ached from the one that followed just a few minutes after, between you and him. It shouldn’t. He had worse spats just talking with Lyla. But ever since he… He witnessed your Peter’s death, watching you try to get back from it, just… Everything. He’s had… Not exactly a soft spot, for you. More like… Sore spot. Yeah, that worked. Every time he saw you, it twinged. There was an ache, thrumming underneath his suit, bruising his skin. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, right there, between his ribs, as he breathed in. It hurt every time he inhaled around you. It hurt worse when he wasn’t around you. 

And now, today’s fuck up? It itched. It burned, and no amount of distracted rubbing against his covered chest with his palm eased the feeling. It plagued him. So much so that a few hours into the night, he had enough. Kicked his sheets off and hunting for his boxers to slip on. He should be sleeping, but Miguel couldn’t stop thinking about the words you two shared that day. It was the middle of the night over in your dimension, he could slip over, take your annoyed berating at his entrance in the middle of the night, apologise… Then leave again. Some part of him wondered if you’d ask him to stay, to share a cup of something warm at your table, to properly talk, get everything out. It’d be nice. He wasn’t that close to anyone, and maybe… Maybe it would be something of a balm for his sore spot. Something to alleviate the pain and maybe one day it wouldn’t twinge with regret anymore. 

A rare smile flickered on his lips as he pulled on his jacket. Yeah, no downsides. Except… If you had someone over? His fingers stopped skimming over his watch at the thought. No, you wouldn’t… Would you? Nah. You didn’t seem too interested in connecting to other people in that way, which Miguel could relate to. With a shake of his head, he vanquished those pesky thoughts. No, he was just trying to look for a reason not to go to you. 

He wasn’t a coward… Though, perhaps, he should knock on your front door, instead of appearing in your living room. Just in case. What could go wrong?

[a-student-out-of-time]

The only thing that concerns me is if Despair Time will make it past the “Great Fanganronpa Filter.”

If you are unaware of this, I tried explaining it before but Tumblr garbled my asks of it up, it’s a worrying trend I’ve noticed where Chapter 2s tend to be when most fanganronpas get cancelled. If you don’t believe me, think of all the fangans that got cancelled and the Chapter they did it.

Yep it’s Chapter 2. And since this happens so often, I’ve dubbed it the “Great Fanganronpa Filter” based off the Great Filter which is one of the many many theories why we haven’t found life on other planets yet.

Why is it Chapter 2 seems to be like this? Well my theory is most fangan creators have a plan in mind for the Prologue and Chapter 1 and they are in the honeymoon period where everything is peachy and nice. Chapter 2 is when they start trying to introduce their themes and the honeymoon period ends and the reality of the amount of work they have to do sinks in.

Because when compared to other fanworks fanganronpas are extremely challenging to write. Not only do you need a good theme and mysteries in place, you also need to write 5-6 murder cases and on top of that you need at least 16 well thought out and complex characters. That is a lot of work and throw in any irl issues and this is why most creators cannot do it.

And given how exhausted and burns it out DT Dev is, I fear this could lead to a cancellation. I could be wrong and any fangan that goes past Chapter 3 is very likely to finish, but we are at the critical stage.

//I feel inclined to point out that, based on what they've said, it seems more like their biggest issue has been how visceral the push-back was against their story decisions in this chapter before it was even done. So many people were furious with the decision to make Ace the killer before the ending was even out and were straight up quitting DT over it.

//I'm not exempt from this, but I was more disappointed than angry until the ending came out, then that completely rectified my opinions. I admit I still have criticisms, but contrary to what numerous annoying anons have claimed, they have nothing to do with Arei's death. I'm happy she wasn't forgotten by the end.

//The biggest problems I've seen DT experience all really have more to do with how poorly the fandom treats the dev, how entitled and nasty they can get- including harassing the dev and the VAs- and how many really misconstrue the actual content of the story and demonize some characters past the point of rationality.

//If you think I'm exaggerating, TA showed me a youtube comment under one DT video from someone who believed, because Nico tried to kill Ace, they didn't deserve to have anyone use their proper pronouns. Which I understand is not indicative of the entire fanbase, but it's still disgusting and it's the sort of behavior that can't be allowed to go unaddressed.

//We had to wait 17 months for Part 2 to continue. It's already a lot of hard work, you're absolutely right, and it's probably harder because DT is a web series and not in a game engine. It's not going to come faster if all the dev gets is hate and bad behavior.

//You're right that a lot of fangans don't reach Chapter 3 for various reasons, but with something like DT, it needs even more time and more effort. We may not always agree with their story decisions, but they've admitted this is their first big writing project and it's already turned out really well if you ask me.

//The point here is, while the Great Fangan Filter is true, they should also be examined on a case-by-case basis for why they don't all make it. DT's creator is talented and skilled, but those are things that need to be fostered constructively. I sympathize with them greatly because I've faced a lot of pushback myself over the years, but I've always managed to persevere.

//If we want DT continue, and other fangans to continue at that, we need to understand that these are just really passionate people who are doing these for free so we can enjoy them. Not that it means they're above criticism, but that we shouldn't think this status means they're above decency and understanding either.

//Didn't mean to turn this into a rant, but I'm very passionate about this issue because I relate ^^;

[alphacrone]

20 questions game!

thanks for the tag @displayheartcode ~

tagging @eskildit @ghosthorse @injustspring and whomstever else

How many works do you have on AO3?

119! but i also used to have a livejournal and three different ff.net accounts so....there's definitely a lot more floating around out there.............

2. What's your total AO3 words count?

598,242

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Currently only Lockwood & Co., but I used to write a lot of Check, Please! back in the day.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

lol they're all OMGCP. like a handprint on my heart (2,880 kudos), i'll see you with your laughter lines (2 412 kudos), until your father's at the table (1 702), smaller than dust on this map (1 222), Blue-Eyed Jack (1 051)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

yes! i want people to know how much I appreciate their feedback, and i enjoy interacting with the community. if i didn't, i wouldn't publish my fic i would just hoard it for myself haha

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

hmmmmm well i do like to kill main characters for the angst so probably either rage, rage against the dying of the light (lockwood fic written I think right after Whispering Skull came out? god what a cheesy title) or anything for one more hour of light (written for the check please heartbreak 2017 fest)

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

i tend towards happy endings in fic so that's a lot of them lol. maybe like a handprint on my heart?

8. Do you get hate on fics?

i get occassionally rude comments on ao3 itself but never anything really bad. i used to get quite a few nasty anons on here though. some people will REALLY go out of their way to tell you exactly why your writing is cringe.

9. Do you write smut. If so what kind?

i did during my stint in the check, please! fandom but i don't really write it anymore. i would definitely call my past smut messy (in many ways).

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

i like to do crossover AUs -- harry potter aus, hunger games aus, etc. -- but I cannot remember the last time I did a proper crossover. it might've been back in my twilight days, if ever.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i'm aware of! i honestly haven't even heard of fic stealing since the days of ff.net but i guess it's not surprising it's still rampant

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

yes! at least one in russian, i want to say another in mandarin. i would have to go back and find them, and some might be gone.

13. Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

not fully cowritten, but @ghosthorse and i like to plot out stories together. we have a couple original stories half-baked in google docs from when we were living in different states and got REALLY bored at work.

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

my ships change with the tides. i'm a pretty big sucker for locklyle, though, and zimbits. i tend towards rare-pairs and non-canon pairings though.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

every WIP i've ever started lol. but i would like to get back to for it's better to burn out than to fade out of sight (fruits basket) though i doubt i will.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I think I tend to capture the voices of characters decently well. I love writing dialogue and banter.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

EVERYTHING ELSE HAHAHAHAHHA (crying). I've been told my writing is very cringy and I tend to agree. I struggle with plot and pacing, I don't spend enough time on setting or building up to important scenes/moments, I almost never edit before I post, I'm very bad about contradicting myself between chapters or creating plot holes, I overuse adjectives and adverbs and commas and em-dashes and semicolons, I love a run-on sentence, I misuse big words, and I have a tendency to rely too heavily on the same couple of phrases -- e.g. taken aback, testament to, gave them pause, blood ran cold, face grew hot, etc.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I generally don't do it, but if you do, run it by a native speaker first.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

First wrote for Harry Potter or Bartimaeus, first published for Twilight. (Okay not QUITE accurate. I technically published HP fic but on my own shitty HTML website. My dad wouldn't let me join any fic site because I was too young, but he saw it as a great chance to get my to learn HTML. It was called "Visions of Red and Gold" and I posted my shitty fanfiction and mine and my friends' fanart.) This was the image on the home page that you had to select to get into the site:

Yikes!

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

oh this is hard. i'm currently very fond of Jessica Lockwood’s Home for Misfit Ghost Hunters, it's been a delight to work on. but my all-time fave is probably until your father's at the table. it was incredibly cathartic to write.

[nyxneon]

Decided to make a lil banner, because...why not?

Chapter 1, "Subordinate", is here (ao3).

Here's chaper 2, "Friend", of my ficlet. (Ao3)

Pairing: Hisagi/Kira. (Implied past Gin/Kira.)

Rating: M

It was only natural for them to get closer, the betrayed Lieutenants, deceived and abandoned by their Captains.

Kira had always liked Hisagi, since the days at the Academy. He had looked up to him, as an inspiration and a model. Hisagi, on the other hand, felt that he had to look out for Kira and try to help him recover from Ichimaru’s influence and manipulation. He also knew that a lot of people mistrusted Kira, in the immediate aftermath of Aizen’s betrayal. They said that he had been a little too willing to go along with Captain Ichimaru’s obviously nefarious plots. The other Captains had at least pretended to be the good guys, and had basically fooled the whole Gotei 13, but Gin Ichimaru seemed not to care about it. And his Lieutenant had seemed suspiciously fine with it.

Most of all, though, Hisagi suspected that Kira mistrusted himself too.

They started going out for drinks, at first literally dragged by Lieutenant Matsumoto, who claimed sake was the best way to forget their sorrows, at least for a while.

Kira was always the first one to get properly and unmistakably drunk. And then he had the unsettling habit of coming up unprompted with all kinds of inappropriate ramblings, ranging from the bleakest existential angst to the most obscene sexual remarks that could make any 11th Division brute blush. It had been shocking, at first. Anyone could expect the gloomy ranting from a drunk Kira, but the rest had been… surprising and kind of interesting. Hisagi remembered the way Ayasegawa turned towards them one night, after the whole tavern had got an earful of Kira’s most treasured sexual exploits, saying that apparently the cliché of the uptight guys getting up to the kinkiest stuff was true, after all. Kira had at least the discretion to refrain from mentioning who he had done all these things with. Although Hisagi suspected most people within earshot could put two and two together…

By the time Hisagi helped Kira back to his quarters, he had sobered up, or so he claimed before going down on his knees and saying: “Let me suck you off, please.” Only Kira could manage to sound proper and polite while drunk and offering oral sex.

Hisagi was speechless. He couldn’t pretend to be entirely surprised by the turn of events. Somewhere, at the back of his mind a little nasty voice had been providing unsolicited and graphic ideas for the rest of the night.

Kira didn’t really wait for an answer and decided to give a practical demonstration of his skills, while Hisagi leaned against the wall biting his own hand to keep quiet.

After that first time, it turned into a silently accepted routine. To Hisagi’s surprise, it didn’t make things between them weird or strained. Actually, they ended up spending a lot of time together, running their divisions, sparring and sometimes even taking a break in the World of the Living.

The first time they actually fucked, as Kira was riding him, pale skin nearly glowing in the moonlight, Hisagi wondered why the hell they had not started before.

[navigatrixnarrations]

Sharpe’s Beacon, Part Three

Part 1 Part 2

Summary: Harper is protective of Sharpe. Sharpe and Davy start getting to know one another better, with some mild angst thrown in for fun.  Note: This is a shorter chapter than I intended, but a family emergency cut into writing time. The silver lining, such as it is, is that Part 4 is outlined and partially written.

Warnings: Mentions of violence; Davy and Sharpe use a nasty word for French people, because English soldiers during the Napoleonic Wars are like that. 

Word Count: 1470

 The men gradually wander off. Davy sits by the remnants of their cookfire, cleaning her rifle in the gathering dusk. This is one of her favorite parts of soldiering, sitting by the fire, sharing tales with her fellows. It reminds her of her childhood, before her parents died, when sitting ‘round the campfire to share news, songs, and stories was a nightly event.

 Harper looms over her, and she climbs to her feet. “Sergeant.”

 “How are we to play this, Lieutenant?”

 “For appearance’s sake, I’m a Rifleman. Call me Davy, at least for now.”

 Harper’s heavy brows crease in thought, considering this.

 “I know it’s an unusual situation. I’ll stand sentry with the rest of the Chosen Men; I’ll volunteer to.”

 Harper still looks uneasy. At last, he says “Don’t hurt him.”

 Davy feels her own brows crease in confusion. “Hurt who?”

 Harper points his chin toward Sharpe’s tent. “Sharpe. I’ll not see him hurt, I won’t.”

 It’s a gut-punch, the reminder that her own squad is dead. That the man she cared most about is dead. “I plan to see us all come through this unharmed, or as close as possible.” Her jaw tightens. “Sergeant.”

 Harper’s shoulders jut forward. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

 Davy bristles. He isn’t insinuating that she’d get more men killed for her own ends, no. Equally ridiculous, he seems to be suggesting that she’s some manner of wanton heartbreaker. As though a man as sublimely beautiful as Sharpe would ever give her, scarred and sinewy from over a decade as a soldier, a second glance. From what rumours she’s heard of him, his tastes run to noblewomen and courtesans, not penniless orphans with gunsmoke on their faces and calluses on their hands. Still, she can’t blame Harper for being protective of his Major. Until yesterday, she’d been lucky enough to have a stalwart Sergeant of her own, but she dodged one way and he dodged the other, and the French with their damnable mortars blew his head clean off. Her heart twists. Death had been instantaneous for Stevens. Small mercies. He deserved at least a proper burial, and she couldn’t even give him that. And so she levels with Harper. “Sharpe told me about his wife. I’d not willingly inflict more pain on him, nor on any of you.”

 Harper, she notes, clocked the momentary belligerence leaving her stance, and his own posture relaxes. “He’s a good officer, Davy, and a good man.”

 “He must be, to have earned such loyalty.”

 Harper’s face creases into a smile. She passed whatever test he’d set her.

 ~*~

 Sharpe is bone-weary, yet sleep refuses to come. He lays back on his narrow cot and stares at the canvas roof of his tent, listening to the nighttime sounds of camp. Davy pitched her tent next to his. If she’s wakeful as well, there’s no sign of it, no lantern lit within, no movement. He’d seen Harper speaking with her, both of them tense, though their voices were both too low to carry. At least Harper didn’t feel a need to brawl with her, the way he’d done with Sharpe, though given the dirty way she fought those Frogs who ambushed them, he’s not sure on which of them he’d lay odds. From Harper’s loose stride back to the tent he kept with Ramona and little Patrick, he seemed easier in his mind. Perhaps they were simply discussing how to handle their respective roles. Davy went into her tent, closed the flap, and that was that.

 He wonders if she unplaited her hair to ready herself for sleep, if she unwrapped the cloth binding her breasts, if she…these thoughts are completely inappropriate, he chides himself. Harper, damn the man, was right: he’s been lonely, achingly so, since Teresa died. It’s been a whirlwind of agony with the occasional fling thrown in for distraction. Flings that make him feel even worse after. Hollowed out. Even lonelier than before. But Davy is nothing like any of those women. She’s a soldier, a good one, not some soft, sheltered lady from a well-to-do family nor a pampered courtesan. She’s neither fragile nor condescending. She understands this life in ways that none of his lovers other than Teresa ever could. Perhaps she can overlook him being poor, with no resources outside the army.

 His fingers drift to the spot on his forearm where she’d laid her hand. Sharpe had meant to give her comfort by telling her he knew about loss, by telling her about Teresa, and Davy’s instinct was to comfort him instead. Kind, despite the harshness of this life. He already rinsed the blood from his hair; he shouldn’t be imagining other scenarios in which she might run her fingers through it. He shouldn’t be drifting off imagining Davy beside him.

 ~*~

 Davy wakes before dawn. She’s unused to not immediately being on the move, being more accustomed as she is to working behind enemy lines, but to find the bastard betraying English intelligence to the French, she’ll have to spend some time around camp. And so she lights the fire and boils the kettle. A cup of tea in the quiet is a rare pleasure.

 Her new superior is an early riser too, it would seem. “Morning, Sir.” She presses a tin mug of tea into his hands, and she’s rewarded with a flash of those hooded green eyes, a quick smile that makes gentle his aggressively masculine features. Is he mocking her for falling into such a womanly role as making the tea? No, that’s just the effect on his expression of the scar beneath his eye. His smile seems genuine.

 “Usually Harper does this.”

 “I sent him to the infirmary with his wife and son. Poor little lad woke with an earache and he was burning up with fever.” She sips her tea to cover her nerves. “I hope I didn’t overstep, Sir. I don’t know a thing about kids, but Harper was worried and I thought one of the doctors should have a look.”

 “I’d have done the same thing.” His smile turns a bit rueful, a bit self-deprecating. “I don’t know a thing about kids either, and I’ve got a daughter.” There’s pride in the way he says he has a daughter, pride, and love, and sadness.

 He sees her swallow her questions so as not to wound him with her curiosity. “She’s being raised by my wife’s family, and they don’t want a bastard-born Englishman around. They can give her a better life than I can; I wasn’t much of a father before my wife died.” There’s no self-pity in his voice, no rancour. Davy isn’t sure how to respond, so she simply asks “What’s your daughter’s name?”

 “Antonia.” There it is again, that look of pride, of love. Her heart aches for him, losing his wife and being separated from his child. She covers his hand in hers and squeezes it gently. Sharpe is relieved that she knows there is nothing to say, that she understands the trust it took for him to tell her this. He turns his hand over to thread his fingers through hers, palm against palm. There’s no pity in Davy’s large eyes, thank whatever god may be, but there is compassion: she understands grief. Aye, he’s going sweet on her, and he has no desire to fight it.

 “It’s rare,” she finally says, “to hear a man speak of his wife and daughter with such affection. I’m sorry for your loss.”

 His hand wraps more firmly around hers. “And I’m sorry for yours.”

 She stares into her mug and frowns. “It wasn’t like that.”

 “Doesn’t make it easy, though.”

 She lifts her eyes back to his and nods, her chest rising with her inhale inside her well-worn green jacket, and he feels his pulse quicken. Then, abrupt as can be, her hand pulls away from his, her eyes moving over his shoulder, and she might as well have punched Sharpe in the gut. He turns his head to see Hagman and Perkins making their groggy way toward them. No wonder she reacted as she did. It wouldn’t do for the men to see her holding hands with him, especially with them thinking she’s enlisted. And he’s certain Hagman took note of how close he’s standing to Davy.

 Davy is well-practiced at plausible deniability and creating distractions. “Here.” She draws a knife, sharp and well cared-for, from somewhere inside her jacket and passes it to Sharpe hilt-first. “I’ve got others.”

 He tucks it into his boot, one brow raised nearly to his hairline. “How many knives have you got on you, Davy?”

 “Seven at the moment, Sir.” At his expression of mixed amusement and alarm, she adds “I had nine, but one broke off in a Frog when they ambushed us.”

On to Part 4

[meadowmines]

WIP: The Bit, chapter 3

[the morning after the end of chapter 2, in which we begin the tale of Goro Majima and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Mental Health Day with Nightmare Sagawa being awful (things do get better later but fuck this day in particular)]

It’s dark and there’s nothing to look at and Majima is staring out the car window anyway, because it’s that or look at the hand on his knee. 

They must be on the way to Kamurocho. That’s the only drive like this he can remember, with the same dark road and the same dark window and the same dark cloud of impending doom hanging over his head and the same hand on his knee. That’s all it is, when it’s just a hand and not a fist. That’s all it’s ever been. All it’ll ever be. Just one casual hand on his knee, or his shoulder, or his back. But the message is always clear. 

I could, it says. I could do anything I want to you. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

The car hits a bump. Majima tries to use that to his advantage, to jerk his knee out from under that hand without looking like he’s doing it on purpose. It doesn’t work. It never does.

“Easy there, killer.” There’s a little chuckle, like he thinks this is funny. He probably does. “Got a long way to go. Might as well get comfy.”

“You want me to drive a while?” Majima asks.

“You think I was born yesterday?” Still no real heat in that, but that doesn’t mean shit. “You oughta be excited. I sure am. Can’t wait to meet your new boy toy.”

This isn’t how it happened. Majima knows this is wrong and this isn’t how it happened, but there’s nothing he can do about it. These things go on rails and all he can do is hope he wakes up before it gets ugly. “Whatever you’re gonna do to him--”

“Relax,” that chummy voice goes on. “I’m not gonna touch him. Even if I wasn’t hanging out at the bottom of the Sotenbori with a bullet in my head, I wouldn’t have to.”

Just for a second Majima thinks he smells something familiar, murky water and soggy garbage and dead fish. It’s gone almost before he notices it, but now he really doesn’t want to look.

“Ever notice how you only catch feelings for two kinds of people? Ones like Makoto--”

“You keep her name out of your goddamn mouth.”

Oh, that gets a good hearty laugh. “Fine. The kind you’re bad for, how ‘bout that. And the other...” That hand on his knee slides up and in, just a little, just an inch or so, but more than enough to get the point across and Majima shuts his eye tight and chokes back the urge to do all the things he knows are just going to make this worse, nightmare or no. “The kind that’s bad for you.” That hand slides back down to his knee proper and gives him a little pat. “That sweet little piece of Dojima ass would be the best thing that’s ever happened to you. You know what that leaves. And personally? I can't wait to see it--”

“Nii-san?” 

Majima snaps awake at the sound of Kiryu’s voice and thinks, for a moment, this is actually worse. 

There’s a whole crew of nasty little goblins banging away at the inside of his skull with crowbars and baseball bats and sledgehammers. There’s a dried-up sponge where his tongue used to be. Every joint in his body feels like it’s full of crushed glass. And just for a hot second, he can still feel that hand on his knee.

“Fuck,” he wheezes. 

“Bad dream?” 

“Uh huh.” Right. Shitty 1K. Early morning. A little humid from the shower. Smells like soap and drugstore aftershave. Majima catches his breath, or at least enough of it to handwave this off as no big deal. “Wha’ happen?”

"You came stumbling in about four in the morning,” Kiryu says. “Then you threw up in the sink and passed out on the table." 

Okay. It's coming back now. Some of it, at least. Mainly, the part where he stopped at the first bar he saw between the video club and the apartment. He doesn't remember why, exactly, this sounded like a good idea at the time. Something about making good and sure his dick stayed down for the rest of the night, he thinks. 

"Sounds about right," Majima groans. There's a soft little snort. He guesses he can't blame Kiryu for getting a sensible chuckle or two out of this. 

"I put some rice in the thing for you," Kiryu goes on. He doesn't sound mad or anything. Just mildly concerned and maybe a little amused and yeah, that's fair. “And... yeah. I read the instructions this time.”

"How'd I get..." He flaps a clumsy hand to indicate the futon he's sprawled on.

Kiryu just shrugs and mumbles something like don't stress about it as he goes out the door.

“Hey,” Majima calls after him. “You rinsed that shit, right?”

There’s no answer. The door shuts. It takes way too long for Majima to realize how he got into bed like a normal human person, and Kiryu is long gone by the time he does and all he can do about it is lie there and seethe about how goddamn stupid he is. 

It's enough to ruin a guy's whole day, you know?

[chibimyumi]

Hi, I hope you're doing well and staying healthy. I've read your post about how Elizabeth attacking ciel is sexism. What about Sebastian getting bully by Frances? Frances is a noblewoman grabbing a servant's hair in front of other people. And fans (including me) are like: oh! What a lioness! Even the devil himself is terrified of her! what if it was the other way around? The idea of a nobleman grabbing a governess's hair calling her nasty and indecent makes me uncomfortable and even angry.

【Response to post: Sexism against men and Kuro Sexist jokes】

Dear Anon,

I’m doing well, thank you very much. I hope you too ^^

Your question is a very good one, and it really had me thinking for a while! I myself admittedly do laugh very hard at Sebastian getting a hard time from Frances. But indeed, like you said, it is still bullying, and bullying is bad. In this post-feminist era, we have been so trained to see women bullying men as ‘funny’ or ‘empowering’, but women getting bullied as unambiguously bad instinctively, that sometimes we forget to check our double standards.

Feelings are feelings, we can’t help what we feel. But how come then that to many of us, Frances bullying Sebas is so funny, but Lizzie almost murdering O!Ciel and Nina bullying men not? This post is merely an attempt to explain this feeling for myself too, but hopefully we can all reach SOME explanation together as well???

Let us first look at in what ways Frances has been making Sebastian’s life hard. From all the interactions we have of these two so far, her main points of criticism seem to be his hair and his lack of professionalism.

Slovenly Hair

Sebastian’s hair is something we’ve gotten quite used to now after more than14 years. In Sebastian’s time however, his hair really would have been the height of impropriety for his profession.

Just like I translated O!Ciel’s looks to 2020 standards, I quickly translated Sebas’ hair to 2020 standards as well. Very clean, innit?! Very professional, innit?!

Even without the translation however, if we look at the worst of wigs from the Kuromyus, we can also see how Sebastian’s hair would be atrocious in any formal setting. Look past the fact that these actors are supposed to represent a drawn character. Just imagine being in a fancy restaurant and encountering a dead-spider feather duster on your waiter’s head.... erm....???

Something that is objectively bad on Frances’ end however, is that chapter 14 is not the first time that Frances has seen his ‘slovenly hair’. If his hair really is so unacceptable, as an authority figure Frances has the right to say something about it. However, as it seems, until this point she has never communicated at all (no, “hinting” is not the same as communicating), so Sebas had no way of knowing what he “did wrong”. She immediately grabbed for Sebastian’s hair without mercy, probably because her crept up frustration got the better of her. This is indeed entirely too harsh for a first time call-out, and entirely on Frances.

Much later in the story Frances criticises and touches Sebastian’s hair again, and this time in public while he was infiltrating as a teacher. Here Frances is even publically humiliating Sebastian in front of his students and other high ranking guests.

Especially when you keep in mind that Frances is a noblewoman and Sebas a mere servant, Frances is indeed abusing her power against a servant who cannot strike back at all.

This is indeed power play. However, though it does not justify anything, in the very least her criticism does have ground; Sebas’ hair is by all measures inadequate for any professional setting. Just be nicer about it, Frances.

Useless Butler

Now, let us look at the other reason Frances disapproves of Sebas. Sebastian is a very competent butler according to most people. To Frances however, this claim is empty. When she arrives, parts of the estate have been destroyed and something very literally exploded in her presence.

Even though Sebas is not the person actively causing the explosion or the destruction, as the senior servant of the household, it is literally his job to manage the other servants. So yes, here too, the fact that things can be destroyed in the household because he either hired inadequate staff or because he mismanages his household, DOES INDEED prove he fails at his job. As the aunt of O!Ciel who cares about her nephew AND her paternal home, Frances is in her right to be concerned and call Sebastian out for NOT doing his job.

In chapter 14, Sebastian’s schedule was all over the place and kept changing the plans for Frances. It is no wonder that she would be quite annoyed and doubt Sebastian’s adequateness. When you know your 13 year old nephew’s household is in the hands of somebody so apparently inadequate, anybody would probably be concerned. However annoyed though, Frances does not overstep any boundaries about this specific issue; she is simply supremely unimpressed. Fair enough?

Compliments where due

Something that is quite interesting though, is that despite disapproving of Sebastian, Frances does also know when to compliment him when due. After Sebastian has saved Lizzie’s life without boasting, Frances recognised how the butler does indeed have some value and the correct attitude as a servant.

She says “though you look indecent what you say is true,” and it is yet another jab at the demon’s expense. But here she is also showing that she is willing to acknowledge somebody’s achievements, looking past appearances.

Before Frances leaves, Frances jabs at Sebas a bit again, but she really is not doing anything dickish this time. Instead of making Sebas think she’s simply chosen him as target to be a prick towards, she concretely states why she doubts his professionalism. She mentions the smashed tea set, bare garden and burnt food; mistakes that are objectively unacceptable. Instead of yelling at him, she actually gives him constructive criticism. So here too, Frances is quite stern, but her grounds are solid.

In the Campania arc Sebas shows up again with the hair Frances disapproved of. Frances clearly wants to do something about it again because in her eyes, the butler simply won’t learn. But given the circumstances and Sebastian’s proven usefulness, Frances actually does shelve her agenda. Just like above, here too Frances shows that she is capable of acknowledging somebody despite their looks.

Later when the zombies dramatically outnumbered the living humans, Frances sends Sebas - who had come to her aid - back to her daughter and nephew. By sending Sebas back, Frances also shows that she in fact trusts this ‘slovenly butler’ with the lives of two children she loves deeply. Sebastian protests, but Frances immediately replies: “don’t you trust our ability as swordsmen?” Here what Frances is functionally saying is: “I trust you with your abilities, so you can trust us back.”

In short, Frances is harsh and doing power-play against a servant, but she can shelve her agenda, and does acknowledge Sebas when due.

Contrast to Nina and Lizzie

So now we have seen how Frances bullies Sebastian, and her motivation behind all her points of harshness. As we have seen, Frances’ only points of criticisms are concrete ones; Sebastian’s lack of professionalism in looks, and his lack of professionalism in management. She goes about them too harshly, but all points are legit criticisms, and something Sebas CAN and probably SHOULD work to improve.

Nina

This is in stark contrast with the way Nina bullies her victims. As far as we have seen, none of Nina’s victims have offended her in any way, nor does she ever give any concrete criticism. She has just decided that because men are men, they don’t deserve proper treatment. Even when providing clothes for men is literally part her job, she refuses to provide the ‘professional service’ she is being paid for. And because she is AN EMANCIPATED LESBIAN!!!!!!! #FEMINISM, it’s FINE (!?!?!?)

Unlike with Frances’ criticism of Sebastian’s inadequate hairdo and managing, being ‘men’ is not something any of these men can do anything about (except Sebas, but Nina doesn’t know). Bullying is always wrong, always low. But it’s EVEN lower when you bully somebody for who they are, and not what they do wrong. What does not help is that Nina seems to only be capable of treating people nicely if they happen to be sexuality-wise compatible with her... but if you are, you’ll get molested. What is wrong with you, Nina????

Yes, Frances is saying: “you are a man, and yet your fringe is so long”. So on the most surface level, it is a woman saying this to a man because he is a man. As we later get to know Frances a bit better though, she would be harsh to anybody who looks slovenly. She just has different hairstyles which she considers appropriate for men and women respectively. Had Sebas been a woman and his hair was the ‘feminine equivalent of slovenly’, Frances would most likely have acted exactly the same. So in this sense, unlike with the jokes using Nina and Lizzie, it is not purely: “Haha, girl bullies boii, lol.”

Something else that is terrible is that what Nina does seems to be systemic. Logically it checks out too; it can’t be that only since the past few weeks she’s decided only women and young boys deserve her kind treatment. For all we know, Nina’s been treating the male Phantomhive staff like this for 2-3 years. Sebastian’s comment about Nina thoroughly ignoring men again with “as always” further supports this theory.

With Frances in contrast, in chapter 14 (so barely a year ago in story time), Sebas seemed to have no clue whatsoever about Frances’ terrors. Sebas announced Frances’ arrival to his master and is very calm about it. It was not until O!Ciel alerted Sebas about his aunt that anybody even guessed what hurricane was headed for them. As such, we can safely conclude that Sebas had only been subjected to Frances’ criticism a couple of times, unlike having had to bear with Nina for years.

Yes, Frances still should have communicated, but I already addressed the details above. Still, the point remains that even though Frances is overstepping boundaries and abusing her power, her criticisms are at least not empty.

Lizzie

Lizzie too just like Nina, had zero grounds for showing that much aggression. She did not give anybody the benefit of the doubt, did not communicate, or even so much as give O!Ciel any chance to explain the situation. So far O!Ciel has given Lizzie no reason to think he’d cheat on her, and yet she hurled so much aggression at him Sebas had to intervene.

Still, Lizzie is marginally better than Nina because she is not systemically bullying O!Ciel. It is a one time event. However, this one makes me more annoyed with Yana because it means that even Yana had to use this stale, stale trope of “LOVE TRIANGLE COMEDYYYY”. Have I ever mentioned how MUCH I hate love triangles and jealousy???

Conclusion

Feeling wise, the most important reason for why Sebas being bullied by Frances is funny is probably because of who Sebas is. Sebas is otherwise an all-powerful demon, but to see him inventing colours to shit at Frances - a human Sebas could crush between his fingertips like a cookie - is just hilarious. Had Sebas been a human though, I would not have laughed so hard personally.

Rationally however, Frances is doing power play against a servant who cannot talk back, so it is still bullying, and bullying is inexcusable.The only bit of “right” Frances has is that she does not seem to be systemically bullying Sebastian, and that her criticisms have some ground.

So if Nina and Lizzie’s behaviours played for jokes are like... a -7 and -9 respectively, Frances’ at least scores a -2 for me?

(Yes, as we’re talking about bullying anyway, I just have to make a jab at Vincent.)

Afterword

Something not really related to why “Frances:Bad”, “Nina-Lizzie:Worse”, but I do wish to mention is Yana’s improved drawing skills. I have no proof, but I think it MIGHT have been where this Frances-joke originated.

Yana’s time in the more traditional mindset of manga-worldview really showed, especially at the far beginning. Besides, she was still in the process of finding a way to draw handsome men. In the more traditional mindset of the early 2000s, handsome men were just not supposed to have slicked back hair - “that was reserved for old men and nasty dudes!!” Yana’s discomfort with drawing handsome men with slicked back hair was clearly visible in Sebastian’s early appearances, and making the ‘”hair, back!!! says old-fashioned lady” was potentially even a way of Yana to laugh at herself.

I don’t know who else is old like me and grew up with 80s to early 00s manga, but at the time, hair for handsome men was a BIG deal. In that world ‘slicked back hair’ just carried a certain laughability about it; a “rule of not-cool”. To me at least at the time this ‘laughability’ really resonated with me, and Yana probably also trusted this same ‘unspoken rule’ to resonate with her audiences.

Much later though, Yana clearly grew more comfortable and  maybe even fond of slicked back hairstyles as she confidently chose to portray Sebas as ‘appealing’ while wearing his hair in the style Yana previously disliked.

Again, I have no proof, but I can’t help but think that if Kuro had started 10 years later, the running gag revolving Frances might look altogether different.

What do you guys think? ^^ Cheers, and stay healthy!

Character analysis Nina Hopkins

Character analysis Vincent Phantomhive

Sexism against men and Kuro’s sexist jokes

MASTERPOST Gender in Kuroshitsuji

MASTERPOST Analyses & Info

[lady-of-the-lotus]

“I’m trying,” says Xue Yang bitterly. “I’m trying, and it’s still not good enough for you.”

Xiao Xingchen sinks his fingers into the dirt. Crawling over his cheek is a beetle, moving over his lips, trailing along the curve of his nose.

Xue Yang watches the beetle’s process, the muscles in his jaw growing tighter and tighter, fixating on the insect as it nestles in the dip of Xingchen’s left eye.

“I’m trying,” he repeats, and Xingchen thinks of the tongues, of one particularly small tongue at the end of the row, and hears himself saying, “You’re not trying very hard.”

Xuexiao - E - AO3! - Read on Tumblr - Ch. 1 - Ch. 2 - Ch. 3

Chapter 4 - Rot

Xingchen wakes to Xue Yang bending over him.

He shoves him away, scrambling backward. “Get off me!”

Xue Yang settles back against a tree. “Don’t do that again. What if I hadn’t caught you?”

Xiao Xingchen manages to roll over onto his side, getting a better look at Xue Yang. Xue Yang is stripped down to his inner robe, face streaked with blood, crimson liquid seeping through the green silk at his side.

He grins weakly down at Xiao Xingchen, teeth red. “One of those fuckers got me,” he says ruefully. “Guess I shouldn’t have shown off so low on blood.”

“You didn’t have to kill them all. And you killed some townspeople too, I saw you…”

Xue Yang’s head droops forward, as if he’s too weak to keep it upright. He doesn’t seem to have heard Xingchen at all. “Lend me a hand, will you?”

“I can’t move…”

Xue Yang groans. “Figures.” He slides over, sprawling over in the grass beside Xiao Xingchen, and lies still.

Xingchen rolls over as much as he can and laps at the blood running from the gash in Xue Yang's side. He drinks until he’s strong enough to sit up. Xue Yang is still unconscious, lying in the exact position he fell in.

With clumsy hands Xingchen cuts bandages from an extra robe in the qiankun pouch. He washes his wounds as best he can with the small amount of water left in the canteen and binds them. Finds a medicinal pellet in Xue Yang’s sleeve, makes him swallow it, places a rolled-up robe under his head.

He sits up with Xue Yang all night. He’s surprised when Xue Yang opens his eyes at dawn and begins to struggle to his feet.

“Well, that was fun,” he says. He’s on his hands and knees, as if too weak to get all the way up. “But let’s not do that again for a while, shall we?”

“How do you feel?”

“I’m fine. I’m always fine. I'll go find some water."

“Don’t strain yourself.”

Xue Yang eyes Xiao Xingchen narrowly. “Is that supposed to be sarcasm?”

“Am I ever sarcastic?” Xiao Xingchen lies down. It’s obvious they won’t be traveling today.

“Let me put down a blanket for you.”

Xiao Xingchen shakes his head, inhaling the dirt beneath his cheek. There’s a blowfly crawling across his temple, just visible out of the corner of his eye. “I prefer this.”

“But—”

Xiao Xingchen closes his eyes.

“I won’t be able to give you blood for a few days. Or anything else.”

Xiao Xingchen nods slightly.

Xue Yang shoos the fly off Xingchen’s face. “I’ll wake you up as soon as I can.”

Xiao Xingchen could get up and bring Xue Yang the water, if he wanted to, but it’s been too many days without yang and he has no will to stir. Besides, he likes lying on the ground and doesn't want to get up. A dead tree frog lies a foot from his face, and he spends the morning watching a trail of ants swarm the bloated carcass, mesmerized by the endless black dots as they march back and forth through the grass.

He’s asleep when Xue Yang returns, and wakes late the next day. Xue Yang is sleeping beside him, face white, chest barely rising and falling.

It’s because of me, Xiao Xingchen thinks groggily. Because of me he’s too weak to heal, to seal his meridians and stop his bleeding…

What if Xue Yang were to die...?

Oddly fitting, rotting side-by-side for eternity…

But he reaches out, lays a cold hand on Xue Yang’s throat. Either he hadn't taken enough blood the day before to return him to full strength, or the blood isn't working as well as it used to, becuase his fingers are too numb to sense a pulse.

Xue Yang stirs at his touch. “You need something, daozhang?” he murmurs.

Xiao Xingchen closes his eyes again.

It’s morning when he next opens them. He’s lying on his stomach, one arm extended, something sharp digging into his back.

Pain in his ear, something tearing at his hand.

A snapping sound.

Rustling of bushes, feet thudding on the forest floor, the whistle of a blade cleaving the air.

“Get off him! I’ll fucking kill you—”

A bird-like squawk, a whirl of black feathers. The smell of blood. Something cradling his head, touching his ear, his hand. The sound of muffled cursing.

Xiao Xingchen drifts off.

It’s night when he next wakes. Xue Yang is on top of him, planting a soft kiss on his forehead as he slides out from between Xue Yang’s legs. They’re surrounded by a wall of reeds and grasses, the air heavy and sweet, a stork winging its way past the moon.

“Welcome back,” he says. “Here.” He lifts Xiao Xingchen into his lap, holding his arm to this mouth. Xiao Xingchen dutifully sucks blood from his veins, sensation flowing back into his limp body.

There’s relief on Xue Yang’s face as he lays him back down on a blanket covering the damp ground.

Xiao Xingchen sits up. His limbs feel oddly… loose at the joints. He looks around, keeping his left eye closed. A half-dozen yellow talismans are pinned to his robes.

“Every little bit helps,” says Xue Yang, reaching for them. “Or doesn’t help, in your case. Here, I’ll—”

Xiao Xingchen reaches up to brush him away, and freezes.

The little finger on his right hand is missing.

Nothing but a bandage-wrapped stump.

Raising his gloved hand, Xue Yang grins at him. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We match now.”

Xiao Xingchen stares at his missing finger. “How...how long was I asleep?”

“Two days.”

Xingchen glances up at the moon, shining brightly down on their little clearing in the tall grasses. “There’s a full moon. It was waxing last I saw it. And—is this—we were in a forest—”

“Three days.”

“Three weeks.”

Xue Yang folds his arms defensively. “I woke you up as soon as I could. I almost thought you wouldn’t wake at all, I’ve been trying for days—”

“Were are we?” Xingchen's sounds strange, and he reaches up to touch his left ear as he speaks. There’s nothing there, just a soft, slippery ridge of missing flesh.

“Fine, so we flew a mile or two or hundred or whatever.”

Xingchen looks around. Laid out on a second blanket are rows of—

“Are those tongues?” he asks. His voice is strangely mild, emotions still deadened. Slowly he begins removing the talismans from his clothes.

Smiling to himself, Xue Yang settles back, tossing his knife in the air. “Would you like to see them?”

“Why…why are they all laid out like that?” And dozens of small animals, too. Water rats, birds, frogs.

Xue Yang nudges one of the talismans with his bare foot. There’s one pinned to the smallest of the tongues, and dozens more lining the neat rows of tongues and swamp creatures. “Do you want to hear?” he asks, and dives into an explanation without waiting for a response. He’s always animated, but he comes to life as he explains the talismans he’s created, how he devised them, and his current experiments.

“…keep them fresh, and they are fresh, except…”

Xiao Xingchen only half-hears him. He’s too busy watching him, the moonlight lighting up his far-too-pretty-for-what-he-is face, and thinking, not for the first time, about Xue Yang’s immense wasted potential.

What could Xue Yang have accomplished had he only been taught properly? Been guided down the proper path? Given a solid cultivation foundation and the opportunity to channel his genius and creativity for good?

What could he still accomplish?

Xue Yang is explaining how he fixed Xiao Xingchen’s shattered soul and channeled his qi into Xingchen’s corpse. He’s using his hands to speak, drawing shining red symbols in his own made-up alphabet as he explains what, even from the limited amount Xiao Xingchen absorbs, sounds brilliantly innovative.

Perhaps it was a good thing he had never had a formal education. From what Xingchen has seen since leaving the mountain, education, after a certain point, is just another way to enforce a set way of thinking, inhibiting free thought and encasing minds in narrow little boxes. A traditional cultivator couldn’t have accomplished half of what Xue Yang had achieved.

Xue Yang has stopped talking. He seems to be waiting for a response.

“That’s very impressive,” says Xiao Xingchen, vastly understating things.

“For a demonic cultivator.”

“For anyone.”

Xue Yang’s grin nearly wraps around his head, then winks out like a snuffed candle. “Doesn’t matter. I failed.”

“They look fresh to me.” Xiao Xingchen takes a closer look. “There are extra tongues.”

“I killed more than just the bandits, remember? You were all bent out of shape about it.”

“Do you want to pick a fight?”

“If you’re disgusted by the tongues, just say so.” There’s no trace of animation left on Xue Yang’s face. If anything, there’s an odd dead look in his eye as he sits cross-legged across from Xiao Xingchen and stares unblinkingly at him. “Don’t pretend to be interested.”

“I am interested.”

He doesn’t understand why Xue Yang throws this knife suddenly, spearing one of the tongues, or understand the sudden nasty change in Xue Yang’s tone. “Know who that one belonged to? That old man with the fucking eggplants!”

Xiao Xingchen shakes his head. “You needed it for your experiments.”

“How do you know he wasn’t alive when I took it?”

“I…I suppose I don’t.”

“Then stop faking it!” Xue Yang snaps. Xingchen wonders how long this has been building inside him and what spurred it to finally erupt. “Stop faking it all just because you need me right now! I knew you were a hypocrite, but I thought you were at least an honest hypocrite—”

“I’m not—”

“Liar! Were all those things you said in the inn just lies too?”

Xiao Xingchen can’t remember exactly what he said. Something about not wanting him to be hurt—

Xue Yang produces another knife from his sleeve. He seems more comfortable with a blade in his hand. “I was an idiot for believing you, I knew it at the time!”

Xiao Xingchen looks at the extra tongues. Xue Yang follows his eyes.

“I saved them all from those bandits, so if a few people got in my way, what of it! They would have been dead without me, I saved them, their lives belonged to me—”

Xiao Xingchen looks down at his hand, runs a hand over the bandage covering his finger stump. “I saved your life; does your life belong to me?”

“Had you killed me back then, think of all the lives you could have saved! For all we know that old man with those stupid eggplants would have gone crazy and poisoned half the town; they should be thanking me for killing him!”

Shaking his head, Xiao Xingchen pushes aside the blanket so he’s lying on the swampy ground and breathes in deeply. All he wants to do is sleep. Shut out Xue Yang’s voice. Sink back into oblivion, nestled in the tall sweet-scented grasses…

“I’m trying,” says Xue Yang bitterly. “I’m trying, and it’s still not good enough for you.”

Xiao Xingchen sinks his fingers into the dirt. Crawling over his cheek is a beetle, moving over his lips, trailing along the curve of his nose.

Xue Yang watches the beetle’s process, the muscles in his jaw growing tighter and tighter, fixating on the insect as it nestles in the dip of Xingchen’s left eye.

“I’m trying,” he repeats, and Xingchen thinks of the tongues, of one particularly small tongue at the end of the row, and hears himself saying, “You’re not trying very hard.”

Xue Yang hunches forward, a curtain of hair covering his face, digging his nails deep into his scalp and pulling his hair hard enough to hurt. He looks up through the curtain with red-rimmed eyes that almost glow in the eerie orange moonlight.

“Fuck if I care,” he says. “I’m going to go get some water.”

“Xue Yang—”

“Oh, just shut up! I should have left you unconscious!”

Xiao Xingchen turns over on his back. Better this way. More of his body touching the earth. “Are you coming back? Or are you going to leave me here to rot?”

“You’ll rot whether I leave you here or not—”

And suddenly Jiangzai is out, and Xue Yang is hacking at the tall grasses around them. He lays waste to the walls of reeds before falling to his knees, supporting himself with Jiangzai, teeth bared, breathing heavily.

Xiao Xingchen watches him without moving or flinching.

“Well?” he says as Xue Yang stabs the earth with his knife, raking a deep gash in the moss-covered soil. “Are you coming back?”

“Right, you need me!” Xue Yang stabs the ground, slashing it again and again with his blade as if trying to make it bleed. “How do you like it, daozhang, being bound to someone you hate?”

“I don’t hate you,” Xiao Xingchen says quietly. “Do you hate me?”

“I wish you had stayed dead, I wish I had never brought you back—”

All Xingchen can feel is pity. Xue Yang sees it in his eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that!” he snaps. “You say you don’t hate me? Fucking liar!”

“I don’t hate you,” Xiao Xingchen repeats. “I don’t know why, but I don’t.”

“How about this, then? I killed your precious A-Qing!”

“I know,” Xiao Xingchen says quietly.

Xue Yang drops his knife. “You know?”

“I saw her name on the talisman. I guess you were telling the truth about needing a name, and actually learned how to write it..."

“And you don’t…you don’t care?”

Xiao Xingchen closes his eyes. “Of course I care.”

Xue Yang grabs his wrist, shaking him, forcing him to look him in the face. “And,” he grins, “whose eyes do you think are in your head?”

A chill creeps down Xingchen’s spine as he reaches up to touch his eye.

Xue Yang is laughing now, a manic laugh he doesn’t seem to be able to control. “Just giving you back what was yours! I killed him before you woke up. Tossed him in the same ditch I tossed A-Qing. I’d say he wasn’t yet cold when you opened your eyes, but he’d been cold ever since you stabbed him through the heart!”

And suddenly Xingchen needs to feel. Needs to be choked by the shock, the hate, the grief.

A-Qing and Song Lan deserve it.

He wrenches his wrist away from Xue Yang. He’s weak, but Xue Yang’s fingers slide easily off his slippery, waxy skin. He shoves Xue Yang on his back and straddles him, the mere sight of Xue Yang lying beneath him in just a thin inner robe activating his muscle memory, his cock springing to life.

“Ah, there’s the daozhang I remember! Want to go over to the marsh? You can half-drown me again—”

“Shut up shut up shut up—” Roughly, he thrusts into Xue Yang as Xue Yang continues to giggle, not bothering to take it slow. Tears slip down his face as he thrusts into him, splashes of blood on Xue Yang's chest. "Just shut up—”

“Ah, see, this is what I’ve been missing all these weeks—”

“Stop talking, for once in your life, just stop talking—”

“I’ll do you one better: I’ll do my hair up all stupid, and you can pretend I’m Song Lan.” Xue Yang laughs harder, as if this is funny, body shaking beneath Xiao Xingchen's. “You ever fuck him like you’re fucking me?”

“Be quiet!” Xiao Xingchen thrusts harder, trying to shut him up, but Xue Yang only arches his back flirtatiously, one leg raised onto Xiao Xingchen’s shoulder, a demented smile plastered over his face.

“Was that a yes, daozhang?”

He closes his hand around Xue Yang’s throat. “Stop talking about him, and stop calling me that!”

“You fuck him in your fancy free inns? Pin him down and pour filth in his lily-white ear?”

“Stop talking—”

Xue Yang pries his fingers from his throat. “Were you the one to corrupt him, or did he corrupt you first? You seduced him, didn’t you? Just look at you, you’re like a dog in heat, there’s no way you didn’t make up some perverted priest ritual just to get your di—”

Xiao Xingchen slaps him across the face.

Xue Yang reaches one hand up to splay over Xiao Xingchen’s chest. “Did Song Lan like that? Did you choke him too? Bite his lip so hard you could suck his life out through it?”

“I never so much as touched him!”

“Too bad. He wasn’t a bad fuck for a corpse; was probably a lot more fun when he was alive—though knowing him, he was just as boring when he had a tongue—”

Xiao Xingchen freezes, then turns Xue Yang onto his stomach and fucks him from behind. He doesn’t want to see his grinning face, doesn’t want to pretend this is anything other than a necessary interaction, two animals rutting in a swamp out of necessity—

Xue Yang is still laughing.

Xingchen pulls Xue Yang’s robe down over his shoulders down to his waist. Digs his nails into Xue Yang’s back, leaves long scratches in his scarred skin. Several blackened fingernails come off in Xue Yang’s flesh, and his fingers feel loose where Xue Yang pried them off his throat. He spreads his purple-red hands over Xue Yang’s wiry muscles, pressing him down into the damp, fetid soil.

“Disgusting—”

Xue Yang stops laughing and Xingchen comes abruptly, the sigil on his chest glowing brighter as he fills Xue Yang. He pulls out with a shamefully wet sound, bloody cum oozing out of Xue Yang and dripping to the grass.

Xue Yang rolls over onto his back and Xiao Xingchen, suddenly weak with exertion and the flood of new emotion, falls forward on his hands, framing Xue Yang.

As his palms hit the earth, his head snaps forward slightly, and suddenly one eye goes dark.

Xue Yang scrambles out from under him. A look of shock has frozen his face. He cups his hands, staring.

An eyeball lies nestled in his palms.

Xingchen reaches up to touch his left eye.

It’s empty.

Xue Yang’s mouth opens and closes a few times. “I—I should have sewn it in better—”

Xiao Xingchen pulls his robe closed and holds out his hand.

Xue Yang drops the eyeball into his cupped palm.

“What’s happening to me?” Xingchen asks quietly.

His emotions are in full bloom, but somehow instead of anger, or horror, or shock, all he feels is resignation over what's happening to him and regret over what he'd just done. Knowingly done, unlike that time in the stream...

Silence, just the rustle of the tall grasses in the warm evening breeze, a distant splashing in the nearby marsh, a trill of a night bird.

“I think you already know,” says Xue Yang finally. Slowly he reaches into his sleeve, pulls out a long white bandage, and ties it at an angle over Xingchen’s eye socket.

“Now you look almost like your old self again,” he says.

Xiao Xingchen holds him at arm’s length, swallowing hard. “Xue Yang, how—how long have you known?”

“Rather roguish, your new look. I like it.”

“Xue Yang…”

“I can try sewing the eye back in, if you’d like, but I don’t think it would take…”

“Is that what you were doing these past few weeks? Trying to stop me from rotting?”

Xue Yang winces at the word “rot.” He squirms away from Xiao Xingchen, sitting facing the swamp. Xiao Xingchen wonders if Xue Yang chose this spot to hide the smell of his decaying flesh.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. Xiao Xingchen can hardly hear him. “Didn’t work, clearly…”

He lies down, his back to Xingchen.

Xingchen lays beside him, resting a hand on his arm, his eyeball still enclosed in his other hand. The skin over his knuckles is very thin, with small gas bubbles rising under the delicate bones along the backs of his hands and soft purple lines running up towards his wrist. Blackened lesions mottle his skin, eating down to the bone in some places, and his remaining nails are brownish gray.

He starts to remove his hand, but Xue Yang reaches up, closing his gloved hand around it.

“I didn’t mean to kill A-Qing,” he says, so low that Xingchen has to strain to hear him. “She just bled out so quickly after I cut her tongue out—she was trying to bring cultivators—I tried using a talisman, but it…it clotted the wrong blood…”

“There’s no excuse you could possibly give to make me forgive you for what you did.”

“I turned her into a sentient fierce corpse.” Xue Yang turns, mangled hand still on Xiao Xingchen’s rotting one, and looks at him. “She’s out there somewhere. That was the truth. Practically alive…”

Xiao Xingchen closes his remaining eye. He hates how that does make a slight difference. “Did you truly abuse Zichen?”

“I cut his eyes and tongue out, if that's what you mean.”

“You know it’s not.”

Xue Yang wrinkles his nose, gazing up at the scraps of cloud drifting past the full moon. “I never laid a finger on him. He’s not my type.”

“And was that the only reason?”

“What are you getting at?”

Xiao Xingchen is suddenly tired. So very, very tired. Dealing with Xue Yang is like dealing with a pet fox who keeps killing his chickens. “You understood what that man in Tanzhou did to his wife was wrong,” he says, "at least on some instinctive level. Unless you were simply guessing at how I’d feel on the subject and using it to excuse yourself.”

“Right, wrong, it’s all the sa—”

“Don’t start that again. You knew it was wrong despite the fact that many people wouldn’t think so. You—”

“I’ve killed children.”

“I know.”

“I’ve made you kill children.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t care?”

“Of course I care.”

“Then say something better than ‘I know’!”

“There is nothing I can possibly say to that that would express how I feel.”

“Why is killing children worse than killing any other person?” Xue Yang bursts out. “They would have died in another fifty years, at most. So I sped it along a little!”

“Is that truly how you feel?”

“Why isn’t it how you feel? If you think about it, early death is a mercy! And once they’re dead, it makes no difference to them.”

“Their family—”

“I killed the rest of the family, too. The Changs, all dead. Villagers, all dead. Nobody to mourn them. And it’s not like I would have cared either way, but it wasn’t like I went around killing random children for fun.”

“I never said you did.”

“Entire families, gone, just like that!” Xue Yang snaps his fingers. “As if they never existed, so what difference does any of it make? Some of them should be thanking me. Dying of gout at sixty is worse than being killed quickly at twenty.”

"Gout isn't fatal."

“Missing the point, as usual. So they would have died of something peasanty like plague or gangrene. Really, dead is dead. I don’t understand why you care. I really don’t.” Xue Yang looks legitimately puzzled. “It doesn't affect you. It barely affects them.”

Xiao Xingchen shakes his head. Xue Yang is gazing at him intently, eyes burning with frustration, as if he doesn’t understand why Xingchen is just lying there calmly and listening to his poison.

“You knew what that man did to his wife was wrong,” Xingchen repeats, “meaning you do have something in you that points in the right direction, telling you right from wrong, something not reliant on law or social customs. And you simply choose to ignore it.”

“You think too highly of me. A first.”

“ ‘Highly’! Meaning you know it’s something desirable!”

“I’m just using your own shitty rhetoric. Are we done? I’m tired…” Xue Yang looks up at the moon again, filling his lungs with the fetid swamp air that, to Xingchen, smells sweet.

“No. Xue Yang, why did you hold onto A-Qing’s tongue all this time, and turn her into a sentient fierce corpse?”

“Because I—” He stops. “Getting sneaky, daozhang, throwing in these questions.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you what?”

Xingchen shakes his head. “Never mind. Why did you spend six years trying to bring me back, and the past three weeks camped out here on a swamp trying to stop me from rotting?”

“Stop saying ‘rot’!”

“Xue Yang, I am trying to understand you.”

Xue Yang is playing with the long tendrils of hair framing his face, not so much as looking in Xiao Xingchen’s direction. “Are we done?”

“Why did you leave Song Lan alone?”

“I didn’t leave him alone. Are you deaf? I cut out his tongue—”

“Xue Yang.”

“Well, he wasn’t you!” Xue Yang explodes. “Is that what you want to hear? You were coming back soon, I just…” I only wanted you. Perhaps even, I couldn’t betray you like that. “I kill people. I don’t hurt them. It’s not like I enjoyed hurting A-Qing.”

Xiao Xingchen can’t let such a blatant lie slip past. “You enjoy killing people. I have every reason to believe you enjoy hurting them as well.”

“That’s not what I meant by that.”

Xiao Xingchen wonders what Xue Yang went through while living on the streets, to make someone like him not want to “hurt” people in that way. He can imagine some of it. Xue Yang had practically told him, that night in the inn...

There’s an odd quivery look on Xue Yang’s face. As if realizing this, he gets to his feet. “Are we done? I’m thirsty.”

“Xue Yang…”

Xue Yang takes a step, wincing. “Be more careful next time, won’t you? I’ll be walking with a limp for a week.”

“Don’t do that, don’t turn everything into a joke or vulgarism—”

Xue Yang flies off through the grass.

Xingchen picks up A-Qing’s tongue and follows him. His legs are weak, but he pushes his way through the chest-high grasses, finding Xue Yang sitting on the edge of the water, arms wrapped around his knees.

Xingchen kneels at the edge of the water and buries his eye and A-Qing’s tongue in the soft sweet-smelling mud. It’s a beautiful warm night, the dazzling gold moonlight glimmering off the wide stretch of marshland. Dark clumps of tall, graceful reeds grow from the rippling water, with the hushed sounds of the night creatures carrying clearly over the water. The song of the crickets, the chirping of frogs. A stork strides through the water not a stone’s-throw away, gleaming white in the moonlight, and stars speckle the deep purple sky, brilliant and clear, here at the edge of the earth.

Xingchen imagines stepping into the shining gold water, letting it close over his head, envelope him, embrace him.

One more dead rotting thing…

“Does it hurt?” Xue Yang’s voice breaks the stillness. “Your eye.”

Xiao Xingchen touches the blindfold. He wonders if it’s the same one he used to wear, kept by Xue Yang all these years. “No.”

“Maggots hurt.” Xue Yang glances down at his gloved hand. “I know.”

Xiao Xingchen swallows. “I’m fine.”

“And your hand and ear?”

“Not much.”

“I shouldn’t have left you alone. Those vultures—”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Xue Yang rests his chin on his knees. He looks more worn-out than Xiao Xingchen has ever seen him, as if the gamut of the night’s emotions have wrung him out and left him empty. “I don’t know how to fix you,” he confesses, his voice almost inaudible.

Xiao Xingchen sits down beside him. He doesn’t think those words have ever passed Xue Yang’s lips before.

“I tried,” says Xue Yang. “I really tried…"

Xingchen looks down at his black-mottled hands. Even in the moonlight he can detect their soft, half-slimy, half-waxy coat.

As he watches, a fly lands on his hand, and another, and another. Or perhaps they had been there all along. He can hear the buzzing of the nearby insect life feasting on the swamp’s rot, drawing life from death, and he’s suddenly reminded of the fungus growing on the dead fox in the Coffin House courtyard, the writhing white maggots making a home in its carcass.

Creating something new.

“You’ve carried this too long on your own,” he says. “Let me take it from here.”

Xue Yang tilts his head slightly, eyeing Xingchen with dark-circled eyes. “You know how to stop the rot?”

“No. But Shifu will.” And she might be able to fix you, too, he wants to add, but doesn’t dare.

“And you know how to find her mountain again?”

“Promise me you won’t bring up your past grievances with her when you meet.”

“I promise, I promise!...” Xue Yang rests his head on Xingchen’s shoulder. He looks very young, small and almost fragile. “I promise, Xingchen…”

It’s the first time Xue Yang has used his proper name since he’s woken. It’s strangely nice to hear. Xingchen, the person, decaying as he is, instead of Xiao Xingchen, the daozhang.

They sit in the stillness, watching the golden moonlight reflected in the water as it moves along with the moon. Listening to the splash of the frogs, the rustle of grass, the call of the night birds.

Surrounded by the sweet scent of rot.

Xue Yang falls asleep with his head in Xingchen’s lap. Xingchen trails his withered purple fingers through his hair, along his jaw, letting his hand rest on his head.

He does not sleep.

He’s at home here, among the decay…

One more dead rotting thing.

They leave the swamp the next morning and travel across the open countryside. Xingchen is too weak to fly, but Xue Yang holds him when he can despite his own growing weakness. Xingchen needs more and more blood just to stay upright, needs Xue Yang’s yang every night, every morning, needs to rid himself of tainted yin, just to keep his mind half clear.

One night he forgets where he is, rises, wanders off, trips, falls.

“Xingchen!” Xue Yang helps him to his feet. “Be careful—”

Xiao Xingchen’s hand comes off in his.

The same hand Xue Yang had pulled him by back in the bandit village what seems like a lifetime ago, he remembers the next morning, after Xue Yang pulls out of him and settles back on Xingchen’s legs.

Xue Yang is staring down at him with a hazy look in his eye.

“I shouldn’t have grabbed on your hand like that,” he says, reaching out to touch Xiao Xingchen’s wrist stump. He'd bandaged it during the night, but dark brown juices have seeped into the still-damp material, staining it with sweet-smelling liquid. "I keep pulling at your hand—”

Xingchen closes his eyes. “It’s not your fault, and I can’t feel anything…”

Xue Yang presses his forehead to Xingchen’s. Xingchen’s skin is still slippery to the touch, still covered in rancid black spots where the reddened flesh has necrotized. “We’ll be there soon,” he says, “won’t we?”

Xingchen nods.

Xue Yang kisses him. He doesn’t seem to notice the blowfly eggs hatching in Xingchen’s mouth, the rice-like maggots living in his empty eye socket, the beetles in his nostrils, the flies that swarm his body and lay eggs on his oozing wrist stump.

Flies that settle on Xue Yang’s own face, attracted by the slimy rot rubbed off on his skin.

It’s late afternoon when they arrive at Baoshan Sanren’s mountain, days later, weeks later.

Xue Yang collapses to his knees at the foot of the mountain. He’s been too weak to fly these past few days, with deep purple circles under his sunken eyes and white hands that tremble as he fixes Xiao Xingchen’s hair every morning.

“Is that it?” Xue Yang asks, looking up at the mountain. “It’s nice and all, but—”

“Wait.” It’s grown harder and harder to speak, Xingchen’s tongue swelling in his mouth, his throat muscles growing soft and loose under the hot sun. “Here.” He fumbles with his white jade hairpiece, but can’t get it out. "I—this—”

Silently Xue Yang gets to his feet, slides the hairpiece out of Xingchen’s topknot, sets it in Xingchen’s hand. Xingchen covers his hand with his fingers before he can remove it, nodding at him.

“Magic hairpiece? I like it. I used to have a gold one that—”

“Shh.”

Xiao Xingchen nods again, stepping forward on legs held together with gauze. Holding the hairpiece, they step through the invisible barrier.

All around them the mountain bursts into sudden radiance, the tall spirit gathering grasses around them sparkling with gold light. The air is thick with curling mists, catching the golden radiance and diffusing it, surrounding them with a warm yellow glow.

Xue Yang opens his mouth as if it speak, then closes it.

“Come,” says Xingchen.

They walk up the mountain, wrapped in the glowing mists.

Just a little farther now to the spot he remembers so well.

A pretty forest glade, gently shaded from the sun. Tall spirit-gathering sparkling with gold light, soft green moss carpeting the bank of a small stream, tiny white mushrooms growing on the fallen logs. Slender trees bent to trail their leaves in the water, the air sweet and warm and lightly perfumed.

Just a little longer...

He stops when they reach the stream that flows up the mountain, flows up past that secluded forest glade.

He turns and touches Xue Yang’s arm, doing his best to articulate. “One last time, before things are set right.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to…”

“I want to.” Xingchen slips his robes off as they settle down in the grass. Xue Yang kisses him, heedless of the fact that his lower lip has been half eaten away by insects, showing a row of teeth in shriveled gums. The kiss is long and slow and deep, his hand slipping down between Xingchen’s legs.

Xingchen gently presses him down into the shining gold grass and lowers himself onto Xue Yang. They don’t need oil, his insides smooth and slippery with decay.

“Soon,” he says. “Soon...”

Xue Yang gazes up at him, one hand on his arm, breathing in deeply, as if he wants to fix Xingchen’s scent in his mind, remember the way he looks now, rotting and desiccated with maggots in his mouth, his eyes, nestling in the soft skin under his cock and under his arms. The tip of his nose eaten away, the bones of his jaw visible through the decomposing flesh.

Xingchen leans forward, sinks his teeth into the curve of Xue Yang's throat, and drinks.

The sigils on their chests glow brighter as he rocks forward, the blue and red spirit light mixing with the golden radiance around them.

He drinks deeply, taking more blood than he has in weeks, filling his throat with Xue Yang’s lifeblood as Xue Yang comes, filling him with his yang. He remains locked in place on top of Xue Yang, arms around him, lapping at the blood trickling from his throat. Xue Yang’s hand is buried in his loose hair, lips brushing the rotting purple skin of his throat, breath warm on his ear stump,

He can feel Xue Yang now, more clearly than he ever has till now. Feel his desperation, his fear, his desire to be—consumed—

He drinks until Xue Yang’s hand falls limply to the grass, his pulse slowing. Drinks until he knows Xue Yang is too weak to follow him.

He can drink him to death, if he wishes. Absorb all of him, the good, the bad. Take him into himself...

"Xingchen." Xue Yang moves slightly beneath him. “Take it all. Find her…”

Xingchen raises his head. He rises, draping his robes over the shivering Xue Yang.

“Don’t leave me here!” Xue Yang grasps at him, bloodless fingers clutching at his arms, crushing the small white mushrooms sprouting along Xingchen’s limbs. “Take me with you,” he says weakly. His eyes are bleary and sunken, lips gray. “I can carry you to Baoshan Sanren—”

“Shhh.” Xingchen kneels beside him, raises him up. It’s like maneuvering a large limp doll. “I’ll always be on the mountain.”

For the first time since he’s woken, he fixes Xue Yang’s hair, braiding the sides, looping it around the topknot, using his mouth as a second hand. He slides his white jade hairpiece into the topknot and lays Xue Yang back in the grass.

“She’ll find you, now,” he says. “She’ll know I sent you.”

Xue Yang tries to move, can’t. “Don’t—don’t—”

“Let her help you.” Xingchen kisses his forehead softly, leaving a smear of red on the ivory. “Don’t forget me, Chengmei.”

“Xingchen...I…” Xue Yang makes one last struggle, but the exertion is too much. His eyes slip shut and he lies stretched out in the spirit gathering grass, covered in Xingchen’s white robes, the jade hairpiece gleaming gold.

Xiao Xingchen removes the jade flute from the qiankun pouch and, naked, drifts along the stream, up the mountain, towards the glen. He’s feeling weightless, almost as if he’s floating. The light around him grows brighter as he nears the clearing, surrounding him, filling him as his legs give out and he collapses to the earth.

He lies on the mossy bank, green and black flute resting beside him, sunlight streaming through the trees. The wildflowers are in bloom all around him, their perfume mixing with the sweet smell of decay. The damp of the soil, the song of the trees, the deep roots spreading through the earth, all surround him. Flowers he’ll soon nourish, trees he will slowly feed, fungus he’ll one day nurture.

Consuming him slowly.

The earth hums beneath him, around him. Embracing him, enveloping him.

Welcoming him home.

The breeze has picked up, rippling through the grasses, rustling the trees, caressing his bare skin, soft and warm.

In the distance, he thinks he hears a familiar voice on the wind, calling his name.

Xingchen! Xingchen…

Smiling to himself, Xingchen sinks deeper into the earth.

*

The inherent eroticism of losing an eyeball atop your lover

*

liked it? AO3...or even spare a reblog?

[robininthelabyrinth]

Three Gates - on ao3 (for content warnings check Ao3) - on tumblr: pt 1, pt 2, pt 3

- Chapter 4 -

Meng Yao learned all the same things as Nie Mingjue, clearly being groomed to for position as Nie Mingjue’s counselor along with several of Nie Mingjue’s cousins – a great honor, he supposed.

Still, it meant that he knew what a Discussion Conference was, and knew to fear its imminent arrival.

Everything was going so well, after all.

His mother was dressing properly now, settling slowly into acting like a proper lady no matter that she was only a concubine – she’d even started to warm up to Nie Huaisang, taking the small child into her arms and singing to him the way she used to sing to Meng Yao, spoiling him a little out of what Meng Yao suspected might even be guilt at her initial plans for him, finally recognizing what Meng Yao had long ago realized: that he was good luck, not bad. A person, her son, and not merely a tool.  

Best of all, Meng Yao’s little schemes on her behalf seemed to have been rather effective: Lao Nie had grown quite fond of buying Meng Shi little trinkets whenever he returned home from travel, burnished combs from Gusu, golden earrings from Lanling, even a hairpiece adorned with the Yunmeng pearls that Meng Yao knew she’d always envied.  Her courtyard did not go unvisited, and the household begrudgingly unbent enough to let her give orders, the servants and retainers expressing through their service, through their willingness to overlook her origins, their appreciation of how her skillful playing and witty conversation helped ease the worst strains of Lao Nie’s vicious temper.

But now the time had come for the Discussion Conference to be held at Qinghe.

It was one thing when the conferences were held elsewhere, like the one in Yunping that had brought Nie Mingjue into Meng Yao’s life and Lao Nie into Meng Shi’s, because in those situations Meng Shi could be safely left behind at home – but not in Qinghe.

For the first time, Meng Yao almost wished that Lao Nie did not like his mother so much. After all, as a general rule, concubines were not allowed to host strange men, not even on their husband’s behalf, but when the concubine was favored, as Meng Shi was, when there was no first wife available to run the kitchen and do the welcoming, to greet the guests…

For anyone but Meng Shi to do it would be an affront to her dignity, and it would never occur to Lao Nie to be ashamed of her like that, even with her having been a prostitute before. It made perfect sense – and if she were anyone but herself, it would be fine.

A compliment, even; a willingness of Lao Nie’s part to show her off to his peers.

But Meng Yao knew, as Meng Shi knew, that there was a pit waiting for them.

After all, a Discussion Conference would bring in all the leaders of the major and minor sects – there was no way that Jin Guangshan, Sect Leader Jin, would miss it, and he had visited Meng Shi often enough through the years that there was no way he would fail to recognize her.

Asking Lao Nie to ignore that Meng Shi was a prostitute was one thing; men since time immemorial had taken on prostitutes as concubines, even those that had borne sons for other men. But to ask him to ignore that she had borne a son for one of his political rivals, for a man he despised as a cringing coward, for him to be exposed as raising one of what Meng Yao now knew the entire cultivation world snidely called the Jin bastards…

Meng Yao worried.

Nie Mingjue didn’t understand why Meng Yao was so worried, of course, but how could he? He’d never been told the details; Meng Yao would have said, trusting his discretion enough, but Meng Shi had stopped him each time.

And so Nie Mingjue thought it was only nervousness ahead of Meng Yao’s first Conference – he himself had skipped the last two Discussion Conferences, despite being old enough to usually have no choice but to come along, on the excuse that he had to care for Nie Huaisang, now a lively if lazy toddler whose favorite words were “da-ge”, “er-ge”, and “no”.

“If you don’t feel comfortable, you can go back to rest after the welcoming ceremony,” Nie Mingjue assured Meng Yao, earnest and well-meaning as always. “You don’t even have to stay for the banquet if you don’t want. I have to stay since I’m the heir, but that’s not applicable to you. If you’re worried about face, don’t be; you can take Huaisang with you – that’d be a good excuse, no one would question it.”

Meng Yao dredged up a smile for him. “I may do that,” he said, but knew that by that point it would be too late.

If they’d been better people, they would have warned Lao Nie of what to expect – but for all that he seemed to be a good man, he still had that unpredictable, explosive temper that was the Nie family inheritance as much as all the rest of it, and Meng Shi was determined that Meng Yao get as much of a cultivator’s education as possible before they were cast out – and she was sure they’d be cast out, no matter how well things had gone so far.

Meng Yao had argued with her that the few months extra he got weren’t worth the Nie sect’s loss of face, that they were better off telling him in private lest he be taken by surprise, that if he knew he could take measures to protect them both, but she had refused.

(Meng Yao loved his mother, but sometimes he thought all her cunning got in the way of being smart. He’d never thought that before Qinghe, before he realized there were more ways to do things, to move people, than by playing tricks – before he realized that the truth about the tricks you played coming out might cost you everything you had gained and more.)

The worst of it, though, was that he still had hope.

Hope for his own sake – hope for Jin Guangshan, hope that wouldn’t go away no matter how he tried to quash it.

It wasn’t like he was still the naïve child he’d been before, dreaming of a rescue – he’d gotten that! – but only the hope of every fatherless son that the man who sired him was worth something, that his blood was an inheritance he could be proud of.

A swiftly fading hope, given everything he learned from the teachers about the way the cultivation world worked. As a future counselor to a sect leader, he was privy to all the gossip, all the stories, the judgements on personality and proposed solutions on how to deal with them, none of which were very kind in their analysis of Jin Guangshan – and yet.

And yet.

Qinghe Nie had a tense relationship with Lanling Jin, owing both to personality clashes between their sect leaders and historical precedent, for all that they’d recently become closer allies given the aggression of Qishan Wen; Meng Yao knew that there would still inevitably a negative slant to what he learned, ancient prejudice influencing their judgment. And so he still hoped –

It was not a hope that lasted long.

Sect Leader Jin looked impressive from a distance, in his gold robes and golden adornments, but once he drew near the hints of dissipation on his face were obvious to a boy that had grown up in a brothel: the sort of man that liked women and drink too much, the sort that was a good mark because and not in spite of how inconstant he was.

His eyes skimmed over Meng Yao as if he were nothing, despite there being at least three or four points of similarity between them – Meng Yao resembled his mother more, but not entirely – and stopped at Meng Shi. A brief moment of surprise, and then his lips curled up into the disdainful smirk of knowing something that others did not; his eyes flickered over the crowd and this time landed on Meng Yao directly. Their eyes met for a moment that seemed to last forever, but in truth it was only a few heartbeats before Jin Guangshan’s smirk widened and he turned to whisper something into his aide’s ear, and then that man laughed…

Meng Yao felt a rush of shame fill him from head to toe.

It had been a while since he’d felt that familiar feeling, pain and hurt and rage all mixed together. It wasn’t that Qinghe was some paradise that forgot about birth, there were plenty of people who would sneer at a prostitute’s son, who would refuse to deal with him or call him names – fewer, since Lao Nie had started allowing Meng Shi to help run things in his name, letting her act almost as if she was the first wife – but he hadn’t felt shame about it in a while.

At the beginning, when it happened, Lao Nie told him that people would undoubtedly talk cruelly about him all his life but that good conduct would let him ignore them. It wasn’t especially helpful advice, though Nie Mingjue seemed to believe it (they had names for him too, for all that he was the heir, and not all of them appreciative), but perhaps it would be something he’d understand when he was older.

Certainly Nie Mingjue cited the folly of his youth for why he repaid each insult against Meng Yao with a beating, if the offenders were in his generation, or a beating for their sons if they were older. Folly of youth or not, though, Nie Mingjue’s beatings had reduced the incidents more than any of Lao Nie’s words and Meng Yao had been able to hold his head up high and proud.

Not so now.

In a single instant, he was no longer the second young master of Qinghe, Lao Nie’s ward; Jin Guangshan’s haughty look and laughter reduced him back to being nothing more than gutter trash, a prostitute’s mistake, the leavings of a sect master so high above him as to not even bother to redeem the mother of what, to him, was merely yet another son.

He hated it.

For the first time, it occurred to him that it might have been Jin Guangshan himself that sent his mother to Lao Nie’s bed all that time ago – that he’d been playing a nasty joke on a man he hated, a man he knew hated him in turn, by getting him so drunk that he wouldn’t be able to tell that the woman he had taken to bed was Jin Guangshan’s former lover, no matter how obviously she was throwing herself at him. It would make sense, Jin Guangshan and Wen Ruohan each wanting Lao Nie out of the way for their own reasons…

He hated it.

(He hated even more that even after this humiliation he still somehow wanted the man’s approval, wanted to show him that he was wrong about him, wanted to be taken home by him the way he should have been all along, to seen as critical and necessary and important – but how could that ever be, now that he’d already sworn loyalty to another sect?)

The welcome ceremony was quickly poisoned, whispers spreading and a growing frown on Lao Nie’s face – that explosive temper again – and Meng Yao didn’t need the pointed glance from one of the sect deputies to know it was time for him to leave, using Nie Huaisang (who was being perfectly well behaved) as an excuse for why he had to go.

Nie Mingjue gave him an encouraging nod, because of course he did, oblivious as he was to most social undercurrents, and Meng Yao wondered as he left how long it would take for the whispers to reach him – how long before Nie Mingjue knew that Meng Yao and his mother had lied to them, albeit by omission, that they’d deliberately hidden the truth and made them lose face in front of everyone.

He wondered how Nie Mingjue would react to that.

At least Nie Huaisang was too young for any of this, babbling away happily in something half intelligible and half fragmented pieces of thought that made no sense to anyone, clutching at Meng Yao’s hair as if he was considering trying to eat it again the way he had when he was younger.  

In his anxiety, Meng Yao put him down for bed earlier than he would normally, and true to form Nie Huaisang woke up deep into the night crying for a snack. Meng Yao gave him some dried fruit from the stash he always kept in his pocket and promised to get him something more substantive from the kitchens, and Nie Huaisang snuggled contentedly back into bed (Meng Yao’s bed, which was probably his actual goal the entire time, the devious brat).

Even though Nie Huaisang would probably be fast asleep by the time he returned, Meng Yao still turned his feet towards the kitchens. A Nie kept his promises, no matter how small, and at least for the moment he was still a prospective junior disciple of the Nie sect, ward of the Nie sect leader and responsible for upholding his honor – even if he might not be so tomorrow.

The banquet was still going, though presumably it was finally reaching its tail end, and Meng Yao couldn’t help but wander over in that direction on his way to the kitchens to see if people were still talking about it. About him, him and his mother…

A figure stumbled out of the main hall into the unlit corridors, and two years of familiarity allowed Meng Yao to identify Nie Mingjue at once even before he staggered back against the wall for support, moonlight shining on his face. His eyes were strangely vacant, his mouth slack – was he drunk?

It seemed bizarre to even think it. For all that Qinghe Nie spoke big about how picking up your saber was the step into adulthood, no one would ever allow a boy of Nie Mingjue’s age to drink enough wine to become intoxicated, much less to such a degree. He shouldn’t have even had wine served to his place setting, and previous experiments had revealed that stealing a single cup wasn’t enough to cause any effect on Nie Mingjue’s top-rate constitution. So why..?

Meng Yao hesitated, wondering if he should go and help him. Yesterday he would have done it without thinking, but that had been before the events of the day…

A shadow covered the face of the moon, casting Nie Mingjue’s face into darkness.

No, he was wrong – it was only that there was a man in the hallway, standing now between Nie Mingjue and the open window, and he stepped forward to catch Nie Mingjue in his arms, helping him stand once more.

Someone else had gotten there first, it seemed, and Meng Yao was about to leave when the man smiled, a glint of teeth, and suddenly he recognized him, for all that he’d only seen him briefly years before.

Wen Ruohan.

Sect Leader Wen, the only thing that could make Jin Guangshan and Lao Nie forget their enmity for each other – a poisonous snake, a terrifying tyrant, a pestilence on the cultivation world that constantly tested Qinghe Nie’s borders and tried to lure away its affiliated sects, all the while smiling and denying that it was doing any such thing.

The man who had once chased Nie Mingjue into hiding himself in a brothel, and thereby changed Meng Yao’s life forever.

Meng Yao did not feel especially grateful to him for it. The scene before him suddenly took on new light: Nie Mingjue was no longer merely drunk, leaning on a friendly hand for support and making a nuisance of himself as he did – he was frowning almost as if he were having trouble realizing what was happening, trying to push Wen Ruohan’s hands away but with fingers too weak to put up much resistance, and Wen Ruohan smiling all the while. Meng Yao knew that the brothel had had drugs like that, dizzying intoxicants that sapped the body’s power and the mind’s stability; the owners used them on vulnerable women who tried to resist their offers, knowing that after they had lost their virtue once it would be easier to coax them into giving it away again.

If he’s disgraced, your brother is the heir, something deep inside him whispered, sounding almost like his mother. Lao Nie can’t cast out the mother of his heir, not the way he could a concubine and her shu son, and it’s not as if you have to do anything. You were already in bed, and no one would ever know that you saw anything –

He’d know, though. Wen Ruohan would probably be able to figure it out, too, with his high cultivation, and he could use it against him in the future.

So what? Even if you did see something, what could they expect you to do? It’s not as if you can do anything. Who do you think you are, some whore’s trash son that doesn’t even have a saber yet? You’d never be able to stop the mighty Sect Leader Wen who strikes fear even into the heart of the likes of Lao Nie. Better to just let it happen…

Nie Mingjue made a small sound, a tiny whimper that was barely audible and soon muffled by the fingers Wen Ruohan put on his tongue; the older man had pressed him against the wall, a leg pushed in between Nie Mingjue’s thighs, Nie Mingjue’s weak attempts to push him away translating as little more than gentle tugs on his robes. Using his body to keep Nie Mingjue pinned in place, Wen Ruohan’s free hand slipped down –

Meng Yao gritted his teeth and went away.

The kitchens still had lanterns lit, and skewers to carry a flame from one place to another – it hurt Meng Yao deeply to set fire to a store of rice, knowing it would have been enough to feed him and his mother for an entire season without going hungry, but it didn’t hurt as much as the thought of a future in which all those slandering tongues treated Nie Mingjue as if he’d never been anything better than Wen Ruohan’s whore.

“Fire!” he shouted once it has spread enough to be a threat. “Fire!”

One of the kitchen servants rushed in and saw, immediately joining his cry to Meng Yao’s, and soon enough everyone was rushing around frantically, more and more people drawn over by the noise. In the frenzy, Meng Yao slipped out and with a strong pinch made his eyes fill with tears.

“Da-ge!” he cried, throwing himself into Nie Mingjue’s arms the second he saw him – Wen Ruohan would never have feared discovery by a single person, easily discredited, but when all the sect leaders in the main hall had started coming over to see what was happening he had had no choice but to step away. “Da-ge, I went to get some snacks for Huaisang and there was a fire!”

Even drugged and assaulted, Nie Mingjue’s first instinct was to comfort; he awkwardly patted Meng Yao’s shoulders and back, slurring out an “it’s okay, Meng Yao” that barely sounded anything like it.

Meng Yao pulled back away from him and allowed disgust to twist his face, all the disgust and disdain and hatred that had been churning in his gut the entire evening – how dare they all judge him, those sect leaders who’d never known a day of hardship in their lives, how dare they say things about his mother, as if they knew anything about her simply because of the role she was forced to play…

“Meng Yao, is it?” Wen Ruohan said, and Meng Yao widened his eyes in a burst of panic as if he hadn’t realized anyone was there, hadn’t intended for the feelings on his face to be seen by anyone.

“Sect Leader Wen!” he said. “Forgive me, I didn’t see you there – please forgive my shixiong, I don’t know how he’s managed to get this drunk, to shame himself like this…”

“Think nothing of it. He’s still young, after all,” Wen Ruohan said generously, as if he had nothing to do with it. “You’re – the ward, yes? The concubine’s son?”

Meng Yao nodded, putting his best version of a coward’s smile on his face – the one that was gentle, the way he preferred to be, but with shades of weakness that brought out disdain and condescension in stronger men. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you any longer, Sect Leader,” he said sweetly, making it obvious that he was trying to pander. “I know you’re far too busy to be dealing with the stupidity of youth…”

Stupid, rather than foolish – meaning he thought that this reflected a judgment on Nie Mingjue’s character, rather than a momentary lapse. A cruel thing for a shidi to say, and to say that to a stranger, to Qinghe’s rival, was positively unpolitic; it would absolutely be a loss of face if it was called out.

But when such obvious weakness was displayed before a predator, it could also be seen as something else: an opportunity.

Wen Ruohan looked intrigued, as Meng Yao had hoped he would be – what would-be conqueror didn’t like the idea of recruiting a spy in another sect’s camp, especially one so highly placed? Especially one placed so near to something he wanted.

With a glance at the crowd that was growing rather than shrinking, he made his decision.

“Take him back to bed,” he told Meng Yao, who nodded eagerly. “And come see me tomorrow – you seem like a bright boy.”

“Of course!” Meng Yao chirped, looking as if he were overwhelmed by the extremity of Wen Ruohan’s favor, as if he could be bought with some pretty words and a little bit of resentment. He’d go, too, the next morning when the Unclean Realm was bustling with servants and a single shout could bring them running; he’d play up his young age, greedily gobble up the treats Wen Ruohan was sure to set out, and complain about how no one respected him, how everyone sneered at him, Jin Guangshan’s bastard – he’d whisper his fears about how Lao Nie would react – he’d puff himself up when Wen Ruohan inevitably flattered him.

It’d be easy enough to convince Wen Ruohan that he was weak, conniving, and greedy, the sort of person could be easily bought. The sort of person who would be happy to help a stranger sneak into his brother’s bed just to make himself feel better about being born the son of a whore.

If Wen Ruohan believed that that was who he was, what he was like, he would try to use Meng Yao to achieve his aims next time, and that would in turn mean that Meng Yao would be properly position next time to stop him – by accident, of course, or while trying to help him avoid notice, or whatever. Men like Wen Ruohan never really paid attention to their pawns after the initial coaxing period: once they considered someone to be theirs, once they’d judged someone too afraid to ever betray them, they got lazy and put down their wariness.

Meng Yao had met plenty such people in the brothel.

He carted Nie Mingjue off to bed – his bed, not Nie Mingjue’s, to reduce the danger – and Nie Huaisang (who was woken up by all the fuss) didn’t even notice the absence of the snack he’d been promised when it meant that he could sleep the rest of the night between his two brothers, his favorite place in the world to be.

He slept, and Nie Mingjue slept, and on the cold edge of his side of the bed, Meng Yao spent the rest of the night planning how to convince Lao Nie to let him and his mother stay. He had to stay, because if he left, if he left and Nie Mingjue had no one by his side, no one but Nie Huaisang who was too young –

Meng Yao didn’t know how long his da-ge’s carefree generosity could last in this cruel world, but he was determined to find out.

In the morning, as he’d hoped and feared, Nie Mingjue woke with no memory of the events of the night before.

It was good, because it meant that Meng Yao didn’t have to explain; bad, because who knew whether Wen Ruohan had tried a similar trick before with more success. The thought left a bitter taste in Meng Yao’s mouth, and it spilled from his mouth like poison when Nie Mingjue tried to ask him how he was feeling – “Don’t you know what they’re saying about me? All of them – my father.”

Nie Mingjue fell silent. “Meng Yao…”

“What? Can you stop their tongues? No one can change the facts of their birth, and yet I’m the one who keeps having to pay for it.”

“Meng Yao,” Nie Mingjue said, and his eyes were hurting. Good – let him hurt, let him feel one iota of what Meng Yao had always suffered, let him – “If I could make your father love you, I would.”

Meng Yao’s breath caught in his throat.

“If I could force him to honor you,” Nie Mingjue continued, voice solemn. “I would send you with him gladly, although I would miss you very much. I know it doesn’t mean anything just for me to say it, but…I would.”

It did, though. It meant quite a lot to know that the hurt in Nie Mingjue’s eyes had been for him, not from him. To know that he had heard all the stories, all the whispers, and in the end his only priority had been to think of how Meng Yao might feel.

To be angry, because Meng Yao wasn’t getting something he though Meng Yao should.

No, Meng Yao decided – no matter who he had to fight, whether Wen Ruohan or his own mother, he would find a way to stay by Nie Mingjue’s side.

(That was when he realized that he’d messed up his mother’s instructions even more than he’d meant, because he was never supposed to be the one that fell in love.)

[piercetheigncrance]

“Perhaps now that we’re free”

Snucissa - with focus on Snucius

Set in the aftermath of the war. Snape dies. Or at least he is gone from the mortal world for a period of time. Lucius takes it upon himself to remain by Snape’s bedside until Snape wakes up. Together, Lucius and Narcissa help Snape heal from the would-be fatal injury.

Hurt/Comfort

Chapter 2. (wc: 2,088)

They were there when he woke up. It was pitch black in the room now, the three of them tangled up even though Severus was still lying on his back. He had Cissa against his side and Lucius partially draped over him, hand clutching Severus’ even in sleep. He grunted softly, leaning as much as he could and nuzzling Lucius’ hair before sleep took him once more.

After that, every time he awakened he had one of them with him. Most of the time that one would be Lucius.

Those first two days, he barely remembered being awake. Severus would drink or eat something then fall asleep within minutes.

On the third day, he woke up feeling cold and empty and as if he was floating. He sucked in a harsh breath, his body trembling and lungs burning at the sudden stretch. He heard Lucius calling him, trying to soothe him, but couldn’t make out the words. Severus turned away from every touch, feeling everything too intensely and having trouble breathing. His chest hurt. His head was spinning. It was too bright and too loud despite the fact that the curtains were barely cracked and it was silent save for his own labored breathing and Lucius’ concerned voice.

“Severus, I’m going to give you a calming draught.” And he had to help Severus drink it, massaging his throat until the thing went down and almost having to get another one when Severus tried swatting it out of his hand. “It’s me, My Prince, it’s me. You’re safe. I’m here.” And something told him it was exactly what Severus needed to hear. In the next couple of seconds, Severus calmed enough to allow Lucius to ease him back down onto the bed. He peeled off the blanket from him though and checked him for any injuries as he’d been thrashing quite a lot.

He let Lucius move him, the draught taking effect immediately and the placating words only aiding in bringing him back down to reality. Eyes were wide, watching Lucius check him and grimacing when a tender spot was touched. He grumbled under his breath.

Lucius froze, staring at Severus and tilting his head just so, “what was that, My Prince?” He tapped the spot again.

Severus winced that time and tugged his hand back, “I said..... I am not .... a fire you’re prodding. Be.... careful.” The words were spoken between labored breaths and his voice was gravel but Severus felt he got his point across just fine.

Lucius laughed. He leaned over Severus and kissed his head then his lips then, just to be an ass, the spot on Severus’ arm that had apparently been tender.

Severus groaned and shoved at Lucius weakly, “off, you oaf, off with you.”

Lucius only laughed more, delighted and oh so relieved to hear Severus’ voice again. He grabbed Severus’ wrist and pinned it to the mattress above Severus’ head, grinning at him. “I’m not going anywhere, dearest one. I’m just happy. This is the first time you said anything in the three days you’ve been back. And it was to complain.” He chuckled again, shaking his head, “if I had any doubts you would return to your old self, they are banished now, love.”

Severus felt heat rise in his cheeks and grumbled though he stopped attempting to get his hand free from Lucius’ grip. Instead, he stared up at him and admired his carefree beauty. Lucius truly was a sight. Even with the weight he’d lost since the last time Severus remembered seeing him before the war, he remained toned,healthy, and ridiculously attractive. Severus wet his lips.

Lucius caught sight of the pink muscle and suddenly became extremely aware of the fact he was hovering over Severus, pinning him to the bed. He felt that all too familiar surge of desire travel from his gut down to his cock. He exhaled slowly, the mirth gone from his expression. It was replaced with something much more primal. He released Severus’ wrist after a couple of seconds though he remained hovering over him, grey eyes darkening with desire. “You know, I’ve missed you in more ways than one, Severus. Perhaps when you are well again I may show you just how desperately you’ve been missed.”

Severus swallowed, throat suddenly more dry than it felt when he awoke from his months-long slumber.

Lucius’ gaze hungrily took in the blush on Severus cheeks as well as the way his throat bobbed. He noted the slight tremble in Severus’ breathing and it took all his self-control not to devour him then and there.

Severus looked at Lucius, simply examining his features for a moment. A shift under him as he slid his hand up Lucius’ chest and laid it over the male’s rapidly beating heart. And Severus held his gaze for a couple of seconds, eyes searching Lucius’ and wondering just how much pain and hardship the blond had put up with in order to get him back.

Lucius could see it in Severus’ gaze, the way his eyes went from shining and tender to clouded with guilt and pain. He sighed, leaning down and pressing a kiss to Severus’ forehead, “stop that. I’d do it all over again. Every last bit of it if it meant I get to be here with you.” He heard the slight croaking noise from Severus again and shifted enough to press their lips together, kissing him slowly, letting Severus feel his love through the kiss.

The gentle kiss shook him, fingers dug into Lucius’ chest as he poured himself into the kiss as well. There really was no room for doubt after that kiss, no way for anyone to fake that much emotion. But, above all, there was no way to deny the way Severus felt their magic mingling perfectly, seeing it in his mind’s eye. Lucius’ strong, forest green magic blended with the royal purple that was Severus’ magic to create something so beautiful it would leave anyone in awe. He let out a soft sigh of a noise when the kiss was broken, fingers still clutching Lucius’ shirt. Severus kept his eyes closed for the time being, smiling against the soft flesh as he heard Lucius’ voice ‘I love you, Severus.’. He rested back onto the mattress again, nodding, “I know. And I love you, Lucius.”

He grinned, pulling back to look at Severus once more before brushing the raven locks back some. “Do you feel as if you are prepared to attempt taking a proper bath now? As much as I love you, you are in desperate need of one, old friend,” there was a bit of an amused look in his eyes as he said it.

Severus grumbled again and flattened his hand on Lucius’ chest once more, pushing him back weakly, “off, you buffoon.” There was no real heat there and Severus knew Lucius had a point. He felt sticky. The fact Lucius had even been willing to kiss him was proof enough of his love for Severus, if you asked him.

“I shall set the water. Unless, of course, you prefer I have our elves bathe you?” he quirked a brow, grinning at Severus as he slipped out of bed and away from any potential attempt at physical retaliation from him.

“Oaf of man,” he muttered, speaking coming a little easier now that he had some practice. Severus groaned, using the bed frame to lift himself up to a seated position so he could take a drink of water. “If anyone but you and Narcissa so much as looks at me naked, I will request you gouge their eyes out or I will gladly do it myself, if you refuse.” That was a mouthful. The promise broken up and likely made less severe by the deep breaths he took and slightly wobbly words Severus uttered.

“What of Evanora?”

“I said, anyone, Lucius.”

“Oh, it’s too late for that, My Prince. She’s seen you in *all* your glory while you were unconscious. If it makes you feel any better, she admired your physique and I threatened to drive her mad with the cruciatus.”

He let out a soft huff of a breath through his nose, amused at that image. And, knowing Lucius, he would have followed through on the threat then simply blamed her condition on attempting to get inside Severus’ mind while Severus was in that state.

“Ah, I am still able to make you laugh, I see. Very good,” he called out before disappearing into the bathroom. Lucius called for Reely asking the elf to strip the bed and put on fresh bedding but asking her to wait until Severus was in the bath.

She squeaked her understanding then disappeared, likely to prepare what she could while she waited.

He set the bath water as hot as possible while still ensuring it would be safe for Severus then added a few herbs and flowers into the water, allowing them to let off their aroma. Lucius waited for the steam to gather in the bathroom before he exited and went to retrieve Severus. “I hope you still fancy the same scents, dearest. I’ve prepared your bath how you like it.”

Severus grunted, taking another sip of water and clearing his throat some more. He grimaced at the sharp stings of pain and waited for Lucius to come to his side. Severus nodded, deciding to save his voice for when it was more necessary rather than use it to answer simple questions.

“Very well, shall we?” he prompted, offering Severus his arm and waiting for him to hold on before hauling the shorter man to his feet. Lucius kept a hand at Severus’ back, steadying him. The trip to the bathroom was longer than he would have liked but he said nothing, knowing if he offered to lift Severus there the male’s pride would likely cause an argument.

Severus let out a soft sigh as he leaned against the marble countertop, eyes closing as he focused all his energy on maintaining upright.

Lucius pulled his wand out, ridding Severus of his clothing and ridding himself of his shirt with one quick motion. He let his gaze rake over Severus’ body, eyes lingering on the nasty, red scar now marring the left side of his beloved’s neck. Yet another reminder of how much this man had endured. How many foul twists life had thrown his way. He frowned, wanting nothing more than to keep him safe now that they had no Dark Lord watching over their every move.

He heard a soft clearing of the throat and flicked his gaze to Severus’ dark orbs, smiling at him despite the tightness in his chest. “It adds character, you know,” he assured the other, grinning when he saw the slight purse of Severus’ lips. Lucius helped Severus into the water, feeling a swell of pride when he heard the content sigh following a deep inhale from his beloved.

Severus closed his eyes, sinking himself into the water, head leaning back against the edge of the tub. He could practically feel the tension leaving his body. The warm, herb-infused water melting away the grime even without either of them having to lift a finger. He sighed yet again.

“You know, old friend, you managed to sit up on your own. I believe this means it is time for the bat to leave his safe little dark cave and explore the manor. You need your exercise,” Lucius noted, grinning when he heard a soft click of Severus’ tongue, the man clearly didn’t like the idea. “Hush, now. I’ll be there. I shall provide rewards if and when you meet predetermined goals. You do still respond to praise and rewards well, do you not, My Prince?”

Severus grumbled under his breath but he felt his already flushed skin prickle with a different sort of heat now.

Lucius laughed, reaching to stroke through Severus’ messy and oily hair, “as I thought. We shall start after breakfast then.”

And Severus really couldn’t disagree. Not that he wanted to. But had he, he would find it impossible. He found it difficult to even carry a thought with the way Lucius’ long fingers carded through his now damp hair, working some shampoo into them — Lucius’ shampoo, he noted. Severus grinned. Possessive oaf. Eyes remained closed and he allowed himself to relax and enjoy the pampering from the other, knowing they’d be pushing the limits of his recovering body soon enough.

~~~~~

A/N: Feel free to leave comments/thoughts! Thank you! 

[jungshook69]

Love is a myth :: 01

DISCLAIMER: This doesn’t represent the members’ actions or the army’s actions in any manner it’s pure fiction. This is an original work, do not copy. The taglist is open if you want. Taglist is now closed.

WORD COUNT: 4.1K words

MAIN PAIRING:  musician! Yoongi X waitress! female reader

SIDE PAIRING/S: Jungkook X female reader ; Taehyung X female reader

GENRE: FWB! au ; Strangers to lovers! au

WARNINGS: Implied smut (Forgive me cuz I suck at writing it, no puns intended) ; Mentions of alcohol and smoking (I do not condone smoking) ; Profanity ; Mentions of infidelity ; Heavy angst ; Self loathing (Namjoon’s about to wack me in the head with his slipper) ; I apologize in advance if there’s any spelling errors.

SUMMARY: "You covered your bare form with the silk sheets beneath you, as you watched him walk out your door without a word." // "Love is a myth. All that existed between you two was pure lust." // "The last rule was if anyone of the two of you caught feelings for the other, the deal would be off."

SERIES MASTERLIST: Trailer » Meet the cast » Chapter #1 » Chapter #2 » Chapter #3 » Chapter #4

STATUS: Complete

You lay on your bed, chest panting, as you tried to catch your breath. Your hooded eyes fluttered open to meet the familiar sight of a white ceiling fan rotating at a painfully slow speed. Your forehead and bare chest were lined with beads of sweat as you felt the mattress dip beside you. You turned your attention to his presence, as you were met with the sight of his bare back sitting upright, his hands working hard to put his white t-shirt back on. You watched as he pulled on his boxers, followed by his jeans and walked over to your side of the bed.

You covered your bare form with the soft silk sheets underneath you as you watched him come closer to you. No, he did not lean in for a passionate good bye kiss. No, he did not bend over and embrace your petite form against his warm chest, and run his calloused fingers along your naked back. None of that was part of what you both had come to terms with. Your curious eyes followed his movements as he bent down to grab his beanie off of the floor next to your side of the bed.

He slipped on his beanie and his jacket which was strewn across your chair, not moments ago. Without a word, you watch as the man’s dark figure retreated from the shadows of your bedroom. You let out a deep breath you weren’t aware you were holding, as soon as you heard the front door click. Being too tired to get up and wash up, you let your tired eyes take control, as you drifted into a deep slumber.

//

You awoke to the sound of a woman’s high pitched voice yelling, contrary to most people waking up to the sound of a disturbingly loud alarm. You immediately recognized the voice to be the sound of your neighbors engaged in a routinely loud domestic argument. Maybe this time her husband accidently burned an egg on the stove, or maybe this time her toddler broke a vase, the possibilities were endless. In your time living in your apartment, you had heard your neighbors engage in a variety of arguments. The daily bickering of your neighbors, your parents’ marriage, and a certain someone from your past, were the exact reasons why your take on love was the way it is now.

 Was love overrated according to you? Nope, that wasn’t the case. You just didn’t believe love existed at all. You believed that love is a myth.

 You had higher priorities in life, like maintaining a proper work ethic, to earn for a living. You were one of the lucky ones whose day didn’t start at 6 in the morning. Instead your job required for you to be present quite later, at around 11 in the morning. But, to be fair, your job extended further into the next day, as far as 2 or 3 in the morning sometimes. But you did prefer your current work schedule better, as you were kind of a night owl.

 You freshened up, and had a hearty breakfast composed of a buttered toast and some chai tea. Yes, unlike the people around you, you were one to prefer tea over coffee. You couldn’t count the number of times you’ve had this discussion with your colleagues. You soon got dressed in your uniform consisting of a tight white blouse, a black pencil skirt that hugged your curves, paired with classic black pumps. You didn’t forget to put on your silver ring with a black J carved into it, the one you’d taken off the night before, when you were engaged in a scandalous activity with a certain someone. You grabbed your purse and your warm grey winter coat, as you stepped out the door, ready to start your day.

 //

 The bus ride wasn’t too bad, although you wish you had enough strength to pull the window which was stuck, close, to stop the cold winter breeze from grazing your bare calves. But as soon as you entered the warm ambience of your workplace, your coat long forgotten, your mind focused on getting the job done. You walked across the rows and rows of empty tables and chairs, your heels making minimal noise against the rich carpet, as you made your way through a pair of steel doors, tying your apron around your waist. You grabbed a checklist attached onto a clipboard, and detained your responsibilities as the senior head waitress.

 “Okay, do we have the 5 kilograms of sundried tomatoes from Tony’s farm?” you’re sharp voice rings through the hustling and bustling of your colleagues. “Yes ma’am!” you here a response over the ruckus of boxes being unloaded. Doing inventory was a hassle, but you were determined to complete the responsibility laid on your shoulders. About an hour of screaming later, you were wiping off the sweat that had accumulated across your forehead. “Good job today guys, we did inventory, 30 minutes early.” You said, a small smile tracing your thin lips. Although you were stern, you knew how to appreciate your colleagues work. They all gave you small smiles as they headed off to freshen themselves up, to get ready for opening up for business in 30 minutes.

 You were in the washroom, touching up your deep wine lipstick, when the door flew open, followed by the click of heels against the marble floor. You caught her reflection in the mirror as you turned around and greeted her. “Hey Maria…” you said, not a trace of enthusiasm in your voice. If there was one person who you could stand the least in your workplace, it was Maria. Contrary to you, she was born with a silver spoon. She was the restaurant manager’s niece, and had been given a job here, despite her inexperience. You never had a problem with that, but it’s when she ran against you for the post of senior head waitress, you grew envious. But fortunately, the manager saw beyond just blood relations, and fairly granted you the promotion, as a result of all the blood and sweat you had put into it.

“Hey…” she mumbled, plainly as courtesy, and no real kind intention, as she walked towards the mirror and began brushing through the strands of her short black bob. Unbothered by her presence, you began to tie your long brown locks into a low braided bun and brushed your outfit free from any existing wrinkles. Your eyes drifted to the adjacent female’s form and you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy. You were pretty proud of how you looked. It’s just that you failed to be confident about your body, unlike her, who flawlessly flaunted her curves. Before you could overthink you left the washroom.

 //

 10 minutes left to opening time, you were setting folded napkins down by the pristine glassware and silverware on a table, when you heard the small bell chime, alerting you of someone entering the restaurant. You look up and immediately lock eyes with a man with deep brown feline eyes, his hair a pale mint green, contrasting with his all-black attire. Min Yoongi. The same man who was hovering over you last night, the same man whose throat was voicing your name out loud, the same man whose teeth had left evident marks on your body, multiple times in the last 2 months. You shifted your gaze onto the butter knife in your hand, and all you could think about was stabbing the man in front of you senseless, and then stabbing yourself, for doing what you did. But then again, lust was a dangerous greed in your mind.

 You walked away to a table farther away from the entrance, while your eyes carefully watched as he uncovered his guitar from the case, and began setting up a mic on the center stage, right under the spotlight. “Hey, do you need help setting up?” you heard Maria ask him. You caught from the corner of your eyes, her figure bending over to his seated one on the chair, her hand landing on his shoulder. You were pretty sure his unwavering gaze was fixed down her shirt. “No I’m good.” He huffs and gets back to working on the speaker settings for his performance. You let whatever feeling was building up in the pit of your stomach subside as you left the two, making your way back into the kitchen.

 //

 Before you knew it, the whole day had gone by with you running in between tables, jotting down orders on your little notepad, and running back and forth between the loud and chaotic kitchen and the quiet and luxurious ambience of the seating region. This was your life, maintaining a calm composure, fit for a classy 5-star restaurant accompanied by casting several missed glances at a certain musician playing a beautiful rhythm.

 You placed a martini at a table with a family of 4. You observed the man to be wearing a rich tuxedo finished with a neatly tucked pocket square, the woman was adorned with elegant pearls and dressed in a midnight blue gown, a small girl, embezzled in what appeared to be her mother’s gold jewelry and dressed in an obnoxious pink frilled dress. A small boy of around the age of 5, who was seated right next to where you were standing, cast you a nasty glance as you watched his hand topple the glass, spilling all the contents onto your skirt. You audibly gasped, but remembered to lower your voice and not make a scene, luckily your skirt was black. The woman at the table said nothing, her eyes fixated upon her rich manicure, while the man glanced your way and muttered a small “sorry”.

 You were used to being treated this way. You were used to seeing families like this, all adorned with a picture perfect image on the outside, while you knew that their souls were writhing on the inside. You whispered a small “its okay sir” and worked on cleaning up the mess at the table. The small girl reached out to pick up a napkin and just as she was about to hand it to you, probably to help dry your skirt off, you felt her mother’s cold glare harden on her daughter, as the small child dropped the napkin and sheepishly returned her gaze back onto her lap. You sympathized with this little girl you barely knew, because you too were once in her place.

 Your parents were just like the many families you had encountered at your job over the years. They maintained a perfect image on the outside while no one knew the hell they put you and themselves through inside the doors of your home. You remembered every time your mom had scoffed at you for helping someone with a lower status than yours. You remembered those endless nights of bickering when your mom and dad had lectured you on how you couldn’t let your proper image waver when you had told them that you wanted to pursue your true passion of playing the piano. You remembered the night that you watched your father slap your mother across her face in his study, the talk of divorce ensuing. You remembered being frightened and packing your bag, stuffing a roll of cash in it, and jumping out the window and escaping.

 You were jolted back to reality as you felt a pair of hands grab your shoulders. Maria’s disgusted face appeared as she whisper-shouted in your ear, “What do you think you’re doing? Stop day dreaming and get back inside the kitchen, I’ll take their order!” You were about to correct her for the manner in which she talked to you, her superior, but decided to do yourself a favor, and leave the room before any more humiliation could follow. Although you remained unaware of a certain pair of eyes sharply watching your movements.

 You entered the bathroom and worked on getting the stain off of your skirt. As soon as you were done, you looked at your reflection in the mirror. Your attire still remained remarkably presentable, but the dark circles etched below your eyes, were beginning to uncover from underneath the heavy concealer. Your eyes drifted towards the empty bathroom stall behind you, and you couldn’t help but form a tiny smile. You remembered the time, a week ago, when you and Yoongi had occupied the stall in a very risky endeavor in between his 10 minute break, and had almost been caught by the head chef, who had come in there looking for you.

 You knew what you and Yoongi had was toxic, but so was your whole take on love. Everyone from your parents to your neighbors and just about everything in your life had convinced you, that true love didn’t exist. You only believed that a greed called lust existed. And all you thought was that you needed relief for the same. About 2 months ago, when you were getting drunk off your ass for getting promoted, you had run into Yoongi. He had been playing at the restaurant, alternating between piano and guitar, for just as long as you had been working there. He had always caught your eye, and if you were being brutally honest, you loved watching him do something that you couldn’t do, play piano.

 No sooner had the words “Wanna get outta here?” been spoken, you had ended up, about 20 minutes later, squirming underneath him, grasping his shoulders and moaning shamelessly, your cries contained inside the walls of his bedroom. What was commendable though was that you both had managed to keep your word so far. You both had devised a set of rules, no cuddling, no sweet goodbye kisses after doing the deed (making out before doing the dirty wasn’t counted), no going on dates, consent was always necessary, no leverage, meaning you both were free to engage in personal affairs with other men/women as long as you promised to remain safe, and the last impending rule being, if anyone of the two of you caught feelings for the other, the deal would be off. You knew these rules sounded ridiculous, like you were writing your own constitution, but it was necessary for a relationship, where you both were doing this purely for relief, for lust.

 You shook off your smile, and headed out of the washroom. You continued doing your chores, till it was finally closing time. The rest of the hour until midnight passed by as you and your colleagues worked on going through the gigantic pile of dishes. Of course it wasn’t part of your job but you’d rather spend time here with your colleagues than sit alone in the darkness of your humble abode. You also didn’t want to deal with any sort of unnecessary feelings arising, when you saw Yoongi leaving the room, Maria clinging by his side.

 “Hey wanna join us for a beer?” said Mark. He was one of the few kind friends you’d made at this job, along with his girlfriend Jackie, and another girl Maya. “Sure what have I got to lose?” you say, grabbing your coat. Before you knew it, your 3rd beer bottle was hooked to your lips, as you gulped the liquid down, drowning your worries.

 “Man, Maria’s a bitch huh?” Jackie spoke up. You loved her spunky personality, and she was straight forward like you. “Yeah lol” you say.

 “Don’t be so mean Jackie…” Maya speaks up, only halfway through her first beer bottle. She was shy and timid, contrary to Jackie, but she was too pure for this cruel world.

 “You’re just saying that because she’s never been mean to you.” Jackie stated matter-of-factly. “Amen” her boyfriend Mark said clinking his bottle with her’s.

 “I never saw her be rude to you though” Maya says innocently. “Does her shoving her chest into my boyfriend’s face on purpose in front of me count?” Jackie says rolling her eyes and scoffing.

 “I swear I was so freaked out.” Mark said laughing. “If it weren’t for Jackie ‘accidently’ shoving her face into the cake, I don’t know how far she would’ve gone to seduce me.”

 “That was the best day of my life.” I said laughing. “Guys don’t be so loud, she’s right there” Maya whisper-yelled.

 Everyone’s eyes turned to follow Maya’s line of sight and the image before you made your heart clench involuntarily. You watched with disgust, as you saw Yoongi’s tongue literally down Maria’s throat, his hands running up and down her form.

 “She won’t be able to hear us bitching about her over the loud music anyways so it doesn’t matter…” Jackie said breaking your gaze away from the pair. “By the way, guitar guy is hot innit?”

 “Yeah he’s pretty cool, he has good taste in music based off of the songs he plays” Mark says. You were not surprised to see that Mark didn’t get jealous over his girlfriend calling another man hot. You only wish you were so secure about your relationships.

 After a moment of silence excluding the loud club music you spoke up, “I think I’m gonna head home now guys” you said looking at your watch. “It’s 2, holy shit!”

 “Yeah we should get going too actually…” Mark said, getting ready to lift Jackie up. “Maya how’re you gonna get home?” you ask, genuinely concerned.

 “Oh actually… my boyfriend is gonna pick me up…” she said timidly. “You have a boyfriend?” Jackie yelped.

 “Yeah… see you guys…” she said rushing out of the place before any questions could follow. You bid Mark and Jackie goodbye, not wanting to wait for the war of tongues that was yet to ensue. You glanced over once again only to find a certain pair missing. You tried to suppress the unbeknownst feeling bubbling inside you, as you headed home with a heavy heart.

 //

 You weren’t too drunk as you had a high tolerance for beer. You decided since your apartment was only a few blocks away, you would walk. You were used to walking on the streets alone at night, as your job required for you to stay back quite frequently.

 Along with the familiar click of your heels on the concrete, you heard a periodic scruff of shoes on the concrete behind you. You turned around to see a man, head hung low, hood covering his face walking at a pace similar to yours. To be honest, you weren’t afraid of things like these. At least that’s what you told yourself to brace your inner coward self. But living alone all these years, basically living with just scraps from when you were 16 years old and had escaped, had prepared you for a lot of conditions for the best. You decided to walk faster, the streetlights casting a warm yellow light across the two of you, highlighting the game of cat and mouse you were playing.

 About a minute later, the steps of your apartment came into view, which gave you some new found confidence. You halted and turned around swiftly and yelled, “You gonna follow me up to my apartment or are you gonna make your move any time soon?”

 The man walked a few steps forward and uncovered his hood, revealing his pale face under the moonlight, his shocking green hair catching your eyes. “Min Yoongi…” you said rolling your eyes.

 You ignored the man and went up to the steps leading up to your building and took a seat. You watched the man linger not far behind you and finally make it to you, as he stood beside you, laying an arm on the rails. “Why were you following me?” you said, obvious annoyance laced in your voice.

 “It’s 2 in the morning… I felt like taking a walk…” he said nonchalantly.

 You huffed and fished out a cigarette and a lighter out from your purse. Lighting it, you brought it up to your lips and took in a huff of smoke. You leaned your head back, letting out the puff of smoke into the night sky, your head feeling light. “Seriously why’re you here? Do you want sex?” you said rolling your eyes.

 “Not everything is about sex Y/N…” Yoongi spoke up, his deep raspy voice sending an untimely shiver down your spine.

 “Between us it is…” you say softly.

 “It doesn’t have to be…” Yoongi replies almost too immediately.

 “We made the contract mutually you dumb fuck” you say huffing in another breath from the cigarette in your hand.

 He walked around you and took a seat next to you on the cold steps his hand extending forward. “Who said we can’t talk like normal friends?” he says as you knowingly pass your cigarette into his willing hand, watching him, as he took a puff too, before crushing it underneath his boot.

 “Sure” you say sarcastically rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you have your hands full with a certain friend already” you scoff.

 He raised his eyebrow at you only to have you roll your eyes again. “Maria seems like a pretty good friend… ya know how she lets you shove your tongue down her throat, anytime you want.”

 “Ahhh… So you were at the bar huh?” he says, although you remain suspicious of the fact that he knew of your presence beforehand.

 “Yeah, and I for a fact know, that no one can be friends, without any pure intentions of lust hidden behind it.” You state.

 “Then what about Mark?” he says looking at the empty street before you both.

 “Yeah he’s the only male friend of mine, without any intentions.” You scoff.

 “You never know…” Yoongi murmurs.

 “He’s dating Jackie for Christ’s sake!” you say annoyed, clearly understanding his tactic.

 “Oh…” he says an unnoticeable trace of guilt hidden in his voice.

 “Were you seriously trying to make me jealous by hooking up with Maria in front of me, just because you thought me and Mark had something going on between us?” you ask in disbelief.

 His silence confirms your suspicions. “Oh lord! Were you dreaming when Jackie and Mark got caught making out in the store room?”

 “Hey, I don’t know what the hell goes on beyond those steel doors okay? I get in, play music, and get out… I don’t have a social life at my job like you do!” he huffs out.

 “I’m sorry…” you say, although it hurts your pride.

 “I’m sorry too, for the whole Maria thing… call it even?” he says giving you a small smile.

 “You don’t have to be sorry… it’s part of the deal… you can engage in personal affairs with anyone else, it’s your choice… I have no say in your life…” you say staring at the ground.

 “Well I’m sorry for following you like a creepy stalker… I was just making sure you got home alright… call it even now?” he says a small giggle leaving his throat.

 You didn’t try to question why he was worried about you walking home, because you knew that argument wouldn’t lead anywhere sensible. “Call it even.” You respond looking into his eyes, returning his smile.

 The gaze grew uncomfortably long before you spoke up, “I should get going…” You stood up brushing your skirt. You didn’t know whose cursed soul possessed you, but your heart took control of your actions before your head could stop you, and your hand landed on his shoulder before you pulled him in for a short kiss. You backed away to meet his wide eyes, which was expected as you, the strict rule enforcer, had gone back on the rule, ‘no sweet goodbye kisses’.

 “I-I’m sorry I’m drunk…” you blabbered.

 “No it’s okay… I didn’t mind…” he mumbled out the last part, too soft to hear.

 You panicked and immediately tried to draw attention away from your actions. “Eeeww I just indirectly kissed Maria.” You whined.

 Yoongi broke into a loud laugh “Ayy I made sure to rinse my mouth off before I followed you here”.

 “Oh… were you expecting to sleep with me?” you ask confused.

 “N-No not at all… I know you’re tired tonight.” Yoongi said rubbing his neck and backing away. “Well I should get going… friend” he said smirking.

 “Alright, see ya… friend” you said returning his devious smile with a smirk of your own. With that you went up to your apartment and went to bed with a not as heavy of a heart as you expected.

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A/N: Don’t forget to follow @jungshook69​ for more content:) You can check out more works of mine here. Have a great day:)

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[isitgintimeyet]

Just A Friend

Wow. I’m so, so grateful for the lovely response to chapter 1 of this story. I’ve never had so many notes on one of my posts before, so many, many thanks to everyone who took the time to read, like, reblog and comment on it. i do appreciate it

Thanks also to @wickedgoodbooks for the beta

Previous chapter

AO3

Chapter 2: From Scrubs to Sauvignon

Sunlight streaming through the shutters wakes me before the alarm. After the previous seventy two hours with too much alcohol, not enough sleep and shared hotel rooms, last night’s sleep was a solid nine and a half hours and I feel so much better for it.

Trying, for a moment at least, to ignore both the demands of my bladder and my desperate need for caffeine, I gaze up at the ceiling and contemplate the surgery ahead of me. Whilst it’s a comparatively routine procedure for me, I always think about the families — parents, grandparents, siblings. It’s an anxious time for them, never routine, a step into the unknown and they are putting their trust in me to look after their precious child. Their faith in me is something I take very seriously.

I have a ritual I follow every time before theatre. I take a few minutes to close my eyes and let the procedure play inside my head, my hands echoing the images in my brain. I trace the path my scalpel will take on the skin; I position, in mid air, the locations of the clamps; I work with my imaginary mallet and chisel honing the bone, the X-ray images clear in my head.

By the time I’ve finished closing the incision, the demands of my bladder can no longer be ignored. That’s my cue to get out of bed and start my day.

***********

Before I put my scrubs on, I pay a visit to the side room where Robbie, my seven year old patient has spent the night. His parents have already given consent for the operation, but I like to go and do a final check.

Robbie is sitting up in bed, a bit subdued but in good health. His mother is sitting expectantly, nervously playing with the skin around her nails. The foldaway bed has already been put away, but, judging by her red rimmed eyes, I don’t think it got much use. Robbie’s father follows me into the room, two coffees in his hands.

“Sorry, Doctor Claire,” he nods at the coffee. “I didna get ye one. D’ye want one?”

I let the doctor reference pass. As a surgeon, my title is no longer doctor. Officially, I am Miss Beauchamp, but prefer my juvenile patients to call me Claire. Quite a lot of the parents seem to call me Doctor Claire. I suppose they like the reassurance that I am actually a proper doctor.

“No, thanks.” I smile. “Are we all set then?”

They nod nervously.

“Aye,” Robbie’s father agrees. “We need tae get it done.”

“How long will it take?” Robbie’s mother looks directly at me, wanting a definitive answer.

I hesitate. I don’t like to give precise times. If the surgery goes longer then parents start to fear the worst, and that’s not always the case. So I give a vague answer. “‘Till lunchtime… you could always go and sit outside in the little garden, it’s a lovely day.”

His mother looks down at her hands and shakes her head. “No, I want tae be right here …”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t have to. I know exactly what she’s thinking.

I turn to Robbie, blissfully unaware of his parents’ thoughts. He beckons me to him.

“When I wakes up,” he begins in a stage whisper. “Can I have a treat?”

“What sort of treat did you have in mind?”

“Can I have a MacDonald’s? But no’ a kid’s meal. I’ve never had a Big Mac.”

I glance at his parents who nod at me before I whisper back, “Of course you can, but don’t let nurse Geillis see, will you? She can be ever so naughty. She’ll be trying to steal your chips away, if you’re not careful.”

And with that, I stroke Robbie’s little cheek before saying my goodbyes and head out to get changed.

**********

Robbie’s surgery went to plan, no nasty surprises or tricky complications. I call in to check on Robbie’s parents before they head to recovery. They look totally different to when I saw them this morning. Still worn out of course, I don’t think they’ll sleep properly until their little lad is home with them, but their faces shine with sheer relief. I have warned them about the long road ahead, with many hours of physiotherapy and exercises, but, for today, I’ll let them have their moment of pure happiness. Reality will hit them again soon enough.

As I leave the waiting room, making my farewells, Robbie’s dad thanks me once more. I can tell he’s unsure whether hugging me is appropriate or not, so he settles for a handshake. His wife has no such qualms, wrapping me tightly in a hug, whispering her thanks until her husband reminds her that they need to be with their son. I point the way and head down to the nurses station.

Geillis is sitting there, looking very busy on the computer. I pull up a chair and sit next to her. The screen is filled with images of our weekend in Barcelona.

“What?” She looks at me as if I’ve accused her of something. “I’m on ma lunch, aren’t I?”

“How was your night then?”

Geillis beams from ear to ear— she’s like the cat who got the cream. “Nay bad, nay bad at all. After two nights away, Dougal realises what he’s got wi’ me, and he dinna hesitate tae show me, if ye ken what I mean?”

She winks at a poor medical student, who blushes and busies himself with a set of medical notes.

“Geillis,” I warn. “Behave yourself.”

“Anyway, pet, how was yer evening? Another tryst wi’ Professor Randall?” Her face says it all. Geillis thinks about as much of Frank as he does of her. Literally the only thing they have in common is me, and it’s getting pretty wearing.

“No, I was worn out and— oh, that reminds me.” I fumble in my pocket for my phone as I carry on talking. “I’ve got someone else’s suitcase. I hope they’ve got mine.”

I glance at the screen. Two missed calls and one message. All from the same number. All from the number I called last night, the James-Fraser-isn’t-here-don’t-call-again-ever number. Looks like this James Fraser has a jealous or suspicious wife-partner-girlfriend-housekeeper.

“Catch up later, Geillis, I need to deal with this.”

I rush back to my office to try and sort the suitcase problem out.

The message is brief and to the point.

Hi, Jamie Fraser here. I think I have your case too. Can we arrange a swap? I live in Glasgow. Hopefully you too. Where and when? I’m free after 5 today.

After five will work for me too, I just need to pop home and pick up his case. Now, based on his wardrobe choices and his one message to me, he doesn’t actually seem like an axe murderer or sex pervert, but you can’t really tell, so I think about a public location.

How about the benches by the cafe at Kelvingrove Park? 5:30? Claire Beauchamp

A couple of minutes later his reply appears on my screen.

Fine. See you then.  I’ll be the one wheeling a black Samsonite. JF

**************

It’s another glorious sunny day here in Glasgow. Just ideal for going for a stroll in the park. I do feel a bit conspicuous with a suitcase trailing along behind me — kind of like an upmarket bag lady.

There are no other suitcases around, so I perch on a bench. I fire a quick message to Geillis, just so that she knows where to direct the police if I disappear and then wait. It’s not too bad waiting. The sun is still warm, so I stretch my legs out trying for a tan. With my eyes closed, I lift my face up to soak up the rays. I may get panda eyes with my sunglasses on, but I don’t really care. The warmth is so good and I can feel myself relaxing totally —

“Ahem.”

I am conscious of a shadow across my face. I open my eyes and quickly stand up.

He’s tall. That’s the first thing I notice. A good few inches taller than me, and I’m 5 feet 9. And broad. Broad enough to block my sun. His hair is red, very red and the sun behind him creates a fiery corona around his head.

He’s a Viking. A Viking in a navy blue suit and a crisp white shirt. How many of those white shirts does he own, I wonder?

“Claire Beauchamp, I presume. I recognise the case. That red ribbon on the handle, such a unique idea.”

He smiles, a lopsided half grin and holds out his hand for me to shake. “Jamie Fraser.”

“Claire Beauchamp,” I say somewhat unnecessarily as we shake hands.

He sits down. “So,” he begins politely. “I hope ye havena come far out of yer way.”

I join him on the bench.

“No,” I gesture vaguely to my right. “I live not too far from here. How about you?”

That lopsided grin appears again. “Nah,” he gestures to his left. “No’ too far at all.”

There’s an awkward moment of silence. We are not really here for small talk, but is it too rude to just dive in and do the swap?

“So,” Jamie breaks the silence. “About the cases…”

Apparently it’s not too rude.

“I ken ye have ma case there, on account of ma contact details being in it, but what about this one? How do I ken this is yers? Black Samsonites with wee red ribbons seem to be awfa common ‘round here. As proof, can ye mebbe tell me something that’s in it? Something identifiable?”

And at this, my mind goes blank, what did I pack?

“Er, denim shorts… black flip flops… white vest—”

“Weel, they’re all verra common. Is there anything a wee bit more… unique?”

Is it my imagination or is there a twinkle in his clear blue eyes as he says this? And then I remember exactly what’s in my case and start to blush.

“There may be some hen party bits and pieces in there too. It was my friend’s hen weekend, so I think there may be some, er, stuff from that, you know, er, handcuffs… shot glasses…”

He puts me out of my misery. “Och, that’s fine. It’s yers, right enough. Here ye go.”

And we do the exchange, just like in the spy movies. Except in those, the cases are filled with bank notes and the top secret blueprints for a submarine base, and not white dress shirts and an assortment of shot glasses shaped like penises.

Our phones beep practically simultaneously. I pull mine out of my pocket. Jamie does the same and glances at his phone.

Mine is a text from Frank confirming tonight’s arrangements “I’d better go. Plans for tonight, you know.”

“Snap. Plans here as well.”

“Goodbye then. I’m not sure whose fault it was, the mixup at the airport. So why don’t we both say sorry, or neither of us?” I suggest as I stand up and smooth the creases from my skirt.

“Sounds good tae me. How about neither?” He smiles again. “Ms Claire Beauchamp, nice to meet you.”

“Mr Jamie Fraser, likewise I’m sure.”

And with that we head off, me to the right and Jamie Fraser to the left.

************

Frank had said 7:30, and, sure enough, at 7:28 my intercom buzzes and I let Frank in. He arrives at my door carrying a large bunch of lilies and roses. No, not a bunch, I can’t describe it as a bunch… carrying a large bouquet of lilies and roses, beautifully arranged and hand-tied. Clearly not a supermarket purchase. Nor is the wine he also hands to me. A chilled bottle of my favourite Sauvignon Blanc, only available from quality wine merchants in the city.

Frank can be incredibly thoughtful and generous, and I am suitably grateful. I pop the flowers into the kitchen sink while I try to locate a vase big enough to hold them.  He walks in as I’m scrabbling around on my hands and knees, bum in the air, head buried in the cupboard under the sink.

“So what are we having for dinner?” He asks as he pours the wine. “Are you cooking?”

I emerge victorious, having found the vase wedged between a bottle of sink unblocker and an unused can of spray starch.

“Sorry?”

“Dinner?” He repeats, helping me to my feet.

“I’ve not had a chance to cook. I told you about the suitcase confusion, didn’t I?  Well, I had to get that sorted. I thought we could have something delivered. That’s ok, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure that will be fine, darling. What would you like?”

What would I like? What I would really like would be a huge, great pizza full of carbs and grease and pepperoni and cheese that pulls into strands when you try to take a slice. And to sit on the floor with the pizza box between us watching Netflix and drinking beer.

But, that is clearly a rhetorical question.

“Thai?” Frank doesn’t wait for my answer.

Thai is the only acceptable takeaway in Frank’s eyes, eaten at a table, on proper plates. I nod my agreement. After all, he’s brought me wonderful flowers, and a gorgeous bottle of wine. He deserves to have the choice. And I can have pizza with my friends any time.

“You ring the order through then, while I arrange these beautiful flowers.” I say and kiss his cheek.

And that is our evening sorted - takeaway, a couple of glasses of wine, Newsnight on the television and then to bed for a bit of sex.

So, that’s food, drink, mind and body all sorted. I should go to sleep feeling satisfied with everything. I should… shouldn’t I?