#i expect that sort of accosting at a target

[yizukikhons]

I keep reblogging this at 2am because that's when the new ideas hit me I'm sorry @wolfsrainrules

Tim thought that his biggest opposition would be John. It was foolish perhaps to think that, but John is the one who was intimately entwined in the Underground, grew up knowing it's Rules as Gospel and lived by it's creed religiously. He forgot that John, as wealthy and successful as he was, was working class. He knew the feeling of being exploited. Expected to kill and die at the hands of people with more influence than himself, and how those sacred Rules never seemed to apply to those who had more power. Tim shares his plans for improving the Underworld and he's immediately on board. (If the systems Tim wants to implement had existed, Iosef would not have been able to accost him and his dog without consequences. John would've been able to get out-truly out-to be with Helen without bringing the Tarasov's into power, or making his marker with Santino. It keeps him up at night for days after Tim shares those plans)

Bruce nearly bursts into tears when Tim finally tells him. He's learning to live with this bloodier world, but to have Tim come to him and say 'I want to change it' with the same look in his eyes that he has whenever he talks of Gotham...it's both terrifying and exhilarating (His son is just like him. Oh God he's never been so proud or terrified in his life). He immediately sits down and starts setting up plans. They talk well into the night-even skipping patrol-talking about what outcomes they want and what kind of retaliation they can expect.

Jason is supportive. He looks up to Tim when it comes to the Underworld, and he's not so divorced from his vigilante roots to think that the system isn't broken. A Crime Alley kid through and through, he is also all too familiar with people exploiting systems to their advantage. It's Damian who is the most opposed. Unlike John or Jason, he is Underworld nobility. Born and bred to think that he is superior, and that it is his right to have others die in his name. Living with his father and siblings has deprogrammed a lot of that, but much like Tim he grew up thinking that this was the ONLY way that things could be, and he's still too young to fully grasp that his worldview isn't right. I like the idea of Tim having targets on his back for trying to change things. His attempts to change the Underworld has people both in and out of Gotham paying attention to him. Cobblepot thinks he's crazy. Living with Bruce is obviously turning him into an *ugh* idealist. It's also the most interesting thing to happen in decades (that kerfluffle with the Baba Yaga does not count. The Table is corrupt, what else is new?) Tim's ideas are even ones he (mostly) approves of! Go on little Bat! He won't stand in your way! (He can turn this to his advantage he's sure)

I feel like this story will eventually end with Tim becoming the head of the Gotham Underworld, sort of incorporating the prompt where he becomes the owner of the Gotham Continental. Gotham becomes it's own, strange world in the Underworld. A city with rules that leave many outsiders scratching their heads, but with results that no one can deny. Gotham becomes the best location for neutral grounds, for outside parties to come an negotiate at. They're subjected to strange codes of conduct, but the civility between disparate factions is undeniable. And if people try to start something, thinking that Tim's morals make him weak? They quickly find that Gotham is also not a place easily escaped. The city turns against them, clamping it's jaws around them like a steel trap. Even if they do make it out, any power they had will be in ruins by the time they get home. Tim makes it very clear that if he kills you? That's his MERCY. The Son of the Drake isn't weak for not killing, and that there are fates in the Underworld worse than death.

Stares off into the distance:

So.

Apparently my brain is just going to run along with various crossovers. Today, I bring you the thought of a John Wick fusion au (actually five differnet ones) with Batman/DC. (Again: a reminder that all my DC/Batman knowledge is fandom based)

@north-peach hellllppppp

Couple of thoughts for this.

The First: Janet Drake is one of the underworld's best. She's fantastic at manipulation and killing. She could walk herself out of a situation covered in blood, and convince people who saw it all happen that she never touched the body.

Tim grows up at her knee. He learns for the very best. And Janet teaches him everything she can- because despite the job and the crazy hours, and the travel, she loves her son. She wants to give him every opportunity to make it out alive from anything. Unharmed and not in trouble if possible, but alive most of all.

John Wick is a ghost story to the underworld. Tim has always been curious about people who could cause such a stir as his mother or John Wick might. When he meets him, he decides that man is Friend Shaped despite every sign saying Do Not. Despite every horror story saying it's a bad plan. (Much as he will later look at a story in a city of a cryptid said to be a manifestation of a city, a demon, a physical representation of all those who have died unavenged and decide the same)

More than that- John has ZERO idea how to handle Tim. He's a k i d. John's not gonna kill him for just...showing up all the time. It's not like he interferes or causes problems. In fact, he helps sometimes. Provides info, or a direction, a place to crash-

Tim confuses John.

Tim is also the very first to congratulate him, when he manages to get out of the underworld for Helen and mean it. To not even question the 'impossibility' of the Baba Yaga deciding he was done. John didn't bother to ask how Tim knew he'd left and why before the news actually broke out.

Tim watching John get out, go for it and SUCCEED is what gives him the courage to confess to his mother that he wanted to spend some time outside of the underworld, watching the curious case of Batman and Gotham. And Janet loves her son. So she arranges for it to be so.

They both know who Bruce Wayne is. Janet had figured it out before even Tim. She makes him promise that, if he needs her, he will call her, and lets him hunker in Gotham while he does what he wishes. She makes some trips back to Gotham, of course, but not so many that enemies can figure out there's someone important to her there. Janet is THE Femme Fatale. She has plenty of people who would go after her boy. And she's not having that.

Tim doesn't actually PLAN to get involved in vigilante life. At all. He's underworld born and bred. He's a survivor, manipulative, and can be a level of cunning and cold and ambitious that always makes his mother so so proud. He's not a do-right kind of person. He's not someone who does things for people outside of "me and mine" without a reason. Or if it goes against his moral code.

Except Jason Todd becomes one of "Me and Mine". He's a friend. A nosy vigilante who sees that his friend is alone and sets off his instincts as dangerous yes, but also as 'not a civilian' in a conventional sense. He's not a street rat, but he's not...normal either. And Tim? Tim, once he decides this Robin is his Robin, well he can't very well leave him undefended doing this ALONE can he? Though he understands by working with Robin, he cant use the tried and true methods of murder, as it could get pinned to Robin or Batman and he can't have that. If he wants to fly with Jason, he needs to fly by his rules. So a new vigilante is born that runs the streets with Robin. A little more vicious but in a cold and precise manner. Exacting. He doesn't let Jason go after his mother without doing the information gathering, and stops his death by Joker.

For a time, Tim finds himself pulled into the Wayne family, and he...thrives with them. He's happy. He learns under them. Expands his skillset, and still sent out to learn from people around the world. He is NOT fool enough to turn that away- his mother would somehow KNOW wherever she was if he turned down that kind of opportunity and he did not want to imagine the disappointment and response. NO THANK YOU.

When the underworld is kicked like a hornets' nest by John Wick coming back into the fold, Tim is...curious. He's kept an eye on John and Helen, if not stayed in direct and constant contact with them. He hadn't expected John to step foot back into the underworld.

And then his mother sends word to him, calls him back to the Continental, warns that the underworld is getting REALLY kicked up as a result. Tim...needs to go. He cannot imagine NOT answering his mother.

He arranges things on the Gotham end. Says temporary goodbyes and gets to the NY branch asap. Beats his mother there.

Makes it just in time to see John Wick pull a gun on Continental Grounds and shoot a newly crowned seat at the Table and is caught up in the chaos.

His family are going to end UP in the chaos themselves, because they will not cannot leave Tim in it alone. The connections Tim has are MUCH a surprise, he's done very well in hiding exactly what he used to do, and WHY he has a contact and hand in everything, and can ALWAYS get his family what they need. The Second: Tim Drake still grows up at Janet's knee. He learns it all. Thrives in it all. He ends up NOT going down the road of hitman or assassin or any number of things he could have done. Instead Tim Drake chooses to be a Information Broker that claims Gotham eventually, and by means of getting taken in by Bruce, the Wayne Manor and grounds around it become neutral grounds much like the Continental, if you want Tim's services to remain open to you. If you pull the underworld onto the ground...well. Just because Tim goes by Bruce's rules, and just because he PREFERS the route of nonviolence does not in any way mean he would not kill to protect it. To prove a point. To make a statement. To allow one to get away with it is to allow danger to his family and he WILL NOT, no matter that they all are perfectly capable of defending themselves. The Underworld is entirely different than their villains. To not kill the offender is to open themselves to weakness and targets. So Tim WILL.

Gotham is not Wayne Manor. The City is fair game to the underworld. Wayne Manor is NOT.

The Third:

Janet raises her boy at her knee still. Tim chooses the route of Doctor instead. He sets up in Gotham, and decides he likes the foolish vigilantes enough to step in when it's needed and save their lives. He becomes known to the Batfam as a Doc that will not ask questions, but is absolutely one of the most capable people they've seen. If Leslie isn't available, or not close enough, they go to Tim, if Tim doesn't find them, because he certainly seems to know when they need it.

The Batfam does sometimes find him having dealt with Some Things underworld involved so they are WORRIED about their idiot, despite the fact that Tim can and will Wreck everyone that causes problems in his area. He has also shown up stripping off blood covered scrub tops or whatever cause hes coming in hot from another healing thing, and they all wonder and worry and just- it's fine. Everything is fine.

They worry anyway.

Despite the fact that Tim has friends seemingly everywhere, from all walks of life, favors all over, and connections to seemingly everything as a result of his work. (He has absolutely been offered favors as payment, hits, assassinations and all sorts of things. He never turns them away. Janet taught him better. Instead he has markers and logs, books and written promises all stacked away. He remembers them all of course, but better to have written proof somewhere, something official. The Continental holds it for him.

The Fourth:

Gotham HAS a Continental Hotel due to all of its.....everything. Janet Drake runs it. Tim knows EVERYONE and everything, and has absolutely run the counter often. Bruce doesn't know what it is. Ra's absolutely does. Tim is the next to take over the branch and EVERYONE knows it.

He ends up occasionally, when people step on his morals, providing information to the Bat.

Jason managed to find his way inside by accident, and may or may not get himself heavily involved in the underworld even BEFORE the Red Hood thing.

The Fifth:

Same concept as 4 except BRUCE WAYNE runs the Continental and the ripples of everything therein.

[oswednesday]

before i go to bed, like i Want the job im sure itll be nice and i “need” the money and i know i have avpd and all my senses were on high alert but i felt really like de-humanized by that circulations manager like she wasnt brought up in the email exchange prior--i didnt even have contact info to forward a follow up to, and her body language was like weird hostile like that aside also like the impromto paper test and then where i had to physically move books about in my meeting the hiring managers outfit and not being up front about it, and them being like just making sure you know numbers and letters in order like,,,,,,duh hello? it wasnt even like a test about dewy decimal knowledge or conventional book organization, she also got like real close into my space  and didnt bother to at least see me to the elevator or have another coworker come in to check the results like what was the purpose of all that? the nerve of it all, so i wont be entirely heart broken if i dont get it cause shed be my boss and she was giving off some weird vibes

[dwellordream]

“As the chief unwanted suitor of Merry Wives, Falstaff furnishes a broad target for women's jests drawn from the rich literature of comic wooing. The "scornful maid" topos extends from Petrarchan lyric, to bawdy wooing ballads, to jest books and plays. From Anne Page's dismissal of Doctor Caius ("I had rather be set quick i' th' earth, / and bowled to death with turnips" 3-4.86-87) to the wives' hilarity over Falstaff's cloned letters, the women of Windsor act as keen-eyed judges of men's romantic performances. Training in such critical skills came early in life, and the need for them often lasted for years. Early modern women married late, and many remarried after a spouse's death; in both cases they often endured years of courtship. Wooers were expected to show dogged persistence, and women were expected to "scorn, jeer and generally discourage the advances of a suitor."

They could certainly find ammunition in jests and ballads, where anti-suitor mocks arise in all sorts of sexual encounters-from romantic to rapine-between predatory men and unwilling women, young or old, rich or poor, maid, wife or widow. Lovesick serenades, for example, always end badly: "A Gentleman made musick at his Mistress windowe, and sing her a Song which began this: My secret passions, &c. An other gentlewoman being then in place, and hearing him begin so, said, Belike your servant is sicke of the pyles." Another suitor who can play the balidore well but sings poorly performs under a lady's window. He asks, "how she lik'd his musicke? She answered, You have played very well, and you have sung too."

…"Women" played by boys control these highly ironic stagings, inviting non-elite onlookers to jeer and laugh at their social superior-a ludicrous, greedy, predatory knight played by a socially marginal actor. By exposing his lechery and cowardice to the delighted mockery of their neighbors, two gossips manage to overwrite the scene of their defamation with the spectacle of his shame. Physical "gests" such as the dousing of Falstaff may have had strong appeal, but for most women the arts of the tongue were more important in daily life. Antifeminist saws derided women's cleverness at explaining away improprieties (a woman's answer is never to seek) but no matter how exasperating to men, this quick-wittedness could also be considered a survival skill in a world that constantly called women to account for their honesty. 

For women, some anti-suitor stories may have served a didactic function; this would not seem a novel concept to early moderns, who heard jests in sermons and read them in conduct books and polemics. Considering the importance of women's sexual reputations and how frequently men accosted women, the mildest joke in which a woman parries a pass may point out the simple lesson, still taught to women today, that safety lies in groups. Protecting one's name also meant being able to spurn a compromising remark with a sharp answer in the hearing of others. 

In one jest that illustrates this situation, a married woman rides on horseback down the street among her gossips. A stranger, thinking she is alone, leers at her new-shod foot and tries out a jape: you have a very fine foot. Does it have a twin? Were they both born at one time? "No, indeed sir," she shoots back archly, "there hath beene a man borne betwixt them." She says this so her friends can hear: "Wherewith her neighbours that rode by her, falling into a laughing, made him find that she was a married wife." She is on safe ground and knows her audience. As for her would-be admirer, he was "much troubled by her answere, and with lack of wit to reply, galloped away with a flea in his eare."

 A sexual aggressor may press money on a woman or threaten rape; in such scenarios jesting women often apply the ancient justice of "the biter bitten." In Marguerite de Navarre's Heptameron, for example, a poor ferrywoman outwits two friars who try to rape her by telling them  that they will have a better time by landing on an island, where they may lie down. She manages to slip away as they clamber off ("she was as sensible and shrewd as they were vicious and stupid") and mocks them as she rows away: "You can wait till God sends an angel to console you, Messieurs! ... You're not going to get anything out of me today!" She fetches the law, her husband, and her neighbors, who seize, bind, spatter, and beat the friars.

Real wives who were propositioned or attacked usually told their husbands and friends because quickly resorting to kin and neighbors could serve as a woman's primary defense against the slanders of a rejected pursuer. The Windsor wives' decision to keep Falstaff's overtures hidden from their husbands would have been unusual in both common practice and the narratives of the jesting literature. Tales about wives' liaisons with desired lovers typically show women colluding in secret to achieve their ends. But women who reject advances frequently go straight to their husbands and gossips to report any overture, recruiting mixed-gender groups of neighbors and kin to play "merry tricks" to confound them. 

The accosted wife in the famous Attowell's Jig tells her husband and the seducer's wife, who is a near neighbor, and enlists them both in a bed trick: the seducer ends up sleeping with his own wife. A bloodier revenge occurs in Tacke of Dover his Quest of Inquirie (1604), a tale in which a doctor tries to seduce a mealman's wife. After the wife tells her husband, they recruit their neighbors to assist in a plot in which the husband pretends to be mad when the doctor arrives. He manages to trick and tie down the doctor, whom his neighbors beat and harry. Finally, a surgeon "cuts both his stones."”

- Pamela Allen Brown, “Near Neighbors, Women’s Wars, and Merry Wives.” in Better a Shrew than a Sheep: Women, Drama, and the Culture of Jest in Early Modern England

[atmostories]

I liked you Greg toland fic but the one thing I hated about that movie is that nobody even tried to kick his ass. And even if there was no chances of winning at least you'd have your honor. Tldr may I request Greg toland x reader where the reader stands up to him. And he thinks that's attractive. Thank you so much ☺️

It didn't take long to get used to your new school. The main difference to the last one was the different layout and different faces. Social circles were the same. People stuck to their groups, to the pecking order they were assigned. One of the most popular kids in school was called Greg. He was everything he was supposed to be, absurdly handsome, physically flawless, liked to bully the nerds. Problem was that he was just a bit too into it. You'd seen him bench press a freshman by their underwear and he didn't even break a sweat. The glee on his face afterwards was unsettling.

He was the beloved, salt of the earth all American guy that upheld the social order like he was designed to do it. You tried your best to avoid him. Things got pretty bad at your old school and the last thing you wanted was a repeat experience. You knew that Greg would pounce on you without hesitation. You started to get annoyed at the mere thought of him, how was he so perfect? How was his life so charmed that his biggest concern was making sure his biceps looked amazing in whatever tight designer shirt he decided to wear?  One day at lunch, you found an empty seat next to the nerdy guys. They were pretty cool, they were in their own world and they really did not give a shit. You couldn't help but admire them a little. The guy with the reptiles gave you a wave so you figured you weren't unwelcome. The food the cafeteria served up was actually somewhat decent and you- A pair of gloved hands slammed down on the table right next to you, the guys immediately took to their feet with their food trays. You looked up at Greg as he leaned over, trying to ignore how nice he smelled. He told the others to sit down, and they quickly complied. You'd seen him lifting up tables in the cafeteria before, knocking people's food onto the floor. He'd even lifted up the benches people were sitting on. “I felt terrible that I wasn't here for you guys yesterday,” he explained, there was a strange sort of honesty to his words. He grabbed the carton of milk from your tray and started tossing it gently from one hand to the other. You tried to swallow down the rage which was rapidly beginning to surface. “I just wanted to apologise and let you know that you're still my favourites.” After dropping the carton, his hands gripped onto the table, the guys frantically stood up again. “Sit down,” he ordered. Your grip tightened on the knife and fork you were holding as the other took their seats. "I am trying to eat my lunch," you seethed, glaring up at him. He blinked at you incredulously. "You must be new," he commented, his eyes slowly roaming over your body. "What are you supposed to be?" "Someone who's eating their lunch. Without an asshole hovering over them." "What did you just say to me?" "Oh so you are as stupid as you look, huh. I said. . .fuck off." Anger flicked over his expression but there was also something else too, almost like he was impressed. You assumed that he was going to tip your lunch over your head, so you kept the knife in a firm grip, though it was blunt it would still do some damage. One of his friends started calling out for him. He stood up straight, taking a step back from the table, a cruel smirk was on his face. "I'll see you later," he promised quietly, his words tinged with the oncoming threat. You let out an unsteady breath when he walked off. You got banished from the table. It wasn't a surprise, they didn't want anymore trouble than they already had to endure from Greg. You had gotten carried away, not really considering the consequences of your actions. There was a fine line between defending yourself and whacking a wasps nest over and over with a baseball bat before trying to set in on fire. You should have kept your mouth shut and your head down, but you decided to paint a target on the back of your head instead. You cut class early at the end of the day and managed to get home without being accosted, too worried about what would happen if he found you. Fuck, what did you do? - - - The next day you had gym class. You'd been dreading it almost as much as seeing Greg again. The teacher didn't let you in the girls or the boys changing rooms, so you ended up stripping down in a dingy storage closet. You almost laughed to yourself when the light bulb flicked off. Perfect. . .just fucking perfect. You kept getting changed, hoping that you'd put on the shirt the right way round. When the door opened, you stumbled back in surprise, bumping your leg into one of the shelves. Greg was standing in the doorway, wearing a skimpy vest that concealed nothing and tight little gym shorts. He stalked forwards and slammed the door shut behind him. Oh shit- You braced yourself, expecting him to retaliate for what you'd called him. Backing up as far as you could go, his body pressed up against yours, you could feel his hot breath on your face. "You've got quite the mouth on you, you know that?" He murmured, you nearly flinched when you felt his fingertips trace over your bottom lip. Your heart was beating fast, your breaths were coming in short. He moved his hand from your mouth, and replaced it with something else, something softer. Oh fuck was he. . .was kissing you? Before you could react, he pulled away and left the storage closet, making sure the door was closed properly. The light came back on a few seconds later. A smile pulled up your cheeks as you let out a soft laugh.

[merryfortune]

eggshells

Un-Love You Challenge: Day 20. I hate you, you bitch.

Ship: Asuka/Yuriko

Fandom: Tropical Rouge PreCure

Word Count: 1.9k

Tags: Not Canon Compliant, Inspired by Revolutionary Girl Utena, Minor Animal death

Synopsis: Shrodinger’s bird is both dead and alive depending on whether its eggshell is broken. Asuka and Yuriko both wish that the bird is dead.

AN: As soon as I saw these two interact, I was instantly reminded of Juri and Shiori from RGU so I wanted to write a fic inspired by that.

   The first omen that their relationship was about to be broken beyond all repair was when the fleur-de-lis locket that Asuka had gotten for Yuriko broke. It came off the hinges unexpectedly with no forewarning. Through sheer force of will, Asuka had gotten it to click back into place but it was lopsided and as it was lopsided, Yuriko had little desire to wear it anymore. It sat awkwardly between her clavicles in a way it had never before.

   Especially not in the way Asuka had first adorned Yuriko with it. That moment of repose, in between torn gift wrapping and the intimacy, had meant a lot to them both. Asuka was delicate as the silver chain slipped into place against Yuriko’s skin. As she did so, she regaled an old wives’ tale that Yuriko hadn’t heard before about misplaced locks, whenever they went askew it meant someone was thinking of you and in the essence of that moment, Yuriko couldn’t help but sense that all Asuka was thinking about was her but… Yuriko was aware of other’s thoughts, too, as she was so damnably perceptive.

   The second omen that their relationship was about to be wounded beyond all healing was when that little black and brown sparrow had flown into the window and didn’t get up afterwards. Asuka had wanted to help it; Yuriko had wanted to allow nature to take its course. 

   They had been standing around the tennis club’s hangout, where they stored their sports gear and such, arguing or trying not to argue as they rallied around the obvious issue in the clubroom when they had heard the smack against the glass. Both had rushed outside as soon as it had happened, expecting a tennis ball. Not a bird. With Asuka taking it in her hands, against Yuriko’s harsh fussing, it was already too late. The skull was cracked, as was its beak and so all it could do was twitch in her hand with some imitation of life. Asuka’s expression was grim; Yuriko’s wasn’t even smug. Neither noticed the other, just assuming the other’s reaction.

   The third omen was that they couldn’t even look at one another. Things had become awkward. Stiff. They both knew they were headed for a brick wall but they were trying to overcome it anyway. Going through, going over, going under. Whatever it took but it was slowing down their game. They couldn’t win together as doubles with this hindered team work but they couldn’t even win either way if they were to go out as doubles. The other members of the tennis club could tell something had happened to them. Or, at the very least, something was happening between them.

   There wasn’t a fourth omen because the fourth unusual event was the end of it all. Their friendship, their love, their whatever their relationship was as more than just partners in tennis but a whole lot less than partners than lovers. After all, things tend to end at four. 

   Sometimes, they even died at four. 

   Unfortunately for Asuka and Yuriko, no matter how they wished for it, what they had didn’t die. And neither of them were the type to simply keel over and expire with their hearts in agony. So, what happened instead was some necrotic deterioration of their relationship and everything else in the way was mere canon fodder for what happened. Yuriko retreated to her own camp, finding a new tribe amongst the folk on the student representative council, and Asuka retreated to one at all, instead choosing to lick her wounds in private.

   Or at least that’s what Asuka had wanted to do. She wanted to sculpt herself as the cool girl. The loner. The girl who didn’t need anyone at all, even though it was no secret that doubles tennis was her passion - and so was any video game with co-op play, be it through multi-player or even A.I. controlled characters. And for a while it worked, she would hide out behind the school’s gymnasium or in the toilets, pretending she didn’t exist for the most part until she hit a collision with someone who was like the striking of the summer sun.

   Natsuumi Manatsu. What a girl. She was bright, bubbly, and she had an actual living mermaid living in some sort of watery genie bottle she kept in her bag - and that was to say nothing of what she could do with the ring on her finger. A ring which would soon have a sister which was gifted for Asuka and thus, Cure Flamingo was born and so was the Tropical Club and all aspirations and illusions that Asuka had of being of being a lone wolf were shattered because deep down, she liked to keep a flock of birds.

   Club President Takizawa Asuka did have a good sound to it, even if it really ought to be Manatsu. She was the central and driving force who had connected together a handful of scattered students who wouldn’t have interacted otherwise but no, no, she had humbly given up the role for Asuka. Seeing something in those bright eyes of her’s that Asuka didn’t even see in herself.

   She was thankful but it was unfortunate but she supposed her underclassmen were cute enough so she’d do anything to protect them. Beat up bullies, beat up underwater bad guys, and of course put herself in the crosshairs time and time again of the worst of the worst: young ladies like Kakuta Masami and, of course, Shiratori Yuriko.

   For so long, Asuka had managed to avoid the hawk-eyed ire of the council president. She hadn’t escaped it completely but she had minimised it but thanks to the Tropical Club, Asuka was once again the subject of that cold, hardened gaze. When it could be sustained at least.

   No matter the lecture, it did become apparent here and there within Yuriko’s behaviour that she was avoiding Asuka’s own, fierce gaze. She had all the power of fluttering wings and mermaid magic, she could handle one ex...something. Friend, girlfriend, partner. It didn’t matter; it hadn’t mattered because they felt like it would last forever so there was no need to label it. What rot that was. Now look at them. Going to war each time they gimpsed one another. Asuka could handle how Yuriko’s avian, yellow eyes slitted around her and how she had mastered the effect of looking closely, directly whilst actually not. 

   And so began their newest foray into being foes. The battleground might have changed but the battle itself hadn’t. The to and fro was far too familiar to them both as tennis pros. The rally and the volley. It was all the same to them: all a racket. Thus leading to their latest confrontation in Yuriko’s council room. 

   When it was all to themselves, like right now, they were free to get as downright nasty as they pleased: even if it was under the veneer of rather hushed voices. As much as they wanted to squawk at each other like duelling carrion birds, this was still a school so they had to keep their composure and their voices down. Besides, there were plenty more ways to pierce than just being ear-piercingly shrill in their voices.

   “You’re doing this on purpose,” Asuka insisted brusquely, “random inventory checks by the Disciplinary Committee aren’t so random if they’re only being held on the Tropical Club.”

   Yuriko shrugged, her face just a degree off from fully facing Asuka, her arms were folded in front of her, “I do not control the personal actions and decisions of Kakuta-san,” Yuriko murmured, “I merely suggest that the time is right at pure arbitrary of my own whims as they come and go between the paperwork and other scheduling that I do.”

   The dangling of the conspiracy infuriated Asuka. She growled, her hand balling into a fist by her side and in the thick of that raw noise in her throat, she hissed, “I hate you, you bitch.” Asuka knew she was right and Yuriko knew it too but was keeping it so locked and guarded and yet so out in the open just to bait Asuka. The rage that it caused seeped through and made Asuka seem redder - and madder - than her hair.

   “I hate you, too.” Yuriko smiled, oh so pleasant, her eyes crinkling in the corner with genuine joy.

   Asuka gritted her teeth and she stormed forward. She grabbed Yuriko by the lapels and shook her. Yuriko went prone with the roughness, seemingly not caring one bit at how Asuka had accosted her. Her whole body was limp, without worry, without so much as a glimmer of harshness in her eyes as they were far, far away from this brutish conversation.

   “What the hell is wrong with you?” Asuka growled. “Target me all you want, I don’t care, I can take it but leave the other girls out of it. The Tropical Club has nothing to do with us-”

   A glint of silver caught Asuka’s eye and just that tiny flash was enough to halt her tirade completely. All her anger ceased in her mouth as she was so stunned by what she saw on the pale of Yuriko’s skin. It slinked and slithered on her clavicles, mostly hidden by the turquoise of her flapping collar: the locket.

   “Y-You're still wearing it?” Asuka asked and she let go of Yuriko gingerly.

   She huffed, sorted herself out and Asuka noticed that the clasp was askew. Right by her pencil-thin neck, right where Asuka had always dreamed to leave a bruise: be it from love or from wrath, it mattered not. Especially now that Yuriko had gone and fixed it up, moving the clasp to the back of her neck, the locket moving beneath the white of her sailor shirt.

   Yuriko bore an enigmatic expression as she looked up, done with her fussing. It was distant and playful. And she reached out to Asuka, shocking her with the seeming kindness in her fingertips as they brushed past her temples, caressing her. Asuka winced and she was blinded. Yuriko’s fingers cupped her face in a way so that all she could see - and feel - was her hands. Her soft, supple hands and the spritz of a maturely scented perfume on her wrist. Asuka’s heart skipped a beat.

   Yuriko kissed her. It was a kiss that was like dry ice to Asuka’s searing mouth. It was a cold, clinical kiss that was fit to leave a blister on Asuka’s skin. She tried not to kiss back but all her soul wanted to. She had yearned to kiss Yuriko for so long, so why did this have to be the circumstance? When a kiss was not a kiss but a way in which to kill instead.

   Especially… Especially knowing the last time that Asuka could recall before this incident wherein she and Yuriko had locked eyes, firmly and strongly, for the last time. The event which had been foretold by the various omens of things breaking apart, getting wounded, and even dying. When Asuka had seen Yuriko kissing someone else through the crack of an ajar door at the tennis club room. The memory and recollection made Asuka sick and to think of it now, at such a pertinent moment, sullied the seconds that Yuriko spended on her, kissing her with such stringent luxury that it was calculated to the edge of her sigh on her sharp mouth.

   But in the darkness of her hands, that’s all Asuka could see and it all but killed her. She wished that it killed her.

[elylandon]

Part 1 - Chapter 9: Panic

Summary: You’re running for your life when you cross paths with an ex-bounty hunter and his small, green companion. You never thought you’d find someone throughout the whole galaxy who was as lost as you.

Pairing: The Mandalorian/Din Djarin x Female Reader

Word Count: 4,229

Rating/Warnings: M for mature content. Swearing, violence, [eventual smut], etc.

Chapter 8 | Chapter 10 

Note: (Slight AU - Slow Burn) I hope you enjoy this one! ❤

---

As it turned out, it wasn’t safer for the three of you out in space than it was on land. It hadn’t been more than a day after you had acquired the comlinks that the Razor Crest was accosted by a bounty hunter. The shootout that ensued caused a lot of external damage that you weren’t skilled enough to repair on your own.

Thanks to Din’s clever maneuvering, he was able to get rid of the hunter, and safely land the Crest in a spaceport bay on a desert planet. As he lowered the back ramp and you helped the child settle into his satchel, three little pit droids ran up to assess the ship’s damage. Din quickly whipped out his blaster and fired a warning shot at their feet, surprising you. You wondered for a second if he was jumpier after this encounter than he was letting on, but, as if sensing your questioning gaze, he glanced over his shoulder and said, “I don’t like droids.”

The mechanic on hand approached you, berating Din for firing at her droids. Her name turned out to be Peli, and as the three of you walked around the ship-- the child tagging along in the satchel against your hip-- she relayed her observations of the repairs needed, and the money it would cost. You could tell it was more than Din had by the set of his shoulders. You were tempted to remind him of the “communal fund”, but knew it would be useless. He was just as stubborn as you were about that money.

Besides, the two of you had just discussed this the day before. Din needed to find work, and you weren’t going to be able to go with him this time. He promised Peli he’d get her the money, told you he’d be back in a bit to prepare for whatever job he found, then took off.

He was only gone for about thirty minutes, in which time you watched Peli work and asked questions. You were used to working on engines and the electrical parts of these ships, but nothing as large scale as the damage caused by an attack from another ship. You helped Peli with a lot of the rewiring needed, though, as she normally left stuff like that to her droids. At least this would help lower the cost a little, as she begrudgingly admitted she wouldn’t charge Din for any work she didn’t do.

When Din returned, the two of you had already made a lot of progress, and you were hopeful that the Crest would be back in flying shape by the following evening.

“Did you find anything?” you asked as Din came striding over to you. He nodded.

“There’s a kid trying to get into the Guild. He’s got his first mark and said he’d give me the pay if I helped. He just wants the reputation to get in.” 

You frowned. “Is it such a good idea to work on something this close to the Guild?”

“The job pool is dry otherwise,” he said while having the audacity to shrug nonchalantly. He watched as your frown grew, so he tilted his head, body language sobering.

“He isn’t a part of the Guild yet, or else he’d know that my bounty or the kid’s are much more appealing to him than the one he’s got.”

“Who’s the target?”

“Fennec Shand. She’s a high profile mercenary.”

“Is she dangerous?”

“Very.”

You sighed through your nose, holding his eyes through the visor of his helmet. You had to remind yourself that this sort of thing was his profession, his livelihood. You’d seen him take on raiders and a walker firsthand, and have heard about some of his past hunts that he had been willing to share. You knew there were jobs he had taken that were unsavory compared to the ones he had been doing in recent years. He never said so, but you could just tell that, like you, he had a story he wasn’t keen on sharing.

The point, though, was that Din had been doing jobs like this for a long time before you and the kid came along. So you weren’t going to stop him from taking them, despite the strong suspicion you had that he wouldn’t take this one if you pushed.

No. This is what he hired you to do. You were to watch over the kid and the ship, giving him the opportunity to make a living the only way he knew how.

As if it was just a reflex now, you reached out and clasped his forearm.

“Just be careful, okay? Don’t get yourself killed because some hotshot wants to take on a tough bounty to get into the Guild.” You almost stopped yourself from saying the next few words. But you swallowed the fear of how much of yourself you were putting into them, and said them anyway.

“Come back to us.”

Din pulled his arm back, and for a fraction of a second, your heart clenched, thinking he was rejecting your sentiment. But he only moved so that he could clasp your fingers in his gloved ones. He gave your fingers a light squeeze.

“I will.”

It was such a short, Din answer, you couldn’t help but laugh a little.

You followed him out of the hangar so you and the child could see him off. He hounded you with reminders the whole way.

“Do you have your blaster?”

“What about your knife?”

“Do you remember all the things Cara and I taught you?”

It reminded you of when you were eleven, and had tried your hand at babysitting for some extra pocket money. It took several minutes for the parents to even walk out the door as they showed you where the emergency numbers were and how to set the security system, asking you again and again if you remembered everything. Only this time you smiled warmly as you assured him that if anything happened, you’d be able to tell him right away with the comlinks, and you’d be able to hold your own until he got back.

Because, in this case, Din wasn’t a fretting parent, worried about leaving his child with a stranger for the first time. He was someone that cared about your wellbeing as much as the child’s. And that thought made your heart and your stomach take up each other’s hands and waltz around your insides.

The three of you met the rookie outside as he lounged against one of two speeder bikes.

“Hey, Mando, what do you think? Not too shabby, huh?” he said, sounding proud of himself. Apparently, it had been his job to find the bikes. He introduced himself to you as Toro as Din inspected them. His eyes briefly landed on the child, and he gave him a slightly bemused look before turning his attention back to the Mandalorian. Din didn’t look too impressed with the bikes.

“What’d you expect? This ain’t Corellia,” he said in his defense. 

Din cast you a sidelong glance, and deliberately showed you when he lifted his vambrace and pressed a button, causing your earpiece to crackle as his came to life. Then, he swung a leg over the bike, and they both took off.

---

Again, you passed the time with Peli working on the Crest. You let the child wander, always keeping him in sight and making sure he kept away from the observing droids. You knew Din wouldn’t like the child near them. You wondered why he didn’t like droids. It was kind of a shame, really. They seemed pleasant enough, and you had always liked working with the ones in Thasar’s personal bay. 

While you kept an eye on the kid, you kept an ear on Din. For the longest time, all you could hear was the sound of the bike racing across the sand. At one point, he had stopped to negotiate with some locals. At least, that was what you had assumed. The bargaining itself was rather silent. You were able to barely pick up Toro’s protest, however, when Din handed his binocs over to the locals.

“Those were brand new!”

“Yeah? They were,” Din deadpanned, and you laughed.

They found their target shortly after that… and by found, you were referring to the fact that Din was hit twice by sniper bolts while inspecting a downed hunter still tied up on a dewback’s saddle. He’d gotten back to Toro and cover well enough though, assuring you as you panicked that he was fine.

“Covered in beskar, remember?” he’d said, as if that should calm you. 

It didn’t even calm Toro, who must have thought Din was reassuring him and said, “Wait, I don’t wear any beskar.”

“Nope,” was Din’s reply.

He decided to wait until nightfall to make their next move. When that time finally came, you anxiously listened as Peli entertained the child. The plan didn’t go over too well from what you could tell. Din was shot at again, and you were certain he was hit at least once. But you heard the telltale twang of the shot hitting beskar, so you remained quiet, knowing he was fine and not wanting to distract him. After a few more minutes, though, it seemed Toro was able to distract their target long enough for Din to sneak up and get the upper hand. They captured Fennec.

You released a shaky breath and slumped down to sit on the back ramp of the Crest.

“I don’t think I can listen to you out on jobs anymore,” you said, hand clutching your chest over your racing heart. “That was terrifying.”

Din chuckled quietly so only you could hear, then set to work on figuring out how to transport Fennec Shand back across the desert. The problem now was that Din’s bike was out of commission, as it had fallen prey to one of Fennec’s sniper bolts.

In the end, Din left Toro with Fennec to go find the dewback they had seen earlier.

You were able to focus on the ship again for a while, now that you were sure Din was safe and would be making his way back soon. You still talked to him through the night, though, perhaps to assure yourself that he really was fine, or simply because you really, really liked the sound of his voice, modulated or not. However, as the two suns rose and Din made his way back with the dewback to where he had left Toro and Fennec, he cursed as he found the scene not as he had left it.

“Y/N,” he said, tone wary.

“Hmm?” 

“Fennec’s dead.”

“What? H-how? Is Toro-”

“He’s gone. Speeder bike is gone too. He must have killed Fennec and taken off.”

“But why would he do that? He needed to bring her in alive in order to get into the Guild.”

Din was silent for a moment, thinking this through, just as you were. He must have come to the same conclusion just as you did, as he said, “He’s got a head start on me. Hide the kid, and prepare yourself. I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

“You think he’s caught on to a higher profile bounty than Fennec?”

“Yes,” Din said curtly. “And I doubt he’ll leave without both parts of it.”

“Okay,” you said, tone resolute. “I’ll keep him busy until the second half of his Guild ticket gets here.”

---

Fortunately, Din told you that you had a little time. It would take Toro most of the day to ride back to town. You told Peli what was going on, and the two of you rushed to finish the repairs on the Crest. You wanted it to be ready for escape once Din got back and handled Toro. As night fell, Peli hid herself somewhere in the hangar, backup in case you needed it. But you didn’t want to give Toro anymore ammunition to use as leverage against you, like a hostage.

You bustled the child into the hidden compartment that was Din’s cot, apologizing for leaving him in there alone while you reasoned with him to be still and quiet. He seemed to understand the gravity of your mood and did as he was told. Then, you started stacking the bins at the back end of the ship wide enough and tall enough so you could hide behind them without being seen. Toro was going to come onto the ship looking for the kid, and this was your trap for him.

Something Zekir had always impressed upon you was that others would underestimate you, and that was possibly your greatest weapon. As much as you hated anyone agreeing with him, Cara had said the same. You weren’t large and strong like she was, or a skilled, longtime combatant like her or Din. But you could hold your own in short bursts that surprised your opponents long enough to gain the upper hand, so that’s what you were going to do with Toro.

You kept your blaster holstered and your knife within reach. You couldn’t afford both you and Toro firing at each other within the confined space of the Razor Crest, nor were you skilled enough with a blade yet to be confident in fighting him with anything other than your bare hands. You stood there behind the bins, anticipating his approach, knowing that he would most definitely have his blaster out, ready to threaten you or the child with it.

Din kept asking for check-ins, but you only hummed to him quietly, assuring him nothing had happened yet. You didn’t want to risk Toro hearing you, not knowing when he’d be sneaking into the hangar. But you heard him soon enough.

His quiet footfalls shifted in the sand, then quietly padded up the ramp of the Crest. You waited, holding your breath as he drew closer, not daring to move until you saw the tip of his blaster or his boot. You steeled every last nerve inside of you, focusing all of your concentration on the next few seconds.

You saw his blaster first. You quickly shot your left hand out and grabbed the barrel of the blaster. Thankfully, he wasn’t a complete trigger happy idiot, as his finger hadn’t been on the trigger. You yanked the barrel down, and twisted in front of him, bringing the heel of your right palm up to crash against his nose.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t with enough force to break his pretty face, but you knew sure as hell how painful it was to take a direct hit to the nose. Toro cried out, head snapping back. You brought that same hand down on his right shoulder—the other hand still holding his blaster down—grabbed a fistful of his jacket and pulled him towards you. You met him halfway, hitting him with your signature knee to his gut, twice.

Toro gasped and curled in on himself. You dragged your right hand down to meet your left one and pulled back, dragging him forward onto the ground by his arm, then twisted it, turning yourself so that you could stand over his back, his arm wrenched at an angle so uncomfortable, it would hurt him to move. It was easy then to break the hold he had on the blaster. You wrest it from him before dropping his arm and pointing the blaster at his back.

This all happened in a matter of seconds, and Toro groaned as the whirlwind subsided.

“You’ve made a mistake,” he breathed, turning his head back to look at you. “I’m Mando’s partner, remember? We got separated, and I came back to look for him.”

Came looking for him with a blaster raised? I don’t think so, you thought, but you actually said, “Actually, I’m Mando’s partner, and he warned me about what you really came back for.”

“What the hell,” Toro moaned, obviously still feeling the pain in his nose, stomach, and arm. “Fennec said you were just some Earthling slave girl.”

“Well, she wasn’t wrong. But that doesn’t make me any less capable of kicking your ass.”

A chuckle tickled your ear, and Din said, so quietly you were sure you weren’t meant to hear it, “That’s my girl.” 

If this had been any other moment, you knew your heart would have swelled with pride and affection. Well, of course it did, but you had a job to do, and you weren’t going to be distracted from protecting that kid… until that kid came waddling towards you, curiously eyeing the situation. You quickly glanced towards the hidden compartment, and found the door open. How had he gotten out? How had you not noticed? 

“Stop!” you barked, panicked. He startled to a halt, gazing up at you in confusion. You had never spoken to him like that before. But he was dangerously close to Toro, and even if you had a blaster trained on him, you didn’t trust that he wouldn’t reach out and snatch the kid, using him against you to make you back down. 

You heard Din call your name over the comlink, asking what was going on, but you ignored him. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” you said, tone pleading. “I’m so sorry, but you need to stay back. It’s too dangerous for you here.”

The child took a slow step back, brow bone still bunched in confusion. You nodded at him encouragingly, smiling to make up for your harsh tone before. You opened your mouth to tell him that was good, to keep moving back-

But then an electrifying pain coursed through you, originating from your ankle, and channeling through every nerve ending in your body. You gasped, then gritted your teeth, trying like hell not to scream. You couldn’t scream. You knew pain. You knew how to pace yourself through it. But the scream eventually ripped out of you as the agonizing current of electricity surged through you over, and over, and-

You heard the child’s terrified wailing, and Din’s panicked shouting in your ear, but all you knew was pain...and then nothing.

Toro pulled the small, taser-like weapon back and watched you collapse, blaster clattering beside you. He grabbed for it and scrambled up, then stared down at you, nudging you with the toe of his boot to make sure you were really out. When you didn’t stir, he huffed a slightly victorious laugh, and kicked you over the lip of the ramp. You rolled down it, landing in a heap at the bottom. He kind of hoped he hadn’t killed you with that shock-- it wasn’t exactly a low voltage device-- as there were a lot of things he could do with an Earthling. 

As Toro turned towards the child, who was still babbling with frightened concern, he noticed something move out of the corner of his eye. Sure that it was Mando, he quickly turned the blaster on you, expecting that threat to give him the advantage. It did make the intruder freeze, but it wasn’t Mando. 

Toro assumed it was the mechanic that managed the hangar. The corners of his lips twitched as he met her terrified eyes. She was holding a blaster on him, but her conviction fell when she saw him aiming at you.  

“I’m curious as to who the faster shot would be. Me?” He waggled his blaster tauntingly in your direction. “Or you?”

The mechanic resignedly lowered her blaster.

“That’s a good girl,” Toro hummed, giving her a megawatt smile. “Now, come on over here. We’ll all wait for Mando together.”

---

Panic. This was what raw, unadulterated panic felt like. Din had only felt it at this magnitude one other time in his life. The day when he had lost everything.

“Y/N!” he exclaimed for sixth or seventh time since he’d heard your terrible scream pierce through the earpiece. But you weren’t responding.

Din’s mind kept racing through the worst possible conclusions. What happened to you? What was happening to the kid? What if he had just lost everything once again?

He was thankful for how close he had been when he heard that sound come tearing out of you. Close enough to slide off the dewback and sprint the last gap into the town limits as night fully fell. He slowed to a sneaking gate and pulled out his blaster as he slipped into the hangar, hoping to catch Toro by surprise. But Toro had been waiting, and he spotted Din quickly enough.

“Took you long enough, Mando,” he said, standing on the back ramp of the Razor Crest, the child in one hand, a blaster in the other. He held it on Peli as she stood in front of them. “Looks like I’m calling the shots now. Huh, partner?”

Din’s racing heart galloped even harder when he spotted you, crumpled at the bottom of the ramp. You lay curled on your side, back facing him, unmoving. Toro seemed to comprehend where Din’s gaze had gone, and he gave a falsely sad shake of his head, moving towards you. Din’s body had already been taught with turmoil and anticipation, but still his muscles seized as Toro inched closer to your prone form.

Said man reached his foot out, catching your shoulder and nudging you hard enough to push you onto your back. Your head lolled limply to the side, and Din could see the mask of pain still touching your brows, and the grimace on your lips. His fingers tightened on his raised blaster, jaw clenching, vision reddening.

“I really hope I didn’t kill her,” Toro said. “I think she’s breathing, but I didn’t have time to check.” He gave a passive sort of shrug. “Did you know you were toting around a slave that had killed her master, Mando? Setting aside the fact that she’s also an Earthling for a moment, someone had the Guild put a pretty heavy price on her head. With Fennec, I didn’t care about the bounty money. But considering that the amount of credits I can get for this Earthling is upwards to five or six times as much as Fennec’s bounty, I’d say I’ve changed my mind on the matter.”

Din said nothing, and Toro smirked. 

“That said, I’ve decided I’ll be turning in a Guild traitor, the target he helped escape, and an exotic murderer for my first job.”

Din was absolutely vibrating with his desire to end this kid. But he had to repress such a reckless impulse and remind himself that the child’s life was still on the line, even if… even if yours wasn’t. And lest he forget poor, innocent Peli, who he had inadvertently roped into all this.

Toro ordered Din to drop his blaster. He did so, and raised his hands over his head as Toro instructed Peli to head over and cuff him. She made her way over to Din, coming to a stop behind him... and noticed the flash charge in his raised hand.

“You’re smarter than you look,” she whispered.

“Fennec was right,” Toro concluded, unsuspecting. “Bringing you in won’t just make me a member of the Guild, it’ll make me legendary.”

Din activated the charge, causing a whirlwind of commotion. He and Peli dove out of the way as Toro started blindly firing at them. Din rushed behind some equipment and came up on the left side of the ramp. Toro spun to take aim at him, but Din was faster. He shot the Guild wannabe, and he toppled off the ramp, dead before he hit the ground.

As everything died down, he and Peli ran forward, looking for where Toro would have dropped the child. When Peli spotted him and scooped him up, she pushed Din back, “He’s fine. He’s fine. Go check on your girl over there.”

With the knowledge that the kid was good enough for now, Din spun back around in your direction. Without really considering the rush of thoughts and emotions storming through him, he yanked off his gloves as he knelt beside you. Gingerly, he brought his hands up to cup your face, lightly brushing back a few strands of your hair that were haphazardly covering your features. His right hand came to rest on your neck, allowing him to release a breath he hadn’t known he was holding when he felt your strong pulse fighting against the pads of his fingers. The thumb of his other hand lightly traced across your cheekbone, over and over.

“Y/L,” he murmured, quietly but firmly, urging you to wake. There was a short moment of resurging panic when you didn’t stir right away, but after a little more coaxing, your eyes fluttered open.

“Din?” Your waking sigh was a bemused, but contented one. But then your thoughts shifted towards the child and you bolted upright, wincing, but on high alert.

“He’s okay,” Din said softly. “Peli’s got him.”

You sagged in relief, collapsing against Din’s side.

“He’s okay,” you repeated in a whisper, eyes closing in what he could only assume was exhaustion. Hesitantly, he placed his bare hand against the small of your back, holding you there against him.

“You both are,” he said, finally allowing the tension of the last several hours to dissipate. Everything he cared about was safe.

For now.

---

Tag List: Please, please, please let me know if I missed you or the tag isn’t working.

@sirianfromsixties @doubtedbus409 @shadowfoxey @knockbeforeyouspeak @ispilledmyink @sinon36 @whenthestarsfalldowntonight @im-the-nerdiest-of-them-a11 @imaginebeinlovedbyme @marvelobsessiononastick @pascalisthepunkest @yepimthatperson @stevieharrrr @sunkissed-winter @the-feckless-wonder @fruitsaladtree @adikaofmandalore @irishleesh93 @sevvysaurus @pisss-offf-ghostt​ 

[quagmireisadora]

[Jonghyun / Taemin] After the Fire

Prompt: A is a struggling writer going through a creative block, until B literally crashes into their life, claiming that they are a modern-day muse.  Rating: R-ish(?) Warnings: some explicit descriptions Length: ~10,000

Summary: Drawn to danger, I burned my own house down.

(Written as part of the Winter of SHINee fic fest. Please go support all the entries there)

------

“... we thank you for your manuscript and applaud your efforts in completing another book. Unfortunately, it is not quite in the vein of what we are looking for. Please stay in touch for…” 

In Jonghyun’s eyes, there is only one way to construe the letter—your stuff isn't sexy enough.

He knows the standards the publication house upholds. When he’d first applied to write for them, presenting a short story full of elucidated gasps and pants and whatnot: he’d done his research. The other writers and their works are miles apart from what he could ever produce. Those books are too salacious, too irreverent for him to match.

So, he knows there is a yardstick, and that he is required to be faithful to it, if he must help retain their astronomically high readership. 

Honestly, though… the only reason Jonghyun writes erotic literature is because it is easy money. 

Coming straight out of college, he first tried his hand at working for obscure webzines. That was a very weird, isolating experience. His colleagues were constantly embroiled in intellectual and cultural debates, the likes of which a man of his upbringing could never participate in—the elegance of noir films, the chaos of punk history, the artful French New Wave. Not only did these subjects evolve outside the barriers he grew up between, the webzines’ subscribers were largely foreigners, rendering a monolinguistic man like him… well. Useless.

Following this, he’d done a stint at small, virtually unknown publications. He’d written largely ignored thought pieces for national papers. He’d even submitted the less embarrassing specimens of his attempted poetry to the Metropolitan office of which, none were imprinted on subway doors. Yet.

To the interested employer, his CV reads like a grocery list of jobs: I did everything I possibly could with my mediocre talent, just so I could earn a living. And he doesn't mind that—encourages that thought, in fact. It is Jonghyun's earnest belief that only by downplaying his past professional experiences will he ever get a step ahead, climb a rung higher. It is also Jonghyun's earnest belief that dream jobs do not exist and, in this economy at least, settling is a good idea when you have qualifications as meaningless as his. 

So no, he doesn't turn any work down. Nothing is beneath him. And that attitude has led him here—to writing cheap erotica for easy money.

Except, Jonghyun hasn't a single erotic bone in his body. 

He is a man, most certainly. Red-blooded as they come. But something about writing down the act, about describing it in the most colourful and drawn-out details... femininity must surely be a prerequisite, he thinks. To notice the way that things look or sound or feel or taste in those short moments. To recreate that passion, that ecstasy, that urgency with paragraph upon paragraph of meticulous and explicit narration: one must need a very observative mind. Or a hyperactive imagination. Because something that lasts just a few minutes from his perspective, can only be recreated with such intensity if it were a woman on the other side of the pen.

So no, Jonghyun doesn't do sexy. Despite having penned three short novels, all with the reluctant perusal of internet porn, he doesn’t do sexy. He doesn’t do softcore, he doesn’t do taboo or wild or… anything, really. He just isn't capable of indelicacy like that. He reasons he can probably try romantic, but that’s not what this specific job entails, does it? No, and the letter is good evidence of that, he realises, stowing his last manuscript away for recycling. 

 Where sexual depravity is concerned, Jonghyun is running on empty. And if things don't change soon, his bank account will too.

------

His mother doesn't know, of course. She thinks her poor son, her youngest baby, is so deeply mired in the nine-to-five that he doesn't even have time to visit these days. Writing is time-consuming. Writing entire novels, even more so. He doesn’t tell her what his job is, though. He keeps it vague. I’m working at an office. I’m working for a big company. I’m working in a building on Saemunan-ro.

As common a name as Kim Jonghyun is, a pseudonym is useful in many ways, he realises. He doesn’t get strange calls from distant relatives, demanding what the hell does he think he’s doing, while ignoring the fact that they went looking for erotica in the first place. He doesn’t have his young cousins approach him with was that really you, hyung? or can we get an early copy of your next one? His friends and ex-associates don’t have a clue. He would like to keep it that way: Minho already gives him a hard time about growing into an old shut-in, if he had the faintest idea of what was going on behind those closed doors and drawn curtains… Minho would no longer be a friend, Jonghyun wagers with shame.

Even so, the question of inspired writing—if he can call it that—still remains. Rather, the question of how he will pay next month’s rent, how he will settle the stack of overdue power and internet and water bills, still remains. Seoul is an expensive city to live in by oneself, and he cannot move back under the same roof as his mother and sister, not with a scandalous job like this. 

At this point he has no way of stimulating his mind without resorting to stealing from other writers. 

And so, the idea of a fan-meeting event is a sort of lifeline. He figures it could help if people show appreciation for his work: even if those people are wild-eyed and pimple-faced oily young men who should be ashamed of themselves, his morality yells wordlessly. But he is no one to judge. And if they prove to be a motivation, if they can help him get out of his block, then all the morality in the world can go to hell. 

The event isn’t as clandestine as he imagines it to be, either. Outside the venue is a board yelling out a “SHIN YUN BOK PUBLICATION AUTHORS’ CONVENTION”. The doors are wide open. The sound of chatter, the smell of food, the murmur of excitement, all floats out to the lobby just outside. 

When he enters, his face obscured by a surgical mask and a large pair of sunglasses, the place is packed. A man is on stage, calling out polite directions for crowd control. Jonghyun recognises him as his employer. Or at least, he is the guy who interviewed him over a grainy skype call late one night. He self-consciously checks his disguise and walks deeper into the fray.

A semi-circle of tables is arranged around the hall, each nominated to a writer. Upon studying the occupied seats, Jonghyun’s premise is solidified when he realises eight out of ten appear to be women. Somehow, this information impresses him.

When he ducks under the ropes and is stopped by a security guard, he points at the only empty table in wordless explanation. Some awkwardness ensues: a request for ID, a weary denial on the basis that pseudonyms aren’t on any ID, a quick consultation by text message, an unenthusiastic “OK, sir. This way, please.” Soon after, Jonghyun has taken his place and assumes the target of many pairs of staring eyes in the room. Some point and snicker, some watch him awestruck, some even take photos. Selcas! Like he is some sort of celebrity! He feels uneasy and oddly vulnerable, fidgeting with his sunglasses as they threaten to slip on the sweat beading his face.

But when the doors are finally shut and the event declared open, Jonghyun’s jealousy soars.

There are lengthy, winding lines of people waiting to speak to nearly all the other writers--but not him. No one approaches him. Not for the first ten minutes, not for the next half hour. In spite of all the staring from before, no one wants to speak with him. No one is interested in getting his signature. 

It is only now, at such a place and such a time, that a series of paranoid questions fills his head. Does anyone read his books? Does anybody like them? Is he not popular? Is his work insignificant, even in circles like these? 

If the number of people dying to speak with the others is anything to go by… then no. Jonghyun is not in the least bit popular. 

He overhears his neighbour chuckle to say things like, of course there is a sequel coming out or yes, I based that character on myself. There are squeals, there are gasps, there is enough veneration to drown Jonghyun in self-pity. Suddenly, he wishes for that love and admiration. He wishes someone would ask him interesting questions and expect fascinating answers; dote on him just the way they dote on the rest of the panel.

His jealousy is poisonous enough that it spreads through his blood. His eyes burn with it, his pulse throbs against it, he feels it bristle in and out of his nostrils with every breath. His sweat begins to sting. His solitude starts to prick. His confidence dwindles to nearly nothing. The weight of envy makes him slide lower and lower into his seat. He plays with his marker and acts nonchalant. Acts like he is unaffected. But in truth he feels like crying. He feels like going home. He feels like quitting-- 

When his latest book is suddenly slammed onto the table, he yells and jumps a foot off his seat. Eyes turn to him again, this time with thinly veiled distaste rather than disinterest. He looks up at his assailant to find a lanky young man donning fashionable sunglasses and equally fashionable clothes. 

“Sign, please,” the guy says in a tone that borders on demanding. 

------

What surprises Jonghyun isn’t the fact that he has a “fan” in someone like Lee Taemin, as he introduces himself later. It is more astonishing to him that other people immediately follow his example and accost Jonghyun with copies of his work—some that look well used and dog-eared to the point that he is afraid to touch them. More and more readers who claim to love his writing flock over, while this Taemin character stands by. Silent, watchful, critical. 

As he doles out autograph after rushed autograph, Jonghyun can’t for the life of him understand how the situation reversed itself in the blink of an eye. 

“Uh… thank you?” he expresses uncertain gratitude. “I was. Surprised.”

“Mm hmm, so what do you want to do next?” the guy counters, folding up the sleeves of his baggy tee-shirt. The crowds have long dissipated. Security has rounded up all the stragglers, even the rowdy ones trying to get too close to that overly popular writer who went by the penname of Eonsook. But no one seems bothered by Taemin. No one cares that he is still here, still engaging in lazy conversation, going at his own pace. Everything about this is so peculiar. Everything is the opposite of his expectations.

“Well, I was about to go home and eat dinner, so—”

“I meant,” an exasperated look berates him. “What do you want to do for your next project?”

There is no answer for that. Jonghyun doesn’t plan these things out. He sits in front of the screen and starts to pour things onto it until he realises none of it is usable. Then he gives up. Rinse, repeat.

But he is expected to answer now. He is expected to say something rooted in a fully formed thought. He is expected to answer this man, this person who appeared out of nowhere and somehow managed to single-handedly create the interest Jonghyun was looking forward to. So, is there also an expected answer? Is there a right and a wrong response? Should he take the question as a cue to say something else, something scripted for such interactions? He doesn’t know.

He settles for a vague, “Uhm, is there anything in particular that Taemin ssi likes to read?” If he has learnt something from his time writing about politics, it is this: the best answer to a difficult question is another question.

An indifferent shrug replies. “Don’t really care. As long as there’s sex in it.”

He’d make a great politician, Jonghyun thinks as he starts to gather his things. “Well. I’m sure you’ll find plenty to satisfy you, then,” he gestures around them at the nearly vacated hall. 

The man on the stage waves to him, he waves back. They will probably speak on the phone later on, and Jonghyun will bombard him with questions.

“But I like what you write,” Taemin continues, drawing is attention back. Physically holding his chin and turning his face so they are looking at each other again. “I want you to write more. Much more. A series!” there is a hint of excitement on those puffy lips.

Jonghyun knows not to aggravate people like him. People who are probably more dangerous than they appear to be. He takes a cautious step back. “I… I wish I could, sir. But you see—”

“I’ll pay you to do it.” A sure motion pulls an expensive-looking wallet out. A wad of cash is counted before nearly all of it is set onto the table. “An advance. I’ll give you three times that when you’ve finished the first draft. How about it?”

He stares at the fan of ten thousand won notes. Rent, he reminds himself. You must pay rent by the end of next week. But what the hell is he going to write?! “Sir, I’m… I’m really very sorry. I don’t have any plans to write the next book and. And I’m not even sure what to write so—”

“I’ll help with that,” Taemin insists. “You need ideas, I’ll give you all the ideas you need. I’ll… I’ll be your muse,” he decides.

Jonghyun stares for a long uneasy moment. Where is security and why aren’t they doing anything? he wonders. He takes another step to back away from the weird man. But the money is right there, perfect bright green rectangles that seem to have come fresh out of the mint. The overlapping portraits of Sejong the Great are all pleading with him to be pocketed. Just say yes! the king is shouting out, even in that placid gaze. You don’t have to follow through, just take the money and run! He can’t find you, anyway!

No. That would be disingenuous. That wouldn’t be right. No matter how desperate his situation, Jonghyun would never resort to thievery. He shakes his head and stays his hand, making no move to accept the money.

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you, Taemin ssi,” he bows and rushes off.

------

Their story begins and ends at Namdaemun.

She looks at its sombre face, artillery fire still marking some of its masonry and disrupting the course of the story. Their story. It is the gate that reaches out for a hug, she thinks when a cold wind picks up and threatens to swoop her shivering self away. It is the gate that offers an embrace, arms angling out from its stiff middle, like a father consoling his sad and broken child. How odd it looked in its place. How quaint, to be the only survivor of its own story. No more kings roam under its elegant archway. No more guards train their arrows from the pagoda. No more tigers rustle nearby under the cover of trees, desperate to find a meal.

This gate… this thing. It shouldn't be here. But someone has shown it their kindness and tended to it; fed it with mortar and concrete and newly painted timber. Someone has seen fit to breathe new life into it.

Their story begins and ends here.

She met him once, then many times, upon the tufts of grass framing Namdaemun. She met him and with every meeting the distance between them diminished from feet to inches to barely anything. She met him, met all of him, met every place on him with every place on herself. His hands would smell of spice. Of coal and heat and rain… perhaps he tended to a garden in their time apart. He had the gentlest hands. When he touched her, they felt like lamps against her skin. His warmth would intoxicate her.

Maybe he was made of fire, she would wonder in the hours they lay next to each other, breath stuttering and pulse racing. Maybe he was a jinn.

“You’re not small enough to fit in a lamp,” she would tease him when they'd stumble over each other.

In her loneliness, she’d dream of him, floating on clouds made of cotton. She'd imagine him traveling from land to unknown land and sea to unending sea. She would imagine him soaring, his skin burnished and his eyes like bronze.

But he is long gone, now. He has left her side and his hands warm someone else's days. She is the survivor of her own story. She is a stiff gate looking for someone to embrace, someone to comfort. She endures, just as Namdaemun endures. They stay and they wait, the gate and her, in the hope that someday there will be a finale to their respective stories.

And then they will breathe a unified sigh of relief.

------

Jonghyun supposes it would’ve been wise to expect a second meeting.

He is still shocked when the time comes: a buzz from downstairs, a murmured excuse about routine maintenance, a knock on the door that sounds far too eager to be just pest control. 

When he opens the door to find the familiar lanky frame, he panics. There are no more disguises obscuring the distance between them now. Each man is plainly visible to the other. Jonghyun feels caught. Trapped, like a wild animal hunted until metal teeth closed around his leg. He frantically searches for something to hide behind, forgetting that he could simply shut the door again.

The creepy man named Lee Taemin invites himself in. He saunters casually, ambling the length of the hallway, looking around the room and humming, appraising it, measuring it. Measuring Jonghyun, who is still shocked and unable to react in a way that protects him.

“Wh-what’re you—?!” he begins when some of the shock has worn off.

“You don’t make a lot of money, do you?” Taemin cuts him off. “Why don’t you accept my offer? I’ll pay you plenty. More than you’ve probably ever seen. Then you can move out of this dump.” Even as he says this, he runs an appreciative hand over a row of books. “I can help you realise all your dreams, you know?”

“How did you even find me?!” Jonghyun counters. 

“Does it matter?” the other drawls, shaking his head in exasperation. He swings his arms around himself as he walks, and when his palms meet, he lets them clap together. Like he’s out on a relaxing stroll in the park. Everything about the setting is preposterous. “I tracked you down, now I’m here, and I’m giving you a second chance. Isn’t that what’s important?”

He stares, trying to figure out this puzzle of a human being. What is this guy? How is he so at ease right now? What is this game he’s playing and why? Why with Jonghyun, of all people? Does everything out of his mouth sound like that? Like a simple fairy tale? I’ll do this, then you do this, then we’ll live happily ever after. Ridiculous!

He’s only ever seen people like that on dramas. Badly written and poorly acted dramas.

“Please leave,” Jonghyun requests, maintaining a formal tone despite all the peculiarity of the setup. “Or I'll call the police.”

Taemin clicks his tongue. “Not until you answer me.”

“Sir, I can’t be bought for no reason.”

“But I’m giving you a reason,” Taemin points out as if the concept is too difficult for Jonghyun to understand. Which it is. “I pay you, you write for me. I like what you write, I pay you to do more. It’s like…” he gestures, standing in the middle of the room, his stance oddly graceful and formidable at the same time. “Like when a king enjoyed an artist of his court and promised his patronage,” he illustrates. “That’s what we’ll be like.”

The smile on his face is a perfect representation of a magician’s. Maybe he is something of a trickster, Jonghyun thinks. Maybe he likes to put on a show and confuse people.

“The publication house already pays me,” he informs. 

“After you finish the book,” he is challenged. It isn’t a lie, but how does this guy even know?1 “And only proportional to the sales. I’ll pay you regardless. In fact,” Taemin points. “I want you to write these books especially for me. My eyes only.”

So that’s it? Jonghyun wonders. Just a rich kid feeding his own kinks? He scoffs and rakes through his hair, sitting down at his desk to think.

He decides to consider it, because yes, he needs the money. Yes, he wants to stop living in fear of sleeping hungry. Yes, he doesn’t want to be destitute at the age of thirty-one, before he’s even had a real relationship, let alone marry and have kids. 

But can he really uphold his end of a deal like that? Can he really write what this guy is expecting him to write?

“I’m not good at… at sexy things,” he finally declares, motioning with his hands as if to show they were empty. “I have to work very hard at it. I can’t do it the way the rest of the authors do, and—” he sighs, remembering the way crazed readers had flocked to everyone else’s tables. Remembering his sales numbers, and the words of the manager of the obscure bookstore as he complained about having to lug all the unsold copies back into storage.

Trash, he’d called them.

“Really, I’m not even sure why you came to me, when someone like… I don’t know. Eonsook? She’s the better choice, clearly.”

Taemin walks closer, his lips pursed like he is thinking of a convincing argument. Maybe he is, from the way his eyes are so focused and bright. There is an unbreakable determination in his every movement. He crouches in front of Jonghyun, sighing as he looks up. 

“Your first book,” he begins. “A story about a man with a delusion. That he is in love with a woman. They fight, then they grow close together. And then, the man is cured through therapy. But,” he clicks his fingers. “His delusion has been passed to the woman. Brilliant idea,” he compliments. “Excellent writing. And yeah, sure, the sex stuff left a lot to be desired but…” he shrugs. “I liked the story. I liked that there was more to look forward to than just two people going at it. And you wrote to tell us that story, not to satisfy my needs, I could see that,” he assures. “So why not do more of that?”

Jonghyun gives a soft laugh despite himself. “Because that book sold less than a hundred copies. And the feedback was dismal—”

“Fuck the feedback,” Taemin shakes his head, a frown creasing his features. He looks young; too young to be involved in disreputable matters like this. Or… maybe at the perfect age to waste his time on such prurient endeavours. “Fuck what any of them think. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“And you do?” Jonghyun doesn’t mean to be so standoffish but he cannot help it. Here is a stranger, coming out of nowhere, to validate him and say nice things about his pathetic attempts at writing. Here is someone trying to convince him that sales don’t matter, popularity doesn’t matter, even the adoration of the readers doesn’t matter. Then what does? Jonghyun confronts with a scowl. What does this guy know?

Taemin chuckles. “All I know is this. I like everything you write.”

------

“This world is built on supply and demand,” Taemin explains. 

He’s still here, hours later. By Jonghyun’s benevolence, of course. They are sitting on the floor, a laptop with a blank word document between them. The cursor is blinking… blinking incessantly. It taunts with each flicker.

Tell your story, Taemin said to him. Tell your story. Write it all down. Whatever you’re thinking of. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as your put it down in words.

Easy to say. Because try as he might, he doesn’t know where to start. He doesn’t even have the shadow of a beginning, forget the middle and the end. There is no story in his mind, no words waiting at his fingertips. 

This is a waste of time.

Taemin continues regardless. “The readers of this kind of stuff... their lives are filled with disappointment. With reality. They want the impossible: sultry encounters, beautiful getaways, improbable scenarios. You see?” he signals like his words are shedding light on abstruse philosophical concepts. “They want what they can’t have. And writers like Eonsook understand that. They supply that demand. That's why she’s always making bestsellers.”

Jonghyun considers this for a moment, seeing some truth in those claims. He takes a look around his own apartment, eyes roving over the small desk and small sofa and small kitchen. It is a liveable space, he reckons. It is better than a half-basement, or a slum with toxic asbestos roofing and poor access. But he is aware that in the bigger picture, he is still poor. He is confined. He is restricted. He is at the bottom of a heavy and insurmountable hill. 

Disaffection comes easily to people like him. And short of being on the wrong side of the law, there is only one way to be at ease with his circumstances.

To pretend.

“But you? You fuck everything up,” Taemin carries on, amusement in his features. “You take that supply-demand model and turn it on its head. You say, I decide what I'll write. I decide what I produce. This is my art, not my bread. This is more than a paycheck for me. This is more than a popularity contest for me. That's what I see you think, and…” he shakes his head, chuckling as he reclines on his palms. “I gotta say, I find that really ballsy.”

A small balloon of pride inflates Jonghyun’s chest at the words, to his own surprise. He shifts and clears his throat. “Th-that’s all well and fine, but… but it doesn’t help that no one will read my stories.”

“Tell me something,” the other contests. “Why did you start writing in the first place? And—” he holds up a finger between them. “Don’t tell me it’s for the money. You could do anything and earn money. Why this specifically?”

“W-well, because… because what else am I going to do with a major in—?”

“No,” another shake of the head stops him. “No. Don’t answer from up here,” Taemin taps his temple. “This isn’t about rationality. This is about how you feel. About why you feel that way. Give me the answer in here,” he reaches forward and pokes a finger into the centre of Jonghyun’s chest.

He stares at the perfectly shaped fingernail, at the faint pink that dissipates into flesh below the joint. Why does he write? What compels him to scribble on stray pieces of paper? What makes him put his thoughts down on phone notes? What is it that surges in his chest when he’s in the shower, when he’s about to go to sleep, when he’s listening to a beautifully sad song for the first time? What makes him write? 

“I… I have a lot to say,” he concludes. It feels like an admission of guilt—freeing. Splitting the restraints he’d been struggling against for… perhaps, years. It is like a large weight has come off his shoulders and now he can stand up straight. Now he can float off the ground. Now he can fly. He sighs and closes his eyes. “I have a lot to say. About… everything. And I—” he shakes his head, looks up from the finger, glances at the blank screen, turns his attention to the face of someone who is listening. Someone who is here and who does not appear to be in any hurry to leave.

“I really want someone to listen.”

With a pleased smirk, Taemin tilts his head and nods. “So start talking.”

------

He wonders what sounds he would hear, if he were up on the moon. 

Would he hear the distant roll of waves? The rushing and ebbing of tides, their froth effervescent in the shell of his ears, their folding and retreating as sharp as the feeling of sand between his toes. Would he hear the occasional beep of a passing space shuttle? Would he see the face of another human in the window of the craft as it zooms past, their hands mirroring a wave and their faces reflecting each other's smiles? 

What would he hear in that vacuum? 

Would he hear the patter of his heartbeat, like water dribbling off a tin roof to roll along the eaves and fall against leaves, touch the ground, seep into the earth and become lost? Would he hear it speeding and softening like the tides, waxing and waning like the moon, repeating itself over and over, spinning like the earth does, like the stars do, like this universe does? Or would he feel an urgency in his lungs, the frenzy to drink in as much breath as he could, to gather as much oxygen in each inhale and retain it until his sight shook and his hearing went dissonant and he realised that he could hear nothing on the moon?

Nothing?

Maybe it would be hope. Maybe he would hear the sound of unfiltered sunlight hitting his skin. Maybe he would hear the whisper of a solar wind playing with his hair. Maybe he would hear his smile, his happiness, his joy even in solitude like that. Maybe he would hear something like that. Maybe it would be melodious to his ears, maybe he would dance to it, on the ashen rigoleth, the dead and cracked surface of the moon. Maybe he would float from crater to crater and find himself repeating circles, large ellipses that never ended. No beginning and no end. Maybe he would hear the most perfect sounds that ever existed. Maybe he would hear the sonorous representation of heaven.

Maybe the moon is full of music.

------

Jonghyun stretches his arms and arches his back, rolling his neck tiredly. The light outside his windows has dimmed by a large degree. The sun has gone down hours ago, without his noticing. He blinks and feels around himself to reach for a light switch. An afterimage of the laptop screen remains in his vision for a while as he stands on complaining legs and ankles. A grumble in his stomach alerts him of the time. Dinner time. 

“Taemin ssi…?” he calls out, rubbing his eyes. “Taemin—”

It takes him a moment to realise he is alone. “Eh?” he scratches his cheek, trying to recall the sound of the door opening and shutting. He can’t tell how long it has been since the other left. There are no traces of his visit, no discarded teacups, no dirty plates with crumbs, nothing. He checks the bedroom, the bathroom, just to be sure. But it’s true: he has been a bad host. 

Jonghyun really has been doing nothing but writing. 

Searching for his phone to type out an apology, he realises belatedly that he doesn’t have a contact saved under “Lee Taemin.” With a repentant pout, he hums to himself. Next time, he promises himself. I’ll make it up to him next time.

When he’s settled down in front of his laptop again, this time with a steaming bowl of kal-guksu, he makes a choked sound at how much he has typed. Scrolling through page upon page of a very coherent-looking storyline, a reverberating surprise runs its course through him. Did he really do all this? Was that guy really serious about all that stuff? Has his inspiration finally returned to him, after all this time, all these years?

A muse… he feels the hint of a smile playing under his cheeks. He has a muse. 

“That… isn’t that something imaginary?” Minho asks him when he excitedly gushes about the encounter. “Like, something that old men used to think up so they could make paintings and all that?” 

“You’re just looking for an excuse to call me old,” Jonghyun dismisses. They’re lying on Minho’s carpet, listening to music. The sun is streaming through tall slider doors, and the usual sound of traffic is absent on a Sunday morning like this. Even the shadows look blue, their hue fluid and sparkling like light bouncing off of water. He feels calm, he feels like he is cradled in a hammock. As they relax side-by-side and read off their phones, there is a plot swirling in the back of Jonghyun’s mind. It buzzes and stirs, waiting to break out and lay itself down in orderly lines and sentences. He nurses it, pets its back, scratches it between its ears. He gives it a name. 

But it can wait.

“Look at this,” he scrolls through a namuwiki article on the Muses, holding it out for the other to see. “It says this famous novelist from America calls his bowling trophy a muse. Wah…! He’s written so many famous books!” 

“He’s old, too,” Minho snorts before he’s swatted at by an annoyed Jonghyun. “OK, OK!” he defends. “OK. I get it. You have a muse. So, is she hot?” he grins and rolls onto his elbows, a happy glimmer in his large eyes. “Does she pose for you? Do you get to take her on dates? How does it work?”

“It’s a guy,” Jonghyun frowns. 

“Really?” Minho hums, the slightest disenchantment pulling at his lips. “But it says here that muses are supposed to be beautiful women. Look,” he wrests the phone away from his friend and goes to the image section of the article. 

His point is proven by several old and colourful depictions of elegantly posed women, loose garments draped over their voluptuous fronts. There is no hint of an awkward lanky male form in dark and brooding clothes that blend him into his bleak surroundings. The women’s expressions are calm and filled with wisdom, unlike Taemin’s youthful fervour. The only feature that is barely reminiscent of the young man are the dark, mystical eyes.

Something inside Jonghyun grows uneasy.

“I mean…” he shrugs, hoping to give an explanation. He doesn’t have one, not at that moment. He doesn’t know how to defend his experience. All he knows is a name, some very sound advice, and the promise of money… money he hasn’t yet received, mind. He realises he is dealing with a stranger, after all. That if he isn’t careful, his prefatory suspicions of Taemin being a dangerous guy might still come true.

“Look, why don’t I introduce the two of you when he visits again?” he offers as justification, trying to push the issue aside. “You’ll like him, he’s got an... entertaining sort of personality, you’ll see—”

“I have a better idea,” Minho rejects the response. “Why don’t you just let me read one of your books, eh? I searched for your name and nothing comes up, you know? Are you really getting published at all? Or are they just taking you for a ride and stealing your work—?”

“Let’s just,” Jonghyun holds his hands up between them. He feels alarmed at the turn their conversation has taken. “Look. Let’s talk about this later, OK?”

“Hyung…” Minho makes an exasperated face, but he’s a good friend. His words are rooted in concern. He slowly settles back onto the floor, giving up on his argument, intertwining their legs. The soothing sounds from his music system take over once again.

What remains is Jonghyun’s fear of losing a dear friend.

------

“Who are you, really?” he shoots his misgivings the first chance he gets.

It has been many weeks since their last meeting. He has been progressively furthering the new book, or whatever it turns out to be in the end. What first sat as an idea in his scribbled notes has grown tall and strong. He now has chapters, and multiple plotlines that diverge from and converge on each other. He has dialogues, he has beats, he has imagery, he has descriptions. He has woven all the ends to make one whole, one complete mass, one continuous flow. Things are coming together, and Jonghyun is amazed at his own progress.

But his gratitude doesn’t dilute his distrust.

As soon as he barges into the apartment, Taemin demands to read through whatever there is so far. For a long time, he sits reposed on the sofa: silent for once, interest wavering only when he is addressed.

“Huh?”

“Are you just some rich chaebol kid looking to spend his dad’s money? Is this… just fun for you?” Jonghyun expounds on the interrogation. There is some insecurity in his tone, some residual lack of confidence from previous encounters that have left him wounded. Even he can tell. But he continues, unabashed in his self-preservation. “All this… this muse stuff. What’s in it for you?”

“I told you,” Taemin offers an apathetic shrug. “I like your writing.”

“I thought you like books with lots of sex,” Jonghyun frowns and counters, pointing at the tablet in the other’s hold. “I don’t have any of that in there.”

“Are you planning on keeping it that way?”

“Well, I wasn’t really going to, but—wait, no, listen to me,” he is nearly distracted, and the momentary look of triumph on Taemin’s face leaves him flustered. “I need to know who you are. I need to know why you’re doing this, and I need to know now,” he places his ultimatum. “Or I’m not writing another word.”

Taemin sits up and releases a slow exhale. His gaze is amused. It roves over his host, appraising him like a teacher would a child on his first day of school.  

“What if I don’t tell you?” he posits. It’s not a challenge. His tone is chatty, conversational. As if he’s asking, what if cars could fly. He leans forward and smiles that magician smile again. “What will it change, if you know? Is it going to fix your life? Is it going to rid you of all your problems? Is the world going to make sense?” he motions with his hands. “Of course not. So why do you want to know?”

“Because—!” Jonghyun wants to say it will sate his curiosity, but he can’t admit that. Something about that feels like a confession. He can’t speak his mind like that.

“Look, I like that you’re curious,” Taemin reads his mind anyway, still smiling. “I like that you want to learn about things you don’t understand. I think that’s important for a writer. But I think what’s more important is figuring out what the real question is.”

He blinks with confusion. “The real question…?” he shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’re writing this thing,” the other waves the tablet. “And you’ve advanced really far into the storyline. Things are getting exciting, characters are finally starting to become full people I can be invested in. I can’t put this book down even if the house was burning,” he compliments. “But there’s something missing. And I can’t tell what it is, except that it exists. In there,” another poke into Jonghyun’s ribcage. “Maybe the question you should be asking then, is what is missing? What else do you need? What else is there for you to find?”

A clearing of the throat, a shift of the seat. Jonghyun won’t acknowledge it, but the words resonate with him.

Missing. Something is missing. Something needs to be found. Something is waiting to be discovered. Something that he requires to complete this story… or maybe complete himself. Something that once sat in an empty slot in his chest must be recovered. He doesn’t mean for the thought to be so profound. But it is that very same profoundness that makes him believe it’s probably true. Something is missing inside him. Something is missing from his life. Something is missing from his world. And he needs to find it.

“Will you help me look?” he entreats his muse.

A magnanimous stretch of the arms replies. “It’s what I’m here for,” Taemin grins and falls back onto the cushions, continuing to read.

------

They stand outside the apartment block and Jonghyun is still not sure about this.

“Look, I really don’t think—” he starts to beseech, but Taemin silences him with a wave of his hand. He clicks on one of the call buttons and a ring starts to go, only raising the panic in Jonghyun’s gut.

“Just meet with her,” the other persuades, rational as always.

When someone answers on the other side of the line, it’s as if his entire body freezes until he is nudged. “U-uhh… yes. M-my name is uh… I mean. That is—”

“Is this a prank call?” the woman asks with anger in her voice.

Another nudge shakes his senses up. “N-no…!” Jonghyun insists. “Uhm, we—you and I. We work for the same company. M-miss Eonsook.”

A long pause. Some rustling of cloth. Some whispered conversation in the background. Then the woman’s voice returns. “OK, come on up,” she finally acquiesces before a loud buzz swings the front door open.

“Go!” Taemin hisses at him, grinning wide under the dark sunglasses that have become his signature.

The building isn’t much different from Jonghyun’s own apartment block, but there is something lighter about everything. It feels… nicer. There are planters with pretty flowers along the corridor. The lifts are clean and fully functional. The walls are devoid of posters and advertisements. TV sets can be heard outside some of the doors, as can the whistle of pressure cookers and the nagging of mothers. The atmosphere is homely, welcoming. He doesn’t feel like he’s intruding on anything, so he continues to walk in confidently.

He reads the numbers on each unit as he passes by, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings and wishing Taemin were accompanying him.

When he’s at the door he was looking for, he rings the bell and waits.

The woman who answers him is somewhat recognizable. He remembers seeing the straight jet-black hair, the round jaw, the parrot-hooked nose, the no-nonsense stare. Even if he has never before glimpsed her puffy lips or heard her soft voice, he remembers her from the fan-meeting—and possibly from other occasions, when they bumped into each other at the publication office.

Nobody can tell she is one of the most popular writers in the country.

“Ah, hello,” he bows low and his sunglasses slip off his face to clatter to the ground. He scrambles to put them back on, but simply pockets the disguise when he notices the turn in her mouth. “M-my name is—”

“You must be the person who writes as Grapefruit,” she guesses correctly. Her diction holds a soft lisp. Barely there, unlike Minho’s often baby-like pronunciations. He blushes and nods at the floor in response to the question.

“Come in,” she invites him, the grille door swinging outwards.

Other than the ordinary-looking furnishings, her home is full of photos. As he pulls the surgical mask to his chin and wanders through the apartment, Jonghyun cannot help but study them all, turn by careful turn. All over the walls she has displayed pictures of herself, her family, her friends, and another woman. A sister, he guesses at first, before correcting himself when his eyes go to a shockingly intimate polaroid.

He doesn’t realize he is staring until he hears his host pointedly clear her throat.

“Some juice?” Eonsook offers the glass on a tray. He accepts and stands awkwardly for a few minutes, shifting from foot to foot.

“Y-you have a very nice place—” he begins.

“So,” Eonsook cuts him off, showing him a seat. “How can I help?”

“H-help?” he blinks, his thoughts clouded.

She raises her eyebrows, wets her lips, digs her teeth into the lower one. “It’s a polite way of asking why you’re here,” she clarifies. He can tell there is laughter waiting to bounce out of her throat. In everything she does, there is an underlying strain of confidence. She exudes it in waves that come off her and lap at his own chest, nearly pushing him back with their force.

“R-right! Yes, of course,” he jumbles with the glass in his hold, looking around for a moment before accepting the proffered seat. “I—I came to ask you for… for advice.”

She follows his example and sinks into an armchair, crossing her legs and watching him for a moment. A long and entertained moment. ���Oh?”

“Y-yes…” he insists. “You see. I’m—I’m currently working on this book, and. And I’m at this part that I need to research before I write it. So…”

“What kind of part?” her interest is immediate.

He tries to think of a way to describe it, nervously scratching the back of his neck and fumbling with the collar of his tee shirt. He feels unreasonably nervous, cognizant of the sweat beginning to stream down his back. “W-well…” he tries.

“Is it a sexy part?” she asks.

“N-not really.”

“Hmm, I guessed as much,” she leans back into her chair. “I’ve read your work. You’re not much of an erotic writer, are you, Grapefruit ssi?” she sums him up with narrowed eyes. And yet, there isn’t any sign of malice in her observation. He glance is approving, in fact. Admiring. “Your stories are very different. Emotional. They’re for a very… cerebral audience. Is that always your intent?” she asks with some fascination in her gaze.

He blinks up at the ceiling, thinking of a genuine answer, not wanting to disappoint her for some nameless reason.

“No,” he concedes after a while. “I think it’s just… because of the kind of person I am. I think it requires me falling in love first before… before my characters fall in love.” He runs a finger over the rim of his condensate-covered glass, nodding contemplatively for a moment. “W-what about you?” he asks. “What is your intent? When you write, I mean.”

She hums, crossing her arms across her front. “Intent…” she hisses a breath in. “There doesn’t always have to be one, you know?” she says conversationally. “Like you said, we can feel very strongly about something, and then write about it. Tell a story around it. I think that’s possible,” she accepts. And when she smiles, he feels an odd sense of solidarity with her.

“What… what does Eonsook ssi feel strongly about?”

The woman smirks. “You were staring at her just now,” comes the simply reply. Accompanying it is the smooth motion of a hand coming up to support her chin, a ring glinting on its third finger.

Jonghyun bumbles an apology.

“There is nothing else I feel as strongly about,” she reveals. “There is no one I love as much, no one I care about as much, no one who matters to me as much. And so,” she holds out a hand between them. “I write about her. About us. I suppose…” she finishes with a grin, a clever gleam nestled in her eyes. “I suppose you can say she’s my muse.”

“A muse…!” Jonghyun’s heart runs on a treadmill at the words. “Do you think…” he begins, shifting forward in his seat. She mirrors the movement. “Do you think you could teach me? How you find the courage to tell your stories?” he requests.

“Courage?” Eonsook chuckles. “It doesn’t take courage to make people happy, Grapefruit ssi,” she shakes her head. “Because that is what we do. We ultimately make people happy with our work. They read it, they smile, they feel good. Maybe they forget about it after some time. Maybe some of it stays with them for years. Who knows?” she shrugs. “As long as we get them to smile.”

He feels awe at that. “As long as they smile…” he nods again, this time in understanding.

------

With every jump of his hips, he is filled with a murder of crows that flutter to the far edges of his body—to the villages settled in his fingertips and the townships developed in his toenails. With every jump of his hips the leaves inside him quiver from the force, as birds take to the skies between his stomach and lungs.

When they travel, when they journey through him, his sighs tell the tale of that journey. They sing like bards, reciting how the crows travel carrying messages tied to their feet. The sighs paint pictures of beaks pecking at his outer edges, his boundaries, his geographical territories. With every jump of his hips he is breaking those boundaries, violating the treaties that hold those borders sacred. With every jump, he is less self-contained, less of an uncontested dominion.

He secedes. He surrenders his independence. He lets himself be taken captive by the thrum of the man below him. Inside him.

With every jump of his hips, he abdicates the throne of his identity. He makes the other king. Gives his crown to another head. And the crows carry news of this shift in power to all the lands that were once under his reign. They carry the news, propelled by the sighs, released at every breath, every hitch, every gasp. Every jump.

In his own kingdom, he is now a pauper.

To have meaning, to be defined by a name and description—all this no longer applies to him. The other man has changed his definition. The other man has made him… not him. But if he is not himself, who is he? If he is not who he was born as, if he is no longer the man he introduced himself as, who is he? What is his name, now? What can he call himself? How will he present himself to strangers, if he is a stranger to his own self? If he looked himself up online, what would the results be? Would they just become strange unreadable symbols?

If he is not himself, then he does not exist: or, at least… this is what he has always thought to be true.

But now his hips jump, and his voice breaks, and he calls out a name that doesn’t belong to him. With every jump, he becomes a blurry existence.

------

They grow close, Eonsook and Jonghyun. They become friends.

She talks to him often, sometimes on the phone, other times over dinner. On a second visit to her apartment, he learns the other woman from the photos is Gwiboon, who talks a mile a minute and laughs like an erupting volcano. The two of them accept Jonghyun like he has always belonged in their life, always had a place in their home and their hearts. They are kind to him. They are kinder than most others have been.

Perhaps because there is nothing to hide from them. He doesn't have to lie about what he does for a living, doesn't have to make up stories about how he spends his free time. He doesn't have to shut his doors and draw his curtains with them. There is nothing to be ashamed of, in their company.

It's freeing.

Jonghyun continues to write, faster and longer than ever before. He writes like he breathes. He enjoys how uninhibited it makes him feel. He finds himself feeling more and more confident about this story, even going back to the rejected manuscript and making edits with a red marker. He meets Taemin at a café and spends most of the time scribbling in a notepad as they hide from other patrons in a corner booth.

With every page he writes, a mass of pride grows in his ribcage.

“So, what now?” Taemin asks him one afternoon, having finished the latest draft and giving it his seal of approval. “Where does the story go from here?”

“Hmm...” Jonghyun nurses a cup of coffee. It is early in the morning. He has been organising his books and wardrobe and even his thoughts while the other read. He has been carefully making his way through all that needs to be settled—in his writing and outside it.

“I could write some more about the way the characters feel. You know, build more plot buffer. Or,” he gives half a shrug. “I could. Resolve it in a certain way.”

“A certain way,” Taemin raises an eyebrow. “What way?”

“Well. They could. I don't know. Fall in love, and—” the other is vehemently shaking his head before Jonghyun even finishes his sentence. “What? Why not?!”

“Too forced,” Taemin disapproves. “It would just be pandering to your readers, when the story doesn’t naturally flow that way. Consider everything that’s happened. There is no justification for them falling in love. All they've done is meet a few times and exchange... banter.”

“Sometimes that's enough!” Jonghyun defends, then softens. “Is... is it not?”

“You tell me.”

“No, you tell me!” Jonghyun insists. “Is it not enough for them to know each other? To enjoy the company? To... to feel comfortable with each other? That should be enough sometimes, right? Wouldn't that be enough for you?”

“Is that the real question—?”

“Yes! Yes, it is!” Jonghyun shouts, and as he does, he is painfully aware of the fact that this is not how he had planned for this conversation to ensue. He is conscious of the fact that he has made it a confrontation rather than keeping it within the bounds of an emotional exchange. There is a feeling of being put under an unannounced spotlight, its glare harsh against his face. He breathes hard, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter before him, doubling over in preparation for the rest of his episode.

“Yes, it is,” he repeats in a quieter, gentler tone. When he straightens up, he stares at the other with pleading eyes.

“What am I to you?” he repeats with some desperation.

Taemin looks satisfied at the question, like he has been waiting a long time for it to emerge. He remains relaxed despite the friction, despite the anxiety in his host. He continues to smile like an illusionist, continues to watch like a judge. “Before I answer that,” he begins in a calm, collected voice. “And I will answer it. But before I do, I need to you to tell me first: what am I to you?”

The reaction enrages him. “No,” Jonghyun warns. “No. Enough games. Enough running around in circles. You’re never honest with me. You only talk about this… this shit!” he angrily motions at the tablet the other had been reading from. “You can’t avoid this anymore. You have to answer me now.” He holds a hand up between them and counts. “Who are you? Why are you helping me? What do I mean to you?”

“Hmm,” Taemin rocks back and forth. “You really want me to tell you?”

Jonghyun makes wide, aggravated motions. “Who else will—?!”

“You want me,” Taemin clarifies. “To tell you. Who I am,” he raises his eyebrows. “You really don’t know? Have you really not known? All this time?”

“That’s why I’m asking—!”

“No, you’re not,” the protest is cut off. “You’re asking because other people are asking: what does he do in there all day, who is he with, who is this muse he’s talking about all of a sudden. You’re asking because you need to give them an answer. An answer that isn’t really the answer,” the corner of Taemin’s lip turns up. “Isn’t it?”

“Wh-what…?” Jonghyun shakes his head, the hair on his arms standing on end.

Taemin skips off his stool, meanders around the counter, advances on him.

Jonghyun’s breath sounds like an elasticized gong. His inhales are like rubber bands, stretching on for hours and hours. He is buzzing, like he sits inside something alive. Inside a heart and the lights decorating Namdaemun at night are made of lamps that glow soft and warm as if someone is holding him in an embrace and showering him with solace while their eyes are speaking to him in a different tongue in a speech of a foreign land where jinn live and grant wishes and there is nothing to see for miles except murders of crows carrying messages on their feet telling the world that the empire has fallen the world is coming to an end and the—

------

Mapo bridge.

It talks to him. It asks how he is, if he’s eaten yet. It tells him to turn his head up and look at the blue sky once. It tells him it loves him. It tells him that the brightest moments in his life are yet to come.

Jonghyun cries hard enough that his body shakes from the force. Minho stands very close, looking worried and reaching out for a hug. But he is told to wait. Not yet. He is told to wait, Jonghyun will need him soon.

Words are everything he is. Words are his life and soul. His bone and sinew. His drifting days and sleepless nights. Words have created him, penned him down—not the other way around. They have built him up, bound his loose pages and given him a spine. They have made him Kim Jonghyun. They have made him a writer, a poet, an artist. They have made him what he is. And he would never have realised this, were it not for Taemin.

Were it not for himself.

“I write for myself,” he claims to the sad and bloated waters of the Han, knowing the other is listening. Somewhere. From within the crevasses of his mind, Taemin is listening. “I write for myself.” It is a heavy claim to make. It is heavy as lead. It is tied to Jonghyun's feet as he trains to run his ink across a coastline. The claim is heavy enough to need lugging around on his hipbone. It is heavy, it is full. Like an earthen pot spilling its contents.

His face is drenched when he speaks those hefty words, when he acknowledges them. He sobs and his fingers tighten on the rails of the bridge, the place he would often visit when he felt sad and alone. But he isn’t alone. Minho is here for him. Eonsook and Gwiboon wait in a car nearby. And Taemin.

Taemin exists in the beats of his pulse.

Behind him, traffic swishes past. In front of him, the river hushes his crying. “I write for myself,” he lets go of the full pot and watches it splash, watches its shards rock a little on the ground, after they've separated from the whole.

많이 힘들었구나

He touches the words of the bridge and nearly answers out loud. He nearly says yes. Yes. It was tiring. It was terrifyingly easy to give up on my dreams. He rocks a little in place and finally Minho gathers him into a tight hold, stroking circles on his back.

It was awful, Jonghyun wants to say. But I found him. I found myself. I found contentment. I found it. And now I can walk away from you saying yes. Yes, it was tiring. It was hard. But now my breath comes easily. My heart beats easily. My life runs easily. I am alive. I am free. I am happy.

I love myself.

[darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts]

Devil’s Trust pt2

Warnings: Strong language, Moblord styling warlords.

Masterlist

---

Chapter 2

Rumour mills were in full production. The gossip circles were tapping out messages on the underground jungle drums throughout the city and word was out … The Ghost was here!

“Beware the shadows and its moving shade. Be mindful of your actions and the repercussions made. Judgement comes to those who don’t. Beware the Ghost.”

Every family with ties to the underground knew the stories. They were told and passed on generation to generation. Tales the grown-ups told the children the same way the ordinary everyday people would recite a fairy tale. Except these were different.

Fairy tales were edited narratives, sugar-coated and glossing over the gory details to give the next generation growing up in the world a little moral guidance. When it came to the stories about the Ghost there was nothing sweet about them. Even in the dark underbelly of the world, there were lines you didn’t cross, rules you obeyed and when that was ignored it was the Ghost that took you.  

It was because nothing about it was hidden and all of it was true that is struck fear into the hearts of all those living in the underworld. The Ghost was the avenging angel in their world. The Judge, jury and executioner at your final supper. They were responsible for making the unrepentant pay the price owed. Every detail behind the stories of the Ghost could be easily found in the lines of text written by the coroner; if they found the body at all. The question hanging in the air… who was the Ghost targeting now?

---

Two minutes, it was all he could claw back from the time given to him by Sasuke. He had to get out of the main flow of traffic. The road opened up after a few sharp turns, the wheels of his car were smoking as he pulled hard on the handbrake and went down some roads that were so narrow, they could take the wing mirrors off the car had he not been more aware of the space provided.

His engine as it raced through the old cobblestone routes of the old city filled the air with a monstrous roar even as the vibrations threatened to shake the chassis from the rest of the car. The other vehicles had not given up the pursuit but were now forced to follow him in single file. He wanted to get them out of town but that would be asking for too much. He followed the labyrinthine roads following a map in his own head and decided drawing them out to the dockyard was the best option. You’re in my playground. Don’t presume you can back me into a corner when I know all the short cuts.

The smile on his face grew deeper as his focus on the road ahead cleared. He was not so much the vision of a man being pushed in a murderous pursuit through the twisting veins of the city but that of one that was simply out for a drive on a long weekend. Yes, this was his city. The dark side streets and alleys were his bread and butter, all the old roads the jam that just served to make his nightlife all the sweeter for his hunt.

As the front of his car exited the alleyway like a bullet from a shotgun. The cobbles under his wheels gave way to slick dirt. The moisture from the water in the air here meant the ground was never what you could call dry. The natural clay content of it meant it was like skating on an icy pond. The other cars exited behind him and began to separate up to cover as many routes behind him as they could.

It was laughably predictable and he couldn’t avoid the dry chuckle that left him as he glanced in his rear-view mirror and once more pulled on his hand brake causing his car to spin on the ground under it so he could come face to face with his pursuers. The salt clogged mud slick sprayed in arcs by his rear bumper before falling still on the ground once more. He could almost feel the hesitation from them as he changed the game from cat and mouse into one of chicken.

Mitsuhide put his hand up to the handle on the roof clicking a hidden button that slid back a small compartment there revealing a primed and loaded gun. Now then, who’s first?

---

Stepping foot back into HQ Nobunaga was almost immediately accosted by a highly strung Hideyoshi. The man had been sitting in a chair by reception and practically pounced the second he saw his Boss’s highly polished shoes touch the tiles.

“You’re back!” The man blurted out as if in shock. Warm caramel brown eyes searched Nobu from top to toe as if he were expecting some sort of mortal wound to be present.

“Naturally.” Nobu replied rather lazily as he fixed his right-hand man with a nondescript look. He was a little amused but mostly thankful that it was past office hours and there were no clients that would be in need of explanations as to why the Vice President was acting like someone had put itching powders in his boxers.

“You didn’t answer your phone. I was worried.” Hideyoshi spoke with panic still clear in his voice and slightly shaking. You really would make someone a fine wife one day Yoshi. Still, for all your fussing I can’t deny you have been a dependable ally during some of the darker times.

“When are you never worried?” Nobu replied in exasperation failing to suppress the sigh that was building inside him.

“Why didn’t you answer?” Hideyoshi appeared hurt by being ignored and it was obvious it had been yet another thing he deemed life-threatening or at the very least major enough that could yet again bring down the foundations of their company that were already standing on rocky terrain. 

He didn’t know if it was the lingering effects of his time at the Birdcage or if he had simply found the eye of the emotional storm that had been raging inside him. He was reluctant to dwell too long on such a thing but he couldn’t keep his newfound amusement from escaping him.

Nobu smirked slightly and replied. “I left for a few hours. I fail to see what disasters could have befallen during that time that could not be easily handled by the men I left in my place. A fact that was confirmed when I turned my phone back on and was bombarded with several messages one of which was our new resident tech expert informing me that the matter was in hand.”

Hideyoshi stood where he was mouth agape at the succinct rundown of events. A surge of satisfaction washed over Nobu as he succeeded in rendering the other man speechless. The doors to the underground car park opened revealing a spectacled arrival carrying a bag printed with a grocery store logo.

“You fixed that?” Having found his voice again Hideyoshi stated more in shock than as a question as he turned his attention on the new arrival. Sasuke quickly looked between the two men noting that they were both showing polar opposite levels of the emotional spectrum and made the connection to the only incident of interest for the day.

“Yes. It did take a little bit of creative hacking to do it but I was able to shut down the news drone and have the incident written off as a scene being filmed for a new movie. Hardly something out with my skill set.” Sasuke pushed up his glasses causing them to glint in a way that made him look even more like a casual superhero than normal.

“You think people will buy that?” Hideyoshi stammered at the unbelievable ease with which Sasuke replied. Nobunaga stood silently watching the two converse. He plunged his hand deep into his trouser pocket his fingertips finding the edge of his key that would allow him to escape to his rooms.

“They already have.” Sasuke flashed his smartphone with a still image of the street view below the drone and the new headline “High-Speed preview of new action movie – was the Director’s choice of using the real world refreshing or irresponsible?” Nobunaga’s lips tugged into a large satisfied smile and chuckled with the amusement of the audacious plan as well as the apparent effect, it had on Hideyoshi.

“You don’t exactly look shocked by any of this.” Hideyoshi stated trying to figure out why he seemed so lax about the events. Ever since the companies had merged, he had to confess he had a hard time getting a read on this young man. His expressionless face gave nothing away and it was unsettling to not even be able to detect a real shift in tone as he spoke. Hideyoshi was a people person or as Mitsuhide had pointed out on more than one occasion a people pleaser. To be unable to get even subliminal guidance from someone as to how to assist them or what they are even thinking unnerved him.

“Kenshin is my Boss. Being asked to shut down a few cameras and changing a few things on the city grid to redirect attention is nothing.” Sasuke replied in a calm manner with a little shrug that only seemed to frustrate Hideyoshi even more.

---

The sound of tape being pulled from a roll and placed over cardboard almost seemed to echo in the almost empty rooms as the last of their things was finally packed. Her cat sat by the window where it had claimed a place for itself the second Mitsuhide had retrieved it from Takahiro’s loft space. Swishing its tail unhappily, as its blissful time enjoying the sunlight was being disturbed by the sounds of moving.

It had been a whirlwind experience coming back to Azuchi HQ after everything that happened. She had thought to try to explain everything at the church about her living arrangements but it seemed Mitsuhide already knew that she no longer had her apartment. He could have left her to return to Takahiro’s apartment but it seemed that was not an idea he wished to entertain. All of the familiar faces welcomed her regardless of the tension that was present in the air. Something had clearly been happening but it was going to be a few days before anyone explained the current situation to her.

Staying in his rooms at Azuchi was only ever supposed to be temporary. He was pulling strings and taking late-night phone calls trying to secure somewhere new. He wanted her to be safe it was key and his number one priority. Whilst it was safe at HQ Mitsuhide hadn’t felt entirely comfortable leaving her there on a permanent basis. [Name] was effectively a magnet for danger, as far as he could work out. Whilst they had survived a lot, he had no liking for the idea of leaving her in a place where she could easily become embroiled in yet another “plan”. On top of that if the others discovered [Name] was related in some distant way to the enemy he really didn’t like the idea of what might happen to her.

She took another look around the room just in case she had missed something they needed. Thinking that it looked just as empty as it had done when she first came here. Mitsuhide wasn’t exactly minimalist by choice it was something to do with his work. The less you have the fewer things people can use against you, but the lack of luxury items or things you might expect as a common standard of living somewhere were also not present in the apartment. He was never really at home to notice that an electric kettle or a microwave might actually help him a little in the mornings or late evenings. The longer she stayed the more she noticed little things she had taken for granted, like a hairdryer. She had taken to picking up these missed items on her way home from work.

Mitsuhide said nothing to the accumulation of objects appearing in his apartment. He knew what they all were and how to use them just had never seen a need to have them. They were together and would be for a long time. His small isolated little hole had been filled with something far closer to a kind of peace than he ever thought someone like him would even have a hope of seeing. It was a form of culture shock that was not entirely unpleasant. Despite his home being taken over with progressively more acquired bric-a-brac and miscellaneous goods, he felt comfortable and at ease. She had turned his place into the same warm and inviting area her apartment was, and he found he sort of liked it.

“Hey Kitten, you got any more ready to go?” A lively voice called out before the person attached to it had even managed to make it into the room.

“Think this is the last one.” [Name] called back turning to smile at the men who had been helping shift most of the belongings.

“Good because I’m not making any more trips.” Ieyasu huffed cracking open the lid on a bottle of mineral water and chugging half of it in one go.

“It was nice of you to help out Yasu.” [Name] smiled sweetly unaffected by the salty blonde’s attitude.

“I’m only doing it to shut Hideyoshi up and to get you and the body collector out of my hair.” Ieyasu hastily started to make an excuse desperate to hide the redness he felt breaking out on his face. He wasn’t exactly a stranger to interacting with women but there were certain types of them that seemed to trigger him to fluster badly. Masa often teased him that it looked like he was a teenager having a short circuit because a pretty girl spoke to them.

“Body collector?” She inclined her head a quizzical expression replacing that beaming smile.

“Best not to ask Lass. Yasu’s still a little salty over having to deal with what is left of your fella’s… whatever he does.” Masa chuckled and put his hand on her head. [Name] pulled herself back swatting the hand from her and met his smile with a brief glare that was rendered powerless by the man’s lack of concern.

“It’s strange to think I’m leaving here again.” She rolled her eyes and glanced about again.

“It’s not too late you know Kitten. Just have to say the word and I could steal you away…” Masa moved like a cat sliding up closer and leaning over to whisper in her ear. Failing spectacularly as his volume control was definitely off.

“My-my, someone is feeling confident despite his lack of depth perception.” A teasing voice came some somewhere behind them carrying a chilling edge to it. All three of them turned to see Mitsuhide propped up against the doorway, one hand in his trouser pocket. The smile on his face at first glance appeared pleasant but didn’t reach his eyes at all, it could send a shiver up anyone’s back.

---

It had taken some time to secure a residence for them but after conducting some final checks he was finally back at HQ. That little diversion from earlier had been interesting but he was still thankful for it to have reached its conclusion swiftly. He parked his car alongside the van that stood there with its loading doors wide open revealing box after box piled up methodically, each one labelled in her delicate handwriting. Looks like I’m a little late to the party on this one. I wonder who got the job of assisting the Princess. I could see Hideyoshi doing that, the man never knows when to stop smothering.

Moving from the car park to the elevator in the lobby he was hit with a feeling of something a little nostalgic. He had never really taken the time to appreciate the building. It was a base of operations, somewhere to work out of and run back too. It was also naturally a legitimate business and on a weekday was as busy as an anthill at a picnic. Today though it was quiet and as he stepped into the lift, he realised that the significance of the place was about to shift for him. He would be here but it was only going to be for work. He would maintain a room but it would only be for use on occasion. Is this what a normal life feels like? Working and then going home somewhere else?

The closer he got to his rooms the more he was aware of activity. And then just before he entered, he heard the unmistakable voice of Masa.

“It’s not too late you know Kitten. Just have to say the word and I could steal you away…”

“My-my, someone is feeling confident despite his lack of depth perception.” He stopped in the doorway adopting an air of nonchalance when he was, in fact, feeling anything but. The familiar tease in his voice didn’t manage to cover for him either. Of all the people why him? It’s not as bad as Shingen I suppose but still…

“I knew you were there.” Masa snorted meeting Mitsuhide’s smile with a knowing grin of his own. It was like watching a cat and dog in a face-off about to have a scuffle.

“Then you are also lacking in your sense of personal preservation.” Mitsuhide slowly moved closer to [Name] pushing himself between her and Masa forcing the other man back. Masa was chuckling and looking at Mitsuhide as if he had just found something brand new and shiny to play with. Don’t try to play games with me. You can only imagine what I will do and even then, I would easily surpass your delusions. Wait a minute why am I so annoyed right now?

“Have you met Masa? The guy is a walking disaster who is basically a pain in my ass.” Ieyasu spoke up disrupting the atmosphere enough to dissipate some of the friction.

“Haha, I’m going to miss you guys.” Her laughter from behind him snuffed out the last of his rising turmoil. She was a miracle balm to his fraying nerves. He was still not used to this thing called “love” they shared. It still threatened to be an all-consuming fire he would happily die in.

“No need to pull that face [Name].” Masa adjusted himself and pulled back. He had amused himself enough and didn’t wish to upset Mitsuhide further. It was so easy to see the emotions playing in the usually unreadable man. He had seen them clear as day in his friend after that fake funeral incident and the only one oblivious to it was apparently the man himself.

“He’s right, not like you are going so far away you can’t visit. I will probably be busy but you will no doubt find a way to disturb me.”

“Wouldn’t hurt you to be a bit more honest there Yasu.” Masa laughed and roughly rubbed his knuckles over the top of the fluffy blonde’s head, before picking up the last sealed box. “Anyway, I’ll take this down to the van.”

“I’ll hold the door for you.” Ieyasu leapt forward and barged past Masa nearly knocking him over in a rush to escape the room.

“Being awfully friendly today aren’t you Yasu?” Masa looked a little shocked at the sudden show of enthusiastic helpfulness.

“Not really I just don’t want to stay around here and play gooseberry.”

“Those two make a good pair.” [Name] said wistfully as she watched the others leave. It made him feel like he wanted to make her look at him.

“They do have an extraordinary ability to make up for each other’s deficiency.” He turned around locking her small frame in his arms. “Now then little one whatever shall I do with you?” I never had myself pegged for a possessive man. You really do have a curious power little mouse. The things you do to me.

“Me? What did I do now? I haven’t done anything.” [Name] startled and her blue eyes began to flicker around wandering the room attempting to remember anything that might have incurred punishment.

“You are very guilty my dear, you just haven’t realised it yet.” He dipped low and sealed her lips shut with his. I will never get bored with watching you, my love. If this is a dream I don’t want to wake up.

“Mmfph… Mitsuhide! Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” She placed her hand on his chest pushing him back. Her upturned eyes looking at his searching for answers he didn’t wish to give. Jealous? Ah, so that’s what that was…

“Alright… I won’t tell you.” His lips curved into a wolf-like grin as he claimed her mouth again.

---

The stars in the sky were obscured by that sickly glow from the city. He could only very faintly pick out one or two points of light above him. The air felt heavy but he was unsure whether that was an omen of rain or the echo of his own discomfort.  

His time at the club had been a welcome distraction even if he hadn’t been able to completely let go. The carefully crafted world of his was becoming more unstable. Voices carried in the wind, not wanting to openly admit the facts. They were concerned once more and it all had a negative impact on the trust, they had in Azuchi. A trust they had in him. The firm hand he once held the city with was being pried open and he could feel it slipping like sand through his fingers. But who the hell is it? Who is still pulling strings?

He sighed and lowered himself down onto the bench in the pavilion. His gaze moved from a fixed point in the past to the present and he frowned. Nobody liked change, but that is exactly what was happening. Esshu should have collapsed but didn’t. There was one reason for that, the only one that made any logical sense and it was that there was more than one head running the show. Wheels and cogs began to turn in his mind as he thought through various proposals and suggestions that he could use to secure a foot in the door at the other company. Anything I offer would be much harder to refuse if I could just find the focal point. That weak link in the chain that holds all the strings. Who do I know that could find that?

---

[the-nights-parade]

Ocean Park | Hong Kong's Largest Theme Park

Ocean Park is Hong Kong's largest theme park. In fact, it is Hong Kong's only theme park. With its 35 attractions and rides, the park has won several awards, including "The World's Seventh Most Popular Amusement Park" and "33rd Most Visited Tourist Attraction in the World". These are not statistics that I would necessarily brag about, but maybe that's just me.

Ocean Park is a 10 minute taxi ride away from our home, and Sadie has been at least a dozen times with her friends. In fact, her school did a trip there earlier this year and attempted to sell it to the parents as a physics lesson. Right.

I am reasonably informed that watching a teacher get spun around until they puke is the height of entertainment for a teenager. Anyway, I had never been before. I'm not sure why this is, but I guess that it is partly to do with David's lack of interest. I guess I can understand that. Any roller coaster becomes Space Mountain when you are blind, and although I love Space Mountain, I'm not sure that I'd want to spend the whole day riding on it. David is in the UK though, and I thought it might be a fun thing for Sadie and me to do.

This is the latest in a long string of my attempts at mother/daughter bonding. I try to kid myself that Sadie and I really have a close personal connection, that she loves and respects me as much as I do her, and that she actually enjoys my company when in reality what I perceive as bonding is probably just Sadie playing along to get something she wants. Regardless, if that's all I can get, I'll take it.

So, off we went to Ocean Park. I had to queue up for the ticket as Sadie already had a season pass that paid for itself if the first month. The price was comparable to other them parks - about £20 for the day. Now it is time for me to fess up about the real reason I wanted to go to Ocean Park. It has two different sections, one of which has animals, an aquarium and kiddie rides and the other which has thrill rides. The animal section has PANDAS! For a long time, seeing pandas has been on my list of 100 things to do before I die* and I was finally getting to do it!

I am marginally embarrassed by my passion for pandas. I have seen Kung Fu Panda three times and that is really not something of which to be proud. I am completely suckered in by their furry, fat cuddliness and those big black circles around their sad eyes. To be fair, I was also completely suckered in by Pete, the dog from the Little Rascals too. Something about a black circle around an eye. I like to think of myself as mature, urbane, sophisticated, cool and more than a little cynical. Loving cuddly panda bears blows that image. It's like Henry Kissinger saying he loves "My Little Pony". I guess I am out of the closet now.

Anyway, back to Ocean Park. I decided to prolong the expectation for as long as possible, so we visited the aquarium first. It is a pretty good aquarium as these things go - maybe even in the top 50 aquariums in the world.

I couldn't really contain my excitement much longer though. I had to see the bears. I spotted the Panda House from several hundred metres away. I knew it was the panda house because there were 10 metre tall plastic pandas waving to us from the roof. For one brief moment, I actually thought that they were real and waving just at me. We walked up the ramps and into the house. There are three panda enclosures, each with its own panda. They are solitary creatures and don't like to mix much. Thank goodness. The sight of two pandas cuddling or playing might just might be more cuteness than an ordinary human could bear (ha ha - I swear that wasn't on purpose).

There are two parallel ramps in front of the enclosures, and you are encouraged to stroll down one and up the other, giving everyone a good chance to have a look. Good manners went out the window as soon as I walked in the door. I stopped, creating a domino effect of panda watchers behind me. I couldn't move. I was spell bound. There in front of me was a giant panda sound asleep on a wooden platform. He was on his back, mouth open and with all four paws up in the air. I couldn't hear it, but I am absolutely sure he was snoring.

It is not terribly mature or sophisticated to jump up and down and shriek "OOOOH! LOOK AT THAT PANDA! HE IS SOOOOOO CUTE!", but that is what I did. Sadie,even more than usual, pretended that she didn't know me. Finally, someone behind me gave me a good push and forced me to carry on.

The second and third enclosures were empty, so I hurried down to see snoring panda again. Then, just as I was about to go past window number two, out came a beautiful female panda bear. I know it is unspeakably rude, and I am really not proud of it, but I simply would not budge from that spot.

Parents tried to push their eager children in front of me, but I wasn't having it. I figured that I had less time to do the 100 things to do before I die than they did. I took photos and watched her amble around for a good 10 minutes. I probably did more to damage Chinese/Western relations at that point than Tienanmen Square, but my wish was fulfilled. I have seen pandas. I am also the very, very proud owner of a cute, overpriced panda cuddly toy that we have named Bing Bing.

Back out into the sunlight, no other event that Ocean Park could offer could possibly live up to the panda experience. I have to tell you though, that in the dozen or so time Sadie had visited, she had never before seen the bears. She comes for the rides. So, off we went to the other part of the park.

This can be accessed in one of two ways. There is a cable car that offers magnificent views over the southern part of Hong Kong or there is a train. The trip up is unbelievably steep. There are stairs, but it would probably take me the better part of my life to get up them. I don't think that they are even open for public use. We took the cable car, and it was lovely, but I certainly wouldn't recommend it for anyone with height issues.

Once at the top, Sadie said she needed food. There were a number of food options, most of which involved some form of squid. There is something not quite right about eating something that was one of the attractions we had just visited. I am just trying to imagine how this menu would go down at Alton Towers or at Six Flags.

Thankfully, there were other options than munching on Squidward and Sadie was very happy with her french fries and diet coke. This is the ultimate food oxymoron.

During her feast, Sadie had been eyeing the temporary tattoo parlour. "No", I said, "Don't even ask". Of course, a few minutes later we were sat on the chair inside the booth whilst Sadie got her Panda tattoo. Giving in against your better judgement is a big part of the bonding process.

As foreigners, we are used to being stared at sometimes despite the fact that Hong Kong is one of the most cosmopolitan and ethnically diverse cities in the world. Just recently, I was accosted on the MTR by about 20 teenagers demanding to have their picture taken with a foreigner. Of course, I obliged with my goofiest grin.

Sadie actually attracted an audience whilst her tattoo was painted on. There was a crowd of people gathered round, pushing each other out of the way to get a view. When the tattoo lady was finished, Sadie stood up and the crowd actually applauded!

We then moved onto the arcade. This time I was really going to hold firm, and I set about telling Sadie how all the games are rigged and that it is virtually impossible to win a big prize. Then I saw the shooting gallery. OK, it was a Nerf shooting gallery where you shot plastic pegs with suction cups onto a plastic target, but it was still a shooting gallery. My resolve crumbled and I became the world's biggest hypocrite.

When I was about Sadie's age, I went to a summer camp. It was altogether a miserable experience, except for one thing. I discovered that I was really good with a 22 rifle. I've been hooked ever since. I would NEVER shoot at a living thing (I won't even let Sadie go to BB Gun parties when EVERYONE else gets to go), but boy do I love shooting at a target. I bought 10 rounds and sidled up to the bar counter. Everyone around me was doing rapid firing, but I took my time to line up that bullseye in my site. I felt like Clint Eastwood, Annie Oakley and John Wayne all wrapped up into one. Slowly, I pulled the trigger. Bullseye! I took my time with the rest and managed 5 bulls eyes and 5 in the next circle out. God, I'm good.

On to the rest of the park. It was time to do some rides. We headed off to the log flume. On our way, we saw large groups of mainland Chinese wandering around in packs. Some of them had on matching hats. Others had perky little matching bandannas. All of them had little tags around their necks which I can only presume said "If found, please return to Hunan Provence". Hong Kong tourism is big business in mainland China, and the groups are typically made up of older couples. It's sort of like visiting the Florida of the east.

These groups, with their bad teeth, worse clothes and what I can only imagine is the Chinese version of a hillbilly accent, are treated with complete and utter disdain by the local Hong Kong community.  I rather like them. I can only imagine what they must have seen in their lifetimes, yet they retain a certain child-like innocence in the pleasure they take in places like Ocean Park. Then we got to the queue for the log flume.

All innocence was gone as these old folks pushed and shoved like they were in the queue for the last kilo of rice at the state rice store. I'm not kidding, they were vicious. They cut in front of as many people as they could, tread on toes and elbowed their way to the front. Then once on the ride, they looked miserable when they got soaked to the skin. What were they expecting?  We got soaked to the skin too, but it was fun.

Then I had a really strange experience (as if being jostled by old Chinese people wasn't strange enough). We were in the queue for another ride (Raging Rapids, if you must know), and I spotted someone I knew in the queue. I knew I knew him, but for the life of me I couldn't thing of how. His was not a face I would forget as he looked like a youngish Paul Newman. I stared for about 10 minutes before he looked up and nodded at me and smiled before he turned away to talk to his very young Thai wife/girlfriend. It finally came to me.

It was a close friend of one of my exes whom I like to call Lucifer (No Grizz and Billy, that is not a nickname I have for either of you). It was driving me crazy because I couldn't remember his name. I remembered that he had been born with a really bad name (Malcolm Pratt), but he changed it by deed pole as soon as he was old enough. Who could blame him? So, although I could remember the old name that he changed before I even met him, I simply could not recall his new name. Then it came to me. Pat. His new name was Pat. Just to test out this theory, I yelled out "Pat" to see what would happen. What happened is that Sadie nearly died of embarrassment and the bloke didn't even turn around. I'm certain it was him though. I had heard to had moved to Asia a few years ago for the women to teach.

After a couple hours of different rides, it was time to head back down. This time we opted for the train. We were waiting for the train in a sort of holding pen with a bunch of mainlanders. Several of the women were staring at me and giggling. I smiled at one lady and she came over to me and poked me in the chest several times. Then, she gave two big thumbs up. All the other ladies then started smiling, nodding and pointing at my boobs like they had just won an academy award. I swear to you this really happened.

[rosethornewrites]

Fic: Taisetsu

Relationship: Zelgadis Greywords/Miwan

Characters: Miwan, Zelgadis Greywords

Tags: Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Rescue

Summary: Miwan has been searching for Zelgadis ever since Lina-tachi left Femille. Finding him isn't what he expected.

Note: I intend to continue this at some point. Set after Evo-R. For the Springkink prompt: Slayers, Miwan/Zelgadis: stalking, romance, hero worship - After the incident in Femille, it had been easy for Miwan to slip out. Finding Zelgadis, on the other hand, wasn't easy at all.

AO3 link

--------

Miwan had lost hope in ever finding him; he'd traveled far and wide since he had left Femille in the turmoil that had followed the Reveal. He had heard stories that he had used to try to follow him, but not knowing his name certainly put Miwan at a significant disadvantage.

He sincerely doubted the stone-skinned man's real name was "Lulu."

From the slip when he had introduced himself, it started with an X or a Z, or maybe even an S. But that wasn't a huge help.

And, of course, Miwan hadn't had the opportunity to talk to him after the Reveal. That really wasn't surprising; his mother had been so infuriated at the Reveal—which had spread throughout Femille like wildfire despite her best efforts—that she had called for the imprisonment and execution of him and his comrades. Something that Miwan had stalled long enough for them to disappear.

And disappear they had. By the time he had followed, they were out of reach. After nearly a year of fruitless searching that had often put him in awful situations, Miwan was seriously considering giving up and returning to Femille—if the city was still standing.

He had actually started on the journey back when he was accosted by bandits. Not that he had anything of value after so long on the road and so many times being robbed. What was worrisome about these bandits was their curiosity regarding his gender; despite everything, being raised as a woman had left its mark, and Miwan was used to this curiosity in the outside world.

What he wasn't accustomed to was the lewd quality of it—at least not enough for it to be unsurprising. Miwan had encountered it before, but the interest had disappeared with the revelation that he was biologically male.

But these bandits, before he could clarify, proved that he had been lucky in those previous encounters.

"Who cares what it is. It's pretty."

The terror helped Miwan find the strength to break the hold they had on him, made him run faster. But unless he found help…

He ran right into someone when he stumbled his way into a clearing, and he could only hope that they weren't a bandit as well.

The voice that intoned, "Fireball!" was familiar. So familiar that Miwan nearly crumpled in relief. But unlike the first time, that fateful first meeting, he refused to pass out. Not until he'd at least confirmed that it wasn't a figment of his imagination.

He looked up to find a familiar stony face, metallic hair poking from an off-white hood.

A face that showed no recognition, only mild concern and… a bit of curiosity. A face that was quickly covered by his scarf.

Miwan hadn't realized he was a shaman, but he'd never seen his real clothing. Somehow, it wasn't terribly surprising to find that he was that powerful.

"Did they hurt you…?" he finally asked.

The drawn out pause combined with his expression made Miwan realize with embarrassment that, once again, this man had mistaken him for a woman. And his voice would hardly clear that up. He hadn't been able to break out of his feminine speaking patterns, even after a year.

"Thankfully, no. You stopped them. They didn't seem to care that I'm a man."

There was a little spark of recognition at that, but his savior shook his head as though to clear it. "Well, you may as well pilfer their pockets while they're unconscious. They certainly deserve it. You should be careful on these roads; solitary travelers are easy targets."

Miwan could only nod, and then kicked himself as the other man made his way toward the edge of the clearing, as though to disappear.

"Thank you," he said quickly. "This is the second time you've saved me, Lulu-san."

He stopped dead, his whole body stiff in surprise at that. When he turned, his eyes were wide. "Miwan?"

He nodded, relieved that the shaman had at least remembered his name. "I'm sorry. I don't know your real name. I never got a chance to hear it before you left."

"Zelgadis," he murmured after a moment. "Zelgadis Greywords."

The name fit him, and not only because it was masculine, not only because it was the first true name Miwan knew to call him. It was a strong name.

"You're a long way from Femille," Zelgadis said after a moment. "Don't you have escorts, as the prince?"

Miwan shook his head. "I left shortly after you did. The turmoil after the Reveal made it easy to slip away."

Zelgadis frowned at him. "That was almost a year ago."

"I know. I was about to give up and go home."

The shaman eyed him, and Miwan knew he was taking in the shabby clothing, his gaunt appearance. He hadn't had anything to eat in several days, and it was hard to sleep in the wilderness with the threat of bandits keeping him from lighting a fire and nothing to keep the wild animals away.

"It can be difficult to leave home," Zelgadis finally said, completely misinterpreting his words. "I can escort you. It's not very safe in this part of the world after all the upheaval."

Miwan shook his head. "No," he murmured, blushing slightly. "Now that I've found what I was looking for, I'm… not ready to go home."

Zelgadis didn't seem to realize what he was saying at first, and then he blinked, wide-eyed and shocked. The blush that spread across his cheeks was actually quite charming, standing out against the blue stone skin in a way that was almost adorable.

"Me?" he managed.

"Yes. You saved me from bandits, and then… Well, you saved me from being forced into the role my mother expected me to take. I might not be the most masculine person, but at least now I get to decide. You gave me that strength."

Zelgadis stared at him, shaking his head, but Miwan didn't give him a chance to protest. "Really, you're probably the most important person who has ever come into my life."

He knew that wasn't reciprocated. After all, Zelgadis was clearly an adventurer, and had likely met all sorts of interesting people. Miwan had likely only been a random person he'd met, a blip on his journeys.

"You shouldn't put me on a pedestal," Zelgadis finally murmured. "I'm no hero, no saint. I went to Femille hoping to find a cure. Everything I've done has been for that. Not that it matters anymore. I'll look like this, a monster, the rest of my life."

His words startled Miwan, in no small part because he had put Zelgadis on a pedestal. Had hero-worshipped him. It was the basis of his crush. He'd never considered who Zelgadis might really be, hadn't even realized that the stone skin wasn't natural. Hadn't considered that he might be in a similar position to Miwan himself.

Seeing him as something other than a saint was new, but instead of pushing his feelings aside, it only made them stronger, made him want to be someone who could ease the sorrow he heard in Zelgadis' voice.

"We're in the same boat, more or less," Miwan said after a while. "I'll never be female, and can never really be male, either. Technically, I'm both, or neither."

It wasn't exactly the same, but he would never fit into normal society—and he was sure Zelgadis had the same problem. Maybe the difference was that Miwan was getting tired of trying.

"So why can't we be ourselves?" Miwan whispered.

When Zelgadis sighed softly, he realized abruptly how exhausted the shaman looked. Physically, and maybe even deeper than just that. Miwan may have had a difficult time during the past year, but it looked as though Zelgadis' year had been even more stressful.

A bandit groaned from where he had been thrown from the force of the Fireball, and Miwan decided to take things into his own hands. He strode over, kicked the bandit in the head to render him unconscious again, and then took Zelgadis' original suggestion, taking what loot the thieves had on them.

Then he turned back to Zelgadis.

"You look exhausted, and I'm not much better. Let's find an inn, pig out, and get some sleep. We can figure out what to do next after that." He smiled tiredly. "My—or, rather, their—treat."

There was only a moment's hesitation before the shaman nodded.

Miwan would see if Zelgadis would let him travel with him, would be patient.

He might never become Zelgadis' important person, but, if nothing else, at least they could be friends.

[gondorosi]

Jon Snow and the Vicious Cycle

All right, so enough and more has been written about Jon's passivity, irrelevance and apparent stupidity this season. And for the most part, it's justified. This season is a travesty of a nature rarely seen before in any popular media in it's almost complete and utter destruction of every character or story arc or myth. None of these characters are recognizable, and are barely likeable. But even amidst this muck, and despite knowing that his character has been butchered, fans still find Jon to be an easy target for their anger.

I keep coming across the narrative that Jon 'betrayed' Dany, and that he lied about loving her and that he's a shit lover for not giving her anything in return for everything she gave him for 'his' war. And this is such a confounding sentiment that I barely know how to start unpacking this.

Firstly, HIS war? The fact that D&D decided in their unfathomable wisdom to convert the Great War into a skirmish similar to a feud between houses doesn't negate the fact that it was always meant to be the final and greatest confrontation. It wasn't Jon's war. Did Jaime ride North for Jon's war or to fight for the living? Painting the Great War as similar to the BoB which had the promise of a reward at the end of it not only insults Jon's whole arc but also Dany's visionary ability to see beyond her needs to what is the true threat.

Secondly, he gave her nothing? Again, this leads into the first point. Dany went beyond the Wall to save him, but saw the reality of the AoTD. It's that which spurred her to offer all her help in the Great War, not the fact that she loved him and wanted to give him everything she had to make him happy. And Jon did give her something - he gave her the most valuable thing he owned - his sovereignty. Bluntly put, Dany had far, far greater resources than he did. If she gave him her armies and her dragons, he gave her his crown.

I don't want to get too deep into S8 since even thinking of that piece of literary and scripting arson makes me want to pull my hair out. However, to make my point about the vicious cycle I must wade into the muck.

Jon is someone who's forever been fighting against identities placed on his shoulders by those around him. He's grown up being 'Ned Stark's shame', the Bastard of Winterfell. For the longest time Jon Snow existed not as an individual, but as a negative symbol of someone else's failing. His status as a bastard has been his cross to bear since he was born. And by the time he's chosen to be KiTN, he's finally begun to stitch his identity of Ned Stark's bastard alongside Ned Stark's son. In his mind he will never be a Stark, but he CAN be Ned's son. And that's what gives him peace.

And it's this singular positive sense of identity which is shattered with Sam's revelation. His reaction, which is coincidentally one of the few times Jon has actually been IC this season, hones in on the fact that his father LIED to him. The source of his faith in himself is poisoned. He doesn't immediately focus on the fact that he's a Targaryen, what he does grasp though is that he's NOT Ned's son. And for someone who's been told time and again in his most formative years that being a bastard means he's never truly going to be part of Ned Stark's family, such a shock will not be easy to process.

In the second episode it was pushed into our faces that Jon was avoiding Dany. What we missed out on was that he was avoiding EVERYONE. By the time he opened up to Dany in the crypts, he's been to speak to Bran who already knows. Who's the first one Jon himself tells? It's Dany. And he tells her because he trusts her, because he doesn't want her to labour under a false impression of her brother and mostly because he WANTS to tell her. He hopes for her help in making sense of this since he can't, not by himself.

But he doesn't get that support. Instead he's hit straight with a political curveball. Even when Sam brought it up he barely considered it in his shock. And when he tells Dany it's damn clear that he didn't expect her first immediate reaction to be that he's now a threat to her throne.

Post the Battle of Winterfell, when she seeks him out, their conversation again makes it clear that they HAVE spoken about his parentage and it once again centered around claims for the throne. At this point Jon is floundering - he is in love with her but he also knows he's related to her and he can't figure that out until the mess in his head is sorted. Cue the almost make-out. He can't go through with it and Dany tells him that she is HAPPY when she forgets who he actually is. How is Jon going to sort out his own tangle of emotions when Dany straight out tells him that she herself can't stop thinking about his claim?

I know most Dany fans feel that he betrayed her by letting his sisters know. But here's the thing - the truth of his blood affects NOONE more than it affects him. And I've seen people claim that Dany has known Jon only for months - she should never have given him so much so soon. But by that same logic, he's known her for the same amount of time as well. Why would he alleviate her fears of being supplanted by choosing her desire for secrecy over letting his family know? Sansa decides to betray his trust - that's all on Sansa. Jon decided to trust her and he did. He doesn't know how close she came to usurping him under LF's manipulation. More than him needing to tell them because of 'honour', it's a hope that perhaps his family can help him deal with this revelation since he and Dany are clearly looking at the same issue with completely different lenses.

However, since it was never deemed important for the audience to know what the reactions Sansa and Arya were to the news, all we have are guesses. Jon and Arya's relationship was one of the first casualties of the season - otherwise Arya of all people would immediately have known what Jon was struggling with. She wouldn't have made a speech about the last of the Starks and then ten minutes later traipse off never to return. So now Jon has this huge secret which has upended his life and he hasn't handled it. He hasn't received the kind of support or understanding he needed either from Dany or Arya or Sansa. He already knows Dany can't look beyond the claim of his blood while he's supposed to shrug and get over his own reservations. Incest may not be a big deal to Dany, but it IS to Jon. The claim in his blood may not be a big deal to Jon but it IS to Dany. And both of these statements are absurd since neither of the characters we know and love would think or act this way. Dany not being elated about there being another Targaryen? Jon being somewhat afraid of her?

And this is the mindset with which he comes upon Dany at Dragonstone. Varys accosts him and he realises that Sansa's betrayed him. Dany burns Varys and he's - ok at this point I don't know what Jon is thinking. This is where it all breaks down and I do agree that the Jon we know would NEVER have left Dany alone. But then again, please admit that the Dany we know would also never have zeroed in on his blood claim with such intensity. Jon kept reaffirming that she's his queen because she kept focusing on his claim. He's a bad lover for not being able to give her the undivided attention and love she needs? Then how is she any better a lover for making a life-changing secret about him mostly about her?

Here's where the vicious cycle comes in. Jon can't escape his birth either. His birth will always define him - either as someone's shame or as someone's pawn. He's led most of his life being less a person and more a symbol of lust and dishonor. His bastard blood has always preceded his character, no matter what he did or how hard he tried to rise above. And now post revelation - his identity is still tied to his blood. To Dany he's a potential threat, to Sansa he's a potential opportunity.

But who is Aegon Targaryen to Jon Snow?

[jadewing-realms]

“You think this troubles me?”

Nobody needs the distraction of meaningless prattle. Words that mean nothing, do nothing but clutter the air and make it hard to focus on the pertinent issues. So when the briefing room empties of all the superfluous jugheads who can’t contribute, leaving only the operatives known to the public as Ground Zero, Deku, and Crow clustered around the holographic map of the eastern edge of the Minato ward, the very last thing Bakugou Katsuki expects to hear spoken, out loud, in all seriousness, is:

“You should tell Uraraka how you feel.” 

And Deku’s not even kidding.

Katsuki can tell because the moment he hears those words, his head snaps up fast enough to make his vertebrae pop loose after hours of staring in the general ground-ward direction, and his childhood tagalong is wearing his Game Face. It’s the one where his big eyes are stunningly steady compared to his usual jitter and his mouth is set in a straight line instead of his trademark smile.

Of course, Katsuki responds to this out-of-the-blue declaration like any intelligent man would:

“What the f***??”

Unfortunately, this does nothing to deter the little nerd, who continues to stare at him from under his tense brow. Or at least, he does until it seems like his unruly fringe, draping from the front of his undercut, makes it incredibly difficult to do so and he tosses it aside with a jerk of his head. That seems to break his intense attempt to reprogram Katsuki’s brain via Eye Contact, and he leans both gloved hands casually on the edge of the projection table. “I’m serious.”

Katsuki gapes at him like a goldfish for three seconds before he glances around, checks for hidden cameras or anybody who might possibly be thinking it’s the perfect time to eavesdrop. When he finds none of the above, he levels his rival with a sturdy glare and replies quietly—just in case that All Clear status decides to change on a dime.

“The h***, Deku, you’re bringing this up now??” Katsuki snarls. “We’re f***in’ briefing. We’re about to set up a sting.”

“She’s gonna be there and I know you haven’t told her yet. It’s relevant.”

Katsuki scoffs. He knows about her involvement in this operation, of course. Uraraka told him about her recruitment just yesterday, when she accosted him as he came off the train platform on his way to his patrol. They’d both conveniently had the same idea to visit the same coffee shop en route, to her delight and his chagrin. Not that he didn’t—doesn’t—like her company. He wouldn’t still be dating her if he didn’t. At the time, she hadn’t reached her agency yet, her Hero suit in a duffel and herself clad in workout clothes instead and when he’d commented on her choice of wardrobe in late autumn, she admitted to jogging to the area instead of taking the train. Heck, she’d even invited him along some days, if he felt like it.

Which he did. He really, really did. Still does. They train together already, sure, but this would be even more time he’d get to delegate to her, and there’s a part of him that would do so gladly. But he hasn’t told her that; he can’t. For many reasons. Which he begrudgingly admitted to Deku not two weeks ago, under strict confidence. Some confidence. And quite honestly, he’s sure he’s been nothing but inconspicuous all this time. Ochako hasn’t even said anything. So where the h*** does Deku get off calling him out like this?

A thousand and one crude, defensive, perfectly appropriate responses flit past the forefront of his mind, except he can’t settle on a single one beyond his raw astonishment at Deku’s unnerving amount of gall. Instead, he gestures his speechlessness with an open palm and turns an ‘are you serious’ glance of confirmation to their third and senior companion. Crow, to his credit, keeps his arms folded, one delicate hand raised to press the crook of his index finger over his lips, and simply closes his black eyes to shake his head once. A refusal of involvement.

Smart man. Regrettably. Can’t he be partial to reason just this once? Why does Crow always have to be so good at this whole diplomat thing?

Deku’s not finished apparently. “You almost cost us the last op.”

“What!? In your dreams. I f***ing owned that op!” Katsuki spits back in defense. “I took both of those punks down with a single Howitzer.”

“After you almost managed to be taken hostage, which would have doubled our problems.” Deku raises an eyebrow. “You remember why that happened?”

“Don’t patronize me!”

“You banked everything on a joint Climbing Silver maneuver with Red Riot as your forward, risked both your safety and the whole operation, all because Uravity went down and Kirishima wasn’t about to let you charge in there by yourself like an idiot. You let her circumstances negatively effect your performance and it’s not the first time in the past month.”

Katsuki grinds his teeth, not needing or appreciating the reminder of his embarrassingly risky life decisions. They’re his business, d*** it, Ochako-centric or not. It’s not like Deku can prove a thing either, so really, the two of them are the only people who know that what he’s accusing Katsuki of is 100% true. It’s been hard to keep his head in the game lately, not that he’d make it obvious to anybody else. Though, by the way Crow’s eyes are darting between them while he himself remains silent, Katsuki gets the idea that their intuitive handler doesn’t need proof to sense what’s really going on. He’s always been annoyingly perceptive.

Katsuki will throw himself into traffic before he admits his own guilt, though. To anybody, especially his nerdy co-worker and his operation manager. Contrary to popular opinion, he does have a sense of dignity. It’s for that same reason he hasn’t told Ochako about his doubts yet.

He just… needs time. He can’t just come out and tell her that the rational part of him has been questioning their relationship ever since he came back from America. He can’t let her know how deep he’s in, not now… Maybe not ever. For many reasons. Top of the list being that, as he plunges headlong into his career, he’s not sure if there’s even going to be room for her in his narcissistic heart, dead-set on becoming the #1 Hero. After what she went through with her previous boyfriend back in high school… it wouldn’t be fair.

It’s her or his ambitions, and he’s not sure he’s ready to make that decision.

Until he sorts out his s***, it doesn’t matter how his heart leaps every time she says ‘hey Katsuki!’, using his first name like she already f***ing owns it, and he turns to find her with that boxy, utterly-adorable smile of hers on that goofy round face; doesn’t matter how many secrets they share, how many nights spent swapping dumb stories under the stars, decked out in full Hero gear on top of some building somewhere… yeah, no matter what, he can’t say a word. Because he doesn’t want to lose any of that until he decides he has no choice.

“I don’t have to listen to this,” Katsuki grumbles, averting his eyes to the map in front of them. He tries to focus on the target location, tries to think of possible exit routes and most likely wrenches, but he can’t freaking focus, not with Deku’s eyes boring into him from across the table. “You guys were the ones who brought me in for this. If you don’t want me here, then make up your d*** minds.”

“Your CO already signed the paperwork,” is the first and most terribly unhelpful thing Crow says.

D***, that means he’s locked in here until the operation’s over. Stupid paperwork! Why the h*** would Mirko do that to him? After all the song and dance against joint efforts…

“I’m just thinking about Uraraka. And the operation,” Deku adds, his expression taking on that incredibly earnest air of I Mean Everything I’m About to Say. “It’s going to take time and patience and plenty of risk, especially for her… If you get caught up in this… whatever it is, you’ll be putting her in danger. You’re the one who’s always saying she can more than handle herself. So we all need your guarantee that you won’t let anything cloud your judgment, and I honestly think that coming clean to her would be the best way to avoid that! That’s all.”

“Like h***,” Katsuki scoffs, keeping his ire directed at the hologram. It’s better than being subjected to that infuriatingly kind face that he just knows Deku’s giving him right now. He knows the nerd is talking about more than just the operation at this point. He’s not a moron… Even after their breakup, Deku and Ochako have been irritatingly close, and Deku’s never ceased to jump to her defense at the drop of a hat. His bleeding heart also renders him too sympathetic to Katsuki’s plight to outright accuse him of anything, so instead, he translates over to this incessant advice crap.

News flash for the nerd: Katsuki doesn’t need his concern. Or his help.

Besides. Doesn’t he understand that giving Katsuki advice on his relationship with his ex-girlfriend is like, the weirdest s*** ever?

But never let it be said Deku knows when to stop talking. “You just seem so… troubled lately. You’ve been in this sorta fog for the longest time, even Sasuke noticed the other day. He says he actually managed to hit you without activating his Reaper.”

Katsuki feels a vein pop in his forehead. That b*****d actually told him that!? The h***, why would he do that? Well, that’s it, their regular sparring sessions are done. He’s not about to subject himself to this on a regular basis, if the moron’s just gonna turn around and blab all his weaknesses to f***ing Deku.

“You’re both delusional,” Katsuki accuses. His angst is none of their d*** business. The defense is lacking in fire, though, because quite suddenly, a heavy sense of Tired has taken to hanging off his shoulders like Crow’s four-year-old brat. This whole conversation is honestly the last thing he wants to deal with right now and it’s draining him out like yesterday’s coffee.

“Kacchan, you can’t just… leave her hanging! Itachi, can help me out here?” Deku finally concedes his inability to convince Katsuki of anything. Which is really something he should’ve been convinced of within their first year of half-baked friendship back when they were kids. But then, Deku’s always been a bit slow in the Giving Up department. The fact that he’s looking for confirmation from the person who just denied it from Katsuki irks the latter enough to make him privately seethe.

The elder Uchiha in question lowers his hand from his mouth just enough to shake his head unhindered. “Mm, don’t bring me into this. I’m just waiting for you to finish.”

“But even you’ve noticed how weird he’s being lately, right?” Deku’s fishing and Katsuki doesn’t try to hide how insulted he is by this.

Thankfully, Crow remains neutral. “And you think this troubles me?”

Thank you! Finally, someone on his side. Kind of.

Deku looks a bit surprised that his Moral Endeavor isn’t being properly supported by the only other empathetic being in the room. “B-But, wait a second. It’s gotten to the point of effecting performance rates. I just said that.”

“F***ing lay off, Deku,” Katsuki spits, tired of his friend’s crap. He’s stopped sounding concerned and now he’s just being nosy. “You’re the one not focusing here.”

“This is a legitimate concern to me,” Deku reiterates, gesturing into the space between them with a stiff hand that demonstrates his inflexibility on this issue. “Things can go haywire fast when personal issues get tangled up in professional operations.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’d know all about that,” Katsuki needles and he knows it’s not fair, but he’s always had an on-point Bulls*** Radar. Deku possesses an uncanny knack for setting it off. Usually when his Naive Idealism comes into outright conflict with Practical Experience, which Katsuki knows both he and Deku have in spades.

“Hey, I’m working on it!” Deku looks a bit hurt. “That’s why I’m even saying anything right now!”

“Okay.” The single word from Crow crashes between them like a grand piano dropped from a crane, and it shuts them both up quick. Their handler snatches up their attention without moving a muscle from his pensive position.

Once he’s certain he has them captive, Crow goes on. “Ground Zero is correct. This is something of a rabbit trail. However, if any of our operatives has concerns for their safety or the safety of others, I want to keep that in consideration. I’ll review the roles and see if we can move things around to best avoid conflicts of interest. I’ll run the final setup by you, Deku, before I send it on for approval from Insight. Does that sound agreeable to you?”

Deku rubs the back of his neck. He doesn’t look the happiest, but he knows a good compromise when he sees one. He nods. “Yes, thank you.”

Katsuki just glares daggers at the traitorous wretch, while Crow continues heedless.

“Good. And I trust this won’t be an issue in the future?” Crow’s bottomless gaze shifts toward Katsuki and it’s both pointed and soft. He knows that look. It means he’d like to Explain to Katsuki a Thing but is otherwise refraining for obvious reasons of professionalism. That look can either be good or very bad. Sometimes both simultaneously. Katsuki hates it.

Stiffening, he clenches his fingers against the edge of the table, the blue light from the hologram highlighting every crease over his knuckles. He shoots his senior a glare tailored just for him. “Of f***ing course! What the h*** kind of question is that?”

Crow holds up a placating hand and turns away, relinquishing the subject. Which is more than can be said regarding Deku, who’s gone back to staring at Katsuki like he can read his thoughts written on the slopes of his forehead, his steady gaze promising more uncomfortable confrontation to come in the near future.

Katsuki’s going to have to watch his back for a while.

[feynites]

Happy birthday @selenelavellan! Have some crack-y... something!

There is a woman who lives next door to Rala.

 Every morning, the ravens visit her.

 Their building is a row of narrow, attached houses. Rala doesn’t really spend much time at home. She has a business to run, after all. Storefront to tend to and employees to manage. Work is her life, mostly. Some people find that kind of thing depressing, but Rala likes what she does. It’s not what she’d planned for her life when she was younger, but few things ever really seem to go as planned, and she likes helping people figure out what they might be after.

 Every morning, though, she gets up bright and early. Puts in her earphones, and heads out for her jog. She goes down the street and around the corner, up the paved walk that leads into the little local park, then through it, down another road, and then loops the long way back up again. By the time she gets home, they’ll be there.

Thing One and Thing Two. The ravens. Two big black birds with long beaks and glossy feathers, who sit on the sill outside her neighbour’s window. Sometimes they caw a bit. They aren’t too noisy. They always wait, and then Rala’s neighbour will open up her window, and they’ll fly in.

 It’s a weird enough situation for her to take notice of it. Domesticated birds aren’t supposed to just fly around as they please - it’s a good way to get them killed. But free birds aren’t supposed to be let into people’s houses, either. Rala never sees the ravens leave. She’s seen people leave her neighbour’s house. And come to visit, too. All types at all hours. For a while she wondered if the woman was a professional hostess, of the private entertainment type, but if she is then she has a fairly exclusive set of clients.

 And weird visiting birds.

 Sometimes Rala thinks about asking her. Just knocking on the door and putting the question to her, point blank. What’s up with the birds?

 But life likes a little mystery. And as long as there’s no screaming or fighting, nothing getting hurt, she always finds herself more inclined to just leave it be.

 ~

 One evening, Rala comes home to find a man sitting on her neighbour’s front step.

 He’s a handsome man, as those sorts of things go. Not quite as striking as her neighbour, who is tall and brown-skinned, white-haired and sharp-featured. The man has a more generic kind of loveliness, by comparison. Narrow features and dark hair, with a single spit-curl at the front. She thinks of Clark Kent, with his pressed tie but his rumpled jacket, dress shirt rolled up to three-quarter sleeves.

 “You alright?” she asks, as she goes to put her key in her own door. A discreet whiff of the air doesn’t hold the scent of alcohol, at least.

 The man blinks at her, as if that’s a strange question to be asked. Then he seems to take his time thinking about it.

 Rala wonders if he’s high instead of drunk.

 “I have to go back home,” he says, at length. He’s got a soft voice. It’s the sort that gives her pause, because it makes her think of the kind of people who get rolled over by things a lot.

 “You need a cab?” she wonders. “I could call you one.”

 The man shakes his head.

 “No. Thank you.”

 He stays sitting, and Rala hesitates for a minute.

 “You don’t want to go back home?” she hazards.

 The man shakes his head.

 “I want to stay with Selene,” he admits, as if there’s something terrible about that.

 “Does she want you to leave?” Rala wonders, assuming Selene must be her neighbour. It’s a name that fits, somehow. Moonlight and magic and all of that sort of thing. Though, a little atypical for a Dalish elf, maybe.

 Again, the man shakes his head.

 Rala shrugs at him.

 “So. Stay,” she suggests. “You only get one life, kiddo. You might as well enjoy it.”

 So saying she finally gives up on being nosy, and steps into her house. She shuts the door behind her, and turns on the lights. Kicks off her shoes, goes to her fridge, and pulls out a jug of juice to sip as she examines her options for dinner tonight. She needs to go shopping soon, but she keeps forgetting. The empty rows of her fridge stare reproachfully back at her, until she opens the freezer with a sigh, and pulls out a boxed dinner.

 Sometimes being a workaholic has its downsides.

 ~

 The next morning, the ravens are gone.

 They don’t come back again for months.

 ~

 Rala’s not expecting it when she ends her jog, and is making her way up her home street, and sees a red-haired man being dive-bombed by three furious ravens.

 She pauses, and blinks, and watches as the tall elven fellow runs screaming into the road. A few people stop to look out through windows. Some even open their doors. Rala pulls the buds from her ears, and can only watch as the birds - she’s pretty sure two of them are familiar - screech like harpies and seem to do their level best to gouge their target’s eyes out.

 Eventually the man makes it to a shiny blue sports car, but to his misfortune, it’s a convertible. And the top is down. He climbs in and starts fumbling with the keys, hollering for help, but what exactly is anyone going to do? The ravens are massive and airborne. Rala pulls out her phone and wonders if she should call 911, or animal control, or something. Fire department?

 One of the ravens gets the man’s keys as he tries to start his car, and flings them into a bush. Another successfully yanks a clump of hair out of his scalp. With a curse, Rala pockets her phone and runs over to try and intervene. Maybe she can distract the birds and then race inside?

 That’s when she sees her neighbour’s door is open.

 The woman herself is sitting on the floor, frozen. A fist-shaped bruise on her cheek, her eyes wide in the kind of way that Rala’s seen too many times.

 It stops her dead in her tracks.

 She looks at the man being accosted with fresh eyes.

 …Ah.

 Shifting gears, Rala leaves the man to the birds and ventures over to her neighbour’s open doorway. The woman is staring blankly ahead of herself. Shock?

 “Selene?” Rala ventures. It gets her a blink, an uncomprehending look. “Neighbour?” she tries instead.

 The woman swallows, and presses her hands to the floor. She turns her gaze back out towards the street.

 “I… I… should stop them...?” she ventures.

 Rala glances back to see that the red-haired man has been forced to go looking for his keys, and is being made to pay for it every step of the way. The ravens seem perfectly fine, and entirely devoted to their task.

 “I think they’re alright,” she says, before turning back to her neighbour. “Do you need medical attention?”

 The woman shakes her head firmly, and finally pushes herself up.

 “No. Uh. Thank you,” she says, before making her way past Rala, and calling out to the ravens.

 The effect is immediate. Two of the birds stop their attack and fly back towards her. The third keeps hounding the red-haired man until he’s back in his car - keys finally regained, blood streaming down his face and hands - and finally gets the engine started. His tires shriek as he takes off down the road. The same raven flies off after the car, unnervingly silent.

 When Rala turns to look back to her neighbour, she finds that the woman has disappeared inside again, along with the two birds that came back to her.

 …Guard birds?

 She shrugs internally. Probably, there are stranger things.

 ~

 Three months later, Rala comes home late to find her neighbour racing down the street, holding a flaming broom aloft and cursing out the biggest damn owl she’s ever seen in her life.

 Owl and woman both disappear down the end of the street before she has a lot of time to process what she’s just witnessed. As she continues to stand stupidly on her front walk, staring at the flickering firelight she can still see, and listening to the distant echo of a woman’s voice calling an owl a ‘fucking piece of shit’, a half-naked man hurries out of her neighbour’s house.

 “Selene!” he calls. “Wait!”

 He looks frantically down the road.

 Rala clears her throat, and then points down the opposite end.

 “She went that way.”

 “Thank you,” the man - Clark Kent again - replies, before taking off in that direction.

 Rala doesn’t see any of them again until midnight, when Selene and her man stumble back home, covered in owl feathers and looking a little singed around the edges.

 ~

 The ravens become regular visitors again.

 The neighbourhood gets slightly nervous, but somehow, the birds never seem to be around any time someone decides to try calling the authorities about it.

 ~

 Rala comes home some weeks later to find a man sitting on her front step.

 It’s not Clark Kent again, though she has seen him around before. He comes by the shop fairly often, too. He’s a pretty one, too, with a good quality manicure, pulling off a chaotic post-club scene look with a sparkling skirt hitched up to his underwear, and a mismatched jacked thrown over his mesh shirt.

 And he does smell of alcohol.

 “You’re not Selene,” he says, blinking up at her. “Although you are also very tall. Oh! You’re my store lady!”

 Rala lets out a long sigh.

 “Selene’s house is one over,” she says, pointing.

 The man follows her gesture, and squints at the house numbers.

 “Oh, right,” he says. “Wait… you live next to Selene?”

 Rala shrugs.

 “It’s a small world,” she says.

 “That’s hot,” the man informs her.

 “In theory, maybe. But you’re not my type, sweetheart. Especially not drunk,” she tells him.

 “I had to get drunk,” he says. “She won’t be… doing. With the gods. She won’t just be queen of the birds! We could be living it but noooo, everything has to be complicated. ‘We can’t just be gods, Des, that would be bad’. Why would it be bad? Why? We could be gods and fuck gorgeous nerds forever. Where is the downside?!”

 With another profound sigh, Rala pulls out her phone.

 “Uh-huh,” she says. “And what did you take with your alcohol tonight?”

 “Self-pity,” the man tells her.

 Rala phones him an ambulance, as he proceeds to slump back against her steps, and pass out.

 After thinking about it for a minute, she leaves a note about it for her neighbour. Then she gives up and finally calls it a night.

 ~

 Even with all the strangeness, waking up one morning to find that her neighbour’s house is gone is… an experience.

 The other neighbours take notice of it too, of course. Dawn breaks and the place where Selene’s house used to be is just… empty. Not even like the building burned down or blew up or even got airlifted out of its foundations somehow. Rala’s walls are all intact, and there’s no torn up foundation or smoking framework, or anything.

 Just… space. Flat paving, open air. As if there was always a house-sized gap in their living complex, between numbers three and five.

 “Uh,” Rala manages, articulately.

 The entire neighbourhood seems to share a collective moment of ‘what the fuck?’, followed by the kind of quiet confusion that can only ensue when no one has a goddamn idea on the appropriate response to this kind of thing.

 Eventually, someone calls the police.

 Eventually, someone else calls a news crew.

 Two hours after that, as a reporter talks in front of the yellow police tape that’s making… some kind of an effort at something, the air wavers. Rala sees it on her phone, from the shop. She still went in to work, of course - staying at home just seemed liable to get her interviewed or something. But through her news feed, she watches as her neighbour’s house reappears in the exact same spot it had seemed to vanish from.

 Which creates a bit of a stir.

 Selene walks out of her front door, looking harried.

 “Sorry!” she says, as even the news crew seems stunned for a minute. “Ha ha, uh… you’ve been… pranked! By a new magic show! Ta-da, everyone, I can’t believe you all fell for it way to go you’ve been great sports!”

 She slams the front door shut again.

 Rala watches as the news team does their level best to avoid leaving it at that, and Selene closes every curtain in her house. As the cameraman gets a shot of the neighbourhood, Rala notices a single black raven perching on a nearby streetlight.

 She didn’t know ravens could look ‘chagrined’ before.

[galwednesday]

Every time I see a picture of Chris Evans I think “I bet he gives really good piggy-back rides”, so I guess this ficlet was inevitable. Shrunkyclunks meet-cute, content warning for mild drunken shenanigans (but no compromised consent or anything like that).

Bucky made his way carefully across the bar. There wasn’t much of a crowd, not after eleven o’clock on a Thursday, but the floor kept sliding out from under Bucky’s feet, so Bucky had to watch his steps closely anyway. He might have underestimated the hit his alcohol tolerance had taken after nine months of enforced sober living on deployment. That, or the frozen margaritas Dum Dum had ordered several rounds of were 80% tequila.

Still, Bucky could do this. He could complete the mission. Morita and Dum Dum were snickering behind his back, but whatever, he’d show them, Bucky was on it.

He had a lock on his target: a blond man sitting in a corner booth facing away from the room whose straining-at-the-seams t-shirt stretched over a broad back and muscular shoulders. The man could probably bench-press a rhinoceros. Carrying one guy, even a guy as big as Bucky, for wouldn’t be a strain.

Bucky tapped him on the shoulder, swaying back and forth a little as he waited for the man to turn around. “Hello,” he said, and then promptly forgot what else he was going to say, because this guy was fucking beautiful. “Wow. Good face.”

Two of the guy’s friends, a man wearing a suit that fit so well it had to be bespoke and a man with a cute little gap between his front teeth, started cracking up. The petite redhead sitting next to them cocked her head to the side and pulled her phone out of her handbag. Beautiful Face just looked kind of pained, so Bucky redirected. He was a gentleman. He could take a hint. No hitting on beautiful guys who were uncomfortable with that sort of thing, no matter how lickable their jawlines were.

“Hello,” he repeated, doing his best to mind his manners. “I’m very sorry to bother you. Can I have a piggy-back ride?”

(read more beyond the cut)

“Excuse me?” Beautiful Face said. His friends were watching unabashedly. The redhead was using her phone to record Beautiful Face’s reactions.

“My friends won’t give me a piggy-back ride,” Bucky said, slowly and clearly, so Beautiful Face wouldn’t have trouble understanding him even though Beautiful Face had put away at least five shots of something, judging by the glasses by his elbow. “Morita said it’s beneath his dignity and Dum Dum would just fall over. So they said to ask you.”

“Well, Steve, he makes a compelling case,” said Rich Friend.

“Yeah, Steve,” said Cute Gap-Tooth Friend. “Give the man a piggy-back ride.”

Bucky squinted at Rich Friend. “Are you Tony Stark?”

The man spread his arms wide, nearly smacking Beautiful Face in his equally beautiful pecs. “In the flesh.”

Bucky processed this information. “Will you give me a piggy-back ride?”

“No, I absolutely will not,” Tony Stark said. “One, I’m too old for that shit, two, you’re about fifty pounds heavier than me and I’d throw out my back even if I were fifteen years younger, and three, you already asked my friend Steve here for a piggy-back ride, and a gentleman never steals his friend’s piggy-backers.”

That was very true. Bucky turned back to Beautiful Face, who was apparently named Steve. “I’m sorry, Steve. Please give me a piggy-back ride.”

Steve stared at him. Bucky looked back hopefully.

“Yeah, okay,” Steve said abruptly.

“Really?”

“Yeah, why not.” Steve unfolded himself from the tiny booth like a golden retriever springing out of a corgi-sized kennel crate. He looked a little pink under the barroom lights. Behind him, Cute Gap-Tooth Friend and Redhead were discretely high-fiving. “Where to?”

Bucky hadn’t thought that far. “The subway station? I live in Flatbush.”

“Sounds good. Hop on.” Steve turned around and squatted, and if Bucky hadn’t drunk so much the sight would’ve given him an immediate and very awkward Pants Situation.

“Thanks, Steve, you’re the best.” Bucky wrapped his legs around Steve’s waist with a pleasant sense of accomplishment. He sent a sloppy salute across the room to Morita and Dum Dum, who were both looking on with dropped jaws, for some reason. As if Bucky hadn’t talked strangers into way weirder things than this. Served them right for underestimating his natural charm.

“Ride ‘em, cowboy,” Tony Stark said.

“Who’s the horse in that metaphor?” Redhead said.

“Not another word,” Steve told his friends, and carried Bucky out of the bar.

Bucky woke to sunshine, birdsong, and regrets. Not as many regrets as he would have expected, though--he had vague memories of someone cajoling him into drinking a full glass of water and insisting he brush his teeth before he was allowed to crash onto his couch and sleep. Who had it been, Morita? Dum Dum, maybe? He had gone out with the Howlies, he was pretty sure, and then--

“Good morning,” an amused voice said, and Bucky opened his eyes a little faster than was comfortable. There was an unfairly gorgeous man in his apartment, and for a moment Bucky let himself pretend that he had gotten really spectacularly lucky, even though he had a vague memory of insisting that his helpful new friend take the bed after going to the trouble of--

Giving him a piggy-back ride home, what the fuck, Morita. Bucky’s cheeks burned with belated mortification. It was a total violation of the bro code to send your pals out to embarrass themselves in front of unfairly gorgeous men.

Except this particular gorgeous man had actually taken Bucky up on it. And was now in Bucky’s apartment, smiling at him and holding a glass of water.

Bucky sat up cautiously, holding his breath while the contents of his head and stomach shifted. The gorgeous man waited patiently, then handed Bucky the glass of water when it was clear he wasn’t about to throw up.

“Thanks.” Bucky took a sip of water and wondered if this was some bizarre hangover-induced hallucination. If so, he was in no hurry to return to reality. “Did you carry me all the way back to my apartment?”

“Yeah,” the man--Steve, that was his name--said, looking down at his feet a little. “It wasn’t that far from the bar.”

“It’s, like, five miles.”

Steve gave him a weird little guilty look, and sudden recognition crashed over Bucky.

“Oh, fuck me sideways,” Bucky said. A split second before he would have said you’re Captain America, he saw Steve’s face draw tight, and changed his next words to, “No wonder your arms didn’t get tired.”

That surprised a laugh out of Steve, and when Bucky just followed it up with a plaintive request for coffee, the lines around Steve’s mouth relaxed. And then he actually went and made Bucky coffee. Bucky leaned his head back against the couch cushion, stared at the ceiling, and tried to figure out what he’d done to deserve this. It was either something horrible, or something amazing.

“I added a little milk,” Steve cautioned as he handed Bucky the mug. He’d made a second one for himself, like he wanted to hang around a little longer instead of rushing out of Bucky’s apartment as soon as possible. Promising sign. “I figured that would be easier on your stomach.”

“Thanks.” Bucky wrapped his hands around the coffee and took a careful sip. He wasn’t as hungover as he would have expected, but given that he’d apparently gotten drunk enough to accost Captain America in a bar and demand a piggy-back ride, he wouldn’t have been surprised to be hungover for the next week. “Seriously, thank you, you didn’t have to do any of this. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

Steve blushed, and it was only then that Bucky remembered congratulating Steve on his face.

“Oh God,” Bucky blurted. “I totally hit on you while I was sloppy drunk. I’m so sorry.”

“Nah, you were a perfect gentleman. All you did was compliment my face. And, uh.” Steve cleared his throat. “What I would have said, if you had been remotely sober, is that it takes one to know one.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows. A flush was climbing up Steve’s neck to join forces with his scarlet cheeks. “Seriously, that’s your line? A little grade school, isn’t it?”

Steve relaxed again, clearly more at home with being given shit than with flirting. “This from the guy whose romantic approach began and ended with ‘good face.’”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Bucky leaned back and swung his legs off the couch. Steve’s eyes followed the flex of his thighs as he moved. Oh yeah, Bucky was getting a really good feeling about this. “I got a kind, handsome gentleman who makes coffee for poor indisposed invalids to come home with me, didn’t I?”

Steve carefully set his untouched coffee aside, his eyes fixed on Bucky’s face, a dimple forming in his left cheek as his smile grew. In the privacy of his own head, Bucky maintained that ‘good face’ was a perfectly accurate descriptor. “How indisposed?”

“Not that indisposed. I could rustle up some breakfast, treat you to apology pancakes for making you go to the trouble of hauling my drunk ass home.”

“It wasn’t any trouble,” Steve said, apparently automatically.

“How about some thank you pancakes, then?”

“Make them getting-to-know-you pancakes, and you’ve got a deal.”

“You drive a tough bargain,” Bucky said solemnly, “but I can work with that.”

(I’ll reblog this with Part 2, the Howling Commandos group chat on the night in question, in a minute, WATCH THIS SPACE)

[kingmaker-thac0hno]

Endurance Overcomes All: A Letter Home

31 Pharast, 4710

Dearest Uncle Gorian, I hope this letter finds you healthy and prosperous. I write to you to report on the bandits I was tasked with searching for out in our Southern woods. I apologize in advance for how long winded this will be, so please go make yourself a nice cup of your arrowroot and honey tea- I will wait!

Firstly, how is mother? I find myself far from home in search of bringing her and the House honor and glory in duty- but I miss her and everyone. Firstly, I will start with the good news. Grimfeather and I as well. We have tracked the bandits for weeks now, and finally confident enough to report in on our cursory findings. The bandits, as I suspected, were a part of something more than simple and random brigands looking for easy targets far from our protections. I tracked them from our lands all the way skirting Restov and even further to the Southwest. You see, I am writing not even from our beloved Brevoy, but from the Stolen Lands! It turns out there is a “bandit kingdom” of sorts preying upon the people trying to make a living out among the wilds of this place. Furthermore, their predations have increased and been spurred to brazenly attack the outlying settlements of Restov as we have received word of, as well as even as far North as our own property and holdings. As I was tracking Grim and I spotted a traveler being accosted on the road. While bandits largely seem well disposed to targeting the weak and unable to stand up their viciousness, they are a cowardly lot when faced with true opposition as with any bully. To put it simply, they were unable to outrun a heroic griffin and found the fiery blades and hungry arrows of Medvyed righteousness! The elderly hunter, a kind old man named Vekkel, was headed to an outpost where it seems they had been taxed continually by a “bandit king”. Curious and needing more information to return with, I went along with him. This is where things became truly interesting and the true point of my writing. It seems the week before a small company, known as the “Company of the Iron Raven”, had come with a charter from Restov giving them the backing of the Swordlords and the Regent of the Dragon Throne to explore and travel within the Greenbelt. They are seemingly one of a great many sent out. I have enclosed a copy.  This far, we have vanquished an encampment of bandits and the company had previously destroyed a “taxing” group that was hastling the goodly Oleg’s Trading Post. We have discovered that their banditry is not limited to taxing or thievery, but murder most foul as well as kidnapping the womenfolk for darker purpose which I prefer to not ponder too much upon. Thankfully, we ran down a group that was taking such ill-fated women to their leader and they are safe and sound. That brings me back to my original purpose- to find what information I could of these bandits. The bandits are certainly numerous and a pox upon this land and ours, but we now know of their base of operations! It is believed to have dozens of brigands and cut throats coming and going, and of course the leadership of this ruthless band. Their “king” is known as the Stag Lord and apparently has well deserved the terror he instils in his followers. We anticipate scouting out the area this fortress lies in within the next tenday, so I expect before you read this letter, we will be wiser to their forces.  As my duty, I will see my task through for not only family honor, but the good of the realm and will not return without cause for celebration. How does House Medvyed fit into all of this? I sense there is something far greater going on here and humbly request your guidance. You have always been there when a father was not and have guided me to become what I am, or at least the better parts! I sense that the goings on in Restov are something far more. I sense that the goings on in the Greenbelt are far more. And to be entirely forthcoming, I feel a strange calling to this all that I can not quite explain. I feel a calm within the chaos that stirs within me here that I wish I could explain better. Suffice to say nothing catastrophic has occured on my behalf, I haven't turned myself into a plant, and no one around me has had their hair fall out or turn colors! As the captain of the outriders and vanguard of House Medvyed I would request some of our rangers and scouts be released into my command for this…whatever this is with the intent of better understanding what exactly is afoot here and to provide some measure of safety in these turbulent times. There is a war coming, and as we try to cut it off at the neck, I fear that the good people here may be caught in its midst. Something I believe not only is righteous to try to prevent but also a symbol of the goodness our house provides to those of the woods and wild. Endurance Overcomes All, Sarynvhal Medvyed

[magical-gull]

AU meme: The Senshi awaken in a different order (any order you choose).

Disclaimer: Not my ideal/actual/easiest AU combo. But I hope interesting. Also much longer than intended, but you already expected that in a keetpost. Also using non-anime canon to be a contrary little shit for simplicity.

As an aside, I notice the order of the inner senshi correponds to each successive character being more extroverted and confident than the previous, which probably helped them settle into the team easier. I think Usagi or Ami coming in late could seriously mess with their confidence, but if I did every combo I’d be here all day.

So. “the senshi”, huh. Okay.

[Mako] gets in a literal fistfight with a youma and is punched thru a wall. Jupiter comes out of it. Mako gets out a LOT of old aggression, but she suffers from not having a support group. Mako gets a visit from a ‘counselor’ who introduces herself as Setsuna, who spills a few of the beans of what’s going on. Setsuna takes on the advisory role of you-know-who; she isn’t technically Pluto yet nor has access to her abilities because Well Thought Out Reasons.  (EDIT:if you’re willing to put up with the Cats, so Michiru isn’t a solo appearance, substitute as you will.)

Mako defends [Ami] from some bullies and they hit it off. Ami has her cram school attack and wakes up next. Makoto’s Usagi-like traits means she and Ami get along great, and mutually absent families means they have a lot of chill time together. With Ami around, things get more tactical and Makoto endures a lot less bruises, and they’re so specialized neither ever feels like they’re useless to the other. Ami helps Makoto’s moves have a little more calm and direction, while Ami gets a little more aggressive with hers.

Jedite starts his plan to fuck with bus riders en route past the Shrine. Mako and Ami investigate. Ami mentions ‘a beauty’ sometimes rides the bus; the 3rd senshi is self-important, popular with girls, and has a pechant for moodiness, who butts heads with the 'leader’ in comical ways while the 2nd senshi liked by her and the leader plays tired moderator.

Said beauty is… [Haruka], doomed to public transportation these past weeks after she crashed her (new!) bike dodging some blonde idiot in a red mask in the middle of the night. Unfortunately she’s on the bus Jedite attacks, and wakes up… but without Mission or Talisman (which in either case, is connected with Saturn) is a bit metaphorically wobbly. Makoto and Haruka relate despite/because-of their grumbling, and Ami is the sort of calming gentle-voiced femme Haruka is weak to. Haruka remains cool in their eyes for precisely 48 minutes. Haruka sometimes goes off by herself when things get rough, but sticks around like a cat for want of feeling something missing.

The girls introducing Haruka to Setsuna is… interesting. Haruka is vain enough she doesn’t question why she sometimes catches Setsuna staring at her. Sailor V comes by and says mysterious bullshit on occasion to check up on everyone, and she and Setsuna have Mysterious Bullshit meetings. Minako assures her the Princess is safe for now in suspiciously certain tones and that senshi – wait, how many did we have again – are swole enough they can handle things on their own for now.

Nephlite does the bridal scheme. The girls investigate and run into [Rei], a resident at the shrine who is helping her grandfather privately investigate a potential supernatural connection between it and the bus incident after the bad PR it caused the shrine. Haruka’s attempts to get intel by flirting with Rei go about as well as you expect, and it’s Ami and Setsuna who get Rei to come around. Makoto initially has less patience for Rei’s abrasive attitude, but warms up when she finds out about her history of being ostrazied out of fear. Nephilite targets Rei after Rei is accosted by a possessed man being overly-flirting with her, via the only example of exorcism via being kicked in the dick thus recorded into Hino family history. Rei solves the whole affair with fire, which is a pretty great metaphor for Rei’s view on marriage and obsessive couples in general.

[Usagi] and [Minako] come in -together-. Minako’s essentialy been playing Tuxedo Mask + mentor with Usagi for a bit to introduce her to the heavy shit gently. On the one hand, Usagi’s more prepared and does pretty well with someone more like her teaching her (she’s more Hotaru or Endmyion-like than Sailor Moon, power-wise) but she still has a huge hero complex and relies heavily on Minako’s opinions. Makoto is fine with taking a backseat and concentrating on punching stuff - admitting that playing not-leader has been stressful - but Haruka and Rei are a bit more dubious about Minako. To legitimize Venus’s leader claim and Usagi’s role, Setsuna explains Everything Up To Date. Usagi’s surprising not-reaction lets Setsuna know Minako probably told her everything well in advance, Gee Minako Would Have Been Nice If You Said Something Before, Must Have Slipped Your Mind.